“It’s never free,” the janitor said as he kept mopping.
* * *
A crisp flat-screen monitor displayed a website marked “People Search.” The cursor highlighted the “Name” field as the letters started to appear, “B…e…n…”
Trevor Malloy sat at his desk all alone with the solitary light from his desk lamp. The businessman sat comfortably on his plush eight-way office chair as a half-full bottle of purified water rested in front of him. He sat with his white fitted dress shirt still encasing his frame with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
Trevor typed with his hands resting on the home keys. The field on screen read “Benko, April.” He shifted his optical mouse and clicked “Search.” The query took less than one second as Trevor read his monitor—“3 Results Found.” Unlike Brian’s ambiguous search term, Trevor had a piece of information to narrow his search—the address of April Benko. The third entry matched “12 Eighth Street, Apt 4C.” He clicked the address as more details displayed, “Occupants of 12 Eighth Street, Apt 4C – Benko, April and Wizda, Betty.”
“Roommates. Apartment’s no good,” Trevor said as he stretched his back in his chair.
The businessman refocused on his computer screen as he maximized another window. The pixels on the 24” flat-screen showed a newspaper article with the image of a sophisticated woman smiling in front of a ribbon cutting ceremony. She was a blonde, a woman of class and stature that scored one for the blonde team. Her style was contemporary. A white coat shielded her from the cold and a tartan scarf noosed her neck.
Trevor read the caption aloud, “Attorney April Benko, first tenant at newly renovated 25th Street office building.”
Trevor sat back in his chair and smirked.
“Eighth Street to Twenty Fifth Street in the morning commute… Subway.” He stood up.
* * *
In the police precinct, Brian sat down. He mulled over the case in his mind, sorting and sifting through the information like Google’s web crawler. Brian leaned back as he thought about the blood splatters on the wall. He rubbed his forehead as the hole in Max’s head filled his thoughts. Brian took a sip from his stale coffee as shoe polish canisters stacked inside his brain. Suddenly, he heard the sound of something pulsating. Brian stroked his ears, but the sound still existed. It was subtle yet present. As the noise intensified, Brian thought it was a heartbeat, but then he realized what it was—footsteps. The sound of his suspect’s march consumed his mind. Brian suddenly felt trapped. His heart raced. His brow furrowed. Brian clenched his fists and wanted the sound to leave his mind, but the sound of the killer only strengthened.
“There’s the busy beaver,” a voice hit Brian from the back.
The detective beheld the captain standing over him. Brian glanced at the captain’s dress shoes and saw they were gray, which complemented his uniform.
“Hello, sir,” Brian instinctively replied, lifting his backside from the chair.
“No, stay seated… How’s the case shaping up? Hopefully you found our perp.”
“Well, I’m doing my best, sir.”
“Times a ticking. I would have expected a top-notch detective like you to have the bum arrested, tried, and on death row right about now,” the captain laughed.
“Soon, sir. This is my top priority and I won’t sleep until I get the suspect.”
“Hey. What do nineteen-year-old girls like?” the captain asked.
“Uh… I don’t know. Sex.”
“What kind of fuckin’ answer is that, Boise?”
“I’m sorry, sir. My mind is shot.”
“It’s my daughter’s birthday. I’m asking what to buy her. Solve this case, and then take a fuckin’ vacation.”
Brian watched the captain walk off.
“This floor looks mighty clean. Hey, Charlie. Nice job,” the captain said to the janitor.
Brian listened to the captain’s footsteps as they faded away, and then like that, they died, leaving the detective alone in his quadrant of the building. He let the clinking flow over him as his mind went numb. It was as if someone had pulled the plug on his brain. The detective stood from his chair as a dull ache in his gut clutched him.
Chapter 19
The living room of apartment 1009 was lifeless. Three games and two controllers were missing from the video game system as the scent of meatloaf lingered. Not even a light was illuminated for the man whose name was on the lease. Suddenly, the sound of the metal lock filled the unconscious room. Brian pushed open the door and slid inside. He locked up gently, and then lurked through the dark like an uninvited visitor. And to a certain degree, he was. Brian walked on instinct, but without the light, he felt unsure of what lay in front of him.
