by Bryan Gilmer
He hopped behind the wheel again and drove a couple of miles to a subdivision called Ashley Woods. The road into the development ran beside an easement for high-voltage power lines.
He made a left turn onto Pleasant Lane. He was sure this was where he’d noticed the pretty blonde girl and her brown-haired friend walking home from the school bus about a week before, before his new inspiration had written them into a composition on the album. He hummed the new melody that had leapt into his mind the other night. Leonard wiped his damp palms on his coveralls and swallowed a mouthful of citrusy saliva.
The yellow bus had squealed to a stop right at this corner, by the house with the plastic picket fence, and when it had disappeared, there they had stood.
They were probably in junior high, just past the cusp of adolescence, the girls’ narrow frames blooming with the first signs of womanhood, the blonde in particular smiling with self-assurance and tossing her long, platinum hair, pressing her lips together and smirking at her brunette friend as they passed two gawky, slightly older boys messing with a car stereo in one of the driveways, thrusting their chests and swinging their hips, trying out their new bodies, lording their power over the boys, just teasing them with what they couldn’t have.
Leonard had sat parked by the curb and watched them down the sidewalk. He’d seen each girl disappear into a different door a little farther down the street. That house. And that one.
And Leonard had realized that his string of problems in life stretched back to Carley King, the girl with red hair and blue eyes in the eighth grade that he’d sat behind in algebra.
He sat here now in the driver’s seat with his eyes wide open, amazed at himself. His mind was amazing. This was virtuosity, wasn’t it? That your mind got so fluent with your art that it worked on it even when you weren’t trying to. Man, he hadn’t even realized it until now – this was the kind of subconscious inspiration that made a great story to tell on a talk show to Oprah or David Letterman:
“So, Leonard, where did you get your ideas for the great tracks on this album?”
“Well, Dave, you might enjoy the story behind the track, ‘Babe Watching.’ When I was in middle school, this pretty girl named Carley King overloaded my mind. She turned around one Monday when the teacher wasn’t looking and whispered that she always matched her socks to her underwear. That day, she had on polka dot socks. The next day, she wore hot pink ones; Wednesday, zebra-striped, Thursday, tiny anklets with lace around the edges. Each day I’d ask her if they matched, and each day she’d grin and nod and slide down in her seat and pile her great-smelling curls on my desktop. Friday, she wore sandals on bare feet, and my imagination nearly sent me into a coma.”
Here was where Leonard knew the studio audience would laugh – and Leonard realized he wouldn’t ever tell the story on TV.
Because the following Monday (sheer black trouser socks) the teacher had left him and Carley alone in her classroom when they’d both gotten study hall for the talking during class. And he’d tried to kiss her, but Carley had squealed at him, banged her palms into his chest and shouted, “Why don’t you give it up, you little loser! Are you so stupid you didn’t see Maggie back there laughing at you every day in class when I was making you drool? How could you think I liked you! Get over yourself!” Mrs. Klosky had come back in after hearing the squeal and let Carley out of the rest of study hall when she’d whined, “Leonard tried to kiss me,” and given Leonard after-school detention and a humiliating parent conference with his mother about appropriate interactions with girls…
Leonard stopped the van in front of the blonde’s house and threw it into PARK. He opened the double rear doors so anyone passing by could see all the dropcloths and cans of paint and roller handles and brushes he’d loaded in there from the shed behind his farmhouse. He had carefully smeared a few colors of paint down his white coveralls, and naturally he wore one of those disposable hats.
He took a 6-foot stepladder he’d lifted from DIY Warehouse, a brush and a can of paint that had hardened completely and walked around the side of the house like he belonged there. He set up the ladder next to a window on the side of the house that had a Mylar balloon with a pink star – a mighty fine indication that this was her room, he figured – and dangled the can from the ladder’s little hook. He popped out the screen and pulled a putty knife from his coverall pocket as he climbed up to look inside. Yep, it was her room. Pop CDs mixed with little-girl princess leftovers.
