Life Among the Tombstones

by H. R. Boldwood

  Harry reached for a fistful of peanuts. “If we’re counting, and believe me, I am, I’ve pulled your fat from the fire twice now. Just curious. Do you get arrested often?”

  “More than you’d think,” I said, sliding him his Guinness.

  “I should have warned you about Jade Chen,” he said. “She’s direct and very persistent.”

  Opie’s freckles blushed. “She sure is hot.”

  “She’s a bitch,” I said, slamming down his can of Bud.

  People kept coming through the doors. I ended up waiting tables and taking food orders, not that I knew what I was doing. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wouldn’t be the person doing the cooking. Although the patrons had no idea why, they should have been thanking me for that.

  Dallas cooked and I tended bar, scrambling around like a one-legged cat in an ass-kicking contest. I checked on Harry and Opie, and brought them another round. Forty-five minutes later, I brought them their third round. Shortly before eleven, the crowd thinned out.

  Dallas slid me a double Jack on the rocks and told me to take a break. I joined Harry and Opie at the bar and relaxed for the first time that evening. I closed my eyes and tuned out the world, until Harry grabbed the TV remote and cranked up the volume. When I opened my eyes, Jade Chen’s face stared back at me from the big screen TV mounted above the bar.

  Hadn’t I been abused enough for one day?

  “Good evening, Cincinnati. I’m Jade Chen. The following film clip, shot earlier today on the steps of the Hamilton County Courthouse, relates to charges of gross abuse of a corpse against noted zombie wrangler, Allie Nighthawk.”

  I covered my eyes, watching the video through splayed fingers and listened for the words I knew were coming: “Back off, Buttercup.”

  I moaned and banged my head against the bar. Opie the optimist observed that at least the camera hadn’t been rolling when I more or less promised to bite her. But bless her cold, black heart, she wasn’t finished with me yet.

  “The ACLU is digging in their heels on this issue, folks. It appears that dead lives do matter. Corpse Whisperer? Or Cadaver Diver? We’ll be sure to keep you updated on this case as events unfold. This is Jade Chen, Channel Ten news. May I never appear on your doorstep, microphone in hand, searching for the truth. Goodnight, Cincinnati.”

  That freaking biatch.

  Dallas snapped his head in my direction and I realized, once again, that words meant to float over my head in tiny thought bubbles had actually escaped my mouth.

  Dallas simply shrugged and slid another double down the bar.

  Good man, that Dallas.

  Harry pointed to the screen. “Look — there’s Farragut, your favorite District Attorney. He’s running for office again.”

  I flipped Farragut the bird as I listened to his commercial. He boasted that he was tough on crime and spouted his prosecutorial statistics. He even bragged about his stint in the armed forces which, given the picture that popped up, could have been as far back as the French and Indian War. The commercial ended with: “I’m Craig Farragut. And I approve this message.”

  Harry tossed back his drink and chuckled. “I’ve seen that ad a dozen times now. This is the first time I ever really listened to it.”

  “Ugh,” I said, flicking him with the bar towel. “Turn that bozo off.”

  He changed the channel and shot me an evil grin. “You know, I would have been checking out the Henry murder scene this morning, if I hadn’t been taking care of your dog and escorting you to court from the slammer. Oh, that’s right. You were supposed to be there with me. Shall we try again tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Allie Cat,” barked Dallas. “Clean up in the men’s room. Bring the plunger and a mop.”

  Opie snorted. “Allie Cat?”

  “Forget you heard that,” I said with a sigh. “He’s the only person who gets to call me that — and only until I can break him of the habit.”

  Harry put money on the bar to cover his tab and got up to leave. I scooped up the cash, noting that he’d left a generous tip.

  “Thanks for everything. Seven thirty, tomorrow morning,” I said, as he walked away.

  I grabbed my tools from the back and walked into the men’s room. A trail of vomit stretched from in front of the sink all the way to the john. I hadn’t even looked into the toilet yet to see why I needed the plunger.

