The Man on the Washing Machine

by Susan Cox

  “Is it safe to stay inside?”

  “For now. Sometimes the aftershocks are worse than the original quake. They can go on for weeks. Months. This was probably related to that small one we had a few days ago.”

  “Good factoids,” he said.

  I kept trying to reassure him, remembering my response to my first earthquake. “I’ve had shear walls put in and the place is bolted onto the foundation. All the modern conveniences.”

  He was staring at me, his expression unreadable. He touched my cheek with his open hand. It felt cool and hard. I closed my eyes in a gesture that was partly relief and partly surrender, and covered his hand with my own.

  “I heard about last night. I was afraid I’d left it too late.” He frowned at my hand, at the torn skin, and drew it toward his mouth.

  I felt short of breath. “Left what too late?” I said.

  For an answer, he kissed my wrist. It stung where the handcuff had scraped the skin and I started to draw away. He pulled me toward him slowly. I moved the last few inches under my own power and my mouth was hard on his before I could talk myself out of it.

  After a long moment, I shucked his jacket from his shoulders and felt his tongue on the tender skin of my neck.

  Nat’s fluorescent orange condoms from the evening before caused a raised eyebrow and an accepting grin. We made love on the Oriental carpet in front of the fireplace, eagerly, as if we’d both waited a long time. And again, more slowly. Every second was sweeter than the last. And then we were quiet, draped around each other like eels, lying on a patchwork of underwear and sweaters and his leather jacket, watching dislodged soot drift onto the hearth like black snow.

  I ran questing fingers along a scar that traveled down his back and disappeared underneath his arm. He rolled over lazily and answered the question I hadn’t asked. “A friend of mine got into an argument with a drunk and a broken beer bottle. I tried to help him out.”

  “That was brave—and you were lucky.”

  He smiled. As always, it made him look ten years younger. “Not so brave; you’ll notice he got me in the back. I learned a bunch of things though.”

  “Like what?”

  “That the exercise gurus are right—running can save your life.”

  I gurgled with laughter. “What else?”

  He was suddenly serious. “Faced with a friend in need, I forget everything I’ve learned.” He stared thoughtfully at the soot dislodged by the earthquake, still drifting into the hearth from the chimney. He placed the flat of his hand gently against the scar on my arm. His eyes asked me the question.

  “I’ll tell you sometime,” I said uncomfortably.

  “Now’s good. I’m not doing anything much. At least not for fifteen minutes or so.”

  But I couldn’t bring myself to share the joke or answer the smile in his voice. “Do you want some hot soup?” I said, and wriggled into my jeans.

  He watched me for a few seconds. He reached out and took my hand, not preventing me from leaving, but inviting me to stay. “We don’t need to talk,” he said gently.

  The lack of pressure loosened my tongue.

  “I was robbed not long after I moved here.” I glanced at him quickly; his eyes were dark and unreadable. I felt a wave of something—encouragement? empathy?—coming from him and I went on more calmly:

  “He came into Aromas early one morning when I was alone and forced me into the office at knifepoint. I didn’t know what he planned to do, but—” Despite the effort it was costing me, my voice shook. “I was able to get away from him because someone came into the store and hit him in the back of the head with a gallon jug of shampoo.” I chuckled without humor. “When he was half dazed, we were able to get away, and by the time the police arrived, he’d escaped.”

  Ben waited, still without speaking. I thought he might be regretting his curiosity about the scar, although I didn’t blame him. It caught the eye.

  “So this week was even harder on you than it seemed. Nothing like getting a reminder of how vulnerable we are.”

  My head was splitting and I felt as if I’d run a marathon. I tried to get my voice and breathing back to normal. “Thanks for being here when Lichlyter talked to me—when was that? It feels like weeks.”

  He responded to the change of subject and the change in my mood. “All part of the service—no pun intended.”

  He surprised me into a laugh. This was what I had missed; I was responding like a thirsty plant to some of the best parts of physical love—the relaxation of tension, the joy, and the first delicate tendrils of trust. I felt something in me relax, like a tendon held taut for too long, aching without being noticed.