Then Leonard’s body went on full alert, and he nearly pissed himself. The glass reflected the danger just a foot from his nose: A Wake County sheriff’s cruiser crept down the street on patrol straight toward him. Leonard told himself to stay calm. This would work perfectly. He belonged here. He so totally belonged here. He fit in. He was a guy painting windows for The Man. If the officer challenged him, maybe Leonard had stopped at the wrong address. Or maybe he didn’t speak English.
He leaned in close toward the window, started whistling loudly and scraped the frame with his putty knife until it threw off flakes of paint. Sure enough, the cruiser kept right on going past his van without the deputy even giving him an extended glance. Leonard breathed again.
Leonard scraped for about five more minutes after the car disappeared, just to be safe, but the cop never came back. Leonard gave up on slowing his heart rate, which was in the grip of both fear of the cop and excitement about this composition.
He slipped the putty knife into the slot between the window’s upper and lower sections. He wiggled it around and bit his lip. Finally, he worked open the toy brass latch inside. Just. Like. That.
He pushed up the sash, scrutinized his reflection in the upper window, then, using it again as a rear-view mirror to make sure no one was watching, slipped inside. He lowered the window quickly – but not suspiciously quickly – behind himself.
It smelled like watermelon bubble gum in here. He grabbed the open pack of Bubblicious from the white lacquered desk, unwrapped a piece and sank his teeth into it.
Shit! The little dog gave Leonard a freaking heart attack, skidding through the girl’s bedroom door and across the hardwood floor barking as if it were some kind of Doberman. Miniature Schnauzer, Leonard guessed. Stupid little thing. He opened a plastic baggie in his left pocket and tossed a ball of pork sausage with Valium onto the floor.
He petted the dog’s silvery fur as she munched down the treat. He looked at his watch and nodded: School would let out in about two hours. He took off his shoes and wiggled between the covers of her unmade bed. The cool sheets were unspeakably soft on his rough toes.
This was timing out perfectly.
* * *
“Several large boxes just arrived for you by private courier, Sarah.” Annie’s voice was musical, even with the distortion of the speaker on Sarah’s desk phone.
“What are they?”
“They’re heavy. I think depositions or discovery or something.”
“Can you bring one in?”
“Sure.”
Sarah took a sip of bottled water, then went to the door to help Annie lift the box.
“Thanks.”
“Let’s put it down on the floor behind my desk.”
There was no return address, so Sarah used the letter opener from the cup on her desk to pop loose the packing tape.
The carton held several rows of identical looking, unopened envelopes. She pulled one out and realized it was a credit card bill. All the others were similar, but addressed to different recipients. All were from Citibank. The makings of a class-action suit from a tipster who didn’t realize how many federal laws this violated?
“Huh,” Annie said.
“Yeah. Let’s check the other boxes.”
There was another box of Citibank bills, and two boxes from MBNA, and one from First USA. Inside the top of that box was a letter-sized sheet of white paper. In large, computer-printed letters, it said, “1. Everything Comes Due at Once.”
Twenty-six
The sc
hool bus was such a stinky, yellow piece of monkey shit. EmmaJane Porter stood there next to Katie and watched it drive away, puffing a black cloud into their faces. That could not be good for your skin, she thought, rubbing her cheek. She hated riding it home every day. It seemed like forever before she could take driver’s ed and then get her permit. She had just turned 13 four months ago. Almost two more years, and then Catherine and Ray would never let her have a car for, at least, another two years, if ever.
She gathered her blonde hair, all getting in her face from the gust of wind from the bus, and twisted it around a finger behind her head.
The sixth-graders on the bus, Seth and Jason, were so immature. She turned to Katie: “All they did, like the whole way home, was drool and look at us?”
Katie laughed and squinched up her cheek.
