Skin the Cat

by R Sean McGuirk

  “You don’t get to march in here and trample our lives,” Cynthia wailed. “You’re nothing more than a mistake. You’re just a human stain.”

  “Go to hell, bitch,” I shouted as I was dragged away by the pair of firm, dark hands. By the back exit, he drew up close and cupped my face. It was our kitchen manager, Thomas. He looked me right in the eyes.

  “Dr. Malhotra,” he whispered, deepening the eye contact. “What were you thinking? Damn girl.” Wide-eyed, he shook his head almost apologetically. “They’re never going to let you back in here again.”

  I broke from his grasp and sprinted away.

  My phone buzzed all the way home. It was Greymore. I ignored every call. When I pulled in the drive, all the lights in the house were still off, leaving the entire residence cast in shadows. Svidi was always home by now. Like clockwork. I hit the clicker and garage door grinded open. His car was gone. Inside, I dialed his phone and the call automatically transferred to voicemail. The phone was shut off. He never turned his phone off. Ever. My heart ticked a little faster. I went to his office area on the first floor. Nothing. I turned to leave but a small whirring sound caught my ear. I walked back, following the humming noise to his desk. The power button twinkled sapphire-blue on his laptop. There was just no way. My husband had been in the military. He was hyper-organized. Compulsively tidy to the point of absolute obsession. Always turning things off, folding items up, and wiping everything down. I touched my throat with my fingertip, tracing the raised edge of the dime-sized bandage, wondering what the hell was going on here. I shook the mouse and the screen flashed on. Dumbfounded, I stood staring at a zoomed-in photo of my own face. Mouth open. Head back. Eyes closed. But this wasn’t a photo. It was a video paused. What the fuck? I hit the triangular “play” icon. Moaning and throwing my head back, the camera angle pulled back and revealed Greymore mounted behind me, thrusting and pumping. My peripheral vision sparkled, my feet reeled away from me and I hit the floor hard. On my back, staring at the ceiling, I screamed for Svidi at the top of my lungs.

  But he was gone.

  21

  Missing

  I answered the phone at my new desk in my new cubicle adjacent to Debbie and her new cubicle. I wondered how long I could hold onto this job if our case dissolved. If concern was now walking with me, then full-blown alarm was waiting just around the next corner. Debbie and I were no longer afforded the refuge of sleep. “Bardane here,” my voice sounding withered with exhaustion.

  “Well howdy guy,” The slow talking, hee-haw voice greeted me. belonging to Desmond Prater, a very old man and possibly my new landlord.

  “Howdy Desmond Prater,” I chirped, my stomach completing a summersault. This man could change Lilly and Brant’s life in a single stroke. All things emotional to me hung in the balance with him, my possible Landlord. I couldn’t wait for country graces. “So did we get it?” I bit down on a pen, as if this might somehow improve my odds. “Give me some good news.”

  “Congratulations Mr. Bardane,” he said brightly. “The numbers checked out. Everything worked out in the wash. My wife and I are delighted to have you.”

  I slapped my desk, the relief sweeping over me tingling, the hidden weight suffocating me suddenly removed, my ability to breathe suddenly effortless. Thank you Universe. There is a God. “Mr. Prater,” my eyes went a little tearful. “You have no idea how grateful I am that this worked out.”

  “Now listen,” he said, the voice assuming a higher-thinner pitch. “Tuesday the new water heater is set to be installed. There will be a few plumbers lurking around. Don’t arrest any of them.”

  “I don’t arrest plumbers.” Then I reconsidered it. “Unless they’ve killed someone.”

  “You happen to have a shotgun, by the way?”

  “Do I need one?”

  “Mr. Bardane,” he paused thinking how to put it and continued. “I don’t profess to know much about Chicago, but this is very old country. It is lovely, even serene up on those peaks. But the environment up there is rugged. The weather switches on a dime. The land can be considered cruel at times. They can be sinister. Real mountain people. They don’t hardly ever come to town. They got hard bark.”

