Intimate Relations

by Rebecca Forster

  Hot tears welled behind her eyes. Her skin was on fire, her heart was beating against her chest. She was so afraid, and Enver did not care. She took the glass kettle and smashed it against the wall. It broke into big, thick pieces and tiny shattered ones. Her husband did not come to see what had happened, her husband did not come to see if she was hurt. He had not asked her if she was afraid, or if she knew what happened. He did not ask her if she believed that he didn't hurt that woman. Enver did not turn to her for comfort and that made her the most angry.

  Emi stalked across the room once more, flung herself onto the stairs, and stormed up them. Her hard shoes clumped on the metal. She was not a fat village woman, but she was not like the dolls: long-legged, large breasted, delicate of face. She was a woman who had worked hard to make a success of their lives, and Enver had ruined it all whether he admitted it or not.

  "Enver! Enver!"

  She called out as she pounded up the second flight of stairs where the walls narrowed and the ceiling was low. Her voice echoed back at her, and she knew she sounded crazy like Enver had all those hours ago.

  Emi paused briefly in the doorway of the workroom and then plowed through it. She batted at the legs and the arms hanging from the ceiling. She tore feet out of a box and threw them as far as she could. She shoved a companion, the one Mr. Smith had ordered - weren't they all Mr. Smith - red haired, broad hipped thing with especially prominent nipples on her low slung breasts. Enver named the doll as he always did, but Mr. Smith would give it another. Mr. Smith would pretend the companion loved him. Or he would believe it. Or...

  With a great cry, Emi took a broom and swiped at the faces lining the wall above the worktable. Some of them bounced off the table, and clattered as they fell to the floor. Others went askew so that their parted lips and sultry eyes now stared, not at their own body parts across the room, but up at the grey ceiling. With a great cry, Emi raised a heavy boot and brought it down on the face at her feet. It had been the pretty little face, like that of a farm girl. Emi crushed it.

  Still Enver did not come.

  "Enver." She cried for her husband and her voice caught.

  Taking a deep breath, Emi trembled with disgust, and then she was calm and strangely at peace. There was nothing to be done, and so this horrible energy was wasted. It was for others to do things, and for them to wait. The police would run themselves ragged, but they would find nothing. They would never find the man who arranged for the party and paid them for their services. He was only a contract. He was a money transfer. Let them play cat and mouse, the police and this man. Let them try to solve a mystery that really could not be solved.

  Convincing herself that all would be well Emi went through the workroom, casting her eye on the things she had destroyed. Emi would have her work cut out for her when she put them back together. She found Enver standing where the bed had been. The frame was still there and the box springs, but the curtains and bedding were gone. The headboard had been dismantled and some of the carpet on the platform had been cut away. Emi wished the police had taken everything. This place meant nothing to her; it never had. This felt like standing by the grave of a stranger. Finally, Emi breathed deep. Her nostrils flared, her lips compressed.

  "What did you tell the police?" she asked.

  "I told them I held her, and that's how I had blood on me," he said. "I told them the truth, that I didn't know her. I told them I cut the doll to show those people she was not real. I destroyed my art because it is bad. I know that now."

  He turned his head away.

  "You didn't tell about him, did you?" Emi asked. "They could send us back if you did that."

  Enver shook his head. "I can't tell what I don't know."

  Emi stopped asking questions. Her husband was right. They knew nothing about the Asian man and his business. As for the woman, they had been truthful. They had no idea she was in the house. In retrospect it made sense that the man asked her to come, but it had been a mistake. It had been a mistake from the first.

  "Shall I help you get out of those clothes?"

  Emi didn't look at him. She hated to see him in the clothes of a criminal. His own, she knew, would be tested to find evidence that Enver was a murderer. In their country a small person had no chance against the police. In America it was different. The police must be positive. Judges did not take bribes. Lawyers told stories and the best story won. She, Emi, would find a good storyteller, but now she would make things better the only way she could.

  "Enver. Come."

  The artist lifted his eyes and blinked. He shook his big head; he had used up his words talking to the police. Emi was questioned, too, but for the most part she sat alone in a room. The blonde detective accepted that Emi did not know the people at the party. She believed Emi when she said she did not know the name of the dead woman. She was the wife, after all. Only the wife.