  Lucy, disturbed by the laughter, took it into her head to walk through the hearth; she left tiny sooty smudges on the pale floor as she wandered around the living room.

  I stirred in his arms after a long time and pulled my sweater over my shoulders. He was partly dressed, like me, and I’d been lying against his naked chest. He was in good shape, with powerful shoulders and a taut, muscled stomach—I made a small involuntary noise. He looked down at me. “Are you cold? Shall we build a fire?” he said lazily, and kissed me.

  I gathered my wits. “No, best not. After a quake the chimney ought to be checked for cracks, so that it doesn’t—” I sat up suddenly.

  “Doesn’t what?” he said.

  “The chimney!”

  “What about it?”

  “Charlie O’Brien left sooty smudges all over the apartment when he broke in here. Why did he do that? He couldn’t unless he’d been…” As I talked, I crawled to the fireplace and peered up the flue, seeing nothing for my trouble. I reached up the chimney as far as I could. I waggled my fingers around and they caught on something. I tugged. When whatever it was remained stubbornly jammed in the flue, I tugged harder.

  A choking puff of soot fell down into the hearth, followed by a soft-bodied, red nylon gym bag.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The bag was smeared with velvety black streaks and the greenish zipper had a couple of broken teeth at one end. I picked it up gingerly by its only handle. The opposite side only had two torn patches where a handle had once been. I was willing to bet that the red strap I’d seen in Charlie O’Brien’s hand would fit exactly.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Ben said impatiently as I continued to stare at it. “You’re looking at the thing as if it was full of vipers.”

  The bag was limp and looked empty. No vipers. I dragged it onto the hearth, opened the zipper. I felt around inside and pulled out a cardboard envelope several inches square.

  I offered it to Ben to look over. He flipped it over and handed it back. “Maybe it’s a tarantula,” I said.

  “Too flat.”

  “A killer bee?”

  “It’s not buzzing.”

  “A letter bomb? Charlie O’Brien had an Irish accent.”

  He hesitated. “It could be, but my guess is something much more mundane.”

  “What?”

  “Size and weight’s about right for a CD or DVD. Or it could be a tarantula.”

  “You said it was too flat.”

  “A crushed tarantula. For God’s sake, Theo, open the damn thing.” I opened the flap warily and pulled out a plain and unremarkable CD with no labels or identifying marks.

  “I was hoping for an emerald necklace,” I said.

  “Have you checked the heating ducts lately?” With a quick glance at my undoubtedly pale face, he added briskly: “I’m getting cold. How about some soup?”

  “Let’s think about it tomorrow, you mean?”

  “Not tomorrow, Scarlett, how about in half an hour?”

  He was right. The doughnut I’d eaten for breakfast yesterday wasn’t making it as a foundation for rational thought. I was still hungry and some food might help me to think.

  While he reheated our untouched soup, I washed the soot off my arms, turned up the thermostat, and found him a bathrobe in case he wanted a shower—a ma
sculine quilted number in dark green. I thought of telling him I’d bought it on Haight Street for last year’s Halloween costume party and decided not to; he could believe what he wanted.

  He examined the disk. “No way to tell if this is music or data. We’ve got a computer set up at the shelter. Do you want me to have a look and see what’s on it?”

  “The laptop downstairs will work.”

  I put the disk into its envelope and stuffed it back into the gym bag. Then I put the bag in the copper tub of firewood next to the fireplace and arranged a couple of logs on top of it. Ben raised an eyebrow, but I said: “People have been marching in and out of here pretty much at will.”

  Ben took a spoonful of his minestrone and made an appreciative noise. “Ever hear the old army joke about an officer giving the command to fire at will?”

  I shook my head, smiling.

  “One of the recruits drops his rifle and runs for the hills. The officer says ‘Who was that man?’ And another recruit says: ‘That was Will.’”

