I’ve got a choice here. I can head back to my loft with the cat, try to feed her something that will allow her to regain some strength. Or I can get her to a vet right away. The feline’s body trembles inside my jacket. Just a small warm sack of skin and bones and the most pathetic dark, bulging eyes I ever did see. She’s so weak she can’t even rub her nose up against my hand when I offer it to her. And her mouth just sort of hangs open, like a cancer patient who’s reached the bitter end. I grew up in the death business, and my gut is telling me this cat isn’t far from death. It means I need to get it to a vet.
Stat.
I make the life-or-death decision to contact the only vet I know: the Pet Sounds vet clinic.
Holding back a sneeze from inside the idling Caddy, the dying cat still trembling under my jacket, I make the call. An automated message service comes on telling me they’re closed for the night, but if this is an emergency to dial 463-7733.
I hang up, sneeze, dial the number. Sneeze again.
An answering service comes on the line. She wants me to state the nature of the emergency. I tell her I have a cat that’s dying in my arms. She tells me to head over to the clinic, that Dr. Robinson is on call and he will arrive there within the half hour.
I thank her and hang up.
Sneeze.
I go lightheaded. I forgot that I’m allergic to cats. But it’s more than that. Sometimes when I sneeze, it affects my equilibrium. My brain gets jolted inside my skull. The little piece of bullet presses up against the cerebral cortex, or so my doc explained it to me once. Maybe sneezes are harmless for most people. But for me, they can spell stroke or death. At least, in theory.
I suck in a deep breath, will myself not to sneeze.
Shifting the transmission into drive, I pull away from the curb, start for the Pet Sounds vet clinic.
Sneeze.
Sneeze.
Sneeze.
I wait in the dark until a single set of halogen headlamps appears in my rearview mirror.
Robinson.
I watch him get out of his Lexus, close the door, beep-lock it with the little electronic key ring. As he approaches the clinic in his parka and baggy blue jeans, I get out of the hearse with the cat in my jacket and meet him.
He stops in his tracks, like I’ve pulled my gun on him. “You,” he says, pulling the now-familiar ChapStick from his pants pocket, running it over his lips. Sees me looking at it, looks at it himself, shoves it back into his pocket.
“You really gotta stop that shit, doc,” I sniffle. I sneeze, wipe my nostrils with the back of my hand. “Gonna have to amputate your lips. Then you’ll look like Michael Jackson…God rest his soul.”
He makes eye contact with the little fella in my jacket. “That your cat, Moonlight?”
“Not exactly. I found him, abandoned.”
Sneeze.
“How ’bout them allergies?”
“Very funny, doc. Allergies suck, but I’ve got a weak spot for cats. My boy likes cats. ’Course, his mother doesn’t. She doesn’t like anything. Especially me.”
“Can’t say I blame her. Where’d you pick the cat up?”
Sneeze.
“Doc, it’s late and it’s cold and this feline is shivering and dying against my ribs and if I don’t go blow my nose I’m gonna drip all over. Can we go inside?”
The lids on his big brown eyes blinking rapidly, he nods and pulls the keys from his jacket. “Follow me,” he says.
“Goody.”
Sneeze.
We’re standing inside the clinic examination room.
Me, Doc Robinson, and the nameless cat. I get the feeling the last person old dog-puss wants inside the sterile, tile-and-stainless-steel windowless room is me. But since neither Chris Parker nor Erin is here, he needs someone to hold the animal still while he probes it, forces its already open mouth to open up even wider, shines a light into its butthole, and then listens to its heartbeat via stethoscope.
When he’s done, he doesn’t say a word, just heads into the kitchen, comes back out with a bowl of milk, which he sets on the floor. Before he sets the cat before the bowl, however, he forces a pill into its mouth and down its throat. Rather skillfully, I might add.
“He’s just scared and hungry is all,” Doc says after a time.
“Oh,” I say, “so it’s a he.”
“Been neutered, too.”
“So?”
Cocking his head. “So it means somebody used to own him.”
“Think the Parkers ever owned a cat?”
