Reboot

by Alan Mulak

  7

  Sex is sex

  A short time after Nicole Henderson-Santos lit a cluster of soy-scented candles, slid under a thick blanket of bubbles, and settled into the Jacuzzi, William rushed in.

  “Niki,” he said breathlessly, removing his lightweight windbreaker, “we have to talk.”

  The candles flickered.

  “Shut the door. You’re letting in a cold draft.”

  William closed the door.

  “You’re not going to believe who…”

  “Stop,” Nicole said sharply. “Just take a deep breath and relax. In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s what I was trying to do before being rudely interrupted.”

  William blinked a few times, and then continued, “I was leaving the club in Lexington…”

  "Stop," Nicole again said. She lifted a foam-covered foot out of the sea of bubbles, bright red toenails glowing in the candlelight. "Massage my feet. But warm up your hands first."

  William rubbed his hands together. He seemed to notice the bubble bath for the first time. “I thought we agreed not to do this anymore. Those bubbles clog up the drain.”

  “That’s what plumbers are for.” Nicole closed her eyes and laid her head back onto a pillow. “Now, my foot is waiting.”

  William positioned himself at the end of the tub, rolled up his sleeves and, with Popeye-sized arms flexing, began carelessly massaging her foot.

  “Ow,” Nicole shouted, yanking her foot from his grasp. She opened her eyes and sat up. “That’s my foot, not some slimy dishrag in need of wringing out. What’s the matter with you?”

  William crossed his arms and glared at Nicole. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I ran into Rashad on the sidewalk.”

  “Who?”

  “Rashad! He was my partner before you and I started…you know-”

  “Fucking? It’s okay. You can say it.”

  “I don’t like that word. It’s crass.”

  "It's just a word,” Nicole said, waving her arms in the bubbles. “So you ran into what’s-his-name. So what?”

  William jumped to his feet and began pacing. “His name is Rashad. And he said he went to the police about us.”

  “For what?”

  “He said he told them we planned the explosion that killed your husband.”

  Nicole scoffed. “What’s the big deal? Don’t you think the cops already checked that out? I mean, where the hell have you been? We were suspects before the wreckage stopped smoldering. And except for that little twerp Hurst, the case is closed, get it, closed. All the rest of the cops snooped around, found what they needed, and went back to Dunkin’ Donuts to finish their jelly doughnuts. As for Rashad, I hope you told him to get a life.”

  William stopped pacing and again folded his arms. “Does it bother you I had a man for a lover?”

  Nicole lay back again, closing her eyes, and resting her head on a pillow. “No, not bother. I have this fantasy about taking on two men, so it makes me a bit horny. But it doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “Does it matter to you that he was black?”

  Nicole exhaled noisily and then sat up again. "Listen. Sex is sex. As long as you didn't bring home any festering cock warts, I could care less who you used to…" she paused, then asked, "if you don't want me to use the word fuck, what would you prefer?"

  William said nothing but wrinkled his forehead, and set his jaw.

  Nicole went back to waving her arms in the bubbles. “Now, this brings me to another topic. Did you say you have Senator Mullen’s wife as a new client?”

  William nodded. “Lorraine Mullen? Yes. Why?”

  “I want you to find out if she is happy at home with the senator.”

  “Happy?”

  Nicole stared at William. “In bed. Sex. Marital bliss. Get it?”

  “Why would you want to know that?”

  Nicole idly played with the bubbles. “I may need the senator.”

  “Need? In what way? I thought we…”

  Nicole exhaled and closed her eyes. “The senator may come in handy. People like him can pull strings, and in this case, squash bugs.”

  “Squash bugs?”

  “Yes. I may need to have a particular bug squashed: police lieutenant Hurst.”

  William frowned. “But I thought that was in the past…”

  “Not with that little asshole. Everyone else has long forgotten the incident but Hurst,” she shook her head. “I have a feeling he’s going to be a constant thorn in my saddle. We may need to deal with him.”

  William pondered her pronouncement. “So that’s where the senator comes in?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how are you going to get him to squash Hurst?”

  Nicole smiled.

  8

  Unintended Consequences

  “Carlisle Police Department. This call is being recorded."

  “May I speak with Lieutenant Brian Hurst? This is Attorney Chris Palmer calling.”

  “Please hold.”

  A few seconds later, “Hurst.”

  “Brian, Chris Palmer here. Can I buy you lunch?”

  The two men met at the British Beer Company in Westford, a popular watering hole. Palmer, a walrus of a man at about 6'-6", 350 pounds, wore a bulging black suit, white shirt, and stained red-striped tie. His two or three chins overhung the frayed collar of his shirt. His long black hair, as always, was slicked back, shone with gel, and pulled into a ponytail.

  Hurst was half the size of Palmer: about 5’-6”, goatee, short brown hair, plaid shirt, open collar, chinos. The blue blazer he wore hid his sidearm.