  “Hard bark?”

  “They are set in their ways,” his voice came like a low whistle. “The universal language spoken up there is shotgun.”

  “I see.”

  “Look son,” he hesitated. “I don’t want to come off as a preacher man, but you got kids. And time tends to stands still in the Cumberland’s. That ain’t always a good thing.”

  “I’m not following you Mr. Prater.”

  “This ain’t Chicago,” he chuckled. “Lookie, black bear still roam freely up there. Over at Wilderness Road in the Gap, Pioneer’s wagon-wheel ruts dating back to the 1700’s are still visible in the clay. Many direct descendents never left those hills. You take a man and inbreed him for over two hundred years and you get…well… a different creature.”

  My mouth was open. I was catching images of banjo playing hillbillies with pale faces, cleft pallets, patches of thin hair, and unusually long teeth. No one from back home would believe any this shit. Argopelters, Mountain people, assassins on motorcycles, historic wagon wheel ruts, none of it. The elderly man kept at it like a wind-up toy, churning slower but not stopping. “One of the things they do respect is the business side of shotgun. Catch my drift?”

  “Got it,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Get yourself a truck.”

  “What?”

  “A four-wheel drive.”

  “Why?”

  “Something’s gone wicked wrong with the weather, the likes of which I never seen in eighty-eight years of my life.” He gave a dry cough. “The last ten years? Tornados in autumn, blizzards in May, storms exploding without warning like bombs. You have to cross a couple dry creek beds getting up the slope. Those can turn into raging rivers on a turn.”

  “Okay,” I said nodding into the phone. “Let me check my list here,” and I wrinkled some paper into the phone to tease him. “Shotgun. Truck. Anything else?”

  “You want the keys?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Front porch under the flower pot.” Then he hung up on me. I stared at the phone. I wanted to high-five Debbie, I wanted to call Luke. I wanted to feel good about this. But the stress came right back. If this case wasn’t solved soon, there would be no future income. Without money, there would be no lease, no rental agreement and no home for Lilly and Brant. I leaned back in my chair and heard Debbie hang up her phone.

  “What do we have?” I asked.

  “Greymore’s attorneys contacted the Chief,” she groaned. “Duckfield and Duckfield called this morning and told him unless we produce a subpoena, any additional attempts to contact Greymore would be considered harassment.”

  “That was fast,” I said interlacing my fingers over the top of my head. “What about Barry Harmony?”

  “Nothing,” I heard her slap her desk, frustration growing. “He just vanished into like the bleach vapors in his empty trailer.”

  “Barry is hiding his son somewhere,” I said opening a piece of nicotine gum and tucking it in my lower lip without chewing. “What about the Malhotra’s? We need to chat with that wife-physician, Carlina.”

  “Nobody home,” Debbie said it like all hope was lost. “And Carlina Malhotra’s clinic is chained up.”

  “Chains?” my eyes caught Debbie’s. “Like chains with a lock?”

  “Yep. Hardcase steel. Luke’s looking into what’s up.”

  “Malpractice maybe?”

  “Apparently she stopped paying all her bills at once and never came back on line.”

  I leaned back, stared at the ceiling thinking of the photo. “What’s Carlina’s husband’s name again?”

  I think wealthy clients might coin Dr. Svidi Malhotra’s se
nse of interior design as exquisite. Or phenomenal. One of those words not found on the lips of the nine to five crowd. The plastic surgeon’s clinic was nothing short of an exclusive resort spa. The aroma of lavender and sandalwood oil filled the office, soft candle flames danced on shelves, several leather sofas sat arranged by a fireplace, and a piano concerto played quietly in the background. Debbie dipped her fingers in a miniature waterfall built into the wall that gurgled beneath accent lighting. “May I help you?” asked a youngish man with exfoliated skin and black-framed glasses who grimaced as Debbie stirred the waterfall water with her hands.

