Maybe there is no comfort to find. Maybe we just fool ourselves with God, or the idea that everything in the universe is connected, somehow, part of one thing. Maybe we're mostly cowards of some sort, unable to face the fact that this is it: nothing after, nothing before. From what he has seen people would do almost anything not to think about that. They want, I want, he corrects silently, for life to have meaning and value, and will twist and turn things till they find it. Maybe these are all meaningless abstractions. It feels that way right now. He prays anyway.
Chapter 20
So he gets in from the beach and Todd has picked up some sandwiches from Jollo's, the best sandwiches on the island, has roast beef or turkey stacked in the box for him and they spread them out on the coffee table and get a game plan going.
Blaine wants to go out to the club and talk to that blonde and the bartender, and after a brief hesitation, Todd agrees.
"No confrontations, though, right?" Todd says, his mouth half-full of sandwich. "We go, we look around, maybe ask a few questions, get out of there. Sound good?"
"Yeah, sure," Blaine says. "I'm not looking for any trouble. I'd like to see that big guy, though."
"If you see him, that probably means he didn't have anything to do with it," Todd says. "If he did, he wouldn't be hanging out in there."
"I don't know," Blaine says, "the arrogance I saw on this guy's face, he would be the type to come back and hang around."
"Got some cojones on him if he does," his brother says.
"He's got no cojones if he killed a woman like that."
His brother raises the hand that is not holding sandwich, "You know what I mean, Blaine. He's some kind of chickenshit coward: we both know that, or some kind of pervert."
"The cops said she wasn't raped."
"That doesn't mean this guy wasn't getting off to all that some way," his brother says. "What I wonder is how he got her out there on the beach. She wouldn't have gone willingly, unless she knew him."
"Hell no. I can't imagine her doing that." If she had somehow gone willingly, then the things Blaine has been thinking about their relationship and the turn it had taken could be mistaken. He doesn't even want to think about that. He wonders what type of defensive wounds she had. Had she been surprised? They don't even know exactly how he strangled her. The cops had said strangled, but that could mean with hands or with a rope or some sort of material. It wasn't clear. He couldn't see how it could not have been a surprise; otherwise there would be all kinds of defensive wounds, and DNA under her nails, and some kind of trace of the killer on her. From the way the cops had acted that wasn't true. Or maybe they just didn't have results from the tests yet. From all he has read, tests like that take some time to process.
So, for whatever reason, he is thinking, maybe she did go out there willingly with the killer. Or maybe she had been drugged, but the cops hadn't mentioned that either, so probably not. Though he is not sure the cops would mention much of anything to him. He is on the menu as a possible suspect, maybe the prime suspect. She might have had some purpose going out to the beach he didn't know about, though he had no idea what that might be. Or been tricked somehow. It didn't necessarily mean they were having a lovers' tryst. Could be something else entirely.
He thinks about the mentality of a guy like that, a guy who would kill a woman like that, and a chill runs through him. Gun or not, the guy would have an advantage against him or Todd or whoever. Because he has crossed some type of invisible line and killed, whatever his reason had been. It would change him, Blaine thinks, from what he had been, if it was his first time. Whatever he was prior, he has the taste of blood now, and would probably be much less hesitant to take life than they are. Blaine would have that slight hesitation in a situation facing somebody like that, the desire to confirm the guilt or badness. This guy would likely have no hesitation at all. So he would be quicker off the mark.
Todd is finishing his sandwich, has the remote and flips through the channels: movies, golf, tennis, news, weather, more golf, reality show, animal show. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and then picks up his phone in the hand not holding the remote, checking his mail. Got his iPad on the table, too, for the big-gun apps. Still mustard on his chin.
They shower and head to the club. The blonde with the hard eyes is hanging out at the cocktail waitress station when they come in. It is early yet, and not many people are around. She sees Blaine and Todd then cuts her eyes away from them. Blaine tells Todd to grab them a table and order some beers, and walks over to her. She is wearing a short, simple, black dress that shows off her legs. She looks more attractive tonight, probably because Renee is not standing next to her for comparison. His jaw tightens. He's thinking she doesn't look very happy to see him. Or maybe that's the way she always looks. She doesn't seem that happy in general.
