by Michael Omer
Mitchell seemed to think Jacob was getting old. He asked if Jacob was taking his Alzheimer’s pills.
Ha ha, Jacob said. What a comedian.
Blayze Terry’s current address was listed in his file. Like Vera Aliysa had told them, he’d been out of jail for the past six months. There were several phone numbers in the file. The first one was Blayze’s, and it went unanswered. There was another phone number, for Blayze’s pastor. At the trial, the pastor had testified to Blayze’s character and his desire to change. It hadn’t helped.
The pastor answered Jacob’s phone call. He told Jacob that Blayze was doing very well so far. He’d been an alcoholic before the burglary and, as far as the pastor knew, he was staying away from alcohol.
Jacob thought of the bottles of beer on Dona’s table. It didn’t seem to him like Blayze was doing such a good job at staying sober.
Blayze was working in an electronics store, the pastor said. He had the name of the store somewhere. Jacob waited patiently until he found it.
Blayze did not answer his door, nor was he at work. The shift manager told Jacob and Mitchell that Blayze was a good employee, caused no problems. They were pleased with him. He had taken the day off; the shift manager didn’t know why, or where he was.
It seemed as if their suspect might be on the run. Or drunk. Or both. Time was ticking, and Jacob and Mitchell decided to split up.
Mitchell went looking for Blayze at the pubs around his address.
Jacob went off to talk to the snitch mentioned in the report.
It was the third bar he’d checked, a place called The French Frog. So far, Mitchell had managed to meet a drunk who thought Mitchell was his long lost friend, to be propositioned by a prostitute, and to be propositioned by a woman who didn’t seem to be a prostitute. No luck finding Blayze, or anyone who knew where Blayze was—though the second woman who propositioned him suggested Blayze might be hiding in her pants.
Mitchell doubted that was the case.
The French Frog had one bartender, a bored waitress, and two customers nursing beers. Mitchell walked slowly to the bartender, looking around. The bar didn’t seem to be doing very well. It was dirty, and most of the chairs seemed old, rotting, or broken. There was an old jukebox in the corner, and a pool table with no balls on it. Several faded advertisements for beer plastered the walls. It seemed like a place one would come to alone, for the sole purpose of getting drunk.
“Can I help you?” the bartender asked. He was about twenty-five, maybe a bit older, with a tattoo of an octopus on his neck.
“I’m looking for a man,” Mitchell said.
“There are two right here,” the bartender said, motioning at the customers. “Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.”
Mitchell flipped out his badge and then took Blayze’s mugshot from his pocket. “This is the guy I’m looking for.”
“He ain’t here,” the bartender said. “What’d he do?”
Mitchell shrugged. “Have you seen him?”
The bartender took the picture from Mitchell and looked at it closely. “Hey, Tara,” he said. “Isn’t this the guy from two days ago?”
The waitress took the picture from the bartender and studied it. “Which guy?” she asked.
“The one who was trying to get all the women to show him their boobs for five dollars.”
She squinted. “Nah,” she said. “That guy was way older. Way, way older. Hang on, isn’t this Monday guy?”
The bartender took the picture back from her. “Could be,” he said. “Definitely could be Monday guy.”
“Who’s Monday guy?” Mitchell asked.
“There’s a guy who comes here every Monday,” the waitress said. “We call him Monday guy, because that’s the day he shows up here. Monday.”
“Okay,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the guy,” the bartender said.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Mitchell asked.
“Last Monday,” the bartender said.
Walked right into that one, Mitchell thought.
“So, Monday guy… would you happen to know where he is?”
“Nope. I think he lives around here, though, ‘cause he always gets really drunk, and when I offered to get him a cab he said he’d walk home.”
“So, last Monday, this guy comes in,” Mitchell said, trying to jolt their memory. “What did he do?”
“Same as always,” the waitress said. “Ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer, and drank them both. Then ordered another shot and another glass of beer.”
“Usually by the third round, he’s already kinda woozy,” the bartender said.
“Did he mention anything?” Mitchell asked.
“Oh, it’s always the same with him,” the waitress said. “When he comes in he’s all polite and shit. Then, when he gets drunk he starts talking about how he’s gonna kill that bitch.”
Mitchell tensed. “What bitch?” he asked.
“Who knows? Half the men who come here talk about their wives or girlfriends, and when they talk, it usually ain’t about how they love them and how lucky they are,” the waitress said.
“Yeah?” Mitchell said.
“It’s the opposite,” she clarified.
“I got that, thanks. So this guy talks about killing that bitch. He say anything else?”
“No. He usually just says every few minutes that he’s gonna kill that bitch, or he’s gonna shoot that bitch or strangle that bitch—”
“Did he say strangle?” Mitchell asked, laying his hand on the counter.
“Probably. Yeah, I guess. Anyway, when he’s done he pays with a hundred-dollar bill and leaves. Always the same. A hundred-dollar bill.”
“How long has he been coming here?” Mitchell asked, wondering if Blayze had begun drinking the moment he got out of prison.
“I don’t know,” the waitress said. “Two years?”
“Nah, Tara, it’s way more. Three years, I think,” the bartender said.
