Elixir

by Ruth Vincent

  “It wasn’t like that, sir,” I said quickly. “Look, I know I probably seem like some young, scared girl to you. But I don’t let ­people mess with me. What happened to my friend was an acci dent.”

  The detective folded his hands again.

  “How long have you known Obadiah Savage?” he asked.

  “Not very long,” I replied. “Actually, we just met tonight.”

  Foster raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m just wondering why you’re defending this guy. You just met him, you don’t know who he is, what he’s really like.”

  I sighed. I could see the suspicion in Foster’s eyes.

  “You’re right, Detective,” I said. “I don’t know him that well. But I know I was standing right next to him, and I know he didn’t push my friend off the roof.”

  “What’s more important here—­some guy you just met or your best friend, Eva?” the detective asked. He was trying a different tactic now.

  “Eva, of course. But listen, I was with Obadiah when she fell. You asked me to tell the truth, right? He didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “But remember, you don’t know this guy very well.”

  Foster was trying to sow seeds of doubt in me. And the thing was—­it was true, I didn’t know Obadiah very well—­but still—­I had seen everything with my own eyes. Obadiah was innocent.

  Foster studied me.

  The kindly, sympathetic expression in his eyes was gone now, replaced by the old, hard gleam.

  “I believe you’re innocent, Miss Jones,” he said.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, sir.”

  “I think it was Obadiah Savage who carried your friend up to the roof and threw her . . .”

  “But he didn’t,” I interrupted.

  Foster cut me off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Miss Jones, hear me out, because what I’m about to say is very important. If you say that you had nothing to do with your friend’s fall, that you saw Obadiah carry her to the roof and throw her off . . .”

  “But he didn’t do any of those things!” I protested.

  Foster studied me intently. He paused for a second, weighing his words.

  “Miss Jones, if your friend dies, there are going to be a lot of ­people wanting answers. I want to make sure that I tell your side of the story fairly, but I can’t do that unless you tell me what happened.”

  “But I told you what happened. I can’t say I saw something I didn’t see. I can’t testify against someone I know is innocent.”

  Foster sighed.

  “I understand your point of view, Mabily. I understand that this is very difficult, but let me explain something to you. If, god forbid, your friend should die of her injuries, the D.A. is going to bring you or Obadiah up on charges of murder. Do you really want to go to prison for the rest of your life?”

  My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel the blood pumping in my ears. I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He was asking me to testify against an innocent person just to get myself off. How could he do this?

  “And even if your friend lives, the D.A. could still charge you with attempted murder. That means mandatory five-­year prison sentence, and possibly up to twenty-­five years.”

  Foster and I stared at each other in silence. I felt numb. I studied his face. There were dark bags of exhaustion under his eyes. It must have been after 2:00 a.m., and I bet he wanted to go home. He silently tapped his fingers on the Formica table as he waited for my response. I could see the old, dirty wedding band that had embedded itself into the flesh of his ring finger. Through the haze of panic, I wondered if his wife was waiting up for him at home right now, or if she’d long since given up on him and gone to bed.

  He isn’t a bad guy, I told myself. He was just doing his job. His business was to resolve cases neatly and be done with them. If I went along with his narrative, the case could be done, “solved,” over. He probably really believed Obadiah was guilty, anyway.

  But I knew better. And I couldn’t let this happen.

  “No,” I said at last, breaking the silence, “I can’t do it. I can’t testify to something that isn’t true.”

  Foster let out a long sigh and rubbed his eyes.

  “Alright,” he said at last. “You’re free to go, Mabily. But I want you to go home and think about this. I’m going to call you back in here in a ­couple of days. By then I’ll expect a final answer. Just remember, if she dies and you’re charged with murder one, that could mean life imprisonment without parole. Think about that.”

  Chapter 9

  It felt surreal, walking up the steps to Reggie’s office in the gray winter light. So much had changed since Friday night, it felt like the world should stop, pause on its axis for a day or two, just to let everything sink in. But life doesn’t work like that. And now it was 8:55 a.m. on Monday morning, and I was supposed to be at work.

  I had considered asking Reggie for the day off, but there was no point to it. Eva was still in the ICU. They weren’t allowing her to have visitors. No amount of pleading calls to the nurses’ station seemed to be able to change that. There was absolutely nothing I could do but wait. It would be good for me to get out, I told myself. Otherwise, I’d just be pacing back and forth in the empty apartment—­staring at Eva’s curtain of beads, so unnaturally still, or lifting the strands to peer at her altar—­the burned-­out candle stubs, the crystals and the little statues just as she’d left them, as if she’d gone down the street to the corner bodega and at any moment would be back.

  I heaved open the heavy glass double doors to Reggie’s lobby and walked down the dingy hallway. At the end of the hall, Reggie’s office door was open. I could see him inside. His chair was tipped back against the wall and he had his legs propped up on his desk. He was munching on some sort of breakfast sandwich—­it was on an everything bagel; I could smell the crunchy dried onion bits. His eyes were half closed, and he emitted little grunts of satisfaction as he chewed.

