The Dead Man

by Joel Goldman

  "There may be."

  "You needn't worry. I've known for a long time how my life will end."

  "You sound like a fatalist. I thought scientists were rationalists."

  "I know what I know," she said.

  "Knowing how you'll die is one thing. Knowing when is another."

  "The when will take care of itself," she said. In the meantime, will you protect me?"

  "Yes."

  She patted me on the arm. "Then I won't worry. I'll leave that to you."

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Nancy flagged me as I passed the front desk.

  "You leaving already?" she asked.

  "Hell, I'm lucky they haven't fired me yet."

  She laughed. "I don't think luck's got anything to do with it."

  "Are you a religious person?"

  "I know that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior, if that's what you mean," she said.

  "I heard you reciting the Twenty-third Psalm this morning. I couldn't tell whether that was a prayer or a warning."

  "A little of both."

  "Should I be worried?"

  "I'd worry if people who come in here keep on dying. I heard about the mailman on the news. He's the third one in a month. People better wake up and pray."

  ***

  Lucy was waiting in the circle drive. I slid into the passenger seat. Before I could buckle the seat belt, I was shaking and grunting, my back arched and rigid, my neck wrapped around the headrest. Concentrated activity, like the day I'd put in, held the tics at bay but when I took a break, they swarmed. The guerrilla attack didn't last long, maybe ten seconds, but it made time stand still.

  "How about if I drive?" Lucy asked when order had been restored.

  I appreciated her pragmatic response. It took me a long time before I was able to shake off the shakes like water off a duck's back, but Lucy got it right, acknowledging my condition without dramatizing it.

  "Great idea. So, how was your day? Did you find a car?"

  "Drove past some dealerships," she said, pulling into traffic.

  Though not yet dark, drivers crept along, leading with their headlights, wary of slick spots on the pavement though much of the snow had been pushed to the curb. We got caught in the aftermath of a six-car chain reaction rear-end collision that turned a ten-minute drive from the institute to our house into a thirty-minute crawl.

  "Didn't see anything you liked?"

  "Didn't look."

  "What did you do all day?"

  "I took a tour."

  "What kind of tour."

  "The dead man tour. It was great. No waiting. I started at Walter Enoch's house, then swung by Tom Delaney's apartment, and finished up at Regina Blair's parking garage."

  I should have been surprised but I wasn't. She'd told me that she had read Delaney's and Blair's incident reports. I could yell at her, tell her to mind her own business. I could make her pull over, give me the keys, get out, and call a cab. I could move out of her house, stay at Joy's while she was out of town, and look for a new place if that's what it took to get rid of Lucy. But I didn't do any of that because she had done what needed to be done, knowing that I couldn't and that I was too bullheaded to ask for her help.

  "How'd that work out?"

  She flashed me a grin that showed her molars. "Fair to middling. I'll show you what I've got when we get home."

  While we were stuck in traffic, I called Kate Scranton.

  "You busy tonight?" I asked her.

  "Nothing too important. Catching up on paperwork."

  "Come on over and bring your laptop."

  "What about my toothbrush?"

  "Absolutely. And dinner for four wouldn't hurt either."

  "You're having a party, I'm bringing dinner, and lap-tops are included?"

  "It will be good for your bottom line. And don't scrimp on dinner. I've got an expense account."

  "Who was that?" Lucy asked.

  "Kate Scranton. She's a jury consultant and a psychologist and she's an expert in reading facial expressions."

  "I'm no expert, but from the 'cat-that-ate-thecanary' look on your face, she's more than that," she said, the flush I felt in my face egging her on. "She's the one, isn't she? Your friend from Saturday night."

  I nodded. "Am I that easy?"

  "Make it tougher on me next time, keep your tongue in your mouth."

  "I'll try to remember that."

  My next call was to Simon Alexander.

  "It's payback time," I told him.

  "What did I do?"

