Open Season by Archer Mayor

Author:Archer Mayor [Mayor, Archer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Detective, USA
ISBN: 9780979812200
Google: meAORAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0979812208
Publisher: AM Press
Published: 1989-01-01T23:00:00+00:00

18

SUSAN LUCY’S ADDRESS on Prospect Street was located on a plateau driven into the Y formed by Canal and Vernon Streets—right where John Woll had been mugged—and held tightly in position by St. Michael’s Cemetery, which cut, higher still, across its back. Previously the eighteenth-century neighborhood of a thriving middle class, it had been left behind at some point, high on its exclusive perch, to watch the rest of the city grow prosperous without it. Its homes—the multi-storied gingerbreads and Greek revivals so prevalent in New England—were now weather-beaten and worn, cut up into ramshackle apartments overlooking debris-strewn streets and scruffy yards. It was not a dangerous area, really—although it had its moments—but it was about as forlorn as Brattleboro could offer.

Number 43B was on the second floor of a building half faded red, half bare and graying wood, with a set of stairs attached to its side by pragmatic afterthought. There was no particular reason why Susan Lucey should be home in the middle of the day, but after checking the phone book and finding the address was still hers, the omen was too good to pass up.

I cautiously climbed the unshoveled, icy steps, the banister wobbling under my right hand. The wind whipped at my pant legs and froze my ears. I knocked on the door.

I waited a minute in total silence and knocked again, just for the hell of it. I heard a bang from somewhere inside. Footsteps crossed the floor and the door opened a crack, revealing a young woman’s round, unhealthy-looking face framed by heavy, dull brown hair.

“What do you want?” The voice was flat and hostile.

“Miss Lucey?”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Gunther. I’m with the police.”

“You got a warrant?”

“Do I need one?”

“Fuck you, Mac.”

“No, wait.” I put my hand against the closing door. “I wouldn’t want a warrant. I just want to talk to you about Kimberly Harris.”

“She’s dead.”

“Let me make you a deal. Whatever you’ve got in there, whether it’s dope or gambling or who knows what, I’m not interested, okay? I just want to talk.”

“This is ancient history.”

“I don’t think so—not any more.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t close the door, either.

“Did you read about the killing in the newspaper?”

“Yeah. What’s Kimberly got to do with that?”

“Maybe you can help me find out.”

She sucked on her lower lip and thought a moment. The back of my neck was starting to freeze. “No bust for anything you find in here—right?”

“Not unless it’s a dead body.”

She snorted. “It might as well be. Come on in.” She opened the door and I stepped into a dark cave of hot, rancid, pungent air. She walked across the room and kicked the far door open, a solid naked leg protruding from her stained bathrobe. “Party’s over. It’s the cops.”

There was a muttered oath from beyond and the sound of clothes being put on in a hurry. The outline of a man appeared in the doorway. He quickly turned his face away. “What is this?”

“I just want to talk with the lady.

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