  "Enver, I need all the truth. I don't care if the truth and what you told them are not the same thing. Please. Please. I need to know."

  She moved her hand so her fingers touched his. For a long while he didn't move and then his own fingers twitched. A moment later he held his wife's hand, but it was clear there was no intent to comfort her. When he took a deep breath, his torso tilted one way and his head went the other.

  "Why would I hurt that woman?" he said.

  "I know you did not hurt her," Emi said. "But..."

  His eyes moved to his wife, his head barely moved.

  "I called her Cami like he did. I watched her like he did, that's all. I didn't speak with her, but he did. You know that."

  "Yes, I believe you." Emi moved her hand so that their fingers laced. "But the other thing..."

  "No. I did not tell them. There was no need," Enver said.

  For the first time in a long while, Enver looked at his wife. He smiled like a child wanting reassurance that the needle would not hurt.

  "I didn't hurt her," he said. "I didn't."

  "I know. Shhh. All right," Emi cooed. "And the man? Where did he..."

  "He was gone like always. How would I know?" There was the spark of his rage again, but it was short lived. "If he comes back, I will kill him. Him I would kill."

  Enver let go of her hand and walked away. Emi knew where he was going. Her anger flared and then fell away. How could she deny him? It was all he had left now, and soon even that would be gone if she had her way.

  Emi took a last look at the tape across the room, she let her eyes linger where the bed had been. That woman dying wasn't the worst thing that had gone on in here. She would have it cleaned out; she would have all of it taken away.

  Emi left the room without giving the door on the second landing a look. She knew it was closed. She knew it was locked again. She went down to the kitchen. There she cleaned up the broken glass on the floor, and poured herself a drink. When she had many drinks, she went to the shower. She took the scarf from her head and the smock from her body. For a long while, she stood looking at herself in the mirror. Finally, she got into the shower. She washed her hair twice. She scrubbed her body. And Emi Cuca cried.

  8

  "You be gettin' me up too early in de mornin', O'Brien."

  Geoffrey Baptist's admonition was accompanied by the clatter of plates as he served Cori and Finn. Bacon and eggs for Finn, salted cod and steamed cabbage for Geoffrey, coffee and a smile for Cori. Napkins were put on laps. Silverware was picked up. Cori reached for the sweetener, and Geoffrey sat his skinny self on a chair in between the two detectives.

  "You're always here early on Wednesday, Geoffrey. That's when the beer is put in, so I don't think we've kept you from your beauty sleep," Finn said. "But we appreciate you making us breakfast. We've been up since two, and we were needing something to fill our stomachs."

  "So it be bad business or good keepin' you awake all dis night?" Geoffrey's impressive dreads swung across his shoulders and swayed down his back as he looked between them.

  "It wasn't good business, that's for darn
sure." Cori raised her cup and blew on the hot coffee.

  "Good business be a woman in da bed, a drink in de hand. Now dat be good business no matter if you be in Trinidad, no matter in L.A., no matter where."

  Geoffrey threw back his head and laughed large, the sound of it filling Mick's Irish Pub. It would have spilled out onto the street had the door not been closed to everyone but Finn and Cori. Originally from Trinidad, Geoffrey had bought the pub a few years back, brightening up the place without changing a thing but the proprietorship. The heavy, rough-hewn beams were original. The neon O'Doul's sign in the window still fritzed when the weather turned wet. The Guinness neon never did. An impressive collection of liquor and beers stocked the bar. Corned beef and cabbage was still served on St. Patrick's Day. The dartboard still hung where it had been placed on opening day in the fifties. It was Geoffrey who was new and bright as a freshly minted penny.

  Because Geoffrey had too many wives in Trinidad —and an equal number of unruly children —he took himself off to Los Angeles to start anew. The move was as much to get away from the havoc he created among the women he loved as to find a way to provide for them all. Geoffrey, after all, was an honorable man.

