Bust by Jason Starr, Ken Bruen Page B

fast as he inched toward the hallway, shaking, covering his mouth. When he saw the second blood puddle he gagged, coughing up stomach acid. He couldn’t recognize this woman’s face either, but something about her body looked familiar. She was heavyset, wearing jeans and a light blue sweater. Her long curly brown hair looked familiar, too, like...
    Fuck, it was Stacy Goldenberg — his niece, on Deirdre’s side. She was living in New York, going to school at Columbia. Sometimes she and Deirdre went shopping together and, for some reason, she must have come home with her tonight.
    Max fainted. When he regained consciousness both hips were killing him. He remembered the dead bodies and how he needed to call the police. He thought about confessing — getting a shrink to say he was nuts. They’d medicate him, lock him up for a while, and he’d eventually get out. Or he could pin the murders on Angela — say it was all her idea. It was all her idea, wasn’t it?
    He shouted, “Get me the fuck out of this!”
    Max couldn’t remember anything. Suddenly, his whole life was a fog. Then he heard Popeye saying how he would get to him if he ever went to the cops. This Popeye was a total psycho — there was no doubt about that — and Max had a feeling he meant everything he said.
    Max went into the kitchen, chugged some vodka, the booze burning like a son of a bitch. Then he did some deep breathing, pulling himself back together, and dialed 911.

    Max was staring through the lace curtains at the red strobe lights outside the townhouse and he didn’t hear the last question Detective Simmons had asked him.
    “Sorry,” Max said, “What was that?”
    “The alarm,” Simmons said. “Could you please tell me what happened with that again?”
    Detective Simmons was a stocky black man, about forty years old. He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt, obviously discount, sweat stains on the armpits, with a tie wound on loosely. Max was wearing the navy sweat suit he’d changed into before the police came. He knew it was stylish and made him look slim and athletic.
    Other officers, forensic workers and a crime-scene photographer were gathered in the hallway, creating a din of voices and confusion.
    “Like I told that other officer,” Max said. “I tripped it off by accident. I mean I forgot to disarm it.”
    “So the alarm definitely wasn’t ringing when you got home?”
    “No,” Max said.
    Now Simmons was looking in a small notepad, saying, “And what about the other victim — Stacy Goldenberg. Did you know that your wife was going shopping with her today?”
    “No,” Max said. He was starting to feel nauseous again, thinking about how he was going to have to face his brother-in-law and sister-in-law — Stacy’s parents. The vodka in his stomach was shouting, Yo, buddy, how ’bout some more down here?
    “When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”
    “Like I told the first officer — this morning.”
    “You didn’t talk to her at all during the course of the day?”
    Max shook his head, trying for that devastated look.
    “The past few days, had your wife told you about anything strange that happened around the house while you were gone? For example, did she say any strangers came to the door or rang the bell or anything like that?”
    Max, still shaking his head, said, “No. Nothing like that,” acting weighed down with grief.
    “So far we haven’t found any sign of forced entry,” Simmons said. “What about keys? Do you keep a spare set with any friends or neighbors?”
    “No,” Max said, letting his voice choke a little.
    “What about the code to your alarm? Do you share that with anybody?”
    “No one knew the code except me, Deirdre, and the alarm company.” Damn, if he could just squeeze a few tears out. How did they do that shit?
    “You see what I’m getting at, don’t you, Mr. Fisher? There are only two likely possibilities for how the killer got inside the house. He either broke in before