by M. C. Grant
I walk to it and see a hand-colored black and white of a handsome young man and his new bride. Both of them are laughing, their faces full of life.
“I haven’t really changed anything since she died,” Frank says behind me. “Just finished up the list of chores she always left on the fridge: Fix the back step, it creaks; new light bulb in the root cellar; turn over the soil in the vegetable garden.”
“It’s nice, Frank. She must have been happy here.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Marion was always happy, always singing, always …” He laughs lightly. “Always cooking. If she was here, you would be stuffing yourself with homemade pie while she made a care package to send home.” He pats his belly. “Never liked to see anyone too skinny.”
I smile. “I wish I could have met her.”
“Yeah, me too.” Frank turns his gaze away from the mantel and walks out of the room. When he returns, he is carrying a small bottle and two tumblers of ice.
“So tell me,” he says, splashing Dr. Pepper in the glasses. “Art theft?”
I accept the glass and take a sip. It tastes so good that I follow it with a healthy swallow. It takes away the medical tang of the Tylenol.
“Well, you know, journalism has its kicks, but …” I shake off the lame joke and take another sip. “I don’t know what to make of it,” I begin again. “Kingston wants to teach me a lesson, I guess.”
“You piss him off?”
“Not on purpose,” I protest. “Well, not exactly on purpose.”
“Hmmm, you have a knack for that.”
I ignore him. “With what little proof I have of murder or a cover-up or whatever, the story can’t hurt Kingston. In fact, the way things are looking, the piece will end up helping him. The more I discover about Diego, the more tragic his life becomes. People will be interested.”
“But?”
Frank is forcing me to think.
“But …” The gears turn slowly. “If I miss this week’s deadline, the story loses its immediacy and ends up buried in the magazine. If there is anything potentially dangerous in the story, it gets downplayed simply by the nature of placement.”
“And getting tossed in jail makes it more difficult for you to meet your deadline.”
I nod.
“So something in your story must frighten him?”
“I guess.”
“Give me a theory.”
I think about it.
“We know,” I begin, “that Kingston has ties to Diego’s original agent. Casper, the wormy creep who showed up at the death scene, works for Stellar Galleries. Stellar Galleries is funded by Kingston, so chances are he says who gets the biggest push in the art world. With the snap of his fingers, Kingston drops Diego in favor of Adamsky. Soon, Diego isn’t selling and Adamsky is the rising star.”
I take a breath before continuing.
“Now, what if Diego decided to teach them both a lesson by stealing a couple of valuable paintings. Kingston gets pissed and hires some muscle to make Diego give him his art back. The muscle gets creative and ends up blowing Diego’s brains out.”
“Not bad,” Frank says. “But why attack you?”
“Because I decided to dig and Kingston didn’t like it. He either has to buy me or frighten me. Unfortunately, he chose the latter.”
“There must be easier ways to shut you up.”
I grin. “Can’t imagine what.”
Frank shakes his head slowly.
“How have you survived in this business, Dix? You have more enemies than friends. That’s not healthy.”
“I didn’t get into the biz to make friends.”
“Well, you’re lucky you made a few by mistake.”
My grin widens. “And I appreciate it.”
“You better,” he says. “Because some days I wonder if you’re worth the trouble.”
I clink his glass with my own.
Thirty-one
I wake with a start, the muscles in my neck cramped, back stiff, my left hand feeling as though someone has stuck a knife through it.
A hollow chime echoes somewhere in the distance and it takes a moment to realize where I am. I can’t recall falling asleep, but I do remember the warm sun shining through the bay window and the comfortable, overstuffed couch where I still lay. The window is in shade now, but Frank has thrown a blanket over me to keep off any chill.
Rising slowly to my feet, I attempt to stretch my muscles. Every limb protests and the exercise only makes them feel worse. Giving up, I wander into the hallway in search of the hollow chime.
I find the source easily enough. A grandfather clock stands at rigid attention as though guarding passage to the kitchen. Its crystal face is cracked; a loose, glittering web crawling from a bullet-sized hole near the number six, but the polished wood of its cabinet sings with history and a preserved, loving care. The hands on its face inform me it’s just after five o’clock.
In the kitchen, I splash water on my face and drag the wet fingers of my working hand through my hair. It’s while I’m dripping water onto the linoleum and squinting half-blind in my quest for a dishcloth to dry myself that I spot the note stuck on the fridge door. There are only two hastily scrawled words on it—“work called”—and Frank’s indecipherable signature.
I pick up a brass phone sitting on an elegant child-size desk in the hall and dial the Hall of Justice. It takes a five-minute game of telephone tag around the building before I’m told Frank’s away from his desk. No one knows when he’ll be back.
Without Frank’s help it takes twenty minutes to make my way through the bureaucratic phone maze and find anyone who knew anything about Kristy’s Bug. Finally, I’m informed it has been towed and that I can have it back just as soon as I cough up the $175 charge.
My wallet groans.
