The food was good; but Channarong was right, Shanahan was already longing for some sausage, northern beans, potatoes. He also realized he had come to appreciate Channarong. He kept the investigation going. He understood that offering seventy-five dollars of Shanahan’s money was an economically effective way of getting information. He didn’t need permission to do it.
‘We still don’t know whether these people trailing us are connected to each other,’ Shanahan said.
‘No, we don’t. And they could be connected but want different things.’
‘Then why are they working together?’ Maureen asked.
‘You see, that is the way it works here. The police, the criminals, the business people, the army – they all jump sides when it is convenient. One day one is your friend, the next your enemy. It is difficult for the western mind, perhaps.’
‘I’m not so sure we’re all that different. What did you tell your band of private investigators?’
‘Connections were the Kitty Club, your Mr White, rubies, smuggling, Americans in occasional trouble with the law.’
‘Key words in a Google search,’ Maureen said.
‘It’s our version,’ Channarong said.
‘Why wouldn’t the kids just make up information and we go off on a wild goose chase?’
‘They won’t. But they might sell whatever information they got from us to another interested party.’ Obviously noting Shanahan’s disapproval, he continued, ‘Fulfilling both contracts.’
‘Whew,’ Maureen said, but was distracted by the arrival of a cart and Maureen spotted the soft shell crab. Channarong translated and when he was done he told them he had something else.
‘I feel like a fifth wheel,’ Shanahan said.
‘I know how things work here, that’s all,’ Channarong said. ‘Tonight we can hit some of the expatriate bars and see if there’s anything we can learn.’
‘And what kind of bars are these?’ Maureen asked.
Shanahan looked at Channarong. ‘They are discreet bars where Westerners go to drink scotch and engage in men talk.’
‘I see. Men talk. Are there women there?’
Now it was Channarong’s turn to look at Shanahan.
‘No stripping, right?’ Shanahan asked.
‘No stripping,’ Channarong said. ‘Very discreet. Quiet, but, I’m sorry, a Western woman would discourage conversation.’
Maureen shook her head and nodded when Channarong translated the food on the tray as mango pudding.
‘Imagine a baby shower,’ Shanahan said. ‘Men aren’t invited . . .’
‘A baby shower? Is that the best you can do?’
‘Well really, there are places women don’t want men around.’
She grinned broadly. ‘I understand, but it is fun to see you squirm.’
There wasn’t a lot for Shanahan to do, other than wait. He had planted seeds in the gem district. He had apparently stirred up interest with Mr White and with the police. Channarong, using the promise of reward, had sent the Mahouts on an information gathering mission. The afternoon would roll out its empty hours, he thought, and he had no idea of how to fill them. He might as well give in and enjoy it.
The roof-top pool was rarely used during the day. But there were bars and lights that suggested that maybe it came to life in the evening when the heat was bearable and the darkness hid smog in the air. He swam four full laps while Maureen prepared to get into the pool. He climbed out, struggling a bit for his breath. He dried himself off and stretched on the lounge chair that looked down the length of the pool.
A shower, nap and dinner. Shanahan felt better than he had in quite awhile. The sun, an occasional swim and afterwards naps to replenish his energy. Maureen let him know she didn’t mind missing the men’s club and would spend the evening with rum and tonic and a good book. Perhaps a late evening swim.
‘They have a bar up on the roof. I’ll mingle, you know,’ she said grinning, ‘with the crowd.’
‘What crowd?’
‘I’ll find a crowd.’
‘You’ll create a crowd.’
‘Whatever’s necessary.’
It wasn’t only Western women who were rare visitors, but also Thai men. Channarong wandered about the Night Market, very close to the two clubs Shanahan would visit. The first had a handsome bar that ran the length of the front room. Occupying the other two-thirds of the room were white linen-topped tables. There were half a dozen women around tending to Caucasian guests. The women were dressed well and Shanahan thought they were available for more than mere companionship, but if so, it wasn’t obvious. Discretion ruled. One would, in a sense, likely court the object of his affection and remuneration would be understood to be a gift. At bars like the one owned by Mr White, things were less subtle – the girls wore numbers.
Shanahan sat at the bar and was at once given a cool, damp towel to remove the thin layer of perspiration that had gathered on his face. The bartender was an attractive woman, who was slightly older than the other women. She also broadcasted her authority. No question she ran the place.
He ordered a beer and noticed that the back bar was filled with bottles of Scotch. There were names on them and they were marked at the level of liquid inside. It really was a club. People bought their own bottles and were served from them.
When he noticed she was between tasks, he asked her to look at the photograph. She did, looking back and forth between Shanahan and the photograph.
‘You have any idea where I might find him?’
‘Is this a joke?’ she asked without an ounce of hostility, a slight, amused smile on her face.
Shanahan took a chance. He held his hands forward, touching one pinkie finger and then the other.
‘That’s not me,’ Shanahan said.
She nodded. ‘That’s Fritz’s,’ she said. She shook her head to dispel the confusion. ‘I just thought you . . . Fritz grew a beard.’
