I nodded.
He continued, “When I say that’s how people with sleep apnea die, I don’t mean the drugs and alcohol part. I’m talking about the throat part. Their throats relax and close up, and they stop breathing. But people with sleep apnea usually don’t die. Their brains send a signal to wake the fuck up, and they do. They gasp for breath, then go back to sleep, then do it again. All fucking night. But they don’t die. Now, I’m not saying Andrea Cogburn had sleep apnea. Okay? I’m not saying that. But her throat relaxed and closed up like someone with sleep apnea. Then, if her brain sent the signal to wake up, and I don’t know that it did, but if it did, she didn’t hear it because she was on too many pills. And if her brain didn’t send the signal, which is also possible because she was so wasted, then, well, her throat was closed up and she stopped breathing. Same result, obviously, with or without the signal.”
He took a deep breath and continued, “But you know what I think, in addition to all that?”
See? This is why I really come down here. Sure, it’s great to see the file. But I can read the file back at my desk. What’s really great is to hear, in person, the theories of an expert, a guy who lives and breathes this shit, a proper Morgue Guy.
Elliot said, “I think she offed herself. Suicide. Very hard to prove. After all, what is suicide when you’re talking about dying from too many drugs? You could say that everyone who ever died from taking too many drugs committed suicide, if we’re talking about a somewhat loose interpretation of the word. But this time, I don’t think the term has to be taken that loosely.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Girl that size, with what she put in her body in one night? All that Ambien and Valium? And apparently, according to the cops and her own mother, a longtime drug user who had to know what drugs do? That’s somebody saying: I don’t want to wake up.”
I looked at Elliot’s big blue bug eyes and said, “Yeah.” And then I said, “Thanks, Elliot. Thanks for your help.”
He nodded and picked up Cranes Today. “You know how much a crane weighs? Thirty tons. Sixty thousand fucking pounds. I mean, think about how heavy that is. Jesus.”
“See, I told you you’d like it! I told you, Elliot!”
“Get out of here, Darv.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks again.”
I put Andrea’s file back on Elliot’s desk and headed out. As I was exiting, Elliot’s office door swinging shut behind me, I looked over my shoulder through the door’s window and could just make out Elliot’s right hand going for the drawer with the Over Forty in it.
24
I went home, grabbed a canned Coors Light, and sat outside by my pool. Sat on the edge of it, put the lower half of my legs, from the knees down, in the water. It felt good, cool, relaxing. And the visual of it relaxed me too. The last of the day’s sunlight sitting on its smooth purple surface.
So, Marlon tells me that the whole tropical fish thing could be a cover for drugs. Okay. I guess. Maybe. So could that connect to Andrea Cogburn? Like, she and Keaton started doing drugs together way back when and then, with or without her, he got more and more interested in them over time, to the point that eventually he got involved with some real dealers? Real dealers who may or may not be the Prestige Fish people?
Again. I guess. Maybe.
Add to that Andrea’s death, or maybe even suicide. So where does that fit in?
“John?”
Or does it fit in? Maybe her death is simply a very unfortunate side trail to this story. Which makes me think of Greer’s story, the Pig Hunt story. How does that connect? Or does it not connect? Is it just a sad, not to mention weird, element that ultimately doesn’t have anything to do with Keaton’s murder?
“John?”
Or, shit—maybe her death, or suicide, is connected somehow more directly.
“John!”
And then there were the high-dollar fish. The clarion angelfish, the Neptune grouper. And there was that sinister look on Lee Graves’s skeletal face. And there was Craig Helton, and Sydney Scott, and Muriel Dreen, and Heather Press . . .
“John!”
I looked over at Nancy. She’d come out of the house a little while ago to join me; her legs were now dangling in the water like mine. I’d seen her come out, of course, and had greeted her with a smile. But I had no idea what she had asked me, what she was talking about.
“Yeah, babe,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Don’t you agree?”
It seemed that we were in the middle of a conversation. Nancy looked at me with some fire in her eyes. It wasn’t exactly anger. It was more that she looked disappointed, even betrayed.
She said, “I thought we decided to be present when we’re around each other.”
“Sorry, I was thinking about—”
“I know what you were thinking about. Your case. I know that.”
Balance. Life balance. It’s something that people talk about a lot these days. You can’t constantly be thinking about work. You can’t be overly consumed by one thing. You need balance. I’ve never been very good at it.
Truth is, I don’t believe in it. You know why? Because I don’t think it works. I’ve never gotten anywhere on a case unless I thought about it all the time. But, beyond me, does anyone get anywhere with anything when they’re “balanced”? Were the Stones balanced when they made Exile? Or were they all in? Was Robert Pirsig balanced when he wrote Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? Somehow I doubt it.
But, look, I’m not just talking about exceptional artists. Were you balanced the last time you accomplished something you were really proud of? Something important at work? A big physical achievement? A personal project you really cared about? Maybe you were. But I bet you weren’t.
Now, does not having a ton of respect for balance fuck up my life sometimes? Well, it sure looked like it right now. I’d made a promise to Nancy that I wasn’t keeping. Not cool. And not good. Because I love her.
