Cube Sleuth

  * * *

  Lunchtime at Paine-Skidder. For the past two months or so you could find me poring over my notes about Ron at this time. But I’ve packed all of my notes and gadgets into a printer paper box and left it in the trunk of my rental car. So today I play mini-golf on my computer and listen to Radiohead in my headphones.

  Then, my desk phone rings. A double-ring, so it’s an outside call. I groan, hoping it’s my mother making sure I’m alive and not a reviewer giving me new work to do. I pause my song, drop one of my earwigs and pick up the phone. “Paine-Skidder, this is Bobby.”

  I hear a woman crying softly on the other end.

  “Hello?” After a few seconds of silence, I’m about to hang up when I hear:

  “I’m sorry about Ron.”

  I recognize the voice. “Eve?”

  “I never thought that could happen. I swear to God.” She sobs into the phone. I hear shouting in the background.

  “What do you mean? Where are you?”

  “Be careful. OK?”

  “Why? What do you know about Ron?”

  She doesn’t answer. Just before she hangs up, I hear a car drive by in the background and realize where she is.

  I slam the phone down and run to the stairwell. What did Eve have to do with Ron’s death? As far as I know, Eve only knows what I told her about Ron. Did he not kill himself after all? Did she drive him to kill himself?

  The sunlight burns my eyes when I fling open the door to the outside. I run past the adjacent office building, huffing and puffing. I picture my personal trainer jogging beside me with his disappointed frown.

  As soon as the bridge comes into view, I see all the lanes in both directions filled with stopped cars. I see an ambulance trying to wedge its way onto the bridge. A half-dozen onlookers stare over the rail, their faces too small to see their expressions. I follow their line of sight down to the river below, where Eve’s mangled body lies across the rocks in this shallow part of the Schuylkill.

  This turn of events seems, at this moment, like a cruel punishment for losing faith in myself, in my quest to find Ron’s killer. I feel like, in a karmic sense, Eve’s blood is on my hands. And in a literal sense, Eve’s blood is on my hands.

  As usual, my warped brain finds a way to twist this into something positive. This is a message from the heavens that I was on the path of the righteous and I need to get back on it.

  I feel the crushing agony of having been right all along. Ron’s mother was wrong. The cops were wrong. Everyone was wrong except me.

  I really do have the gut of a detective.

  I still have to become the new Bobby Pinker. I need to be stronger and sharper to find the killer that I now know is real.

  Unless the killer was Eve. Then I won’t know what to do with myself.

  Chapter 27

  Connecting Two Dead Dots

  One of the EMTs takes my shirt off of Eve’s face and examines her to confirm the obvious.

  After hefting Eve’s shell onto the gurney and covering her with a blanket, the EMT timidly offers me my own, now-bloody shirt. I politely decline.

  One of the cops helps me to my feet without my consent, gracefully guiding me to the riverbank. He keeps a hand on my shoulder as I look up and see half of Paine-Skidder standing in the outdoor lot, staring at me. The bridge is visible from one side of the building, so someone must’ve seen me in the river.

  They look like they’re outside for a fire drill, talking and gesturing. I see Suzanne crying with a group of women who keep hugging each other.

  Most of the men stand in solemn awe, not talking or moving: Cody. Keith. Stupid Harry Brody stands there drinking a Coke like he’s at the company picnic. I want to strangle him with his own bushy mustache.

  I wonder who knows that I had a fling with Eve. Did any of the women who sit near me ever hear me talking to Eve on the phone before I ran out?

  The cop beside me pats my shoulder and asks me a question. I think I answer. Sounds come to me the way they do when I’m under water, directed at me but then deflected to the sides.

  My metaphorically waterlogged ears pop.

  “Did you see her jump?”

  “No. I got here probably a minute after she jumped.”

  “Did you know her?” The cop scribbles notes but keeps his eyes glued to mine.

  “Yes. I need to talk to Detective Capillo.”