“That can’t be,” Mitchell said. “The guy I’m looking for only got out of prison six months ago.”
“Oh,” the bartender said. “Really?” He looked at the picture again. “Huh,” he said. “Now that you mention it, he is kinda different. Hey, Tara, don’t Monday guy’s eyes look a bit different?”
She checked the photo. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Totally. Monday guy’s eyes are more narrow like uh… almost like a Chinese guy.”
“But he’s not Chinese,” the bartender said.
“And anyway, I think Monday guy’s name is Phil,” the waitress said. “At least, that’s what people call him. Sometimes people here say ‘hey Phil’ when they see him.”
Mitchell stared at the bartender and the waitress in frustration. “Can I have my photo back?” he said.
“Sure,” the bartender said, and handed it over,
“Do you know that the octopus on your neck only has six arms?” Mitchell asked, pocketing the mugshot.
“Yeah.”
“Octopuses have eight arms,” Mitchell said.
The bartender’s lip twitched, and he looked away. “This one has six,” he said.
“Yeah. Thanks for your time,” Mitchell said, and left the bar. He had two more places to check.
Alex the snitch actually liked being a snitch. He always thought of himself as an undercover cop, roaming the hideous underbelly of Glenmore Park, befriending the criminal element, supplying the cops with useful tidbits of information. He was protecting the city, that was what he was doing. That, plus he had a one hundred bucks per tip agreement with the cops. That was a nice bonus. The cops also didn’t hassle him when he fenced stolen stuff. He was pretty sure they were only letting it slide because of the useful information he kept supplying them.
In fact, at one point in his life, before he was a snitch and a fence, Alex had tried to go to the police academy. He’d been sure he would be an amazing cop, like those guys from Law & Order or CSI: cracking cases, finding cl
ues in the most unlikely places, playing good-cop-bad-cop in the investigation room. The academy had rejected him outright.
Well, the joke was on them. He was now doing the police more good than any cop, he reckoned. Hell, he probably made better money, too.
When Alex got a phone call from Detective Cooper, he was delighted. He went into full snitch mode. He suggested they should meet in the Newhall Community Park, sit on benches near each other, and feed the ducks. Talk when they were sure no one was watching.
Detective Cooper had asked if they couldn’t just meet for lunch at a burger joint. He’d offered to pay for lunch as well.
Alex had asked if Jacob wanted someone to spot him talking to the cops? Did he want to get Alex offed?
No, Detective Cooper did not.
They now sat on adjacent benches in the park. Alex was feeding ducks. Detective Cooper was not; he hadn’t brought any bread with him. Alex was irritated with the amateurs he had to deal with.
“So,” Detective Cooper said. “I’m looking for a guy named Blayze Terry.”
“I might have heard of him,” Alex said very softly.
“What’s that?” the detective said.
“I might have heard of him!” Alex said louder.
“Of course you’ve heard of him, Alex. You’re the one who tipped me last time.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ve heard of him. Got out of prison six months ago.”
“I’m looking for him. Do you know where I could find him?”
A woman was going past them, walking her dog. Alex shut his mouth, waiting for her to pass.
“Hey, Alex, did you hear me? I asked if you know where I can find this guy?”
With his eyes, Alex motioned at the woman. Couldn’t Detective Cooper see they weren’t alone?
“Are you okay? What’s with your eyes?”
Alex motioned carefully with his finger that Detective Cooper should shut the hell up.
“Oh, right,” the detective said.
When the woman was out of earshot, Alex mumbled carefully “I don’t know where he is. But I know a guy who does.”
“What’s that?”
“I know a guy who does,” Alex said, more loudly.
“I can’t hear you. Can I move onto your bench? You’re too far away.”
“No!” Alex nearly shouted. “I said I know a guy who probably knows where he is!”
“Oh. Cool,” Detective Cooper said, and smiled a friendly smile.
Alex frantically looked at the ducks, trying to avoid the detective’s eyes.
“So what’s the guy’s name?”
“Do you have the stash?” Alex asked.
“Eh?”
“The stash! The money! The payoff!”
“Oh, sure.” The detective got up, pulling some bills from his pocket.
Alex hissed in panic.
“Well, I need to give you the money somehow,” the detective said.
“Just leave the money under a newspaper.”
“I don’t have a newspaper.”
“Well, do you have a… a book?”
“No.” The detective thought for a moment. “Maybe the ducks can deliver the money?”
“Are you joking?”
“Could be.”
“Just put the money on the bench.”
“It might fly off. It’s windy.”
“Then put it on the ground and put a rock on it.”
“Ooh, good idea. Stealthy,” the detective said. He bent, put the bills on the ground, and placed a rock on them.
“The guy’s name is Richard Vance,” Alex said. “When Blayze was a burglar, Richard used to sell the shit he stole. They were accomplices.”
“Oh, good. I’ll check it out. A fence, huh? You aren’t just trying to get rid of some competition, are you Alex?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Thanks, Alex. It’s been a pleasure, as always.” Detective Cooper got up and walked away. He seemed to be smiling to himself.
