"I am no longer a cop. You should know that."
"You were from criminal. Does it mean that the death of M Graam is not accidental?"
"I know even less than you. I just arrived. I am not conducting the investigation. You're talking to the wrong person."
Before the journalists could ask him a new question, he slipped quickly through the door of the club and went up along the wooden staircase.
The floor was almost as lively as the outside. Two policemen were trying different weight machines with a laugh. Another was in a corner questioning a witness who should belong to the club, given his physique and the logos adorning his shirt. Occasionally he interrupted his statements to call to order the two sporting apprentices, who took no account of his complaints.
Porky continued his march towards the second room. He recognized his colleague in conversation. They exchanged a gesture of recognition but Lieutenant Barnet continued his discussion. Clearly, he explained to a young recruit the art of investigation. Porky took the opportunity to browse a bit. The body was still there, lying on a bench, covered with a towel. On the ground, one alters of one hundred sixty pounds was photographed by a policeman. Porky looked questioningly at the photographer, who understood his unspoken question.
" 'Can go. The lab has finished."
By lifting the sheet, Porky discovered that Graam's head formed a strange angle with the rest of his body, and the trachea was crushed.
The photographer stopped to load a new memory card into the device.
"This is a real antique!" he muttered, pointing the camera at Porky as if to apologize for interrupting his shooting. “Paparazzi are better equipped than me.”
"That case attracts sharks!" Porky answered.
Porky uncovered a little more of the body. A musky smell rose to his nostrils. He frowned and continued his examination, leaning a little closer to the victim. Graam was in sportswear. Wide white marks were visible on the T-shirt at the level of his torso and under his arms. He had around his neck a chain with big golden links, and a valuable signet ring at his right annular. If he had been killed, theft was not the motive.
Since Barnet was still deep in conversation, Porky went snooping around the room, but found nothing special. He walked toward the locker room. A policeman was doing the inventory of Graam's locker. Porky pulled on the gloves extended to him and examined the contents with the officer.
A wallet containing several credit cards, a few dollars, restaurant commercial cards and a laundry ticket. A packet of tissues. An oral spray perfumed with mint. So our man had bad breath. His expensive clothing contained nothing except a bunch of keys. Porky opened the jar of cream that rested on the top shelf and wrinkled his nose, assaulted by the musky odor that spread.
Disappointed by this inventory, he left the locker room to join Barnet, who moved away from his young student so that Porky could join the discussion.
"Who discovered the body?" Porkelevitch asked.
"Hi Porky! Let me introduce you to our new intern Elias."
As Porky did not react, Barnet sighed and shook his head to signify that he regretted Porky's lack of manners. Nevertheless he answered the question, knowing that the subject of Graam was an obsession for the former lieutenant Porkelevitch.
"The guard who works also at the reception and opens the door to the cleaner. You probably already met him by entering the club. There's not much to be learned. He arrived at half past seven as usual and found his boss dead, alters on the neck. He immediately called the police. We search for possible witnesses, but our hope is thin. The club is not on a busy street. And death is between eight and ten o'clock at night. Graam had an appointment with a woman yesterday. He was supposed to meet her at half past eight and have dinner with her. She left messages on Graam's answering machine from nine to eleven. But he never called her back."
"In any case the theft is not the motive for the killing."
Elias gasped in surprise.
"Why do you both think about a murder? It looks like an accident. The guy has overestimated his strength, and the bar felt on him."
Porky spat into a trash can or at least what he regarded as a trash can, but did not reply.
Barnet smiled and turned to him.
"Come on, give him the scoop! Then I'll buy you a coffee and we'll see what we can find in Graam’s loft."
Porky sighed and turned to the intern.
"All that remains in his belongings are unimportant trifles. A guy like him must have a PDA, cell phone, something. That's probably the motive. Probably two guys with guns."
"I still don't get what makes you think of a murder."
"Easy. Graam has clean hair. He stinks of that cream that was found in his locker. But his clothes were covered in rings of sweat."
"So what?"
"Do you know lots of people who would wet their shirt practicing sports, shower, spread a cream that stinks on they body and then, instead of going to their tryst, put their sweaty clothes back on to make dumbbells?"
"Why would motive be the theft of a cellular? Okay, we found none, but he could have left it in his car. And why two guys with guns?"
This time it was Barnet who gave the explanations.
"Graam would have struggled against a single attacker. His muscles are real. The forensics will confirm, but a priori there is no evidence of violence except from the crushed trachea. So he was threatened with a weapon. Would have only one attacker threatened him, he would not have been strangled without resistance. The motive is not theft because he still has jewelry. There are not many remaining options.
"It seems too easy, don't you think so?
Barnet raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"Well, yes. You found all this in minutes. The culprits were then fools..."
"First, they would not be the first to take the cops for stupid. And then, they may have wanted to convey a message."
"What message?"
Barnet’s phone rang. He took the call, watching Porky, who went impatiently from one foot to the other, and then hung up without saying a word.
"So what are we going to do?" the student asked.
