by Alan Russell
“I might have something here,” I announced to Gump and Martinez.
The detectives walked back to my desk, and I told them about the toxic notes that had been written for Klein’s memorial wall.
“A high-profile murder always brings the crazies out,” a skeptical Martinez said.
“Yeah,” Gump added, “we’ve already had at least a dozen false confessions.”
“Maybe the memorial wall brought out someone besides the crazies,” I said. “Anyone that hated Klein enough to kill him would hate the idea of him getting what would be perceived as false praise.”
“Computer Crimes Unit can help us get the real names and addresses of the writers,” Gump said. “It’s been my experience that most killers don’t have helpful websites like www-dot-I-am-a-murderer-dot-com.”
I pulled up my e-mail, but there was nothing new in my inbox. A minute later I tried again, with the same result. It was like watching a pot waiting for water to boil. The two detectives continued to hover right behind me.
“Did you tell your contact that sometime this century would be nice, Gideon?” Martinez asked.
I didn’t answer but instead tried my mailbox again—still nothing.
“Pony Express would be faster,” Gump said.
I checked the time. Only ten minutes had passed since I’d talked with Wiggins. Once more I went to the e-mail well.
“Bingo,” I said and hit print.
We took the printouts to the conference room, and Gump and Martinez quickly leafed through the lot.
Gump didn’t hide his disappointment at what was there. “I don’t feel the hate,” he said. “And two of these are God-is-good notes that don’t even belong.”
“Hold that thought,” I said, writing down the biblical passages and then exiting the conference room. A minute later I returned with two more printouts.
One of the notes read, “Take solace in God’s plan: Isaiah 13:16.” As far as I could see, there wasn’t much solace to be gained from the cited biblical passage, which I showed to the two detectives: “Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished.”
“What the hell?” Gump was suddenly interested.
The other note read, “Embrace the ways of the Lord: Ezekiel 9:6.” In this case, judging by that particular chapter and verse, the ways of the Lord included murder: “‘Kill them all—old and young, girls and women and little children. But do not touch anyone with the mark. Begin right here at the Temple.’ So they began by killing the seventy leaders.”
“I got dibs on God’s avenging angel,” Gump said. “You got to believe this is a guy that would love to carry out a crucifixion.”
We went through the other “tributes.” Even Gump seemed taken aback.
“These guys won’t be working at the Comedy Store any time soon,” he said.
We studied the words on the first note: “In this day and age it is hard to imagine someone being crucified. Paul Klein died in the City of Angels. When he was nailed to the tree, Klein looked down below and said, ‘Hey, I can see my house from here.’”
The second attempt at humor wasn’t any better: “This young man’s death was a tragedy. My condolences go out to his friends and family. When I heard how he died, I was quite cross.”
At first read, the third note seemed legitimate: “What a terrible, senseless death! My thoughts and prayers go out to those that knew and loved Paul. As most of you probably know, the family has asked that all donations should go to the Arbor Day Foundation.”
The last attempt at comedy was a double entendre: “In the midst of the mourning woods, Paul Klein died. Last night I wept with the willows; at daybreak I contemplated my own morning wood.”
Not everyone was a comedian. Some writers were purely spiteful. One wrote, “Maybe his daddy will make a film on his son’s murder and call it Jesus and Paul.” Another tried to remember him with “All of Richie Rich’s money didn’t do him any good, did it?”
The poison-pen e-mail that interested me the most read, “Some say Paul Klein’s death was tragic. Those that knew him would say it is karma.” Unfortunately, I didn’t claim the note fast enough. Martinez grabbed it and said, “I want to talk with this guy.”
We divided up the work, and then Gump gathered all the printouts. Even though our case was a priority, it helped that he knew someone in Computer Crimes that he claimed owed him a favor. If we were lucky, by day’s end we would have the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of the writers.
I was talking on another line when Jason Davis rang my cell. Ten minutes later I listened to his message.
“This is Jason,” he said. “I’m assuming you still want those names so I went to the office. It wasn’t Sophie Gabor but Soshi Gabay, which is spelled g-a-b-a-y. If that’s not right, don’t blame me. I got it from the office secretary, so call her.
“And it’s not Laura Barrel, but Helena Beral. Her last name is b-e-r-a-l. And Danny wasn’t Marxmiller’s first name. The lady at the office said it was his middle name. His real first name was David.”
There was a pause, as if Jason was thinking of saying something else, but he chose not to. Instead he closed his message by saying, “I hope we’re done here.”
I saved his message and muttered to myself, “I wouldn’t count on it.”
I wrote the corrected names down and brought the amended list over to Martinez. “You want help running down these names?” I asked.
“I might as well just finish it up,” he said.
As I started back to my desk, my cell phone rang. When I saw who was calling, I made for the hallway where I answered the phone. My heart was pounding, making it hard to hear.
“Thank you,” Lisbet said.
“You’re welcome.” I tried to think of something to fill the silence. “I am sure it’s an ugly-looking plant. The florist wasn’t sure he could find one, and said if he did it would look like a weed.”
“Someone once defined a weed as a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”
“I think they said the same thing about me.”
