The Killing Green

by David Deutsch

  "I see it's not just sayings that you're full of this morning," she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Lunch crept up on both of us. We were busy chatting, strategizing, and trying to come up with some answers to the two issues that were before us. Unfortunately, the most that we accomplished that morning was draining our giant cups of coffee and setting up Bluetooth speakers in Imogen's office. Now she could listen to her own music in the privacy of her own room. Further complicating our communication problem. The next thing we needed to sort out was some sort of intercom system.

  Imogen and I arrived at Delmar with a few minutes to spare before the allotted time. We valeted the car and strolled into the main clubhouse. I spoke to the host and within minutes we were seated, waiting for Alese to arrive.

  "I'd rather be having Italian," I said.

  "Order the pasta," she said.

  "It's terrible here."

  "Max, you're a big boy, pick something and deal. For Christ's sake, it's just lunch."

  Easy for her to say. I sipped my water and pretended not to care. But inside I was lamenting my restaurant choice.

  Alese walked in shortly thereafter, provided some air kisses around the table, and then joined us. We all ordered. I didn't order any alcohol. I was too hopped up on caffeine at the moment. I did offer Alese a drink, because I normally do, and she looked a bit out of sorts. She declined, and we all stuck to water.

  "I'm so sorry that I'm late," Alese said, sipping her water.

  "Ten minutes? That's not late," I said.

  "The traffic was dreadful getting here," she said.

  "No worries," Imogen said.

  "Where were you coming from?" I asked.

  "Manhattan," she said. "Had a morning meeting."

  I wanted to pry. What meeting? What did she do for a living? I was guessing nothing. Independently wealthy. But it seemed inappropriate. So I passed.

  "Always a pain in the ass," I said. "I used to commute. What a hassle."

  Alese laughed.

  "Thank God I only travel there once in a while. I'm quite content to stay out here in Manors. Nice and quiet."

  Quiet? If she only knew what was going on. Manors, at the moment, was anything but quiet.

  "That's what I love about it," Imogen said.

  "It's certainly quieter than Manhattan," I said. "Speaking of which. I've got some news for you."

  "Do tell," she said.

  Then our lunches arrived. I couldn't help myself and took a bite after we all complimented the dishes and how delicious they all looked. With a mouthful of half-chewed food, I finally spoke.

  "Well, we received some information about the voicemail that was left on your phone."

  "Fabulous!" she exclaimed.

  "It seems like the call was made from Manhattan."

  Alese's facial expression had changed from elation to something else. It was like her whole face puckered. But she didn't make a sour face. It was more like something troubled her. I knew I was right to do this in person.

  "Really?" she said.

  That was it. Then she stared at me some more and took a bite of her food. Possibly some sort of diversion from this conversation.

  "That's what they said," I said.

  "Who?"

  "The phone company," I said.

  "Oh," she said.

  "You don't seem happy to hear it," I said.

  "No, I am happy to hear it. I'm just shocked, I think. Manhattan is close. It scares me," she said.

  "Understandable," I said. "It is close. Any thoughts on who might have done it? Someone in Manhattan?"

  "I have no idea. That's what frightens me."

  "Think, luv," Imogen said.

  Alese appeared to be thinking about the question. I was looking at her and trying to get a read on her. Maybe she was scared, but I wasn't getting that vibe. I knew that those were the words coming out of her mouth, but they didn't mesh with her demeanor. She appeared to be more agitated than scared.

  "No one?" I asked.

  We were pressing her. Trying to make her come out with a name. She knew people in Manhattan. In fact, she had just come from there. What about the person or people she was just with? Were they the culprit? I couldn't ask her. Again, I thought that was crossing the line. I needed her to come up with a name on her own. One that she wanted to say. Without me providing her with an option.

  She took another sip of her water. Boy, she must have been parched.

  "I really can't think of anyone. Anyone who would do that to me. Anyone who wants me dead."