  Little Allie told me: “Look on the bright side. Sure, you’re mopping up somebody else’s puke, and so what if there’s a meatloaf-sized turd wedged in the john. Those things don’t matter. You have a job, and you’re getting paid for your efforts.” She even said, “It could be worse. You could be in jail, scrubbing up the same kind of mess with a toothbrush.”

  Sometimes, I want to gouge that bitch out of my brain with a spork.

  9

  Damn You, Harry Delk

  The following morning, Harry picked me up at 7:30 on the dot. When I let him in the door, Headbutt rammed his squat little body into Harry’s legs, nearly bowling him over. Harry took it in stride. He even picked up the red ball from the sink, where I’d left it, and rolled it across floor. Headbutt turned his back and sauntered to his favorite register vent, where he plopped down with the density of a fifty-pound sack of potatoes.

  “Not into fetch, huh?” Harry asked.

  “He’s kinetically challenged.” Harry’s eyebrow raised, so I clarified my diagnosis. “He’s a lump of lard with no interest in unnecessary movement.”

  After Harry and I said goodbye to my pudgy puppy, we climbed into his black Crown Vic and headed toward The Gramercy, an upscale urban apartment complex on Garfield Place, where Veronica Henry had lived.

  “I got an emailed copy of the Medical Examiner’s report,” Harry said, as we parked in front of the apartments. “Time of death was approximately three a.m. Our vic died of exsanguination due to sharp force trauma to the heart. A deep, angulated puncture wound to the back, between the fourth and fifth ribs, dissecting both the right and left ventricles.”

  “A quick death. Somebody knew what they were doing.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Harry said, as we rode the elevator to the sixth floor.

  Veronica Henry’s apartment, number 618, was easy to spot. Yellow crime scene tape still draped the door. I suspected the building’s highbrow residents weren’t too happy about that. But once Harry and I finished up today, the tape would disappear, along with any other trace of the victim, and their lives would return to normal.

  We turned Veronica’s apartment inside out and upside down, looking for anything the forensic folks might have missed. They’d come up empty on trace evidence. Harry would be checking into her financial records, cell phone, and computer. We were looking for the not so obvious. Oddball clues that might have gone unnoticed. Veronica’s vague reference to ‘the book’ certainly wasn’t much to go on. And her emphasis on the word ‘stretch’ seemed downright random. These were obviously important pieces to the puzzle. But how those pieces fit together was anyone’s guess.

  The apartment didn’t show signs of a struggle. No furniture overturned, nothing knocked off her table tops. The pillows on her couch were still perfectly fluffed. Everything seemed in order, other than the gruesome pool of blood on the bedroom carpet where Veronica had bled out. She was taken quickly, quietly and efficiently.

  We left the apartment an hour after we arrived with nothing to show for our efforts. I remembered Harry’s bet that he would find something the others had missed. He looked so dejected when we left that I didn’t have the heart to rub it in.

  We split up and spent the next hour canvassing Veronica’s neighbors, hoping someone might have heard or seen something unusual. Harry handed me a stack of his cards and headed for the top three floors. I took the bottom three. If no one answered, I left a note on the back of one of Harry’s cards and shoved it beneath the door. Bottom line, we came up snake eyes.

  This gumshoe-detective schtick was grinding on
my last nerve. It was slow and tedious. Nothing like on TV. We were spinning our wheels while the clock ticked away, no closer to solving the case than before we’d started.

  While we stood on the sidewalk licking our wounds, Harry pulled out his case notes and plotted our next move. “I’m still waiting on Veronica’s phone records. Let’s go chat with her next of kin. Maybe see if we can dig up some friends.”

  I noticed movement in a window, just over his right shoulder, in the adjacent building. I leaned to my left, putting Harry between me and whoever found us so interesting. “Don’t turn around. We’re being watched.”

  “We are?”

  “Next building down. Third floor, fifth window across.”

  I shifted slightly, peered across his shoulder, and stifled a laugh. Our snoop had gray hair and tiny facial features. She also wore wire-rim glasses, which I only saw because she lowered a set of binoculars from her face. Every neighborhood had one. Some ancient fossil who had nothing better to do than spy on the comings and goings of their neighbors — aka Mrs. Nussbaum.