  His skin was dark, his smile bright, and his dreads long. He had so many knit beanies that Finn never saw the same one twice. Today's was orange and green with a bit of blue thrown in for good measure. Geoffrey Baptiste, friend to Finn, had the best people radar in the city. The minute Finn and Cori walked in he saw things were off. A quick heads up from Cori on her way to the ladies room, and he was up to date on what went down at The Brewery. Now he had his two cents, and he was going to put it on the table whether Finn wanted to hear it or not.

  "O'Brien. O'Brien. I know'd you bein' sad about your lady, but you listen here to Geoffrey now. I got me many ladies. They all be wantin' sometin'. Sometime Geoffrey give dem what dey want; sometime Geoffrey try hard, but don' give what dey want. Here's de trick, O'Brien. O'Brien," Geoffrey said. "You be listenin', O'Brien?"

  Geoffrey's long finger tapped the table and Finn gave him a quick look. He didn't crack a smile knowing it would ruin Geoffrey's fun to do so. The man loved nothing more than an audience hanging on his every word. Finn went back to his eggs; Geoffrey to his counsel.

  "So, what it be my beauties need?" Geoffrey threw out one finger after another as he made his list. "Money. De love. De space. Oh, yeah, I give 'dem space so dey can be happy, too. And sometimes de ladies want sometin' Geoffrey know he cannot give, so he don' be tryin'. See what I'm sayin', O'Brien? Do ya see, mon? You only do what you can do, O'Brien. We all be happy wit dat."

  Finn's lips twitched. He raised a brow. Cori's giggle was drowned out as she drank her coffee.

  "And did Cori leave anything out when she told you about the ex-missus, Geoffrey?"

  "I don' be tinking so, O'Brien." Geoffrey's brows pulled together and Finn almost lost it. The man was so sweet of soul that he never knew when his leg was being pulled.

  Cori's elbows were on the table, and she held her cup in both hands. Her blue eyes twinkled as she pursed her lips and blew a waft of steam into the space between the men. Finn thought her lipstick was fetching. It was a tangerine color that would leave a kiss for Geoffrey to wash off her cup after they were long gone.

  "Come on, O'Brien. If your friends can't try to cheer you up, whose going to do it?" Cori put her cup back on the saucer and Finn smiled.

  "I'm not in bits you two," Finn said. "I've been in this country since I was seventeen. Now and again my language is a throwback, but I gave up wandering the moors and drinking myself into a stupor over a lost love long ago."

  "Liar." Cori snagged a piece of bacon from Finn's plate.

  "He be lookin' sad to me." A piece of salted fish was the period at the end of that statement. Cori shivered as she watched him go in for another forkful.

  "I'm not sad. I'm not angry. 'Tis confused I am, as my mother would say."

  "And you'll cop to the fact that your jaw dropped when you saw Bev's party clothes," Cori said. "And this Asylum thing? A sex party? That would have knocked my knickers off."

  "Perhaps I was lacking in the bedroom and drove the poor woman to Asylum," Finn said.

  Geoffrey howled and slapped Finn on the back.

  "You be doin' fine in der, O'Brien. I know'd. You be like Geoffrey. We quiet, but we be good men in de bed."

  Cori and Finn accepted his pronouncements about the bedroom, but not that the two men were alike or that Geoffrey was quiet. Geoffrey waved his fork at his friends. A piece of fish flaked off, and he swiped it up without missing a beat.

  "It be dress up, dat's all. Puttin' de masks on de faces? Crawlin' on the floor wit no clothes on? It weren't Carnivale. It weren't bein' all sexy, dat I know. Seems your old woman be mad 'bout sometin', O'Brien. Dat's not what you be doin' when de lovin' be good."

  "Agreed." Cori polished off the hijacked bacon.

  "Agreed here, too. And both of you can forget one minute’s worry about my feelings," Finn said. "The matchmaker in my Irish village once told me that people who are quick to walk away are the ones that never intended to stay. She was right, and my heart is mended. I count myself lucky. Sure, I couldn't afford that woman now."

  Cori leaned back in her chair. She put her hands together, applauding and smiling. She was convinced that her partner, her friend, wasn't protesting too much. Finn took a slight bow. Geoffrey beamed and then became serious.

