Part 21 (2/2)
Alves swung his left hand out from behind his back, revealing a six-pack of Miller High Life, and extended it toward Connie. ”Peace offering.”
”You didn't need to do that,” Connie said.
”I felt bad about yesterday. I shouldn't have blown you off. It's the stress getting to me. And you know how Mooney is.”
”Not a big deal. I shouldn't involve myself in your investigations. Just thought I could help with this one.”
Alves took a step toward Connie and raised the beer a little higher. ”You going to invite me in or are we going to talk through a screen door all night.”
Connie hesitated, maybe a second too long, then said, ”Sure, come on in. I was down the bas.e.m.e.nt stretching. Lucky I heard the doorbell.”
Connie turned on the living room lamp and they sat on the couch. The room had furniture and simple curtains but no framed pictures on the walls or knickknacks scattered around. It took a woman to decorate a house, make it look like a home. He tried not to think about his own house, decorated but empty without Marcy and the twins. Alves left the beer on the coffee table.
”I don't think I've ever been in here,” Alves said. ”The place looks great.”
”Thanks.”
”You do all this work yourself?”
”Everything. Plaster, paint, woodwork, floors.”
”Nice job. How about the grand tour?”
Connie smiled. ”I can do that, but then you'd know all my intimate secrets, and I'd have to kill you.”
The comment, usually meant as a joke, unsettled Alves. Maybe he should have told Mooney he was coming here. ”I already know your secrets,” Alves said, trying to maintain a ribbing tone. ”You eat giant bowls of oatmeal for breakfast among other disgusting culinary treats.”
”That's nothing,” Connie laughed. ”Wait till you see what I have in the bas.e.m.e.nt.”
Instinctively, Alves patted the Glock on his hip. They headed down the hall toward the bedrooms. Everything neat and tidy. There were three bedrooms, only one of them had a bed and bureau. One of them was set up as a computer room and the other one looked like a small study, a quiet reading area with a comfortable, worn upholstered chair.
”You know, Marcy and I have been thinking of buying a ranch like this, but she's concerned they don't have enough storage s.p.a.ce.”
”I haven't had any trouble,” Connie said, ”but I don't have a wife and two kids. The attic's a small crawl s.p.a.ce. I don't use it much, but I'm sure you could do something with it if you needed the s.p.a.ce.” Connie pulled a piece of window rope in the hallway and a set of stairs folded down. ”Check it out for yourself.”
Alves climbed the rough pine stairs carefully. Halfway up he realized he was in a pretty vulnerable position-his back to Connie. The single bulb on a pull chain lit the s.p.a.ce, but there was nothing under the pitched roof but fibergla.s.s insulation, a couple of small boxes and lots of dust.
Connie called from below, ”I hate going up there. It feels like you're in a coffin, doesn't it?”
Was Connie joking or messing with his head? Connie had to know he wasn't there as a peace offering. But he was being so open about his house, showing Alves everything. And everything seemed so normal. Of course, there was still the bas.e.m.e.nt. Alves started backward down the stairs. Looking between his legs and the rough pine stairs, he tried to locate Connie. He took the last couple steps in tandem.
The hall seemed dim after the glow of the bright bulb in the attic. The house was quiet. As he was moving instinctively into a back-to-the-wall position, he felt the sudden jerk of one arm being pinned behind him in an awkward position, his head twisted to the side. The pain in his shoulders and back was searing. Alves was immobilized.
He tried to pull away, tried not to panic. Just as suddenly the pressure eased and he was free.
Connie laughed. ”Scared the c.r.a.p out of you, didn't I?”
”You got me with that one,” Alves said.
”Chin and Chicken. My favorite wrestling hold. Won a lot of matches that way.”
”I'm sure you did.” Alves rubbed his jaw, and shook his arms, trying to get the blood flowing.
After checking out Connie's power lifting gym in the attached garage, they started down to the bas.e.m.e.nt.
”Nice setup,” Alves said. Connie had the room arranged with a couch and a couple of recliners facing a big screen plasma TV. In the back corner was a bar with a large antique refrigerator. ”How come you've never had me over here for a ballgame?”
”I just finished it up a few months ago. Been too busy to think about having anyone over.”
”What's in the little safe?”
”Personal papers, my guns.”
”Anything interesting?”
Connie hesitated, giving him a little smile. Then he knelt down and worked the combination. ”I've got a .38, a .357, and my little two-shot derringer.” He swung the door open, took out his .38, and handed it to Alves. It was a five shot S&W snubby. Just like his own, a Chief Special. Connie had even replaced the wooden grips with Pachmayr grips just as he had. ”I taught you well,” Alves said, admiring the revolver.
”I used to keep a .40 SIG Sauer upstairs in the closet. But it got stolen. That's why I got the safe.”
”Did you file a stolen gun report?”
”I did. District detectives came out and dusted for prints. Nothing. They figured probably some neighborhood junkie.”
Alves handed the gun back to Connie and moved through the bas.e.m.e.nt, checking out the fridge, the recliners. He walked toward a room behind the television. There wasn't much light back there, but he could see that it was a laundry room-a ma.s.sive enamel table along one wall, opposite a water heater and furnace. The table was covered with piles of dirty laundry and bottles of detergent. Marcy would have loved a big table like that for folding.
Maybe he was wrong about everything. He let his imagination get the better of him. If Connie was a master criminal, a ma.s.s murderer, Alves would have found some evidence in the house. So far, nothing. And Connie was more than willing to let him look around. There was only one other door, back by the bar. Alves had initially a.s.sumed it was the room with the furnace and water heater. But they were in the laundry room.
”What's in there?” he asked.
”Personal stuff.”
Alves couldn't help but think of his talk with Sonya Jordan. How Mitch Beaulieu had a room set up like a shrine for his dead father. Alves paused. It was worth a shot. ”Kind of like the personal stuff Mitch Beaulieu kept in a locked room.”
Connie's face tensed. ”That's not funny, Angel.”
”Sorry. That didn't come out right,”
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