The Irish Goodbye (Izzy Bishop Book 1)

by Kaspar Totmann

  “You said she was at a rave. Seems like balloons might be prevalent there.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Seems like glow sticks and goofy glasses are the thing, but I don’t know about balloons. It’s probably a dead end, anyway. You ever hear of anyone committing a murder with helium?”

  “No, but you could, theoretically. I have heard of assisted suicides that way.”

  “Come again?”

  “It’s not legal in the U.S., so there aren’t any legitimate facilities like in some European countries. There are underground right-to-die organizations, though. They skirt the law by providing information, which I suppose you could say is a remote, indirect assistance.”

  “Where does helium come into it?”

  “It’s a method,” she said. “That or nitrogen, but helium is surer. Not very hard to acquire, and enough will certainly terminate life in a human being without pain or a nasty scene left behind. Like I said, I’ve heard of it, but never encountered anything like that personally or professionally.”

  “It’s something,” Izzy said.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “If I follow up on this, are you going to be behind me?”

  “Follow up how? Talk to more questionable people? Haven’t you already been warned off of that?”

  Her shoulders bounced with her breath and she’d leaned over the table, gawping at him. Izzy saw genuine concern there.

  “I’d happily present this to Austin’s finest,” he said, “and let them do the legwork, but I’ve been told twice now that they aren’t interested. Personally, I think they like that low murder rate here and aim to keep it that way come hell or high water, but I might just be bitter and pissed right now. Either way, nobody else is going to look into this if I don’t. So what do you say?”

  “I say don’t get yourself killed, Izzy. Nothing’s worth that.”

  He smiled and puffed a laugh through his nose.

  “Izzy? You getting soft on me, Forbes?”

  “Just be careful, you stubborn son of a bitch,” she said. “I want to see you alive in court when I have to testify next month.”

  “The barn thing?”

  “Guy was murdered by his own son and brother, if you can believe it. Son’s long gone, probably deep in interior Mexico by now, but they got the brother.”

  “One of the safest cities in the country,” Izzy said sadly.

  “Life isn’t safe,” she said.

  “Terminal condition, too.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now bug off. I got lunch. Next time’s on you.”

  Eighteen

  Izzy studied in the hotel room until a quarter past eleven, shortly after an officer last knocked to check on him. He’d acknowledged he was all right and now, half an hour later, found the lines of text in his textbook blurring and interchanging with one another. Already he’d missed the examination deadline twice, and time was running short before the next Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner exams. The photos and diagrams in the book alone still sent shivers down his back, but he refused to give up on this. It wasn’t the crimes or the analysis that interested him; Izzy just wanted to help people who had been hurt.

  Marking the page with a cardboard coaster that came with the room, he closed the book and stacked it with his notebook on the little table by the window. The curtains were still open, and he could see downtown Austin in the mid-distance, sparkling over Ladybird Lake where he swam and kayaked and canoed as a boy, back when it was still Town Lake. Back before his father gave up on him and all but delivered him into the hands of the preferred son, the monster of the family. Before the nightmares began, and the lying, and the fear. The city was a hell of a lot different back then, he remembered. So was everything else, himself included.

  Survivors, Izzy thought. The term preferred to victims.

  He was a survivor.

  But Cynthia?

  Cynthia didn’t survive.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the unchanging skyline, too far away to register any human activity. Distance that made Izzy feel nominally safe.

  “Who were you afraid of?” he asked aloud. Everyone, he could almost hear her answer. “But someone in particular. Someone you wanted protection from, but you didn’t want to say that. You didn’t want to admit you needed someone.

  “That you needed me.”

  For a while longer he sat like that until a knock at the door roused him. He checked the clock—it was midnight on the dot. His neck flushed hot. Izzy didn’t think the officer would check this late.

  Quietly he padded to the door and peered through the peephole. It was the same cop, looking a little more tired than he had before.

  “Mr. Bishop, you all right? I noticed the lights still on in there.”

