by Jen Blood
“I kept up.”
He just looked at me pityingly. Undeterred, I lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, just to spite him. When I was dying of black lung, that’d show him.
“When did you know Lisette was gone?” I asked.
“I took Maisie back to the Portland house last night. It was too nuts at the party—I hate that shit. Lisette was waiting for us. We talked, then she went to bed with Maisie.”
“Not with you?”
He grimaced at the insinuation, but didn’t deny it. “She was worried Maisie would have a hard time sleeping after everything that’s happened. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“And you didn’t hear them leave?”
He shook his head. “I was tired. The house was locked up, the alarm armed. I knew no one could get in...”
“But you weren’t worried about someone getting out,” I guessed.
“No.” The admission clearly wasn’t an easy one for him.
“Have you called the cops?” He shook his head. “What does Mary say?” He hesitated. “You haven’t told her Maisie’s gone?”
“What good would it do? Mary doesn’t give a shit about her anyway.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but arguing seemed pointless. “She might know where they went, though.”
“Not likely. I’ll talk to her later, but it’ll be a waste of time.”
I finished half my cigarette before I’d had enough and put it out. “Can I ask you a question?” I kept going without waiting for the go-ahead from him. “Why are you here? How do you think I could possibly help you with any of this?”
He ran a hand through his hair and turned his back on me, the tension obvious in every move. “I just thought they might be here.”
“Why?” I said. “I’m a third-rate reporter working for a paper that’s not on anyone’s radar. Why the hell would you think that?”
“I just... It was something Maisie said, all right?” He released a long, frustrated breath. “There’s something weird about the kid. She senses things, or...whatever, I don’t know what the hell it is. But she said I could trust you. If something happened, there’s a boy watching out for you. That he’ll make sure things turn out right.”
A hard-strung wire tightened inside me. “What do you mean? What boy?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed. He turned and met my eye once more. “It’s the way she is, all right? Lizzie’s the same way, but she talks about it less. They just know things—things no one else does. Or could. And Maisie said to trust you.”
“Okaaay,” I said, drawing the word out. “So...I’m trustworthy, according to a twelve-year-old kid. That doesn’t mean I know what to do.”
“No,” he agreed. He shifted uncomfortably. “But most everyone else I run with, also runs with Johnny. And right now Johnny’s like bringing a dull switchblade to the OK Corral... He’s not a lot of help.”
“He’s not concerned they’re missing?”
“Truth is, I think he’s relieved.” I started to say something to that, but he stopped me with a glance. “I know he’s got problems, maybe he’s not the best guy on the planet, but you don’t know him the way I do. He wouldn’t hurt Lizzie.”
I thought about that, but didn’t say anything. It was warm out, the streets filling with Saturday traffic as the morning wore on. Wolf’s pickup was parked in front of my building, his front tires up on the sidewalk. Despite everything, he didn’t look anxious to leave. I searched the street for any sign of the man who’d left the photos for me the night before. After a second or two, Wolf picked up on it.
“You looking for anyone in particular?” he asked.
“It looks like Solomon and I picked up a tail over the last few days—around the time Charlene was murdered. You know anyone who might have reason to do that?”
“Got a description?”
I paused. “A chubby, over-the-hill Magnum, PI.”
He glanced at me and almost smiled. “That’s your description?”
“The best I could get from the stoners across the street. He drives a silver Corvette.”
“So he’s got shitty taste in muscle cars, then.”
“But great taste in cultural icons. He left me an envelope of 8x10s, hitting the highlights of the last few days: nearly getting skewered on the pier; Solomon and me at the bar... Solomon at home.”
He frowned at that. “What’ve you got for security up there?” he asked, nodding at our building.
“At the moment? A deadbolt and a prayer.”
That earned another grimace. He turned his back on me without another word and pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. It was a smaller model than mine, likely a few hundred bucks more expensive, and he made a point of keeping his voice low and walking away while he spoke. Two minutes later, he hung up and returned his attention to me.