  “You can help me,” Debbie she puffed up her chest, trying to push her breast forward. “I was wanting to add a little size here?”

  “Oh.” The secretary averted his eyes. “Well.” Clearing his throat and searching for something. “That requires a consult with Dr. Malhotra.”

  “Good,” she said faked some relief. “He told me to stop by. He promised to see me today.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” The boy rocked the mouse in his hand, staring at his computer screen.

  “No.”

  “Are you a friend?”

  “Sure.” Debbie grinned. “Why not.” She was having fun working the guy.

  Black framed glasses got nervous, clicking the computer faster with enthusiastic desperation. “Who are you again?”

  Debbie took on the look of boredom. She was done playing. Up came the badge. “We’ll just show ourselves in handsome.”

  We pushed around the counter and followed the hallway until we heard voices murmuring behind a partially closed door. Debbie knocked and swung it open. The consultation room radiated with warm light where an Indian physician drew black lines on the face of an overweight male who sat partially reclined in front of a vanity mirror. The surgeon completed his line, straightened his posture and slowly rotated around to find us there. “Well now,” he said in a thick Indian accent, face puzzled. “Can I help you?”

  Debbie showed him the badge. “Just a moment of your time sir.”

  Dr. Malhotra rose to his feet. “Mr. Calloway, don’t touch your face.” He gave us a sour glance. “I will be right back.”

  We were escorted to a lavish office with low lamp light, a large oil painting of a Hindu Goddess with eight arms and oriental rugs sprawled all about. The opposing wall was actually not a wall. I caught the gap in the middle. It was a huge rolling partition constructed of red stained oak, leading to another room that was left open a few inches.

  “Take a seat please,” Dr. Malhotra gestured. “I have to wash my hands.”

  As soon as he vanished, I hustled over to peer into the crack of the sliding door. A tidy modernized studio apartment sat on the other side, complete with a kitchenette, a restroom with a shower, and a sofa facing a wall-mounted flat screen television. Debbie appeared by my side.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “Look on that table,” I said flicking my eyes with a nudge.

  Debbie focused on the long row of glinting scalpels spread across the countertop.

  “Damn,” she murmured under her breath.

  “The guy is a surgeon though,” I shrugged. “Tools of the trade.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t that stuff supposed to be kept in an O.R. or something?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Check out the sofa.”

  It has sheets on it. And a pillow.”

  “Yep. Look at the sacks of groceries on the table.”

  “No wonder no one is answering at his home. The dude’s been living here.”

  We quickly sat down before the physician stepped back in, where he took a seat behind his desk.

  “Show me badges again please.” He was curt and to the point. “Closer please. Ah yes, thank you.” Folding his hands at the desk. “Now, how may I help you?”

  “Do you know where your wife is?” Debbie asked and lifted her notepad, pencil ready.

  “No,” he said, his shoulders slumping.

  “Are you guys still together?”

  He glared at Debbie but tried to smile through it. “What’s this about?”

  I cut in. “We are concerned for her welfare. We really need to chat to her about an ongoing investigation.”

  “Oh,” his head dropped.

  “Why haven’t you been at home?” Debbie asked.

  “How do you know-,” then he saw the crack in the sliding partition, fresh concern crossing his face. “Yes, I have been staying here.”

  “Dr. Malhotra, where is your wife. We really need to speak to her,” Debbie said, and me thinking, yeah because she is our last chance before we get fired.

  “She’s not at home?” he asked, eyes aching.

  “No one answers,” I cut in. “Let me get this straight, your wife is missing and you don’t care? How long has she been gone?”

  “A few days?”

  I sat up and giving him a shit-eating grin. “A few days? Have you filed a missing person’s report?”

  The physician raised his palms. “I have tried calling over at the house.”

  “Very impressive,” I said leaning forward. “Dr. Malhotra? What exactly is going here?”