  “Capillo?”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s homicide. You saying this lady didn’t jump?”

  “No. She jumped. But she told me something before she jumped. Almost a confession, I guess—”

  “You said you got here after she jumped.”

  “She called me from the bridge. I work right there. She worked there too. Her name is Eve Mothit. M-O-T-H-I-T. I’m Bobby Pinker. P-I-N-K-E-R. Can you get Capillo for me, right now? What she said, it was about one of his closed cases.”

  “Can I finish getting your statement?”

  “I’ll give my statement to him. Please get him right now.”

  I walk slowly over to the crowd of coworkers. Everyone looks so clean compared to me. I look like the hero of an action movie when the movie’s almost over.

  I scan the crowd for Stella Kruger. I figure she’d want front row seats to this. The crowd parts around me as I move toward her. I feel like a leper. She cowers as I get close. I probably have a maniacal look in my eye.

  “What?” She puts her arm across her chest defensively. Her perfume clogs my sinuses even in the open air.

  “Did you ever hear anything about Ron and Eve?”

  “Ron? No. Nothing. Why, were they…?”

  “Maybe. Did you ever hear any story about both of them at all?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Nope. Why would you think—?”

  “Can’t tell you. Keep this to yourself. I mean it.” This is a useless request, considering how many people are within earshot.

  The way she flinches, I know that she knows this is not an idle threat. “No problem.”

  I head back to the cop. “What was that about?” He points at Stella.

  “Did you find him?”

  “He’s on his way. What did the woman who jumped say to you on the phone? She say she was thinking of jumping? Wanted you to stop her?”

  “No. She didn’t even say where she was. I heard cars in the background. This is where she used to walk on her lunch break.” Before I stalked her for a week, that is.

  “What did she say?”

  “It won’t make sense to you. I have to tell him.” I point to Capillo stepping out of his sedan, his siren spinning silently. He strides across the lot, eyes locked on me. He looks the way he did the day he threw me out of his office; I fear he might deck me when he gets close enough.

  Capillo looks at me, covered in mud and blood, and grits his teeth as if he’s fighting the urge to pity me. “You’re not gonna try to tell me this wasn’t a suicide either, are you? The guy who called me said a dozen people tried to talk her out of jumping and watched her do it. I won’t buy your theory that she was pushed.”

  “I’m not gonna say that. I know she jumped.”

  “Then what do you want with me?”

  “She called me right before she jumped. She said she was sorry about Ron, that she ‘never thought that would happen.’ Then she told me to be careful and hung up.”

  Capillo steps toward me and grabs my shoulders, and not in the comforting way the cop who called him had. “If you’re using this lady—this lady’s death—to get me to reopen that case… If I can prove you’re making this up, I swear to God I’ll put you in prison. I’ll testify—”

  “I’m not making it up! Check her cell phone; my work number will be the last one she called. Or check the phone records. It was literally right before she jumped.”

  Capillo lets go of my shoulders. “Walk.” He points toward the path along the river.

  When we’re far enough from everyone else not to be heard, he asks “Why did
she call you? Who were you to her?”

  “She was my friend. She knew I was trying to find out who killed Ron.” I think a second and realize that Capillo will find out I slept with Eve from half of the women at Paine-Skidder. “And… we used to see each other. A few months ago. She cut it off around the time Ron died.”

  Capillo laugh-sighs and shakes his head. “Apparently you need to stay away from people. You hang around them too long, they want to end it all.” He smiles, then replaces the smile with a sheepish frown when he sees my watery eyes.

  “Go easy on me, for fuck’s sake. Someone I cared about just threw herself off a bridge.”

  Capillo lowers his head. “What’s the connection? Ron and Eve.”

  “As far as I know, nothing. If Ron knew her, he never talked about her. And vice versa. I can’t see them doing it because Ron was in love with this girl Helen and didn’t seem to notice other women. And if he had, I know he would’ve told me about it.”

