by Carl Schmidt
• • •
“You must have been up late last night, Jesse,” Angele said as she nudged me at seven o’clock in the morning.
When I discovered that I was actually awake, I replied, “I guess so. I hit the sack a little after two. The pictures were fascinating, but even more so while I was asleep. I heard a clairaudient sound track as the stills appeared one after the other in my dream. The party replayed itself for me in some ethereal world. I could hear distinct voices and conversations. It was amazing.”
“Really? Tell me what happened.”
“I want to digest it quietly for now, so I can remember it clearly. I think I’ll send the link to Misty and see what she comes up with.”
“Great idea, Jesse. Why not call her now?”
So I did.
Misty had some free time in the morning and promised to give the pictures “a look and a listen.” I filled her in on the particulars and indicated that she would be constrained from talking to anyone else about Xavier, Stephanie/Nicole and Tina. I then emailed the link to Nancy Clearlight, the young woman who does Misty’s computer work.
Angele and I had a shower, ate breakfast and got to work almost on time.
Holly and Ranger were in their usual positions in the room when I arrived at the office.
“Good morning, Jesse,” Holly said. “I’ll be running the first of the Skype interviews in about twenty minutes. There are eighteen of them scheduled for today. I’m going to be tied up with this till five o’clock. How is the Xavier LaGrange investigation coming along?”
“I’ll have to pay myself for overtime this week. I even dreamed about the case last night. I called Misty Starbird this morning to see if she can help us in the psychic realm.”
“I’ll be interested to see how that works out,” she said.
“Me too,” I replied. “If she can’t tune in, maybe we should give Ranger a crack at it.”
Ranger hopped up from his blanket, sidled up to me and wagged his tail.
“Even if he solves the case, who’s going to translate?” Holly asked.
“Good point,” I replied.
Getting back to the human world, I said, “Let me know if you need help with the interviews.”
“I should be OK, Jesse.”
“I’ve arranged for you to use the empty room across the hall,” I said. “I don’t want to disturb you, and I would like to get back to those photographs while everything is fresh in my mind. Use the laptop; it has WiFi.”
“Good idea,” Holly said. She and Ranger packed up and moved to the spare room.
For the next three hours, I condensed my nocturnal reverie into a somewhat cogent synthesis. By noon, I was convinced that I knew what had really happened that night. Strangely enough, at the very moment the last piece of the puzzle fell into place, Misty called.
“Jesse, I’ve seen the pictures, and I received lots of impressions. Do you want to hear them now?”
“Absolutely,” I replied.
She described the imagery as it had come to her that morning. Her conclusions corroborated my own almost exactly.
“Misty, you’ve confirmed everything,” I said. “I’m glad I gave you a call. How are you doing by the way?”
“Just fine. I need to run; there are a couple of ladies here to have their charts read. See you, Jesse.”
“Thanks, Misty,” I replied.
Two minutes after I hung up, Xavier LaGrange called. He was very agitated.
27
New York, New York
“He said he is going to kill me, Jesse.”
“Who said that?” I asked.
“Some guy on the phone.”
“What’s his name?”
“Christ, I don’t know. I think he’s from Boston.”
“You mean by his accent?”
“Yeah. He dropped all his R’s. He sounds serious. I’m a public person. I have nowhere to hide.”
“Did he give you a reason?” I asked.
“He thinks I killed Stephanie.”
“So—he referred to her as ‘Stephanie,’ not ‘Nicole.’ Is that correct?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he say how he knew you did it?”
“He just said that I was at the Rutland Arms.”
“And how did he know that?”
“How should I know?” he replied.
I decided to slow down the frenzied conversation and redirect the attention to Xavier’s visit with us on Monday.
“When you came to our office, did you tell us the whole story?”
“What do you mean?” he replied anxiously.
“For one thing, was Diana really there with Stephanie?”
Suddenly he got very quiet. My question was boring a hole through some portion of his thought processes. After a long dry spell, he started with, “Well…” but stopped again.
Then he blurted out, “You need to come to New York. Today!”
“Can’t we just discuss this over the phone?” I said.
“No. You might be recording our conversation.”
“I’m not,” I replied.
“I don’t want to tell the whole story over the phone. I’m staying at The Plaza. I’ll book you a room for tonight. We need to talk privately. I’ll cover all your expenses and pay you an extra two thousand dollars. Just fly here this afternoon and you’ll find out everything.”
It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“I’ll catch the first plane out of Portland.”
“Take a cab from the airport. It’s the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. Call me when you get close, and I’ll meet you out front.”
“I’ll need to pack a few things,” I said.
“Don’t bother. You can get everything you need right here. Just catch the next flight to New York. It doesn’t matter which airport.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I land,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied, and he hung up.
I went online and found that the earliest flight to New York would leave Portland at 3:16 via Jet Blue Airways. That gave me plenty of time to have lunch and pack a bag. I didn’t like the idea of shopping for underwear in Manhattan on a Wednesday evening, even if Xavier LaGrange was picking up the tab.
