Another day in the telephone jungle. More like the inside of a cuckoo clock rigged with testosterone and C4. You’ve seen the sorts of offices on TV and in the movies. That’s one thing they get right—at least where the places are crappy. Everything new fangled and high tech was somewhere else in the system. Ours was an old building with an old building smell of ceiling tiles that needed replacing, stained boxes of Chinese food remnants and photocopier ink. Then there was the human odor of plastic combs left too long in back pockets. Mennen’s. Milk of magnesia. At first glance, it was more like the News Room of a failing city paper than what you’d think a den of detectives should be—until you noticed Hatcher’s Table of Relative Stopping Power tacked up, or the poster that said Read them their rights. Know your responsibilities. You’d see a notice board and roster sheets, then on another wall, wanted posters of interstate and Federal criminals at large—and the time and place of the next professional development training seminar “Effective Management of Physical Force,” to be followed by what would be a much more popular one entitled “Electronic Surveillance Technology Update.”
The waiting area looked like something you’d find in a barrio medical clinic except for the framed photograph of our glorious Governor, and, I’m pleased to say, a larger portrait of Darko, the bomb squad’s star German Shepherd, our mascot and patron saint.
One thing you wouldn’t find is any doughnuts. You may think cops and doughnuts go together like doctors and nurses, but not in our house. We were committed to the bearclaw and the cinnamon bun—from Nelly’s two doors down. Even the beat boys working out of the engine room on the ground floor had taken the oath. Dunkin’ Doughnuts only for coffee. We were loyal to Nelly’s to a man—and we were mostly men. Only three gals of consequence would be seen in our clubhouse. One looked like a bull mastiff and kept the gears turning at reception. One was a pint-sized crème brunette named Colby with more plenty stand-tall than her partner Strothers knew what to deal with—and the sharpest PMT tongue you’ve ever heard. The third was a n00b nicknamed Phat, a former Pennsylvania State Trooper with a rear end that always looked like it was in a four-wheel slide. The word was she was impressive in the field and had both attitude and the right attitude to get by. “None of you are gettin’ within six inches of this bubble butt.” I liked her style, almost as much as her ass.
I logged in to find Chris already on deck—looking like he’d had a roll in the hay with his wife before a close shave and a healthy fruit and fiber breakfast. He gave me the usual “Buenos días,” and then pointed to another envelope from Polly’s lawyer. “El regalo es para usted.”
That was his special gimmick with me—always trying out his spic. It sort of pissed me off, but it was his way of trying to buddy up. He thought I knew it because I came from a melon patch. It was true I’d grown up between the wetback shacks, Okie tractor sheds, and holy roller radio trailers out in the valley. My first clear memory was a train of Southern Pacific Golden Pig flatcars chaining through a field of rapeseed. But the real reason I’d picked up the lingo was because my mother was half Hispanic, a very light-skinned well spoken lady, and she made me and my sis Serena learn it. It was about my only skill outside the job, but it often came in handy. And it was a way to fool around with Chris. I called him a bolillo.
After the briefing session, it was clear he’d taken my lecture to heart on not letting the opinions of the lab boys speak louder than gut intuitions. He was fired up about the Whitney-cide being a cleverly staged murder, but the wife had an airtight alibi for the time of both the husband’s disappearance and his death. Now his gut was saying there was someone else involved, and given the nature of the crime, he figured it had to be a male. I wasn’t sure I was ready to follow his lead so soon, but I couldn’t say squat since I was the one who’d wound him up. Besides, I was grateful for anything to take my mind off the fragrance of that scarf and the thought of the dog collar. I couldn’t work out how she’d pulled that off. Magic.
The Cub Scout pulled out a half-page of notes. If we were going to pursue it, there were two strong possibles: the widow’s ex-boyfriend, who ran a trucking business on the west side, and her brother, a guy named Spencer, who was of all things a “chocolatier,” the head technologist at Dilley’s. I didn’t even know Dilley’s Chocolates still existed. Hadn’t seen a box in years, but then I despised chocolate. All the women I’d been close to loved it—worshipped it—talked about it like it was sex. We agreed to divide and conquer. “I’ll take the trucker,” Chris volunteered. He didn’t know how much I hated chocolate.