  "So what do you 'tink was goin' on in dat place wit de sex and de dead lady?"

  "Same old, same old in L.A. It was all about power. Those who have it, and those who want it." Cori sighed and raised a brow.

  "I'm thinking you're off base, Cori." Finn pushed his plate away and sat back. "The men in that room weren't as interested in the ladies as they were in whatever business brought them there. I'm betting it was about the power of money. The women were window dressing."

  "And do you think Bev is protecting one of those people because she wanted in on the payday?" Cori said. "Or maybe she was just protecting her territory. Nobody but the criminally insane kill without a reason."

  "True," Finn said. "Those people were put out and angry when we detained them."

  "But they were more than that," Cori argued. "They were aggressively arrogant. Someone knew who that woman was—maybe they all did—but Bev was the only one other than the man with the knife who was angry."

  "Bev may have gone astray," Finn said. "But she murdered no one. I swear that on my life."

  "I didn't say she did," Cori said. "I'm saying that she's taking a calculated risk keeping that pretty mouth of hers shut."

  "I would have known if she was lying to me." Finn defended her again.

  "And can you tell if she's lying by omission?"

  Cori knew she had Finn on a spot. His ex moved out and served him with papers as soon as he was released from the hospital. He never saw it coming. That woman had lived her lie until the very last minute.

  "Dis girl who be dead? Did she go to dis party wit'out her bag?" Geoffrey pushed his plate back, turning his long narrow face from one detective to the other.

  "We didn't find a purse," Finn said.

  "And they use made up names partly to promote the fantasy and partly to protect themselves," Cori said. "But this group was an Asylum subset, hand picked. They are so rich, so much masters of their own fate, that I doubt belonging to this club would have major consequences if the public knew of their extracurricular activities."

  "No man likes to be put upon, but a rich man most of all." Finn tossed his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back. "If what Bev said was true, there was at least one man who was worried."

  "Den it be dat man who killed her." Geoffrey said.

  "He wasn't there," Cori reminded him.

  "Could be nobody see him, " Geoffrey persisted.

  "Maybe there are other ways in and out," Cori said. "We could have missed something."

  "I don't see how that could be, but we'l
l look again," Finn said, but his mind was still on the motive. "Perhaps it's shame we're looking at. Money doesn't mean someone can't be ashamed of what they are doing."

  Cori laughed, "God I love you, Finn. You are such a—"

  "Fine heart," Geoffrey said.

  "Thank you, Geoffrey," Finn said. "And 'tis a possibility. Perhaps there was a Catholic among them. Aren't we the masters of shame and guilt?"

  "That dog ain't gonna hunt, O'Brien." Cori crossed her arms on the table. "It's all about having fun and controlling their destinies. Two of those guys are major players. They lunch with presidents, and I can think of one or two presidents who might have a mask and tuxedo in their closet."

  Cori's finger tapped the table, outlined a circle, and kept tapping the middle of it as she spoke.

  "Brand is everything, and those people know it. The last thing they want are the Me Too broads digging their teeth into the jugular, or evangelicals up their asses, or BLM on their doorstep. That kind of crap would bleed out their money so fast. For all the Asylum nonsense, they are practical people. There is a lot to protect, and brand is to be protected at all costs."

  "And dis dead girl? If she be as mean as de ex-wife say, O'Brien, maybe she be mean to more den one of dees guys."

  "Hearsay, speculation, wishful thinking," Finn concluded. "Until we know who she was and how she was going to make trouble, we don't have a path to walk down. There is a huge difference between tattling to a wife and bringing someone of great power to his knees."

  "And that's my cue. I'm headed off to the morgue."

  Cori dabbed at her lips with her napkin and then tossed it atop Finn's. He smiled, liking it better when her lips weren't the color of the sunset. "

  "Thanks for seeing to it, Cori" Finn said.

  "Not a problem. I have to be there anyway to wrap up the report on that last file we had for Fowler," she said.

  "He'll be appreciating that." Finn pushed back his chair. "I'm back to The Brewery. Not that I don't trust Officers Hunter and Douglas's canvass. It's just that they didn't seem all that invested in their work."