Page 171 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Slow Burn

“Well, the economy is in a cost-cutting phase. The idea was to get
company medical records, find highly-compensated recent retirees
likely to live past ninety, and have them walk into a stray bullet, at
about the rate of one per year. Just enough to make it profitable for
the company, but not so many deaths that it would raise suspicions.
Quarles would take a percentage of the expected benefits saved, and
split it with the hit man.”
I shook my head. “Fiendish. These kids are dangerous. Or would
be, if they weren’t such fools.”
“Let’s go see if Quarles can fool us.” She led the way to the front
door of bungalow E. Loud rock music came through the door;
Labelle responded, making some rap music on it with her knuckles.
The music stopped and Quarles Carbone opened the door. Even
knowing what to expect I was taken aback by his appearance. The
face, the hair, the build, the body movement and mannerisms—all
were the same as his brother’s. He had on different clothes, khaki
chinos and a madras sport shirt. At least they didn’t all shop at the
same thrift store.
“Yes? What is it? I don’t want any religious literature, thank you.”
We went through the badge routine and gained entrance. This
quint’s apartment was just as tiny as Quantrill’s. What a comedown:
idolized by millions as infants, despised by everyone in authority as
adults. No wonder each was in business for himself.
“We’re looking into your uncle’s death,” said Labelle, prowling
around the small room, ostensibly looking for a place to sit. “In the
event his death was not accidental, you will have to provide evidence
of your whereabouts yesterday afternoon and evening. Are you
prepared to do so?”
Young Carbone came across as cool as his brother. He took the
only chair in the room, leaving us standing. It was at a small desk, the
only piece of furniture in the room beside the bed. He didn’t even
have a chest of drawers; some of his clothes were stacked on shelving
made of boards and cinderblocks, the rest in a closet from which the
door had long since disappeared. His eating arrangements were
equally rudimentary, a hot plate on the desk and a small refrigerator
next to the door.
“What about Uncle Al? Did his kitchen really burn down? That’s
what I heard.”

170