The door of the car closed behind him. He leaned over to Sonya, returning her kiss. Quinn tasted the mint on her breath, the faintest waxy feel of her lipstick.
She was smiling as she pulled away. “How was your meeting?”
“It was good, just what I needed.” He watched her flip down the visor and fuss with touching up her lips.
“I’m just going to kiss that stuff off of you again, you know that.”
“Uh huh, but a girl’s got to keep up appearances.” She flipped the visor up and turned to face him. “And how was breakfast?”
“Good, but I’m still full as a tick. Pancakes and more pancakes,” said Quinn, smiling at her lovely face.
“Then let’s get up into the park and climb some hills. I’m not going to tolerate a pudgy boyfriend, no matter how cute he is.” She started the car and eased out of the crowded parking lot. Quinn sat back in the seat and let the world pass by.
Chapter 17
Detectives
“Hey Partner, how was your weekend?” Barnes gathered up a sheaf of documents as he watched Woo sit down at the second of a pair of large industrial steel desks. The buzz and clatter of the busy open room bounced off the green patterned linoleum floor and ricocheted off the walls.
“Morning Bob. Usual weekend. Homework and family night on Friday. The kids had soccer on Saturday. My parents came over on Sunday. You?”
“Ah, not too bad. We went to the Interstate Firehouse Cultural Center on Saturday. But at least we got to hear some decent jazz afterwards.”
“Celia?” For Woo, one word was as good as twenty.
Barnes chuckled. “Yeah, Celia was definitely the motivation behind the cultural thing. Jazz and drinks at Jimmy’s, that was me.” He watched the ebb and flow of the other detectives moving through the open room. Turning his attention back to his desk, he held up a file with one large hand. “Coroner’s report on James Watson. Just got it.”
Without seeming to move, Woo was up and out of his chair, leaning in over his partner’s desk. Like one of those wire-fu guys from the Hong Kong movies, thought Barnes. He spread out the file so Woo could look it over.
“Ghoul Number Two’s report narrows down the window on the time of death. He estimates eleven-fifteen to eleven-forty-five PM. That puts Watson hitting the pavement during the time that Quinn Boyd is on the rooftop.” Barnes glanced up at Woo’s expressionless face. Woo leaned over the desk propped on one arm. With his free hand, he selected the pages that caught his interest.
“Cause of death blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Massive skull fracture. Possible secondary cause, two broken cervical vertebrae. Dead either way. Probable death on impact or within a few minutes of impact. No signs of body movement after impact so instantaneous death is likely. Look at this. Mr. Watson was drinking just before he died.”
Woo straightened up and walked to his desk. He listed three sets of figures on a pad and then punched at his computer keyboard. Woo scanned the screen and jotted down another number. He snatched up the pad and pulled a file from his desk, returning to lean over Barnes. The older man watched him spread out the notes next to the Coroner’s documents.
“Okay,” said Woo, satisfied that he had the proper data. “We’ve got a 190 pound male victim with a blood alcohol content of .05 at the time of the autopsy. Probably a bit higher at the time of death, but reduced due to dissipation after death and exposure of the body for approximately eight hours. Even at .05, that means that our victim consumed two, maybe three drinks over the course of the last hour he was alive. Or he was drinking over the course of the evening, enough to keep him at .05 blood alcohol. Either way, he was at least slightly impaired by alcohol when he suffered his fatal fall.” Woo’s finger tapped at the data.
“Three drinks, as in three one-ounce drinks, right?”
“Three one-point-five ounce drinks. Not three double-drams of single-malt scotch.” The smallest twinkle broke past Woo’s deadpan demeanor.
“Uh huh.” Barnes ignored the shot. “So what do we have to go on from Watson’s apartment? Normal drinker? Lush? Did you notice anything?” Barnes knew his partner had the answer before Woo opened the second file folder.