  She wasn't going to budge. In her defense, she might not know. Hell, she hired us to figure out who was threatening her. But something told me that she knew. I had no basis besides my gut to justify that thought, but I believed it.

  "Of course," I said. "That's why you hired us."

  I joked, trying to diffuse the situation. Back to light and breezy we went. We finished our meal, thanked Alese for coming, and told her to stay, if she wanted to, and enjoy the facilities on us. She thanked me and then declined. She had other plans. Then she left.

  "Now what?" Imogen asked.

  "You want to stick around here for the rest of the day? Play a little tennis?"

  "Not really, Max. I'm full. And tired of this place," she said.

  "All right, why don't you have a seat in the lobby, and I'll go fetch the car from valet. I'll come get you when it's here."

  "Thanks," she said.

  We strolled from the restaurant into the magnificent lobby where Imogen sat on one of the couches. I walked out of the main entrance and headed over to the valet station. Oddly, it's a bit of a walk to the valet station. You have to cross the lane that pulls up directly up to the entrance and walk over to the other lane where the kiosk sits. I was in the process of crossing when Bill appeared, red and sweating, charging at me like an old angry bull.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I hadn't even noticed him at first. I was busy trying to find the valet ticket in my wallet. It's always a hassle. I never knew if I put it in my wallet, shoved it in the back pocket of my jeans, or threw it out at some point by accident after one too many drinks. If it was the latter, good on me. I shouldn't have been driving anyway.

  When I did notice Bill, it was out of the corner of my eye. I had just internally celebrated the fact that I had indeed placed the valet ticket in my wallet and subsequently retrieved it. But the celebration was short-lived.

  "Max," he yelled, briskly walking directly into my path.

  I turned and noticed that no one else was around, except the valet in his kiosk across the way. I stopped in my tracks, wondering what Bill wanted.

  "Hey, Bill," I said, waving.

  He ignored my greeting and within an instant was up in my face. I saw the vein that popped out of his wrinkled, sun-weathered forehead, his red cheeks, his grey, day-old stubble, and his chapped pink lips as saliva formed in the corner of his mouth. He was mad. Very mad.

  "What were you doing in my shed?" he asked, screaming in my face.

  Saliva spray flew from his mouth, his yellow teeth accentuating the vulgarity of the situation. Maybe I'm wrong, but in my book employees shouldn't be yelling at members of the country club where they work. And those that do clearly don't value their job. Wiping my face, which was most assuredly an insult to Bill, I tried to play dumb.

  "Shed? Bill, what are you talking about?"

  "Don't play dumb with me, Slade."

  We had moved to last names. Coupled with yelling and flying saliva. Not a good sign. He continued, "I bumped into a woman the other day, came back to thank me and to ask for some more directions. Said the nice man who was just here helped her, but she asked for the wrong place. I told her I'm the only one here. She said no and then described you. So, what were you doing in my shed?"

  I was caught. Red-handed by some stranger visiting the club. I was going to lie.

  "Oh, that," I said, laughing.

  Trying to laugh or to fake it the
best that I could.

  "No, no. I was looking for Imogen and didn't see you guys, so I popped behind the desk to see if you jotted anything in the schedule."

  That was a good lie, I thought.

  "Some of my things were out of place," he said.

  Now he was getting even more angry. His nostrils were flaring. The saliva was really flying, and his voice was rising.

  "No, no," I said.

  "You don't go through someone else's stuff," he said. "What kind of person are you?"

  I was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question. Deny, deny, deny. That was the only course of action that had made any sense. Anything else seemed like a death wish.

  "I didn't go—"

  "And I know about you. All about you. You're not a detective. You're not a police officer. You're just a spoiled, rich brat who thinks he can do whatever he wants just because he has money. Well, let me tell you something, I don't give a crap who you are, or what you have. It doesn't give you the right to go through my personal stuff."