  “Look,” he raised his palms at me like he was pushing us away. “I won’t lie. Carlina and I have had a rough time lately.” His eyes fell away. “She has issues.”

  “Issues?” I repeated. The doctor wiggled in his seat, the discomfort really starting to set in.

  “What’s this about again?” he asked.

  “This is an active investigation and I’m not at liberty to go into detail,” I nodded my head slowly. “But suffice it to say your wife may be in serious danger. What issues Dr. Malhotra?”

  “I think she’s strung out on prescription medications, I can’t be sure.” His nerves were digging at him, he got up, circled his seat, and set back down, then held his finger up at us, pushing an intercom button on his desk. “Darla, I need you to go perform a computer regression analysis on the patient in consult room one.”

  A voice chirped back. “Okay Doctor.”

  Pain spread across the Indian’s face. I couldn’t tell if he was faking it. I wanted to ask him why he had surgical instruments laying around his office apartment. Why his wife was missing. This whole investigation getting more fucked every turn. “Our relationship has been faltering over the last six months,” he continued, rubbing his hands together. “Where she goes is often a mystery to me. But honestly, having Carlina missing for several days at a time is not unusual anymore.” With this his eyes broke with some sadness. But I could finally tell. It was fake. He was faking it.

  “What happened to her clinic?” I asked.

  “Bankrupt, lost to unpaid bills.” He gave the floor a slow head-shake. “Again, I’m thinking drugs.”

  “Debbie,” I said nudging my head at the doctor. “Show him.”

  Debbie reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a copy of the photo and handed it to him. “Do you recognize any of these individuals?” she asked.

  “That’s my wife,” he said pointing. “The rest?” He looked up at her and shrugged. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

  Debbie threw me a glance calling bullshit, turned to him and tried again.

  “What about the man with the silver hair?”

  “Never seen him before in my life,” Svidi said handing the photo back, his voice going a little sharp with strain. Debbie studied his eyes and didn’t say a thing. He stared back. She didn’t budge and he started squirming in his chair. “Look,” he broke the silence. “I work for a living. My client is waiting. Will there be anything else?”

  “I don’t know,” Debbie leaned in on her elbow. “Will there?”

  On the way out, Debbie and I huffed up the steps leading to the second floor of the pocket-sized City Parking garage where
we’d parked. “Boss, why didn’t you want him to know that we know about Chumley’s and his connection to Greymore?”

  “It’s too early to pounce.” I stopped at the top landing and dug my knuckles into my hip socket, warding the soft spasm of pain. “For now, the less he thinks we know, the better.”

  “Why did he deny knowing Greymore?” Debbie asked.

  I shrugged. “He’s hiding something. What did the club manager say on the phone again?”

  “Ms. Frauline Spokane.” Debbie flipped open her pocket-pad. “She stated Carlina and Svidi Malhotra’s membership had recently been revoked due to breach of membership contract.” She tucked the notepad away and looked at me. “The response sounded wooden- like it had been rehearsed.”

  “My fear,” I fished a piece of nicotine gum from my pocket and thumb-nailed the package open. “Is that we are getting into a separate, nonrelated domestic case.” Then I saw him. I yanked Debbie behind the cement support column beside me. “Get a load of that.”

  At the far end of the garage, Svidi sprinted to a black Mercedes-Benz coupe with some bags, scanned the area, stuffed them in the trunk, jumped in and sped off.

  Debbie leaned over the iron handrail, and watched him fly down the street. “That doesn’t look good,” she exclaimed. “If we’d been a little faster, we could have tailed him. You want me to put out a BOLO?”

  “Be on the lookout for what?” I popped the nicotine gum in my mouth. “A physician with a sense of urgency?”

  “That figures,” she sighed, rubbing her face.

  “Listen, get me back to my car. You go grab lunch. Review Chumley’s membership roster. We’ll meet back in two hours.”