Felonious Jazz

by Bryan Gilmer

She went to the kitchen, took a cup of blueberry yogurt from the refrigerator, poured a glass of orange juice and sat in the rocker in the sunroom. The man played keys over and over as he brought the octaves into tune, then major-fifth intervals, striking each one at three different velocities.

  There was something meditative about the repetitive tones. She found herself looking forward to playing the instrument in tune.

  She flipped through Glamour, a magazine she knew she was too old for. She gripped the little roll of fat below her navel as she looked at a Gucci ad. It made her feel worse than the wrinkle reducer makeup one on the facing page.

  She skimmed three or four articles and finished lunch before the sequences of notes stopped. She heard Leonard putting the piano back together and closing the lid, so she headed to the library. Her normal piano tuner played to test his work, and she always enjoyed hearing someone besides herself.

  But the guy already had his tool pouch slung over his shoulder. He was facing away from the keyboard, with her toy poodle, Sphinx, on his lap. He petted the animal more gently than most men would.

  “She likes you.”

  He glanced up and blushed again. “She’s pretty old, huh?”

  “Yeah. We have a good vet.”

  The man looked up, and Sphinx suddenly bounded from the bench and hid underneath the armchair in the corner.

  “Sorry about that,” Sandie said. “She can be skittish until she gets to know you. Or maybe she thinks I’m going to stick her back into the carrier because I said ‘vet.’ ”

  He cleared his throat and stood. Maybe he’d lost a pet; the line of conversation seemed to make him uncomfortable.

  “It’s all set,” he mumbled, patting the piano lid. “Good little instrument. Perfectly tuned and tempered now. That’s one hundred fifteen.”

  “Aren’t you going to play something?”

  The guy kept his gaze down. “The piano isn’t my instrument.”

  “How can you check your work?”

  “I can hear each string when it comes into perfect tune,” he said, sounding put off. “You can try it before you pay me, if you want.”

  That was exactly what Sandie wanted, but now that he’d made a big damn deal about it, she felt she couldn’t. So she wrote a check in the amount he’d named. He spelled his name for her. N-O-B-L-A-C.

  She showed him to the door, but he lingered just inside, commenting on things in the house. It made Sandie nervous. Finally, she checked her watch and made a big show of being surprised she only had 10 minutes before she had to head to work.

  He finally took the hint and walked through the door, and she turned the key to lock the deadbolt behind him.

  She returned to the library and sat to play Chopin’s prelude in A Flat Major. The piece and her piano had never sounded so beautiful. Now the Kimball sounded like the Steadmans’ expensive Kawai she always drooled over. Weird as he was, Leonard Noblac was her new piano tuner, Sandie decided. Sphinx finally ventured from under the armchair.

  Seven

  Jeff carried his box down the steps from Ashlyn’s apartment and set it on the passenger floorboard of the Audi. While she was away, he would camp on the floor of the new place he’d just bought – an old donut factory on a sketchy edge of downtown Raleigh that he’d gotten rezoned residential and was renovating into three loft apartments. The drywall crew had supposedly put up the new interior walls, but he hadn’t had time to stop in and check.

  He let out a breath and again caught himself palming his shirt pocket for cigarettes that hadn’t been there for 10 years as he started the Audi and looked at the dashboard clock. He’d be in the office by 9:30, which should be early enough after working all night. He hit a button to fold down the convertible top, accelerated onto Wake Forest Road and was in downtown Raleigh in a few minutes.

  The open roof gave a good view of the building that held his office, the newest and tallest in the city, Wachovia Capitol Center. It wouldn’t be a big deal in Atlanta or Manhattan: a 30-story blue glass tower trimmed in pink granite with a pyramid-shaped top. In Raleigh, it impressed people. Jeff had one of 84 reserved parking spaces underneath the tower’s plaza. He swiped his card to raise the metal entry door and parked the car inside without bothering to raise the top.

  He got onto the elevator. At the lobby level, a couple of women who worked for Merrill Lynch paused their conversation as they joined him and lit the button for their floor. He breathed their light perfume and watched the reflection of them cutting their eyes at each other in the hemispheric chrome light fixture until a regal electronic bong sounded at his floor.