"We return to the police station to write our report on the accident," Barnet said, emphasizing the last word.
"But..." began Elias, interrupted by his superior.
"There is no evidence. Only deductions. And other cases to work on. Case closed."
"But five minutes ago you said we were going to investigate in Graam's loft…"
"In case of accident, there is no reason to investigate in the house of the victim. Unless you get a search warrant, which no judge would deliver."
"Go! We packed up!" he added at the attention of his whole team.
The young student was speechless. Not surprised, Porky turned to Barnet.
"You owe me a coffee."
CHAPTER - 6 -
It was five days later when Michaela Jones knocked at the door on which was inscribed in painted letters "Porkelevitch Investigations".
She hesitated before entering the first floor of the building, unable to make a decision. The area was shabby, the building even more. She was not as stilted as her mother, but if the success of this detective was proportional to the location of his office, the investigation would not move fast, and she did not have much time. Come on, there was no time to procrastinate!
After one last breath, she crossed the street, up the steps, avoiding looking at the stairs littered with faeces. She jumped whenever she heard a door slam. She reached the first floor, and sought the office of the detective. A door flew open on the left, making her once more jump. A man wearing undershirt, torso covered in tattoos, railed tremendously at a woman who answered him in the same tone. Michaela quickly passed by, wondering more and more what she was doing there. Lieutenant Barnet had assured her that Porkelevitch was the best she could find. It remained to see if it was true. Finally she found his office entrance.
Gathering her courage, she knocked at the door. A va
gue "Enter", muffled from the depths of the office, reached her. Almost shyly, she entered and closed the door behind her. A seedy black leather sofa stood at the entrance. She took care to avoid it for fear of getting all the dust on her jeans, and advanced towards the back of the room. She found Porky sitting at his desk, nose pressed in a cloth from which escaped plumes of smoke scented with eucalyptus. He motioned her to sit.
Michaela had only one idea in mind, run at full speed. Yet, she took her place on the plastic seat, taking care to sit on the edge so that she could flee in seconds if it proved necessary.
The room was like the building, dirty, depressing, and deserving restoration. Rather demolition she corrected. Apart from the desk and the sofa, which she would not dare even give to charity, the furniture consisted of a small table covered with sports magazines dating from last year, and dust that was very current. Painted walls, which had been white in the distant past, was peeling in places, exposing other, older layers. As she spotted, according to locations, varied colors, she wondered how many strata had been stacked. The floor looked like linoleum, but the fitter had not made the effort to put up baseboards and concrete appeared here and there.
The office was cluttered with papers and packaging, remnants of pizza boxes piled on the floor. She winced at the thought of the rodent population that this building, to the glory of the Italian food, could attract.
She had to admit, however, that the lieutenant had made some concessions to modernity. A computer sat on a corner of the office and she distinctly heard the sound of a refrigerator that she couldn't see. Not knowing where to look, she stared at the window behind Porkelevitch. She noticed the sky low and dirty white, in harmony with the surroundings.
Porky finally pushed the bach bowl and towel on the side, and after sniffing loudly, stared at his visitor. Michaela began to fidget in her seat, increasingly uncomfortable with this inspection. Porky's eyes narrowed more and more, to form a thin line. Was he asleep? She wondered once more if she had not made a huge mistake in coming there. She had to be nuts. Was she so desperate to come and ask for help with this sort of uncouth fellow in his lousy den? She began to relax, and released the fingers clenched around her car keys without having noticed it. She was going to leave, immediately and find a detective worthy of the name. She was not pretentious, but Porkelevitch had reached the alert level in her personal assessment of mediocrity.
Porky had recognized the nervous young woman who stood in front of him. The newspaper did not do her justice. She was much prettier. Certainly her blond ponytail made her look juvenile, like her lack of makeup. Her large blue eyes were swollen from weeping too much, and her lips were crisped. She looked like a bird ready to fly at the slightest noise. She was the granddaughter of Carl Stone. The man in the city was known for his frequent donations to charities. According to rumor, he made his fortune through wise investments and had created an empire. His origins were rather obscure. A tabloid had once accused him of being a former Nazi, but the case was quickly stifled.
When the businessman had settled in the region, he was accompanied only by his daughter Mary. She had, a little later, contracted a marriage with a tenor of the bar. Marriage known to be one of convenience. From their union was born one daughter, Michaela. The girl was the black sheep. Having successfully begun studying philosophy, she had suddenly given up everything to create a company of construction supplies - painting or inside decorating, he did not remember. This choice caused a scandal. Rejected by the nomenclature to which her mother belonged, the girl had kept contact with her grandfather even though, according to rumor, she had always refused his financial support.
If Porky knew this family so well, it was because they had made the headlines of the newspapers few days earlier. Carl Stone’s name appeared in large letters. Not as a generous donor this time. He had rather performed in the obituary columns. He had been found dead in his villa. He’d had a heart attack.
Michaela began to stand up, stopped in her movement by Porkelevitch.
"What can I do for you, Miss Jones?"
Not surprised to be recognized, Michaela said at full speed the little speech she had prepared.