“I want you to know I love my plant, and I love the poem that came with it.”
“I can’t take credit for the poem,” I said. “The florist told me he’d find something nice.”
“Everything was perfect. You didn’t need to send me anything, but I am glad you did because it gives me the opportunity to say I am sorry. Since yesterday I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that without sounding pathetic.”
“You’re not the one that needed to apologize. I am. And in case you hadn’t figured it out, that weed I sent was my way of an apology.”
“It is not a weed. You’ll need to see it in person. It has the most delicate blue flowers.”
“The florist was afraid it wouldn’t even be flowering. That’s why he tried to direct me to a different selection. But I went with music over his floral aesthetics. That was my inspiration for sending you the forget-me-nots.”
“I’ve always loved that song. Now I love it even more.”
“Look, I’m tied up for a bit, but what are your plans tonight?”
“Now that I no longer have to keep vigil by my phone, I have no plans.”
“How does dinner out sound? And is eight too late?”
“Eight is not too late, but dinner in at your place sounds better to me than going out. Do you know a good pizza delivery?”
“I have three on speed dial. How is that for a confession?”
“You have me beat by one.”
“What do you like?”
“Just about anything as long as it doesn’t have anchovies, olives, or green peppers.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“What’s your address?”
I gave her my address and heard her repeat it. After a few seconds of clicking in information, Lisbet said, “Okay, it’s programmed in my GPS.”
“If the satellite breaks
down, call me.”
And then I told her that my house would have the porch light on and that I’d be waiting for her.
At six thirty I was glad to see Gump getting ready to call it a day. I hadn’t wanted to be the first to leave, but there was a lot I needed to do before Lisbet came calling. Computer Crimes had come through with the names and addresses of the poison-pen writers, but so far nothing had panned out. Martinez wasn’t yet ready to give up the hunt, though.
“I have a few calls in,” he said, “and I might as well get the case notes in order while I wait to see if they call back.”
“Ka-ching, ka-ching,” Gump said. “That’s the sound of Martinez collecting overtime pay.”
“Not all of us are ready for early retirement,” he said.
I didn’t let Gump or Martinez know I was in a rush, or even the reason for my need to hurry. Unless you enjoy constant speculation about your love life, you don’t let other cops know you have a date. When I was safely out of sight, I began running to my car. Even if the traffic wasn’t bad, by my calculations I’d have six months of cleaning to do in sixty minutes.
Sirius was waiting for me in the car. Usually I don’t leave him there for more than an hour, but dogs aren’t welcome in the Police Administration Building. As I tell him, it’s just as well, because I wouldn’t want Sirius to get fleas.
He gave me my usual hero’s welcome, the same welcome he’d given me three times that day when I’d visited to give him walks.
“Strap in,” I told him. “We got to get home pronto.”
The traffic gods apparently disagreed. It was a stop-and-go ride almost all the way home, which gave me even less time to clean.
My partner watched my mad dash around the house. I vacuumed, mopped and swept. I took on dust, dog hair, and clutter. There were bed sheets to change—it didn’t hurt to hope—and bathrooms to be cleaned. There was calcified toothpaste that had to be scraped away that must have dated back to Jen’s death. Her hand had been sorely missed in the cleaning of the house; her arms around me had been missed much more.
“A lot of this mess is yours,” I told Sirius. “The least you could do is offer a paw.”
My partner apparently didn’t do windows, but judging from his wagging tail he was pleased by my efforts, or at least my running around.
There had been no fire in the fireplace for years. Jennifer’s death had something to do with that, as well as my not wanting to build a fire for just one, but the biggest factor for the cold hearth was my night of fire walking with Ellis Haines. Sitting in front of a roaring fire no longer comforted me. Once burned, twice shy. Still, the night was chilly and Lisbet would likely welcome a fire. Besides, a little smoke in the house might help with the lingering scent of eau de dog. I tentatively gathered the makings of a fire and found a pack of wooden matches to ignite the kindling. The fire was just starting to burn nicely when the doorbell rang.
Although my house wasn’t looking even borderline presentable, its grooming had superseded my own. I hadn’t had time to brush my teeth or run a comb through my hair. I did my limited preening between the fireplace and the front door. It was a good thing I looked out the peephole before opening the door. I don’t think the pizza delivery kid would have appreciated the overly friendly greeting I had in mind.
After stowing the pizza, I hurriedly showered, shaved, changed my clothes, and swigged some mouthwash. That took five minutes. I considered breaking open a bottle of old cologne but didn’t. The cologne still looked new, even though Jenny had given me the bottle early in our relationship. Either she hadn’t known I wasn’t a cologne kind of guy, or maybe she hoped that I might occasionally start applying a dab or two. I never had and probably never would. But the bottle was safe. It would always have a place in my medicine cabinet.
Sirius barked—a sound I knew to be his happy greeting—even before the doorbell rang. He knew who was walking up the front path and that it wasn’t the pizza guy.
There wasn’t the awkward moment between us that I had feared. Once the door was open, we were in each other’s arms. Sirius added his welcome, joining us by leaning on our legs.