  CB Allison occupied the entire tenth floor, with more than 20 attorneys and another 30 paralegals and support staff, including Jeff. The air in the office was chilly, comfortable for people who wore wool suits year-round. The air carried the mixed scents of cinnamon air freshener and photocopier toner. A model named Jacyln smiled under heavy brass letters behind an imposing black-granite reception desk. “Good morning, Mr. Swaine.”

  He nodded and walked through a cluster of cubicles, stopping at the last to check with Sarah Rosen’s secretary, Annie, who also took calls for him. She was on the phone, but she handed him a pink note: “Sarah wants to see you right away.” Andrea Knox was black and one year out of UNC-Chapel Hill with a bachelor’s in business. She wore her hair straightened and pulled back tight. She favored classic, tailored suits and simple flat shoes.

  Jeff spotted a pack of Marlboro Lights in the top of her purse. He looked again to make sure it wasn’t a package of chocolates or cosmetics; she seemed far too put-together to smoke. Definitely cigarettes. Odd. She hung up the phone, and Jeff re-focused on the pink note.

  Annie nodded toward Sarah’s closed door and shook her head. It meant Sarah was not to be interrupted, no matter what her pink notes said.

  Jeff unlocked the door of his own corner office. That wasn’t as impressive as it sounded. The clever architect had designed the building with sawtooth sides that created 12 corner offices per floor, three at each corner. Still, he enjoyed his view of the Capitol and its leafy grounds through his two walls of windows.

  He sat in his mesh desk chair and called up the Progress-Leader website. He was surprised the golden retriever story was in the intensely local “Rocky Falls Progress” section, not on the main page of the site.

  The headline was: “Dog Dead after Break-in,” a little too cautious, he thought. He skimmed the story. Cooperton had been mighty skimpy with details. There was his own name: “The Reuss family said they hired attorney J. Davis Swaine of the Cross Baker Allison firm to investigate and to represent them in the matter, but no one from the firm returned a call early today.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for an attorney, or that he’d known a reporter to be sloppy with details on deadline.

  So much for keeping it confidential that they’d hired an expensive investigator, but that was the client’s choice. The reporter Caroline had even gotten the Reusses to lend her a pre-death photo of the dog, Beebee, which the new wife must have had in her purse. But the reporter didn’t have the graffiti angle. Jeff was impressed, if dismayed, that Caroline had gotten the story into the paper on such a tight deadline.

  Now, the TV guys, who got most of their story ideas by reading press releases or the newspaper, would have all of it today, he was certain. He would have scanned the morning news shows if he’d known. He checked the stations’ websites. Just a three-paragraph item from the Associated Press North Carolina wire, based on the Kramden piece, on WRAL.com.

  Jeff checked his voice mail and, sure enough, found one from Kramden with a 12:15 a.m. time stamp. “The Reusses are referring all questions about the break-in to you. Please call me as soon as you get this.”

  Today, Caroline would be expected to have a fresh angle for her piece, or at least more details. He called her. They agreed to meet at her office at noon and go to lunch to “compare notes,” though he figured she’d mostly pump him for informat
ion.

  Annie buzzed him that Sarah was free, so Jeff walked next door.

  “You sleep in?” Sarah was a little over 40, with short red hair cut blunt. She didn’t bother with makeup. She was looking a little lumpy in a black suit that had once been tailored to fit. She wore a wrist brace on her right hand for carpal tunnel syndrome.

  On her desk stood a photo of her infant son, but not her husband. She’d recently announced she was divorcing him. The most notorious divorce attorney in town was drinking her own Kool-Aid, and rival firms were ready to rep her ex for free, just for sport.

  “Ashlyn left for the summer today, and she made me breakfast.”

  Sarah gave a smile that seemed to have no feeling behind it. “What’s your theory about the dog?” Her accent was New York/New Jersey/Connecticut. He’d never asked exactly which.