No matter what, the goobers always sat near her and Katie. And her and Katie couldn’t wait to get off the bus every day and go home and do homework or whatever. Just anything to get away from them.
“That thin fuzz they tried to grow on their lips just looks totally gay, and I don’t think they even get that, you know?” EmmaJane told her.
Katie totally knew. She just shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Heh. Later, girl. Call me; we’ll go to the pool tomorrow.”
EmmaJane smiled and put up her hand in a slacker wave, and Katie waved back and pulled out her house key as she started up the sidewalk to the house.
EmmaJane stared two doors down at her house, the siding of which her wench of a mom had decided to paint peach. Seriously, Catherine? That’s very attractive. I love it. It looks like your husband’s giant Caucasian ass.
EmmaJane rolled her eyes, delighting in her private profanity as she walked up her driveway, pulled out her own key and shouldered through the front door.
She nudged it shut and then walked into the kitchen to sneak a Diet Coke.
Oh. My. God. She froze in the spot, and her legs wouldn’t move. A creepy man with a beard was standing leaning against the island.
EmmaJane’s mind froze for a second. She wanted to scream and run back toward the front door, but as she started to move, he did, too – a hand closed around her ankle, and that tripped her up and then, like, a bee sting on her thigh, and she must have blacked out or whatever.
Twenty-seven
As soon as Jeff got back to his office, he called in the physical description of the food delivery man to Cooperton, who said he would talk to Walter Ellis again himself.
“And check their kitchen trash for the food,” Jeff said. “I bet the lab will find it was full of diazepam. The delivery guy knocked them down with that, then the burglars hit them with the phenobarb either intending to kill them or keep them unconscious long enough to haul out the furniture.”
Jeff wrote the description of the food delivery man above the graffiti on his right-hand office window. It fit the descriptions of Eddie Grant. He drew a red line to the card on that crime.
He looked up the phone number for Chef 2 U, dialed it and asked for the manager. He got the owner.
“Davis Swaine from Cross Baker Allison,” Jeff said. “I’m working in conjunction with the Wake County Sheriff’s Office. We’re looking for an employee of yours who walked off the job last night after a delivery. Would have been two dinners for Walter and Janet Ellis.”
“Wow,” the guy said. “How’d you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Jeff said. “I can’t discuss the investigation, but your former employee is a person of interest, and it’s really important that we talk to him. Are you going to be there for a few minutes? I’d like to stop by and get a copy of your records on him.”
“Those are supposed to be confidential.”
“I know. We’ll get a court order eventually, so you’ll be covered. Mrs. Ellis, your customer, is in the hospital, and we think your guy put her there by poisoning your food and delivering it to them. For the sake of mitigating your civil liability alone, I’d think you’d want to help us catch this guy as quickly as possible.”
The owner was quiet a few seconds, doing the math and coming up with the right answer. “You think Tommy did that? He’s about as shy as you can get. Little fella, too.”
“Can I stop by?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here ‘til midnight.”
Now Jeff started working the vets again. The phenobarbital would be key, he thought. He left several more messages. And when he got to PetHealthPlex, he apologized for hanging up before on the receptionist, a woman named Marinna with a great phone voice.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Our practice administrator said to tell you we can’t answer any questions like that about drugs unless we know who we’re dealing with. But if you want to come down here and show some ID, they’d probably help you out.”
“I’ll be there at 4:30.”
Jeff drove to the gourmet delivery business first. It was stuck in the back of an industrial park and also offered catering services. The owner showed Jeff an employment application for a Tommy Tutone. The guy had been working there, “very part time,” for about a month. He’d been a good worker, and he’d made three deliveries without incident last night before heading to the Ellis’ and never coming back. They didn’t have his picture.
The sprawling, single-story building that held the veterinary office was glass and stucco and reminded Jeff of a California plastic surgery practice from a TV show whose name he couldn’t remember. Inside, the waiting area was skylit and done in slate tile. There were separate alcoves for dogs and cats and people with other animals. Each had toys and jars of treats appropriate to the species.