At that moment, Holly stepped into the room to get her purse.
“You’re on your own for the rest of the day, Holly,” I said. “I’m going to New York.”
“Have the time of your life, Jesse,” she replied.
“Where should I start?” I asked.
“You’re a musician. The best music in Manhattan is downtown. Where are you staying?”
“The Plaza Hotel.”
“That’s at the south end of Central Park. It’s a short cab ride to the Village. There are lots of great venues there. Ask Angele to go with you.”
“Good idea. I’ll see if she can get away. I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said, as I skipped out the door.
I found Angele downstairs and asked her how much work she had to do.
“It’s a little slow, Jesse, but I’m trying to look busy. What’s up?”
“Do you want to fly to New York?”
“Sure. Who’s paying?”
“Xavier LaGrange.”
“I’ll get my coat.”
“Don’t you have to tell someone?” I asked.
“I’ll talk to Philip on my way out the door. He’ll rearrange my schedule for the rest of the week.”
In less than a minute, we were out of the building. Angele left her car in the lot, and I drove us to her apartment. We grabbed a quick bite, packed our things and went to the airport. While we waited for our flight, I called Xavier and told him that Angele was coming with me. He said it was no problem. He had reserved a suite with a king-size bed.
• • •
We arrived at JFK at 4:35 and caught a cab to the hotel. We reached the Plaza at 5:30. Xavier met us out front, paid the cab fair and shuffled us directly to his room. The afternoon rush suddenl
y evaporated as Angele and I looked out the window at Central Park from his Terrace Suite on the twentieth floor.
I expected the park to be lit up like wonderland, but it wasn’t. The ground, covered in three-day old snow, looked like an alabaster haze. The bright lights along Fifth Ave and Central Park West did not penetrate far enough to meet in the middle. Two miles north, the darkness dissolved into the lights of 110th Street.
Normally, cities are surrounded by nature. Here it was the reverse. The park was a preserve, and the city had grown up around it. The grass, trees and lakes, vestiges of an historical way of life, were enshrined as reminders of what the earth was like before man civilized it into submission.
Xavier sat nearby with his head in his hands, probably wondering how much longer he had to live. He straightened up in his chair and asked, “Do you want to talk now, or would you rather have dinner first.”
“How about some dinner?” I suggested. “We have all night to sort things out. If it’s all right, Angele and I would like to check in first. We can meet in the lobby in an hour or so.”
“Fine,” he replied. “You have one of the Rose Suites on the fifteenth floor. When you get to the front desk, tell them you are my guests. They’ll check you in; you won’t need a credit card.”
We followed his instructions and were settled in our room in about ten minutes. Angele took a quick look around, threw off her clothes and said, “Let’s warm up in the bath.” Then she disappeared around the corner of the room.
I followed her without a second thought.
The bath was at least eight feet long and three feet wide, so it would take several minutes to fill up. We found something to do with ourselves in the meantime. Neither of us paid much attention to the water level, until the tub nearly overflowed.
We stopped briefly, and I reached up to turn the water off, before easing back on top of Angele on our bed of towels.
When the excitement crested several minutes later, Angele shrieked and then murmured, “Whew. That was quicker than I expected,” but, thankfully, not in a disappointed tone.
“We nearly flooded the place,” I replied.
“The tile has a good polish now,” she said with a grin. Then she lifted herself up and slipped into the bath.
“Come on in, Jesse,” she added. “It’s almost as hot as you are.”
As I entered the tub, the water level rose above the overflow drain. Several gallons ran down through the Plaza pipes, while Angele and I reunited under the steamy surface. I was beginning to enjoy New York, New York. If Frank Sinatra was correct, from this point on, I could make it anywhere.
28
Occam’s Razor
“We’d like three dinners with basmati rice, two roti and one naan, please,” Angele said over the phone. “Let’s see… We’ll have the Peshawari choley, the Banarsi dum aloo and your saag paneer. We’d also like a mango lassi, a rose lassi and one Indian tea. And for dessert, we’d like two gulab jamun and one orange kheer. I do have a question though.”
Angele waited patiently and smiled in my general direction as the person on the other end of the line took down her order. She looked gorgeous lounging on the bed in our room, her head on a pile of pillows and the phone at her ear. Her skin was still rosy from our hot bath, and she hadn’t bothered to put her clothes back on.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “My question is, ‘Do you make the kheer with coconut or cows’ milk?’”
After a brief pause, Angele said. “That’s perfect. Yes, that will be our order. We’d like it delivered to the Plaza Hotel. We’re in suite number 1522.”
As she was finishing her call, I went to the window and gazed at the sky above the city. The night was clear, but it was difficult to pick out specific constellations. The glow of city lights blurred the spaces between stars, making our astral umbrella vague and out of focus. I trusted that all the celestial bodies were in their proper positions, but it didn’t seem to matter as much in the city as it does in the country. The indistinct sky imparted a different perspective to life; it made everything seem closer than it was. Light years were just beyond reach. In a city like New York, a neighborhood can be a universe unto itself. From my window overlooking 59th Street, the earth appeared smaller rather than larger, time seemed slower, and space less infinite.
