by Randy Alcorn
“About his upbringing—his records are sketchy. Doesn’t look like he was popular.”
“Surprise,” Manny said.
I looked at him. “Not everybody can be Mr. Sunshine like you.”
“Not many social activities,” Ray said. “Won a chemistry award. First two years in college he was premed.”
“Cimmatoni?” I said.
“Yeah. He was accepted into med school. His sister was murdered, and next thing you know he became a cop.”
“No kidding?”
“Shot in the head.”
“He’s never mentioned his sister’s murder,” I said.
“You hang out with him?”
“No. But cops are like old ladies. There’s always gossip. How come I’ve never heard that story? You heard it?” Manny shook his head.
“Some people don’t like to talk about stuff like that,” Clarence said. “I don’t talk about my sister’s murder.”
“How’d you find this out about his sister?”
“Cimmatoni’s other sister has a blog. I did a search on Bryce Cimmatoni, and three minutes later I’m reading the inside story of the family, including the sister’s murder. She’s the one who said her brother decided to be a cop instead of a doctor.”
“A blog?”
“Yeah, I forgot—you don’t know how to use your answering machine either. I was able to access Cimmatoni’s Internet history—don’t ask me how.”
“Let’s leave it there unless it’s relevant,” I said.
Ray flipped a couple of pages. It’s odd to be a detective for a living and find yourself scared to hear what a detective can find out about you.
“Kim Suda,” Ray said. “There’s some interesting things she didn’t mention. In high school she got in big trouble for fighting three times. Twice with girls.”
“Catfights?”
“She was the Queen Cat. In one case she broke two teeth of the cheerleader who was homecoming queen.”
“Ouch.”
“Suda was suspended and the other girl wasn’t.”
“What about the third time?”
“She decked a male teacher.”
“You’re kidding.”
“She claimed he made a lewd comment to her. He went to the hospital. There were rumblings of a lawsuit, but he didn’t pursue it. I checked court records.”
“Sue a teenage girl for decking you? No thanks.”
“Suda has an old boyfriend, Skeets, some brainiac at Microsoft. He supplies her software. Still has a crush on her, I think.”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” Clarence asked.
“Karl Baylor.” Ray flipped another page and smiled as he ignored Clarence’s question. “Single-parent home. Dad wasn’t around. Close to his mom. No great student, but he didn’t get in trouble.”
“Figures,” I said.
“Transcript said he was a journalism student. In Barlow High School’s library I got a copy of a school newspaper editorial he wrote. Baylor was a Christian.”
“Still is,” I said, restraining myself.
“Good article. You should read it.”
“This stealth evangelism, Ray?”
“No. If it were stealth, you wouldn’t have seen it coming. Baylor has a petite wife, two kids, and two hamsters.”
“Hamsters? Don’t let Clarence near them. He’d dunk ’em in a heartbeat.”
Abernathy’s eyes threw darts at me.
“How’s Brent doing, anyway? Remember that Boys Town emblem? You and Brent could do one, with Brent on your shoulder: ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my hamster.’ ”
All three of them stared. I can’t help myself.
“Jack’s records are harder to get to,” Ray said to me. “He’s even older than you.”
“Funny.”
“Everything checks out. Wrestling. Student body president. Model citizen. Did you know his daughter died when she was at Linfield College?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She was friends with my daughter. Kendra was at Portland State while Melissa was at Linfield.”
“How’d she die?” Clarence said.
“Suicide. She got on drugs. Coke and meth. Grades dropped. Became despondent.”
“Jack’s wife’s an alcoholic,” Ray said.
I felt my neck tighten. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You’re looking for information. Secrets. Problems, you said. Doesn’t that qualify?”
“She’s been sober for years.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ray said.
“It’s private information.”
“So’s everything else I’m giving you. I didn’t know some of the detectives had immunity.”
“They don’t.”
Everybody was looking at me. Ray went on.
“Noel Barrows grew up in Liberty Lake, Washington. Dad was a postal worker.”
“So he said.”
“Found a couple of job references from back in the day. They were good. No rocket scientist, but competent, dependable. In high school, average grades. Got into trouble once. Caught smoking dope. Played baseball two years.”
“Not golf?”
“He took up golf after high school,” Clarence reminded me.
“He’s good,” Ray said. “Two years ago, he placed fifth in a big club tournament.”
“Dirt on Noel?” I asked.
“No, but something sad. His senior year, two weeks before graduation, his parents went to Idaho for the weekend. When they were coming back, fifty miles from home, a drunk driver hit them head-on. Killed both parents.”
“Amazing what you don’t know about people you work with,” I said.
“Clarence’s report says Chris Doyle was on the chess team,” Ray said. “Turns out he was also into drama big time. Four years. Six plays. Three starring roles.”
“Doyle?” I said. “You gotta be kidding.”
“But get this. His dad taught at the University of Pennsylvania. According to Clarence’s notes, Doyle said his dad taught history.”