The smell of microwaved meat reached his nose. Brian crept into the kitchen. His shoes hit the linoleum. The regretfully un-devoted family man felt for the light switch. He tapped and slid his hand as if it were his first time in his home. Finally, he felt the plastic and flipped the switch. The bright bulbs bathed him in light as his sluggish pupils took a few moments to adjust.
Brian checked the side trash. He saw the empty box and microwavable cooking tray of a meatloaf and mashed potato entrée. The picture looked scrumptious to him, but even the cardboard box seemed appealing. Brian moved to the freezer as his eyes bypassed the collage of photographs. He cared only about feeding his belly, not his eyes. Brian opened the device as the frozen frost flowed out. Inside, a collection of TV dinners were offered like a menu at a halfway house. Brian rummaged through them.
“Lasagna… No.” “Stuffed cabbage… No.” “Meatloaf and mashed potatoes… Yes.”
Brian opened the box, slit the plastic cover on the cooking tray, and changed the microwave from the time, “2:35,” to the desired cooking time, “5:00.” He pressed “Start.” The machine engaged and nuked the frozen brick. As the device spewed radiation at his meal, Brian studied its rotation through the window.
The countdown reached four minutes as the dull ache in his gut had become a bothersome twinge. Brian knew exactly what he needed. He opened the cabinet above the kitchen counter. Various sizes and shapes of plastic Tupperware lined the three shelves. At first glance, the cabinet seemed like a place to store reusable containers, but Brian was not concerned about preserving his puny four-bite meal. He reached on the third shelf and parted the two bowls filled with bowls. Then, he moved his hand toward the back. Brian went on touch, as the top shelf was even too tall for his eyes. At last, he felt the object that was not plastic, and then unearthed it from its tomb—“Jack Daniel’s Old Tennessee Whiskey.”
Brian grabbed a glass from the next cabinet. He broke the seal on his poison. As if he were already drunk, Brian poured with an uncontrollable shake to his hand. He beheld the liquor, and then sucked it down. He felt it coat his stomach, as the twinge subsided. Brian poured himself another glass, and then wandered around the kitchen.
The family picture on the table lay face down. Brian grabbed it, as the smiling faces of the Boise family, his family, had no effect on him. He placed it back on the table, but it fell over face forward. He tried once more, but it slapped off the table again. Brian took another gulp of alcohol and left the picture. He glanced at the microwave—two minutes left. Brian meandered toward the refrigerator to amuse himself with the photo collection. He saw the familiar picture of his family at the beach. He didn’t smile this time as he studied it. He didn’t crave for the feeling again. He didn’t even flex his facial muscles into a grin of desire. Brian simply stared at it like a stock picture of a trite family already in the frame. The detective scanned his son’s drawings. They all seemed familiar to him. Everything looked as he remembered, but his eyes detected something different on the freezer. Near the handle, he saw two new photographs. One showed his wife and son standing next to another woman with her arms around two kids. He figured they were the Malloys. In fact, he knew it was them after the basketball game. But the other picture stopped his breathing. Brian grabbed it
from its magnet and looked at his exhausted expression.
“Do I look that bad?” Brian mumbled.
As he held the 4 x 6 inch picture in his hands, he studied the man next to him, the handsome man named Trevor. He was the same height, his hair perfectly parted to the left, his face cleanly shaven, and his smile devilishly radiant. The man whom Brian had just met stood in contrast to him, a before and after photograph of a bum wearing wrinkled business clothes to a gentleman wearing a tailored outfit. The photograph of that moment in time, now permanently frozen in pigments, filled Brian’s mind. Fragments from that day erupted from the trenches in his brain.
Brian watched the event replay inside his head as if he were a specter given the opportunity to observe without its presence known.
“Whoa! Watch the shoes,” Trevor yelped as the boy in blue stepped on his polished prize.
“These are special import from Italy,” Trevor continued as he buffed his shoe with his handkerchief.
The Brian inside the kitchen saw another burst of images as the Brian inside the gymnasium talked to his new acquaintance.