  “Burning the midnight oil, officer.”

  “All right,” the cop said. “Good night, Mr. Bishop.”

  Izzy watched him retreat down the hall, turning tiny in the fish-eyed distance. He decided he was getting tired of people calling him Mr. Bishop. He was tired of the hotel room. He was tired of nightmares and unanswered questions, of helplessness and guilt.

  He went back to the window, which overlooked the front of the hotel, and saw the officer exit the through the automatic doors. The patrol car was parked right in front, probably making people nervous when they arrived. The police protection thing wasn’t going to last. Izzy knew he couldn’t stay in that room indefinitely. He needed to make some headway, and soon.

  On the table beside his textbook and notes was the scratchpad. He grabbed it and sat down at the table, scanning the perfunctory notes he’d made on Cynthia’s case. It wasn’t much. Three days had come and gone. He vaguely remembered hearing that the first forty-eight hours in a murder case were the most crucial. After that, the trail went cold. Maybe that was just a TV thing. Maybe not. Izzy sighed.

  Most of the first page was taken up by multiple infinity symbols. Lemniscates. He underlined Deacon’s name, because he still wanted to talk to that kid again. Knock and talk, Woorten had called it. Well, Izzy thought, you’re not doing it. He underlined it again.

  Beneath Lost 40 and Judgment Daze, he recorded a new location, too: the piñata store. They were everywhere in that part of town, but Izzy presumed he could get the address easily enough. Woorten said a lady who worked at the store was the first to see Cynthia’s body next door. Since they weren’t treating it as a homicide, it made sense that they wouldn’t have asked too many questions. If she was an immigrant, which was likely, she might not even have been overly forthcoming. Crime rates tended to be higher in areas with large migrant populations—not because of the demographic, but because many of them were undocumented and hesitant to talk to police. Izzy thought it highly possibly this lady could have been in a hurry to get away from questioning policemen. He thought it equally possible that her English wasn’t quite up to snuff, like the lovely Señora Ochoa up on Rundberg the other day.

  He scowled at the memory, and hoped his next subject was at least marginally kinder.

  First thing in the morning, after his coffee but before the shower, Izzy texted Sandy.

  Need some help. Speak Spanish?

  She didn’t respond immediately, so he plugged the phone in and jumped in the shower stall. He kept it cold.

  When he got out there was a new message waiting for him.

  Sorry, no hablo. But I know someone who can help.

  Good old Sandy. No questions, just eagerness to assist a friend. He felt like he could kiss her, but dismissed the idea as too weird. It was gone in the mists of his memory when the phone buzzed, the displayed number Sandy’s office.

  “Sandy, hi.”

  “Hi, Izzy,” said a resonant, male voice. “This is Noah Flaherty. I think we passed one another in the hall yesterday.”

  “Oh,” Izzy managed, flushing. “I guess you got the job then?”

  Noah chuckled. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Listen
, Ms. Chen asked—” Sandy! Izzy heard her say in the background. “Sandy asked me if I could help you out with some translation or something? My Spanish is pretty good.”

  “Is it?” Izzy said, and he made a face. “You know, I think I’m all right. I just need to talk to somebody, and I think I can manage.”

  “I’m glad to help,” Noah persisted. “If you want to pick me up at say, eleven? I can give you an hour or so. Boss says it’s okay.”

  Izzy could hear the smile in his voice. It made him unusually nervous.

  “She’s a pretty great gal,” Izzy said, staring at his toes and wanting desperately for the call to come to an end. Despite the cold shower, he was beginning to sweat. He didn’t like this at all.

  “We get on well so far,” Noah said. “So, eleven then? I’m no native speaker, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Right,” Izzy said. “Eleven, then.”

  Sandy’s new staff member rang off, and Izzy fell back on the bed, dampening the comforter with his hair and back.

  “Damnit, Sandy,” he groused.