“Yeah?”
“He did. Two years. But his main subject, for twenty years, wasn’t history. It was philosophy.”
“Doyle’s father was a college philosophy prof?”
“Yep. Like he said, his mother was from England and was hands-on with the kids’ education.”
“A cop with a white collar background,” I said.
“Something else. He declared bankruptcy five years ago. Had a gambling problem. Impulsive buyer. Turns out he’s a rich kid who squandered his inheritance, mostly from his mother’s side. This was interesting: When he was twenty, he lied on his résumé to get a job at a retail stationery store. Didn’t get fired, but his employer put it on record. Also, he’s been in therapy.”
“You mean counseling?”
“It’s in department records, but it’s confidential.”
“How does a private eye get into police records?”
“I’ve done some favors for cops. Including one in records.”
“They must’ve been big favors.”
Manny’s phone rang. He nodded a couple of times and said, “Okay, be there in fifteen.” He hung up. “Gotta go,” he said and was gone. No tears at his parting.
“What about Brandon Phillips?” I asked Ray.
“Got some police personnel stuff. You know the competency tests?”
“Yeah?”
“He scored second highest in the department. Near genius.”
“I was highest?”
He laughed. “Not quite. But among the detectives, you were third out of ten. Phillips scored one of the highest in the physical fitness tests too, the ones with aerobics, weight lifting, and flexibility.”
“He outscored me there, too?”
“Slightly.”
“Years ago Phillips and I played together on the precinct fast-pitch softball team. He could knock a home run from either side of the plate.”
“Something else,” Ray said, putting a check mark in
his notes. “Phillips has lots of money … and unlike Doyle, he hasn’t run out of it.”
“I’ve seen his Audi,” I said.
“And his wife drives a six-month-old Porsche. But here’s something odd. She doesn’t work outside the home. And have you seen their house?”
“No. Heard it’s nice.”
“Ninety-eighth percentile nice. CEO type nice. I drove to it. So where does the money come from? Not a detective’s salary. Not an inheritance—parents alive on both sides. He’s a heck of a card player, I hear, but that’s a lot of lifestyle to buy with poker winnings.”
“Check it out, will you?”
“I’ve got his date of birth, but I can’t find a Brandon Phillips who was in high school near Irving, Texas, during those years. Okay, the other person with a history of violence was your partner, who just left us.”
“Fortunate for you,” I said. “Manny was a gangbanger. Took down some rival gang members.”
“Always a fighter. Expelled his sophomore year.”
“Then went back and got his GED. I know.”
“Did you know he was convicted of assault and battery twice, and assault with a deadly weapon as a sixteen-year-old?”
“I knew it was serious and he did time as a juvie. Don’t know details. Manny’s not the type to open up over a latte.”
“He might get mad enough for his violent instincts to be triggered,” Ray said.
“Manny has a go-nuts button. I try not to push it. I’m not one to pick a fight.” I looked at Clarence, who didn’t look back.
“Four years ago,” Ray said, “Manny’s wife went down in a hit-and-run.”
“She nearly died,” I said. “Still limps. Lots of rehab.”
“Never found who did it, right?” Ray asked.
“Two witnesses, but neither got the license. Drove him crazy that it was a hit-and-run.”
I stood and extended my hand to Ray Eagle. “That’s the whole gang. I gotta say, you’re good, Ray. Not the kind of incompetence I expected from a private eye. You ever want to be a real detective again, I’ll give you a reference for Portland Police.”
“No thanks. Left that behind me in Detroit. I like my freedom. Call my own shots. I figure out the best way to do it, then I just do it. No bureaucracy. Don’t have to raise my hand and ask to go to the bathroom. Don’t get called into the chief’s office. Plus, I can go to my kids’ games. And usually my wife isn’t wondering whether I’ll be shot today.”
“On second thought, keep me in mind if you ever want to hire somebody.”
He laughed. “I’ll do that. Listen, I wasn’t sure if I should mention it, but I did check out somebody else.”
“Who?”
“Detective Ollie Chandler.”
“You checked on me?”
“Are you a Portland homicide detective?”
“I didn’t ask you to check on me.”
“So … you’re off limits? You don’t want to hear it?”
“I’m guessing I already know it.”
“In your case I didn’t go back to high school. They didn’t keep records in those days, or they were all on papyrus and it’s crumbled.”
“You should be on TV.”
“I did get access to some department records. You’ve got a history of insubordination. And anger management issues.”
“That’s your best shot?”
“According to a couple of records you’ve got a serious drinking problem. In at least one case, you blacked out.”
“I … where did you get that information?”
“That same somebody who owed me a favor.”
“That somebody could lose their job.”
“They could but they won’t. Since your file says you’re known for taking shortcuts, I figured you’d understand. Then there was the investigation into the police brutality charge.”
“I was cleared of all charges. The guy was on drugs and was threatening innocent people. I was doing my job.”