  I snorted into my soup. “That may be the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know a lot of worse ones. Did you hear the one about the golfer—”

  “No, please. Not in my weakened condition. I need food.” We applied ourselves in companionable silence. “I was hungry,” I said unnecessarily as I put my bowl down a few short minutes later.

  “Feeling better?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. You seem to be in the middle of this whole story. Why don’t you try running through it for those of us,” he nodded at Lucy, “who don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  I took a minute or two to collect my scattered thoughts and began: “Charlie O’Brien had the bag’s other handle, which connects him to the CD. For some reason he was afraid someone would find it or steal it, so he hid it in my chimney while the apartment was being renovated and basically empty for all those weeks and I was living in the studio downstairs. Maybe the workmen let him in for some reason; I don’t think the lock was tampered with.”

  Ben gestured agreeably. “Go on,” he said.

  “Whatever’s on it, it must be important. He came to retrieve it and it was just bad luck he chose the night after I moved back in. The bag was hung up on the damper so he couldn’t get it out of the chimney. He heard Lucy and me coming up the stairs, panicked, and got as far as the utility room, which is where I found him. So far so good?”

  “Hmmm. But where does it get us?”

  “It ties together in the end, I think.” I chewed my lip thoughtfully. “Is it too much of a stretch to think Nicole was killed because of that rhino horn?”

  He corrugated his forehead and said: “I’ll grant you that for now.”

  “We know Nicole was connected to the crates because her handwriting was on them. I found his lapel pin in the garage, so Charlie O’Brien is involved in the rhino horn smuggling with Nicole. And,” I added with a sudden inspiration, “since there’s a connection between them, he could have had Nicole’s locket for some reason, which is why the police found it in my utility room.”

  Ben looked puzzled. “What locket?”

  But I was unstoppable. “All of which means he could have been Nicole’s cocaine connection, or at least fairly close to her, otherwise why would she give him her locket, and if he didn’t kill Nicole, he probably knows who did because he and Nicole and their partners were all in the smuggling game together. And since he was involved with Nicole in the smuggling, maybe Tim Callahan found out so he killed him, too. That’s a bit tangled,” I apologized, “but I think it hangs together.”

  “What locket?”

  I explained about the cocaine locket. Ben’s face darkened. “The idiot!” He sounded unexpectedly savage. He visibly got a grip on himself and shook his head. “Why do you think he and Nicole had partners?”

  “Charlie couldn’t have moved those crates alone last night, no matter how much time he had. There had to be at least one other person.” As I realized what I was saying, I fell silent. Who among my friends and neighbors did I nominate?

  Ben looked dissatisfied. “It’s a long stretch from a lapel pin to involvement in a murder. Those shamrock pins are cheap; anyone could buy one.”

  “Wait! Charlie O’Brien,” I said in wonder.

  “What about him?”

  “Charlie O’Brien!” I said excitedly. “The initials! C.O.B.”

  Ben looked mystified. “C.O.B. what?”

  “My grandfather used to breed Hunters and Welsh cobs. A cob is a kind of small horse,” I said exultantly.

  “A small—”

  “Remember? Sabina said—”

  “My God. She said Nicole’s uncle’s nickname reminded her of horses.” He looked at me grimly. “The man on the washing machine is Nicole’s uncle?”

  “Has to be!”

  “And he killed her?”

  “I guess that doesn’t sound right,” I said more uncertainly. “Except maybe they went into the smuggling together and had some sort of a falling-out. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think he’s the one who shot at you?”

  “Who else do we have?”

  “But why?” He looked dissatisfied again. “You said he didn’t hurt you when you found him in here; he doesn’t sound violent.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know where Nicole had hidden the rhino horn, but somehow figured out I’d found it and wanted to make sure I was silenced?” It didn’t sound all that unreasonable, and Ben made a face in which I read reluctant agreement.

  “And I had those crates while all this was happening, or at least they were in the group home.” He sounded mildly disgusted. “What about his partners? And what does that CD have to do with anything?”