  "Hooked me up with Milo Harper. I need you at my house. Bring your laptop, a couple of printers, and a lot of paper. Kate's bringing dinner."

  "What's the name of the game we're playing?"

  "The dead man."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Roxy and Ruby jumped us when we came home, forcing us onto the kitchen floor to play with them. Lucy and I sat opposite one another, our backs against cabinet doors. Roxy settled into Lucy's lap, raising her head so that Lucy could stroke her neck and belly in one continuous motion. Ruby planted her front paws on my chest, her eyes boring into mine until I conceded her dominance.

  "That dog owns you," Lucy said.

  "I could do worse."

  I lifted Ruby off the floor, spun her onto her back, rubbed her belly, and let her go. She scrambled to her feet, ready for the best two out of three falls. Roxy sprang to life, not wanting to be left out.

  "You're on your own," Lucy said. "I'm going upstairs and clean up."

  "Dinner," I announced to the dogs, clapping my hands.

  Ruby eats at the speed of light. Roxy dawdles while Ruby watches, waiting for a chance to poach her food, forcing me to stand guard to make sure Roxy doesn't go hungry. I grabbed my laptop and loaded Walter Enoch's dream video from my flash drive so I could watch it while the dogs ate.

  The doorbell rang as the video finished downloading. Roxy bolted for the front door. Ruby froze, torn between greeting company and raiding Roxy's bowl until I picked it up. She gave me a dirty look and then raced after Roxy.

  I opened the door. It was Kent and Dolan. Cockapoos are known for their indiscriminate affection and weak bladders when they are excited and nothing excites them more than greeting someone new. The dogs clambered over both agents before they could cross the threshold, peeing on their shoes.

  "Goddamn mutts," Dolan said.

  He kicked at Roxy and Ruby. They dodged his shoe and retreated into the house behind me.

  "You touch my dogs and I'll shoot you with your gun."

  "Easy. Easy. We've got a search warrant," Kent said, reaching into his overcoat and handing it to me.

  The warrant was for any written or electronic communications to or from Wendy Davis.

  "You've also got dog piss on your shoes. Take them off."

  "Give me something to wipe them off with," Dolan said.

  I stuffed the warrant in his hand. Dolan wadded it into a ball and reached for me when Kent stepped in front of him.

  "See what I'm doing," Kent said. "I'm taking my shoes off." A vein in Dolan's forehead throbbed as he faced his partner. "Take yours off and we'll get what we came for and get out of here."

  "Goddamn mutts," Dolan said, as he kicked off his shoes, leaving them next to Kent's on the front stoop.

  They didn't take long with their search, rifling through drawers and pulling books off of shelves, fanning the pages and waiting for incriminating evidence to fall out. I followed behind them as they went upstairs, Dolan catching Lucy's bedroom door with his chin when she came out while he was going in.

  "Son of a bitch!" Dolan said. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Who the hell are you?" she asked.

  "We're FBI agents," Kent said. "We're executing a search warrant. Please identify yourself."

  "It's okay," I said. "The dogs peed on their shoes."

  Lucy giggled. "Really? Roxy and Ruby peed on their shoes?"

  "Golden rain," I said.

  "I love thos
e dogs," she said. "I'm Lucy Trent. This is my house."

  Kent looked at me. "That right?"

  "She's my landlady."

  We finished the search as a foursome, ending in the kitchen.

  "That your laptop?" Dolan asked, pointing to my computer sitting on the kitchen counter next to Roxy's dinner.

  I nodded. "You can search the dog food too if you want."

  He tucked the laptop under his arm. "Warrant covers electronic communications. We'll let you know when you can have it back."

  The dogs stayed in the kitchen, letting me escort Kent and Dolan to their shoes.

  "What was that about?" Lucy asked after we watched them drive away.

  "The envelope Ammara Iverson found on Walter Enoch's body was from my daughter Wendy. She used the initials MG for the return address, which stands for Monkey Girl. That was my nickname for her."

