The Bullet Catch

by John Gaspard

  “Were you married long?” I ventured.

  “Too long by half, but I blame myself as much as Howard for that. Is that all you wanted, Mr. Marks? To extend condolences? Because, frankly, that could have been handled over the phone.”

  She made a move that suggested the front door was beckoning, but I held my ground. I’ve worked in front of my share of tough audiences and have developed skills for dealing with the drunk and belligerent. This may have been my greatest test yet.

  “Actually, I was trying to get more information about Howard and his business. He and I chatted before his, um, accident, but I never got a really clear picture of how he made what was clearly a good living.” I made an ineffectual gesture toward the surroundings, looking very much like someone selling something, badly, on late-night cable.

  “Yes, Howard was a good provider, I will say that about him,” she said. “Of course, I always told him if he would work ten percent harder I would be twenty percent happier, but it was like talking to a wall with him.”

  “What exactly was the nature of his business?” I pressed.

  She gave the Deep Haven version of a shrug, exerting the least possible amount of energy to complete the action. “International shipping of some kind. Buying, selling. He was on the phone most of the time, I can tell you that.”

  “Do you have any more specifics?”

  She could not have looked more bored. “Mr. Marks, our relationship was not unlike that of Jackie and President Kennedy. When he came home at the end of the day, I made a point of never discussing his business.”

  It took me a moment to realize she was comparing herself to the most famous widow of the past century without a touch of irony. I sensed I had reached the end of our conversational rope.

  “I see,” I said. “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Washburn.”

  “No trouble at all, Mr. Marks,” she replied curtly, although I sensed that it had been a great deal of trouble for her, thank you very much. She marched back toward the front door and I followed. We walked quickly back through the foyer, her heels making a steady click click click. She held the front door open and turned a cold smile on me. “Enjoy your evening.”

  I stepped forward and a final thought occurred to me. “One last thing,” I said, nearly slipping into a Peter Falk impression. “I was wondering, did you know Dylan Lasalle?”

  There’s a scene in the old movie, The House of Wax, where in the midst of a fire the villain’s wax face actually cracks from the heat. That isn’t literally what happened to Sylvia Washburn’s face, but it looked to be the emotional equivalent. She looked at me and her expressionless face was suddenly filled with several waves of emotions. Then she regained control and once again all emotion disappeared from her visage.

  “I was familiar with very few of Howard’s business associates, but Mr. Lasalle and I did meet on a handful of occasions,” she said, choosing each word precisely. “I was very sorry to hear of his passing. You’ve reminded me I really must send a card to his wife. It’s Patricia, right?”

  “Trish, yes,” I said. We stood for a moment in silence. I was thinking she had something to add, but apparently she didn’t share that sentiment.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Marks. I really must prepare the house for my guests.” The door shut with a solid finality.

  I walked back down the lengthy, twisty driveway to my car and sat in it for a long while. I thought about the garage that was nicer than most people’s homes. I thought about Howard Washburn and how he so desperately wanted to be liked. I thought about how my only real memory of Howard was going to be of him seated at his desk with a bullet in his brain. I thought about how easy it was for some people to tip. And I thought about the dinner party that was about to start without him and about the wife who would miss her last maid more than her sad, late husband.

  It was at that point I shook myself out of my reverie, started the car and headed home. I was damned if they were going to catch me crying in Deep Haven.

  Mack the Knife was playing on the jukebox when I walked into Adrian’s and it was the perfect antidote to my encounter with Sylvia Washburn. As expected, Harry was seated in the back. It was likely he who paid a quarter to spin his favorite Bobby Darin song; he’s been known to invest as much as three dollars in one sitting. It delights him, but the repeated playing tends to drive the other patrons crazy.

  I expected to see a gaggle of Mystics at the back table, but this evening only Max had joined Harry for a beer. As I approached I could tell they were in the midst of their lifelong argument. They say most marriages are built on the same argument, repeated ad infinitum. The same was true of Harry and Max. Their argument revolves around what magicians have dubbed The Too-Perfect Theory. In a nutshell, it argues that the more perfect a trick appears, the more likely the audience will be to figure out the method. So, like every great piece of art, a trick needs a slight flaw in its design to draw the eye away from the method.

  “For example,” Max was saying as I approached their table, “if I do a trick with my cell phone, that’s too perfect. It’s a piece of technology and the audience is gonna be thinking, ‘Well, there must be an app for it.’”

  “But,” he continued, holding up a hand to stop Harry from making a comment he didn’t even look like he was going to make, “if I do a trick with your cell phone…”

  “Good luck,” I said as I sat down to join them. “It’s never on.”

  “Buster, save me from this conversation,” Harry said with mock terror. “Put me out of my misery.”

  “No way, old man. I’d wager that you were the one who poured the kerosene on the ember this time and it’s your fault he’s all riled up.”

  Harry grunted a response and the two continued their bellyaching while I stepped to the bar to order a beer. I didn’t want them to realize it, but I actually enjoyed these arguments and over the years I’d learned a lot about the subtleties of magic from listening to them banter back and forth. When I returned, they had settled into a watchful silence. I sipped my beer as each of them looked around the bar and at the pretzels on the table and at me, but never at each other. Mack the Knife ended on the jukebox and then a second or so later it started up again.

