by James Carol
Mendoza moved her sunglasses up on to the top of her head and pushed past him. Winter followed her inside. There were a dozen people sitting at the tables, five pairs and a couple of singletons, all of them staring. He felt like he’d walked into the saloon scene from every John Ford Western he’d ever watched.
‘Take a seat and I’ll be with you in a second.’
Winter tracked the voice to the waitress behind the counter. She was well into her fifties, with a square face that was all hard angles and suspicion. The stone in her engagement ring was larger than he would have expected from someone working in a diner. It was probably an heirloom. She smiled, but there was no warmth there.
The window seat was already taken, so he made his way to an empty table at the rear, Mendoza following him this time. The eyes of the other customers watched his progress and he did his best to ignore them. He removed his jacket, unzipped his hoodie and sat down with his back to the wall. Mendoza sat opposite him with her back to the other customers. One by one everybody went back to their coffees and breakfasts. The last person to turn away was the old guy who’d claimed the window seat.
The waitress came over and poured two coffees. Winter added two sugars to his, paused a moment, then spooned in a third. It would be too sweet, but he figured he was going to need all the extra energy he could get today. Sleep deprivation was a bitch.
‘What can I get you?’
‘I’d like an egg-white omelette and as much coffee as you can spare,’ said Mendoza.
‘And I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries, and a large piece of cherry pie, please,’ Winter added. ‘The same goes for me with regards the coffee.’
‘Cheeseburger, an omelette and a piece of pie coming right up.’
The waitress wrote their order down on her pad then headed back to the counter.
‘So what do we know?’ Mendoza took a sip of coffee, then started counting off on her fingers. ‘One, our mystery woman wants you to prove that she didn’t commit a crime that she says she’s accused of committing, even though the cops say different.’ She held up a second finger. ‘Two, the Reeds’ case file is missing.’
‘Maybe it’s been stolen.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it. Another explanation is that the file was out back but Birch didn’t want us to see it, so he got Peterson to pretend it wasn’t there.’
‘Not buying. If anything had passed between them, it would have needed to have been pretty direct for Peterson to get it. Peterson does not do subtle, nor does he do anything without Birch’s say so. He probably puts his hand up if he needs to use the bathroom.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
Mendoza’s cell phone beeped in her pocket. She checked for new emails, her eyes widening in surprise.
‘What is it?’ Winter asked.
‘See for yourself.’
She handed him the phone, and his eyes widened too. Wonders never cease, he thought. The Monroe Sheriff’s Department had come through on the crime scene photographs. Winter recognised the Reeds’ living room straightaway. There were differences. To start with the bodies were in situ. Secondly, the way that the table had been laid was even more elaborate than he’d imagined. Birch had been right about the three-pronged candelabra, and there was flatware for a three-course meal. Starter, main, dessert. Winter swiped through the crime scene photographs, looking for a close-up of the table. He found one and used his fingertip to navigate the photograph, zooming in so he could examine every inch of it. He handed the phone back.
‘This clinches it. Nelson definitely set the table.’
Mendoza was studying the photograph, her finger moving back and forth. ‘This is why you asked Birch about the bloodstains, right? If the tablecloth had been there when the murders took place it would have been covered in blood. No way would a bright white tablecloth have escaped without a mark. So Nelson kills the Reeds then cleans himself up and lays the table. Why the hell would he do something like that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Each word was formed carefully, like he was talking in a foreign language.
‘See, that wasn’t so difficult. Okay, so what now?’
Winter looked over and saw the waitress coming towards them with their food. ‘Now we eat.’
The plates went down, thanks were said, and Winter took a large bite out of his burger. He finished it before Mendoza had got halfway through her omelette, then started on his cherry pie. Three forkfuls in he became aware that she was watching him. He looked across at her.
‘What? Have I got crumbs around my mouth?’
‘No, I was just wondering if you were brought up by wolves.’
Winter laughed. ‘Remind me again how you ended up being a cop. You hate doughnuts, hate burgers, and who in their right mind orders an egg-white omelette? What’s the point in that?’
Mendoza answered by carefully cutting away a small bite-sized section of omelette and popping it into her mouth.
Winter finished his pie then arranged all his cutlery so it was lined up straight in the exact centre of his plate. He wiped his hands on his serviette, then folded it into quarters and placed it neatly beside the plate.
‘We need to find out where they carry out autopsies around here. See what the coroner has to say.’
‘How about this? Maybe he’s going to tell us that this is a six-year-old murder that’s already been solved and we should just hustle back to New York and work Omar’s murder from there.’
‘With all due respect, you going on and on about New York really isn’t helping here. Do I need to remind you what Lieutenant Jones said?’
Without another word Mendoza stood up and headed towards the restrooms, her annoyance punctuated by every short, sharp footstep. Winter watched her go. Her back was too straight, and her arms were swinging awkwardly by her sides. He pulled out his cell and found the police department’s number. Birch answered on the seventh ring with a terse ‘Police’. No ‘hello’, no ‘how can I help’, just that one word. The guy really was an asshole.