_____
By the time I park the Bug in front of my building, I’m cranky and depressed over my impending deadline. Stoogan will be chomping at the bit for a story, but apart from annoying prominent businessmen and putting my personal safety in peril, I don’t have an opening hook. Stoogan gave me two days, and that was two days ago.
Every theory I have is based on conjecture, but I’m not in the business of opinion. I need cold hard facts and indisputable proof.
The moment I enter the lobby, my dark cloud dissipates as Mr. French throws open his door and beams up at me like a teenage boy who’s just touched his first breast.
“I believe,” he says excitedly, “I have found the author of our notes.”
He holds the door open as I walk into his apartment, the air smelling of cherry and moist cedar. Baccarat is sitting on her perch, pecking at a tiny mirror and chirping away.
“She has such big stories to tell at times,” Mr. French says wistfully as he follows me into the living room. “Pity I’ve yet to master the language.”
Mr. French whistles at his pet before producing his leather notebook and opening it to a marked page.
“Before I begin,” he says softly, “may I inquire as to your health?”
“I look that bad, huh?”
“It’s not that.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a soft smile. “It’s just I notice your hand, and the commotion last night. You are on the other side of the building and yet …”
“And yet throwing someone out a window tends to make a little noise?”
“Ahh, yes. Forgive my intrusion—”
I laugh. “You’re not being nosy. I appreciate the concern. We … I had a burglar last night, but it’s under control. The police are on it.”
“A burglar?” His face pales. “Oh, dear.”
“Don’t worry,” I say reassuringly. “He was after a specific item, a painting. It has since been moved to a safe location.”
“Ahh.” H
is face relaxes. “Well, thank you for the update.”
“You’re welcome. Now tell me what you’ve uncovered.”
Mr. French goes into great detail about how he and the owner of the stationery store, Mr. Clifford Clements, approached each of the five women on their short list.
“Clifford was kind enough to load me up with paper samples,” explains Mr. French. “As a way of gaining entry to the suspects’ homes. I played the part of salesman.”
“Very clever,” I say.
Mr. French beams.
“I’ve always been a fan of Arthur Miller,” he says excitedly. “So I imagined myself as Willy Loman, but back when he was younger, before the events of the play.”
“Imaginative.”
Mr. French beams wider still.
“All of the women were very friendly toward me, except for one, a Mrs. Irene Pennyworth, who said I smelled of a tobacconist and she could not in good conscience purchase paper from, as she politely put it, ‘a walking corpse.’ ”
“Charming.”
“Quite. However, I quickly ruled her out as our letter writer.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you see, upon closer examination, Clifford and I discovered something new inside the envelope of the second letter you delivered.”
“Go on.”
“A single, long white hair not of human origin.”
“I’ll call David Duchovny,” I say.
“I’m not sure I—”
“The X-Files,” I explain. “He played an FBI agent who investigated alien conspiracies.”
“Ahh, I see,” says Mr. French, although it is clear from the confused look that he doesn’t see at all. “But, no, the hair isn’t alien, it’s feline.”
“Feline?”
“Persian, to be exact.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because we found the matching cat.” Mr. French beams. “Long, flowing white coat; large, round head with a blunt, pug-like face; small, rounded ears; large eyes; and a short tail. Definitely Persian.”
“Well, case solved, then. I should talk to her and see why she’s sending the notes.”
“You could do that.”
“But?” I ask, sensing his hesitation.
“But matching paper and a stray cat hair does not an unbreakable case make.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. It does give us enough to warrant an approach, but if she denies the fact, we have nothing to counter with.”
“True, but—”
“Clifford and I are happy to continue our surveillance until such time as she delivers a third note.”
“Catch her in the act,” I say.
“Precisely!”
I smile and wonder how men ever manage to rule the world when all they really want to be are boys playing in puddles and tree forts as spacemen, cowboys, and detectives.
“OK,” I agree, seeing little harm in allowing their game to continue. “So long as you don’t perceive this woman to be a threat to Mrs. Pennell, we’ll wait and catch her in the act.”
“Excellent!” Mr. French claps his chubby little hands together in delight. “I’ll finish making sandwiches and tell Clifford the good news.”
“Sandwiches?”
“Why, yes!” Mr. French beams. “We’re on stakeout.”
_____
In my apartment, I slide off my shoes, pour a stiff rum and ginger on ice, pop a frozen sausage pizza in the oven, and survey the room.
Someone, probably Frank or Sam, has nailed a piece of plywood over the broken windowpane, which makes the apartment darker.
I want my mind to switch off, to find that perfect balance of comfortably numb. To that end, I pop the last two Percs and head to the computer to see what is playing on TV.
Unfortunately, within the ten strides it takes to cross the room, I spot a rare blinking light on the answering machine. I hit play.
“Umm, hi, Dixie, it’s Declan. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Work got a little crazy, and I was running around trying to organize a new showing. A lot of interest in Diego Chino now that he’s, well, you know. Well, umm, I was wondering if you had plans this weekend. Maybe Sunday? We could get together for lunch or an early supper. Take in an art show or a play. So um, call me. Bye.”