  I stood outside the door, not sure if I should go in or not. I didn’t want to disturb him. Softly, I knocked.

  Instantly, Reggie tossed the breakfast sandwich aside, rumpling up the wrapper, and removed his legs from the desk, sitting bolt upright.

  “Come on in!” he yelled.

  I entered the room.

  “Mab!” he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin and turning to me. “I got your text.”

  I had texted Reggie that morning with the information Obadiah had told me about Charlotte possibly going to Manila to search for her birth parents. I figured it was a good lead, and the least I could do. I hadn’t told Reggie anything more—­he didn’t know about Eva’s fall or the deal the detective had offered me. Those were conversations I’d waited to have in person.

  “I contacted the P.D. in Manila,” he said, frowning. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t look good. They just found the body of a young woman. The victim fell from a very high height—­presumably she fell or jumped off the roof of a nearby apartment building.”

  As he said it, in my mind’s eye all I could see was Eva, flying over the rooftops of Brooklyn. Charlotte must have been doing the same. She’d drunk Obadiah’s Elixir—­and now she was dead.

  “The victim landed on her face, so it was hard to distinguish features,” Reggie said, “but she matches Charlotte’s height and weight descriptions. We’re still waiting for the fingerprints to come back, to confirm the identity. I contacted the NYPD; they’re in touch with the P.D. in Manila now. The case is essentially out of our hands at this point. Once it becomes a potential murder or suicide investigation, that’s not our jurisdiction.”

  Reggie sighed, tossing the paper napkin in the trash.

  “It’s terrible when missing-­person cases end like this,” he said, “but at least now we know. I can’t even imagine the hell that her poor paren
ts must be going through. But I’ve always found in situations like this, it’s better for the family to have a death confirmed than in cases where a body is never found and the person is just presumed dead.” He shook his head. “The worst thing is the family always being in limbo, never knowing what really happened. Still, it’s a dammed shame.” He sighed. “Anyway, our job is over. It’s all on the NYPD and the local officials in Manila now. But you did tremendously good work, Mab,” Reggie, said, turning towards me. “If you hadn’t given us the tip you got from Obadiah Savage about the Manila connection, we might have never found her body. That was very good investigative work you did.”

  Reggie paused, studying me. His eyebrows furrowed.

  “Jesus, you don’t look good. Sit down. Take a deep breath. You want some coffee?”

  I declined.

  Reggie took a drink from his own little blue-­and-­white take-­out coffee cup.

  “Listen, I know this is all probably pretty upsetting for you to hear. I guess I’m more steeled to it, after all my years in this business. I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to you, but unfortunately, a lot of cases end this way. If you’re going to be in this line of work, it’s something you have to come to grips with.”

  Reggie must have seen the devastated expression on my face. He must have thought it was all in reaction to Charlotte. I did feel terrible for her and her family, but I had also not slept in three days and I knew the stress of Eva’s injury and the fact that the D.A. might bring me up on murder or attempted-­murder charges loomed on my features.

  “Reggie, something else happened that night I didn’t tell you,” I said quietly.

  Reggie eyed me keenly. “Please,” he said, “go on.”

  I paused for a moment, not knowing how to begin. How was I going to tell Reggie what had happened without mentioning the supernatural parts? I was silent, weighing my choice of words. Outside the window, a siren wailed and then faded out into the distance.

  At last, I spoke.

  I told him the edited version of events. I said I’d been talking to Obadiah on the roof, and that Eva had fallen, but that I wasn’t sure how it had happened. I told him that Eva thought someone had put something in her drink, but neglected to mention Elixir.

  When I finished, Reggie let out a long sigh and put his head in his hands.

  “Mabily,” he said, his voice heavy with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah . . .” I said slowly. “I keep waiting to hear back from the hospital. I’m supposed to hear word by the end of the day about whether she’s out of the ICU, when she’s allowed to have visitors.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Reggie said again. “I never thought anything like this would happen, or I never would have put you on this case. Honestly, I really thought this was just a standard observation assignment, or I wouldn’t have sent you. I feel deeply responsible for what happened here.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said softly, not meeting his eye. “It was an accident.”

  “I know, but still. This shouldn’t have happened.”

  I could see in his eyes that he really did feel guilty.

  “Listen, it’s kind of you to say that,” I said, “but this was none of your doing. You’re right, the case was supposed to be just simple observation. How would either of us have ever known it would turn out like this?”

  Reggie rubbed his brow.

  “Honestly, I was surprised you even talked to the guy,” he said. “I mean, this was your first assignment. Most new P.I.s can’t get an interview like that. I almost expected you to fail.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “most first-­timers do. But instead, you did better than any of us ever hoped for. Mab, I’m so sorry that the evening ended so tragically—­and I pray to god that your friend will be okay. But you did excellent investigative work.”

