Murder My Past

by Delia C. Pitts

  “It’s ten-thirty, Rook. Not exactly early for us working stiffs. You know, the kind with regular jobs. Anyway, I brought you breakfast.” He waved a blue-checkered sack over his head as he barged past me to the kitchen. “So, cut your crying and put on another pot of coffee.”

  My stomach growled in approval of Archie’s greasy bag. Two minutes to drag on jeans and t-shirt, another five to drip a fresh pot. I settled opposite my friend at the little round table between the sleeping nook and kitchen peninsula. Archie, full of unexpected manners, had retrieved a plate from the cabinet over the sink and arranged his gift doughnuts in an artful pyramid.

  “I didn’t know what kind you liked so I got two crullers, two whole-wheat, two chocolate-lovers’ delights, and two pumpkin spice-flavored ones. For the season, you know.”

  “This is good, Archie, real good. Thanks for this.”

  Munching on a cruller, I brought the carton of milk to the table in case he wanted to lighten his coffee, which he did. Herb the cat insisted, so I poured a bowl of milk for him too.

  “So, what’s up? This isn’t a social call.” We were pals, the beer-and-peanuts kind. Not some suburban ladies’ coffee circle, gossiping about the neighbors until the afternoon soaps came on. “You got something you want to tell me. Or something you want me to spill. Which is it?”

  Archie shrugged, wiped pumpkin-orange crumbs from his mouth, and plunged in. “You’re working a couple of cases right now we might have some details on. Stuff you could use, personal or professional. Either way, up to you. But I wanted you to get this info direct.”

  That gulp in his voice sounded ominous. I waved a chunk of cruller at him anyway. “What do you have?”

  He gathered a full chest of air, then let it out in one swoop. “On that murder case involving your ex. You know we hit a brick wall. No leads on suspects came out of our inquiries with the Miami-Dade police. She wasn’t Mother Theresa, but pretty near, at least by what her friends and colleagues say. Paid her bills, paid her employees, kept her nose clean, kept quiet around the neighborhood. Like I said, not a saint, but damn close to it. That was Miami…”

  Here Archie trailed off and inhaled the other half of the pumpkin doughnut. Then he swallowed a big gulp of coffee. He was stalling, which meant the next part of his story wasn’t so nice. Or it cut closer to home.

  “Go on. You got more to say, don’t you? What about the coroner’s office? Didn’t they come up with anything about the shooting itself?”

  “Nothing about the shooting itself. She died instantly from a single .32 caliber bullet to the heart. Couple of cocktails, wine, and a seafood salad for dinner. The only thing that stood out was what she had after dinner.”

  Another long pause. This was like pulling teeth from a water buffalo. I didn’t know who was going to get hurt more by the extraction, me or the buffalo.

  “And?”

  “And… Yeah, well, it turns out the guy she was with was that professor, Gerry Keith. You remember him? Anniesha and the prof got together after dinner. Not too long before she died.”

  It was my turn to take a gulp of coffee. And a big bite from my cruller. Archie’s eyes were glued to a fascinating dollop of chocolate on his index finger. His mouth turned down and red stained his cheeks. This report from the medical examiner prompted fresh questions; he wanted me to answer without his having to raise them. But if he wasn’t asking, I wasn’t telling.

  Misery seeped through me. I knew Annie and Keith had been lovers in Miami. He’d said as much during our stroll across campus. But I hadn’t been sure until now that they’d kept up the affair. Now Annie’s last hours played through my mind like a grainy silent film: booze, dinner, more booze, sex, a bullet chaser. If I’d stuck around that night, I could have protected her. I might have prevented her murder. My neglect didn’t kill her. I knew that. But the more I chewed it over, the more this felt like my fault. Guilt for her distorted life crawled through me, dragging blame for her soiled death.

  I set down the cup to avoid spilling the coffee. And to disguise the trembling in my hand. Archie, not as obtuse as he pretended, sighed in sympathy with my distress. He pulled a plastic zip bag from his pocket and laid it on the table. A long silver filigree earring clattered against the wood when I dumped it out.

  “What’s this?”

  “You know what it is, dontcha?”

