by Jim Heskett
“I made a bad choice, and I paid the price. As part of the conditions of my release from the team, everyone agreed to keep it quiet. Not for my sake, but for the team reporter, so she wouldn’t be blackballed in the industry. I did what I did, and you don’t get to judge me for it.”
Harry shuddered, but he tried to keep it small. “No judgement, Kemba. I’m just trying to do my job and get to the heart of the thing.”
Information is your ammunition and your currency, Harry’s former mentor used to say. You can never have too much of it, and you usually have too little.
Kemba stood and folded the chair before walking it across the room. Harry studied him; this man had motive, and he had a paper-thin alibi. And he also seemed to be hiding something, although Harry hadn’t concluded that for certain.
“I think that’s enough for now,” Kemba said. “I’m tired, so I think I’ll close up early today.”
Harry stood. “Aren’t you interested in finding out how and why he died?”
Kemba grabbed a broom and began sweeping up the last few wisps of stray hair, pointing his face away from Harry’s. “I’ll see you around, Harry Boukadakis.”
Harry slipped his hands in his pockets and saw himself out.
13
The Sunrise Hotel and Spa was on Prospect Avenue, perched on a hill overlooking the town. While the exterior had a foreboding menace like the hotel in The Shining, it lacked evil demons inside. As far as Harry knew, at least.
The hotel towered over the town, throwing a shadow large enough to blot out the sun for some residents most of the day. Five hulking stories of stone and glass, with multiple basement levels into the rock and with satellite buildings forming a campus around it. Quite an impressive structure, lurking there, looking ready to collapse and kill the town with one tumble. The campus was large enough to necessitate maps posted every few hundred feet around the property.
Harry parked and checked his phone again, skimming over the parade of messages from Geneva Vaille. Neva’s messages had grown increasingly panicked over the last hour, so Harry had hopped in the car to soothe his friend’s nerves.
Before he left the car, he retrieved a small spiral notebook from his glove compartment. With it, a pen, and then he opened the book to a blank page. He also opened the Notes app on his phone, where he had been keeping his journal about the case so far. He glanced from the phone to the notebook. A real private eye would use paper, scribbling notes in incomprehensible chicken scratch handwriting. But using his phone was so much easier. All of the data diligently backed up to the cloud, accessible anywhere. If he lost the notebook, then so went all of his work.
“Sorry, Sam Spade,” Harry said as he slipped the notebook back in the glove box, “technology wins out on this one.”
Harry left his car and strode across the voluptuous gardens crisscrossing the parking lot. A food truck idled near the side, gardeners trimmed shrubs, and smiling valets in their fancy jackets handed out car keys to tourists. It was shaping up to be a beautiful and mild day, the kind of weather where you’d be fine in either short or long sleeves. Harry reminded himself to stop and appreciate it later, before the brutal summer sun descended on Arkansas.
He entered the hotel and nodded at the front desk staff, who already knew him. They pretended they didn’t see him, for reasons known only to Harry and his friend. Out of habit, he kept his head down and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Even though Harry was a recent fixture at this establishment, he did everything possible to keep his profile low.
He pushed past the staff, past the restaurant, and then noticed something interesting. A very tall woman with blond hair and blue eyes sat on one of the couches in the sitting area near the restaurant. There were a couple dozen people lounging there, chatting and staring at phones while leeching the free WiFi. But this blond woman was staring off into space, hands shoved between her knees as she sat. She was attractive, but her melancholy expression somehow drew Harry in deeper.
But he had no time to gawk. Through a door clearly marked for authorized personnel only, he hurried down a hallway lined with administrative offices. After taking a few beats to catch his breath, he stopped at the one reading G. Vaille, Manager and gave it a couple of knocks. Something like an exhausted groan come from the other side, and he pushed through.
“Didn’t hear you say come in,” he said as he opened the door, “but your exasperated sigh felt close enough.”
Neva looked up from her desk and smiled at Harry. The stacks of junk highlighting her office made Harry’s look organized by comparison. Maybe that’s why he liked her, because her chaotic workplace situation made him feel a little more put-together. Plus, she played a level nine Half-Orc Barbarian to perfection. One of the better role-players Harry had ever had at his table.
“Hey, Harry.”
“Hey, Neva. Your messages made it sound like it was raining cats and dogs, but I see no fur on you.”
She rolled her eyes. “So clever, Harry. Always so clever. First, I can’t make it to D&D this week.”
“Again?”
Neva frowned. “I know. I’m sorry, but everything is just so crazy right now. Reschedule or have the session without me… either one is fine.”
“What’s going on?”
Neva sat back and sighed. Her hair was in a messy bun atop her head, loose enough that Harry assumed it had only a few more minutes until it unraveled. Her pale skin contrasted with her dark hair and eyes, and that matronly fifty-ish smile always touched Harry like comfort food. Plus, she was short and squat like him. Standing next to Serena made Harry feel like a “before” photo. Standing next to Neva was like two equals. He didn’t feel that feeling often.