  The block of Cesar Chavez that included the piñata store was a few blocks away from the regentrification efforts so far. Izzy and Noah passed a faddish hamburger joint and new movie theater on the way, installations thought impossible for the neighborhood only a few years earlier. Older businesses were flagging in comparison, and construction equipment was in evidence until they passed back into old East Austin.

  Izzy kept the A/C cold the whole way, afraid of sweating through his clothes. He said very little. Conversely, Noah appeared energetic and pleasant, chatting away about his advocacy interest and experience, telling Izzy how eager he was to be working with Sandy at the crisis center. He’d gotten his social work degree at UT Austin with a minor in psychology. He was animated when he spoke, twisting in his seat and gesturing a lot with his hands. Izzy thought he looked like a young William Holden and wondered if Noah knew who that was. He decided ultimately not to ask.

  “This will be good for me,” Noah said when Izzy pulled up to the curb and threw the stick into park. “It’s been a while since I’ve tested out my Spanish chops. I’m sure I will at the crisis center, but last time I spoke it at any length was years ago.”

  “Might not even need it,” Izzy said, killing the engine. “I just wanted to be prepared for once.”

  “Usted está preparado.”

  “What you said.”

  They got out and stood by Izzy’s Mazda, looking at the two houses across the street. Both were single story buildings with eaves over front porches and tin roofs. The one on the left was festooned with colorful papier-mâché piñatas of burros and stars, cartoon characters and superheroes. The small front yard was well kempt, with more piñatas displayed on sawhorses. The house looked recently painted a light, lime green. A hand-painted sign over the porch read Maria’s Piñatas, under which was printed todo para su fiesta.

  The house on the right was dilapidated. The roof sagged in the middle, the porch was filthy and strewn with weeds and dead leaves. The yard was overgrown, like Woorten described. Several windows were cracked or broken. The siding was coming off and a sign for an immigration attorney hung haphazardly from a single nail.

  Noah arched an eyebrow at Izzy.

  “You need to buy a piñata?”

  “I need to solve a murder.”

  “Oh,” Noah said. “I was way off.”

  Together they went across the street, up the porch steps, and stopped at the door. On the door was a laminated paper sign: Por favor entra.

  Noah opened the door, and Izzy followed him inside.

  The interior did not look at all remodeled, just repurposed. The door opened into a living room or dining room, which was full of piñatas. They hung from the walls and the ceiling and were stacked on the floor. Off to the right and left were additional rooms, similarly packed, though the one on the right also housed a large, stout desk with an old school cash register on top. From behind the desk a pretty older woman swept around to greet them, her short hair spiking up like a porcupine. She wore a floral, sleeveless dress that swished with her rapid stride.

  “Buenos días,” she said cheerfully. “Bienvenido.”

  She clasped her hands together beneath her bosom and smiled up at them. Izzy looked helplessly to Noah.

  “Gracias, señora,” Noah said, a little haltingly. Izzy dubiously twisted his mouth up to one side. “Mi amigo le gustaría hablar con usted, pero él no habla español. ¿Habla usted Inglés?”

  He gestured at Izzy, who gaped. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so stupid in his life.

  The woman shook her head, still smiling, and said, “No.”

  “So far, so good,” Izzy said.

  “Well, she doesn’t speak English,” Noah explained. “So where do you want to start? I’m as much in the dark as she is.”

  Izzy cleared his throat.

  “Tell her the woman she found next door was my friend,” he said. “And that’s why we’re here.”

  “Let me introduce us first,” Noah said. Izzy’s cheeks reddened. “Mi nombre es Noah,” he said to the woman, “y esto es Izzy.”

  “Maria,” she said, her hand on her chest.

  “Okay,” Izzy said.

  With a sharp nod, Noah translated. Maria looked startled. Her shoulders slumped some, and she touched her chin. At length she responded, slowly at first, but then more quickly. She alternated her eyes between the two of them and, like Noah, used her hands when she spoke.

