Die on Your Feet

by S. G. Wong

  “The twins,” said Lola. “What do you know of them?”

  Arbogast’s neighbour carefully replaced the photograph, right side up, on the otherwise messy sideboard. He hesitated, clearly considering whether or not to start tidying up all the pictures in their upended frames. Instead, he sighed and turned to Lola.

  “I know she’s been Haunting him for a long, long time.”

  “Mr. Arbogast said she was the problem, not the heroin.”

  Wing shrugged. “Frankly, Miss Starke, Bodewell was jealous of Lucille. He always had a blind spot when it came to Sunny’s faults. She was convenient to blame.”

  “Do you think she would have encouraged Sunny to leave without telling Mr. Arbogast?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. His expression sad, he looked at Lola directly. “Do you think Sunny’s coming back?” Lola didn’t reply. His shoulders slumped.

  Lola went to the staircase and headed up. She noted an access door, square and recessed into the ceiling at the top of the stairs, most likely for the attic. The second floor held two bedrooms and a bath. The master bedroom had its own private bathroom as well.

  “This is Mr. Arbogast’s room?” asked Lola, pointing to the master suite on the left. Wing gave her a considering look as he nodded. A large bed with two night stands. A very modern bureau. Every last drawer was pulled out. Clothes covered the floor. The bed sheets were torn off, one end still tucked in under the mattress, pillows thrown against a wall. Lola picked her way over to one of the nightstands. Another frame tipped over. This one turned out to be Arbogast and Josephson together. They were smiling, confident, raising champagne flutes to the camera. Behind them, the ocean under a breathtakingly clear sky. Lola imagined the sun blazing overhead, causing the men in the photograph to squint happily as someone clicked the shutter. Lola straightened up suddenly. She looked at the bed, at the other nightstand. She walked over to the closet, large enough to be its own small room. Arbogast was a clotheshorse, no doubt about it, but he didn’t purchase clothes in different sizes. She looked over, meeting Wing’s gaze.

  “Now you get it,” he said, nodding.

  Lola remained tight-lipped as she sifted through the contents of both nightstands. Nothing caught her eye except a well-worn journal. It was leather bound, its pages brittle and yellowing. A fringed page holder nestled within. The pages were blank.

  Aubrey’s voice seemed loud in Lola’s ear, after his long silence. “It’s hers—Lucille.”

  “Invisible ink?” murmured Lola. She indicated the journal to Wing. “I’m taking this, Mr. Wing. I’ll return it to Mr. Arbogast when I see him.”

  “Fine by me. If I see him first, I’ll let him know.” He still seemed bewildered as he scanned the room. “Should we clean up?”

  Lola shook her head. “I need to be blunt with you, Mr. Wing. The stick boys won’t help us find Mr. Arbogast because he’s not been missing long enough to bother them. Cops don’t think it’s worth troubling them until it’s gone two days. However, I think you should call them tomorrow if he still hasn’t returned. Say it’s a break-in. That’ll get their attention faster. You’ve got my card. Ring me after you call the cops. Of course, if he does come back tonight, please ring me right away.”

  Together, they went through the rest of the house. The same mess greeted them in every room, except the attic and the cellar. Lola walked those spaces carefully, wary for dusty footprints leading to walls or possibly hidden compartments. She found neither, up nor down. Wing followed Lola into every room, his hands jammed into his pockets and his mouth compressed into a line.

  The theory Lola had so blithely mouthed to Wing was weak, but it could still have been true. Perhaps Arbogast had searched for something he thought Josephson had hidden. She didn’t want to lay odds on the probability of truth in it, but if it helped to get the old man on board, she wasn’t going to point out its faults.

  “Maybe Sunny came back? Looking for something to pawn?” Wing said. They were back in the kitchen.

  Lola looked up from checking inside the oven. “You knew he was back on the needle?”

  “It was obvious, if you had the eyes to see,” the older man sighed. He gestured around. “But no, that wouldn’t make any sense. There’s the silver tea service right there. He’d probably have taken it.”

  “There are certainly enough things still here to rule out a burglary—the gold cuff links upstairs, that diamond tie bar, the crystal. Even the cops will see that.” Lola searched the neighbour’s lined face. “Just tell them the truth when they talk to you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “I suppose there’s no point in not talking about Sunny’s...history. That was the truth. He was addicted to heroin. That can change a man.”

  Lola replied absently. “Even if he had come back for something to sell, he wouldn’t have torn the house apart. He’d’ve known where everything was.” She stood up, stretching her lower back a little. “I doubt you’ll be responsible for making the cops think less of him.”

  Wing stiffened. His voice was cool. “It’s time. This isn’t our house. We don’t belong here.”

  Lola gave him a brief stare, then obeyed without comment. Wing ushered her out and closed the door firmly, locking it once more with his key. He made Lola walk before him, back around to the front. On the sidewalk, next to her car, she held out her hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wing. I appreciate your help. Please, ring me if you see Mr. Arbogast tonight.” She paused, then: “I truly am concerned for him. And for Mr. Josephson.”