The place smelled like litter box, hamster food and wet dog, yet Jeff suspected it wasn’t cheap. The vehicles in the parking lot were high-end, and so were the owners. One dachshund wore a long, skinny green sweater. A retired woman caught him looking and volunteered, “He has a cold.”
At the nexus of the waiting rooms, a young woman sat at the center of a circular desk at least a dozen feet in diameter. She looked Scandinavian, with pale skin and woolen hair that seemed to range naturally from white to straw.
“You must be Marinna. Jeff Swaine. We just talked on the phone.” He pulled his laminated legal investigator card from his wallet and showed her.
She stood, smiled and nodded, then picked up the phone in front of her. She wore a breezy white blouse and a sleeve skirt made of some sort of unbleached natural fiber. “You can talk with Dr. Maddox.”
She put a self-standing sign on the desk – “Back in two barks and a meow” – and ducked underneath a section of the desktop that probably hinged open when there wasn’t a stack of papers on it. Marinna’s long hair brushed the floor. She smiled. “Hard to do that gracefully.”
“Yet that’s exactly how you did it.”
She smiled at him again, open and friendly. Jeff wondered if she delighted everyone she met like this, whether an identical twin without her effortless way of being would strike him as so pretty.
Marinna led Jeff to a narrow corridor of offices, knocked on the door of one and then let him in to speak with Dr. Maddox, a silver-haired fellow with lines in his face that indicated he spent a good bit of time frowning. Marinna touched Jeff lightly on the shoulder while making the introduction, then left and closed the door behind her.
“Just move those files to the floor,” Maddox said. Jeff cleared out the guest chair he indicated. The rest of the office was just as cluttered.
“Dr. Maddox, you may be aware that two pets were killed with sodium phenobarbital during burglaries this week. This morning, a woman woke up after her home was burglarized, and sheriff’s investigators I’m working with have determined she was injected with the same drug. I’m trying to help figure out where the burglar may have gotten it, so I’m asking veterinary practices in the area if they’re missing any.”
“I have no idea.”
And, apparently, no desire to find out.
“Would you be willing to check? This woman had been stri
pped mostly naked. She is in the ICU at Wake Med right now. She nearly died overnight.”
Maddox silently stood and opened the door. Jeff decided to follow, even though he hadn’t been invited. Maddox took them to a suite of exam rooms. In one of them, a brown-skinned woman was examining a border collie.
“Rena, are we missing any sodium phenobarb? This guy is looking into those pet killings that were in the paper. He says a human was injected with it overnight.”
The woman turned to the dog’s owner. “Try to keep him still for a moment, if you don’t mind. I’ll be right back.”
Dr. Rena Nagra shook Jeff’s hand and then led him and Maddox to the next room. She held open a swinging door. It looked like a hospital operating room, with bright lights mounted on the ceiling above a metal table. When they were all inside, Dr. Nagra pulled open a drawer. Glass tinked. She pulled out a box with a plastic liner in the bottom, like an egg carton, with circular slots for 12 vials of the drug. Jeff counted five vials.
“Uh oh,” Nagra said.
Maddox activated his facial creases. “What?”
“We just got this in last week, enough for a couple of months, but half of it is already gone. I used two vials, and I can’t imagine that the rest of you guys would have used more than one other one.”
“We have to call the police,” Maddox said, apparently never having assumed Jeff fell into that category.
“Definitely,” Jeff said. “Actually, it would be the Sheriff’s Office, and Lt. Randy Cooperton is in charge of this part of the county. Let me give you his number.”
Maddox called using a phone on the wall.
Nagra looked pale. “Those stories about that dog and cat were horrifying. I treated that golden retriever myself. She had returned to perfect health and could have been expected to live happily for years. I can’t believe we had some part in this happening.” She stopped and looked around the room. “How could someone have gotten in here to take it?”