Free Bullet Beach by Ronald Tierney Page B

night.’
    â€˜We’ll be getting back to you when we have more to say.’
    â€˜The public has a right to know,’ the voice said.
    â€˜Of course. And they will know. At the moment we need to make sure we don’t jeopardize the investigation and that we protect the rights of every citizen. Thank you. We’ll keep you informed.’
    Rafferty was good on camera, Cross thought. Unfortunately though, Howard Cross was now in the public domain. ‘Howard?’ Of course, he didn’t like ‘Howie’ either, but a guy has to have a name. He was about to shut the television off when the next story picked up on Edelman’s death.
    â€˜Indianapolis police have their hands full,’ said the blonde woman behind the desk. ‘We’ve just learned that Irving Edelman, owner of the car lot where the repo murders were uncovered, was found dead in his home in an apparent suicide. Arnie is at the Edelman house on the city’s Northside. What do we know about this, Arnie?’
    â€˜What the police will tell us is that Irving Edelman was found dead in his garage with a noose around his neck. Police will not confirm the suicide theory saying that they are waiting for the coroner to make a statement and that it might take a few days before that ruling will be made. We do not know who found Mr Edelman or what other information they might have gathered so far. All we know is that city hall recently boasted of a declining murder rate. The number of homicides in the last few days has to worry them.’ Arnie looked into the camera for a few serious moments before the camera went back to the perfectly coiffed anchor.
    â€˜I’m sure the mayor has something to say about this,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Arnie. Now for news from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Members of the—’
    Cross clicked it off. He finished his noon breakfast and sipped the last of the coffee. Time to do something. But what? Edelman was dead. That left the police, who weren’t known for sharing with a civilian let alone a suspect. And members of the family weren’t any more likely to consent to an interview with the likes of Cross.
    After letting Casey out and then back in, Cross showered, shaved and slipped on jeans and an old madras shirt which he left untucked.
    â€˜What do rich people have that most people don’t?’ he asked Einstein, who seemed bored at the attention. ‘They have help. People who do their cooking and cleaning and gardening and who knows what?’
    He punched in the numbers.
    â€˜You’ve reached the law offices of James Fenimore Kowalski. Please leave a brief message at the tone.’
    â€˜Kowalski. This is Cross. I want to know where Raymond Taupin lives and he isn’t listed anywhere. Give me a call at . . .’
    â€˜Taupin lives in some fucking McMansion up north,’ the lawyer said, speaking over the out-going message.
    â€˜That narrows it,’ Cross said.
    â€˜Hold your horses. Wait.’
    There was a long silence followed by an address.
    â€˜But you’ll never get in,’ Kowalski said.
    â€˜I know. I thought I’d wait outside and talk to the help.’
    â€˜Interesting.’
    â€˜I don’t have anything else.’
    â€˜If you get anything, let me know. I’ll do what I can to take that old blood-sucking bat down.’
    â€˜You should see a shrink about your hatred of the upper classes,’ Cross said, teasing.
    â€˜I love the rich,’ Kowalski said. ‘Rather, I’d like to be rich. And some rich people are lovely and cool and admirable and pleasantly humble, but Taupin is a sneaky, condescending, conniving creep. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. He has no class. He has no redeeming value.’
    â€˜OK, I understand. He’s not a give-his-money-through-a-foundation kind of guy.’
    â€˜He funds nonprofits. These are the nonprofits that make sure politicians who