  “I will say this one last thing on the subject,” Max interjected suddenly and I could see Harry’s shoulders tense up. “And then I will call it a night.”

  “Please do that,” Harry said.

  “The final word comes not from me, but from Darwin Ortiz, who I think we can all agree knows good magic.”

  Harry grunted an assent. Max looked to me and I nodded enthusiastically. Darwin Ortiz was the real deal.

  “Darwin said, ‘If you can get people to ask the wrong question, you’ll guarantee they never come up with the right answer.’ And that, my friend, is all I need to say about the Too-Perfect Theory.”

  “Thank heavens,” Harry said.

  “Now I will take my leave of you fine gentlemen.” Max looked at his watch. “Given the way the stoplights are timed in this city, I should make it home in an hour. I could walk it in twenty minutes, but with the fercockta stoplights, the drive will take me an hour.” He got up, tipped a nonexistent hat at us and ambled out the door.

  “You guys never get tired of arguing about that, do you?”

  Harry smirked at me. “To tell you the truth, Buster, I’m entirely on his side. But where’s the fun in that?”

  He chuckled and sipped his beer. I took a handful of pretzels from the bowl on the table and we both sat there listening to Mr. Darin do the definitive version of Mack the Knife. For a brief second I thought of the dinner party going on right now in Deep Haven, and then put it out of my mind completely, sat back and enjoyed the rest of my evening with Harry.

  I had just finished breakfast (Cheerios, over the sink) when the phone rang with the default tone. I’ve got a different ring tone for just about
everyone I know. For my ex-wife, Deirdre, I had gone through a lot of options, finally settling on The Stones’ It’s All Over Now. Megan was originally assigned It Had To Be You, but right after she announced we were “on a break,” I changed it to Heartbreak Hotel. She’s never called, so it’s never been tested since the day I set it. For other magician friends, I’ve used a variety of songs over the years: Do You Believe in Magic, Magic Bus, Magic Mystery Tour, Magic Carpet Ride and Strange Magic. Harry, of course, got Mack the Knife.

  So when my phone rings and it’s the default ring tone (Hello from Book of Mormon), I know it’s either someone trying to sell me something or someone I don’t know well enough to have taken the time to assign a ring tone.

  It took me several seconds to find the phone, because it had slipped onto the floor next to my bed, and then under my bed when my foot hit it. Consequently I was a tad breathless when I answered.

  “Oh, Eli, are you okay? I’m sorry to bother you. Oh, it’s Trish, by the way.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “Just playing a quick game of floor hockey with the phone.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to bother you,” she repeated.

  “It’s no bother,” I said quickly. Although her voice still had a quaver to it, she didn’t sound as weepy as the last time we had spoken.

  “I just got a call from the police and it’s sort of unnerved me,” she said, “and I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you?”

  “Sure, no problem, name it,” I said, sounding way too agreeable.

  “They say they want me to come downtown, so they can take an impression of my fingerprints or something. Oh, and they also need me to give a DNA sample,” she added. “They said it’s routine, it’s just so they can have the information on file as they continue to investigate Dylan’s death.”

  “I think that’s very common with a spouse in these situations,” I said, having no idea what I was talking about.

  “Well, even so it’s got me spooked and I was wondering if you have time this morning to come with me? You know, for moral support?”

  I was trying to temper my eagerness, so I didn’t answer immediately, which she then read as hesitation on my part. “Of course, I know this is short notice,” she continued, but I cut her off.

  “No problem, Trish. I’m wide open all day. Do you want me to come get you and we can ride downtown together?”

  “Oh, Eli, that would be great. Just great. Let me give you my address.”

  It took me a while to find a scrap of paper and even longer to find a working pen, but I finally got my act together and told her I’d see her in thirty minutes.

  I realized, as I craned my neck and stared up at the condo tower, that I look at tall buildings entirely differently than I used to. Before the panic attacks, the condo tower on the Northwest shore of Lake Calhoun would have produced no other emotion in me than the envious feeling that I would never make enough money—even if I lived to be a hundred—to afford to live there. That thought was still in my head, but the primary emotion I was feeling as I walked up to the lobby door was a deep-seated hope Trish lived on the second floor, or better yet, on a rollaway in the lobby.

  No such luck. The directory put the Lasalles on the twenty-ninth floor. I rang the bell and a moment later the buzzer buzzed and I stepped into the building. The elevator greeted me with a ding as I approached it, and before I knew it I was deposited on the twenty-ninth floor.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just about ready to go,” Trish said as she opened the door and then moved away, disappearing around a corner as I stepped into the apartment. I don’t know what I expected, but I certainly didn’t expect this. The place looked like a designer showroom, or like one of those celebrity homes in a magazine where everything looks perfect and completely unlived in.

