Chapter 19

With Christmas only a couple of weeks away, Sunday proved a busy day at Well Played. Cathy was home for the day, but Amanda and Kohl were working. Dad had Kohl sorting through comics, dividing them up by universe, character, and date. He excelled at the task, even if he did stop occasionally to read. Then again, we were paying him in pizza, so not sure we had any right to complain.

It was when I took the pizza box to the dumpster in the back alley that I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.

“Hi, Lionel,” I said. An educated guess.

“Hi, Liz.” He poked his head from his vantage spot in the walkway near the back of the barbershop. He gestured to the pizza box in my hand. “That empty?”

I opened it up. “There’s sort of a piece left, but someone pulled all the pepperoni off.” Cup-and-char pepperoni, while not unique to the area, was all the rage. Whether it was the casing or the thickness or the way heat was applied from the top, those little cups of, well, pepperoni grease, with the crisp, almost bacon-y edges … Okay, I admit it. It was me who pulled them off the last piece.

Lionel waved me over. “Beggars can’t be choosers. Bring it here.”

I walked over to where he’d set his camp chair. On a portable table were a pair of binoculars, an insulated mug, and a box of Timbits. His open duffel bag was loaded with high-tech equipment his mother had purchased.

“With Marya dead,” I said, “is there any point to watching the barber shop?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he said, taking the slice. “But”—he tapped the top of his head—“I get paid by the hour either way. Who knows? Maybe some of Marya’s associates don’t know she’s dead.”

“Lionel, it was plastered all over the news.”

“Yes, but do Russians watch the same news?”

“Probably. I don’t think there’s a special newscast for Russians. If Marya had associates, why would you think they would be Russian too?”

“Instinct.” Kelley nodded sagely. “I can’t explain it, but it’s in the gut of many of us in law enforcement.”

“You’re not in law enforcement,” I said. “You’re a private detective.”

“Doesn’t mean I lost it,” he said. “Besides, I minored in Cold War studies in college. I’m wise to how they work.”

“Didn’t the Cold War end when the Berlin Wall went down?”

“That,” he said with a derisive roll of the eyes, “is what they want you to believe. Just watch. By the time this is all over, the Russians will figure into this somehow. Mark. My. Words.”

*   *   *

When Dad came home for supper that night, I mentioned my conversation with the xenophobic private eye.

“We don’t have someone on it twenty-four/seven, but we’ve been watching the barber shop, too.”

“For the Russians?”

“For any associates who might go there looking for something. And Kelley’s idea might not be as far-fetched as you think.”

“That Marya had connections with the Russian mob?”

“That’s going a bit too far,” he said. “Nothing in our investigation so far leads us to believe that Marya had any connection to organized crime.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But Anechka’s appearance raises questions. Why was she hiding out in that cabin?”

“You haven’t been able to get anything out of her?”

“No, and you wanna know why? Those two sisters of Young felt sorry for her and hired that same dad-blamed lawyer they hired for Ken. So, watching the barber shop to see if someone comes back looking for something is one of our best options. It’s why we haven’t released the crime scene yet, but don’t tell our barber friend.”

“He’s a bit hot under the collar,” I admitted. “And frankly, I know how he feels.”

“Ask yourself this,” he said. “Why was she killed there? It’s probably the biggest argument your buddy Ken has going for him. If he were to kill his wife, it would make more sense to do it in the privacy of his own home. Or up in that love nest of his.”

“Quit calling it a love nest.”

“Murder someone up there, and they might never be found. Look, I’m not saying cops don’t sometimes turn violent, especially in domestic situations. Sad, but it’s been known to happen. Maybe it’s the stress of the job—not that it excuses it.”

“But Ken wouldn’t—”

“Hold on,” he said, “if Ken were to kill someone, I think he’d be a whole lot smarter about it.”