The Dilley’s factory was on the other side of the harbor. The day was hot so I decided I’d skirt the traffic and take a ferry. I hadn’t been out on the water for a while and the view of the city I thought might bring some clarity regarding both the current case and Genevieve—and I needed to clear my head of her big time. All of the commuters were already in town, so the passengers were mostly tourists, old people, a school field trip, and a couple of oddball loners. If it weren’t for my size, people would probably say the same about me. I was just starting to wish I’d brought my camera to snap a few pics of the abandoned Grain Terminal when the entertainment started.
Some city arts administrator had gotten the brilliant idea to hire young people and street performers to put on “shows” on the ferries. So now, instead of a little quiet in between cell calls, I was inflicted with a nutty open air song and dance act. These kids were all dressed up as hobo clowns. They kept popping off their crumpled porkpie hats, singing this ninny song, “Living in the Hobo Jungle … you never know who you’ll meet … living in the Hobo Jungle … there’s never enough to eat … But we get by! But we get by!”
Edwards, the desk jockey on duty at the station house, rang twice for the stupidest reasons, but what really irritated me was one of the hobo clown kids. He kept sidling up to me, even when I made it clear, in case he hadn’t noticed, that I had 30 years, half a foot and 75 pounds on him. I even buzzed him and let him see the roscoe. No muss, no fuss. I wondered if he was high. Then, at one point, when he was up against me, I noticed something.
He had a tattoo on his forearm. At first I thought it was just a cartoon picture of an old man swinging a hatchet. Then I realized who the old man was. It was a caricature of Gandhi. Mahatma F’ing Gandhi. He had the sort of enraged expression on his face that Elmer Fudd would get when Bugs would get the drop on him, waving a tomahawk over his head. The thought of peaceful Gandhi finding his inner Elmer Fudd cracked me up. It almost made up for that damn song and the kid’s schiz behavior. The ferry arrived on the other side and the clowns started passing their hats. I didn’t make a contribution and got off quick.
Another call on the cell. I thought it might be her. I knew she had my number. She had my number all right. It was Harris at central booking. What a pansy.
The terminal on the other side gave immediate clues as to why civic officials felt the need for distracting entertainment en route. There weren’t enough garbage cans. Not nearly enough. In fact, the only one in sight was overflowing with rancid fish and chip remains and Styrofoam coffee cups—probably writhing with bacteria. A couple of seedy men loitered in overcoats they didn’t need on such a warm day and enough graffiti covered the walls to make a single woman nervous at night. It put me in a bad mood, coming after that kid.
I was going two blocks up, past the old lighthouse and gunnery memorial. There was a tavern on the corner and I seemed to remember a morning in there years before, putting out a private fire with five or six cold beers while I watched my pager vibrate off the bar like a wounded insect. I saw a guy in the window that I made for one of ours raising a glass as I walked by. That’s why I never went back. Good troughs for day-play don’t advertise whose snouts are in. You have to get your feet wet to find out who’s in residence. I half felt like ducking in and giving him some words of wisdom, but he might’ve tried to buy me a round—and I might’ve taken him up on it.
The hill puff was good. Got the
ferry ride out of my head … and the garbage can … and helped me concentrate on the questions I wanted to ask Spencer. I knew I was getting close when I saw a bunch of Central Americans wearing white dust jackets and hairnets. They were on a cigarette break, leaning against the wall of a turd-brown building with a new Lexus parked in the one reserved spot out the front. There was the stomach curdling smell of chocolate in the air. Reminded me of the old Susie Homemaker Oven my sister got for Christmas. I hit the intercom at the main door and got let into a reception area. The “technologist” came down a flight of carpeted stairs about a minute later, dressed in a white coat and hairnet just like the working stiffs. I was pleased to note a cardboard sign over the steel doors that led to the factory floor that read REMEMBER TO WASH YOUR HANDS AND PUT ON NEW GLOVES. They were, after all, making a kind of food. From all the merchandising around the place, you’d have thought they made toys. There were teddy bears and stuffed love hearts everywhere.