  This tirade had most assuredly catapulted him across the line. Despite our history together, he would have to be taken to task for his behavior. But that was for another day. For the moment I allowed him to just keep screaming at me. I didn't even hear what he was saying. I just watched his dried, cracked pink lips spew loud speech at me. When there was a break, I just kept saying that he had it all wrong. I didn't know what he was talking about and that I would never, ever go through anyone's personal things.

  He wasn't buying it, and then he exploded in a rage.

  "Leave me and my stuff alone."

  And that was the last thing that I heard. After, or it could have been as he was saying those words, he hauled off and punched me. I must have a glass jaw because the next thing I knew, I was laid out on the pavement.

  I felt cold on my cheek, and then I felt the throbbing on the other side of my face. Finally, I opened my eyes. I saw a pair of tennis shoes in front of me. Then I turned my face, looked up, and saw the pimply-faced teen valet. Bill was nowhere to be seen. That's when I realized that he had knocked me out.

  "Sir, sir," the valet kept repeating.

  I didn't know how long he'd been standing above me repeating the word sir.

  "Great. Door-to-door service," I said.

  "Sir, are you OK? Do you need any help?" he asked.

  I tried to regain my composure. I felt my face. It hurt. I somehow managed to get myself into a seated position and then stood. The valet helped me up by grabbing my arm.

  "Sir? Are you OK?" he asked again.

  "Yes, yes. Oh, that? We're just old war buddies. We were just really excited to see each other."

  The valet looked at me, confused. Sarcasm was lost on the youth.

  "You sure?" he asked. "It didn't look very friendly."

  I bent back toward the ground and picked up my wallet. The valet ticket was still sitting where I had left it before I was knocked out.

  "Can you just bring the car along?" I asked. "And thanks for your help."

  I gave him a hundred dollar bill and stood there. He looked at me, perplexed. Like he had never seen a middle age man get his ass whopped by an older guy. I guess there was a first time for everything.

  After looking at me like I was from a parallel universe and pocketing the hundred, he spoke. "Sure, sir. I'll be right back."

  Then he went on his way to fetch my car, leaving me to lick my wounds in a brief moment of privacy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I told the valet to give me a moment to grab Imogen. He pulled the car off to the side, left the passenger side door open, and stepped out. I walked inside rubbing the side of my face. Bill was strong. Apparently after all these years he was still in good shape. I guess he had been a professional athlete. Physically gifted. He should have pursued boxing. He might have done well. Maybe even better than golf.

  Imogen was sitting in a high-backed chair, facing the lobby and the back windows. I walked around to her.

  "Car's here," I said.

  "Max, what the hell happened to your face?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "You're bleeding on your cheek and your lip," she said.

  I hadn't noticed that. I reached my hand up to my mouth and felt around. I did feel something warm and thick on the side of my mouth. Blood. I looked at my hands. Confirmed. Blood.

  "Oh that? It's nothing."

  "Nothing?" She seemed skeptical.

  "OK. I got in a little fight outside."

  "Fight? What are you talking about?"

  "And I hadn't even been drinking. Can you believe it?" I said, trying to make light of the situation.

  "What kind of fight?"

  "Well, let's just say I don't think Bill is going to be cooperating with us in the near future."

  "You got in a fight with Bill?" she asked.

  "I'm not sure it was really a fight. He kind of yelled at me and then punched me in the face."

  Imogen was shocked and appalled.

  "Bill punched you in the face?"

  She was full of questions. More like repeating what I was saying out of disbelief.

  "He said that he knew I had snooped around his shed. Then he punched me in the face."

  "Oh my God, Max. You need to call the police. File a report. He assaulted you."

  "File a report. Maybe. With Delmar. But the police, that's the last thing that we need. And by the way, speaking of the police, he knows we're not police officers. Told me right before he threw his left hook."

  "I knew it. He's not dumb, Max."

  "Not only is he not dumb, he's strong."

  "Yes, I can see that."

  "So, it looks like our plans for pumping Bill for information are out the window."