“Everything was neat and tidy, as we already noted. Watson had two fifths of Irish whiskey on the kitchen counter, same brand, one open and one not. Five bottles of beer in the refrigerator. A half case of wine laid up in the pantry. White.” Woo paused. “A blood alcohol level of .05 is not seriously impaired. Not even enough to get someone a DUI. But it does indicate a certain level of intoxication.”
“What about in the sink, what did our dead friend leave for us?” Over the years, Barnes had learned that the state of a person’s sink was a window into their life.
“The kitchen and stove were clean, dishes washed and in the drainer on the counter. One highball glass in the sink, rinsed but not washed, no other dishes.” Woo closed the folder. “Watson was nothing if not consistent.”
Barnes leafed through the pages on his desk until he came to the photos of James Watson’s dead body. “He’s dead is what he is.” He spread the photos out across the desk. The two detectives looked down on graphic images of the awkwardness of death, the unnatural angle of limbs, a frozen expression of surprise.
“What about this,” said Woo, tapping a finger on one photo.
“What about what, his foot?” Barnes stared at the photo, giving it a close inspection. With a sigh of exasperation, he picked up reading glasses from the desk and slid them low on his nose.
“Look at the sock. On the foot against the brick wall.” Woo tapped the photo again and leaned up out of his partner’s view.
“Yeah, the sock looks like an elf shoe, all curled up in front like that. The other one’s not like that.” Barnes looked up at Woo. “Okay, what about the sock? Lots of different scenarios right? The victim’s foot hits the wall, which partially pulls the sock off. Or the force of the impact knocks the sock loose.”
Woo studied the picture. He spoke without taking his eyes from the image. “Yes, both very possible. Those look like heavy wool socks, the kind you would wear for hiking. I have one more scenario for you. Our only decent theory is Watson being pushed off the balcony, right? So we have Watson leaning over, perhaps with his weight more on one foot than the other. He gets the push from behind, not expecting it. The weighted foot shoots out from under him as he tumbles over, the sock comes partially off of the foot in the process.”
“Partner, that balcony floor, what is it made of?” Barnes watched Woo sift through the collated notes in the folder.
“Brown ceramic tile, the type commonly referred to as Mexican tile, about twelve by twelve inches.” Woo looked up from the notes.
Barnes scratched at the side of his face. He pulled off the reading glasses and tossed them to the desk. “Smooth surface, possibly slippery. You put a guy on that, leaning out, it’s not going to require much of a push to topple him over.” Barnes rotated his chair to look up at his partner.
“What do you say we have another run at our Mr. Boyd? See if we can rattle his cage.”
Woo watched the smile creeping onto Barnes’ face. “We’ve got nothing on this guy, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that. Look, we have one more go at him. Maybe we get lucky. If not, he stays on the list as a low-level person of interest. Worst case we just have a pissed-off citizen. Either way, it gets us out of here and we can snag a couple of maple bars on the way over to the northwest.” Barnes’ smile turned into more of a hungry wolf leer.
“Hmmm. Because that wouldn’t be a cliché, right?” Woo reached for his coat.
Barnes stood up and stretched. “Donuts would be a cliché, but a maple bar, that’s just a good breakfast choice.”
“Tell me we aren’t going over there cold.” Barnes was already turning away from the pair of desks.
“We’ll call him from the car. C’mon, let’s roll.”
Detective Woo followed his partner
, a very slight smile on his smooth face. He liked maple bars.
Quinn set the phone down on the kitchen counter and leaned back against the sink. So, Monday morning and playtime is over. Those sons of bitches. At least they hadn’t messed with him over the weekend. Even detective-type cops must have a day off now and then. Bad idea to warn me ahead of time, thought Quinn. Detective Barnes wouldn’t be catching him asleep this time. No coffee for you, Buckos. Thirty minutes. Okay, he would be ready. He walked out of the kitchen.
Keep careful notes. That was what Sonya had said. Quinn fished a notebook and pen out of his bag and placed them on the coffee table. Should he record the conversation? No, bad idea, and probably against some law or another. In his head, Quinn laid out his strategy. Polite, firm, no invite into the apartment unless they had a warrant. Keep it short and to the point. Play it straight. He heard the deep voice of Officer Perkins saying those very words. You got it Stan, I’m playing it straight.