Turning to me quickly. “What’s this got to do with them?”
“My name is Dick, doc,” I say. “And I can be one, or so I’m told. Sometimes that’s because I ask so many questions, being a private dick and all. Indulge me. Did the Parkers own any cats?”
Here he comes with the ChapStick again. I wait patiently while he’s through moistening his red lips. “No,” he says, looking me square in the eye.
I gotta say this for the doc, he’s a master conversationalist.
“Sure about that?” Sneeze. A swipe of the nose. More light-headedness. And something else. A buzzing in the brain. It’s happened before. A rush of adrenaline. Adrenal glands going full bore, sensing stress, the tiny frag of bullet making it worse, shifting something in my brain. Let’s put it this way: Doc doesn’t want to be in the same room as me right now. But that’s his bad luck.
“Why would you ask that?” he presses. “You been sneaking around the Parker residence? Last I heard, it was still a crime scene. If you’ve been trespassing, I might have to call the authorities. After all, Chris is technically still an employee of mine. How do I know you didn’t plant something there to make it look like Chris is guilty?” His overly moistened lips take on a shit-eating grin that now makes him look a lot like the Joker. I guess he figures he’s got me up against the ropes with his threat to contact the authorities.
I sneeze again, walk over to the paper towel dispenser mounted on the wall, rip one off. Blow my nose to the sound of an adrenaline orchestra warming up in my head.
“Do cats vomit, Doc?” I pose. I’m suddenly picturing the dried puke wrapped up in my handkerchief and stored in my jacket pocket.
“What kind of stupid question is that, Moonlight?”
“My mother always said that there is no such thing as a stupid question. And I loved my mother. Died far too young. Now, do cats puke?”
“Of course they do. But I’m not about to enter into an asinine conversation with you over felines and their regurgitations. I’m tired and I’d like to go home. So if you’ll collect your new pet…”
Along with the adrenaline surge, my pulse begins to soar as I make my way back to the table. I try to distract myself by wiping my nose and taking a quick survey of the room. I gaze at the stainless-steel sink in the corner, at the weight scale that hangs autopsy room–like from the ceiling, at the oxygen and nitrous oxide containers, at tissue boxes, tongue depressors, soap dispensers, complicated pieces of digital equipment with wires hanging off them like tentacles. And jars. Maybe a dozen of them, filled with dead animal parts preserved in embalming fluid. A paw, a heart, a lung maybe, a brain, and, get this, an entire, furless, newborn puppy.
The orchestra getting louder, about to climax. My body beginning to tremble from the energy rush. Here he comes: Moonlight, the madman.
I suck in a deep, calming breath; scan the posters stuck to the wall, one featuring a close-up of a dog’s hindquarters and the many black ticks stuck to its pink flesh. I look at the stainless-steel table and the blue medical waste bucket beneath it.
“Moonlight, I’m warning you. This is private property and I would like you to leave.”
Another sneeze. I’m wiping my nose when I see the good doctor pick up a scalpel and point it at me like he means business.
“I asked you nicely to leave. Now, I’m being forced to take—”
I sneeze once more. Then I slap the doc across the face.
He doesn’t dr
op, but he drops the blade, and he’s startled enough to take a step or two back. “You son of a bitch,” he says, voice filled with venom, open left hand pressed against his cheek.
“Fuck with me again, doc, and I’ll give you an oral exam with the barrel of my 9 mm.”
I kick the blade half way across the room, out of reach.
He pulls out his cell. “I’m calling the po—”
I yank the cell out of his hand, toss it across the room. Then I pull out my piece, plant the barrel against the same cheek I just bitch-slapped. I grab hold of his thick black hair.
“Now doc, again: Did the Parkers have cats? And can those cats puke?”
“You fuck, fuck, fucking…”
I squeeze the fistful of hair, thumb back the hammer. I can only pray the doc doesn’t poop himself.
“They…had…a…dog.”
“What kind?”
“Fuck what kind…”
Squeezing tighter.
Sneeze.
“A fucking golden retriever.”