‘Earlier you mentioned that the sheriff’s department tried to push you out of the investigation, so I’m figuring that the autopsies were held over in Rochester?’
‘I’m assuming this is Winter.’
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet, Chief.’
Winter heard a sigh. There was a slight pause then Birch said, ‘Yes, they were.’
‘I’d like to speak to the medical examiner who carried them out. I don’t suppose you remember who that was?’
‘Sorry, I can’t help you there. It was six years ago.’
Winter heard the lie in his voice, the thin veil of glee. Birch was trying to bait him. ‘No problem. Thanks for your time.’
Winter hung up before Birch had a chance to respond, then called the county ME’s office. The woman who answered was a damn sight more helpful, but the hold music was painful. Bach’s Air on the G String on an endless loop. Forty-two seconds on hold and he wanted to scream. The music stopped, and the woman came back on the line.
‘Are you still there, sir?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here.’
‘The autopsies were carried out by Dr Rosalea Griffin, the Chief Medical Investigator. Dr Griffin has been out all morning, but we are expecting her back soon. If you’d like to talk to her she’ll be here between two and three, and then she’s out at meetings for the rest of the day.’
Winter looked up and saw Mendoza coming out of the restroom.
‘Would Dr Griffin be able to spare five minutes if I dropped by at two?’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. Just remind me, what did you say your name was, Detective?’
‘Mendoza.’
Winter spelled out the name, said a quick thanks and goodbye, then hung up. Mendoza pulled out her chair and sat back down. She studied his face, glanced at his cell.
‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Birch. I was asking him about the missing file.’
‘No news, I’m guessing.�
��
‘Nope.’ He gave it a second then added, ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe we’re going at this all wrong. We’re being too reactive. We need to take a step back and try and get some perspective. How about we wipe the slate clean and start again? Let’s pretend that the Reeds have just been murdered. There are no theories, no hypotheses, and no mystery woman waving a newspaper around. We go right back to first principles. We’ll need to start by looking at the victims and build things up from there.’
Mendoza took a long sip of her coffee. ‘We’re talking about a murder that happened six years ago. Do you have any idea how much I hate cold cases? They’re a pain in the ass to investigate.’ She sighed long and hard, air whistling between her teeth. ‘So where do we start? The coroner?’
‘Let’s forget about the coroner for the moment. The person we really need to speak to right now is Granville Clarke.’
Mendoza frowned. ‘And who the hell’s Granville Clarke?’
‘He’s the guy who wrote the newspaper article about the murders. A small town like this, it’s the journalists who really know what’s going on. If they don’t know, then it isn’t worth knowing.’
The waitress came back over and topped up their coffees. This time Winter went for his usual two sugars. Mendoza finished her omelette and they headed to the counter. Winter settled the bill and gave the waitress a tip that was almost as much as the whole meal.
‘That was excellent pie, by the way.’
The waitress smiled at the compliment. ‘Glad you enjoyed it, hon.’
‘I wonder if you could help us out. We’re looking for the Gazette’s office.’
‘It’s on Main, a couple of hundred yards up from the police department. Not that it’ll do you much good. The paper shut down last year.’
The way things were going, this was no great surprise. Dead ends and dead witnesses, that seemed to be the way things were rolling today. ‘We really need to see Granville Clarke. I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?’
‘Now that one I can help with.’ She nodded to the old guy at the window seat. ‘That’s Granville sitting right over there.’
14
‘Do you mind if we sit down?’
‘Fine by me since it’s a free country,’ replied Clarke, ‘But if you’re wanting to talk, you’re going to be talking to air. I’m just leaving.’
He studied them from behind his wire-framed spectacles for a moment, then stood up and shook himself into his coat. He was a tall, skinny man with cheekbones that were so prominent they were almost cutting through his skin.
‘Put my breakfast on my tab, please,’ he called over to the waitress.
‘And when exactly are you planning on settling your tab?’ she shouted back.
‘The end of the month.’
‘That’s what you said last month, Granville, and the month before that.’
‘See you tomorrow, Violet.’
Clarke flipped a loose wave over his shoulder then pushed through the diner door and headed outside. Mendoza and Winter followed and found him standing in the middle of the sidewalk staring up at the sky. Winter followed his gaze but couldn’t see anything except a whole lot of blue. Even the birds and clouds from earlier had gone.
Mendoza was staring, too. ‘What am I missing?’
Clarke looked at Mendoza, then Winter. In this light his milky blue eyes looked gentle and friendly and disarming, and Winter was sure they were all those things, but that was only a part of it. The old guy might have been in his eighth decade but he was as sharp as they came.
‘Chip away the hard edges and Violet’s got a heart of gold,’ he said. ‘I wish she’d clean those damn windows, though. You can’t see a thing out of them.’
‘What’s that all about?’ asked Winter. ‘The windows, I mean. The rest of the place is spotless.’
