by Nick Totem
And he no longer had any doubt that Lana knew the truth, and he no longer believe that he could change her mind. The time to do that had been in the car going through traffic, with her trapped inside, where she would have had to listen to his reasoning, explaining, and convincing, and now he cursed himself for missing that chance. To build his case, he would have to begin with love, that he was in love with her, had fallen in love with her the first time he had seen her, and to end with the foolish attempt to scare off Lloyd when the gun had gone off accidentally. She must understand and forgive him if she had ever loved him, even just a little. With that terrible secret, they would live together; the awfulness of that secret, he must make her see, could only spur on and multiply his love to unimaginable heights. What about the fact that he had underestimated her, had lied to her about the amount of time he had been away from the apartment on the night of the murder? No, that was not it at all; he had not so much lied to her as tried to get her to collaborate with him to get rid of Lloyd. He had involved her unconsciously and had succeeded; after all, she had told Hugo Figueroa the same thing he had said, and thus become his alibi. Still, he had not foreseen her reaction to Lloyd’s death, a sort of love for Lloyd, though he couldn’t care less about that now, no use being jealous of a dead man. In the end, he concluded that he must be honest to her and confess; there was still hope of bringing her around.
After dropping her off, however, her words—I never want to see you again—made him impotent. Even after having formulated his case and mulled over it endlessly, he couldn’t muster enough courage to go to her. But a couple of days later, as though this short time could mollify such a heinous crime, he drove to the apartment. Not wanting her to see his car in the street before he had a chance to speak, he parked a couple of blocks away and ran to the apartment. Through the front door and up the rickety elevator, he ascended quickly, but when the elevator delivered him to the fifth floor, he felt lightheaded and had to lean against the wall for support. Just then, down the hallway, someone was opening a door; he panicked and scrambled to the stairs. He scaled them fast and exited the building, running headlong back to his car. He sat in the car and counted his breaths—long, short, short, long—as though his lungs had a will of their own. After a while, when he had calmed down, he went back to the building, but could only stand at a distance and keep an eye on the door.
For the next three days, with every chance he had, after work or after a surgery that had ended early, he loitered along the street, watching for her, knowing full well that he was stalking her. He hoped to run into her and seize her by the arms and plead his case.
The beautiful chaos, of which he had had a premonition of the first time he saw her, had apparently become a combustion, burning with devilish flames, roasting him each and every second. His nights became terrible and were filled with death, an ashen atmosphere, a world joined by ghosts—the Iraqi boy, Jeffrey, Cristiano and Lloyd.
“Are you okay?” Mike, seeing Thomas’s gaunt, sleepless face, would ask him during work. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” Thomas replied.
“C’mon. What is it? You can tell me. Let’s have it out, buddy,” he insisted, his voice softly coaxing.
His friend’s familiar voice trying to comfort him made him realize he would be alone forever with his secret, and it crushed him. He diverted his eyes and feigned a meek smile, turning away. Abruptly, he turned back and said, “You know, Mike. Why don’t you hire another guy? You know, let him come in and help you out more. It’s not fair that I sometimes run off and leave the patients to you. And God know, you haven’t taken a vacation for how long?”
“Jesus, hire another doctor? You’re scaring me. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said unconvincingly.
“I thought you’d be happy with what’s his name, most unfortunate death. I thought you and Lana would be together, happy, no?” he said, shaking his head with a questioning look.
“It’s complicated. Things never seem to work out the way you like.”
“Doctor Wilde,” the receptionist said as she came running. “Someone just called; she said the police are at your house. They’re going to search your house.”
“What the fuck,” Thomas mouthed. He rushed through the back door, throwing his lab coat on the chair as he left. He jumped down the stairs and ran to his car.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into the garage. There were three police cars parked in the front and another two unmarked cars.
“What’s this?” Thomas hollered, getting out.
“Doctor Wilde. You came just in time. What a coincidence, isn’t it?” Hugo Figueroa held up an envelope. “We got a warrant to search your house.”
Thomas snatched the envelope and didn’t so much read the warrant as inspect the signature at the bottom with the stamp of the court. In the middle of the warrant, his name and address stood out in bold print.
“You don’t mind opening the door, do you? Or we’ve to gotta bust in. Your choice.” Hugo cocked his head a little, watching. In a sport jacket, red shirt with a flowered tie, he looked like a cop from the sixties.
Thomas’s face drained. Lightheadedness came on strong and made him sway a little. As he approached the front door, he could already see the lemon tree in the back. He willed himself to stay calm and inhaled deeply. A group of at least seven people lined up behind him, and one of them was holding a metal detector. His hand, sweating, fumbled the key and dropped it. Once through the front door, he went straight into the bedroom and opened the safe; there was nothing valuable in there since the guns had already been turned in for ballistic forensics, and the cash had all been given to Chau the Dog the year before. He headed toward the front door.
“You want to stay and watch us, don’t you?” Hugo said, apparently having gone through the house. “Interesting stuff you have on the wall in that room. You’ve been trying to find someone, haven’t you?”
He didn’t answer. It was the smartest thing he could do. It was all over now; his worst fear had come true.