“I figured you were, but—”
“You don’t have to figure anything.”
“The last thing was about some difficult things in your own family history. Especially your wife and your—”
“Stop right now! That’s enough!” I was standing, my finger pointing at him.
“Oookay then,” Ray said. “Sorry. I thought.” He looked at Clarence.
“Anything else you want me to do?” Ray asked.
“No.”
“I could check everybody’s alibis.”
“I’ve got that covered.”
“I could double-check, and we could compare notes.”
“It’s covered. Your job’s done.”
I was out the door in ten seconds, stalking game in the asphalt jungle, looking for a jaywalker I could take down and handcuff.
After my forehead sweat was cooled by the wind, I started to wonder what Ray and Clarence were discussing right now. I suspected there might be mention of drinking and anger management.
And I resented it.
32
“You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 22
ALL YOUR LIFE you’re a wannabe, until you wake up one morning, and you’re a has-been.
And you think, where was that part in the middle when you arrived, when you were living the dream?
Did I miss it?
This is why days off aren’t the draw they once were. With time on my hands I find myself asking these kinds of questions. In lieu of answers I consult the bottle, which disappoints, but I know that, so my expectations are low. Anesthetics don’t have to offer anything great—pain relief, though temporary, is often the best offer on the table.
I told myself I wouldn’t start drinking until after lunch. Since I hate violating my commitments, I adjusted that to not taking my third drink until after lunch.
I opened up the Palatine file, now three folders. Unlike 90 percent of us Oregonians, Clarence and Ray go to church Sunday mornings, like Jake does. They look to the Bible for inspiration. Others look to the newspaper. I look to my case notes.
Seven thirty that evening, Ray Eagle called, waking me from a postpizza nap.
“Turns out Tommi’s brother and the professor were the same year. On the same water polo team. Looks like he’s a dentist in Portland—names and ages match anyway. Don’t know if they hung out besides that. I’d have to call people in their class. I’ve got some names. Worth my time?”
“Low priority.”
“Also, did you know Tommi has a medical condition?”
“No.”
“Severe migraines. She takes Imitrex. Comes in pills and injections—she uses the injections.”
“Never seen her do it. Or heard her mention it.”
“She’s had it for years.”
“Can you really afford to contribute all this work, Ray?” I was being extra nice after walking out on him the day before.
“Even though Clarence can’t put into print all I’m doing, he gave me a favorable mention in his last article.”
“I noticed.”
“I’ve already gotten four phone calls. Two of them are new jobs. It’s paying off. And even if it wasn’t, I’m glad to help.”
Every police detective should have a Ray Eagle.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 10:15 A.M.
The chief left a message that he wanted me at his office by 9:30. I took files and phone and set up for business in his waiting area. I brought in a Coke, an apple, dry-roasted peanuts, a Swiss Miss Pudding cup, and a plastic spoon.
Okay, maybe I was making a point. It wasn’t lost on Mona, who repeatedly insisted I clean up. I cheerfully ignored her. I overheard her explain to someone around the corner that her duties now included working with the chief periodically at his home office, and, yes, it was perfectly fine with the chief’s wife, who was always home anyway.
I file information, never knowing when it’ll com
e in handy.
Lennox finally emerged and stared at everything I’d spread out on the table. “Pick up your mess.”
“Yes, sir. Didn’t know the wait would only be forty-five minutes this time.”
He talked at me, not to me, for ten minutes. “You’ve been living off the fat of the land around here. You better wake up and smell the coffee. Keep your fingers crossed, mister, because I have the power to take you down. And don’t think I won’t.”
“Yes, sir. You are a mover and shaker. A force to be reckoned with.”
“You’d better believe it!”
“It’s always darkest before the dawn,” I said. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
“Who do you think you are?”
My plan to anger him was working. We were at war.
“To be or not to be.”
“Get out!”
I turned, and as I did something fell out of my hand.
“Pick up that garbage.”
I pretended not to hear him. As I looked back I saw him pick up the wrapper and put it in his wastebasket.
I joined Clarence and Manny in a small conference room. Clarence had stopped returning Manny’s glares since breaking his ribs, but Manny was his typical cheery self, with all the charm of a DMV employee.
“Been checking on family members,” Manny said. “Brandon Phillips’s wife and Linda Glissan took a class with the professor last year.”
“How could so many people have been in that guy’s classes?” Clarence asked.
“The department has an arrangement with Portland State,” I said. “Spouses of officers can take classes at reduced rates, something like fifty bucks a class. Dozens of PPD wives have done it. Some are working on degrees. Sharon took a couple of classes with Linda. Palatine’s taught twenty-five years. He was popular. Maybe it’s not as odd as it seems.”
“Brandon’s wife’s a looker,” Manny said.
“I noticed. The professor would’ve definitely noticed. Phillips never mentioned his wife was in Palatine’s class. You worked with Phillips while Cimmatoni and I were away, right? I think Cimma’s knee went out, and I was …”