‘You know where he is?’
She shook her head ‘no.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Two weeks ago, maybe three.’
‘You have any idea where he might be?’
‘That’s the way it is around here. You see somebody every day for six months then, poof.’
‘He have a bottle up there?’ Shanahan nodded toward the back bar.
She pointed to it. Fritz’s bottle of Scotch was three-quarters full.
‘I wondered why you ordered a beer. You never ordered a beer after dark.’
‘Thank you.’ He finished his beer, left a generous tip and left, going across the alley between booths selling all sorts of trinkets, wallets, scarves, Buddhas, on his way to the second bar.
It was clear he had just entered a bar that catered to a less moneyed clientele. The table tops were not covered. The bar was slightly battered. The women were dressed more casually, more Western. But again, none of the girls pressed the clients to buy them drinks – all more polite than their counterparts in the States. The girls were there to join a table if invited. There was a woman, also slightly older than the others, tending bar. How many of these kinds of places existed in Bangkok? Would he need to go to them all?
He ordered a beer, and was given a knowing look.
‘I’m not much for beards,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure I am either.’
‘If you’re trying to hide it won’t work. Beer tonight? You have work to do?’
She went to the end of the bar to pick up where she left off – chatting with one of the girls in Thai. Lots of laughs and nudges. He noticed the same line of bottles at the back of the bar. Shanahan waited but finally interrupted them to ask the question.
Shanahan had to show her and her friend that he had ten fingers before they believed him.
‘I thought you lost some weight,’ the younger woman said. ‘You’re his brother.’
‘I am. I’m trying to find him.’
‘I didn’t know anything about his private life,’ the
bartender said.
‘Does he have a bottle here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which one is it?’
‘You want him to buy you a drink?’
The bottle was half full or half empty. Shanahan wasn’t sure which.
‘Sure. If he asks, tell him he bought a drink for his brother Deets.’ He handed her a card. She put it next to Fritz’s bottle on the shelf.
Shanahan, a bourbon or Irish whiskey drinker, wasn’t a fan of Scotch. But this seemed appropriate.
FOURTEEN
The lead story in the Indianapolis Star recapped and updated what the police were willing to say about the murders. Cross sat in the middle room with his coffee, Casey asleep at his feet and Einstein on top of the table where a slice of sunlight landed. For the most part the story confirmed what he already knew, but it was the first time the public knew the police were connecting Edelman’s suicide with the bodies in the trunk. They also said they were questioning someone who had ties with all three deaths. No name was given, but he knew that would be him. Also missing was any mention of the fact that the murder weapon was not your average shotgun. Homicide made it a practice to hide from the public some evidence that only the murderer would know.
The other item of interest he found in the paper was that Marshall Talbot would be buried at two that afternoon at Crown Hill Cemetery. According to the story, only family and invited friends would be permitted to attend the service. However, by omission perhaps, the burial was not private. Perhaps not, he said. It was possible that he wouldn’t be allowed near the family and he wasn’t sure he wanted to given his status as a suspect, likely the prime suspect.
He got up and went to the bedroom closet. Was there anything in there he could wear to such a solemn occasion?
Cross stopped by Harry’s for a beer and to see if Shanahan had contacted him. He hadn’t. It was a wasted trip and Cross was pissed that he’d gone out of his way to make it. Harry was in such a dismal mood that Cross downed his beer quickly, grabbed a hamburger at a fast food restaurant before driving to the Crown Hill Cemetery. He remembered that John Dillinger, subject of recent discussions with Kowalski, was buried there among such luminaries as Jefferson Davis, a former president, and several past Indiana authors, governors and senators.
The place was beautiful. One could usually count on the grounds keepers for cemeteries and golf courses. But it was clear that Cross would get no where near the people gathering at the burial site. There were off-duty police checking lists on both sides of a cordoned-off area. People were still arriving.
Cross scouted the area and, having brought with him a pair of binoculars, found high ground not all that far away. He drove further back and when he got out of the Trooper, he carried with him a bouquet of bargain flowers he’d picked up from a supermarket. He walked about pretending to look for the gravestone of a friend or relative, but in reality he was trying to find the best vantage point from which to scope out the mourners.
What a good idea, he thought, as he focused in on the group. Gathered together on the left were the Taupins. He recognized Raymond from occasional news reports. He wore a gray pin-striped suit that hung on his thin frame like the cheap suit that it was. His thinning hair was slicked back as if he didn’t realize people could see through the greasy strands to his balding skull. Beside him was his one and only wife Cheryl who was somewhere around sixty and a student of the Tammy Faye School of Beauty. She had attempted to paint her way back to twenty nine. This seemed appropriate for the Taupins who were prominent social and fiscal conservatives. Sitting in a chair in front of them, wearing expensive sunglasses, was Sarah Taupin-Talbot, grieving widow.
