‘Mr. James,’ said Bouvert, ‘Gerald’s murder and Elaine’s disappearance come as a great shock to us, too.’ He walked around behind his desk and sat in his large chair in front of the large window. ‘The truth is neither Al nor I have any idea whatsoever why someone would target the Andrewses.’
When I opened the door to the hatchback I asked Darren if he smoked and he said yes but we couldn’t smoke in the car because of the flowers and because it belonged to the florist, so we sat on the curb and smoked cigarettes under a streetlight. I’d quit, years ago, though nevertheless I was smoking, not caring about the consequences, and my old cough reappeared immediately, a curt bark. I inhaled deeply, holding the smoke, then slowly exhaled the warm pinching smoke through my nostrils. My eyes were closed and I listened to the soft sounds of occasional traffic. Darren didn’t talk. He was a nice kid. Respectful of others. I stood up and crushed the cigarette underfoot, thinking, I don’t need anymore goddamn cigarettes in my life. A city bus approached and I said to Darren that I could take the bus home and he said that he was going my way anyway, and we got in the car. We drove off and I turned to Darren and said, ‘Thanks for waiting, bud.’
My apartment was dark and I didn’t turn on any lights, just placed my keys and wallet on the mantel and went to the kitchenette and poured myself a drink and drank it back and poured another one, emptying the bottle, and dropped face down on my couch and kicked off my shoes and that was that.
12
A buzz startled me out of sleep and I woke on my couch, thirsty, listening to the rain on the fire escape. I remained still, then let my eyelids close under their immense weight. Again, however, there was a loud buzz. It was my doorbell. I sat up on the couch and grabbed the glass sitting on the floor beside it and held the glass up to the meagre light from the street; it was empty and opaque with fingerprints. Again, there was that loud grating buzz and I said, ‘Hold your horses.’ I stood up and did up my pants and belt and walked toward the door, unlocked it and opened it. Much to my chagrin, O’Meara stood there, with one of his plainclothes minions.
‘Mind if we come in, Rick,’ he said, as they pushed past me into my apartment.
‘Make yourselves at home,’ I said, lighting a cigarette.
O’Meara pushed me up against the wall, slapped the cigarette out of my mouth, and said, ‘Don’t get smart, smartass!’ I shoved O’Meara, and the plainclothesman punched me in the stomach. I dropped to my knees. I fought back vomit while trying to catch my breath.
‘Now here’s how it’s going to be, tough guy,’ said O’Meara, ‘we’re going to ask the questions and you’re going to provide the answers. Understand?’ I nodded. ‘Did you rape Elaine Andrews?’
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ I said, and the plainclothesman kicked me in the left kidney, from behind, and I gasped in pain, clutching my side, gritting my teeth and waiting for the pain to dissipate.
‘Did you rape her, Rick?’ he repeated.
‘You know I wouldn’t hurt her.’
‘Rick, we found your friend in a parking lot dumpster, the parking lot of a florist near you, Chez Marine, with her hands tied behind her back, gagged, and there are clear signs of forced penetration. Cause of death was a severe blow to the cranium. You wouldn’t know anything about that – would you, Rick?’
‘O’Meara, I didn’t fucking kill her!’
The plainclothesman was holding up one of my boots, looking at its sole.
‘Well?’ O’Meara said to him, and he said, ‘It’s a definite match.’
‘All right, cuff this motherfucker,’ and the officer was on me, with his knee in my spine and my hands pulled around my back and clasped in handcuffs. The cuffs drew blood.
‘You have nothing linking me to her death,’ I said.
‘Rick, you were the last person to be seen with her, one; two, we took plaster casts of the footprints in the Andrewses’ backyard and guess what, buddy? That’s right – your boots are a match!’
‘I never set foot in the Andrewses’ backyard.’
‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.’
‘Fuck you.’