Once outside, he continued to walk down the street. Some of his neighbors were watching from their front doors. The sky was clear, a soft breeze blew dust off the leaves, deflecting sunlight at an angle, and a faint whiff of sea salt came in with the breeze. The beautiful afternoon made him queasy, telling him that he had already lost his freedom, and such afternoons for the remainder of his life, would soon exist only in his memory. He felt sick, and he cursed himself. He shouldn’t have kept the watch; he should have gotten rid of it and the gun barrel that night. At the end of the street, he bent over, holding onto a tree, and felt like vomiting. The publicity, the shock, the disappointment, and the ultimate loss, struck him all at once. What world had he been living in? Why hadn’t he considered these consequences, real life consequences? It seemed that he had been living in Lana’s world, all enclosed and filled with philosophy and imagining and magical thinking. He looked in the direction of his house and could imagine the cops tearing through the painting, emptying his closets, and finally running the metal detector everywhere, inching closer and closer to the lemon tree. There was now only the faintest hope that somehow they would miss it. Knowing that he couldn’t just run away, he walked back to the house, unsteadily and almost unaware of his own footsteps, readying his hands for the cuffs. As he was near the front door, he saw the cops running out, and he stood still closing his eyes, waiting for them to tackle him, seize him, read him his rights. Nothing happened. A police cruiser chirped loudly, startling him, and then the siren came on. He opened his eyes and saw one car speed off. Other cops rushed out and jumped into their cars, also taking off. Hugo Figueroa came out last.
“What happened?” Thomas hollered.
“Got a situation,” Hugo yelled back and drove away.
Thomas bolted through the front door. In the house, things were in total disarray—pictures taken off the wall, couches turned over, drawers opened, and everything strewn all over t
he place. He had the urge to get rid of all clippings about Cristiano on the wall in his office. But first, he flew through the house and came straight at the lemon tree, standing oblivious, soaking up the afternoon sun, its dirt undisturbed. His eyes focused against the sunlight, scanning around the fence, and, once satisfied that he was not being watched, he yanked up the lemon tree and retrieved the plastic bag. In the bedroom, he put on his wetsuit. A few minutes later he was at the beach, paddling out against the cold waves with the plastic bag safe inside the wetsuit. He paddled very far out, until he could barely see the shore, and here he ripped the bag open. He dropped the gun barrel first, and, holding the gold watch, he gazed at the Tourbillon, seemingly mesmerized by its rotation, round and round. Abruptly he let it go. The gold glinted and was then no more.
44
On television that night he learned the reason why the cops had suddenly left his house. The news footage had been taken from a helicopter, panning around the neighborhood in Anaheim and finally zooming in to the house. Police cars had surrounded the house, and cops could be seen taking positions behind their cars with weapons drawn. Thomas even recognized Hugo Figueroa’s burly shape crouching behind a car. Shots had been fired. The standoff had lasted for two hours, but at last the man inside had been convinced by a negotiator and had given himself up. On the television, a still image of the man—brutish, bulging fearful eyes, and mouth clenching tight—was frozen for the viewers to see. Thomas almost jumped off the couch. It was Chau the Dog. The announcer then added: “An anonymous source has informed us that this man is the main suspect in the slaying of Lloyd Quattleberns, a prominent entrepreneur and hedge fund manager, who was very well respected in the Los Angeles financial district . . . The suspect is known on the street as Chau the Dog on the street. The suspect is the son of a well respected pastor in Roland Heights, a pastor by the name of Srang Tuong.”
Never in his life could he believe such luck. He had had such luck before, missing the sniper’s bullet in Iraq, but it was, without a doubt, different this time. Surely he didn’t deserve it, having killed Lloyd and now deserving the deepest damnation; where was the karma in that? After turning off the television, he paced around the house, stepping over things he hadn’t bothered to put into their proper places, losing track of time. Mike called. Thomas told him, while trying his best to sound indifferent, that the police, of course, had found nothing, that it had all been a part of their routine investigation, and that Chau the Dog had been captured, who was now the main suspect in Quattleberns’s murder.
“Holy cow!” Mike screamed over the phone. “It’s just one thing after another, man. Well, hopefully everything will just get back to normal. Ever since you met her . . .”
That was true, Thomas thought when he hung up the phone, but, still, there was nothing more soothing now than holding Lana, putting his head on her lap and just closing his eyes—sleep. The whole ordeal would still be worth it, a happy ending was still possible. He wandered to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, exhausted but more than glad to sink once more into the hell of the dream world, because between the dream world and the hell of the real world—imprisonment for the rest of his life—the choice couldn’t be easier.
He woke up the next day with his mind made up; he would plead his case with Lana. He left work early and drove to the apartment; during the drive he went through the case again—love, accident, secret, undying devotion because of the above. He parked in the street. In the waning afternoon, the harshness of noon ebbed along with the brightness of sky, though still very bright, into a velvety blue. The traffic noise was loud as always, but it didn’t bother him. He went up the elevator, slightly anxious. At the apartment, he knocked and waited. No answer. He knocked again and, after a moment, put his ear to the door. The traffic noise from the street below echoed through, nothing else. He jerked away from the door as a phone rang. It was his phone, and the number on the screen was unknown to him.