  “Annie’s earring.”

  He fingered a tiny tear-drop shaped hole in the star-burst array of coral. The silver framed an empty shadow. “You know where the missing piece is?”

  “You know I do.” I walked to the tall dresser next to my bed. I pulled a rolled gray sock from the bottom drawer. I retrieved the coral nugget I’d plucked from the carpet in Annie’s hotel room. Seated at the table again, I dropped the chunk into its setting. It fit like a sun-kissed dream. I stroked an index finger once over the smooth surface.

  “How’d you know I had it?”

  “I saw you pick it up.” Embarrassment soured his voice. “In her room, when we were checking it out.”

  “You didn’t say anything.”

  He lifted his shoulders, then quirked his lips around an excuse. “Maybe you wanted a souvenir of her. Maybe you hoped it was a clue.”

  “It could have been a clue.” Squeaky and high-pitched. Pathetic, but it was my truth, so I let the rest come out. “I wanted it to be.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Maybe if the shooter had dropped it, maybe I could have found who killed Annie.”

  “That’s what I figured you thought.”

  “Maybe her earring broke when she fought her attacker.”

  Archie’s eyes narrowed in professional skepticism. “You saw the room, Rook. No signs of struggle. No overturned chairs, no lamps dropped on the floor. Sheets tossed from sex, not from any violent attack. Whoever killed her was no stranger.”

  Archie sighed again. I slipped the repaired earring into the evidence bag and pushed it toward him. That line of inquiry was done. Scrubbed, stamped, and filed. Archie’s mug was empty, so I got up to do my host duties.

  Pouring a fresh cup, I turned the conversation. “You got something else for me, Archie? You want another chunk of my heart today?”

  I clutched fingers over my chest in mock agony. I had no leftover anger for him. But Archie’s scant eyebrows puckered. He looked guilty again, so I knew the blows would keep coming.

  “I don’t know if this next bit cuts quite as close for you. But it does concern your extended family, so to speak.”

  “What is it?”

  “On the skeleton found in the basement of that Strivers Row mansion, we got the M.E.’s report on the possible cause of death. It was a female, mid-thirties to forty.”

  “Yeah, I know. Norment Ross ID’d the remains. She was his missing wife, Jayla Dream. Dreamie. He reported her gone twenty-five years ago. So, can you determine if she died that long ago? Or is the death more recent?”

  “Can’t tell for sure, the body is decomposed so bad there isn’t much to go on. Based on Ross’s ID we checked with local dentists for records to compare with the skeleton. Nothing doing. There was a fire twenty years ago in that dentist’s office where she used to work, so we figure her files musta went up in smoke along with everything else. So, nothing conclusive from that angle. But Gleason says it’s possible she died around the time Ross reported her missing. Certainly, within the same year anyway.”

  I shook my head, then poked an index finger to arrange doughnut crumbs into a straight line on the table.

  “She was wearing the same clothing Norment said she had on the last day he saw her. Doesn’t prove anything. She could have bought new clothes during the interval. Maybe she just happened to be wearing the same jeans and sweater when she died. But the coincidence is hard to buy.”

  “Agreed. So where does that leave it?”

  “Did
the M.E. say what killed her? Or how she got into that hidden room?” I asked.

  “Like I said, the decomp was so bad, lots of the usual evidence couldn’t be determined. But he did say there were multiple broken bones. The pelvis and left femur were shattered. No damage to the skull, but broken vertebrae in the neck could be the cause of death.”

  “So, what do you figure, Arch? Was she beaten to death? Any clue from the nature of the breaks as to what she was hit with? Hammer, baseball bat, wrench, tire iron? Or did she fall and break all those bones?”

  “Look, I’m giving you everything we got to go on. I asked Gleason the same questions you did. And I’m giving you exactly the same answers I got. We don’t know nothing specific. If we knew, I’d tell you.”

  “I appreciate you keeping me informed on this case. You know I do. It’s hard when you’ve got so few facts. And when the feelings are still running so high.”

  “I know. You gonna share this info with Old Man Ross?”

  I shrugged and chewed on my lower lip before I mumbled the answer.