Someone punched me again in my kidney, and again I fell. ‘Listen, you sick fuck, you’re under arrest and you’re going to rot in jail,’ he said into my ear, both of us gritting our teeth, me in pain and him in anger, ‘and I’ll make sure you get bunked up with some twisted fuck who’s going to ream you out every morning, every afternoon and every evening, you fucking scum!’ My ear was wet with his spittle.
‘You’re a fucking moron, O’Meara,’ I said, and then I was hit in the head with something hard and blacked out.
When I came to I was cuffed to a chair in a dark interrogation room under a bright hot light. I heard voices, though I couldn’t see faces. ‘Who do you think you’re fooling?’ said a voice. ‘You’re transparent as all hell. We know. We all know.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said.
‘Playing dumb won’t help you, Rick.’
‘Hi, O’Meara.’
‘Come clean, Rick.’
‘Okay, I’ll come clean. I think you’re a fucking moron.’
A fist emerged from the darkness and caught the edge of my jaw. I bit my tongue when my teeth snapped shut and immediately tasted blood.
‘We know what you’re up to, psycho. There’s nothing mysterious about it, you sick lonely fuck.’
I tried to talk but couldn’t form words. Blood and saliva ran down my chin. The disembodied voices kept talking but I could no longer follow.
‘I bibn’t boo banybing,’ I said.
‘I bibn’t boo banybing,’ said O’Meara, laughing in the dark. And then he said, ‘Work this degenerate over. We don’t need fucks like this walking the streets,’ and fists, many sets, emerged from the darkness and started pounding on my ribs, jaw and kidneys. My eyes shut tight, I gritted my teeth, and then I passed out from the pain.
I woke up, in the dark, still cuffed to the chair. The bright interrogation light was off. I called out and no one answered. I was alone. Immediately I thought of Elaine and felt sick. I pictured her, gagged, hands restrained, like mine, dead from head trauma. She was found in a dumpster, I thought. How’d she get there? How’d someone get her out of the house without me or the officer out front knowing, without making a sound or leaving a single trace? I looked hard into the darkness. I could make out nothing, which wasn’t a surprise. I didn’t kill her, I thought. I said out loud, ‘I know I didn’t kill her.’ How could I? How could’ve I killed her, done away with the body, and made it back to inform the police? What was O’Meara thinking? A horrible buzz sounded and a red light flashed in the corner of the interrogation room. I stared up at it, frightened, and it kept sounding, over and over, and the light lit up again, and the room went red, then pitch-black, then red again, with the buzzing sound. I stared at the painted bulb. There was pounding at the door. ‘Open up, Rick,’ I heard, and the buzzing continued, now relentless, without pause, a solid grating sound, and the light stayed red, giving the room the horrifying atmosphere of a darkroom, where negatives, negatives of unspeakable acts, bloom into being. ‘Open the fucking door, Rick!’ And the pounding and buzzing continued. I tried to speak but couldn’t. I tried to say, ‘My fucking hands are cuffed!’
13
I woke up, fully clothed, on my couch. My doorbell buzzed loud and hurt my head. My mouth was dry and tasted bitter so I grabbed the glass beside the couch and took a big sip and then spat warm whisky on my floor. The buzzing didn’t stop. ‘I’m coming!’ I yelled. Still, the buzzing continued. I stood up and went and opened the door. O’Meara and another detective stood there, still, and I said, ‘Benvenuto. I was just dreaming about you.’
‘Don’t play cute, asshole,’ said O’Meara, and they pushed their way into my apartment.
‘Why are you here?’ I said.
‘You tell me,’ said O’Meara.
‘I was sleep
ing. I have no idea.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Who the fuck do you think?’
‘Elaine.’
‘Good guess.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘No, really, I have no idea. I woke up and she was gone. I called you.’
‘In her bed.’
‘What?’
‘You woke up in her bed.’
‘No.’
‘You said you woke up and she was gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re saying you were sleeping in a guest room and woke up and then went and checked in on her and she was gone.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re full of shit. You’re a piece of shit.’
‘Fuck you,’ I said, and the other detective punched me in the stomach. I fell to my knees.