  Once settled into a booth in the corner, chit-chatted, burgers ordered, beers delivered, Palmer came to the point. He leaned across the table and said, "My client, Nicole Henderson-Santos, would like the cooperation of the Carlisle Police Department, in her petition to the court, to waive the Commonwealth of Massachusetts Statute 103.6.91a, that in cases such as this where no corpse has been found in an apparently accidental death, declares death official after the passage of seven years. She would like the court to instruct the state medical examiner to issue a death certificate, declaring her missing husband officially dead so that she can move on with her life. If the CPD has no objections and considers the matter closed, the court would likely grant the wish of my client. What do you think? Any objections?”

  Hurst leaned back in his chair and studied the man sitting across from him. "Kind of quick, don't you think? What's it been - not even seven months – since the deceased got blown to kingdom come?"

  Palmer placed his bulbous hands on the table, face up. "My client wants to claim the life insurance on the deceased, for which she has been waiting patiently. She's anxious to put the horrific tragedy behind her and wants to remarry. Can you blame her?"

  Hurst smiled, flashing his bright white teeth. “Funny you should put it that way, but before we get into that, why won’t the ME issue a death certificate?”

  “I don’t believe it’s a matter of won’t; it is more like hasn’t. You know those guys. They’re the most incompetent bureau in the entire Commonwealth, and that’s saying something when you consider the competition. They just need to get off their ass.”

  Hurst nodded. “So, you are looking for me to help your client move on with her life? Do I have that straight?”

  Palmer shook his head, yes, and with sincerity, said, "Again, with your help, my client would be able to put this sorrowful affair to rest once and for all."

  Hurst leaned forward and came very close to being nose-to-nose with Palmer. “Now we go off the record,” he said quietly. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Hurst folded his hands on the table and settled back. “Let me ask you something. When’s the last time you heard of a gas leak causing an explosion? And I’m not talking about in urban areas, but in the suburbs, like Carlisle.”

  Palmer shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  "I don't either, but I know it hasn't been for the last twen
ty-six years since I've been a cop. It just doesn’t happen anymore. The gas company knows what they’re doing, and cover their asses with both hands. In short, this big bang wiping out the house of your client, this was a really rare event. Follow?”

  Palmer shrugged again. “Go on.”

  A waitress came and served the two men their burgers and fries. Palmer dug in. Hurst ignored his food and continued speaking. “Now, let’s assume there was this gas leak that caused the explosion and fire. Why such a huge explosion? Why not a basement bang, then flames? Maybe the deceased gets killed in the bang, but where did his body go? It takes a really big explosion to blast someone’s body apart and send his underwear halfway across the God damn yard. The state police bomb guys tell me this one was a dandy. And maybe it wasn’t just gas that blew up. And the deceased would have smelled the gas…”

  “But he did,” Palmer said, through a mouthful of burger.

  Hurst said, "Yep, he sure did, then bang. But the size of the explosion doesn't fit. The house needed to be full of gas for that hum-dinger. He would have smelled gas way before his phone call to cause that kind of a blast."

  Palmer paused before another bite. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Well, at first, nowhere. Open and shut. But then, last summer, this guy comes into the station and tells me his lover is shacking up with your client, and he heard them planning to off your client’s husband.”

  Palmer shrugged. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  "Or in this case, like a man scorned. And I know, this guy's verbal report is worthless in court, but maybe we begin to ask some questions. Let's look at the facts. First, lover boy, a switch-hitter, is nothing more than a slimy gold digger. If he makes it official with your client, his personal training days are over. No prior. Clean but slimy. Next, take a look at your client – who, as you know, has more money than God – word is that she wanted way more out of the high life than the deceased could offer. Everybody we talked called her an evil bitch. Apparently the deceased, by all accounts, a decent guy, was not the high roller type. You could make a pretty good case for lover boy and your client making the house go boom.”

  Palmer wiped mayonnaise off his chin. “Oh come on. You’re reaching.”

  “Am I? I’ve been thinking about this. Let’s take another look at the deceased. As far as the CPD is concerned, he’s dead. There’s no doubt about it. That was his arm, his foot, his blood, and his underwear. And if he’s not dead, where is he? All his savings accounts were untouched. If he skipped town to escape from Medusa, the bitch, what's he doing now? Working at some bar somewhere? Starting over? No way. He’s used to a pampered, yuppie life. Nope, he got offed.”

  Palmer started taking fries from Hurst’s plate. “So what’s this about a bomb?”

  “If he smelled gas and ran out of the house, your client and lover boy go back to the drawing board. Consider this: if on the other hand, he’s on the phone with his worker bees, and somebody’s listening in, and when he claims to smell gas, a pound or two of C-4 is triggered remotely, there’s no doubt about the results.”

  “You gonna eat that burger?”

  Hurst ignored Palmer. “Then there’s the jammed lid to the shutoff valve. It happens. The gas guys say so. But not very often. The gas keeps pouring in, the fire burns hotter than hell, incinerating everything – including any traces of explosives by the way – and the poor deceased turns to fine ash. Easy to do. Very clean.”

  Palmer reached for Hurst's burger, but Hurst shot out a hand and grabbed Palmer's swollen paw. “So to answer the question you asked when we first sat down – can you blame her – the answer is yes, I can…and I do. And don’t even start on me. I know I’ve got nothing, but you may want to tell your client, we’ll be watching her. If she screws up, even this much,” Hurst held up his hand, and opened his fore-finger and thumb, indicating a slim margin, “I’ll be on her like flies on fresh shit.”

