Upon seeing Kendal, Pickering staggered forward and dropped to his knees beside the body. He fingered Kendal’s neck as Robin turned away and heaved into my trashcan. The room instantly reeked of urine, shit, vomit, fresh paint, and that coagulated blood iron-fist. I flicked the fan up to high.
The clock radio droned a staticky news story about the upsurge in tourism last quarter. Ten minutes had passed since I’d seen Junior for the first time.
Walter Pickering shut the door, pulling Robin inside with his wiry, ebony fingers. The man was always dressed for a wedding...or a funeral.
He turned and hissed at me, “Did you call the police?”
“Yes.” We both had our noses in the crook of our arms like a pair of Draculas. The blood on our hands added to the effect.
He turned to Robin who gazed into the street through my window and vacantly wiped her full lips with a napkin. She opened the door. Robin’s tight skirt hugged her full hips.
“What are you doing?” Pickering snapped and shut the door.
“You really think the killer’s still out there, Walter?” Robin said through gritted teeth and caked on foundation. She had a pimple on her nose that no amount of make-up could stifle. “Stop being a pussy!”
After a suitably intense reporter-stare-down, Pickering did what he does best, barked some more orders while rubbing his bald head.
“Everyone, start snapping.”
He was right. We needed to get our own evidence before the paramedics and cops took control. All three of us snapped photos and video. Junior didn’t move. That was fine, keeping track of a statue was easier.
Chapter 3
The cops arrived ten minutes after the paramedics pronounced Kendal dead.
They asked us to wait outside. We inhaled the salty air like we’d been held under water for the last hour. My office might never smell normal again. Not to mention Kendal’s open, staring eyes. Big, dead eyes.
An unmarked Crown Victoria out of a nineteen-eighties episode of Simon & Simon lumbered onto the grass despite three open spaces not ten feet away. Something about cops and especially detectives, no matter what city or state, they loved to park anywhere but in a marked parking space. They behaved like a dog that could piss on a bush, but would rather piss on your mailbox.
Two burly men emerged. The driver wore a long-sleeved white button-down tucked into blue dockers. The other detective dressed like he’d spent the day in a sports bar: t-shirt, White Sox cap, jeans. White Sox had a beard, but the driver looked cooler in a pair of oval sunglasses and a goatee. The skin around his goatee shimmered in the tropical light. I’d seen enough metro-sexuals in Los Angeles to know the look. He liked facials. Had facials really made it this far into the Atlantic?
Walter shook his head while he stared at this phone.
“Was Kendal married?” I asked.
Walter nodded. Junior had parked himself next to the railing on the steps.
“Who’s the kid?” Walter asked.
“Junior. Was here to see Kendal, but he wandered into my office first.”
“Kendal came looking for this kid and what, an arrow found him?”
“That’s about the size of it. You look like you could use some sleep, el presidente,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. It was too soon.
“This is no fucking time for your shit, Boise. I gotta tell a man’s wife he’s been shot with an arrow in our place of business. Hell, I gotta tell all my other reporters that one of them was just killed in our building and I gotta have someone write the story for tomorrow’s edition. Do you believe I’m enjoying those things?”
A firm finger tapped my shoulder. Goatee stood there, cool as a block of dry ice. His dark, satiny skin stood out in stark contrast to his dry-cleaned white cotton shirt.
“That your office?” He had a thick voice, honed by years of intimidation practice in the field.
“Yes,” I said. I tried to swallow, but my saliva had dried up.
In my experience cops tended to dislike private operators, like we were in competition, although to my mind, I’d always thought the two groups should help each other.
“What’s with that door?” he asked.
“I was painting it when all this went down.”
“I see.” He typed something into his phone.
“Hey, Boise?” It was Junior from his perch on the steps. “How much longer? I’m gettin’ a bit hungry.” He gestured putting food in his mouth. “Long flight, you know?”
“Who’s that?” Goatee asked.
Junior walked over. “Hey, officer.”
“Detective,” he said, indicating the shield clipped to his belt. “Major crimes.”
“Sorry, sir. I got in from Georgia not long ago and I’m gettin’ to where I could eat a bushel o’ peaches.”
Goatee nodded, then sauntered over to his car and came back with two Snickers bars.
“On me. You want a bottle of water?” He raised a James Bond eyebrow.
“Uh, no. Thank you, sir.” After accepting the proffered snack, Junior started to move back to his spot.
“Wait. We all gotta talk.” He eyed Pickering, then pointed at me and Junior. “How about us three have a discussion in my car.”
Through a mouthful of chocolate, caramel, and nuts, Junior said, “You got a-c?”
Once in the backseat, I said, “What about Walter?”
“I know Mr. Pickering. I know where he works and how he thinks. He’ll tell me what I need to know, then I’ll read all of it in the paper tomorrow. No worries there.”
I’d been questioned extensively by cops in my life. Everything from information gleaned while investigating cheating spouses for the firm I worked for when one of them wound up dead later, to the prolonged questioning involved with Evelyn’s death. One thing they liked doing was dividing up suspects and witnesses to see if the stories were consistent. His choosing to question Pickering and Givens separately probably had more to do with checking out if our stories lined up than the fact that Pickering was a reporter. Then again, maybe Goatee really was worried Pickering would report everything he heard.