  "I can talk to him," Imogen said.

  "I doubt that very much. I'd say you're in the same sinking boat as I am. We're joined at the hip, my love, for better or for worse."

  "You're probably right, Max. Great. Now on to Plan B."

  "We don't have a Plan B."

  "Exactly," she said.

  "How about we start with you asking if I'm OK?"

  "Let's go," she said.

  She stood up, and we both walked out to the car, got in, and zipped out of Delmar Country Club.

  "I cannot believe that you got in a fight at the club," she said, driving.

  I was sitting in the passenger seat. Of my own car. My car. I didn't sit in the passenger seat. Ever. I drove.

  "Yeah, well, it happens."

  "It happens? Are you insane?" she asked. "Grown men do not fight. Especially at country clubs."

  "Yeah, well, um, I guess you're—"

  My phone had begun to ring throughout the car. It was connected via Bluetooth. I jumped, surprised by the sound. The ringer was way too loud. I made a note to lower the volume for future calls.

  "How the hell do you answer this thing?" Imogen said. "It's bloody loud. Make it stop."

  "Push the button on the steering wheel," I said.

  After two more excruciating rings Imogen had finally managed to answer the call.

  "Hello?" a lady's voice said. "Max?"

  "Hi, yes, this is Max," I said.

  Imogen looked at me wondering who was on the phone. As was I.

  "It's Alese Steiner," she said.

  Mystery solved.

  "Oh, hi, Alese," I said.

  Imogen looked at me again. She mouthed the same question that I was already thinking. What the hell was she doing calling me? We just had lunch with her.

  "Thanks again for meeting me for lunch," she said.

  Surely, she hadn't called me to thank me again.

  "Of course. No problem. I'm glad that we had a chance to fill you in on the information."

  "Listen, I was thinking on the ride home about something that I wanted to run by you. Maybe you could help," she said.

  Imogen was busy shrugging her shoulders trying to figure out what Alese was going to say. I was merely sitting t
here rubbing my sore face.

  "Sure. What were you thinking?" I asked.

  "Well, Delmar is beautiful," she said. "I was really impressed at lunch."

  "Thanks. Yes, it's beautiful. I'm surprised. You've never been there before?"

  "No, never been. No one ever invited me, I guess. I didn't even know it was there," she said.

  She had lived in Manors for a while and never knew that the country club had existed? I wasn't sure how that was even possible. Plus, she lived a few miles away from it.

  "I'm glad that you got to see it," I said. "We'll have to bring you back for some tennis, golf, and dinner."

  "I would love that. Thanks, Max," she said.

  "Great, we'll put it on the calendar," I said.

  "Speaking of Delmar," she said. "Being that it's so beautiful, it gave me an idea. I was thinking that maybe we could host the auction for the painting there. I mean, it would be perfect. Maybe in the lobby of the clubhouse. Set up a stage, chairs, it would be fantastic."

  What on earth was she talking about? She wanted to host the auction for her painting, the one that was supposedly burned seventy-five years ago, at Delmar Country Club? Why? What was wrong with a normal auction house?

  Imogen looked as surprised as I was.

  "That's certainly an idea that I hadn't entertained," I said.

  "Picture it, Max. One of the most famous paintings in the world, a lost treasure, comes to auction at Delmar. It would make Delmar national news."

  That was for sure. It would put Delmar on the map. It would also draw attention to this country club full of members that preferred privacy. There were people at Delmar known by their names. People known by their faces. People who had been all over the news, television, film, radio. Public people who liked their privacy.

  "I don't know, Alese. I'm not sure it's the right place," I said. "There are some—"

  "Don't say that, Max. I think it's the perfect place. Just promise me you'll think about it before you say no," she said.

  "OK. I'll think about it. I'll even run it by the board of the club."

  I would let the board be the bad guys. That way I could let her down gently and then tell her that there was nothing that I could have done to change their decision.