“Nothing about Lizzie yet,” he said, answering the question before I’d asked it. “But I asked my buddy to come over. He’ll meet us here shortly.”
“Oh.” I hesitated. “Not that I don’t want to meet your friends, but...why is your buddy coming here?”
“You said the guy who left the pictures is big. Mustache, Corvette, maybe gone a little soft but still someone who could do some damage.”
“I just said he was an older, softer version of Magnum, PI. I never said anything about him still doing some damage.”
“Call it intuition, then.” He kept going without waiting for a response. “As far as you know, this guy started following you the night Charlene was killed?”
“As far as I know.”
Someone in a shiny black pickup with darkened windows turned down the corner of my street and barreled toward us. He stopped just shy of Wolf’s shiny black pickup and parked with the wheels up on the sidewalk, just like Wolf. Must be a cultural thing. Wolf started to go to the truck, but I stopped him with a hand on his muscled arm. He didn’t look pleased. Frankly, I didn’t care.
“You mind telling me what the hell’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. The bald tattooed man who had intervened on Johnny’s behalf at the party got out of the pickup to meet us.
“Wolf—” I started.
“I’ll tell you more when I know more,” he said. “For now, Hector here’s gonna add a couple of locks to your door, maybe see if you want to beef up your personal security at the same time.”
“Meaning?”
“Guns,” Hector said. He nodded to his pickup. “I got a Glock, I got an AK-47, I got a cherry little pistol that’d probably suit your girlfriend...” He looked me up and down. “Or maybe you’d like that one.”
I held up my hand. “We don’t need guns—the guy took a few pictures, and very kindly left them with my neighbors. He hasn’t made a move other than that. Unless there’s some reason you think I need an arsenal under my belt, I’d just as soon keep the heavy artillery with people who know how to use it.”
Wolf looked at Hector. Hector looked at Wolf. The two men shook their heads at me, the sad sack so lacking in testosterone he couldn’t even handle stowing a machine gun or two under his pillow. They went back to Hector’s pickup to talk about what a disappointment I was. I turned and started for the apartment.
I heard Hector pull away from the curb as I was going inside. Wolf caught up to me halfway up the first flight of stairs. Apparently, locks weren’t a big deterrent for him.
“Solomon’s probably still sleeping,” I said when we reached my door.
“I’ll keep it down,” Wolf said.
I opened the door. Unsurprisingly, the apartment was exactly as I’d left it, except now the shower was running and Solomon’s bedroom door was open.
I tapped on the bathroom door. “I’m making breakfast. We’ve got company.”
She shouted something back to me that I couldn’t make out, and Wolf and I went into the kitchen. I’d gone shopping the day before, so got out eggs, potatoes, green pepper, and onions, and added a separate pan to
fry up bacon for the carnivores in the group. Got the fry pans nice and hot, and sliced butter in to sizzle. Wolf put bread in the toaster and started the coffee without waiting for me to ask.
Modest Mouse had just come out with The Moon and Antarctica a couple of weeks before, and that and the White Stripes de Stifl were on permanent rotation in the CD player. I hit play and waited for Wolf to complain. He didn’t. Two minutes into the first Modest Mouse track, Solomon appeared in the kitchen doorway in a t-shirt and a pair of my boxer shorts, her hair still wet.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” she said to me. Her normally fair complexion was three shades paler.
I turned down the music. “I’m a little busy—”
“Please,” she said.
I was at the stove. Wolf got up from the table and took the spatula from me. Solomon had already left the room and was headed back down the hallway.
“I’ll cover you,” Wolf said.
I found Solomon outside my bedroom door, her arms folded across her chest. “What’s up?” I asked.
“Have you been in your room today?”
I had to think about it. “No. I hadn’t put my laundry away yet—I just grabbed clothes from the basket in the living room. Why?”
“I needed to borrow a shirt,” she said. She opened the door, and nodded for me to go in.
The moment I had, I stopped dead.