O’Meara said, ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Cuff him and let’s take him in.’
Sitting in the back of an unmarked car, I tried to reason with O’Meara. I said, ‘How could I have possibly killed her, disposed of the body and returned to call the police? The officer out front didn’t see me leave.’
‘He didn’t see Elaine leave, either,’ O’Meara added.
Still, though, I think he was taking my point. Why would I want to murder my client? Why would I want to hurt her, in any way, shape or form?
‘I was duped, too. I’m as interested in solving the case as the police,’ I said, and O’Meara made some disparaging remarks about my abilities as a detective. Then we stopped talking and his lackey drove us to the station in silence. We passed familiar buildings and I became lost in the rambling, nonsensical, relentless thoughts of someone who’s nervous and exhausted. Nothing was coming together.
Then I said, ‘She gave us the slip, O’Meara. She’s disappeared. I don’t know why but that’s what’s happened.’
O’Meara scoffed and said, ‘Thanks, Rick, for your in-depth analysis of the case.’
I stared at the backs of their heads. My goddamn gaolers, I thought, two stupid assholes. They knew I had nothing to do with Elaine’s disappearance, but O’Meara was keeping me captive out of spite; he resented me for innumerable reasons, all having to do with his deep sense of inadequacy, I thought. He was trying to teach me a lesson for sleeping with my client, I thought, a woman he would’ve killed to sleep with, given the chance, which he never would be that is to say, be given the chance despite being a real police detective. I had to say something, as we drove on pointlessly in silence.
‘O’Meara, instead of wasting your time with me, you should be trying to figure out what’s happened to Elaine. She’s probably being held hostage right now being abused and you’re wasting time fucking with me. It’s ridiculous. Let’s just find her!’ I said and kicked the back of his seat.
‘Pull over,’ said O’Meara to his peon.
14
My downstairs neighbour knocked on my door to complain about my pacing, so I apologized. He thought I had people over. Nevertheless, moments after he left, I was back to pacing, though I removed my shoes. After pulling over to the roadside, O’Meara chewed me out and told me he’d let me go if I’d stayed away from the case. I agreed to his terms. Of course, it’s ridiculous to think I’d stay away from the case – he knew that and I knew that – but I’d definitely try and keep my distance from him, I thought. I stood on the side of the highway trying to hail a cab but there were none. Eventually, I hitchhiked. Back at my apartment, I was upset and I paced. Somehow, I needed to see Elaine again. There was so much to discuss, but then again I wondered if she was even alive. She must be, I thought. There’s no way a third party got past the officer outside and into the house, up the staircase, and stole Elaine away from the bed I was sleeping in, holding her in my arms, without making a single sound. It was an impossibility; therefore, Elaine left of her own volition. She knowingly escaped, I thought, for that was the only explanation that made sense. Why? I wondered. Well, first off, because her husband was murdered, so perhaps she feared for her own life, too, and wanted to make a getaway; however, perhaps she was involved in the murder and wanted to get away before I or the police discovered her involvement. The latter explanation, of course, made the most sense. Still, I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to think that Elaine, this beautiful, funny and tender woman, could be involved in a murder, especially the murder of her own husband, who, presumably, I thought, she once loved. Murdering someone you once loved, however, I thought, makes more sense than murdering a total stranger. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to believe she’d done it, or was involved in any way. By now, I thought, while pacing the long hallway of my apartment, she’s probably fled the country, fled to São Paulo or Buenos Aires or who the hell knows where, with the money she’s been stockpiling over the years, the years she was married to Gerald, after they met at the ski resort in the small town out west.
