Always, seagulls constantly flood the dreary sky, seemingly hovering forever, motionless.
In every direction of the city, towers and domes of many Muslim Mosques dominate. Though, none more notable or more beautiful than the Blue Mosque – called thus, not by Muslims but by tourists, for its tens of thousands of blue tiles that decorate the monument of Islam.
As customary, I removed my shoes and washed my feet at one of the small fountains that lined the outer wall of the Masque. I entered with my shoes stashed in a small bag tucked under my arm.
Inside the Mosque was, to put it mildly, impressive. Hundreds of prayer carpets on the floor, each with its unique design, all of them facing Mecca. High above are massive domes, each with swirling regal designs, and hundreds of small lights suspended from the ceiling flicker like fireflies just a few feet above our heads. I felt enthralled for the moment, and then the moment turned.
“Smile,” I heard that now familiar voice say.
I turned in the moment Harold took my photo.
No longer in the company of Margaret Ann, I felt I needn’t show any restraint. I swiftly moved up to Harold, took him by the collar and pushed him into a small alcove.
“What is with you?” I hollered, my face just inches from his, “You got a thing for young guys, or what? What’s your story, mister?”
“I’m just trying to be friendly,” whimpered Harold.
“Bull…what the hell do you need a dozen photos of strangers for?”
A calm and serious look came over Harold’s face.
“I’ve heard some very nasty stories about Turkish prisons, and I don’t intend to find out if the rumors are true, firsthand. I don’t think this is the place to discuss such matters, if you know what I mean?” he whispered, pointing his chin to a place behind me.
I turned to see what he was pointing to. There was a small group of worshipers staring at us with open mouths.
“I suggest we take our discussion outside,” he said.
I gently released him from my grip; we smiled and nodded at the small group and walked out.
Seated on the steps of the Mosque, we put on our shoes.
“Okay…I’m listening,” I said, tightening my shoelaces.
“This isn’t the place,” he said, “There’s a café just to the left of Saint Sophie’s where we can talk in private.”
Behind the Blue Mosque is a beautiful garden park with walkways routed through exquisite groupings of flowers. Passed that is another large building, Saint Sophie’s, a-once Christian Cathedral the Moslems turned into a Mosque when they invaded and conquered the city hundreds of years ago – now it is a museum.
There is a street to the left of Saint Sophie, the first café has an outdoor seating area, which is high up and overlooks the immediate area. We sat down at a table and ordered the well-known local coffee.
“Okay…I’m listening,” I repeated.
Harold pulled a business card from his top pocket and handed it to me; it read: Harold Macintosh – Private Investigator.
“I was hired many months ago by Mr. Kendal Seating to investigate the fidelity of his wife, Margaret Ann. He loves her, but doesn’t trust her…what with all her past and all.”
“Why…because she was once a common waitress in Las Vegas…is that it?” I asked.
“Is that what she told you? Oh…they met in Las Vegas, all right…but at one of those ranches out in the desert…Margaret Ann used to be a hooker!”
It shocked me slightly, but I wasn’t surprised.
“As I was saying, Kendal Seating hired me to investigate his wife’s fidelity; he had his suspicions. I went up to Canada; I followed her from afar for a few months – nothing. In fact, I’m sure it will please you to know her unfaithfulness to her husband was only with you. I guess you could say she was loyal to you in her disloyalty to her husband.” He seemed pleased with his phrasing and chuckled.
“Anyway,” he went on, “Whenever the Seatings were in New York, I tailed Margaret Ann, and her trail always lead to you.
“I have to admit you’re a true professional. I took dozens of photos of Margaret Ann with you around town – restaurants, shows, shops, museums, every tourist trap you two went to. But try as I may, I could never get a photograph of the two of you in a compromising position. That’s why I came on this cruise.
“When I found out you were coming, I figured it would be easy; I knew at some point you two would slip up.
“Such goings-on…and right out in the open! I’ve rolls and rolls of some great shots! I’ve already mailed them to my office, so don’t get any smart ideas.”
“You must have me confused with someone who cares…” I smiled.
“I guess chivalry died generations ago,” said Harold, “It doesn’t matter to me, either.”
“So, what’s your point,” I asked, “If there is one?”
“Slow down, young fella; I’ll get to you soon enough. Just let me finish my story. Now where was I? Ah…yes…I had breakfast this morning with Margaret Ann, and she’s promised to pay me an appallingly large sum for the negatives.”
“And…what about Kendall?” I interrupted.
“Oh, Kendal, don’t worry, I can handle him. He pays me the same amount no matter if his wife is faithful or not. This way I get money on both ends, from Margaret Ann and Kendal. I’ll just tell him there was nothing between the two of you but a close friendship.”
“And…you think he’ll buy that story?” I questioned.
“Sure, he’ll buy it! I’ll tell him you’re just some artsy faggot she liked to hang out with and go shopping with.”
“Yeah…but if our affiliation was simply platonic, why did she hide it from him?”
“Because she knows how he is. He’s got a suspicious jealous streak…he knows it as well as anybody. She was just afraid he wouldn’t understand; so she kept it a secret from him.
