Deadly Web

by Michael Omer

  “Is there any way to corroborate that’s what happened?”

  “Well, I dropped by at about five-fifteen to make sure that she would be eating in the dining room. Sometimes Frank took her out to eat, and we need to know how many meals to prepare. He was in her room.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking to her.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t listen.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then, at about six, he escorted her to the community room, where they played cards for about half an hour. They probably took a walk outside before, like they usually did, but I can’t say for sure.”

  “And then what?”

  “He said goodbye and left.”

  “Did he escort his sister back to her room?”

  “No, it was time for dinner. She went to the dining room, on her own.”

  “Was that usual?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Frank fight with anyone, have any confrontations, or take any strange phone calls while he was here?”

  “Not at all. He is… was a very peaceful man.”

  Jacob recalled the nasty Twitter accounts Mitchell had shown him before they left the station, and tried to connect that to the man they were talking about. “Did his sister behave unusually in any way while he was here?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hobart.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you catch whoever did this.” She hung up.

  Jacob handed the phone back to Mrs. Pendergast. “Mrs. Pendergast,” he said. “Did Frank or his sister have any problems with anyone? Perhaps a family member?”

  “No. I can’t imagine he would. He was an amazing person. So very kind.”

  “Can you give us a list of the visitors his sister has had in the past year?”

  “Well… No. Not unless you have a search warrant. Those records are confidential. But I wouldn’t bother.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one except Frank visited her.”

  “We need to talk to his sister,” Jacob said.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Pendergast sighed. “But I’ll be there the entire time. And you won’t say a word until I explain everything. This is very delicate, Detective.”

  “Informing about death always is, Mrs. Pendergast,” Jacob said.

  “Yes. I expect so. Nevertheless, you will let me explain.”

  Jacob nodded. She led them through several passages to a long hallway lined with doors. She approached one of the doors and knocked.

  “Melinda?” she said. “Can we please come in?”

  The door opened. A woman Jacob recognized from some of the pictures on Frank’s Instagram page stood in the doorway. Her hair was chestnut brown, and her nose was a bit wide, making it a prominent feature on her face. Her eyes, large and hazlenut, fluttered around, scanning the visitors then lowering to her hands.

  “We can talk in the hallway,” she said. “There is no reason to come in.”

  “Melinda,” Mrs. Pendergast said in a soft tone. “These gentlemen need to tell you something. And it is something that should be told in your room.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s how it’s done.”

  “Okay. You can come in,” Melinda said. “Don’t touch the pictures. Please,” she added a second later, as though as an afterthought.

  They entered her room. It was simple, but tasteful. There was a double bed, the sheets folded neatly on top. A blue couch stood against the wall on the right, exactly opposite a bookcase on the other side of the room. There was a small doorway to what appeared to be a bathroom. There were five pictures on the wall, all of them depicting famous modern buildings. Jacob identified the Sydney Opera House and One World Trade Center. Melinda walked a few feet inside, and turned around. Her eyes wandered and Jacob realized she was looking at each of the pictures in turn. Finally, her stare focused on Mrs. Pendergast.

  “Melinda,” Mrs. Pendergast said. “Something happened to Frank. Something bad.”

  “What happened?” Melinda asked. As far as Jacob could tell, she didn’t sound worried or agitated. Was Mrs. Pendergast overly protective of Melinda?

  “He was killed last night,” Mrs. Pendergast said. “He is dead.”

  “Oh. How?”

  Jacob cleared his throat. “He was stabbed,” he said.

  Mrs. Pendergast glanced at him sharply, but he ignored her.

  “Oh. I see,” Melinda said. “Where?”

  “He was stabbed in the heart.”

  “No, I mean, where did it happen?”

  “In his apartment,” Jacob said, frowning.

