In the break room, he makes his coffee the way he likes it. He hears someone approaching and sets his coffee aside to avoid a spill.
“Diaz. You’re here early. Very industrious. I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. Which one do you want?” Ruther waves a large envelope.
“The ME’s report? Thank God.”
“Not so fast. I guess I’ll give you both barrels in one blast: the report is done and thorough. Clean rape kit. Clean toxicology. No surprises on cause of death. No useful DNA from her attacker. Her nails had nothing under them except a sliver of black Latex. The attacker likely used gloves. That shows intent and planning. Two broken toes. Probably occurred during the scuffle. The cut on her head was from the ground, not a weapon. It was full of gravel. Her stomach was mostly empty, hadn’t eaten that morning.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“Short of a miracle witness or a spontaneous confession, it’s time to take it to the public. Set up a tip line. The mayor wants to have a press conference. The superintendent will give a statement. I’ve been promised bodies to man the phones.”
“Should I wear a suit?”
“Shit, Hollywood,” Ruther chides. “You won’t be on stage. This will be high level and political. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“What next, Diaz?” Ruther asks.
“I’m going to talk to Ted, see if he can give me anything at all to go on. There was a smell on the victim’s body; something other than chlorine. A scent like floral perfume. It was faint. I mentioned it to Ted. I want to follow up. She was close to her boss’s wife. Mrs. Kidd said Anna Beth was sensitive to scents. So that smell came from somewhere. I’m hoping it’s from our killer.” Ruther’s mustache registers doubt. Whistler keeps going. “I’ll update Ezekiel—maybe he has some ideas. Suzuki is still churning names through the database. He keeps kidding about heading to California, but the only reason would be to search her apartment. I don’t believe the killer followed her from there. This was homegrown. I’m going back through all the video. Reggie identified some ATMs I have to run down this morning. Like I said, the search of the dumpster came up with nothing. But that tells me we could have a missing hair tie.”
“That’s not much.”
“Also, I sorted her clothes into likely outfits as I bagged and tagged them. It looked to me like she had three suits to choose from for the conference. One had been worn and was wrinkled. But there were no dress shoes, which is strange. All the suits were similar in color so I think she may have only had one pair of heels for the conference, But they were probably her favorite, and expensive. Mrs. Kidd said Anna Beth was a shoe horse. She would have definitely brought heels with her. Perhaps she left them somewhere. Wherever that is, we haven’t accounted for her being there. I hate to be clichéd, but perhaps she slept with someone in the hotel and forgot her shoes? I mean, it is a conference in a hotel. These are the kinds of things that happen. So I’ve been told. By Suzuki. But given what I have, leaving her heels in another guest room at least makes sense.”
“That’s thin. Without evidence it’s just a story. You could send Zeke back to the hotel to scour video.”
“He hates to be called Zeke.”
“I know. But I’m the boss. And do that. Get Zeke on the video from the previous night.”
“I will.”
“Anything else?”
“I checked the sex offender registry for perpetrators in the immediate vicinity. There were twenty-eight within three square blocks.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I had Suzuki run them. None of them were violent, none were rapists; mostly peeping Toms, flashers, public masturbators, and numerous old men who’d been in possession of kiddy porn. Old wannabe kiddy diddlers always get my attention. Far as I’m concerned, they’re recidivists-in-waiting. But not one had a record of actually touching kids or anyone else—definitely never strangled anyone. The closest thing I found was a guy with a restraining order. Looked into it. Contentious divorce. No violence. Heated words about throttling his wife.”
“The world is full of every kind of creep,” Ruther says.
“I’m learning that lesson. You know, I keep going back to this missing hair tie.”
“Lack of a thing is not evidence. It’s at best a theory of evidence.”
“Her hair had been pulled back. You could see the mark clear as day. I can show you in the photos.”
“I saw.”
“The hair tie is nowhere. That may tell us something. He brought gloves. That shows premeditation. If he is taking trophies …”
Ruther’s mustache leaps to attention. “This is not a serial killer. Don’t say the words. This is already a big enough shit storm. Don’t add more crap. When you find yourself at the bottom of a deep hole of feces, stop digging. Do you take my point?”