  “A boilermaker says I just found our witness.”

  Harry grinned. “My kind of bet. You’re on.”

  “Put your arm through mine. We’re taking a leisurely stroll next door.”

  Canvassing neighbors at a crime scene is a hit-or-miss undertaking. Maybe our gum-grinding busybody was out that night. Not likely though with the time of death in the vicinity of three a.m. Or maybe the badges talked to her and she denied seeing anything. But if that was the case, I’d call bullshit. Rubbernecking grannies like her never sleep. They’re up all night peeing.

  We didn’t want our spy to know we were coming, so we took the steps instead of the elevator. Harry counted doors, calculating which apartment we needed. “3B,” he whispered and pointed down the hallway.

  Harry rapped on the door a few times and got no response. He rapped a little harder, leaned in close and barked, “CPD.”

  A rustling noise drifted into the hall from the other side of the door. I tugged at Harry’s sleeve as a shadow inside the apartment blocked the light beneath the door. Harry raised his hand to knock again.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I pounded on the door. “C’mon, lady. Open up! We know you’re in there.”

  A few seconds later, the metallic click-clack of a sliding deadbolt filled the hall. The door opened a few inches and a tiny voice croaked, “Yes?”

  Harry jostled me aside. “Detective Harry Delk with CPD, ma’am. We’re investigating a homicide. May we come in and ask you a few questions?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that poor girl’s death next door. Sorry.”

  The oldster tried to shut the door, but I’d wangled my foot across the threshold. “Listen, Snoopy McSnoopster. Ain’t nothing happens on this street you don’t know about. You know how I know that? I’ve got a blue-hair just like you living next door to me. I can’t take a — Hey!”

  Harry had hip-checked me away from the door. “What my partner meant to say, ma’am, is that we noticed you at your window, taking an…intense interest in the activity on your street. Why, I’ll bet you’re a part of the neighborhood watch, aren’t you? Thank heaven for you folks. We couldn’t do our jobs without you.”

  The door opened wide. In front of us stood a four-foot-five tribble wearing a housecoat and slippers. The smile on her face made it clear that Harry had struck the right chord with his ass-kissing happy crap. Smoke wafted through the room from a still-burning cigarette, resting in an ashtray, on a table beside the window. Next to the ashtray sat her binoculars.

  “Why, thank you, Officer. Please come in. I’m Ada Pike, and I do belong to the neighborhood watch. In fact, I’m the coordinator for this entire street.”

  I snorted, but Harry pressed on. “Did you happen to catch any suspicious activity three nights ago — the night of the murder?”

  The tribble glared at me from the corner of her eye then shifted her gaze to Harry. I swear little pink hearts exploded from her head.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I did, now that you mention it. It must have been two a.m. No, wait,” she said. “Let me check.” She pulled a tattered notebook from the pocket of her housecoat. “It was five after three. See it says so, right here in my notes. I recorded it because I didn’t recognize the man or the car.”

  I thought Harry was going to kiss her. “Think hard, ma’am. What did he look like? Would you know him again if you saw him?”

  “Maybe. It was awfully dark. He had one of those big fancy-schmancy sedans. White, I think.” She pointed out the window. “Parked it on the opposite side of the street, not far from that telephone pole. I should have jotted down the plate number. Not like me to miss a thing like that.”

  “Did you see anything else that might help us, Mrs. Pike? Or hear anything unusual?”

  “No. I’m sorry. But I’ll keep my eyes open. I’m so happy I could help you, Detective Delk.”

  Every time she looked at Harry her crinkly eyes sparkled like diamonds. All I’d gotten were beady-eyed glares.

  Harry handed her one of his cards as she walked us to the door. “Give me a call if you remember anything else, ma’am. And thank you for your service on the neighborhood watch.”

  Suck up.

  “I’ll do just that, Detective. Drop by any time. Bye-bye, now.” She snarled and flipped me the bird as she closed the door. I knew where I stood.