Harry knew Neva was flustered from the hotel missing out on the contract bid for the AA conference room blocks… that juicy, guaranteed chunk of tourist income had gone to the budget-friendly lodge down the street, now overflowing with sober drunks in name tags. Not that the Sunrise had trouble filling its rooms. Missing out on the conference was more a PR mistake; the hotel’s owners did not like being made to look bad.
“How’s your wife?” Neva asked. “She liking Hong Kong?”
“So far, yeah, she says it’s tolerable. What’s going on, Neva? Why all the texts?”
She had been twiddling a pencil between the fingers of one hand, but she let it fall to the desk. She leaned forward, reaching her hands toward Harry in a big stretch, then she settled back. “I didn’t want to bother you, and I tried to think of a way to figure it out myself, but I just don’t have the headspace right now…”
Harry tented his hands and curled his lips in a chaste smile, trying to project calm and understanding. This was a technique from Harry’s private investigator internship. His mentor had explained that a calm tone could soothe the most scattered or nervous witness to make them come over to your side. Of course, Neva Vaille wasn’t part of Harry’s case, but he thought the skill would come in useful.
“It’s okay. Just tell me what happened.”
“We’re in trouble.”
“We like the hotel, or we like you and me?”
“You and me.”
Harry’s pulse inched up a notch, but he labored to keep his gaze even and neutral. “How are we in trouble?”
“They know, Harry. They know everything.”
After the last words left her mouth, she clenched her teeth and drummed her fingers on the desk as she started bouncing a knee up and down. The information danced in the air between them, like a Tasmanian devil whirling into chaos.
She meant their “friends” in Fayetteville.
“Okay,” Harry said, trying to kill the encroaching panic with logic, “what do they know?”
“Everything. Maybe. I don’t know. A couple of them were here yesterday, and they didn’t literally say it, but they have suspicions. Or they know something. They’re going to find out what I did for you, what you’re doing, and what it’s costing them. This could be as serious as they choose to m
ake it.”
He folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes, feeling his hands rise and fall atop his belly as he breathed. Thoughts warred in his head, but he reminded himself to project confidence. Above all, calm needed to reign here.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she said, seeming on the edge of desperation. “What if they…” she lowered herself toward the desk and spoke in a hushed tone. “What if they decide to retaliate?”
Harry opened his eyes as his phone dinged. “I understand. Thank you for telling me all this.” He looked at his phone to find a text message from Serena.
Our victim’s brother popped up on CCTV in the next county over. I’m working on getting his address.
“Neva, I have to take care of this. I’m sorry.”
“You told me to count ceiling tiles when I’m stressed, Harry. Right now, I’m stressed, and I’ve counted the forty-eight ceiling tiles in here twenty times in the last hour.”
“I’m really sorry. I promise you we are going to work our way out of this.”
When he stood, her mouth dropped open. “That’s it?”
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, spinning a story from whole cloth. “I’m going to figure this out, and we’ll be fine. Whatever they said, they’re just fishing, at best. They don’t actually know anything. If they come here again and say anything that sounds like they have concrete info, call me right away. I have a friend they won’t be able to intimidate, so I’ll bring her with me next time. You and me are going to be fine, okay?”
She turned her palms to the ceiling and barked an uncomfortable laugh, but she eventually nodded. “I hope you’re right. This could be very bad for both of us.”
Harry bid her goodbye and told himself on the way out that he also hoped he was right. Otherwise, he might end up with more than a few broken bones.
14
Harry put the car in park and wiped sweaty hands on his slacks before letting out an extended sigh. The sun was setting in Berryville, a dozen miles down the road from Eureka Springs.
Next to him in the passenger seat, Serena raised an eyebrow. “You okay? That was like four sighs in one.”
“Was it?” he said, pretending for a second that he hadn’t noticed. “Okay, yeah. Something happened, and it’s like one more iron in the fire I have to manage.”
“What happened?”
“You know my friend Neva, who manages the Sunrise Hotel? I may have bitten off more than I can chew.”
Serena’s lips parted. “Are you sleeping with her? Is she married?”
“No, no, it’s not anything like that. We’re just friends. You remember what I asked you to do yesterday, with the guys in Fayetteville? That situation is coming to a head.”
Serena tilted her head and stared at the street as cars drove by. Her eyes narrowed and widened, like a robot indicating data processing happening deep within the CPU. Eventually, she inhaled sharply, then turned back to Harry.
“I understand. What can I do to help?”
Harry shook his head. “This is my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
“My second-oldest brother once started a landscaping company with some friends of his. He was a hard worker, but none of the rest of them were. They embezzled company money and showed up late, took off early, the whole thing. My brother tried for a couple years to save it, thinking his friends would suddenly get a better work ethic. Of course, they didn’t, and he had to cut his losses. He was out thousands of bucks, but he learned an important lesson.”
He pointed at the house across the street. “I’m not sure the lesson I’m supposed to take from that, but let’s stay focused on this, for right now.”
“Understood. You’re the boss.”