  “Yes. Where in the apartment?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Where,” Melinda said, and for the first time she began to sound agitated. “Where? Where? In the bathroom? In the kitchen? In the bedroom? In the living room? In the hallway—”

  “In the living room,” Mitchell said, interrupting. “It happened in the living room.”

  Melinda’s eyes started wandering again. She looked at each of the pictures. “We bought it together.”

  “Bought what?” Jacob asked.

  “The rug in the living room. We bought it together. Frank used to say that it matched the room well. Did the blood stain the rug?”

  “Yes…” Jacob said. Should he stress the fact that her brother was dead? No, she said Frank used to say. Past tense. She understood.

  “Maybe it can be dry cleaned. It was off-white. They called the color eggshell white in the store. We went to buy it together. Is it a big stain?” Her eyes started scanning the pictures again.

  “Melinda,” Jacob said. “Did Frank seem—”

  “Don’t touch the pictures. I think blood can be cleaned. I need to research it. I will do it later. Frank used to say that it matched the room well.” Her face turned from picture to picture, in small, jerking movements.

  “Did you notice anything unusual in the past few weeks?” Mitchell asked.

  “He wore the green shirt more than usual. He wore it three times in the past month. He usually wore it less. But he wore it three times in the past month. They stopped serving pink Jell-O in the dining room a month ago. There was a blue Ford Fiesta outside every time Frank and I took a walk the past two weeks. It was never here when I took a walk on my own.”

  “A blue Ford Fiesta?” Mitchell asked.

  “A blue Ford Fiesta. It doesn’t belong to anyone here. I know all the cars that belong to people here. It was a blue Ford Fiesta.”

  “Was it Frank’s?” Mitchell asked.

  “Frank didn’t drive here. He walked here. Even in the rain. He always walked here. He always”

  She stopped talking. Her eyes refused to focus, constantly flipping between the pictures. She began moving her body back and forth, her feet planted in place.

  “The blood has to be cleaned,” she suddenly said. “I have to check how. It needs to be cleaned. Frank used to say that it matched the room well. It is off-white. It needs to be cleaned…”

  “You need to leave now, Detectives,” Mrs. Pendergast said.

  Melinda kept saying over and over that the rug needed to be cleaned. Her voice was getting louder.

  “We just need to—” Jacob began.

  “Now, Detectives!” Mrs. Pendergast said sharply, and started physically dragging them to the door.

  Jacob glanced at Melinda one last time. She was still scanning the pictures, talking about the rug, the fingernails of her right hand digging into her left arm, white with effort. He realized his own heart was beating wildly, and his throat was clenching in sorrow. He quickly turned away and got out of the room. “Ma’am, we need to ask her some—”

  “You’ll ask her nothing right now,” Mrs. Pendergast said. “You can come back in a few days. Call first.”

  “Ma’am, this is a murder invest—”

  “I don’t care if it’s the second coming,” Mrs. Pendergast said, her voice clip
ped and final. “You are not questioning Melinda. Not like this. Not today.”

  And that was that.

  Bill’s Pizzushi Place was on Sunshine Drive, a bit outside the city center, and not far from Traynor Road, where Frank Gulliepe had been found dead. Due to a traffic jam caused by roadwork, it took Jacob and Mitchell almost half an hour to get there, and by the time they did Jacob’s stomach was grumbling. What he really wanted was a nice plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Glancing at the restaurant, he doubted he’d be able to get that there.

  The sign said Bill’s Pizzushi Place in a faded, ugly blue. Small, unappetizing cartoons of pizzas, bowls of pasta, and trays of sushi surrounded the restaurant’s name. Someone had thought mixing Italian and Japanese cuisine was a good idea. Looking through the display windows into the empty restaurant, it seemed to Jacob like it wasn’t a good idea at all.

  The two detectives got out of the car and entered the restaurant. It was warm inside—in fact, a bit too warm for Jacob’s taste. In the background he could hear one of those songs Amy played over and over at home, some pop song or other. They all blended together in Jacob’s mind.