"Hi," he says. "I'm sorry: I didn't catch your name the other night."
"Tina," she says after a second.
"I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Renee," Blaine says. "Do you have a minute?"
She looks around at the nearly empty bar. "Yeah, I guess I do."
"Did you notice anything unusual after my brother and I left that night? Anybody hanging around Renee?"
"There were always guys hanging around Renee," she says. "Me, too, for that matter. Getting hit on is part of the deal out here."
"Yeah, I know," he says. "So nothing odd or unusual?"
"No," she says. "Just another night in paradise." She looks down, and Blaine thinks she must be scared, a girl right next to her one day and then plucked away the next. Even if they weren't great friends. It takes some nerve to do what they do, face the drunken crowd night after night: deal with who knows what next.
"Did you notice if she left with anybody?"
"No," she says. "I didn't. It was late. It was my turn to clean things up so she got out of here before me. There were still people all over the place trying to get one more drink, slobbering on the bar. I think she left alone, but I really didn't see her walk out the door. I was busy."
"Did you notice a big guy, blonde-whitish hair, hanging around the cocktail station?"
"There were always guys hanging around," she says again, but no, she had not noticed anyone in particular. Outside of Blaine.
So Blaine thanks her and asks if the manager is around. She seems relieved to be done with him, and points him at the guy, a big guy with a ducktail who knows nothing either. Blaine tells him who he is. They don't always tell me goodnight, the big guy explains to him. They had a set routine down pretty well and left when they were done. Sometimes one of the girls would ask him to walk them to the lot, and he was always happy to do that, he says, looking a touch defensive. Or the bouncer or the cop would. But neither had done so that night. They had other things going on, and she hadn't asked. But no, he actually hadn't seen her go. The guy doesn't seem that happy either, and Blaine wishes again he had gotten Renee out of here. Maybe it was all about the money most places, but it seemed even more so here. He walks over to the table where Todd and his beer, which is half warm by now, are waiting. Reports his progress, or lack of, and they sit there and sip their brews, watching the bar begin to come to life. A band will be playing later tonight, and a decent crowd begins to fill the room. They sit and have another round, Blaine wondering if there is anybody else he could talk to. He has never seen the girl that is serving them now. She says she has just started, when he asks, and he guesses that makes her Renee's replacement. He is watching the crowd for the big man but doesn't see him. He knows more than he knew before, that's for sure. He wishes he had the resources available to the cops. Could make things happen. Wonders what they know that they're not saying. Probably a lot. He and Todd nurse another round while he eyeballs the place for the big man, but he never shows. Finally they head home.
Chapter 21
He feels frustrated when he wakes. They have done the obvious things, talked to the obvious people, and have come up empty. Todd, the night bef
ore, had told him that it seemed like they were spinning their wheels, and even though he knew Blaine felt terrible about the whole thing, maybe letting the cops handle all this was the best path. They had no expertise at any of this. The closest they came to that was watching some crime drama on TV.
Then he remembers that Mandy and Doug had been sitting in the bar. Maybe they had seen something. So he shuffles down the street to Mandy's house and knocks. She comes to the door looking a bit worse for wear and he thinks: lucky Dougie. But it turns out Doug isn't there. She invites Blaine in for coffee at the same table. The painting and the easel are gone. He describes the big man to her, asks if she saw him.
"I didn't notice any guy like that," she says. "Why?"
He hesitates, can't think of an unalarming way to say it. Finally just flat tells her what the cops had told him: that his girl has been murdered.
He can't remember much seeing anybody gasp in real life, but she gasps when he tells her. Then draws in looking at him, apprehensive all of a sudden, probably remembering she doesn't know him that well.