  “He took it hard when we went down to identify the body. Or actually, just the clothes. That was tough. They wouldn’t let him see the remains. They said it was only a pile of bones anyway, nothing that could contribute to the identification. So, he had to leave with a look at her raggedy sweater and a pair of jeans with rat droppings all over them. That was a hard day. A hard day, Archie.”

  I reached for a napkin from the stack in the middle of the table. Archie didn’t get to see me cry over Annie again. Once was enough. But it was okay if he knew the death of Norment’s wife hit me too. A different way, but just as tough. I swiped the napkin across my eyes and touched it to my nose.

  “Yeah, I know, Rook. I know.”

  I recovered my voice, the scratchy part. At the harsh sound, Herb swiveled his ears in my direction. As I talked, he bent his brows into a feline version of a frown.

  “You asked will I share this new information with Norment right away. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m going to keep it to myself. Until the time is right. Or until we get something more certain. Giving him a few scraps, without a big enough bite of the truth to sink his teeth into, is worse torture than knowing nothing at all.”

  “Right. I won’t mention a word to him until you give me the go ahead.” Archie locked eyes with me to confirm our agreement. Then his expression brightened as he looked ahead. “So, if you’re not going to tell Ross, what do you plan to do?”

  “I’m going to play my hunch on this, Archie. I’ve got an idea and I want to run it down. If my instinct leads nowhere, then we’re back where we started.”

  “Sure. If your guess don’t pan out, we’re no worse and no better. But the case’ll be a lot colder. You gonna keep me informed on what your gut leads you into?”

  “I’ll do my best. You’ve been straight with me. I don’t know how this hunch plays out, so I can’t make any promises upfront. Trust me to make the best choice for everybody on this one. Can you do that, Archie?”

  He leaned forward, his chest pressing against the edge of the table. His pupils glittered like black foil between the lids.

  “I can. Even if I didn’t trust you, this Jayla Dream case is the coldest cold case we got on our board. Frozen solid. If we can erase it, we’ll be obliged to you. Plenty.”

  We stood from the table and shook on our deal.

  “Don’t matter how you pull it off,” he said. “You solve this one, I can live with a truck load of doubt.”

  Archie was a good cop, a better man. And the friend I needed.

  Clark’s Auto Body and Repair, four blocks from my apartment, was my first stop after Archie left. I didn’t own a car, but Brina’s battered Honda required frequent attention. Despite her fierce feminism, she was happy to let me handle all business related to car repairs. She pumped gas when forced to, but anything more complicated she passed to me. During two years of steady patronage, I’d forged a firm friendship with Clark “Superman” Kuo and the boys in the grease pit.

  Today I wanted Superman’s expert advice on the clues I’d harvested in the death of Dreamie Ross.

  “How’s it going, Mr. Rook?” Tarik Sims was the youngest mechanic in the shop, a muscular teen with shoulder-length black dreads under a red knit cap. He was short, so he’d double rolled the pants cuffs of his gray coveralls. He should have been in school, studying calculus or World War Two or Macbeth. But he’d fixed on an auto career, and his mother didn’t complain about the good money he brought home. “No car for us this week?”

  “Not today, Tarik. But I’ve got a question for Clark. He around?” Despite the up-flung garage door, trapped fumes of gasoline and sweet transmission fluid in the dark shop made my eyes water.

  “Yeah, he’s in the office, beating up a adding machine.” The kid tilted his head toward the rear of the bay, then wiped a dirty cloth down the right side of his nose. “Go on back. He hates paperwork. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  I swung under a lift where a yacht-sized Cadillac Seville dangled. Then around a sweet Ferrari, dragging my palm along its black curves. The bumper had a nasty dent and the left rear tail light was smashed. A teeth-grinding sacrilege.

  I stopped at the vending machine next to the office door to buy two cans of Coke. Then I tapped on the pebbled glass and pushed with my shoulder. Clark Kuo was sprawled in a lumpy orange swivel chair, glaring at the screen of his computer. He wore the same stained gray coveralls he always wore. Oil smeared the red embroidered letters of his name above his chest pocket. Sweat plastered black strands of hair onto his head in a cross-hatch pattern. A pair of square black-framed glasses perched on his shiny scalp. His black eyes jiggled from side to side as his cheeks rose in a smile. A forest of black bristles thrust through his waxy skin. The growth made me regret not shaving before I left the apartment. When I parked a Coke next to the keyboard, my fingers jumped to my chin. Did I look as rough as Clark?