  There was a rich smell of fresh coffee in the air, which was very encouraging. Jacob was not sure what one ate in a Pizzushi Place, but he sure could use a cup of coffee. The tables were all light brown; metallic chairs with cheap red upholstery were placed around them. The floor was checkered white and black, and Jacob started carefully stepping only on the white squares. It was an old childhood habit, which he found hard to break.

  He and Mitchell sat down at one of the tables. A waitress—not Lyla—walked over, handed them menus, smiled, and walked away.

  Jacob glanced at the menu and sighed. No bacon in sight.

  “This stuff looks good,” Mitchell said, scanning the menu.

  “Seriously?” Jacob said. “What looks good here, exactly?”

  “Well, the pastries, for one. And you can get a small bowl of rice with stripes of red tuna, which sounds interesting.”

  “Why would anyone want his breakfast to be interesting?” Jacob asked morosely. He located the hot beverage list. It consisted of about a dozen Italian words he didn’t recognize, and the word Sake.

  The waitress approached them. “Would you like to order?” she asked.

  “Is Pizzushi an actual dish you serve here?” Mitchell asked her.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “It’s pizza dough, with olives, onions and anchovy, rolled and sliced like sushi. We serve it with some rice.”

  “Is it a popular dish?” Mitchell asked.

  The waitress looked at him for a second, and said, “Sure.”

  Jacob doubted anyone ever ordered Pizzushi.

  “I’d like the fette biscottate, with a caffè latte,” Mitchell said.

  “Just coffee for me,” Jacob said.

  “Which coffee, sir?”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Jacob answered. “Is Lyla Harper working today?”

  The waitress hesitated.

  Jacob flashed his badge. “This is an official matter,” he said.

  “Yeah,” the waitress said. “I’ll get her.”

  She walked away. A moment later Lyla Harper entered the room through the kitchen door. Jacob had seen some of her photos earlier, but in real life she seemed even more beautiful than on the computer screen. If people ever came here to eat, he thought, they came here for Lyla, not for the Pizzushi. She approached their table nervously.

  “Can I help you, Detectives?” she asked.

  “Sit down, Miss Harper,” Jacob said.

  “I’m working,” she said. “I can’t—”

  “Sit down,” he said again. His tone was soft, but left no room for discussion.

  Lyla grabbed a chair and sat down.

  “Do you know a man named Frank Gulliepe?” Mitchell asked.

  “Y… yes,” she said. “We’ve been on a couple of dates.”

  “For how long have you been dating?”

  “I don’t know. Two or three weeks, I think,” she said.

  Their shared Instagram photos went four weeks back.

  “When was the last time you saw Frank?”

  “We went out two nights ago,” she said. “Why? Did something happen to him?”

  “Did he seem unusual when you went out with him? Was he agitated or concerned?”

  “No, but…” she stopped.

  Both detectives looked at her in silence. The silence stretched.

  “There was a man who approached us. He started yelling at Frank. Is this about that man?”

  “What did the man yell about?” Jacob asked.

  “He screamed at Frank to leave his wife alone. Threatened to call the cops,” Lyla said. “Did he call you? Is that what this is about? Because Frank said he had no idea who this man was. He said that the man got the wrong guy.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Bald. Pretty tall, I think. He had a big nose. Hairy eyebrows.”

  Jacob jotted this down. “Did you catch his name?”

  “No. I don’t think he said it, but if he did I forgot. It was really scary. He was really mad; it was scary. He had to be escorted outside.”

  “Where were you last night, Miss Harper?”

  “I had a shift. It ended at midnight. That’s when we close up.”

  The other waitress approached their table and put a plate with some sort of dried bread, jam, and butter in front of Mitchell. She gave them both mugs of coffee topped with foamy milk. Jacob took a sip from his. It was surprisingly good.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, miss,” Jacob said. “But Frank was found dead in his apartment last night. He was stabbed multiple times.”