  The older man shook hands without speaking. He remained on the pavement, watching Lola walk around to get in the car. She had the door open by the time he finally spoke.

  “If you’re right about that journal, if it really does belong to Lucille, I think Sunny would’ve taken it with him,” said Wing. “He wouldn’t have left it—not if he thought he was never coming back.”

  Lola offered a sad smile of her own: “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Wing.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Early the next morning, just after four o’clock, a keen-eyed beat cop patrolling the harbour along Waterfront Drive spied a floater. He and his partner fished the body from where it had caught up along the pier pilings. They called it in, and two detectives from Central Homicide were dispatched. In a surprising stroke of luck, the deceased’s wallet was still intact, with driver’s license and the poor man’s name. A call, using a nearby diner’s telephone, to dispatch passed along details and the name. The murder cops put in charge did some quick detecting and a home address was obtained. They found an empty house in a moderate middle-class neighbourhood. However, a neighbour was roused and he provided them with a set of keys and some useful information. He also gave them Lola’s card.

  Lola got the story when she was collected by two patrol types and driven in silence downtown. Lola had been in bed all of ninety minutes before they’d come knocking. Well technically, they’d made Mr. Wang call up from the lobby, but the effect was just as chilling. Since Elaine was out gathering morning essentials, Lola let the cops in and they waited politely in her living room while she dressed. She fell asleep while in the back of the cop car and didn’t come to until her name was called out gruffly. She opened gummy eyes to the sight of an open door and an impatient cop. Lola smiled politely and headed into the lion’s den.

  Inspectors Bednarski and Marks awaited her with grim mouths and flat eyes. They were of equal height, but differed considerably in width. Bednarski had dark brown hair, cut in a military style, accentuating his square head. His cheeks were shadowed with stubble. Lola guessed it was because it should have been the end of his shift. His shoulders strained the beige suit jacket paired with a pale blue shirt and grey tie with blue pin dots. His eyes were light green. They watched Lola opaquely for all their paleness.

  Marks, in contrast, wor
e an expertly tailored suit in navy, matched with crisp white shirt and dark blue-and-grey striped tie. He was lean in leg and waist, clean-shaven and looked freshly pressed. Lola noted a thin line of a scar running from the left corner of his mouth down to the centre of his chin. Its shiny texture caught the light of the overhead light when he moved a certain way. He watched Lola intently with his dark eyes. She wondered what was behind his glare.

  If she was surprised at the pairing of two gwai cops, she didn’t show it. She asked for some coffee to help her stay awake. Marks grunted and obliged. While he did, Lola sat quietly and watched Bednarski pace the small interrogation room. When he was reunited with his partner once more, Bednarski spoke.

  “Tell us about your relationship with the deceased,” he suggested in a gravelly voice.

  “We didn’t have one,” replied Lola. “I’ve never met him.”

  “Tell us about your relationship with Bodewell Arbogast.”

  “He came to my office a few days ago—”

  “When?” interrupted Marks.

  Lola paused. “Two days ago. We spoke of a business matter.”

  “Did he hire you?”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “Don’t be coy, Miss Starke. It just makes everything more difficult.” Marks spoke without inflection.

  Lola looked at him closely. “I’m not trying any tricks here, Detective Inspector. I can’t speak of what passed between Mr. Arbogast and myself. Professional ethics.”

  Bednarski waved away the words. “You’re no lawyer. There’s no legal protection.”

  Lola shrugged.

  The big man leaned in with an air of camaraderie. “Listen, I know it’s hard, especially for women like you. No one takes you seriously. Am I right?”

  Lola glanced up at Marks. The cop gave her nothing. She returned to the big man. She shrugged.

  He said, “We can smooth things out for you.”

  “Why am I here again?”

  “Obviously,” replied Marks, “you can’t identify the body. We need the lover for that.”

  “No family?”

  “You tell us,” said Bednarski.

  “His sister Lucille was his Ghost. They were twins. But I suppose she’s just as gone as he is.” Lola shrugged. “Jed Wing probably knows more than I do.”

  Bednarski nodded absently. “We’ve spoken with him. We know Arbogast hired you to find his lover.” He sat back. The wooden chair creaked. “Tell us what you know about Josephson.”

  Marks pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against. He pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it. He threw a notebook onto the tabletop and unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen.

  Lola thought for a moment. Then she started talking. It wasn’t long before she stopped.

  Marks said, “Doesn’t sound like a lot of progress. You must be double-clocking.”

  Lola retained her casual air. “Yes.”

  “What about that?”

  “Tsu and Luke, in Vice. They can fill you in.”

  Marks’s expression tightened for a moment, then relaxed like ripples disappearing from a pond. He left the room. Bednarski waited with Lola in silence. Five minutes passed and then a quick one-two on the door. The big man lugged himself out of the room without an explanation. Lola didn’t bother to strain her ears. Tsu and Luke were going to vouch for her, whether they liked it or not.

  Marks and Bednarski returned, giving their best blank face. Marks started in immediately, “Your connections won’t keep you from the inside of a cell.”