“I know just how to sell it. ‘Your wife wasn’t cheating on you; she’s just a fag-hag’. His macho ego will just eat that story up. Like I said, don’t worry, I can handle Kendal.”
“Like I said…Go tell someone who cares!”
I was just about to get up and walk away when he said it, “Albert Kenyon…”
I froze in my chair, all the blood drained from my face and hands; I felt ice-cold.
“And since I’m name-dropping, what about…Edgar Kingston?” He smirked, between sips of coffee.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” I tried to bluff my way out with hoarfrost tone.
“Well, let me refresh your memory,” said Harold, “You and your boyfriend, Chi Jackson, are responsible for the murders of both men, and I have photographs to prove it.”
“Photographs…?” I echoed.
“Of course, you don’t think I only investigated Margaret Ann and you when she was in town; I’m more professional than that! I followed you for weeks before and after her visits. And the things I saw…my, my!
“And the last time I was outside your studio, I got some great photos of Mrs. Monica Evans. How much you want to bet when we get back to the states, Mr. Tom Evans is no longer…I bet Chi’s been real busy while you were gone…another satisfied costumer…ay, Alex?”
“You bastard!” I shouted as I stood up, and with the back of my hand I cleared the table. Cups and saucers flew across the veranda and dashed into little pieces on the floor.
Surprisingly, none of the costumers or the waiters paid much attention to the ruckus I was making – perhaps, for them, it was a common event?
“Alex, my boy, remember what I told you about Turkish prisons? Don’t get so upset, we can work something out.”
“I suppose you’re going to shake me down like you did Margaret Ann?” I said, still standing.
“Of course, I am. After all, you’ve got lots more to lose than she does. Don’t take it so hard, Alex. It’s only business.”
“So…tell me…how much?” I demanded.
“Alex…don’t be so crude; t
his isn’t the time and place. You have my card, come see me at my office next Thursday, at five. We can work out a price, then.
“And, don’t forget to bring your friend, Chi. He’s in the photos also; he has a stake in this, too!”
***
The flight back was a nightmare; I couldn’t stop thinking about my predicament. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. When the limo dropped me in front of my studio, I felt exhausted.
I had forgotten to have my mail and newspaper stopped. I walked up my stairs trying not to drop the pile of letters and papers under my arm. Inside the studio, I heaped it all onto my dining table.
Jetlag can be almost as horrifying an experience as a champagne hangover. It was six in the morning and my body felt as if it were midnight. I could have easily fallen asleep, but that would put me opposite my normal time schedule for days. I had to tough it out and stay awake till evening, at least.
I decided to make myself a pot of coffee.
While it was brewing, I dialed my answering service to check my messages. Mostly it was the same old dribble, till the operator relayed a message from the past Thursday afternoon from Mrs. Monica Evans.
And I quote, “Dear Alex, about the party we talked about, it seems I won’t be out of town this week, so the party has to be called off. Get in touch with me soon; whenever, so we can reschedule…Love Monica.”
The following message was from Chi on Friday, and I quote, “Everything went better than expected. There was more in the shipment than predicted. Had to take care of two customers instead of one, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle…call me, Chi.”
Something was wrong…terribly wrong! I ran over to the table, sat down, and fumbled through the stack of old newspapers. It didn’t take long; I found what I was looking for. It was a small article on one of the back pages; I read it slowly; with each word, chills went up and down my spine.
High-Rise Killings: Mr. and Mrs. Tom Evans, of Forty-eight and Central, The Crestview Arms, were found dead in their top-floor, high-rise penthouse, by building security. The couple had been murdered during an obvious burglary. Much of the details of the crime are being withheld by police at this time. The bodies of Tom Evans and his wife, Monica Chandler Evans are…
I didn’t need to read any more. I dropped the paper and picked up the phone. Chi’s phone was busy. I looked at the wall clock. If his phone was busy early in the day it could only mean one thing – it was off the hook, and he was with a client.
I ran downstairs, out onto the street, I hailed a cab to Chi’s.
I was just about to slam my fist onto his front door when it opened.
There was Chi, dressed in his morning robe, and with him was a woman wearing a dark brown business outfit. An orange scarf draped her neck and shoulders; probably, to distract anyone from looking at her face. She had the mug of a prizewinning, thoroughbred pedigree bulldog, framed by brown hair cut in a short pageboy.
“Alex…what are you doing here?” Chi’s voice sounded friendly enough, but his smile was clearly forced.
“I need to speak with you, Chi.” My voice was friendly and my smile just as false.
Chi did the introductions, “Mona, this is my good friend, Alex. Alex, this is Mona.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“And you,” smiled the bulldog, “I’d love to stay and play with you two boys, but I must get to the office.” She turned to Chi, “Now, I’ll call you in a week, when Russell leaves for L.A.”
“I’ll be waiting, my pet,” Chi said, and then he reached over and kissed her.
She excused herself once more, and made her way to the elevator. She got in and before the doors closed she waved and blew a kiss to Chi. He imaginarily caught it and placed it to his lips. I was sick.