Alex got up and walked over to the second bench. Under the pretense of tying his shoes, he knelt and quickly snatched the money from under the rock. He pocketed it and stood up, his heart beating fast.
It wasn’t easy, being a snitch. But, God, he loved doing it.
Chapter Ten
Jenny Tarp lived on Clayton Road, an upscale area at the edge of town, just by the Oakhurst golf course. The street was well maintained; all the lawns were green and fresh. The few cars parked in the street or in open garages had an expensive feel. As a patrol officer, Bernard had been there a few times, mostly on burglary calls or noise complaints. He didn’t like to hang around in that area. He felt out of his element. These were people with money and power. Almost every time he was there, someone mentioned an acquaintance with the mayor, or the chief of police, or the district attorney. They said it in an offhand way, but the message was clear.
Do your job, or we will talk to our friends.
The detectives walked up the white driveway to a big, mahogany door. The house’s garage door was closed. Was there a brown Toyota Corolla behind it?
Hannah rang the doorbell, which made a chirping noise. The rich could get birds to chirp when someone rang their doorbell.
“Just a second,” a man called from inside the house. There was movement behind the peephole, and the same voice said “Yes?”
Hannah flipped her badge open in front of the door. “Police,” she said. “Can we have a minute of your time?”
There was a moment of silence and then the door unlocked. It opened, and a tall, bald man with a slightly large nose and bushy eyebrows stood in the doorway. Actually, calling his eyebrows bushy was practically a compliment. They were forest-y. They were jungle-y. There were probably wild animals in there somewhere. Bernard wondered why a man who clearly had enough money to spare couldn’t get someone to trim his eyebrows. Hell, with the state they were in, he could ask the gardener to do it.
“Mr. Tarp?” Hannah said.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Shor; this is Detective Gladwin. Can we have a minute of your time?”
“Sure. What’s this about?” He suddenly seemed scared. “Is everything okay?”
“Is there a reason it wouldn’t be?” Bernard asked.
“No, no. It’s just… when detectives show up on your doorstep… I guess I watch too much TV. Uh… would you like to come in?”
They entered his house, stepped into a beautifully decorated living room. A large, thick rug covered the floor; two couches were positioned around a glass coffee table. There was a huge TV on the wall, and a well-built fireplace. Bernard guessed he could pick any piece of furniture there and it would cost more than his monthly salary.
“What’s this about?” Tarp asked.
“Mr. Tarp,” Hannah asked. “Do you or your wife know a man by the name of Frank Gulliepe?”
The transformation was incredible. Tarp’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed to slits. His breathing became fast and shallow. Bernard began to wonder if he was about to have a heart attack.
“Yes,” Tarp said in a tight voice. “I know the bastard. What’s this about? Did he complain about me?”
“Did you by any chance see him two days ago?” she asked.
“You know damn well I did. So he did complain about me, huh? The slimy bastard. What does he say I did?”
“Why don’t you tell us in your own words,” Bernard suggested.
The man glanced at Bernard, then turned back to Hannah. “Look,” he said. “Maybe we should have gone to the police instead. But my wife was embarrassed, and I said I’d handle it. That scumbag was harassing Jenny constantly! It started about two months ago. He started creating fake Twitter accounts to send her messages—mostly sexual. She’d block him, and he’d create a new one. Then he started with Facebook as well. It was very upsetting, but my wife sometimes gets those crazies. She’s a well-known TV producer, and the people you meet in that business…
Anyway. She paid it no mind. Then it got worse.”
“Worse how?” Bernard asked.
“Well,” the man said, still talking to Hannah. “He started posting pictures. At first he would take a picture of a woman with a tiny bathing suit, Photoshop my wife’s face on it, and tag her in a photo. All her Facebook friends would get a notification about a new photo with my wife, and they’d click on it and see my wife with her ass almost bare, or a picture of her in the bath, with bubbles hiding her nipples. My wife changed her security settings on Facebook, so that stopped, but then he began Photoshopping my wife’s head on porn pictures. Twitter and Facebook don’t let you post those pictures, so he’d put them somewhere online, post a link on Facebook and send it to her friends and acquaintances.”
Bernard twisted his mouth in disgust.
Tarp was getting visibly angrier. His face was red, a vein throbbing on his forehead. “Can you imagine? The humiliation? The rage I felt? Do you know what’s it like to find your wife crying in the bathroom? What would you have done, Detective?”
“What did you do?” Hannah asked.
“First of all, I hired a top-notch private detective to find out who was doing it. He knew some computer hackers or something like that. They got me the name. Initially, I wanted to find out where he worked, get him fired, and ruin his life. I can do that. I have connections. I know the mayor.”
Bernard contained his sigh.
“But then I happened to run into him in a restaurant. I lost my temper, started yelling at him. Told him to leave my wife alone!” Spittle sprayed from Tarp’s mouth. “Yeah, I lost control a bit, wouldn’t you? They kicked me out. But let me tell you something. My wife hasn’t gotten any messages since then. Would the police have done a better job?”
“Where were you last night?” Bernard asked. Tarp turned to him, then back to Hannah. It was getting on Bernard’s nerves.
“I don’t know,” Tarp said. “What do you care? I was out.”