“I keep work and family separated as well. It’s easier that way,” Trevor commented.
“What do you do?” Brian asked.
“I own a consulting service,” Trevor replied.
Brian studied the photograph in his hand. He painted Trevor’s face with his finger. A light bulb exploded inside his mind. He was in an aura. But then, the feeling in his gut raised its ugly head. Brian realized the sensation was his subconscious telling him that this man, the man who had rubbed him the wrong way, could be the killer he had so desperately sought. Brian thought about the odds, but then he realized that anything was possible. He clutched the photograph and marched out of the kitchen a new man, a man with a clear lead to follow.
The microwave beeped, but nobody was there.
Chapter 20
The darkest part of the night surrounded the city, the part when it was too late to call it night, but too early to call it morning. The portly doorman outside Janice’s condo building saw the prowl of a slippery woman inside the warm climate-controlled lobby. The young lady was the mistress to the surgeon in the penthouse, the mistress whom he helped escape when the surgeon’s wife was out of town.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the doorman said, as he opened the door and stole a sniff of her sexiness.
“You mean, good morning.” She hugged herself from the blast of cold, dead air.
Brian’s SUV slammed to a stop in front of the building. The detective thrust from his machine and darted to the dazed doorman.
“Remember me?” Brian asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“This man, does he look familiar?” Brian queried as he offered the photograph.
The doorman analyzed it, and then squinted his eyes. “Uh, yeah. That’s you.”
“I know that I’m in the picture.”
The doorman handed the photo back to Brian. “Well, you know what. I never saw the guy’s face. I know that for a fact. But I’ve been thinking about that moment that I saw Miss Davis, the last time I’d ever see her again. And I keep replaying that moment over and over.” A gust of cold air entered the doorman’s ear and swirled inside his head. He felt the coldness grasp his entire body, and at the same time, he felt that memory surface of the shadow that had slithered into his building right after Miss Davis, that memory that had been buried deep inside his brain like a virus hiding amongst healthy cells. He remembered the clothes and the movement of the man whom his eyes had received for just a glance, yet long enough to burn into his neurons. “And there’s something, or rather someone, in that memory that stands out.”
“What is it?” Brian pressed.
“The dress clothes, the dark gray shoes, the man. He walked in right after Miss Davis. There was something odd about him, too cool…”
Brian looked down at the photograph. The doorman had just described the man next to him, the man named Trevor Malloy.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m positive,” the doorman reiterated. “Hey, why did you show me that photo?”
Brian’s mind popped. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.” Brian hustled toward his double-parked SUV.
The detective shifted into high gear, his overstretched muscles fueled by adrenaline. Thoughts of his family rolled around inside his mind as he shifted the truck into “Drive” and punched the gas. While he dodged the early morning traffic, he realized the camera that had captured the suspected murderer had also captured his wife and son. Brian reached for his cell phone and dialed the number he needed to dial more—his home.
Inside the master bedroom of the Boise residence, Anne Marie slept alone in the fetal position with a pillow between her legs. She was off in a distant land, the place where we went when we were not here. The phone on the nightstand rang. The noise sucked her back to her listless world. Anne Marie jarred awake. Her heart stopped beating for a moment—a moment in time where she was no longer living.
“Hello?” her groggy voice rasped.
“Honey, I need you and Jonathan to stay in the apartment,” Brian blurted.
“What? What time is it?”
“It’s late, but keep Jonathan home from school, and don’t call or speak to anyone but me.”
“What are you talking about?” Anne Marie asked as she sat up.
“It’s a long story—”
“Jonathan’s not here.”
Brian slammed on the brakes. His SUV squealed to a stop. The car behind him screeched. Another car blared its horn.
“Where is he?” Brian asked with wide eyes.
“He’s staying the night at the Malloys with Kevin.”
Brian looked up and stared at the chaos of headlights in the oncoming lane. His body froze, but his mind raced. The sound of the deafening horns surrounding his parked SUV had no effect on him.
“I’m sure he’s fine with Laura and Trevor,” Anne Marie’s voice said sending a shiver through Brian’s body.
“I’m going to get him,” Brian said.