  "I didn't know you had a daughter."

  "She died ten months ago."

  "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

  We sat on the sofa in the living den, a dog in each of our laps, and I told Lucy about Wendy, just the broad strokes, how she struggled, how she rallied only to fall back, how her addiction claimed her, and how her mother and I failed her.

  "The FBI is convinced Wendy stole five million dollars from the drug ring. They think that whatever was in the envelope had something to do with the money and that I know where it is. They also think I found out that Walter Enoch had stolen Wendy's letter so I killed him when I stole it back."

  "How do you know that's what they think?"

  I told her about my meeting with Kent and Dolan and Ammara Iverson and my conversation afterward with Ammara.

  "Do you know where the money is?"

  "No."

  "Do you know what was in that envelope?"

  "No."

  "Did you kill Walter Enoch?"

  "No."

  "Do you have an alibi for when he was killed?"

  "I don't know when he was killed other than it was a day or two before his body was found. I can account for where I was and what I was doing but I don't have witnesses who can vouch for every minute."

  "Why didn't you ask Dolan and Kent when Enoch was killed?" Lucy asked.

  "It wasn't important to me. I didn't think I was a suspect."

  "Yeah, but they may not see it that way. They may have expected you to ask, figuring if you didn't it was because you already knew. That's the way I'd see it."

  Her cop logic was sound enough to make me shake. I'd made the mistake of acting like an innocent man, which was the surest way to arouse suspicion. Lucy pressed me again.

  "Do they have any proof that you know where the money is or what was in the envelope or that you killed Walter Enoch?"

  "Not until they get a look at my laptop. Enoch volunteered for the Harper Institute's dream project. They made a videotape of him describing a nightmare in which he suffocated to death, which happens to be how he died, with an assist from the killer. I found the video today in the dream project computer files and copied it to my flash drive. I had just finished loading it on my laptop when they rang the doorbell. Once they find the video, they'll go nuts."

  "Why? You can explain why you had the video and when you got it. The timing has nothing to do with Enoch's murder."

  "But the fact that I have it fits with their larger narrative."

  "Oh, shit! That isn't all they'll find on your laptop. I e-mailed you the pictures I took of Enoch and his house with my cell phone. They'll love my explanation of that."

  I'd seen the pictures. They were no use to me but Dolan and Kent would treat them as further proof that I was guilty of crimes ranging from conspiracy to murder no matter how I explained them. They were the kind of cops that shoved the facts into their theories no matter how square the pegs or how round the holes.

  "The video and the pictures are enough to make them keep coming after me. When they see that you e-mailed the photographs to me, you'll be in the soup too."

  "So let them keep coming. You're innocent."

  "Lucy, you were a cop. You know how guys like Kent and Dolan think. They've already convicted me. Being right matters more to them than the truth."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Frank Gentry called, confirming that he'd deleted Anthony Corliss's alert software and installed it on the desktop computer in my office and that no one else was using the software. I caught Simon while he was still at his office, telling him to bring an additional laptop for me.

  Lucy left and came back carrying pads of poster-sized Post-its and a fistful of markers in a rainbow of colors. Her cheeks were red from the cold and her eyes were dancing and bright, fueled by our chase of the dead man.

  She stripped the living den walls, papering the empty spaces with blank Post-its. I needed to rest so I sat in the recliner watching her work, genuflecting with intermittent spasms.

  "I learned under a great homicide detective," Lucy said. "She taught me that the best way to put a case together is to visualize it. Put it on the walls, let the facts paint the picture."

  "I do it the same way. Put each case on a separate wall. Start with what we know about each of the victims and how they died. Then we'll fill in what you saw at each of the scenes. We'll also have to keep track of witnesses, evidence, and questions we need answered, plus links between the cases."

  She turned toward me, hands on her hips. "Gee, great ideas. I never would have thought of any of that."

  We mirrored each other's grins, both glad to be back in the hunt, realizing how much we had missed it.