The house across the street was tiny, but not in the way modern humans built tiny homes as a testament to the philosophy of using less stuff. This house was diminutive for the traditional reason… its owner was dirt poor. Carter Maslow, older brother of the deceased cigar thief. The structure was like a freestanding garage apartment, but on the ground floor. It probably was a satellite building to one of the nearby larger houses that shared the same rectangular lot.
“Is he a suspect?” Serena asked.
“Possibly. He’s been hard to find, so I don’t know much about him yet. At the very least, he could fill in the massive blanks about Lukas disappearing years ago.”
“How do you want me to be in there? Good cop/bad cop, or quiet and brooding in the corner?”
Harry considered. “You are exceptional at brooding, so let’s go with that. Silent, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, with a scowl on your face.”
“I like it. I can do that.”
Harry and Serena exited the car and strode across the street. The door to the small structure had several tiny holes across the front, remnants of thumb tacks. The wood was chipped near the bottom, as if the door had been kicked open, probably more than once.
He took a steadying breath before knocking.
Two minutes and three more knocks later, the door finally opened. Harry had known Carter Maslow less than he’d known acquaintance Lukas Maslow. Harry had met this person once or twice, but he didn’t look anything like Harry remembered. Carter Maslow of a quarter century ago had been lithe and sinewy, with a signature cleft chin and brilliant blue eyes. This person standing before Harry and Serena still had eyes of the same color, but all the ocean blue brilliance had faded to brackish water. He was sixty pounds overweight, with two days of stubble along his jaw. Eyes pulled down like a droopy dog. He loosely held a Rolling Rock beer bottle between his thumb and forefinger.
“What do you want?” he said, eyes slowly pivoting back and forth between the two standing on his porch.
“Carter Maslow?”
The man’s expression changed from one of dreary blankness to one of suspicion. “How did you find me?”
Harry tilted his head to the west. “You were on CCTV at Wal-Mart three days ago, buying a rifle cleaning kit, three cases of beer, and a cart full of groceries.”
“All of that is legal,” Carter said, badly slurring his words. “What are you, feds? FBI? Cops?”
Harry shook his head and elected not to go into details about how he’d hacked into Wal-Mart’s website and discovered they kept all surveillance footage on a centralized and easily accessible server. Instead, he said, “I’m private investigator Harry Boukadakis, and this is my colleague Serena.”
Carter’s head bobbed as he looked Serena from head to toe. “Colleague, huh? You don’t have a last name? Like RuPaul?” Carter cackled at his own joke, which caused him to stumble back and drop his beer bottle. Sudsy golden liquid lurched out on a patterned rug. He took another step back and slumped onto the couch, hands in his lap and head low. Carter made no attempt to retrieve the beer bottle, and instead they all three watched as it completed evacuating its contents.
He whimpered as tears slid down his scruffy cheeks. “My brother is dead. Dead. The hell do you people want?”
Without asking, Harry slid into the chair across from the couch so he could meet Carter’s eyes. It seemed like the sort of thing an empathetic private dick would do to make the interview subject feel on even footing.
“I’m sorry about your brother. I knew him too, remember?”
Now Carter’s wretched face rose, and he looked Harry in the eye. “Booka-what? I know you, right? You used to come during the summers. What happened to you? You got fat.”
Harry pursed his lips and refrained from pointing out the black-pot-and-black-kettle nature of the man’s comments. He was grieving, upset, irrational.
“Your brother left Eureka Springs many years ago and was only recently seen around town again. I was hoping you could help me fill in those blanks of where he’s been.”
“I have no clue. Lukas had the brain capacity of a gawddamn child, so you think I’d willingly let him wander off on his own? I looked for him for years. Years. He shows up here one night a few weeks ago out of the blue and tel
ls me I’m living my life all wrong. Then the next thing I hear is…” Carter mumbled the rest of the sentence between sobs.
“I know more about grief than I wish I did,” Harry said. “I don’t know if this will help, but I’ve developed a way of thinking about it. At first, it’s the driver, and you go wherever it wants you to go. But after a few days or weeks, it becomes the passenger. You get back to driving your life, going about your business, and the grief is still there, off to the side. It’s chatty at first. Then you hear from it less and less over time, but it never quite goes away.”
Carter sniffled, staring with blank eyes at a calendar on the wall, now three months out of date. He breathed, only the rise and fall of his shoulders and his lazy blinking to indicate him still alive.
“I know this is an awful time for you,” Harry said, “but I have a few more questions.”
Carter cleared his throat, then leaned his head left and right to crack his neck as he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. “Okay, ask me what you’re gonna and I’ll tell you what I know. Let’s get this over with.”
“Your brother had a foot locker in a cabin in No-Name Holler.”
A flash of recognition crossed Carter’s face. Maybe. Harry had a difficult time reading the inebriated man’s expressions.
“Lukas was out in No-Name this whole time?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “The cabin and the land underneath it has no official owner, and I have no idea how long Lukas was there. A few days or weeks, at least. But I wanted to ask you about the foot locker.”
“I don’t know nothing about any damn locker. I don’t understand what any of this has to do with anything.”
“Your brother kept items in it, and they were all smashed up. Liquor bottles, sex toys, bags of marijuana… things like that.”