A team of forensic techs trotted up the stairs and entered my office. White Sox leaned in to whisper something to one of them. He ambled over, hitched his jeans again, then plunked into the passenger seat. Removing his hat, he leaned close to the vent, his eyes narrowing as the cool air buffeted his face.
Goatee patted his partner’s shoulder. “This is Detective Barnes. I’m Detective Leber. We are in the major crimes division. We’ve been assigned to investigate the death of,” he looked at his phone, “Adirondack Kendal. Is that right?”
Barnes nodded his bulbous head, still leaning into the vent. “At least we got an easy I.D. for once, huh? What’s that name all about?”
Leber shrugged, “Mountain range, I think.”
“It’s in New York state,” I added helpfully.
“So, why was Adirondack Kendal in your office, Boise?” Leber asked.
Junior and I hadn’t discussed this question, but I’d agreed that our conversation was confidential. I intended to keep that promise.
“I’m not really sure why Kendal came down. A visit, I believe,” I said.
Detective Leber stared at me from between the front seats, at least it felt like he was staring at me, his sunglasses were so damn dark. He robotically shifted his attention to Junior, tapping his knee.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Herbie, but folks call me Junior on account of my dad having the same name.”
He typed into his phone. “Last name? Spell everything.”
We told him all the basics. I laid out the specifics of the actual arrow shot, but left out the few details about Junior’s family, including his grandmother’s unknown status. Junior added a few more specifics, but also left out his concerns. Eventually, they let us go but insisted that they’d be in touch to
follow up on our version of events.
As we headed for the Snack Shack a few blocks away, I asked, “So why don’t you want help from those detectives on your grandma?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t feel right, you know?”
“Two burgers,” I said. “With fries.”
I leaned toward the kitchen and inhaled deeply. The warm aroma of food ushered away the stench of death and decay that had left a foul after-smell in my nose.
When the counter guy didn’t give me a total, I realized he was staring at my bare chest. I’d used my shirt to soak up Kendal’s blood. He pointed above him at a greasy no shoes, no shirt, no service sign. A large metal fan was the only thing keeping it bearable between the island heat and the smoking kitchen only feet away. Hanging above the register were t-shirts with the restaurant’s name for sale. I tugged on a medium and paid the man.
The only beer on the menu was Schlitz and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
“What do you want to drink?”
“I’m vegetarian,” Junior declared.
“Fine by me,” I said. “I’ll eat both burgers. Drink?”
“Perrier.”
“Perrier and a Pabst B-R.” I shelled out my last twenty. “You eat fish?”
He didn’t respond. He was fixated on the spot on his leg. The red spot.
“You want to go wash that off?” I turned to the guy at the counter. “Bathroom?”
He shook his head and pointed to another sign. NO RESTROOMS. I remembered California had some law about restaurants being required to have restrooms. This was not California. I asked for a cup of water and grabbed some napkins. Junior wiped his leg. His hand continued wiping the spot so that his skin had begun turning redder and little wet shreds of napkin stuck to his leg. He jerked when I gently gripped his shoulder.
“I think you got it out,” I said.
Dropping the napkin on the table, he crossed his leg onto the knee of the other leg and leaned over, examining it more closely. There was nothing there.
He took one sip of his Perrier, then picked up another napkin, dipped it in the water cup and resumed rubbing the spot.
We passed the time in silence until our orders were called—he rubbed, I sipped. Scenarios ran through my mind about why someone would want Kendal dead. The main one for me was that he had an arrogant attitude and cared little about the consequences his stories brought to those involved. As I slathered ketchup over my burgers, I couldn’t help thinking this might have turned out for the best as far as Junior’s interests were concerned.
“I work up an appetite whenever the authorities come around.” I shoved the plate of crinkle-cut fries in front of him and dumped some ketchup on the side of the plate. “Bon appetite.”
Did Kendal’s demise have anything to do with Junior, or was this a colossal coincidence? Would I ever get my office back? Mostly, I reminded myself that Kendal wasn’t paying me and Junior might be. I was determined to keep better focus on this case than I had on Roger’s, where I’d gotten distracted repeatedly by a kidnapping Dana and I had stumbled upon during the course of our investigation. The guy whose daughter had been kidnapped had been one of the wealthiest men in the Caribbean, but I hadn’t earned a dime for saving the girl.
After ten minutes his eyes had gained some focus. He seemed present again, but smaller somehow. “So, how you doing with what happened?” I asked between bites. Each mouthful of burger deserved its own fry, then I’d dab my mouth for grains of salt or bread. Four napkins minimum for proper dabbing. I had an unnatural fear of food on my face.
Dipping a fry in the ketchup he ate it slowly, bit by oily potato bit. “I’m still worried about grandma. Somehow feels like this is my fault. The guy comes down to see me and pow, dead. No one else saw the letter or knew about me coming here. The letter didn’t even say which reporter was my contact. Must be a coincidence, right? Couldn’t be me. Right?”