‘That one’s down to Zak. He owns the place. Not that you’d know. He spends his whole time in the kitchen and never comes out. Zak hates tourists.’ Clarke chuckled softly to himself. ‘Actually you could probably widen that particular net to encapsulate every man, woman and child on the planet. But tourists he hates with a passion. The dirty windows and crappy paintwork, that’s to deter them from coming in. The town committee can’t stand it, but there’s nothing they can do.’
‘Why? The way I see it, a small town like this, you’d want all the business you can get.’
Clarke smiled at Winter. ‘Get right to the heart of the matter, why don’t you? You know, my father taught me that if you want the story, you need to know the right questions to ask. It’s the only piece of advice he gave me that was worth a damn, but it was a gem.’
‘So why does he hate tourists?’ Winter asked again.
‘Because his wife ran off with one. At least that’s the way he sees it. Ask anyone around here and they’ll tell you that Zak got what was coming to him. The only real surprise was that she stayed with him so long.’ Clarke’s face suddenly turned serious. ‘Now talking about the right questions to ask. Who the hell are you, and what do you want?’
Mendoza showed her badge. ‘I’m Detective Carla Mendoza, NYPD.’
‘That’s one question cleared up.’ Clarke smiled at Winter. ‘And what about you young man? You’d like me to believe you’re a big-time New York City cop, which is why you’re stood there keeping so quiet. But, if you were a cop, you’d have been as quick on the draw with your badge as your friend was.’
Winter smiled and nodded. Busted. ‘My name’s Jefferson Winter. I used to be with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. These days I work freelance.’
‘Freelance eh?’ He turned back to Mendoza. ‘I guess that answers the who, so how abouts you tell me what you want?’
‘We’re looking into the murders of Lester and Melanie Reed.’
Clarke laughed. ‘With all due respect, that ship has well and truly sailed.’
‘We believe that their deaths might be connected with a murder that happened in New York in the early hours of this morning.’
Clarke stood nodding to himself on the sidewalk, processing this. ‘Okay, you’ve got me curious. How about we head over to my office so we can talk about this some more?’
‘Violet said the Gazette had shut down.’
‘It has, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have an office.’
Without another word, Clarke crossed the street and headed off down the road towards the Gazette’s building. Winter and Mendoza looked at each other, then followed him. Clarke had his keys out before he reached the door. He unlocked it and gave it a shove where the top edge had stuck to the frame.
Stepping into the reception area was like taking another step back in time. The place looked as though it hadn’t been decorated in a while. Like the station house, the room was divided in two by a long counter that ran the entire length of it. On the business side there were filing cabinets, a desk, a coat stand, and a dated computer. Relics from a bygone age. The wall calendar was set to July of last year.
The place had been abandoned in a hurry, like the Mary Celeste. A coffee mug and paperwork lay on the desk, and the chair had been pushed back like the occupant had gone to use the restroom and would be back soon. The light covers were filthy, there was a layer of dust everywhere, and the windows were as dirty as the diner’s.
Clarke caught him looking and smiled sadly. ‘This is the sad truth of our existence. In the end everything is just dust and memories.’
‘And that’s way too profound for this time of the day.’ Mendoza turned to Winter. ‘Remind me why we’re here again.’
Winter pressed a finger to his lips and Mendoza rolled her eyes.
‘You know,’ said Clarke, ‘it’s hard to believe that this place was once filled with noise and bustle. I came to work here as a cub reporter in the fifties, when I was fifteen. Back then, my grandfather was the editor, my father was news editor and I made more coffees than I care to remember. It was my grandfather who started the paper in 1897. It would b
reak his heart to see this. It sure breaks mine.’
Without another word, Clarke walked off towards the door at the far end of the counter. Winter started to follow him but only got a couple of steps before Mendoza grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to a stop.
‘Fascinating as this trip down Memory Lane is, I’ve got to wonder what the hell we’re doing here.’ She was talking in a fast harsh whisper that emphasised the Brooklyn in her accent.
‘If you want, you can go wait outside.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. We need background on the Reeds, and Clarke can give us that, so I’m staying.’
He turned and headed for the door that Clarke had just disappeared through. Mendoza gave it a couple of seconds before following. He could sense her irritation in every breath and heavy footstep. The door led to a steep narrow staircase. Clarke was almost at the top and Winter hurried to catch up. There was a small landing at the top with three doors leading off. Clarke took a key from his pocket and unlocked the first door on the left.
Unlike the reception area, the office was clean and tidy. It was a room filled with significance. The oak desk was old, maybe even dating all the way back to Clarke’s grandfather. There was a green leather blotter, and, in pride of place on top of it, an Olivetti typewriter. The telephone had a rotary dial and the answering machine used a cassette. Both looked ancient. There was no computer or any other high-tech gadgetry, nothing to indicate that this was the new millennium.
The chessboard on the small round occasional table was frozen mid-game, and both the in- and out-trays on the desk were empty. These two details said more than anything else. They told a tale of how the world had moved on, of how this was a place where time had stopped. Winter studied the chessboard for a second. Checkmate in five for white.