“Point taken.”
“Good. Now make something happen before I get a stress headache. I’ve been told I’m unpleasant when I have a stress headache.”
Whistler takes up his “Crafty Ass Bitch” mug. “That’s hard to believe,” Whistler says. Then he takes a quick swig to hide his smart-ass grin.
Ashes to Ashes
Allen materializes as Calvert and Daisy exit another hotel room. He announces, “In my professional assessment, you got a handle on the basics. You can’t be expected to use training wheels forever. You see what I mean, Professor? You’re a smart guy. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?”
Calvert is confused. He’d slept badly again, woke feeling freshly abandoned by the loss of his mother and father, and thinking of Grandpa Harry’s funeral. He’s dead on his feet. He slowly focuses his awareness and tries to grasp what Allen is saying.
“Well?” Allen asks.
“I am picking what you are putting.”
“Good. You fly solo for a while. I’ll meet you in the van around six.” Allen turns and jogs away. He calls over his shoulder, “If you got questions, figure it out.” A few yards farther away he yells, “Ask Daisy.”
Calvert watches Allen go, sees him turn into a stairwell at the end of the hall. Daisy shakes her head, clapping her ears against her skull and rattling her harness. She looks puzzled.
He pats her head. “Don’t ask me. I just work here.”
Satisfied, Daisy drops on top of Calvert’s feet until her next olfactory inspection begins.
Calvert could not attend the funerals of either of his parents. Neither of their bodies were recovered. For his father, who was MIA, there was eventually a military event. Calvert had only been a child. “Money was an issue,” Harry had once explained to young Calvert. But Calvert suspected his mother didn’t have the strength to both grieve and parent. She had chosen mourning her husband over comforting her son.
The impetus for last night’s round of nightmares had been his acceptance of culpability in his own death, the death of his wife, and his student. The wakes for the women whose deaths he’d caused had taken place during his coma. The only funeral he’d ever attended was Harry’s.
In his last days, Harry’s old bones had begun to ache, and his hips had quit working. He’d spoken with Calvert on the phone, saying, “I’m no spring chicken.”
“I could come this weekend. Take you for a steak dinner.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. You’re busy with school. I’m getting along. Besides, my teeth don’t fit good enough to chew steak.”
It was the last time he’d spoken to Harry. Ten days later, Harry chose to stay on the downstairs couch near a roaring wood stove. It was easier than getting up the stairs. He’d fallen asleep with a copy of A Hero of Our Time open on his chest. The novel, by Mikhail Lermontov, had been a birthday gift from Calvert. The inscription read simply, For Harry. My hero. As always, thanks for everything. Harry never woke. His body was found the next morning by a woman who came to cook him a hot breakfast and take away his dirty laundry, the fire having burned itself down to ash.
Calvert had mixed feelings u
pon hearing of Harry passing quietly in the night with an unfinished book over his heart. It was a good way to die, peaceful and definitive. But it was tragic to leave a good book half finished. Harry would have liked it.
He recalls seeing Harry at the wake, snug in his tight, silk-upholstered casket. Relieved to no longer have the complicated task of daily life to contend with, finally able to leave regret behind, nothing but a nice long death ahead of him. That’s the life, thought Calvert longingly.
Daisy yawns, wags her tail against the carpet. Calvert snaps on her leash so she knows she’s still working. They walk the dolly of supplies to room 724. He takes up the clipboard and makes check marks and notations. He reads the time on his heavy watch. He writes that too. He unhooks Daisy and says, “Daisy, go.”
His voice is weak. She turns her brown eyes over her shoulder, to see if he means it. He makes a minimal shooing gesture and flicks his chin toward the room. She casually begins to search for unseen bloodsuckers.
Sixty old friends had attended Harry’s funeral, many of whom had known Calvert as a boy. He recognized none of them. They shared stories he’d never heard about his grandfather—about his humor, his humanity, his adventures. It was as if they’d known a man he’d never met.