Jesus, he thinks. She killed me and now she is wondering what kind of guy I am? Really? He is trying to keep it as low-key as possible but he knows the strain must be showing on his face. She pulls the hair back from her face, sips the coffee.
"Your girl was the pretty one?" she says, and his face tightens some more at the use of the past tense, but he nods and says that's right. "She was nice," she says. "I noticed her, but I didn't see any big guy with whitish hair."
"How about Doug? Is he around, by any chance?"
"No," she says. "He went to work."
"Well, maybe I can run down and catch him at Bilke's," Blaine says. He hopes he's not scaring her. He is trying to be as casual as possible but he is feeling like falling apart again right here. She looks puzzled for a minute then her face brightens.
"No, he's not at Bilke's," she says. "He just fills in down there when they need him. He's at Dandylions." She makes a face. "He says he had to take inventory." She sniffs. "That better be what it is." Blaine takes that in. Somehow, she doesn't seem as sharp as she did the other day. Hangover? Or maybe something more? He can't really tell.
"What does he do at Dandylions?" he asks. The strip club on the highway does seem like a fitting place for Dougie. As happy as a pig in slop, probably.
"He runs it," she says. "Bounces, whatever they need." She plays with a strand of hair at the side of her head, slurps her coffee with an appetite that seems more need than desire. Sniffs again. Blaine is no judge, but back in his younger days he had been around a few people who did a lot of sniffing like that. People putting stuff up their noses. He wonders if Dougie is introducing her to some of the finer things in life.
"He says I could really make some good money working out there," she says. "But I don't know. Taking off your clothes for a bunch of drunk rednecks on payday doesn't sound real appealing." She gazes up at one of the paintings hanging on her wall, sniffs again. Blaine thinks if she keeps on with that sniffing, it is gonna start sounding a lot more appealing. He stops thinking about his own troubles for a second and wonders if Dougie is setting Mandy up. That would be just the sort of deal that asshole would pull. Feed some good-looking girl stuff up her nose till she's got the habit then put her to work. He gets a chill down his spine thinking about it. But he's reassessing Mandy. Maybe she is not as bright as he had thought earlier. Spending time with Doug is one good indicator.
She walks him to the door and he makes his farewells again, but he has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach now. He thinks back to their younger days when he and his brother and their friends would go out to Dandylions and watch the girls, some of them even get laid if they had the cash, though Blaine never had. Tiny hideaway rooms all over that place, places where the girls could make a bit of money on the side. Nobody seemed to care, and it all felt harmless, just red-blooded boys out having some fun and girls who needed and wanted it making some money, but he had never really thought about it that much in those days. He wonders now how many of those girls had drug habits, had been lured into the business. Looking at it that way took all the harmlessness out of it. He walks down the street squinting in the sun, thinking, but after a few moments he shrugs and his thoughts go back to Renee. That is what he needs to focus on.
He decides to go see Detective Nielson. The police know stuff they aren't giving out, and maybe he will tell him some things. What can it hurt to ask?
He has to think before deciding where to go. Used to be a substation in his part of town, up on 53rd and S, but he doesn't believe it is active any longer. He searches around on the dresser and finds the card the detective had left. Downtown on Ball. OK.
It is a two story building, fairly modern, nothing very unusual in the architecture: white brick and rectangular functional look, and he fumbles around the corridors for a while before he finds the office number. Nielson is in there in the same suit and tie, or another just like it, with glasses on, hunched over some paperwork, when Blaine taps on the door.
He looks up quizzically over the glasses when he hears the noise; then rises, shakes Blaine's hand, points him to a wooden chair on the other side of the desk. The office is tiny, and when Blaine sits down his back is almost to the wall.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Hadrock?" he says.
"I was wondering if you could give me a few more details on Renee's death," Blaine says.
"Be happy to help you if I can," Nielson says. He has taken the reading glasses off and is holding them in one hand up by his face, the end piece that fits over your ear in the corner of his mouth. "What did you want to know?"