Scrawled in a spray of red paint—or what I hoped was red paint—across the wall behind my bed were a series of symbols I didn’t recognize. Directly beneath them, a cloth doll had been pinned to the wall, a sachet tied around its neck like a noose. One end of a rolled piece of paper stuck out of the sachet.
Careful to touch only the corners, I unfurled it to read the typed message:
May
your ghosts haunt your waking dreams
screams of those dead at your hand
lead you into the black
Solomon read the note over my shoulder. Wolf appeared at the door while we were both still frozen there, rereading the same words. He pulled out his cell phone again.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“You still say you don’t need a little help?” he said.
A chill ran through me. I looked at the note again. Shook my head. “No,” I said. “We could probably use a hand.”
Chapter 12
Despite Wolf’s offer to help, I thought it was probably a good idea to also let the police know we’d stepped in something we weren’t necessarily equipped to handle alone. Half an hour later, Detective Thibodeau knocked on our apartment door.
He had two other uniforms with him, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Wolf had taken off as soon as he heard I was pulling the cops in, but I had no doubt he’d be back. Most likely with Hector and a suitcase of ammo. Right now, that didn’t sound like a bad thing.
By the time Thibodeau got there, the coffee was cold and breakfast had burned. A cloud of smoke hung over the kitchen, the fry pan soaking in the sink with a clump of blackened eggs still in it. Thibodeau nodded briefly to Solomon before he turned his attention to me.
“Where is it?”
“This way,” I said. I led him to my bedroom, where the symbols were still scrawled on my wall, the doll pinned beneath. He stood in my bedroom doorway for a few seconds as though waiting to be invited inside. Then, he nodded to the tallest of the duo with him. “Get some shots of the wall and the room. I’ll be in the kitchen with Mr. Diggins.”
That didn’t sound good. We went into the kitchen, where I offered him coffee. He declined. He took the seat at the head of the table, Solomon and I on either side. Outside, what had started as a sunny day had quickly shifted to a wet fog that clung to the city and everyone in it.
“Where were you last night?” Thibodeau asked me. My ass had barely hit the chair.
“Last night? I was following up on the story,” I said.
“Where?”
I tried not to look at Solomon, who was leaning back in her chair in an unsuccessful attempt to appear casual.
“A summer house on Sebago Lake,” I said.
“Uh huh. Whose summer house, Diggs?” Thibodeau pressed. The way he said it suggested he already knew the answer.
“It belongs to Johnny Cole,” I said.
“I was invited,” Solomon added. Like Thibodeau’s primary concern was whether or not we were party crashers.
Thibodeau didn’t say anything for a few seconds. In the other room, I could hear Tom and Jerry rifling through my stuff. Too late, I remembered a joint I’d left in one of my jacket pockets. Maybe I’d offer it to Thibodeau. It looked like he could use it.
“Johnny Cole,” the detective said. “He was Charlene Dsengani’s employer, wasn’t he?” I agreed with a nod. “And how do you know him?”
“I told you, I was following up on Charlene’s death.”
“Do you know her sister works there as well?”
“I do. I spoke with her briefly last night.”
“Did you talk to anyone else?” he asked both of us. “What about Lisette?”
“She wasn’t there,” I said. “Charlene’s daughter was, though. I talked to her.”
“And?”
I hesitated, but only for a second, before I pulled the photo Maisie had given me from my jeans pocket. I pushed it across the table toward him.
“The girl gave you this?” he asked.
“She did.” I told him the whole story—that, according to Maisie, the man was her father; whom I believed the man in the face paint to be; that I thought the third girl in the photo was Lisette... And, if so, Lisette Mandalay’s story about coming from a wealthy family in Cape Town was most likely bullshit.
Thibodeau wrote it all down patiently, occasionally interrupting with a question. When the story was done, he leaned back in his chair.
“What time did you leave the party?” he asked.
I glanced at Solomon. “Midnight?” I asked her.
“Around there, yeah.”