  “Maybe he did her while you were doing her and that’s why neither of them said anything.”

  I know that’s a possibility, but it flies in the face of everything I know about Ron. Maybe I just don’t know enough. “I don’t see it. Maybe, but I really don’t see it. He just wasn’t like that.”

  “Anything else that could have connected them?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t work directly together. Maybe they were in Toastmasters together or something.”

  Capillo raises an eyebrow to show that he doesn’t know what “Toastmasters” is.

  “Public speaking group. People in all different departments join. They meet every other week for lunch. Very boring.”

  “Well, from where I stand, there’s one big connection you’re ignoring.”

  “What’s that?” I get a tingle at the prospect of some kind of revelation.

  “You, stupid. He was your good friend. You used to sleep with her. They both killed themselves at work. Doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”

  “You think I did it?”

  “I don’t know if anyone ‘did it.’ No one killed this lady and it’d be hard to make a case for Ron not pulling the trigger himself. But if I had to make a list of suspects, you’d basically be my list. At least at this point.” Capillo pats my shoulder reassuringly. “But I don’t think you’re a murderer. Unless you’ve found a way to hypnotize people into killing themselves.”

  “That would be the perfect crime, huh?”

  Capillo nods. “Did this dead lady—?”

  “Eve.”

  “Did Eve have a good reason to jump into the shallow end?”

  “Not that I know of. It definitely wasn’t over me. We only dated a little while and she ended it because she didn’t see us going anywhere. From what she said on the phone, I think she jumped because she couldn’t handle the guilt over Ron’s death, whatever part she played in it.”

  “Maybe she was doing you both at the same time. Ended it with him, he got depressed and… you know. Then she ended it with you.”

  “Why would she tell me to be careful then?”

  Capillo shrugs, probably thinking I could’ve made up at least that part.

  “You gonna reopen the case?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I have no reason to.”

  “I just—”

  “All I have is the word of a guy who bugged me for weeks to reopen the case. That’s it.”

  “But the phone records—”

  “Would prove that Eve called you, but who knows what she said. Maybe she said ‘You suck in bed and your dick’s small. Can you feed my cat when I’m gone?’”

  “Come on. Look into this before I end up dead, too. That’d be on your hands.”

  “Ron’s death was suicide. So was Eve’s. Homicide will never get to touch it. It’s out of my jurisdiction. But I’ll look into it myself. You’ve managed to pique my professional interest. If I find something concrete, I’ll get the case reopened.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And if I find out that you’re involved, you know I’ll be more than happy to take you in.”

  “I know. I didn’t do it. I have no idea who did.”

  I tell Capillo that I need to give him my statement about Eve jumping. I do this as we walk back toward the now-empty outdoor lot where my coworkers had been milling about.

  Capillo shakes my hand and turns to go to his car, his siren still spinning silently on the roof. I remember something I’d wanted to tell him and stop him before he closes his car door. “I figured out a way for someone to have shot Ron and then fire a second round knowing where the bullet would go and without leaving a hole.”

  Capillo shrugs. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Killer wore a bullet-proof vest and fired the second shot into his own chest with Ron’s hand.”

  He starts to laugh, then stops and pats the top of his head. “Seriously, you did it, right? You killed your friend and this is a new spin on the ‘killer who taunts the cops’ routine.”

  “I didn’t kill him. I’ve thought about this day and night for weeks, and it just came to me.” In a dream where I killed him.

  “Then maybe you should be working for me.”

  I take a moment to bask in the approval of my reluctant mentor. “Really?”

  “No. I kinda hate you. But good work. If a guy got the angle just right on the suicide shot, he could do the vest thing and it’s basically a perfect crime. Smart.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I still hate you, though.” He shoos me away from his car, closes the door, and drives off.

  * * *

  I drift into my cube, every molecule of my body and clothes soaked, and slump into my chair, shivering in the climate control. I get a whiff of myself: the putrid Schuylkill fills my pores like cologne. I’ll have to Febreze my chair in the morning.