  “Morning, Rook. Whatsa matter with your face there?” He seemed to read my mind’s apology, although his tone was warm.

  I shrugged, touching the tender scratches on my cheek. “Tough day at the university.”

  “You got worked over by some of them panty-waist brainiacs?” He popped the can and took a deep swig. “You losing your touch, my friend.”

  “Don’t spread it around the neighborhood. I got a rep to maintain.” I winked and he matched me.

  “Mum’s the word.” He grinned, showing short white teeth below lots of gum. “You know, now I think about it, I bet you got beat up in a bar last night, hmm?” As our conspiracy unfolded, Clark’s mouth widened. “Two against one, right?”

  “That’s it, Superman. Exactly.” I nodded, punching a left hook as I sat down in the guest chair. “And they look a lot worse than me this morning.”

  The car man clapped grimy hands in approval of our fantasy slug fest. Clark leaned forward in his chair, getting down to business. “Whatchu got for me?”

  I pulled a sheet of white paper from the printer next to his computer and smoothed it on the ledge sticking out from his desk. Then I reached a stack of dimes from my pocket. I sifted dust particles, lint, and little blue flakes from the coins onto the paper. Fragments of paint from Dreamie’s sweater twinkled like dark stars on the white surface.

  “Clark, I need your help. Can you identify these paint chips? I want to know as much as you can tell me about them.”

  He fastened the heavy black-framed glasses in front of his eyes. The lenses were smudged and blurry, but if Superman could see through them, who was I to complain? I opened my Coke and drank. He looked at my samples for a minute, then reared from the desk to pull the center drawer. He hoisted a giant magnifying glass over the paper, angling it from side to side.

  “Hunh. These are tiny little bits. Ain’t you got nothing bigger?”

  “That’s all I could collect. You recogn
ize the color?”

  He nodded. “From an old car, probably. Judging by the thickness and shine.”

  Clark balanced a sliver of paint on his index finger and brought the finger and magnifying glass closer to his face. “I can look it up on a database, PaintRef.com. It’s got auto, truck, and fleet paint colors sorted by make and model going back almost a century.”

  With his left hand, the mechanic poked at the keyboard until he found the website. Then he looked at me. “You got to give me something to go on. Like a model and year you looking for.”

  I hesitated; I didn’t want to prejudice the search. But my choice was clear. “Try Buicks, around 1992 or ’93.” I scooted my chair beside Clark’s. In a single motion, we leaned toward the dust-streaked screen.

  He scrolled over the array of paint shades on the Buick pages of the website. The colors were sorted into stacks by year, piled like tinted subway tiles down the length of the screen. Who knew there could be so many names for a simple color like blue? In 1992, the company listed four Buick blues: Neon, Light Sapphire, Medium Maui and Bright Aqua. But in 1993, the manufacturer’s imagination exploded and the list lengthened: Medium Adriatic Blue, Light Teal, Medium Malachite, Medium Quasar, and Medium Sapphire Blue Fire Mist.

  I was pumped for Quasar; the word rolled in my head with a fine rhythm. But after thirty seconds of study, Clark went a different route. “Your color’s Medium Maui Blue. If I had to guess, I’d say from a Buick Royal. GM introduced the Royal sedan as a personal luxury car in 1973.”

  “When did production end for the Royal?”

  “Not sure, early 2000’s. Maybe ’03 or ’04.” Clark set the magnifying glass on the desk, over a wet circle made by the Coke can.

  “You think the name refers to the color of the sea. Deep cloudy blue? Like in a storm at night?”

  “Sure. Why not? If you say so, Rook.” Clark peered again at the fragments of dusky blue paint. “I’m seeing Star Wars myself.” He shrugged. “This help you any? You working on a new case?”

  “No, an old case. Twenty-five years old.”