I needed rest but my mind wouldn’t slow down. I thought about pouring a drink but decided it’d be better if I remained clearheaded. I lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling, thinking, thinking about everything, and I was frightened – frightened that perhaps this woman was dead or a murderer: either scenario frightening, I thought. My eyes were heavy but I didn’t close them. Staring at the ceiling, I wondered whether this boyfriend was really dead, if he’d indeed killed himself, or if he’d just disappeared, only to come back and help Elaine murder Gerald, and then flee with her after a night with me. I was back up pacing. I poured myself a glass of red wine from a lousy bottle I had in the fridge. I need to find out if Adam’s dead or alive, I thought. I need to find out if Adam even exists. Adam’s most likely an alias, I thought, and he’s probably alive, too, and with Elaine Andrews this very minute. I must accept the hellacious possibility that she’s with another man right this minute, I thought, while I paced my apartment floor worried about her safety, worried about a life without her. I’ve been played, I thought, like a big fat sucker. I downed the rest of my wine and then poured another glass. It was horrible wine, bitter and thick with sediment, but it was all they had at the corner store the night I’d bought it, the night before Elaine Andrews called me crying, crying over her dead husband, a dead husband I’m sure she conspired to murder. O’Meara’s right, I thought, I’m an idiot – Elaine’s stories don’t jibe. For some reason, despite my cynicism, I fell for this woman instantly, without a moment’s hesitation, and now I was paying for being an idiot, I thought.
Chain-smoking, I sat at my kitchen table in the dark. I’d finished the wine and was now drinking a can of beer, which was the only alcohol I had left in the house. This made me nervous. Everything was making me nervous. I took small sips of my cold can of beer, savouring it, knowing it would soon be gone and I’d still be wide awake, thinking about Elaine, trying to make some sense of what’s happened. I listened to the playback of Elaine’s and my phone conversation, over and over, studying Elaine’s voice, rewinding the tape when it came to the end. The cigarettes were making me cough but I knew I wouldn’t stop. I sat by the window and a cold wind kept blowing in as I attempted to blow smoke out. My beer was almost done. I knew there was no way I was going to get to sleep. I’d end up sitting in the dark, smoking, cogitating over the case, listening to the tape, getting nowhere. I decided to call Darren and see if he wanted to go for some drinks.
15
‘Shots!’ said Darren and I nodded. We drank whisky and beers. ‘So what was the deal with this Gerald Andrews guy?’ said Darren.
‘I’m not sure, but it looks like he was up to some shady stuff, though I’m not sure how bad it gets. Definitely questionable business deals, et cetera. He was very rich but probably not the best of men.’
‘Honra y provecho no caben en un saco,’ said Darren.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m sure he was an asshole.’
‘Yeah. Seems like the type, not to curse the dead or an
ything,’ I said. ‘But he was probably bilking billions or something, I don’t know. The guy was filthy rich. Do you want another beer?’
‘Definitely,’ said Darren.
I was getting drunk and was having a hard time following Darren. I remember he said something about some girl he had a crush on and something like, now that blah and me’re blah, we’re blah blah. That’s all I made out. And in the background I faintly heard ABBA’s ‘SOS,’ though maybe it was just in my head. We stayed out late, though not surprisingly I don’t remember much. We sat on barstools. There was some sort of shouting going on. Someone was arguing with someone else. But we ordered another round of beers. The more he drank, the more hyper and animated Darren became, as I became withdrawn, heavy and tired. I was seeing double. I picked up my beer to take a swig; the bottle left a ring of water on the bar, though the ring didn’t join up. Darren was saying, ‘Of the tens of thousands of days the average person lives, the majority of them are spent in a state of agitation and/or anxiety, or at least that’s been my experience, in my give-or-take 9,000 or so days on Planet Earth, the only planet I know or will ever know most likely; perhaps my kids, if I have kids, or their kids, if my hypothetical children have children, will know a planet other than the one I inhabit but it’s doubtful that I will and that’s okay with me. You know?’ he said and I nodded. I wondered whether Darren had been snorting cocaine. ‘Before wars begin more male children are born and before they end more female children are born,’ he said.
‘Is that true?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah,’ he said, and said he read it somewhere.
‘What’s happening now,’ I said, ‘are there more males or females being born?’
The Devil and the Detective Page 6