Spencer seemed PO’d but not worried. He led me into a conference room with a whiteboard and a table covered in candy boxes. Through the open door I could see into another room occupied by a disturbingly large foil Easter Bunny with a demonic smile. Enough to scare the shit of out of any kid. What were they thinking?
“I thought you guys had gone out of business,” I said to break the ice.
He still had his hairnet on and gave me a technologist’s frown.
“Dilley’s dates back to 1919. We’re an institution, and we do OK as a premium gift item, and bulk stuff for special occasions.”
“Like Easter,” I said, nodding at the demented bunny.
“Christmas, Valentine’s. We’ve just had a pretty good Mother’s Day. It’s either flowers or chocolates. Did you get your mother something?”
“My mother’s dead,” I answered.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“She choked on a Crème d’Orange. You still make those?”
She hadn’t really. She died of a heart attack while watching an old movie. Or you could say she died of a broken heart. Take your pick.
“Some people just can’t get enough Dilley’s,” he smirked, and then added in marketing-speak, “The brand has great customer equity in certain demographics, but our image is in need of freshening. I’m working on getting a new range of product right. It’s a question of balancing tradition with managing change.”
“Always is,” I replied. “Tell me about your sister, Susan Traynor.” I decided not to make any smart-ass remark about her knockers. I do have some decency. Occasionally.
More importantly, I saw straight up that this guy wasn’t the kind to shackle a man in a new Mercedes and set it on fire. Not even the hairnet could make me think that, and fifteen minutes of more pointed chit-chat didn’t convince me otherwise. He openly admitted that his sister stood to inherit a lot, but I got the impression he didn’t care. He had a new line of product to get right and the way he talked made me think he had a hefty stake in the business and a long-standing policy of minding his not hers. I drew a line through his name in my mind, but still tried to heavy him about being available for further questioning. He didn’t seem to have a problem with that. In fact, he got chatty.
“Tell me,” he asked with a glint in his eyes. “What do you think of the name Obsexions?”
“I think it’s a little rich for candy,” I replied. “Unless the shapes are mighty interesting.”
He frowned. Must’ve been his own idea.
“White Delight? Succulent Suggestions?”
“Makes me think of classified ads at the back of the paper. Service to local motels. What can I say? I’m a cop. And I don’t like chocolate. I hate it—with a passion.”
“You’re lying! Chocolate is passion,” he insisted.
“That can be your new ad line,” I sniggered. “But I get stomach cramps. Then I start thumbing through romance novels. It’s not a pretty sight for a guy my size.”
He seemed put out. “What about a box of assorted creams?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that phrase conjured up a picture in my mind that wouldn’t have sat too neatly in one of his plastic trays. But he didn’t give up. On the way out the door, he insisted I take a couple of sample boxes. The one on top was a line called Fixations, little igloo-shaped dollops “dripped in a minty dark chocolate with scrumptious vanilla centers.” The picture on the lid showed an open box on what looked like a hotel bed, with a pair of long female legs in sheer black stockings stretching into view.
“Women adore chocolate,” he said.
“I’ve heard that,” I said. “Diamonds and big dicks too.”
He ignored the sarcasm and smiled like he was bestowing upon me the secret to life.
“There’s nothing more sensual than hand feeding a special woman an elegant chocolate.”
I was somehow able not to laugh at this, which given the lab coat and hairnet wasn’t easy. Made me think there was a little less technology to him than I’d first assumed.
“Thanks,” I said, on the way out. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”
I left with images of Genevieve preying on my mind. Her eyes. Her voice. What went on in that house.