"Well, did she have any defensive wounds, you know, like she was fighting the guy?"
"Yes, she did, Mr. Hadrock. She must have struggled very hard," Nielson says, as if that would be a comfort to him, and in some strange fashion it is.
"Did he strangle her with his bare hands?" Blaine says, gulping a touch to get that out.
"No," says Nielson. "He used some type of cloth object, maybe a tie, maybe something else."
"What about DNA?" Blaine says. "If she struggled hard she probably had some of this guy's DNA left on her."
"She had traces of DNA under her nails, where she had apparently scratched her attacker, yes," Nielson says. He has kicked back in the chair now, studying Blaine, rocking, the chair creaking.
"I don't understand," Blaine says. "If she had DNA under her nails, then wouldn't you guys ask me for a sample, if for nothing else than to clear me?"
"Would you give us a sample if we asked?"
"Sure," Blaine says. "I'm just curious why you didn't ask me before this. I'm not very smart about this kind of thing, but it seems to me that would be the first thing you would do."
Nielson sighs. In the era of TV crime shows, and especially CSI, every citizen must be trying to tell him how to do his job. "When we came by the other morning," he says, "what were you wearing?"
"Shorts and a T-shirt," Blaine says.
"That's right," says Nielson. "No scratches on your face, your arms, your legs. I even saw your stomach when you got up from the chair. I suppose the attacker could have been scratched on just the upper trunk of the body, but the odds are incredibly against it. Plus we had nothing else on you. So right off the jump, I decided not to put you through that just yet, make you think you were a suspect, until we had investigated this thing further. Though," he says, eyeing Blaine over the glasses, "we always hold that right in reserve."
"I don't mind letting you test my DNA," says Blaine. "I have nothing to hide." He lifts his T-shirt all the way up, rotates each way. No scratches there either.
"We can do that if it makes you feel better," Nielson says, looking at him, and picks up his phone and says a few words, and in a few minutes a black, uniformed policewoman comes in, nods at Nielson, tilts her head at Blaine, slips on some gloves, has him open his mouth and rubs a swab around. She puts the swab in an evidence bag of some sort and has him spell
out his name, glancing at Nielson for confirmation.
Nielson looks fairly content with all that, and Blaine guesses that his judgment call may have been closer, less clear-cut than he has made out. It is probably more circumspect to rule Blaine out. He may believe in his instincts but it doesn't hurt to cover his ass. Blaine hopes it isn't a sign of general sloppiness in the way they handle this case.
"The other thing, Mr. Hadrock, is that we had heard from you that you had some manner of argument with Renee that night, and we wanted to confirm that it had not been anything physical, that you didn't strike her, or she you, or anything like that. And you confirmed that, correct?"
"Yes," Blaine says. "It wasn't a physical argument at all. I was upset about the big guy at the bar, and she just wanted me to know that she could handle it herself. I wasn't mad at her. I was mad at him."
"That's right," says Nielson, rocking in his chair. "The big guy. Unfortunately for us, the bar was packed that night, packed to the gills is my understanding, barely room to move, and nobody else that we talked to remembers the big guy." He pulls that small notepad from his pocket, flips a few pages. "Big, blonde hair, rather big nose, dressed in a suit. Hair medium long." He has put the glasses back on to read his notes and now looks over them at Blaine. "That all correct? Anything else you've remembered about him since then?"
"No," says Blaine. "That's about it. His hair was whitish. How about a sketch of him? Have you guys considered that?"
Nielson sighs again. "Mr. Hadrock, it might seem like we are not doing everything possible on this case, but let me just say that these investigations follow a timeline of their own that is not always apparent to the general public. We are pursuing a number of different directions right now, some of which I am not at liberty to talk about. Our sketch artist will not be back in until Monday, and if at that time we still think it necessary, we would love to have you help us with that, okay?"
Blaine nods, looking at him. It seems to him they are dragging their feet somewhat on this whole deal. What are they not telling him?
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