  “She says she already talked to the police,” Noah said. “She’s worried about how it might affect her business and immigration status. She’s very adamant that she’s in the U.S. legally.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Izzy said. “Make sure she understands that we’re not police, all right? Just friends of the woman. I want to know what she saw.”

  Maria mulled this over after Noah spoke to her again. She glanced around the house, into other rooms, her eyes jetting around almost manically. Her mouth became tight, a thin line, and she tugged at her dress.

  “Did you tell her?” Izzy asked.

  “She’s edgy,” Noah said. “I don’t blame her. People are being bullied out of these neighborhoods, and if they have to use things like immigration statuses to do it, they often do. She just doesn’t want any trouble.”

  “Neither do we,” Izzy told Maria. She didn’t understand and looked to Noah.

  Izzy said, “My friend’s name was Cynthia Ramos. She was only twenty-six years old. I just want to know what happened to her that night.”

  Now Noah seemed startled. He touched Izzy’s elbow, then related it all back to Maria. She paused, then nodded her head and motioned for them to follow her. The three of them went past the desk, through an arched entryway that led to a small kitchen. There, Maria pulled out two metal chairs from a square table and gestured for the men to sit down. They did, and from a half-sized refrigerator she produced three bottles of red soda with Jarritos on the labels.

  Maria popped the caps off the bottles and distributed them, then sat down with her back against a radiator under the kitchen window. She sipped gingerly from the bottleneck, wiped her mouth, and commenced talking. She talked in a low tone for what seemed to Izzy like a long time, occasionally pausing to stare off at nothing in particular, pinch her upper lip in thought, drink more of her soda. He downed most of his, waiting, while Noah listened intently. Izzy wanted to check the time on his phone, but he didn’t want to be rude. At last, her voice lilting at the end, Maria finished and put her hands on the table, looking at Izzy with sad, sympathetic eyes.

  “What is it?” Izzy asked Noah. “What did she say?”

  “The big news,” Noah said, “is that Cynthia wasn’t a stranger to her. Maria knew your friend.”

  Izzy’s back crawled and he sat up.

  “Wait, what? She barely spoke any Spanish.”

  “I’m telling you what she said. She didn’t tell the police that because she was afraid of what might happe
n to her. But she knew Cynthia, and she says Cynthia lived in that little piece of crap house next door off and on.”

  “It wasn’t just a random dump,” Izzy whispered. “Holy shit.”

  Maria raised her eyebrows. She’d understood that. Izzy said, “Sorry. Lo siento.”

  Noah took a deep breath, running Maria’s words through his head, and continued.

  “Looks like the place has been vacant for almost two years,” he said. “Homeless people sometimes slept in it when it was raining or cold, and Maria didn’t mind that. She bought tacos and coffee for them in the mornings sometimes on her way here, and that’s how she met Cynthia.”

  “My god,” Izzy said. His eyes were practically popping out of their sockets. He was finally getting somewhere. “What about anyone else? Was she alone?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Noah said. “The homeless people moved on, and when others came she wouldn’t stay in there.”

  “Safety,” Izzy murmured.

  “Except for a couple of times there was a man with her.”

  “A man?”

  Maria nodded rapidly. “Sí,” she said. “Un hombre blanco.”

  “A white man?” Izzy said.

  Noah said, “Yes. They seemed to be good friends or maybe together, like boyfriend-girlfriend. She says she saw them kissing in front of the house at some point. Muy apasionadamente—very passionately.”

  “Was he there at all that night?” Izzy asked. “Or the day before?”

  Noah spoke to Maria, who answered in a definite way.

  “She didn’t see him. Not for a week or so since the last time. But she says she’s not here at night, and no one else was around that morning, when she found Cynthia.”

  “Okay,” Izzy said. “What did the man look like?”

  “Tall,” Noah said. “A tall white man, youngish, like early to mid-twenties? Shaved head, she says.”

  Izzy blanched.

  “Shaved head,” he gasped. “Ring in the nose? Like here, in the septum? A bullring?”