Not exactly wine and roses or “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” His cuteness factor might sway the vote, but I have to admit he isn’t making a strong case to avoid being flicked.
As my father often told me: Never settle for a man who won’t treat you like the princess you are. So far, however, I have discovered that bagging a prince is not as simple as kissing a lot of frogs and licking a few toads.
The machine kicks over to a second message.
“Hey, Dixie. Aurora here from the co-op. I hate these machines, don’t you? They turn us into Pavlov’s dog, hear a beep, start to blab, blah blah drool blah. Hey that might make for a cool piece. You think? Everything freezes until the beep. Then two minutes later, freezes again, waiting for another fucking beep. Could be cool, no? Anyhow, I talked to some of the artists and they said Diego worked at the paint factory just a few buildings down. Number 201. It’s patrolled by a couple of pervy young guys with guns, so best go during the day. Hope that helps. Ciao.”
And there it is. Another misjudgment.
If Kingston is hiding anything about his relationship with Diego, it must have its roots in that factory. And there is no Goddamn way I’m waiting until morning.
Thirty-two
Wisps of fog drift off the cold water beneath the docks to wrap a gossamer cloak around a ghetto of dilapidated warehouses. The buildings are barely visible beneath a dull crescent moon and the potholed alleys between them are filled with impenetrable darkness.
In other words, this place gives me the creeps.
With the headlights of Kristy’s Bug switched off, I maneuver blindly between wooden carcasses to park in a deep pool of inky night a few buildings away from 201.
There’s no sign of the security guards, but I can’t blame them for hiding away in some warm building with TV noise for company. If I were smarter, I’d be doing the same thing.
Softly clicking the car door closed behind me, I step into the night. My breath floats as my nostrils pinch against the stench of rotting wood, dead fish, and raw sewage. Focusing on the task ahead, I check my equipment: flashlight, Swiss Army pocketknife (in addition to my trusty boot blade), and my digital point-and-shoot in a padded case attached to my belt.
It isn’t much, but hopefully it will do.
Dressed in black—jeans, T-shirt, socks, boots, and cable-knit sweater—I feel kinda sexy; a combination of Halle Berry from Die Another Day and Catherine Zeta-Jones in that cat-burglar flick with Sean Connery. I even found a woolen fisherman’s cap to pull tight over my don’t-give-a-damn-but-glows-in-the-dark red hair, and dulled my bruised and glowing complexion with a smudge of dirt.
The only thing missing is my lucky trench coat, which Mrs. Pennell’s seamstress is still attempting to mend.
With the flashlight in my good hand, I trek to Kingston’s warehouse. Darting from doorway to doorway, I keep my eyes peeled and ears open for the guards. It isn’t until I’m almost on top of them that I hear laughter. Crouching low in the pungent darkness of a urine-splashed doorway, I wait and watch.
A metal door slams somewhere nearby and the laughter grows louder. The night twists the sound, making its direction unknown. I hold my breath, body tense.
Gravel crunches.
Too close.
Shit!
I stay perfectly still, trying to play that childish game of “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.”
There are two of them and they’re moving closer.
Wincing slightly from the uncomfortable position, I slink deeper into the shadows.
Two guards turn the corner and stop directly in front of the doorway. I squint, not wanting to expose the whites of my eyes, so all I see are navy blue pants and heavy-soled boots.
“What did you say the record was again?” one of the guards asks as he lights a hand-rolled cigarette.
“Twenty-two.”
“In one shift?”
“Yep.”
“Musta found a nest.”
“Prob’ly.”
The smoke is overly sweet. Not tobacco at all. The guard hands the joint to his partner.
“Don’t they count bullets?”
“Buy your own. Company’ll never know.”
“Good thinking.”
“Yep.”
“You got any?”
“Bullets?”
“Yeah. Extras like?”
“ ’Course.”
“Wanna kill some?”
“You bet.”
The slap of leather is unmistakable as the guards race each other to a quick draw contest. Both men giggle until one of them begins to cough. His friend slaps him on the back and lifts the joint from his fingers.
“Wish they’d give us semi-autos,” one guard says as he lifts the joint to his lips and sucks in the pungent smoke.
“Buy your own.”
“Really! They’d let us?”
“ ’Course not, but who’s gonna tell?”
“Right. You got one?”
“Not yet, but next week. Damn Brady Bill. Found it on eBay.”
“Sweeeeet.”
“Yep.”
“Let’s hunt.”
Both guards laugh and walk away, their loaded revolvers pointed in front of them.
I release my breath and suck in a mouthful of oxygen. It is tainted with marijuana smoke. I’m so nervous that sweat has trickled down my back and is beginning to freeze uncomfortably around the base of my spine. I hope the secondhand smoke won’t make me paranoid, as I can already imagine tomorrow’s headline:
Nosy reporter shot dead on docks