Harry had deserved his easy death. He’d deserved the attention friends paid at his passing. Conversely, Calvert had earned a death that lingered and taunted. He deserved to be tortured for the pain he’d caused. It is apt there’s no one left to attend his funeral, no one to share his stories or mourn his passing. He imagines a generic student saying, “I remember that time he wrote a vocabulary word on the board. Classic Professor Greene.”
He likes to believe that after Harry’s casket closed, after it was hoisted and pushed into the furnace, after the ashes were swept into a pile and gathered in a brass urn, that somehow Harry found himself swimming out in Lake Michigan with his daughter. That Harry was the young man his friends remembered. He likes to think the water was warm.
Third Time’s a Charm
It’s after four, Friday afternoon, when Moe’s phone rings. “Hello,” she says.
“Moe Diaz?” It’s a woman’s voice, heavily accented. To Moe it sounds Honduran.
“Moe speaking. Who is this?”
“I got a note that Moe called. He had questions. Moe is a man’s name.”
“It usually is.” Moe pulls paper and pen over. “Mrs. Flores?”
“Yes. I am Brina Flores.”
“Could we meet? I’m available now. I need an address and I’ll come to you.”
“No, thank you.”
“It doesn’t have to be today. Whenever you’d like. I’ll work around your schedule.”
“I don’t want to meet. I can talk now. You have questions about Ginny?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Flores. This really would be easier in person.”
“Not for me. What’s your question?”
“What happened the day Ginny was killed?”
“Ginny is a Dreamer. You understand? Legally speaking they call her a Dreamer.”
“Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors.”
“Si. Ginny is a Dreamer. Was. She was nine when I brought her here ten years ago. She was my oldest. I have other children here now. You understand? I didn’t want to talk to the police because I could be sent away. My children would have no one. You see?”
“I understand. What about Ginny?” Moe makes notes in a shorthand of her own invention.
“After high school she took a job at the laundry where I work. That day, the one she died, she came to work sick to her stomach. The work is too hot if you don’t feel well. She took a bus home before the shift was over. Neighbors found her in the alley next to the dumpsters. She’d been choked. Her lips were blue.” Mrs. Flores exhales raggedly.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Flores.” Moe pauses, guilty for upsetting this woman. Her heart beats faster at the thought of finding a lead. She forces herself to sound calm and asks, “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?”
“Everyone loved Ginny.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“She met an older man. He gave her gifts. She got pregnant. They stopped talking.”
Older than nineteen is every adult male in the city. “Do you have his name or a description? Did you meet him? Did he have silver hair? Facial hair? Glasses? Balding? Tattoos? Anything to go on? Big? Small?”
“No. No. I never met him. Ginny didn’t say his name. Older is all she said. I didn’t know about him until he left her. She was so upset she couldn’t hide it from me. She kept him secret until it was over.”
“You think he was married? Is that why she kept it secret?”
“She was a good girl. But the heart has a mind of its own.”
Moe can hear Mrs. Flores getting more upset and knows she’s running out of time. Mrs. Flores will end the call any second. “How did they meet?”
“At work.”
“At the laundry?”
“In the building. The laundry is in the basement.”
“I see. Can you give me the name of the building, the address?”
“The International Hotel.”
The Coffee Girl
The polite chirp of Rosa’s phone barely wakes her at five in the morning. She stretches from beneath the covers and pats the nightstand until she finds the cold touch screen. She’s back to sleep as soon as she tucks her arm under her pillow.
Fifteen minutes later, a frightening clatter rumbles from the top of her dresser. She lurches across the room for the wind-up alarm clock: her backup system. She works a micro-switch with tired fingers. When the alarm stops, she exhales. I’m up, I’m up. It’s what she said every morning of high school when her mother yanked the blankets off her.