"Lieutenant Barnet gave me your name. I'm sure the death of my grandfather is not accidental. And I need you to help me to unmask his killers."
"What makes you think that this is not an accident?"
"My grandfather was in excellent health."
"With respect, he died of a heart attack at more than eighty years old."
Seeing that the young woman was going to interrupt him, he raised his hand and continued.
"And it's usually without warning."
"I know. That's what the police keep saying. But my grandfather felt threatened."
"He told you?"
Michaela began to squirm in her seat.
"Yes."
"And did you ask him for more?"
"He refused to tell me more. I suppose he did not want to worry me".
Porky knew she was lying or at least she was not telling him everything. He chose not to press and attacked the problem from another angle.
"What makes you think that your grandfather was murdered?"
"It seems obvious to me. He said he felt threatened and was found dead next day. The police took the solution that suited them more and refused to conduct a thorough investigation. There was even no autopsy conducted. Grandfather had had a cardiac evaluation this month and everything was normal."
"What about your mother? What does she think?"
"She is opposed to an investigation. You understand, it would not be...appropriate. Even when she talks about me, she says I am a painter as if it was a shame to be a house painter. Then considering a murder in the family...Her only concern is gossip."
"I see. Could you tell me more about the facts?"
"The housekeeper found my grandfather dead in his wheelchair, she called for assistance, but it was already over. Lieutenant Barnet has noted inconsistencies but the affair was hushed up."
"What inconsistencies?"
"Grandfather’s watchdogs. Dobermans. Oddly, that night, we forgot to leave them free in the garden. They spent the night in the kennel."
"What did the dogs do? I assume that someone takes care of them."
"The man in charge said he released the dogs as usual and did not understand how they could have been locked back in their pens."
"Anything else?"
"There is a video surveillance system. But the tape of the night of my grandfather’s death has deteriorated. Inoperable."
"It is indeed regrettable."
"It's the least we can say."
"Your grandfather was alone that night?"
"Yes. The butler and his wife live in an addition. They did not notice anything abnormal."
"Something has been stolen?"
"A priori nothing."
"What do you expect from me, Miss Jones?"
"I already told you. Help me to unmask the killers of my grandfather."
Porky threw himself on the back of his seat and turned it gently on itself. After a few seconds, he repositioned his elbows on the table.
"Your grandfather was an amateur in art?"
Michaela winced and nodded.
"Have you ever heard the name of Graam?"
"No. Who is he?"
"An art dealer, among other things. He was found dead, five days ago in his gym club."
She frowned as to better focus.
"I remember now. I saw an article in the newspaper. They spoke of an accident." Realizing what Porky was hinting at, she added, excited, "You believe me then."
"Well, it may be a coincidence but I have learned to mistrust combinations of circumstances. This survey will take time, I fear, Miss. Nobody is going to enjoy seeing me putting my big nose in the upper crust."
"I am in a hurry. I will pay you. By the way, how much are your fees?
"With the extra cost and if I dedicate all my time to this case..."
; "Three thousand per week all inclusive. Either I pay you myself, or you go to my bank and ask Mr. Little. Here is his business card. He is informed of your visit and will give you your due. You can reach me on my cellular. Here's my number. I informed the butler of my grandfather’s house that you might want to visit. And they should bring you all needed support."
"You were sure I was going to accept?"
"I hoped it, Mr. Porkelevitch, I hoped it."
Relieved, Michaela went back to her apartment. Porkelevitch looked like a snoop with little respect for conventions. And yet this was what she required. She needed to know as soon as possible who her enemies were. She preferred to know with whom she was dealing before making any decisions.
Oh, Grandpa! What should I do?
She terribly missed her grandfather. She was not prepared for such a situation. Her fights were those of any contractor, site visits, customers who do not know what they want and suppliers late in deliveries. She was not prepared for this new arena.
She arrived safely at the subway station. Nervous, she boarded the train and stood behind the door. A shrill sound informed of the impending departure and the doors closed in a hiss. She could not help but scrutinize the people around her, trying to find a face she had seen on another occasion. The passengers were all lost in their thoughts, reading, or watching with a sad air stations scroll. It was almost eight pm. Some passengers were dozing, their heads moving in fits and starts to the rhythm of sudden shaking of the subway car in turns. After a change of train, a journey of over two stations, she arrived in her neighborhood.
She took her keys, opened the door and climbed the stairs leading to her apartment. Only a few steps to climb remained when she froze. She heard noise from upstairs. Yet no one should be there. She waited, listening. No, nothing. Only her heart beating with a loud resonance. She had been dreaming! She clapped a hand on her chest as to force her heart to resume a normal rhythm. She was about to continue her ascent when, again, a muffled sound reached her. There was someone! She should run, warn a neighbor or the police. And she would have done so if she had taken time to think. But she was outraged that a stranger could put their dirty paws on objects that were precious to her, and that she had compiled with patience as a collector. And the visitors may have been the murderers of her grandfather.
The Parchment (The Memory of Blood) Page 5