“What was its name?”
“Rockefeller.”
“Rockefeller…Like the rich dude?”
“Yeah, it was Christopher’s dog. He named him.”
“After a filthy rich man. Interesting. But no cats?”
“Not that I knew of. But it’s very possible they did have a cat and I just wasn’t aware of it. Happy? Now can you please put the gun down and release me?”
“Dogs puke. That I’ve seen that with my own eyes. The dog still around?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar!”
The sound in my head is so loud I’m surprised the doc can’t hear it. But then, he’s a little busy right now.
“OK, the dog was taken away after the incident. It was put to sleep.”
My heart sinks. At the same time, the orchestra begins to wind down. Adrenaline rush passed. “So the poor dog had to buy it, too. Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Let. Me. Go.”
“I need you to take care of this cat. Can you do that, doc?”
“I’m a vet. Not a shelter.”
“Shelters kill animals, like Rockefeller the dog.” Sneeze. “You an animal killer, doc?”
“I do not have the facilities to—”
Squeezing, yanking, hair pulling away from the scalp.
“Yes, yes, I’ll find it a home, OK? Happy? Now let me go, please?”
I do it. Thumbing back the hammer on my piece, I release the clip, show it to the doc.
“Look, doc, no bullets. And you thought I was the mean type. Head case like me shouldn’t carry around a loaded piece. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He’s rubbing his head with one hand, running more ChapStick over tight, red lips with the other.
I slap the clip back in, holster the weapon. Then I blow my nose.
“No, Mr. Moonlight,” he says, pocketing the lip balm. “I think you said it best yourself a few moments ago. You’re a dick.”
I can’t help but laugh as I let myself out.
Back inside my Albany loft, I crack a beer, set it on the kitchen counter, take a seat on one of the bar stools. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out the hanky, lay it out on the countertop, unwrap the dried puke. My jackknife in hand, I thumb out the blade and begin to poke at the puke like I know what I’m doing. Like I know what I’m looking for.
As it turns out, there’s nothing much to discover, beyond the piece of plastic.
Just dried, odorless puke, bearing the occasional small bit or chunk of unidentifiable food.
What the hell was I thinking when I decided to play Agatha Christie and lift this little bit of waste off the Parker bathroom floor? I was trusting my gut. Clues to the truth rarely jump out at you inside a crime scene. Especially one that’s already been scoured by the cops and the forensics junkies, one that’s still covered in more blood than a slaughterhouse.
I take a swig of the cold beer, stare down at a glop of vomit.
Back to poking.
I’ve just about covered the whole palm-sized chunk when I begin to excavate that small piece of clear plastic. No, scratch that. Not clear plastic, but a kind of translucent, white plastic, bordered by red. And there’s writing on the plastic. Black print.
I take another sip of the beer and remove the entire piece of plastic from the dried-up blown chunks. It’s about the size of a postage stamp. The black print is small, but I can read it even without my reading glasses.
SEALED FOR YOUR PROTECTION
So the plastic must have been part of a much larger piece of plastic that sealed something. Like a bottle of Advil, maybe. Or even the lid on a jar of Newman’s Own organic salsa. Three-alarm hot.
I slip off the stool, head around the counter, pull two plastic bags from the drawer. I set the piece of plastic sealer inside the first bag. Then I fill the other bag with the broken vomit remnants and put it into the freezer, where it will at least stay preserved. I am the son of a mortician, after all. I know about cold storage. Grisly task completed, I return to the counter, pick up my beer, and drink it down.
At the sink, I wet a paper towel, pour some dish soap on it, and clean off the counter. Tossing the dirty towel into the trash, I grab another beer, pop the top, stare out the window into the black night and the even blacker river beyond it.
What the hell am I doing picking up a chunk of dried puke? What difference can it make in proving Christopher innocent in the axe murder of his old man and attempted murder of his mother? What if I find out that it’s his puke? That would place him at the scene of the crime. But all that would depend upon dating the puke back to September 14th and 15th. And that would probably be impossible.
But then, what about that plastic sealer?