“Hello,” Thomas answered.
“Thomas Wilde, isn’t it?” A man spoke roughly.
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Hugo Figueroa, here. You can talk, can’t you?”
He walked away. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“We got Chau the Dog.”
“I saw on the news. So?”
“You are a witness in a previous shooting. You need to come and identify the suspect. We’re charging him with attempted murder in your case and with the murder of Lloyd Quattleberns.”
Thomas felt instantaneous relief. “Where do I have to go?”
“He’s being held in the central station. The same one where we had our chat,” Hugo said with a hint of a taunt in his voice.
“I’m in the neighborhood. Half an hour, okay?”
“Great, see you, Doctor.”
For the third time, Thomas went to the police station, hoping that it would be the last, and all the time wondering where Lana was. At the front counter, he checked in and was led to a room with a one-way mirror. Hugo Figueroa, his partner, who had a hard, rugged Asian face and appeared to be in his fifties, and some other bureaucrats were waiting. They swore him in, and he signed some papers.
“Thanks for coming, Doctor.” Hugo got right to business. “We’ll bring him in with five other guys. Just point him out. You got it?”
“Yeah.”
They waited. But nothing seemed to happen. Through the one-way mirror, Thomas saw the line-up room, brightly lit under the white fluorescent lights. They waited in silence, and it was quiet enough to hear their own breathing.
“So you’re a doctor, what kind?” Hugo said to break the silence.
“Ear, nose, and throat.”
“I snore bad. The wife complains. There is something to be done, isn’t there?” Hugo’s voice seemed relaxed and friendly.
“Yeah, of course. I can see you if you like.” Thomas was thinking of getting on Hugo’s good side, and added, “Just come by my office anytime.” He retrieved a business card and gave it Hugo.
“That would be great. The wife, man, enough complaining already . . .” He shook his head. “You have to do surgery or what?”
“Yeah, it depends on what you have. Maybe a minor procedure.”
“It’s painful, isn’t it? What’s her name? That gal you are helping with her surgery. She said she had to take pain pills around the clock. She couldn’t remember anything.”
Thomas perked up but tried not display any surprise. He kept listening.
“I grilled her.” Hugo laughed. “But she couldn’t remember anything. The pain pill really knocked her out. She didn’t even remember much about you that night. I don’t want to be like that.”
“She said that?” he said a bit eagerly.
“Hmm,” Hugo uttered and turned to the line-up, maybe aware that he had spoken too much.
Just then the door opened, and the six men, all dressed in orange prison jump suits and handcuffed, were marched in. Even with his face swollen, Chau the Dog stood out clearly. The men were instructed to face left and then right.
Thomas pointed. “That’s him.”
“Are you sure?” Hugo said.
“Positive.”
“All right. We’re done.”
“So what now?”
“That’s it. You may be called to testify as a witness. Up to the DA. I may take you up on your offer. One day when I can’t stand the wife complaining anymore.”
As he left the police station, Thomas could only think about what Hugo had said. So Lana claimed amnesia because of the pain pill; this was not what she had said to him. Rewinding the scene in the car over and over, he couldn’t be more certain that she had said fifteen minutes, that she had told the same to Hugo Figueroa and had done so to protect Thomas. It was a lie. But why? To figure out the logic of it, he said to himself out loud, “She told me she had told him I had been gone fifteen minutes that night. But she had told him she couldn’t remember anything because of the pain pills. What the fuck.” He howled, incred
ulous.
He weaved through traffic, nearly hitting a bus and a biker, who flipped him off. At last, he was back at the apartment. He banged on the door. There was no answer. Behind that door was a vast unknown, towering like a Mount Everest of intrigue; he could only now glimpse its tangled mass. After some minutes he wandered away, lost and angry as he had never felt before. The sound of a violin started to screech in his ears, high-pitched and punishing. The mindless wandering led him down a familiar street so that when he collected enough of himself he looked up and uttered, “Dominic.” He found himself twenty yards from the Savoir Gallery; behind the display window, the intense red of a new painting glowed and, even at that distance, could be seen obliquely. He quickened his steps and could already see himself wringing Dominic’s neck, if he must, to get Lana’s whereabouts.
“Hey, hey,” a cheerful voice called out to him.
He jumped back and took a moment before he recognized Dietrich Gassiot.
“What’s going on? What luck, right? Can you believe it?” Dietrich’s voice was so uproarious that a few passersby turned to them.
“Oh, hey.”
“What luck, man. What happened to Lloyd. With that son of a bitch gone . . .”
“Oh yeah,” Thomas said absent-mindedly. The sound of violin zigzagged with monotones, and lightheadedness made him stagger. He leaned against a storefront and lowered his head.
“Are you okay? You don’t look so good,” Dietrich said. “Come in here and have a drink.”
They took a few steps and went in a café. Thomas sat at a table while Dietrich ordered coffee.
“Are you sick?” Dietrich asked when he came back with two cups of coffee.
Thomas shook his head and sipped the coffee.
“Have you been interrogated by the cops yet? I’m coming in next week. I’m thinking I should get a lawyer with me. What about you?”