“Are you crazy? It’s three a.m.,” Anne Marie said as she stared at the red digits next to her showing “2:56.”
“Anne Marie, if there is one time I need you to trust me, this is it. Please stay put. I’m getting Jonathan and bringing him to you. I love you,” Brian pleaded.
The agitated family man flipped his phone closed and focused on his laptop. Cars still whipped by as Brian’s SUV sat dead in Drive.
“Asshole!” an enraged driver shouted, navigating around the parked SUV.
The obscenity breached the detective’s window and entered his ears, but he didn’t care. All of his attention was on his son, the real reason he worked so hard, even if it appeared otherwise. Brian clicked a few times on his laptop’s touchpad trying to pilot through the arcane screens. Finally, he maximized the query window to the DMV database. Brian pounded the keys to form the name of the man he had just met. He entered “Malloy, Trevor” and clicked “Execute Query.” Then like that, the location of the killer, and the location of his son, stared back—“529 Placid Rd.”
Brian knew the street, a road nestled in the heart of the city’s affluence. He turned his steering wheel all the way to the left, and then inched out. Cars zipped by as horns trumpeted. Brian saw an open spot, and then nailed the throttle, launching his vehicle into a tailspin. He U-turned in the middle of the downtown.
The detective sped through the wee hours of the morning. While bodies rested and minds wandered, Brian cut through the dead of night. As he left the city in his rear-view mirror, the traffic became sparser. Gone were the night dwellers that filled the downtown as the professionals in the suburbs all slept softly in their beds. Brian entered the wealthiest district as the yards expanded with the square footages of the homes. This was a place Brian rarely drove through, a place he envied, a place in which he should have been raising a family. But just as he passed the cobblestone driveways and the 20-foot Roman
-inspired pillars, Brian knew that an ugly duckling hid amongst swans, an ugly duckling that was a killer.
The V8 engine launched Brian past “Hot Springs Road,” and then “Stormy Meadows Lane.”
“Where is it!?” Brian yelled inside his cockpit. Then, he saw the flicker of his headlights off the approaching street sign. “Placid Road!” Brian said as his machine screamed from the turn’s force.
A parked Audi blocked his path. Brian turned harder. The SUV shrilled. Inches away, Brian cleared the European vehicle. He tried to straighten his SUV as he fishtailed. Brian held the line as he saw “527” on a mailbox. He shifted his focus from the brown house with the Cadillac parked in its driveway to the one directly next to it, the one he was approaching at forty-miles an hour, the one he knew was “529.”
Brian took in its two stories, its sterling white siding, black shutters, and black roof. It was a home that he would do almost anything for, except kill. Brian popped the curb, slammed on the brakes, and stopped halfway on the open driveway. He hopped out as the cold air surrounded him, but it did little to cool the fire flowing through his veins. He saw the oversized front door with two tall stained-glass windows. He pressed the only light emitting from the structure—the doorbell. Brian heard a chime fill its belly as he waited, and waited. The stout structure looked deceased. In fact, the whole street looked as if a plague had hit. Brian held back his fervor as he looked through the stained-glass windows, but they did their job at preventing his view. He pressed the button again, and again. As he rested his hand on the doorknob, a light illuminated inside.
Brian took a step back and placed his right hand on his standard-issue 9mm pistol holstered on his belt. He watched and waited like a matador waiting for the bull to make his move. His breathing rocked his body. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest. A figure appeared through the distorted light. Brian widened his eyes. He wanted to shoot it, put it down before it could open the door into his world. But the detective knew he had to do this by the book. The door unlocked. Brian unfastened his weapon. His eyes centered on the strip between the door and the frame. He clutched his pistol. The door creaked open. Brian squeezed the metal in his right hand as his eyes adjusted to the light. He saw the barrel of a pistol peek out. Brian kicked the door, sending it into the figure. He barged into the home and saw a woman, Laura, lying on the ground in a bathrobe, unconscious, her head bashing into the bottom step from his force. Brian saw the flashlight in her hands. He disarmed her and put the misrepresented pistol inside his pants pocket as he checked her carotid artery for a pulse.
A Smudge of Gray: A Novel Page 12