I said, “Nance. What was it that you were asking me?”
“John,” she said calmly, but with some bite, “I could think about my patients, or my career, or a million other things while you’re talking to me, and sometimes I’d like to. But I don’t. I make an effort not to.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry. What did you ask me?”
She said, “The sunlight looks pretty sitting on the pool like that, don’t you think?”
I smiled and said, “Aha. You asked me a question simply because you knew I was thinking about my case. And you knew I wouldn’t be able to answer it. You didn’t really want the answer to the question. You just did it to bust me.”
Remember how I said Nancy gives me shit sometimes when she thinks I deserve it? This would be one of those times.
She smiled and said, “Maybe.”
“Well, don’t you think that’s kind of unfair? I mean, you set me up. You didn’t even really want my answer. You already know I like the way the sun sits on the pool. We’ve talked about that a bunch.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re still not present, and you should be.”
“I need to be present for questions that aren’t really even real questions?”
“That’s right.”
I put my arm around Nancy and kissed her on the cheek. She looked at me with her brown eyes. Soft and now forgiving, but I could still see a flicker of that Nancy fire.
And so I said, again, “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s make dinner,” she said.
“Wait, what? I was just thinking about something else for a quick second.”
“Not funny,” she said.
“A little funny?” I said.
“No. Not at all. Not even a little bit.”
“Let’s make dinner,” I said.
“Oh. So you did hear me,” she said as she looked right at me. “I like that, John. I like that a lot. When you hear me.”
I nodded. We stood up. I gave her a kiss, this time on the lips, and we walked inside.
25
The next morning I drove over to my office, updated my case notes, waited for the stifling L.A. traffic to subside a bit, then drove over to Prestige Fish. I didn’t call them or make an appointment or announce my visit in any way. I just hopped in the Focus, took the 405 North to Thousand Oaks, found my way to the little redbrick building that housed Lee Graves, Elana, and a few really expensive aquarium dwellers.
I drove past the building and parked two blocks down from the entrance. I situated the Focus so I had a view of the front door and the little parking lot to the left of it. There was a black Tesla Model S in the lot, Graves’s, and a deep blue Mercedes C-Class, a lower-end Benz, Elana’s. Those were my guesses, anyway.
I didn’t know what my next move was going to be. I just sat there watching the front door. You do this a lot in my line. You sit. And you watch. I put on Lou Reed New York. It’s a great record, one that’s meant to be listened to start to finish. One that’s better when you listen to it that way. Not enough of those these days. One song leading perfectly into the next. And, man, the songs. Some fast, some slow, but all interesting and emotional. The Velvet Underground records get so much love, respect, adoration. And I’m one of the people who give them that. But New York? It’s better than some of the Velvets records. It is. Don’t say it’s not. It is.
The record ended. I didn’t put anything else on. I just, you know, sat and watched. Over the course of a couple of hours, not much happened. Only one person went inside. About forty minutes after I stopped listening to New York, a beautiful brown BMW 7 Series pulled into the little lot where the Tesla and the Mercedes were. A man just beyond middle age got out and walked in the front door, then exited the building about thirty minutes later with Lee Graves. Graves walked him to his car, shook his hand, sent him on his way.
The BMW came my way, drove right by me. I got a good look at the driver. Lean, tan, with a full head of silverish hair. A silver fox, this guy. He was sitting contentedly behind the wheel. You know those guys who drive those sedans, all satisfied, all content? This guy, driving by me, had his eyes at half-mast, his nostrils flared, one eyebrow cocked just slightly, a camel-colored sweater over his shoulders, a smug grin spread across his face.
And that look.
That look that says: Ahhhh, yes. Yes, my life is gooood.
And: I’m reaaalllly comfortable, right here in the quiet cabin of my high-end sedan. Mmmm, smell that leather.
And: Oh, there’s one more thing. Fuck off. All of you. Fuck. Off.
I wondered, after he’d disappeared down some side street: Did that guy just pay Lee Graves a bunch of money to find him a fish? Or did he set up a deal to get some really pure heroin? Or was what happened in there neither of those two things?
Impulsively, I cranked up the Focus and drove toward Prestige Fish. I parked in the lot between the Tesla and the C-Class, right where they could see me. It was time to get something going, to jar something loose. I got out, walked over to the door, turned the knob. Locked. Not open like last time. Not welcoming. Locked. I was sure there were cameras on me, didn’t need to look around to verify. Good. Fine by me.
The door opened. The red-lipped, raven-haired first-class flight attendant stood there.
“Mr. Dean,” she said. “We were wondering if we were going to hear from you again. Please come in.”
We walked in and stood in front of her desk.
Elana said, “Have you decided what it is you are looking for?”
“My name’s not John Dean. It’s John Darvelle. I’m a private detective. I’d like to speak to Lee Graves.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening but her overall essence remaining calm and steady. “Why don’t I tell Lee you’d like to make an appointment with him and then get back to you.”
She was a pro. That’s a pro’s response. Not defensive. Not dismissive either. But a response that would give her boss time to think about whether he wanted to talk to me.
