Death Will Help You Leave Him Read Online Free PDF Page B

viewing would play out as a social event. We’d have a chance to talk to people who’d been close to Frankie and might have their own reasons to kill him.
    Jimmy had already told me privately that he doubted the stabbing was purely “business” from higher up the drug dealing chain.
    “Dealers have guns,” he’d said, looking grim. He didn’t have to say that investigating would be a helluva lot less of a lark if professionals were involved. Or that this wouldn’t deter Barbara.
    We couldn’t completely rule it out. Frankie might have tied off loose ends before he went away to rehab for twenty-eight days. Or he might have left his affairs in a mess to cause trouble the moment he came out. He could even have gone to rehab to avoid preexisting trouble. It wasn’t unheard of. What if he’d cheated someone he owed drug money to? What if he’d sold bad drugs to users, either adulterated with some inactive ingredient or cut with something toxic? Luz had believed that Frankie meant to get and stay clean. She was new to the program. She was still on that pink cloud they talked about, dazzled by the bright and shiny miracle of recovery. The rest of us knew too many addicts whose bullshit had never diminished, no matter how long they didn’t use.
    Frankie was more than just a drug addict. He was also a guy who hit women. He’d been violent with Luz even after he got clean. How many other women had he hurt? How many women had it in for him as a result? Or the women’s friends and family? And what about the wife? I hoped Luz was right that the wife had never heard her name or seen her picture. If she had, I hated to think what might happen when we walked into the funeral parlor. He must have cheated before. And maybe he’d battered his wife as well as his girlfriends. Her family, whom we were about to meet, would have plenty of reason to hate Frankie. In spite of myself, I felt detective fever taking hold. It didn’t have the kick of getting high, but it had its own fascination. Part of me could hardly wait to meet all these people.
    The funeral home was so far into Brooklyn that the train emerged from its tunnel to run along an elevated track. We rattled along above dingy rows of storefronts and rubbish-strewn empty lots. Cramped back yards flashed by, stuffed with a tangle of last summer’s flowers, persistent weeds, beat-up lawn furniture, and decrepit children’s toys. After making about a hundred local stops, the train decanted us onto a deserted platform high above the street. A rickety set of iron stairs led downward. Ahead of me, Barbara slipped her hand into Jimmy’s. That would have been fine if the stairway had been wider. She tripped on his heels and nearly knocked him over.
    “Sorry!” Barbara said.
    Jimmy wrenched his hand away to grab the railing, remarking mildly that if he intended to die in Brooklyn, he’d pick a more interesting way to go. Luz giggled nervously. I thought better of offering her my arm. But I waved her ahead of me. I figured if she lost her footing, I could catch her before she plunged forward. And if she tripped and fell backward, she’d hit my chest rather than the sharp edge of one of the metal steps.
    Jimmy winked at Luz.
    “Codependency is always having to say you’re sorry, even when you didn’t do anything.”
    Luz laughed a bit more naturally, and a couple of wrinkles between her eyebrows smoothed out. It occurred to me that she must be wary of both of us, no matter how much Barbara sang our praises. With her history, Luz might expect any man, even us, to switch without warning from charm and affection to rage and using his fists.
    The funeral home stood on a king-size corner lot in a residential area a few blocks off the shopping street that ran below the elevated tracks. The neighborhood looked prosperous. Detached brick houses squatted amid manicured patches of lawn and bunchy foundation plantings of rhododendron and azalea that were probably spectacular in the