  Palmer withdrew his hand from Hurst's grip. "So, I assume you are not willing to cooperate with the court regarding a court order to expedite the certificate of death?"

  Hurst smiled his bright white smile again. “One more thing. Please tell your client that the mighty weight of the world’s richest private school, our very own Phillips Andover Academy, is about to come down on her head. Her two darling daughters, now taking time off from their education and bathing in sunny Miami Florida, are allegedly continuing to bully their former classmates. The school will be filing various suits against those two little tykes. This, of course, is new ground - a school filing suit against a student over bullying – and it may get thrown out, but not to worry, you'll still get your fee."

  “That’s cruel,” Palmer said, in feigning mock insult.

  “There must be some sort of saying,” Hurst said, standing, “About rotten apples from a rotten tree, or something like that.” He pulled on his coat. “You can have my burger. Thanks for lunch.”

  9

  Flies in the Ointment

  While negotiating the stairs up to his new apartment, Mike DuPont attempted to balance an overlarge pile of boxes. At the top step, his veritable Tower of Pisa toppled to the right, sending the contents therein cascading down in an avalanche of personal belongings. Among the items bouncing merrily down the stairs was a box of trout flies that, upon reaching the bottom step, sprung open, spewing the tiny tufts of fur and feathers in all directions. It was at that moment – watching his trout flies scatter all over the bottom landing - when he was struck with the solution to a puzzle, the solution of which had eluded him since last winter.

  He took out his phone. “Hello, Marcy? This is Mike. Remember last month when you said you owe me a favor? I’d like to take you up on it.”

  Hank's Coffee Shop was on Third Street in Scranton, just down from the ballpark. It was one of the few establishments where smoking was still permitted. As Mike entered and nodded to Hank through the lingering cloud of cigarette smoke, then he spotted Marcy seated at the end of the counter. A few noisy townies were clustered here and there, but Marcy had chosen a spot as far away from prying ears as the shop would allow.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet,” Mike said, grabbing the stool next to Marcy. She was a small woman, perhaps forty-five, short brown hair, wearing a Scranton Wilkes-Barre / Penguins hockey team coat. Hank placed a black coffee in front of Mike.

  “Anything to eat?”

  Mike held up the mug, “Just coffee today, thanks.”

  After Hank left, Mike asked, “How’s Tim doing at Penn State?”

  Marcy’s face lit up. “So far, so good. He's got a part-time job working at the rink, so between the job and his studies, he's too busy to screw up. Maybe this time we'll make it. And by the way, thanks for making those calls."

  “Tim’s a good kid. He deserved those scholarships.”

  “You and I both know the world is full of young hockey players with all sorts of potential. It took some serious string-pulling to get him in.”

  “Just call me Geppetto.”

  They clinked mugs.

  Marcy, casting a casual glance over her shoulder and surreptitiously checking out the mirror, asked, “So what can I do for you?”

  Mike turned on the stool and faced Marcy. In a voice just above a whisper, he asked, "I need you to find something for me."

  Marcy shrugged. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

  “If I gave you the name and address of a business, could you pull up the invoices?”

  She drained her coffee cup. “Walk me home.”

  They strode in silence along the crumbling sidewalk of decrepit inner-city Scranton: an assembly of struggling businesses and others that had given up the struggle. They sat alongside vacant lots, at a long-abandoned bus stop surrounded by a graffiti-covered windbreak.

  Marcy asked, “First question: why don’t you just call the business yourself?”

  "This isn't an invoice for something I bought. It's one that someone else may have used.
Plus, I think the specifics of invoices are private, aren't they? I'm sure you can't just walk into Sears or some such place and ask to see all of today's invoices. Right?”

  Marcy nodded. “Tell me the whole story, no bullshit, and I’ll think about how I can help. Leave out the names and anything else that would be incriminating. The less I know, the better."

  Mike took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’m trying to find somebody. And every year, like clockwork, on September first, this person buys something. And this something is very, very specific. And he always buys from the same company. So if you pull up his invoice, there should be some kind of address where the merchandise is to be sent. Then I might be able to find my missing person. Follow?”

  Marcy pursed her lips and crossed her arms across her chest. “And then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to go and seek out this missing person?”

  Mike sat back and scratched his chin. He also crossed his arms and sat silently for a few beats. "You know, that's an excellent question. I don’t know.”

  “Let’s play a ‘what if’ game. Let’s say you go find this missing person and it goes badly. Very badly. And maybe you and this missing person get into a fight – and one of you ends up dead. A smart cop may be able to follow the trail all the way back to me…which makes me an accessory to the crime.”

  “I can assure you…”

  "Actually, you can't, so don't bother," Marcy said, with a force that surprised Mike. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions. However, my boy has been given another chance, and it's because of you. And I think this time, it may stick.” Marcy turned and looked Mike in the eye. “You know why?”

  Mike shook his head no.

  “Because he doesn’t want to let you down. For some reason, somehow, you got through to him. And for this, I owe you.” She stared at Mike, sighed, and then said, “So I’m going to take a chance.”