  “Thanks,” I said, my mouth crumpling into a sad little smile. With all the terrible things going on right now, I appreciated the compliment.

  “You really did,” he continued. “Like I said, I wasn’t even able to get through security. You not only got an interview, you found out invaluable information. If you hadn’t provided us with the tip about Manila, Charlotte’s parents might have always lived in limbo, and her case might have never been solved. So if it’s any consolation, you did a good thing. I’m just so sorry it had to come at such a terrible cost. I sure hope your friend recovers soon.”

  “There’s more to the story I still haven’t told you,” I said, picking up my courage. I didn’t want to tell him this next part. I was afraid I already knew what he would say. Then again, I wanted Reggie’s advice. I’d Googled him prior to my interview and read that he used to work in law enforcement. Before becoming a private detective, he’d been a detective for the NYPD. Maybe he could give me some good counsel on my predicament?

  Taking another big breath, I told Reggie all about Detective Foster’s interrogation, and the deal he’d offered me.

  I had barely even finished my story when Reggie interrupted me.

  “You took it, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The deal. You took it?”

  Obviously he heard my answer in the awkward silence.

  “Aw, Mab!” he exclaimed. His hands came down hard on the desk, making me jump. “Please tell me you didn’t . . .”

  “What could I do? Obadiah is innocent. I saw him. He didn’t push her.”

  “Mab . . .”

  “If he had pushed her, believe me, I’d want a judge to throw the book at him,” I said. “Eva is my best friend. But I was there. I saw everything. I can’t say I saw something I didn’t see.”

  “Mab.” Reggie sighed. “You’re a smart girl. You’re obviously a very smart girl or you wouldn’t have done so well on your first assignment. But, Mab”—­his voice rose—­“for a smart person, that was very, very stupid!”

  “But what could I have done?”

  Reggie didn’t answer my question; instead he went on.

  “I’ve seen this my entire career—­sometimes the smartest ­people, they do the stupidest things. They don’t have common sense. You need to use your common sense here.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “Lie? I saw what I saw. He didn’t push her; he wasn’t even standing near her when she fell. Listen, I don’t know who caused my friend to fall,” I said, “but I know Obadiah wasn’t the cause of it.”

  “If you don’t say that Obadiah did it, the D.A. could bring you up on charges of attempted murder!” Reggie said. “Do you have any idea how serious that is?”

  Looking away from him, I nodded.

  “And if, god forbid, your friend were to die . . .”

  “I know. Murder one. The detective told me.”

  “You could go to prison for the rest of your life!”

  “I know,” I said miserably. “I know.”

  “Were you aware that I have a daughter about your age?” His voice was soft now, cajoling. I guess he was trying a different strategy with me now, realizing it would work better than shouting.

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah. And listen, if it was her, I’d tell her the exact same thing. Except I wouldn’t even be so nice about it. I’d tell her to march down to that police precinct right now and testify! Hell, I’d drive her there myself, even if she was kicking and screaming.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure my folks are going to tell me the exact same thing,” I sighed.

  “You haven’t told them yet?”

  “I was going to tell them when I see them at Christmas,” I said, feeling dread in my stomach at the thought. “It’s only a few days away. I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone—­I want to see them in person.”

  “How much time did the dete
ctive give you?” Reggie asked.

  “They haven’t arrested me yet—­or pressed any formal charges yet . . .”

  “Good, that means you’ve got time to change your mind,” he said brightly.

  “But, Reggie, how am I going to change my mind? I know what I saw, and what I didn’t see. I’m not going to lie and convict an innocent man, put this poor guy in prison potentially for the rest of his life just to save my own ass!” I cringed slightly. I really hadn’t meant to curse in front of Reggie, but I couldn’t help it. Just talking about the whole thing was making me more and more upset.

  I decided to try another tactic.

  “Reggie, when you were a little kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

  Reggie raised an eyebrow, but he tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.

  “I wanted to be a detective, of course,” he said at last, “ever since I stayed up late watching Dragnet with my folks.” He laughed, a soft, sad little laugh.

  “And when you wanted to be a detective, what did you want to do it for? To get the bad guy, right? To protect the good guy? To see justice being served! Wasn’t that what it was all about?”

  “Yeah . . .” he said, turning away from me, staring out the window.

  “Well, me too,” I said. “It’s not often in life you get your character tested. But mine is right now. And, Reggie, if I lie up there and say Obadiah is guilty when I know he’s innocent, I don’t care what the D.A. says, I can’t live with myself. I can’t live with the knowledge that I did that to someone.”

  Reggie sighed.

  “That’s very noble of you.” I could tell under the sarcasm was real sincerity. “But the truth is life isn’t so cut and dried. I didn’t grow up to be that detective,” he said quietly.

  “But you are a detective.” I smiled.

  “Yeah, a lousy P.I. You think that’s what I wanted to be when I grew up?” He rolled his eyes. “No. I wanted to work for the NYPD, solve real mysteries, be a real detective.”