Sitting on the couch waiting for the showdown, Quinn thought back over the rest of the weekend. A great walk, a great dinner, Sonya at her funniest and most beautiful. Damn. And great sex. The rain had returned on Sunday, draping Portland in a wet grey shroud. They had spent a good part of the day tangled up in each other, letting the rest of the world disappear.
Alright, so now it’s Monday. The real world raises its ugly head. Quinn felt the anger building inside him. No more little boat in a big storm, not anymore. Time for a battleship with big goddamn canons. And the fear under the anger, what was that? Fear of getting charged with murder, for starters. A very reasonable thing to be afraid of. Okay, maybe reasonable, but how is the anger going to help? Quinn took a deep breath and blew it out. Right, right. These cops see you angry, they’re just going to want to ask more questions. And we don’t want that, do we? No, we certainly do not, Precious. Quinn laughed, grimly, but still a laugh. I’m ready. Bring it on, you bastards.
The two detectives stood outside the security door of Quinn Boyd’s apartment building. Barnes eyed the call panel for 302 and mashed the button. A metallic squawking was followed by a distorted version of Mr. Boyd’s voice.
“Yes?” More squawking noises. Then silence.
Barnes pressed the large talk button. “Good morning Mr. Boyd. Detective Barnes and Detective Woo. May we come up?” There was no answer. Barnes heard a buzzing at the security door. Woo reached for the handle and opened the door. Barnes shrugged and followed his partner.
The two men stood at the elevator. Woo turned to his partner. “You’ve got frosting on your coat.”
Barnes squinted down the front of his suit jacket. “Dammit.” He pulled his lapel flat with one hand and brushed at the clinging bits of caramel icing, trying not to smear the sticky brown goo into the fabric. As the elevator door opened in front of them, he could feel his partner smirking without bothering to look. The two men stepped in and the doors slid closed.
Inside the muffled interior of the elevator, Woo turned to his partner. “How do you want to play this?”
“Let me see if I can get anything out of him. You do that inscrutable thing that you do so well. Just give him the eye, see if you can make him nervous.” Barnes was smiling again.
“You got it. One inscrutable Oriental cop stereotype, coming up.” Woo shook his head. The elevator floated to a halt and the door slid open.
Stepping into the third floor hallway, Barnes saw the figure of Quinn Boyd standing in the open door of apartment 302. The man remained silent as the two detectives walked towards him.
“Good morning Mr. Boyd. Thanks for agreeing to see us. This is my Partner, Detective Woo.” Barnes and Woo stopped in the hallway, facing Boyd.
“Detective Barnes, Detective Woo. How can I help you?” The kid is awake this morning. Barnes looked over the man’s shoulder into the apartment.
“Do you mind if we step inside Mr. Boyd?” Barnes kept a note of friendliness in his voice, but not a large note.
Boyd stood fast in the open doorway. “If it’s all the same to you Detective Barnes, I’d rather we talk here in the hall.”
No explanation and no apology. Interesting. He must have had his coffee already. “As you wish, Mr. Boyd. We have a few more questions about your neighbor, James Watson.”
“I assumed so. What can I help you with Detectives?”
Okay, Kid, here we go, thought Barnes. “When we last spoke on Thursday morning, you seemed a bit confused on the timing of some things. When you went up to the rooftop, how many cigars you smoked, when you came back down here to your apartment. I was wondering if maybe you remembered any more details about any of that.” Barnes paused to let the shot sink in. “It would be a big help to us.”
“That’s what you came here to ask me about, where I was at specific times on the night that my neighbor died?”
Barnes noted the use of the word died rather than killed. “Yes Mr. Boyd. That would be the question.” Any tone of friendliness in Barnes’ voice had vanished.
“Okay Detective Barnes. I went up onto the roof to smoke. That was at eight o’clock in the evening, give or take a few minutes. I sat on the roof and smoked two cigars. I was drinking mineral water from a bottle. I came back down to my apartment about midnight. Again, give or take a few minutes.”