  “Waiting to hear from the necropsy, but my best guess is the thieves put the golden down as a precaution. But knowing Reuss, this whole thing could be revenge. I doubt it’s his ex; might be somebody he screwed in a business deal. There’s graffiti all over the walls that the newspaper doesn’t know about. He left me with the sense that he wants the firm to stay involved anyway, though.”

  She nodded as he explained, then nodded again when he said he would talk again with the Reusses and then with the reporter.

  “Yeah, do that. Do you think we can stick Mickey with at least 60 hours of time this week? You may want to put the Vaproxycin stuff down for now – we don’t know if we’ll ever see a dime out of that case.” She was looking down at a folder on her desk, and Jeff knew these were not suggestions.

  He gave a nod. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  He ducked back into his office and signed onto his e-mail, which he hadn’t yet checked. Only one subject line caught his eye: “Mr. Swaine, Thanks for Your Gift” from a PWallace@trichildmed.org.

  He double-clicked it.

  “As chairman of the board of directors of Triangle Children’s Medical Fund, I want to thank you personally on behalf of the 182 children we’ve helped to get life-saving medical treatments so far this year. Generous donors like you make our mission a reality.”

  Jeff gave a couple thousand dollars a year to charities, but he hadn’t given to these guys. Maybe there was another J.D. Swaine in the area, and the fund had them mixed up. He skimmed to the last paragraph. “As you know, Triangle Children’s Medical Fund is a 501c(3) non-profit, so your gift of $8,765.43 is fully tax deductible. You will receive a formal thank-you note and receipt by postal mail, but I wanted to express our gratitude without delay.”

  Jeff laughed. If he were inclined to give away that much money, he’d go ahead and round it up to nine grand. He made a note in his palmtop computer to reply to the e-mail and find out what was going on.

  Eight

  Mickey Reuss was still at the Rocky Falls Courtyard by Marriott with New Wife, having given himself the morning off from work. Jeff met them in the lobby.

  The deputies had told them that by 1 p.m. they would be able to re-occupy their house. New Wife looked at Jeff as if she was positive he would sympathize and said, “I just don’t know how I’ll ever feel safe inside that house alone again.”

  Jeff nodded and pursed his lips. He figured they’d be in a Realtor’s Lexus before 5.

  He made noises as if he empathized, then asked who they thought might have done it.

  “I still think it was that bitch,” New Wife said.

  Mickey Reuss glared at her, and she stood quickly and said she was going to buy a newspaper.

  “Who else could have done it?” Jeff asked Mickey Reuss when she’d gone.

  “That’s a long list.” He mentioned several names, including two state senators, and Jeff wrote them down on his yellow legal pad.

  Jeff asked how much Reuss wanted him to share with the Progress-Leader. “One theory is that people might read the story and offer tips that’ll help solve the crime. But maybe you want to keep this as quiet as you can.”

  “You put out however much you think will really help us. And definitely put out word that we’re gonna find out who did this to us, and there will be hell to pay.”

  That would take some finesse, Jeff thought.

  Now Reuss said, “Damn dog was a money pit anyhow.”

  “What?”

  “Fucking thing had cancer.”

  “So it was dying anyway?”

  “Nah. I spent about 10 grand on chemotherapy and radiation, and the damn thing was completely cured. That’s the bitch of it.”

  * * *

  Jeff drove the short distance to the Rocky Falls bureau of the Progress-Leader. It was in a strip center bay once occupied by a hair salon. The paper had kept the check-in counter and waiting area near the front door, and the glass shelves that had held overpriced shampoo were stacked with back issues of the P&L. Each desk had a huge mirror and plenty of electrical outlets four feet above the floor. Even more half-assed than small-market TV news.

  Some reporter in the bureau should have a sense of humor and keep electric clippers on his desk, and maybe one of those jars of combs in blue liquid, Jeff thought. The bureau chief’s desk was in back, next to the hair-washing sink, and the guy had the basin filled with tropical potted plants. He was using the sprayer to water them and telling Caroline, “You got us a jump on a pretty good story, maybe a hate crime. Readers are gonna go batshit over Beebee, poor puppy.”