Maybe it was already on the floor, and he somehow vomited on it. Because who eats plastic? Maybe the vomit did come from the dog, after all. Dogs eat anything and everything. Napkins, plastic bottles, shopping bags. I’ve seen dogs eat garbage right out of the can. Maybe the dog saw what had happened to his masters and it made him sick. Or maybe the cat ate some plastic and regurgitated it. I’d like to interview both dog and cat if given the chance. I wonder if the animals would stick up for Christopher. Or rat him out. I guess we’ll never know. If old Doc Robinson is right, Rockefeller the dog now resides in dog heaven. That leaves the cat alone to spill the beans. But I can bet you dollars to doughnuts, he ain’t about to say a bloody word.
I watch the red and green lights on a boat slowly float upriver. I wonder if Christopher killed his parents. I wonder if he was capable of pulling off that kind of physically demanding murder all on his own. I picture the tall, wiry kid. Then I picture all that blood that now paints the interior of the Parker home.
“No way,” I say aloud. “Definitely took more than one man.”
I finish my beer and realize I haven’t eaten all day. Using my cell, I speed-dial the number for my newest love interest, Aviva Day. The tall, coffee-with-milk-skinned, long-haired beauty and I have been seeing one another for a few months now. She’s my first girlfriend since the passing of the one woman I could ever truly call the love of my life, Lola Ross. If I learned anything living at the Moonlight Funeral Home for all those years, it’s that life goes on, and Aviva, an artist and a teacher fifteen years my junior, came into mine at a time when I was still hurting, but not hurting so much that I wasn’t open to some companionship again. Let’s face it, being alone sucks, life is short, and in my case, it could end up being extremely short, should that little piece of bullet decide to shift.
The artist picks up.
“Sushi,” I say. “Yoshi’s. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, in her soft, warm voice.
“Sayonara,” I say. “And don’t forget to wear something sexy and revealing.”
“I’m guessing. You can’t assume anything until you meet with him face to face.” Aviva is expertly lifting a piece of pink, spicy tuna roll from the narrow plate with a set of shiny black chopsti
cks. “Especially a young man like Christopher Parker.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Those John Grisham audio tapes you listen to when you paint in your studio are doing some good. All good detectives are trained to recognize liars by their body language and just by looking into their eyes when they feed you some line that’s just a little south of the truth. Chris decides to bullshit me, there’ll be evidence of lying in the way he blinks, or purses his lips, or scrunches his brow. Even in the way he blushes, or doesn’t blush.”
She pops the piece of tuna into her mouth, chews thoughtfully. Everything Aviva does, she does thoughtfully, correctly, and seemingly without effort.
As for me, I’m trying to move my shrimp tempura roll from my plate to my mouth with the same grace and finesse that Aviva gives it. But I’m failing miserably. “I won’t see him until tomorrow at least,” I say, with a mouthful of sushi.
“What have you found out thus far?” she asks, dipping a second piece of tuna into the small dish of soy sauce.
“Joan Parker believes her son had nothing whatsoever to do with the attacks on her and her husband. Her son could not have been capable of something so violent. The real killer is still out there. Or so she says. I checked out the house tonight.”
“They let you in?”
“Not exactly.” I smile. “Joint is still a crime scene. And there’s a lot—and I mean an uncommon amount—of untagged and bagged evidence still lying around. And more blood than a Red Cross bloodmobile. Some of it smeared and played with. Like whoever did the killing had some real psycho fun with it. But I suspect it was just a severely injured Peter Parker not knowing what he was doing.”
“What do you expect from a head-injury victim? You, of all people.”
I nod, and then tell her about finding the dried blown chunks and the bit of plastic sealer stuck inside it. I also tell her about the cat, and Doc Robinson’s reaction to said cat. Also, about my little overreaction.
“The vomit probably came from the Parker’s dog, or maybe even from that cat you mentioned. I imagine with all the cops traipsing in and out of that place over the past few months, it’s not impossible that a stray cat could have found a way inside.”
Murder by Moonlight Page 6