  Our next stop would be at Veronica’s parents’ house. I checked my cell phone messages when we climbed back into Harry’s car, and found that Dallas had called to give me the night off. Tuesdays were his slow nights, he’d said. He could handle the crowd. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. I needed the money, but I’d been burning the candle at both ends. Maybe a night of rest wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  We climbed the steps to the modest brick house at 1326 Glenway Avenue and rang the bell. A woman in her mid-fifties came to the door. One look at her doe eyes and delicate features told me she had to be Veronica’s mother. Harry introduced us, then extended our condolences and asked if she had a moment to chat. When she let us in, we found ourselves in the middle of a gathering of relatives. They were planning Veronica’s service for the following day. Harry offered to come back another time, but I knew in my heart, he hoped they’d be willing to share any information they might have sooner rather than later.

  It didn’t feel right, being there among them, and yet what better chance could we have at speaking to the people closest to her? The family agreed to help us in any way they could. Hoping to cause as little disruption as possible, Harry and I moved to the kitchen to conduct our interviews.

  One by one, we asked each of them in to chat, a brother, two sisters, and a cousin, leaving mom and dad for last. Harry handled the interviews skillfully and respectfully, choosing his words with compassion. Just because the family knew what Veronica did for a living didn’t mean they wanted her dragged through the mud.

  Her siblings and cousin agreed that, over the years, Veronica had pulled away, keeping some distance between them. They all said it wasn’t for lack of love. More like she didn’t want to let them close enough to see the seedier side of her life. They were cooperative to a one, but in the end, told us nothing of value. They couldn’t give us a list of her friends and came up blank when asked about any book that might have held particular meaning for her. Even Tom, Veronica’s father, spoke of the same growing distance, which didn’t surprise me. I doubted that Veronica would want her daddy to know sordid details about her line of work.

  Alice Henry spoke lovingly about Veronica. “I was eighteen when I had my baby girl. Such a joy, she was.” Alice’s bittersweet memories ended with the same tale of separation. Just when I thought we’d struck out, her eyes lit up. “I’d nearly forgotten. It seemed so inconsequential at the time.” She rose from her chair. “Excuse me, please. I’ll be right back.”

  I stared silently at Harry, perched on the edge of his chair, steely-eyed and
resolute, waiting for what might be our first solid clue.

  Moments later, Alice returned, clutching an envelope. “Ronnie — that’s what we called our daughter — told me to hang onto this. She said not to open it, to just put it away and forget it. And I almost did.” Tears slid down her face as she gazed at the manila envelope in her hand. “She said if something ever happened to her, she wanted me to have this.”

  Instead of reaching for the envelope, Harry reached for her hand. “Thank you, Alice, for talking to us today and for remembering. I have to take this with me now. It’s evidence. But once the investigation is finished, it will be returned to you. That’s a promise.”

  She wiped her cheek, then placed the envelope in his hand.

  “Mrs. Henry,” I said quietly. “Did Veronica happen to mention recently that she’d come into any information? The kind that might…make her nervous?”

  Alice’s eyes shifted to the floor. “No. But like I said, we hadn’t spoken in a while. And even when we did speak, she held a lot back. I think she didn’t want to worry us.”

  I thanked Alice for her time and watched as she wandered back into the living room to rejoin her family. The odds of her knowing the details of Veronica’s mystery dirt had been slim to none. But the question had needed to be asked.

  I sat at the Henry’s old Formica table with a lump in my throat, reminding myself that there are no tears in zombie hunting. I had spent years compartmentalizing — conditioning myself so I could do the job and still sleep at night.

  Damn you, Harry Delk. Nobody makes me cry. Nobody.

  10

  So, You’re the Asshole?

  Miriam spied Harry and me rounding the corner. She bolted from her chair and scrambled to block Cap’s door.

  “Captain Dorsey is reviewing the budget this afternoon. I’m afraid whatever you wish to discuss will have to wait. May I suggest you schedule an appointment now? Before you leave.” She darted her eyes back down the hallway, in case we’d missed her invitation to disappear.