  "Okay, okay. I get it," I said, the words staggering out of my mouth like drunks leaving a bar at closing time. My neck arched and stretched, shoving my head upward and back, raising my chin like the open end of a drawbridge and locking me in the pose until the spasm passed. "I guess this isn't your first time."

  "No. But it's my first time in a while, same for you. We need to check each other's work. Shake the rust off."

  "Might as well. I'm shaking everything else."

  She stood over my chair, looking at me with soft, sad eyes and laughed, giving me a quick hug. "You are something, you know that. Tell you what. I'll write. You edit."

  "This isn't the first essay I've ever written, Dad," Wendy said.

  She was applying for college. The application included an essay on the highs and lows of her life and what she'd learned from them. She said her lows were the death of her brother and her addiction and her highs were staying straight and sober for over a year and graduating from high school. She wrote that she learned the same thing from the highs and the lows. You can't always choose what happens to you but you can choose how you deal with it.

  "Are you sure you want to put yourself on the line like that?" I asked her when she showed me a draft and asked for my comments.

  "This is who I am. What else would I write about?"

  "Something that doesn't label you as high risk."

  She laughed. "Are you serious, Dad? High risk is tattooed all over me. I can't run away from that. Tell you what, I'll write, you edit."

  "Works for me," I told Lucy.

  She made her way around the room, using different color markers for different topics: black for victims, blue for witnesses, green for evidence, red for the crime scene, though she labeled it THE DEAD MAN in all caps, winking at me over her shoulder as she wrote. Her handwriting was hurried, her shoulder and neck muscles bundled and flexed as she worked.

  She didn't look like Wendy. She was taller and her hair was shorter and darker. She was cocky while Wendy was leery. In spite of their differences, I sensed in her the same urgency about life Wendy had shown, as if they knew that they'd closed more doors than they'd opened and that they were running out of doors. There were no words for how much I missed my daughter. There were only memories Lucy was bringing to life, making me realize that this could be the land of second chances for both of us.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Kate rang the do
orbell while Lucy was still hanging the new wallpaper. When I introduced them, Lucy leaned into Kate, whispering something in her ear that made them both giggle like schoolgirls, look at me, and laugh again.

  "What?" I demanded.

  "Oh, nothing," Kate said.

  She was holding two bags of carryout from Bo Ling's. She handed one bag to Lucy as they locked arms and headed for the kitchen.

  When Simon arrived a few minutes later, he stared at Lucy's handiwork, then looked at me, his mouth open.

  "Everything will be illuminated," I said. "After we eat."

  I spread out dinner in the kitchen while Simon set up an office in the dining room. The dogs, exhausted from the parade of people, slept under the kitchen table, waking long enough to scavenge for crumbs. When we finished our fortune cookies, I laid everything out for Kate and Simon.

  Simon pushed back from the table, his eyebrows raised. "Lucid dreaming sounds like junk science to me."

  "Maybe, maybe not," Kate said. "The work I do is all about what's going on beneath the surface. Dreams are part of that so I stay current with the research, which is all over the place. Freud thought dreams were the way we fulfilled our forbidden aggressive and sexual wishes. Later, people thought that dreams were the cognitive echoes of our efforts to work out conflicting emotions. Now some researchers will tell you that dreams are just epiphenomena."

  "Translation, please," Simon said.

  "Sorry," Kate said. "They think that dreams don't mean anything at all, that dreams are just the mind's attempt to make sense of random neural firings while the body restores itself during sleep."

  "So, dreams are noise the brain makes while it's doing its homework?" Lucy asked.

  "That's exactly how one researcher at Harvard explains it. But there's other research that suggests that dreams are a training ground where people rehearse survival behaviors. I read a report by one psychologist who said he helped a patient reframe his nightmare by rehearsing alternatives to the most frightening part while he was awake. Eventually, the nightmare went away. That doesn't sound so different from what Anthony Corliss is trying to do."