“Our dinners will arrive in about a half-hour,” Angele said. “Perhaps you should call Xavier and let him know.”
Xavier had left a message on my phone while we were splashing in the tub. He asked us to order whatever we wanted for dinner and bring it up to his room when it arrived. We would eat there privately and afterwards discuss his situation. He didn’t want to leave the building. The recent death threat had reduced his neighborhood to the size of one large, two-story suite at the Plaza Hotel.
“We’ll be up with Indian dinners in half an hour,” I told him over the phone.
“Thanks, Jesse,” he replied. “That will be fine.”
His response was brief and monotone. His mood, somber. His focus, introspective. The horizon of his future ended at the paint on the walls that surrounded him.
Veritas vos liberabit. It’s been inked on tattoos, translated into book titles and proclaimed by philosophers for ages. It may have first appeared in print in the Gospel of John, but that’s hard to verify. Biblical quotes have been traced to more ancient sources in Greece, Egypt, Mesopotamia, India and other civilizations. But even today it has a solid ring to it: “The truth shall set you free.” I was hoping it might, at least, initiate some resolve for Xavier LaGrange in his hour of dread. It was far too early to tell if it would set him free.
The glaring contrast between Angele’s joie de vie and Xavier’s inner panic was difficult to integrate, but hopefully not problematic. Perhaps these two discordant temperaments would meet in the middle. A good meal can pacify an anxious heart. That, and a couple of newfound friends.
• • •
“I trust you like Indian food,” Angele said sweetly as we entered Xavier’s room.
It brought a smile to his face. Angele has a way with men. She certainly has her way with me.
“I love Indian food,” he replied. “You probably aren’t aware of it, but several years ago I spent a month in Mumbai and a couple of weeks in Srinagar while working on a Bollywood movie. India is amazing. That particular role didn’t require much acting; I was the Western window dressing for the film. But I had the distinct feeling that if I stayed in India long enough, I could hone my craft with a greater sense of humanity and compassion. The average Indian has so little, yet most everyone you meet there is excited with life. It’s an extraordinary place. The eyes of children are focused on the infinite.
“Incidentally, my critics frequently refer to my acting with expressions like ‘window dressing,’ ‘superficial,’ or ‘sophomoric.’ I hope someday to improve my skills enough to change their opinions, but, for now, I can’t blame them. In fact, they have generally been kind to me. I’ve had plenty of bad reviews, for sure, but I’ve never found them to be hateful. They’re just doing their job, and usually they do it rather well. Often they are just trying to be honest and humorous at the same time. On rare occasions, I have received favorable notices. I aspire to be a serious actor, but so far I have mostly been given comic roles.”
I was genuinely surprised to hear about his love for India, and even more impressed that his self-image was not the least bit glorified.
Angele spread the feast on the table in the living room. We pulled the chairs closer and sat down.
“Xavier, would you prefer the mango or the rose lassi,” Angele asked.
“I’ll take the one you don’t want,” he replied.
“Jesse gets the other one; I’m having tea. I’m vegan, and the lassi is made with yogurt.”
“Take the one you prefer, Jesse,” he said graciously.
I chose the mango.
We dined in relative silence. The meal was delicious. It was the finest Indian food I had ever eaten. Th
e seasonings were perfect. The gulab jamun was a sensual delight, and Angele was courteous enough not to point out its primary ingredient.
“If you want something else to drink, I can get it for you,” Xavier offered. “We have an extensive mini bar.”
“Maybe later, thanks,” I said. “I want my mind to be as clear as possible while we discuss your case.”
“Me too,” he replied.
When we finished eating, we all pitched in, tidied up the mess, and then got down to the business at hand.
“Where should we begin?” Xavier asked philosophically.
“Let’s begin at the Rutland Arms Hotel,” I suggested.
“Right,” he replied, hesitantly.
“OK,” I said. “Before we cut to the chase, I want to clarify something. It’s vital that you tell us exactly what happened in Portland, and then we’ll go back to the beginning of your relationship with Stephanie Goulet on Cape Cod.
“So let’s start with Diana,” I suggested. “I hope you aren’t offended, but I seriously doubt there ever was a Diana. Did you make that up?”
Xavier stared kindly at me and responded, “Yes. There never was a Diana. I’m sorry I told you that.”
He then furrowed his brow and almost smiled when he asked, “How did you figure that out?”
“I applied Occam’s Razor.”
“What’s Occam’s Razor?” he asked.
Angele chimed in, “Yeah, what the heck is that, Jesse?”
“It’s a fancy term applied to the kind of reasoning most of us use all the time. Scientists and philosophers refer to it frequently when they are trying to determine the better of competing possibilities. It boils down to this. When there are two explanations that are equally plausible, go with the simpler of the two, unless the more complicated one provides a much stronger argument. They call it a ‘razor’ because you shave away unnecessary assumptions. It’s named after William of Ockham, a medieval philosopher, who championed this useful shortcut.”