  She gave a teacher’s-pet smile. “I was psyched when she pulled out the dog’s picture.”

  Then they saw Jeff and shut up. Caroline whispered to her boss and then walked over to Jeff. “You’re early. Can you give me a couple of minutes to wrap something up before we leave?”

  “Sure.” She showed him to an empty chair at the desk beside hers. Today she wore a suede miniskirt and a pale blue V-neck blouse. “Feel free to use the Internet.”

  Jeff killed a few minutes checking stock quotes – a mostly flat day, so far, except that the former telecom high-flier he had kept buying more of had gone down yet another dime per share – then he jumped over and logged into his work e-mail.

  Around the edge of the monitor, Jeff noticed Caroline slide her fingers inside the neck of her blouse to absentmindedly soothe an itch. She was sitting perpendicular to him. Now he glanced down at her smooth legs. When she glanced up to meet his gaze, he stared past her out the front windows. Jeff realized his primal brain was on the prowl again.

  “Sorry,” Caroline said. “Can you give me just a few more seconds? I have to return this e-mail.”

  “No problem.”

  She looked back at her screen, typed in a flurry, then clicked her mouse with authority. She stood, turned and leaned over the desk where Jeff sat, resting her palms on the desk. The pose gave Jeff such a great view down the front of her blouse that he could have positively identified the bra from a lineup of Victoria’s Secret catalog photos. He hoisted his gaze. Her breath smelled like cinnamon gum, and she was smiling warmly. “Let’s do lunch.”

  As he stood, he noticed a brass plaque on her desk that read, “The Maneater” in large letters, with her name engraved below. It said “Editor” below that. Yeah, the student newspaper at Mizzou was The Maneater. Funny.

  She led him to her Ford Explorer. He found a spot for his feet among the photocopies and empty water bottles in the floorboard.

  “Impressive to see you on the scene last night,” Jeff told her.

  “Dumb luck. I was working late at the bureau, organizing some notes for my next suburban-woe-of-the-moment story – whole batches of credit card bills from at least three banks got lost in the mail last month, so a bunch of people never paid on their accounts, and now they’re getting late fees.”

  “How many bills?”

  “The first two banks say about 9,000 accounts – just going by the number of customers in the two Rocky Falls ZIP codes where no one seems to have gotten a statement this month. Got a call out to the third bank; I’m having to work my way through their PR depa
rtment in Nebraska.”

  “That’s a nightmare.”

  “Seriously. The Postal Service doesn’t think the problem’s on their end. The big sacks of bills for the area just never showed up this month. But they were coming from three different states. It’s too weird. Postal inspector says off the record he’s afraid somebody’s stolen the bills to get the account numbers for credit card fraud.”

  “That’s got to be it.”

  “I know. If I get that on the record, it’s a pretty good story.”

  Jeff gave her a shit-eating grin. “You put it on. Call the bank flaks back and ask them whether they’re concerned that someone is stealing the bills to enable massive credit card fraud. Then at the very least, you can write, ‘Bonnie Bankflak says they have no reason to believe a credit card fraud ring stole the missing bills to get the account numbers.’ That’s enough to put the idea out there.”

  She smiled at him. “You think like a reporter.”

  “Used to be. TV news in Scranton-Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, fifty-third largest TV market in the country. It was ‘Nine on Your Side’ with Jeff D. Swaine.”

  She grinned and raised her eyebrow. “You’ve got the looks for TV. Why’d you get out of it?”

  Jeff smiled to himself. “Low pay and appalling working conditions.”

  She smirked. “Anyway,” she said, “So last night, I’m standing up from my desk to head home when I hear the Mill Run Estates address over the scanner again. They never have said what’s going on out there, so I decide to ride by. I missed the deadline for the print edition, but they got it up on the Web for me.”

  That explained the odd way the story had been underplayed, Jeff thought.

  She steered into the parking lot of The Rocky Falls Brewery & Grille, named after the front of a car, judging from the spelling. As she withdrew the ignition key, she looked at Jeff and said, “I knew you were dressed too fancy for a sheriff’s investigator last night. I was figuring maybe assistant district attorney.”