  It was an open floor plan, where the living room flowed right into the dining area which flowed right into the stainless steel kitchen. A hall around the corner led to what I assumed were bedrooms and bathrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined two of the three walls. The third wall consisted of French doors that opened out onto a large balcony. I saw that and inched several steps backward, toward the safety of the front door. I felt a bead of sweat beginning to form on my temple as I worked on Dr. Bakke’s breathing exercises.

  “Can I get you anything?” Trish asked as she came back into the room. “Coffee? Espresso?”

  “Ovaltine,” I added hoarsely, completing the joke from Young Frankenstein, but this was of course lost on her.

  “Oh, dear, I don’t think I have any of that,” she said slowly, her eyes scanning the kitchen cabinets.

  “No, I’m just kidding,” I said quickly. “Do you want to go?” I cocked my head toward the hall and the elevator beyond.

  “Oh, I suppose we should get it over with,” she sighed. I stepped into the hall and she followed. I pulled the door shut and started toward the elevator, but Trish doubled back toward her front door. She gave the door a hard yank until she heard a click.

  “You have to yank it,” she said. “It sticks.” We then headed down the hall back to the elevators.

  “What are you now, her chauffeur?”

  “She wanted a ride, I gave her a ride. You know me, I’m a nice guy.”

  Deirdre snorted a short laugh and then took a sip from her cup. The coffee looked bad; I imagined it tasted worse. “Yes, Eli, you are that. And you know what they say about nice guys?”

  I ignored her comment and turned my attention across the squad room. A policewoman was taking Trish’s fingerprints, carefully rolling each fingertip across a computer tablet, checking the results on a video screen in front of her. It was a slow and deliberate process.

  “How’s the case coming?” I asked, deftly switching the subject.

  “Slowly,” she said, flipping open a thick file folder on the counter in front of us. She paged through sheet after sheet of paper. “Turns out the gun that shot Dylan Lasalle was the same one that killed Howard Washburn. So there’s that.”

  “Is that good?”

  She looked up at me. “It’s not good or bad. It just is.” She continued looking through the file. “How’s your thing?”

  “Excuse me? Since the divorce was finalized, I think ‘my thing’ is no longer within your purview.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Your suicidal-scared-of-heights thing.”

  “Oh, that thing. About the same. I did some online research on it.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “It turns out there are lots of other people with the same condition.”

  “Is that good?”

  I gave her my best penetrating look. “It’s not good or bad. It just is.”

  She turned over another report in the folder, revealing a crime scene photo. The moment I saw it, I made an involuntary sound, like a heavily suppressed yelp. Deirdre glanced over at me, and then realized the cause of my reaction. She pulled the photo out and placed it on the counter in front of me. It was clearly from Dylan Lasalle’s crime scene.

  “Yeah, this one’s a real mess.” She pointed at the photo as she continued. “First they shot him in the heart, killing him just about instantly. Then a shot to the head, just to be sure.”

  It was a grisly scene, even in black and white, with Dylan’s body splayed across the running path, his face and chest a mass of torn flesh and blood.

  “Is there a particular reason you’re showing this to me?” I asked, turning the photo over. She turned it back right side up.

  “Yes, to remind you of what we’re dealing with here. Your high school sweetheart is connected to two unsolved crimes: A mugging that doesn’t look like a mugging and a suicide that doesn’t look like a suicide.”

  “So she’s a suspect?”

  “A person of interest,” she replied. “For now at least.”

  “Have
you gotten any more information about Howard Washburn’s business and his connection to Dylan?”

  “Only that he made a lot more money than his two-bit office would suggest, money I suspect he laundered heavily.”

  “With Dylan Lasalle’s help?”

  “That’s what we think. Lasalle was likely carrying drugs or some other contraband in and out of the country for Washburn and possibly others. And we think recently Mr. Lasalle recognized the end was in sight.”

  “And that’s why he was looking to strike a deal and maybe testify?”

  “That’s a theory.”

  “A talking mule,” I said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Dylan was a talking mule.”

  Deirdre considered this and nodded. “Essentially.”

  I looked back across the squad room. The policewoman was just finishing swabbing the inside of Trish’s cheek. She took the damp swab and placed it into an evidence tube, sealed it and pasted a typed label across the front. She nodded at Trish, who picked up her purse and crossed the room to us.

  “Is that all you needed?”

  Deirdre glanced up at her, quickly slipping the crime scene photo under one of the reports near the top of her folder.

  “Yes, thank you for coming in,” she said as she began walking her toward the door. I followed three steps behind.

  “I know it’s a hassle,” Deirdre continued, “But having your fingerprints and DNA on file really helps in the elimination process. For example, some hairs were found on your husband’s body and odds are they’re yours, but if they’re not, then that becomes a good lead.”

  “Well, if you need anything else, by all means let me know. And, of course, if you learn anything.”

  “You’ll be one of the first,” Deirdre said. “Now I’ll release you into your driver’s custody.”

  The joke, such as it was, took a moment to settle and then Trish gave it as polite a laugh as it deserved. I held the door for her and she went through it. I was about to follow, when Homicide Detective Fred Hutton made his way through the door. I held it for him, gave a nod to Deirdre and followed Trish to the elevator. The two of them quickly fell into a hushed conversation.