  “I’ll know when I’ve taken a look at it, or Lichlyter has. Maybe I should be looking for someone around here with connections to Africa for the rhino smuggling. Or maybe it’s simpler than that—maybe I should find out if anyone around here knows Charlie O’Brien. It needs a direct connection—” My phone buzzed like an angry hornet out in the kitchen. “—Blast! I’d better pick up in case it’s Grandfather. I should have called him after the earthquake.”

  Ben followed me out to the kitchen carrying the soup bowls and kissed the back of my neck lightly as I picked up my phone. I almost forgot what I was doing.

  He put the soup bowls in the sink and went back to the living room. I could hear him getting dressed. While someone in my ear told me to hold, I spent a few pleasant moments imagining the getting-dressed process and rinsing out the bowls. My heart sank a little when I realized who the call was from. “I’m sorry, Inspector, I didn’t hear you; would you repeat that?”

  “Mr. D’Allessio has been attacked. He’s in intensive care at St. Francis Hospital.”

  I felt the blood run out of my face. Ben landed another gentle kiss on my neck, whispered, “See you later,” and left through the back door before I could call him back or gather my wits.

  “How did it happen?”

  “His wife found him in the garden an hour ago. He was stabbed with a fine-pointed weapon of some kind. It barely missed his heart,” she said precisely.

  I felt as if I couldn’t stand for another second and slid down to sit on the floor.

  “Oh my god,” I whispered. “They’re about to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary.”

  “I’m glad to find you at home. Can you tell me where you have been today?”

  My stomach knotted. I tried to remember that she didn’t suspect me, that she had confided in me. “I slept until about two hours ago; since then I’ve been—Mr. Turlough has been here.”

  Her voice sharpened. “Is he there with you now?”

  “No, he just left. And I—I’ve found something else.”

  “Oh?” Her voice was a masterpiece of reservations.

  “I found a gym bag with a CD inside. There’s a handle missing. A red webbing handle. Remember?” I said anxiously as she remained silent. “I told yo
u that Charlie O’Brien—”

  “Was holding a red strap of some kind. Yes.”

  “He has an Irish accent. And I found that shamrock lapel pin.”

  “In your garage. Yes, I remember that, too,” she said. “I’m returning now to Fabian Gardens—half my life is spent in that damn place.” I heard her take a deep breath. “I’ll come by and pick up this CD. Perhaps that will help.” She sounded doubtful.

  I made a stupefied attempt to prevent her from hanging up before I’d told her everything. “I think he may be Nicole’s uncle,” I blurted.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Sabina said Nicole’s uncle’s nickname reminded her of horses. Charlie O’Brien’s initials—”

  “Ah. Cob. Yes, I see.”

  Her composure was infuriating. “If you’re so damn smart, why haven’t you questioned him? He probably killed Tim Callahan and Nicole; maybe he stabbed Professor D’Allessio, too, and took that shot at me.”

  There was a short pause in which I heard the crackle of papers being sorted. “We’ve done ballistics tests on the bullets in your mattress,” she said. “They definitely came from the gun your attacker dropped in your bedroom. Your gun.”

  “Meaning what?” I said dangerously.

  “Meaning only that. In any event, we’d like to question Mr. O’Brien, believe me, but we still can’t find him.”

  Super. Just great. I thought of Ruth D’Allessio and wondered what it would be like to love the same person for fifty years. I felt numb.

  “There’s one more thing,” Lichlyter said. “You said Mr. Turlough had gone to Los Angeles for the night?”

  “Yes,” I said huskily. My voice was deserting me.

  “We checked. He wasn’t on any of the L.A. flights. A highway patrolman did stop to help a tourist in a rental car with a flat tire early this morning, south of Mendocino. The tourist had a passenger, a heavy-set, balding man about fifty years old—”

  “What’s this got to do with us?”

  “The tourist had a Washington D.C. driver’s license in the name of Bramwell Turlough. It’s an unusual name. Unique, I’d say.”