Thibodeau looked at my bruised eye, where Johnny or one of his goons had clocked me. His gaze shifted to the bruise around Solomon’s wrist. He rubbed his chin.
“Anything else happen while you were there?”
I hesitated.
“Johnny made a move on me,” Solomon said. Her chin was tipped up, and she’d curled her legs beneath her in the chair. “Diggs doesn’t take kindly to that—there was a little scrape afterward. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Made a move,” Thibodeau repeated. He was softer with Solomon, his eyes once more on her wrist. “You all right?”
She slid her hand over the bruises, chin still up. “I’m fine, it wasn’t a big deal. Diggs just gets worked up about that kind of thing. After that, we came back here.”
“And got home when?”
“Just past one.”
“And you didn’t notice the writing on the wall at that point?”
I shifted in my chair. Glanced at Solomon. Cleared my throat. “I didn’t sleep in my room last night.”
“Ah,” Thibodeau said, like all the pieces had just fallen into place. I resisted the urge to set him straight, since it would do no good. One look at Solomon and I knew she’d decided the same. “All right. So, you come home from the party at Johnny Cole’s place. Go to bed—in Ms. Solomon’s room, then?”
“That’s right,” Solomon said tightly.
“So, someone could have been in the apartment last night while you were gone.”
“They could have,” I agreed.
I thought of the big guy with the mustache who’d been taking snapshots of us over the last few days. If he’d gone to the trouble of breaking in and leaving a Voodoo effigy on my wall, why the hell would he bother leaving 8x10 glamour shots with the neighbors? It didn’t make sense.
Those photos were still in their envelope, stashed in the drawer in the kitchen. I realized that in all the chaos, I hadn’t even told Solomon about them.
So, I did. Over the
course of the next fifteen minutes, I told her and Thibodeau about the Magnum impersonator who’d been cruising the neighborhood. I showed them the photos. Solomon went a little paler with each one, but by the time I was done I could tell she was more pissed off than scared. I preferred that, personally, but I knew it could be dangerous.
“Doesn’t seem like a bunch of 8x10 glossies are in quite the same league as a message written in blood on your wall,” Thibodeau noted.
“No,” I said. “So...that is blood on the wall, then?”
“Most likely,” Thibodeau said. He kept his eyes on mine, watching my reaction. My green tint must have been convincing, because he shifted his focus to Solomon. “Do you two have somewhere else you can stay for a while?”
“You think we’re in danger here,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know, Diggins,” Thibodeau said impatiently. “You’ve got some big guy trailing after you taking pictures for his scrapbook, and either him or somebody else wandering around in your apartment casting spells. I’m thinking now might be a good time to take a ride up the coast, see the sights.”
“We’ll think about it,” Solomon said.
“We’re done in here,” the tall cop said just then, poking his head into the room. “Anything else you want us to do?”
Thibodeau shook his head. “No, I’m set here too.” He stood. His complexion was gray, his face drawn. I thought of Rachel—his wife. I wondered if he’d go home to her now or if he had to stay on the job.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Charlene’s crime scene?” Solomon said.
“No,” Thibodeau said.
“What about the statue that was there?” I asked. “A carved wooden totem—”
“Look,” the detective said. He gripped the edge of the table, leaning toward me—whether for intimidation or support was unclear. “I’ve got more problems than I can handle, I can’t add you two to them. I’ve got a nasty, persistent little knot of bigots who’re screaming about how the Africans have brought violence to our fair city. Then, I’ve got a much bigger knot screaming at me because we’re not doing enough to protect the Africans who’ve come to live in our fair city. I’ve got the NAACP calling to tell me I shouldn’t have put that poster of the black guy up without knowing more about what was going on. I’ve got the minister of the local Baptist Church telling me we’ve got Satanists in our midst. I’ve got a sick kid at home, and a wife who’s going nuts worrying about him. And I’ve got about fifteen hundred African refugees who thought they’d be safe here, who are suddenly rocketed back to the memory of being terrified for their lives every waking minute. So I don’t have time to hold a goddamn press conference with you right now.”