“That’s a very rational attitude, except whenever someone dies in a room with only three people, there’s a decent chance it has to do with at least one of the other people. Rule of threes, as my old man used to say.”
He slurped some tea and belched into his hand. “’Scuse me. Yeah, I guess you could be right. But you and this reporter are both in a dangerous business, right? I mean solving murders and digging up dirt on folks is bound to make some enemies, right?”
The kid did have a point.
“Then again, you were only two feet away from a guy who got aced with an arrow. That doesn’t worry you at all?”
“Two feet might as well be a mile for a pro.”
He was starting to shove fries into his mouth with more enthusiasm, a good sign. Focusing on details and solving the problem always provided a welcome distraction from the emotional reality of death, as did hunger.
I looked up from my plate. “What’s that mean?”
“The arrow. Did you look at the arrow?”
I dropped my burger on top of the fries and wiped my fingers, but didn’t dab, which should tell you something about how much this statement jarred me.
“Nope. It was hard to make out the brand since the damn thing was covered with blood.”
“It was pro grade. Not something some rook goes in for, you know?” His eyes grew faraway again for a moment, as if he was perusing the arrowhead in his mind. “Plus, they put that thing into him hard, so almost certainly a serious crossbow.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
He stared down at his leg again and scratched at the spot with his fingernail while wiping off some of the dried napkin bits.
He shrugged his shoulders like this was obvious. “Man, my whole clan’s into archery.”
I popped off my chair like my four-of-a-kind just got beaten by a straight flush. “When the fuck were you going to tell me this?”
The cashier threw me a dirty look as my chair toppled over. Setting it back on four legs, I leaned close, my words shooting out in a bull snort. “We need to talk! Let’s go outside where there’s more privacy.”
Chapter 4
My burger dripped ketchup on the patchy grass outside the restaurant. I ripped another hunk out of my burger then continued my onslaught, bread crumbs flying out of my mouth to emphasize my displeasure.
“What’s wrong with you? You get someone killed in my office, and you don’t think to mention it!”
He shrugged again.
Swallowing the last of my beer, I flung the can against a rock. I needed another. A piece of bun fell as I lifted my hands to my head, shoving my hat off. The burger followed the beer can into a nearby bush as I spun awkwardly on my good leg.
“It didn’t occur to your rational, college-educated mind that there might be a connection between the archery community on this island and Kendal getting one through his chest? Really expect me to believe that?”
“No man, it didn’t. Well, not till now. Yeah, it sorta makes some sense,” he mumbled.
Three deep breaths. Most times I forgot to do this, but somehow, in the heat of my business floundering, my office posing as a sealed crime scene, and my cantaloupe-colored door needing to be repainted, I managed to shift into a Zen-like state.
When I opened my eyes, Junior sat crossed-legged on the grass, biting his fingernails and scratching that same spot on his leg.
“Tell me more, and I want to see your letter.”
“We’re archery folk. Hell, my uncle was an alternate on the Olympic team in eighty-four.”
That had been the year it was held in L.A. I’d seen the plaques at the Coliseum.
“Does your family have money?”
“Yeah, we do all right,” he replied. “My grandma’s well-off, anyways.”
Then it hit me. The Bacon family had made their money in sugar, molasses, and the most famous export from the Virgin Islands, Bacon Rum. I could picture the Jolly Roger flag waving above the name on the 750-milliliter bott
le.
“Who else knew about you meeting with Kendal?” I asked.
“No one. I didn’t even tell my dad I was coming down. He wouldn’t have let me. He and grandma don’t much see eye to eye.”
“When’d you get here?”
“Around an hour before I saw you.”
“And all you brought is that backpack you’re carrying?”
“Yup. I have clothes at my grandma’s house.”
Unbelievable. First Elias, a college student at The University of the Virgin Islands, who was an intricate part of Roger’s murder, then this kid. Young men knew how to find trouble.
“Money?”
“I got my own,” he said. “Grandma gives me spending money. I’m running out, though.”
“What’s your father going to do when he sees you?”
“I reckon to ask forgiveness instead of permission. Isn’t that how it’s done?”
Maybe that explained why he was so concerned about grandma’s non-responsiveness. Funds running low. Once I’d picked up my hat and dusted it off, I said, “Letter.”
He rummaged through his backpack and handed me a handwritten letter on eggshell colored paper.
“Is this your grandmother’s signature and handwriting?”
“Yes, as best I can tell.”
Dear Herbert Junior,
If you get worried about me and what’s happening or if I go off the map...I’ve got some things going on, noble things...go see a reporter at The Daily News. Just leave a message there in my name and he will set up a meet with you. He is an old friend, a dear man who is helping me sort things out. He will clarify what’s happening. For your own safety, I’m not going to tell you about it yet. Do not go to your parents, go see the reporter first.
Love,
Grandma
“How did Kendal know who you were?”
The man-boy shrugged. Blank-lost expression, but not shock anymore. Examining the letter further brought another salient fact to my attention: it was undated. So many questions.
“Okay, here’s the deal: I need a job. You are going to hire me to find out what happened to your grandma. You are going to convince your parents to give me a retainer for expenses.”
Sweet Paradise Page 3