  “No, but the fact that I’ve done nothing illegal will.”

  Bednarski watched Lola with clinical interest. “Let’s go over it again. Why did you follow your own client?”

  Lola answered patiently. “I thought he was holding out on me. Information that was pertinent to his case.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Lola shrugged. “Call it intuition.”

  “Where did you follow him to?”

  “La Grenouille, Lucky Bamboo, Silver Temple, Water Lily and Ivory Tiles.”

  Marks jumped in, “In that order?”

  Lola shook her head. “Does it matter?”

  Marks countered, “You tell me. What happened?”

  “Nothing. I was following my client without his knowledge. We didn’t speak. I didn’t find anything that afternoon to help find Josephson.”

  “What was Arbogast doing at those places?” asked Bednarski.

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  Lola shrugged.

  “So you followed your client around all afternoon and came up with zilch. Then what?” challenged Marks, “Gave up? Moved on?”

  “I had an appointment with another client. I put Mr. Arbogast’s case aside for the evening.”

  “You gave up the prime time for finding a junkie gambler and went to shine on your next client?” Marks crossed his arms.

  “I had an appointment with another client,” repeated Lola.

  “Were you working that other case? Or just taking what you’d call a ‘well-deserved break’?”

  “It’s not relevant.”

  “Sure of that? How do you know?” countered Marks. “Maybe Josephson coulda been found that very night, before he got dead, while you were busy elsewhere.”

  “Are you trying to say something? You think I murdered him?”

  “We didn’t say it was murder. Why assume that?” Bednarski seemed genuinely curious.

  Lola stared at him. “You’re Murder Squad.”

  The big man shrugged. “Floaters in the harbour fall under the category of suspicious death. We don’t know yet if it was murder.” He eyed Lola silently, then: “You aren’t surprised Josephson turned up dead?”

  “No. He’s a junkie.” She paused, considered her next words. “I said as much to my client when he pitched the case.”

  Marks interjected. “Did you check the hospitals? Temple shelters? Church shelters? The morgue? All logical places if you figured him for dead or close to.”

  Lola shrugged. “Save the lecture, Detective Inspector.”

  A hard-knuckled double rap to the door shot through the room. Lola started. The other two didn’t so much as twitch. The door opened and a short, squat man with black hair stepped in. He looked perfectly pressed and ready for a news conference.

  “Superintendent Locke,” said Lola politely.

  “Lola,” the man answered. His mouth twisted, as though he’d just tasted something unpleasant. “Gentlemen,” he addressed the inspectors. They nodded and stood up.

  “We’ll contact you if we need more,” Bednarski said mildly to Lola. He held up her card in surprisingly long fingers. Marks simply nodded, his face utterly bland now. The men waited as Lola let their superior officer escort her out.

  “I’ll take you home.” Locke said. “We have some things to discuss.”

  Lola smiled politely and kept her face pleasantly blank as they exited the corridors. They came to the Superintendent’s car at the front curb and climbed inside. The driver, a beefy young officer with manicured hands, kept those hands firmly on the steering wheel. He inclined his head a fraction of an inch when Locke told him the address.

  Lola smoothed out her slacks and settled into the cool seat. “Well? Satisfied?”

  “Do I think you were truthful? No,” answered Locke. “But I’ve heard enough for the time being.” He eyed Lola with disapproval. “Your mother was worried about you.”

  “How long did you wait before telling her where I was?”

  “We spoke about thirty minutes ago,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  Lola laughed, harshly. “Don’t suppose you told her I’d already bee
n there four hours.”

  “It wasn’t necessary.” He picked an invisible bit of lint off his dark trousers. “Your license doesn’t make you bullet-proof, Lola. Leave the investigation to my men. They know their business and they have the authority to get answers. I won’t interfere if you’re arrested for obstruction.”

  “At least you didn’t say ‘when’,” commented Lola.

  “Your father always knew how to stay on his side of the line. I suggest you take a page from his notebook.”

  Lola stiffened, but refused to take the bait.

  Locke continued. “I don’t want to hear your name involved in this again.”

  “Tell your men to stop making me involved. I came to answer questions about why I was following the trail of a dead man. I didn’t have anything to do with him being dead.”

  Locke grunted, looked out at the passing scenery.

  Lola changed tack. “I’m curious why you’re involved at all. Not much political leverage to be gained from another dead junkie.”

  Aubrey hissed a warning. Lola kept her expression bland.

  “I’m involved because your mother is my friend,” replied Locke. “Don’t mistake my presence for approval, Lola. There are very definite limits to my friendship with Grace.” He turned away.

  Lola pressed. “Was it an overdose then?”

  Locke said nothing.

  “I’ll simply find another source—you know I will.” She shrugged.

  Locke eyed her shrewdly, came to a decision. “Stay away from my investigators.”

  “My pleasure,” Lola replied.

  Locke opened a file he took from a black briefcase. “Josephson died from an internal overdose. He had balloons of heroin in his stomach. They burst. A high risk venture for mule and dealer alike.”

  “Smuggling? From where?” asked Lola.