Once alone, he grabbed my arm, forcibly threw me inside and slammed the door.
“What the hell are you doing here, Alex? I’m trying to make a living, here!”
“I’m sorry; I tried to call but…”
“But the line was busy…right! You know that means I’m with a client!”
“I said I’m sorry; but something’s come up. We need to talk.”
“Can it at least wait till I put on some clothes?” Chi said as he walked off.
I could smell the aroma of coffee coming from the kitchen. I went off, poured myself a cup, and settled down on the living room sofa.
Chi came out, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and sat down across from me.
“So, what’s the big emergency?” he asked, crossing his legs.
“There are a few things we need to talk about. First, what the hell happened with the Evans job?”
“What do you mean…what happened with the Evans job? It’s over and done.”
“Chi…I get home and there’s a message from Monica she left with my answering service. She wanted to call it off!
“Then, I read the newspapers, and I learn you not only killed her husband, but you killed her, too. Now…forgive me if I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer…but, wouldn’t you think it a bad businesses practice to start killing our clients, too!”
“Now, wait just one minute, Alex; hold your horses! How the hell was I suppose to know she wanted to call it off?
“All I know is, I do what we planned, and I get there and there’s one too many victims. What was I suppose to do? How could I have known she was the client? I did what I had to do; and you know it. Besides, who’s going to know? The papers said it was a burglary.”
“I just hope she didn’t tell anyone she hired me. You know how these bitches talk.” I said.
“Yeah…lucky for us,” laughed Chi.
He leaned over toward me, “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he smiled and bit down on his lower lip like a child anticipating telling a secret. “Just you wait here.”
He jumped up and ran into the bedroom. I could see him on his knees poking around under his bed. He came back a moment later holding a shoe box; he placed it reverently down on the coffee table in front of me.
“Surprise…!” he shouted.
I leaned over and flipped the lid off the box. My eyes went wide. There were some of the most exquisite pieces of woman’s jewelry I had ever seen in one place, apart from a jewelry store. And it wasn’t your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill stuff; it was top of the line, primo merchandise.
“Where the hell…?” Then it dawned on me! “No…don’t tell me. This is Monica’s jewelry, the stuff she said she was going to lockup in the wall safe. But…how…?”
“I made her open it. I told her I’d kill her if she didn’t open the safe.”
This was proof to me he knew the woman was Monica, the client. His story wasn’t consistent. Chi was lying; but what else is new?
“But you killed her anyway,” I asked, sounding judgmental.
“Alex…I only did it for us…we’re partners…fifty/fifty.”
He sounded so sincere, I almost felt bad about not telling him about the additional twenty-five thousand I was going to collect after the job. Of course, it was a sum I would have to kiss good-bye, now that Monica was dead.
“But what are we going to do with all of it?” I asked, raking my fingers through the pieces of jewelry.
“Don’t worry, I know a guy who’ll take it off our hands. We’ll probably only get a third of what they’re worth, but still it’s a fortune.”
There was a worried and unsure expression on my face.
“Don’t worry,” he repeated, “I’ll take care of everything.”
“I just don’t know about all this,” I said.
“Alex, I did it for us…I did it for you.”
He took hold of my hand. I felt a bit uncomfortable with the gesture, and slowly retracted my hand.
I was becoming the entire world to Chi – his friend, his brother, his mother and father – he never had anyone, and now I was everything. It’s not a good idea to be everything to anyone.
I listened intently, as he rela
yed the story of the night of the killings.
Knowing Chi, I was sure he omitted any information that made him look bad in my eyes. Anything that made him appear what he in fact was – a psychopathic, sociopath, killer.
Of course, the newspapers had their version. But they could only report what they heard from the police.
The police believed more than one suspect committed the crime. They thought one person could never cause so much havoc – they didn’t know Chi.
So, we have Chi’s edited version, the newspaper’s limited report, and the continuing police’s misguided investigation. Taking all this into account, mixed with my firsthand knowledge of the places and people involved, I submit to you what I believe to have happened that night.
***
Chi left his apartment, dressed in black. In his back pocket was a pair of rubber surgical gloves, and a nine-inch stiletto knife, which he bought at a pawnshop just off Forty-eight and Broadway a few months earlier.
The distance between Chi’s apartment and his destination was at least two miles, but he decided not to take a cab and walk the distance, both before and especially after the crime.
On arriving at the Crestview Arms, Chi went around the back of the building, and down the alley to the backdoor. At this point, he put on the rubber surgical gloves. If he were to encounter anyone, he could put his hands in his pockets. Of course, any encounter with anyone other than the victims meant the job was called off, at least for the time being.
He used the key, which Monica supplied, to enter the building. He progressed through dark walkways, passed the boiler and maintenance rooms, passed the laundry room, and passed the freight elevator.
He thought it best to walk to the top floor by the back fire-staircase. He felt his chance of someone seeing him to be nil.
At the top floor, he entered the penthouse using the other key supplied by Monica. Once inside, he moved about slowly through dimly lit rooms.
He heard sounds coming from the kitchen, he went to investigate.
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