She scrubs her face with her hands to get the blood pumping. She yawns. Her morning breath is hard to take, even for her. She shuffles to the bathroom to pee and sits all the way in the bowl, her ass wet and cold. Her torso clenches at the shock; she jumps up and knocks the seat down. When she’s done her business, she’s too tired to stand. She reaches across the sink for toothpaste and a toothbrush. She loads the bristles and tucks them in the side of her mouth. She brushes with her underwear around her knees. Reluctantly she stands, pulls her drawers up while clinching the toothbrush in her mouth, spits in the sink. There is blood in the foam. Her gums are inflamed. She needs to get to the dentist. There’s no time. No money. Thomas needs shoes. She finishes brushing, willing her concerns of dental hygiene down the drain.
She planned to forgo the shower, pull her hair back, and take an extra few minutes to make Thomas a hot breakfast. One look at herself in the mirror and she dismisses the plan. Her fingernails are too long. I need to do my nails. “Ha.” She laughs at herself. Some women get manicures, but she only hopes to find her clippers.
In the hall she knocks on Thomas’s door and enters. She sits on the edge of the bed and looks at his face. “Thomas,” she says quietly, smoothing his hair across his forehead. “Thomas, time to get up.” He rolls away, burrows deeper, and puts a pillow over his head. “Thomas, listen. I’m hopping in the shower. Come in if you need the bathroom. It’s fine. We have to get moving. Okay?” In reply, he curls his knees tighter to his body and bumps her off the bed with his rump. She turns on his bedroom light and leaves his door open.
The water from the shower is brown with rust. She washes so quickly it doesn’t have a chance to run clear. She reaches for a towel and wraps it around her back, tucks it over her chest. She whips her hair over and twists another towel around her head. “Thomas,” she calls, “are you up?” No reply. No movement.
Thomas’s bedroom door is closed. She bangs on it and enters. His light is off, and he’s in bed with all the pillows on his face. He got out of bed, turned off the light, shut the door, and ignored her suggestion to get moving. Her mother calls Thomas “willful,” but Rosa fears he’s becoming an asshole like his father. The door
knocks against the wall as she snaps the light on and rips the comforter away, taking the pillows with it. Thomas’s scrawny limbs convulse at the insult; he flips face down, desperate to escape the glare.
“Mom! Are you kidding me right now?” Thomas’s muffled voice is indignant.
“It’s the circle of life,” she says angrily.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He sounds as mad as an eight-year-old can.
“Get up,” Rosa commands. “Don’t make me say it again.”
She scowls because she’s becoming her mother. Next to her bedroom door is a folding chair where she throws all the clothes she’s worn but that aren’t dirty enough to wash. The third shirt down looks good. The jeans from yesterday make the cut. She dresses. Thomas has a similar system. He calls it The Pile. How will he learn if I don’t do better?
She untwists her hair from the towel, pats it, scrunches it with her hands, and lets it air dry. The cussing stage of morning cajoling is about to commence, when she hears her son take his morning piss. He’s moving. It’s a relief. She hates to start the morning screaming at him. She slips on socks and shoes. In the bathroom, the toilet flushes and water runs. On her way past the open bathroom, she says, “Waffles in five minutes. Put down the toilet seat. Wet that hair down!” Thomas turns his hot-chocolate eyes on her and frowns as best he can with a Transformers toothbrush in his mouth.
In the kitchen, she drops frozen waffles in the toaster. She needs coffee, but it’ll keep until she gets to Coffee Girl. She checks the time. Fuck.
“Thomas. Hurry. We’ll take breakfast to go. Don’t forget your backpack.” Thomas walks smugly into the kitchen, dressed for school, his hair wet and raked with comb marks, his backpack over his shoulders. “Thanks, baby,” she says, kissing his forehead.
Thomas loudly drags a chair from under the table and sits heavily. Rosa pops the toaster prematurely, smears peanut butter over one wholegrain disk and smashes a second on top. “Here,” she says. “Why are you sitting? Let’s go.” She takes a bite of the remaining dry waffle, expecting it to be frozen in the center. She’s surprised to find it warmed through. I’m a great mom, she says to make light of her tiny victory. She throws her bag over her shoulder and ushers Thomas out the door.
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