Tuesday, October 15, 2013
The life of a cop turns out to be a lot less interesting than the movies let on. Let alone the life of retired detective, living in a green tiled cottage overlooking the amazing beaches of Malibu. Melinda and I walk aling those beaches at sunset every day.
It´s Tuesday, though it might as well be Sunday. As I do each morning, I wake up at seven, and step out on the porch to have a cup of coffee and some toast with butter and raspberry jelly. We are grateful for the soft sea breeze caressing our aged skins.
I talk to my wife about the weather, and how deserted the beaches seem to be, even though it´s only October and it´s been unusually warm. This summer, the beaches were crawling with tourists.
However, there is something that has been troubling me for days. Even though it´s true that I was hard on Paul Tischmann, over the years I came to regard him as the son Melinda and I never had.
Paul was that kind of assistant that always go against the grain when they trust their own judgement. Yet when they make mistakes, they know how to rectify the situation and ask forgiveness. Paul was hardworking, honest, generous and responsible; though he didn´t have much of a sense of humor and could be quite tough on people he didn´t like.
It´s been years since he´s been flying on his own, and he´s had to deal with some complicated cases without my help or company. But I feel that the case he is working on, the one about the strange murder of an important idea-man in a New York advertising agency, has him going around in circles. How is it possible that they have absolutely nothing? How could the killer be so skillful as not to leave a single print? I called him yesterday, more than once, but he never answered my calls, so he must be in on hell of a mess.
“What are your plans for today, honey? Melinda asks, smiling charmingly and squinting her bright blue eyes in the morning sun. Those eyes, which used to be big and round, still seem to me to be the most beautiful, regardless of time.
“The lawn needs to be watered. I also have some hydrangeas I need to plant. I´ll write a couple of chapters about inspector Valovsky and watch some TV. It´s been days since I´ve watched TV.” I respond softly.
“That will be great for you, John. But remember, you always get very nervous when Paul is working on those horrible murder cases that turn up on the news. You need to watch your heart.”
“Yes, Melinda, you´re right,” I answer, “could you pass me the sugar please?”
She winks at me, hands me a tiny bag of High & Low, and walks away swinging her prominent hips under her favorite flowery dress.
I spend two hours tending my garden. It´s a hobby that keeps me busy and I greatly appreciate, especially after living my whole life in a rat-trap in New York.
The hydrangeas go very well at the foot of a lemon tree I planted three weeks ago.
At ten, I step into my small office – which by the way, has a splendid view of the ocean – to write a couple of chapters of the detective novel I´ve been working on, it feels like a never-ending task. I still haven´t decided who the bad guy is, so it´s likely to turn into unreadable rubbish.
At noon, as Melinda prepares some casserole dish that spreads its aroma through the whole house. I step into the sitting room to watch and see what´s cooking in the outside world. Uncapping an alcohol free, ice cold, beer, I skim through the channels, jumping from cushioned canes for sale, to a crappy soap in which two fake blonds fight while their sturdy men gallop on the prairie, ´till I finally reach the news channel. Wars, earthquakes, crimes of passion... dear God! This world is going to crap.
Suddenly, a few quick scenes grab my attention. In the background, the anchor´s terse voice tells how yesterday. Samantha Hemsley, director of the prestigious DIC advertising agency, was arrested as a suspect in the Josh Parker murder.
I feel proud watching a rather more serious and gaunt Paul Tischmann, and right behind him she is there. I look closely at the TV hoping I might be mistaken, but there´s no question. How could I ever forget those skittish green eyes, the pale skin and the characteristic red mane? I need to speak urgently with Paul. What is she doing there? With him? What is her role in this mess?
“John! Dinner is ready hon!” Melinda calls out loudly from the kitchen.
I´m struck dumb. Ghosts from the past that I had thought long buried, are suddenly alive and well in the present. I need to get back into action, if only for a couple of hours. My mind, not as lucid as some years ago, has recalled Josh Parker, and Samantha too.
“Is something wrong dear?” Melinda asks gently coming up behind me.
Samantha couldn´t have killed that man. That man was murdered by the same person who decided to end his daughter´s life nine years back.
“You see John? You see how watching the news is not good for you?” Melinda reproaches as she turns toward the kitchen shaking her head.