“And during those four hours on the roof, did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary? Any noises or shouts?”
“As I said before, I did not see or hear anything. Specifically, I did not hear or see anything with regard to my neighbor.”
Not a flinch. Mr. Boyd, it seems you have found more than a bit of steel this morning. “Well, there’s not much there for us to work with Mr. Boyd. Detective Woo?”
Woo looked at Barnes, shook his head, and turned back to face the man in the doorway.
“We appreciate your time, Mr. Boyd. If you happen to think of anything else, you’ve got my card.” Barnes gave Boyd a long look, the young man met his eye and held it.
“I have a question for you Detective Barnes, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure Mr. Boyd, shoot.”
“Am I a suspect in the death of my neighbor?”
The corner of Barnes’ mouth raised ever so slightly. Good going, Kid.
“No Mr. Boyd, you are not a suspect in the death of your neighbor.” And that is the end of that, thought Barnes.
“Thank you for being straight with me Detective.”
Barnes could see the man relax, ever so slightly. Yeah, I bet that’s a load off.
“Is there anything else you want to ask me Detective Barnes?”
“Nope, that’s it for now. Again, if you think of anything that would help us out, we’d appreciate a call. Detective Woo?”
“Mr. Boyd.” Woo nodded and turned away from the doorway.
“You have a good morning Detectives,” was the last thing Barnes heard from the man. Barnes watched him step back into the apartment and close the door. Good shot Kid. Barnes smiled a grim smile.
Woo walked up the hallway, silent as a cat. Barnes followed. Not until the elevator doors closed did Woo speak.
“That was some fine cage rattling Bob.” The smirk burst out unhidden across Woo’s face, any trace of inscrutability gone.
Barnes laughed out loud, shaking his head as he did so. Fucking smartass partner. You just gotta love Woo. “Yeah, the kid kicked my ass, didn’t he?”
He was still chuckling when the elevator doors opened on the lobby.
Chapter 18
Quinn
Quinn leaned back, raising his arms over his head to stretch the knots out of his back. The old office chair squeaked in protest. Hunching back over his laptop, Quinn began to scroll through the text of the genealogy article. This is a solid piece, he thought to himself. Good intro, well-paced background, then the kicker of finding family dirt rather than family treasure. A little bit of polishing on the closing and it should be a winner. Quinn scrolled to the bottom of the text, gauging the flow and order of the assembled paragraphs. Sat
isfied, he hovered the cursor over the save button and tapped the touchpad.
La Editora will be pleased. So will my bank account. Quinn mused on the process of finishing the article. Uncovering killers rather than kings, that was the twist that made the theme work. Yeah, Gloria is going to like that. A little tinkering with the last two paragraphs, a good careful proof read, that would be that. Two days at the outside and he would be ready to submit the final product. Those damn cops had done him a favor. Not that they meant to, of course. Sons of bitches. If he never talked to a cop again in the next twelve years, it would still be too soon. But those bastards had fired him up, that’s for sure. More than five thousand words of raw text over the course of Monday afternoon and evening. One break for a smoke, but even while smoking he had been going over notes. This morning had been a breeze; checking the body of the text, setting down the conclusion, even getting in an initial proof reading.
Had they really done him a favor, Barnes and Woo? Quinn felt a sharp surge at the thought of the two detectives standing outside his door. He had stood up to them, that was for sure. It was you Quinn. You did yourself the favor. You empowered yourself. Yeah, that was the word. Fear might lead to anger, sure. In this case, fear had led to power. So maybe it’s not always that simple. You stood your ground and pushed back. You reacted the way Jebidiah reacted, you took action. And there is nothing that you need to ask forgiveness for. Letting the anger run crazy, that was what took Charlie down. Quinn could feel a pull, a vibration coursing through his chest. No worries, Mate, you’ve had a ton of stress dumped on you over the last week. Let it run, it’ll pass.
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