The hobo clowns were thankfully not onboard for the ride back and I managed to resist the growing urge to do a drive-by in Cliffhaven. Back at the Precinct, Padgett had more news to report than I’d come up with. The ex-boyfriend had a rap sheet. Four assaults. Two were just boys-will-be-assholes, but one was a DV incident from three years before that had put his first wife in the hospital with a broken collarbone and led to a TRO. Not having much faith in court ordered niceties after her emergency room vacation, she fled out of state with their kid. The other was a notch up from that—an ADW charge that had the odor of a moonlighting loan shark gig that a radio car had just happened to interrupt. That effort won him a deuce at Drake, but a very sharp Jewish defense attorney turned that into a bullet at the Men’s Center, and then pulled some more strings to get him community service. Still, a report card at least gave us something to work with on the possible murder theory—and we needed to dig up something fast because the Boss was taking the lab boys’ verdict of suicide. He didn’t want us wasting department time on hunches that went against the physical evidence. That was fair enough. And frankly, I was starting to hope he was right and it would just go away. I couldn’t stop thinking about the lady with the scarves. That was the case I was eager to solve.
Still, the thing about Whitney is that evidence is always damaged in some way unless it’s faked, and when you’ve spent years working with it—and damaged some or faked it yourself, you don’t trust a chemical readout over your own read of a situation. Why wasn’t the DNA a perfect match? Was it really Whitney who’d gone up in flames? If it wasn’t him, who was it?
Chris and I went into a huddle and I agreed he should be the primary. I made it sound like I was trying to boost his confidence. But any chance of playing hooky got blown out of the water when a call came in from our neighbors at the Two-Four—about a guy found in a lake of blood behind the depot, apparently having hacked his own unit off. Of course they wanted me to have a look.
You see why people in my line turn to the bottle or the pipe? When the numbness shows any signs of wearing off, you just medicate more. But of course, it’s harder to medicate your relationships—like with wives. I’d come around to thanking God that Polly and I hadn’t had any kids. For a long time I’d really wanted ‘em. Hoped I could do a better job than was done with me—which wouldn’t have been hard. But I had slow swimmers, and after she lost the baby boy years back, we both closed up that way. Then when we started trying again, I think I let her down for real. A little matter of a .25 caliber handbag wound. Sometimes I found myself wishing I’d just oozed out on Frontera Street and been done with it. It might’ve been better for Polly. “My love is just for the night … always wrong … never right …” Better for me too.
Given the traffic, I got to the depot just on Happy Hour
at the High Five Bar, and the regulars came out to welcome me with their Roi Tans and pickled olives. An ME was on site, an old drinking buddy named Lance Harrigan. When he pulled back the plastic sheet, it was like a punchbowl of sangria poured over a naked groin—everything taken off with a razor. I noticed Lance had a small suitcase with him.
“I was just on my way to the depot,” he said. “Coroner’s Convention up the coast. This was a DIY job.”
Lance was exactly my age—his birthday two days before mine. Both of us Leos. But he looked much younger since he’d cut out the hooch. Like a cross between the actor William Macy and a basset hound. “You’re the expert,” I said, taking an olive from one of the rummies to be polite.
It felt good being near a bar, even a chafa one like that. When I was drowning, I always liked to think I was a snifter of Edith Piaf kind of guy. But it wasn’t true. These were my people. Men of all colors who didn’t get the breaks, they just got broken. They missed their train and ended up at the depot. Smelling the Red Hots and Wild Irish Rose breath reminded me again how easy it would be to slide into the eddy of their lives. One day I’d be at the counter talking curve balls with them over a beer and a shot—the next I’d be lined up for the veteran’s breakfast at the Chat ‘n’ Chew—whiling away the night in a wifebeater in the lobby of the Zebulon Pike Hotel. From there, it would just be one stumblebum step down to warming the pavement on 1st and Montana and sharing a bottle of Thunderbird with Hobo Nickels and El Presidente, wondering about a cot at the Salvation Army and who was going to get the DT’s first. That’s what can happen to men like me. They lose their women and weed trimmers, or leave them behind—and they slip right off the radar of respectability and enter the Lost World of the last fandango. I’ve seen it happen many times before. I’ve smelled it happen.
Private Midnight Page 4