There were others, perhaps brothers or cousins or business partners of the Taupins. Judging by their close proximity to the gravesite, he guessed this second group represented the Talbots, the deceased family and close friends. Two stood out. One was a big guy in an ill-fitting black suit. His hair was closely cropped. His face was as immobile as granite. The second was a blond fellow who also stood near the family. He, like the family, tossed earth on the coffin. But his coloring suggested he might not be a family member. Cross would bet that the young man was Marshall Talbot’s best buddy.
That’s the one he would track. Parents often either fail to know the truth about their children or, at least, want to hide anything that might harm the memory of them. Best friends were better as a source for both character and deeds. By the time the gathering broke up, Cross situated himself just outside the gate, where he waited for the blond young man to exit. He was by himself. Cross memorized his license plate number in the event he lost his prey in traffic.
He didn’t lose him. He followed the BMW east on 38th Street, and right on Pennsylvania over the Fall Creek bridge, past the grand Central Library and eventually to the Lockerbie area of the city. Cross intercepted him as he was about to enter what was called the Old Glove Factory, a building in the heart of a historic district, where warehouses had morphed into attractive and coveted condos.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I saw you at the burial and I wanted to chat with you.’
The whites of his eyes were red. He took out a handkerchief and swiped it across his nose.
‘What on earth about?’
‘I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find out who murdered Marshall.’
‘Let’s see something. I.D. something.’ He waited.
Cross showed him his license.
‘I’m guessing you’re his best friend,’ Cross said.
The guy was still trying to determine if he should talk to a stranger, licensed or not.
‘All I want to do is find out what kind of guy he was,’ Cross continued.
‘He was a great friend, a good person,’ the guy said but couldn’t give up his concern about Cross. ‘Who are you working for?’
Cross was prepared to answer.
‘It wouldn’t be right for me to disclose this right now.’
The blond guy shook his head in disgust. ‘You working for the Taupins?’
‘No. But don’t keep asking who.’
‘Well I’m not in the mood for disclosure right now either.’ He had the main lobby key in his hand but he smartly didn’t open the door fearing Cross might follow him in. He wanted to wait until Cross had left.
‘I’m working for me,’ Cross said.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Do you want to keep talking out here?’
‘I need more before I let some stranger in my apartment.’
‘Well this may not help, but I repo’d the car that had his body in the trunk. As a result, there are those who think I killed him.’
‘You knew Marshall?’
‘A complete stranger as was the girl found in the trunk with him.’
‘Come on up,’ he said, as if he were angry with himself for the decision he’d made.
The living room was large with a wall of windows looking over the quaint neighborhood in what used to be called Germantown. The condo was filled with furniture and accessories Cross would describe as modern. They looked good against the brick and concrete walls.
‘Sorry, the maid is due tomorrow. Gets a little rough. You want a drink?’
A maid, Cross thought longingly.
‘If you are.’
‘I have to. What do you want?’ He headed toward the kitchen, which opened over a bar into the living room.
‘Whatever you’re having.’
‘What do you want to know?’
Cross sat in what looked to be the most comfortable of the chairs. He saw a hallway that led to more – at least one bedroom.
‘What kind of guy was he?’
‘Big question,’ the guy said.
‘One of his neighbors said he was shy.’
‘He could be seen that way. He never wanted to impose on anyone else. He was unselfish to a fault.’
The guy came in carrying two glasses of clear liquid with ice and a lime.
‘Gin and tonic,’ he said, handing Cross one of the glasses and seating himself on the sofa.
‘I should have introduced myself. My name’s Cross.’
‘Thad Moore, or did you know?’
‘I didn’t. Just seemed like you’d be the guy who knew about Marshall.’
‘We go way back. Park Tudor.’
‘Rich kids.’ The drink was nearly all gin, very little tonic.
Thad Moore smiled. ‘There’s rich and then there’s rich.’
‘Which were you?’
‘Rich I guess.’
‘And Marshall.’
‘Just rich, like me.’
‘Now a delicate question. Were there any skeletons in his closet? A secret drug addict, a foot fetish, gay, anything?’
‘He drank, every once in awhile too much. We used to smoke dope when we were in high school. If he had been gay, he would have simply been gay. He wasn’t, but he saw no shame in it. No skeletons.’
‘You were his best friend?’
‘I would have died for him,’ he said, voice breaking. With sheer will he pushed back tears. He took half his drink in one gulp.
‘The Taupins,’ Cross said.
‘Assholes.’
‘He married into the family. Did he think differently?’
‘He wouldn’t have said what I just said. But he didn’t like them. He hated it when he had to visit them.’
‘Is Sarah different?’
‘She’s a bitch. She’s no different.’
‘So how did that work?’
He finished his drink and went to get another. ‘You ready?’
‘Not yet,’ Cross said.
‘He believed he saw something in her. And I think this obsession of his to rescue the poor, the tired and the humbled masses, or however that’s phrased, kicked in and he wanted to save her from the Taupins, from her own family.’
‘You seem angry. Did you two fight over her?’
‘I am angry. And we always fought. You know what he said when I showed him my new Beamer?’
‘What?’
‘He said, “do you know the difference between a BMW and a porcupine?” Then he answered, “with a porcupine the pricks are on the outside.”’
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