  I have plenty of work to do, but opt to shut down my computer and stare at my phone. I convince myself that Eve is dead because I answered my phone. I rarely answer my phone during lunch because it’s usually work-related. If I hadn’t answered, if she hadn’t gotten to apologize for whatever she was apologizing for, she would’ve waited until later to jump, and maybe had a change of heart. My stupid phone. What a piece of shit. Worthless plastic rectangle.

  I pick up the receiver and look at it up close, then slam it on the base again and again. “Stupid fucking piece of shit!” I grab the phone base and rip it off my desk, tearing the cord out of the jack. With a seething grunt, I throw the phone at the wall outside my cube. The plastic splinters. Huge pieces snap off and fall in a semicircle on the carpet.

  Suzanne steps out of her office to see what happened. Her eyes open wide, the whites dwarfing her pupils. She turns to me and opens her mouth. The sound that comes out sounds like “Gahhuh.”

  “I need a new phone. This one is broken.” I turn my back on her and grab my keys and wallet.

  “OK. No problem. I’ll call Ted and get you a new one. No problem. You going home?”

  “Can’t be here right now.”

  “That’s fine. No problem. Take tomorrow off. Won’t count against your personal days. I’ll talk to Keith.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. No problem. If you need anything, give me a call. OK?”

  I nod and walk to the elevators, each step a pathetic squish.

  Standing there stinking of the Schuylkill, I hear the jingle-jangle of coins and look up at the sky to ask God to let this cup pass me by right now because I don’t want to murder Harry.

  He taps my shoulder and I turn to see him holding a stack of papers. “Hello. I have a question about the Health Care Practices Compilation.”

  I glare at Harry. I look down at my bloody shirt, then back in his vacant eyes. He doesn’t get the point.

  “Tomorrow.” I spit the word at him and he recoils slightly, as if I’d actually spit. I step into the elevator, wishing I had my bat so could I beat Harry to death. Ju
st before the doors close, I hear Harry shuffling off in a huff.

  I’ve noticed that people like Harry always live to be 103. I think it’s because even God doesn’t want them.

  * * *

  My apartment and I smell dishearteningly similar. I throw my clothes in the trash and take a long shower. I call Helen. “I need to see you right now. I think I was right about Ron. Someone else is dead. Can I come over now?”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “The woman I was seeing before you.”

  “What happened?”

  “Can I come over?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  * * *

  Helen opens the door and hugs me before I can say a word. She smells so good. Her hair is wet; I see steam wafting out of her bathroom. She wears a beater and boxer shorts. A strawberry candle burns on her coffee table. She kisses my cheek, that same wet kiss I first felt at Ron’s funeral. I suddenly want to kiss her, sleep with her, marry her.

  She leans back without letting go of me. “You look tired.”

  “Long day.”

  I see the dark circles of her nipples through her tank top. I feel exhausted, my head in a fog, my crotch in a tent. I know I can have her right now. But I can’t. Even though I’m not fully with Nancy yet, I want to be faithful to her. The new Bobby Pinker.

  I describe Eve’s phone call and suicide with a matter-of-fact tone. I don’t have the energy to get upset. When I finish, I ask her if Ron ever mentioned Eve.

  “No. I only know who she is because you told me you fucked her before me.”

  I sit on her couch sipping a Hank’s Root Beer she had stashed in her fridge for just such an occasion. Helen lies across the length of the couch, her smooth, lotioned calves in my lap, her pretty feet by my right hand. I hope she doesn’t try to kiss me or touch me or reveal any of her exquisite anatomy, because I don’t know if I have the strength to resist.

  “Did he ever mention an older woman from work? Maybe one who flirted with him?”

  “You think he slept with her?” Helen seems to find this as unlikely as I do.

  “You were the only woman he ever talked about. It was like there weren’t any other women on earth but you and his mom.”