“Group hug,” I said.
I motioned for Lisbet to come inside. “Mi casa es su casa.”
Sirius ran inside and then hurried back outside, as if he was also waving her inside. “What he’s telling you is that I should have said nuestra casa es su casa.”
“The two of you had me at hola,” Lisbet said.
“Before I exhaust my bilingual skills, I can offer you some vino or cerveza. The wine has only been in the refrigerator for thirty minutes, so it might need to age another half hour. The beer is cold.”
“You can’t improve on the combination of beer and pizza,” she said.
“You’re a girl after my own heart. Do you want to eat at the table or dine in the living room?”
“Let’s enjoy the fire,” Lisbet said.
“Get comfortable while I get the fixings. You have four choices of pizza: pepperoni, tomato, mushroom, or sausage.”
“How many pizzas did you order?”
“Two half-and-half,” I said. “I wanted to make sure you had a variety to choose from.”
“In that case I’ll take one slice of each kind.”
“And I’ll make imitation the sincerest form of flattery.”
I went out to the kitchen and plated our pizza. “Glass for your beer?”
“That would spoil the ambience of the meal.”
“I think that’s the first time the word ‘ambience’ has ever been used to refer to one of my meals. I feel so inspired I’m going to remove the cap to your beer.”
“Who says that chivalry is dead?”
I brought her the pizza and beer—sans cap. She was sitting in the sofa nearest the fire. After delivering her plate, I went for my own and then joined her on the sofa. She extended her bottle my way, and I tapped glass to glass. The contact sent the foam up and over the lid of her bottle, and though Lisbet raised it to her lips, she wasn’t quite in time and some of the beer spilled on her sweater and jeans.
“What a waste of good beer,” I said, handing her my napkin.
“You’re not offering me your shirt?”
“If it worked that way, I’d be spilling all over myself.”
I went out to the kitchen to get more napkins and also brought back a wet dish towel.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the dishcloth. “Luckily, it was just a little foam, but I better keep this towel handy. For my next trick I’ll probably spill some pizza on my blouse.”
“I don’t think I have any club soda. How does beer work as a stain remover?”
“I think beer is more likely to get you into than out of trouble.”
Raising my bottle, I asked, “Can we toast that?”
“No, we can’t,” she said, moving her bottle away from me. “And besides, I notice you still haven’t removed the cap to your own beer.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed that.”
I popped the lid and then took a long pull on the beer as a preventative spilling measure. Half-empty bottles don’t go Vesuvius very easily.
Both of us started in on the pizza. Lisbet hadn’t just put in her order for show. She took a bite or two from each of the four pieces of pizza, savoring the flavor of each. After that she attacked the pieces indiscriminately, probably in an attempt to match me bite for bite. In that contest I prevailed and even went for an extra piece, choosing the tomato.
“There goes my diet,” Lisbet said. “Next time do me a favor and order an anchovy, olive, and green pepper pizza. That way I can pretend I subsist on small green salads and tepid tap water.”
“Hold the anorexia,” I said. “I prefer your healthy appetite. I just wish I had some of those nuns’ chocolates to offer you for dessert.”
It was easy talking with her, and we talked about everything and nothing. Slowly but surely the space between us closed. One of us would say something and touch the other; one
of us would shift and our legs would press up together; then there came the moment when both of us moved in unison and we were holding each other and kissing.
The moment lasted a minute, and another, and then we lost track of time. There was no doubt what we both wanted and where we eventually would be headed. I think both of us were grateful we’d weathered our first fight. Jen had used to say there was a great reason for our fighting: make-up sex.
When you lose a spouse, it’s easy to look back upon your marriage with rose-colored glasses, something I was certainly guilty of, but that’s not to say that Jenny and I didn’t ever fight. Even when we argued, though, the spat seemed to serve the purpose of allowing us to reconnect and renew. After whatever raw emotions of our disagreement were stripped away, it was always that much easier to remember how exciting our love was. One moment we would be angry and posturing, and the next our clothes would be off and we’d be saying how much we loved each other. Nothing brought out our heightened passion like make-up sex.
Once or twice I thought of extending my hand and leading Lisbet to my bedroom, but I didn’t feel the need to rush. Besides, we were enjoying our time on the sofa entirely too much.
What I hadn’t counted on was my cell phone ringing. It was bad timing and then some. I wanted to ignore it, but I was as trained as Sirius to respond to certain commands. “Excuse me,” I said, checking to see who was calling. The readout said it was Anna Nguyen. “I have to take this call,” I said, and with some untangling and readjusting of partially unbuttoned and opened garments, I managed to rise.
Detective Nguyen said, “We think we’ve found all three of your attackers.”
I was about to say that was good news when she added, “They’re all dead.”
“Shit.”
“Each of them was done execution style, with a bullet to the head. They were dropped at the arboretum. I’m told the dumping spot is near Australia, if that means anything to you.”
“It does.” The arboretum is set up by continents with flora native to each.
As the kookaburra flew, the arboretum was about twenty-five miles east of Sherman Oaks in the city of Arcadia.
“Traffic willing, I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes,” I said.