basement.
Unfortunately, so was Larry Kelsto.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
The basement was as wrecked as the living room. Moving boxes and old pieces of luggage had been sliced open, their contents spread out on the concrete. But that wasn’t what drew our attention. Somebody—Kelsto, presumably—had turned a section of the room into an approximation of the stage at the Komedy Krush. That’s where we found his body, seated on a director’s chair in front of a fake-brick façade, a few feet from what seemed to be a real standing microphone and a real Minicam attached to a tall tripod. A bright baby spotlight, amateurishly affixed to the basement ceiling, gave us a too-clear picture of his condition.
He was naked except for his candy-cane-striped shorts. His head slumped forward, his dead, glazed, bulging eyes seemingly staring at his bare feet. From wrists to elbows, he was duct-taped to the arms of the chair. A grayish cloth was stuffed in his mouth. Someone had used his body as an ashtray. The burn marks were particularly livid against his pale, dead flesh.
They’d used cigars. The stale smoke smell was not quite overpoweredby the combined stench of burned flesh and excrement. There were ashes on the cement floor but no cigar butts. I wondered if it was possible to find DNA on ash. Probably not.
“Gotta get out of here,” Carrie said, rushing for the stairs.
I was just as anxious to leave but paused to take a quick scan of the basement. More emptied boxes and tossed books.
And his cellphone. Resting near rumpled pants, shirt, and pink high-top canvas shoes.
Look at it or not?
Not, I decided. Leave it as is for the cops.
Carrie was standing at the top of the stairs, frozen. When she saw me, she put a finger to her lips.
I heard it, too.
Someone on the front porch was humming a tune that sounded like “On the Sunny Side of the Street.” There was the distinct click of a key going into the lock.
I pointed to the dining room, and we crept there and continued creeping through the kitchen and storeroom and out the rear door, which I eased shut.
Taking the lead, I moved slowly along the side path.
Whoever had been on the front porch was now inside the house. Judging by the sound of her voice, it was a woman. We were within a few feet of the front gate when she exclaimed, “
Oh, my dear sweet Jesus
!” which meant she’d just seen the mess the house was in.
Wait till she gets a load of Kelsto
, I thought.
I stopped Carrie from opening the gate and causing a screeching noise loud enough to wake the … bad metaphor.
By lifting the gate on its hinge and moving it very carefully, I was able to open it enough for us to squeeze through.
We were all the way to Wells Street when I realized we’d have to go back.
“Go back? Are you crazy?”
“We … didn’t clean up,” I said. “We left fingerprints.”
“Forget it. I’m not going back.”
“You and I are on a murdered man’s—no, make that on
two
murderedmen’s—blackmail lists. Maybe there’s no evidence of that lying around for the cops to find. And maybe they won’t find your prints on the sill of a half-open window. But that’s a bet with bad odds.”
“How does going back help?”
I explained my plan.
The woman who answered the doorbell at Kelsto’s was tall, fit, and in her fifties, skin the color of caramel, hair wiry and black with streaks of gray. She’d exercised caution, keeping the door locked until, peeking out through the tiny glass panes, she was able to verify that I was “the guy from the morning show.”
She opened the door.
“Hi,” I said. “We’re here to see Larry.”
“Uh … I don’t think … I clean for Mr. Kelsto and Mr. Parkins. They’re not home.”
“Well, I’m sure Larry’ll be here shortly,” I said, stepping into the hall. “He’s expecting us.”
“Thing is … something’s not right here,” she said, forehead wrinkled in concern. “I come in once a week to clean, and sometimes,
Unfortunately, so was Larry Kelsto.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
The basement was as wrecked as the living room. Moving boxes and old pieces of luggage had been sliced open, their contents spread out on the concrete. But that wasn’t what drew our attention. Somebody—Kelsto, presumably—had turned a section of the room into an approximation of the stage at the Komedy Krush. That’s where we found his body, seated on a director’s chair in front of a fake-brick façade, a few feet from what seemed to be a real standing microphone and a real Minicam attached to a tall tripod. A bright baby spotlight, amateurishly affixed to the basement ceiling, gave us a too-clear picture of his condition.
He was naked except for his candy-cane-striped shorts. His head slumped forward, his dead, glazed, bulging eyes seemingly staring at his bare feet. From wrists to elbows, he was duct-taped to the arms of the chair. A grayish cloth was stuffed in his mouth. Someone had used his body as an ashtray. The burn marks were particularly livid against his pale, dead flesh.
They’d used cigars. The stale smoke smell was not quite overpoweredby the combined stench of burned flesh and excrement. There were ashes on the cement floor but no cigar butts. I wondered if it was possible to find DNA on ash. Probably not.
“Gotta get out of here,” Carrie said, rushing for the stairs.
I was just as anxious to leave but paused to take a quick scan of the basement. More emptied boxes and tossed books.
And his cellphone. Resting near rumpled pants, shirt, and pink high-top canvas shoes.
Look at it or not?
Not, I decided. Leave it as is for the cops.
Carrie was standing at the top of the stairs, frozen. When she saw me, she put a finger to her lips.
I heard it, too.
Someone on the front porch was humming a tune that sounded like “On the Sunny Side of the Street.” There was the distinct click of a key going into the lock.
I pointed to the dining room, and we crept there and continued creeping through the kitchen and storeroom and out the rear door, which I eased shut.
Taking the lead, I moved slowly along the side path.
Whoever had been on the front porch was now inside the house. Judging by the sound of her voice, it was a woman. We were within a few feet of the front gate when she exclaimed, “
Oh, my dear sweet Jesus
!” which meant she’d just seen the mess the house was in.
Wait till she gets a load of Kelsto
, I thought.
I stopped Carrie from opening the gate and causing a screeching noise loud enough to wake the … bad metaphor.
By lifting the gate on its hinge and moving it very carefully, I was able to open it enough for us to squeeze through.
We were all the way to Wells Street when I realized we’d have to go back.
“Go back? Are you crazy?”
“We … didn’t clean up,” I said. “We left fingerprints.”
“Forget it. I’m not going back.”
“You and I are on a murdered man’s—no, make that on
two
murderedmen’s—blackmail lists. Maybe there’s no evidence of that lying around for the cops to find. And maybe they won’t find your prints on the sill of a half-open window. But that’s a bet with bad odds.”
“How does going back help?”
I explained my plan.
The woman who answered the doorbell at Kelsto’s was tall, fit, and in her fifties, skin the color of caramel, hair wiry and black with streaks of gray. She’d exercised caution, keeping the door locked until, peeking out through the tiny glass panes, she was able to verify that I was “the guy from the morning show.”
She opened the door.
“Hi,” I said. “We’re here to see Larry.”
“Uh … I don’t think … I clean for Mr. Kelsto and Mr. Parkins. They’re not home.”
“Well, I’m sure Larry’ll be here shortly,” I said, stepping into the hall. “He’s expecting us.”
“Thing is … something’s not right here,” she said, forehead wrinkled in concern. “I come in once a week to clean, and sometimes,
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