  Lyla’s face became deathly pale. “Oh, my God,” she said in a choked voice, her bottom lip quivering. “I… Oh my God.”

  The detectives stayed silent, looking at her intently.

  “Last night? Oh, God…”

  “Did you talk to Frank yesterday?” Mitchell asked.

  “What? No… no, I didn’t. Stabbed? With… with what?”

  “Miss Harper, do you have any idea if Frank had any enemies, or people who had any reason to harm him? Beyond the man who argued with him that evening.”

  “Harm? No… no… I can’t think of… I don’t believe…”

  “Did you know that Frank Gulliepe was harassing women online?” Jacob asked.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Her eyes darted to Jacob’s face and back to Mitchell.

  “I mean he had multiple Twitter accounts with which he used to post sexual and derogatory comments targeting various women.”

  “I had no idea… Please…”

  “Were you the target of such an attack?”

  “No… no I wasn’t, I…” She suddenly stood up and dashed off.

  Jacob saw Mitchell tense as if he was about to get up. He raised his hand, motioning his partner to stop.

  Lyla ran into the restroom, the door swinging behind her.

  Jacob took another sip of his coffee. Mitchell toyed with his dried pastry a bit. Neither of them spoke.

  After a minute, Lyla came out of the restroom, her eyes red, her face wet, as if she had just washed it. She was visibly shaking. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “Is there anything else you need from me? I think I’d like to go home now.”

  Jacob shook his head. “Just your address and a way we can get in touch,” he said.

  The detectives drank their coffee in silence. The pastry stayed untouched.

  Chapter Seven

  Something was jumping on Bernard’s head. It was something vicious, malevolent. Possibly murderous. Bernard shut his eyes harder, tried to go back to sleep.

  The thing didn’t relent. It began emitting relentless battle cries.

  “Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy…”

  He considered sobbing. He had slept for what felt like mere minutes. This was illegal torture. He could report this to the government. He should be granted asylum. His famil
y was trying to drive him insane.

  “Daddy, daddy, daddy.”

  “Sugar,” he mumbled. “Daddy’s very tired.”

  “Wake up, Daddy!”

  “Daddy needs to sleep.”

  “No.” There was a finality in the word. There would be no bargaining, no discussing this. There was no negotiation here.

  He heard his wife enter the room. “Gina! I told you to leave Daddy alone. Sorry honey, I left her alone for two minutes, that’s all.”

  Two minutes was all it took. “It’s okay,” he muttered. “Why is Gina home? Isn’t it too early?” Gina usually came back from kindergarten in the afternoon.

  “I had to get her. They said she bit someone.”

  “So? Kids bite and hit each other all the time. It’s the teacher’s responsibility to work it out.”

  “Well, the kid was bleeding. They asked me to come and get her.”

  Bernard had read somewhere that all kids were psychopaths until they reached the age of three. He could believe it, though he personally thought the actual age for becoming a mentally stable human was more like five. Or seven. Possibly fifteen.

  He opened his eyes. His daughter grinned at him, her braids flailing wildly as she jumped again. “You’re awake, Daddy.”

  Truly a happy occasion.

  “Pumpkin, did you bite someone?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Fine, if this was how it was gonna be, Bernard would go into full investigator mode. He could imagine his daughter in the interrogation room, a bright light aimed at her face as he sat opposite her, his wife by his side. Good cop, bad cop.

  “Pumpkin, the teacher said you bit someone.”

  “Bobby bit me.”

  “Gina! Tell the truth!” the bad cop said, her hands on her hips. “Bobby was crying when I came to get you.”

  “Yes.” A vague confession.

  “So you did bite Bobby?” Bernard asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why, pumpkin?”

  “Because he hit me.”

  Ah. The self-defense plea.

  “Where did he hit you?”

  “He hit me in the doll.”

  “In the…” Bernard really wanted to sleep. “He… hit you in the doll?”