I said, “Why don’t you ask him if he can talk now. I know he’s here.”
Before she answered, a voice said, “I can talk now.”
I looked over to see Lee Graves standing outside a door down the same hallway you take to get to the elevator, but on the left. I’d walked by that door before, but it had been closed tight. Graves was giving me that wild-eyed stare out of his skeleton head, but not the smile. Just a stare. It looked like he’d shaved his head right before he popped out into the hallway. It was slick, clean, shining, and reflecting light. He was in tight jeans and cowboy boots and another tight black T-shirt, no dragon. His shirt was so tight you could see his abs. His intention, for sure.
Graves said, “Why don’t you come back into my office.”
“Great,” I said.
He disappeared through the doorway behind him, and I followed his lead and walked down the hallway and into the room.
His office was simple, sleek. A big black desk with a big black leather desk chair behind it. And behind that, one big window with the shade halfway down. In front of the desk sat two smaller chrome and leather chairs. And in the back corner, on the same wall as the entrance, sat a third black and chrome chair, identical to the two others positioned diagonally in front of it.
There was a very large, beautiful aquarium along one wall, with a single, foot-long, almost black fish in it. The fish had a triangular fin on its back, like a shark’s, that seemed a touch too big for its body. And the fish’s mouth didn’t face outward but instead down, like it could cruise along the bottom of the tank, sucking things up if it wanted to. It wasn’t doing that, though. It was moving along fluidly through the water, in the middle of the aquarium.
I took one of the chairs in front of the desk before Graves invited me to.
He gave me a somewhat disdainful look and said, “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“So what’s up, John Darvelle?”
“You heard me tell Elana my name?”
“Yep,” he said, finally giving me his demented smile.
I thought: How? His office isn’t that close to the main room, and I hadn’t said my name that loudly. Was he listening at his door when I walked in? Did he have an audio system set up to eavesdrop on conversations that happened in the front room? Either way, weird. And either way, he wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
“Good,” I said. “Then the introductions are done.”
“What is it that you want, John Darvelle?”
“I’m investigating the murder of a man named Keaton Fuller. Do you know who that is?”
“Yes, I do. But before I answer any questions, I have a question for you.”
Before he spoke again, I said, “I wanted to see what a high-priced fish operation was like before I revealed myself as a detective. I’m assuming you know that Keaton is dead. But you may not know this: The cops never figured out who killed him. So the family brought me in, some sixteen months later, and in the course of my investigation I came across your company and, of course, you. And I said to myself, What the hell is a tropical fish business? So rather than come in and ask you about Keaton without any idea of what you do, I decided to come in and take a look at what you do as someone else, then come back and ask you about Keaton as myself. Why did I do that? I’m not sure. I thought it might help me somehow.”
“Did it?” Graves said.
“Again, I’m not sure. We’ll see. So, Keaton Fuller?”
Graves said, wearing a cocky expression that made it clear that he didn’t have to answer my questions but would anyway, said, “Keaton Fuller came to us through the bank. We had some people helping us find investors. Somebody found him. This was a couple years ago now. So Keaton shows up, interested in essentially being an angel-type investor. Give us money for equity but ultimately have very little to do with the business. Like I said, we were looking for capital. We were looking for guys like him. People who have money and need to put it somewhere. The business was doing well, but we were growing. And my busi
ness requires capital sometimes to grow. Like most businesses. All businesses. Look, I’ve got a lot going on. Partial ownership of breeding pools in Indonesia, Mexico, Singapore. I’ve got divers I pay all over the world. I’ve got to pay people to bid when a rare fish hits the market. I’ve got to pay people to outbid when a rare fish hits the market. I’ve got to pay insurers and shippers. Capital.
“So we met with Keaton. Liked him at first. Took some money from him. But very soon after we took his money, we gave it back. Didn’t want it if it came attached to him. And that was that.”
Lee Graves leaned back in his chair. Then he pulled his lips apart a bit, revealing more of his white teeth and the top of his gums, and said, “He was a fucking idiot. A joke. I remember hearing he’d gotten shot and thinking, That doesn’t surprise me one bit.”
“Wait, so he gave you money and then you gave it back?”
“Yeah. He gave us an investment and then started asking for it back, profit off it, almost immediately. Just a total amateur. Ignoring the terms of the contract. And ignoring the basic concept of how it works when you invest in a business. He also wanted to be on some of the calls I was making with breeders, divers. He wanted to meet with clients. And that might have been okay, except that everything he said was stupid, rude, incompetent. We gave him his money back with interest and cut him loose. Never saw him again.”
“Who’s ‘we’? Who else works here? I see just you and Elana.”
Just the slightest hint of crimson appeared on his face and his slick head. “We have an office that takes care of all our finances. It’s in a different location.” He then added, a touch defensively, “Lots of businesses do it that way.”
He looked at me. Irritated that I was still probing. He’d given me an answer about Keaton and now I was questioning the way he ran his business. He didn’t like it. But I did. Emotions are revealing.
The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin Page 14