“So, you’re thinking it has something to do with the drugs?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “An addict begging for a cheap fix. Marya wouldn’t give it to him, or maybe they couldn’t reach an agreement. He strangles her with a hair dryer cord. Could happen. Especially if Marya was cutting hair in the front and dealing drugs in the back alley. Right under my nose.”

“We need to improve security back there,” I said. “I realized the other night coming home from my date with Ian that you can’t see anything by the back door from the upstairs apartment.”

“You used to hate when I just happened to see you come home from a date.”

“That was when I was sixteen. And there’s a big difference between being a bit overprotective and cleaning your guns in front of the window.”

“Well, guns must be kept clean.”

“Every time I went out?”

“You got me. Just putting a little fear of God into them.”

“And a little fear of Hank McCall into them too.”

He dropped the fork back onto his plate. “But why the concern now? Did Browning get fresh?”

“Not exactly. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Dad drummed his fingers on the table. “Those words don’t exactly reassure me, you know. You seeing him again?”

“I think so,” I said. “Because of his surprise meet-the-parents stunt, I never got a chance to let him down gently.”

“That’s important?”

“If we still want him to fund our doll project, yes. Not that I think I’m going to leave him broken hearted.” I shared with him my theory of me cast in the role of nice-girl-who’ll-please- the-parents.

“If you do go out with him again, let me know. The gun’s going to need cleaning sometime soon. But I’m sorry things didn’t work.”

“I’m not. I can finally focus on one relationship that seems to have potential.”

Dad jerked his head up. “Did I miss something?”

“I told you I was seeing Mark.”

“You told me you were seeing Mark, but I didn’t realize you were seeing Mark.”

He stared at me. I quirked an eyebrow and stared right back. He opened his mouth several times to begin a sentence, but closed it again without uttering a word.

“Let’s have it,” I said. “Is he a little old for me? No, I don’t think the age difference is that big at this stage. Am I ready for a relationship with someone in law enforcement? Maybe, especially since he’s basically an accountant. But it’s still early days.”

Dad didn’t say anything, just beat out a rhythm on the table. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Might not be too bad, at that. I always thought he was a good egg.”

“Not a good toy name, though, huh?” I said, remembering Dad’s joy of welcoming “Chatty Cathy” to the family. Not that she’d been pleased that he’d pegged her as such during a formal toast at their wedding reception.

He scratched his chin. “I don’t know. There’s Marx Toys. And they made a lot of great toys. And Baker. There’s the Easy Bake Oven, of course. Oh, and the baker from the Fisher-Price Three Men in a Tub.” Dad nodded. “Yeah, he’ll do nicely.”

“Glad you have your priorities straight,” I said.

*   *   *

Early Monday morning, when I collapsed some spare boxes to take out for recycling, I thought of Lionel Kelley. Just in case he was still out back waiting for the Russian invasion, I decided to take him a cup of hot coffee. And maybe invite him in to check out some new My Little Ponies that came in via an estate sale. There was a mint-in-box “Fizzie,” one of the rarer twinkle-eyed ponies, and Kelley might be just the twinkle-eyed collector who’d appreciate it the most. As long as we let him carry it out in a plain, unmarked bag.

I could make out his boots just protruding into the alley from his “secret” hidey-hole.

“Lionel, I brought you a—”

But he wasn’t in those boots, which were sitting next to his empty chair. His duffel bag of techno-gadgets, his coat and hat, and almost all the rest of his clothing were scattered throughout the passageway. And flush against the cold, brick wall, Lionel Kelley was suspended in his, well, underclothes. His hands were bound with rope and tied to a non-functioning security light, and his feet were dangling, not quite able to reach the ground. Duct tape covered his mouth, but he was conscious and wriggling and trying to say something to me.

I ripped off the duct tape first and he screamed.

“Liz. Down. Down.” The words were barely recognizable, he was shivering so badly.

I looked for a way to get him down, tried to untie the ropes, but couldn’t budge the knots. Kelley’s weight had pulled them even tighter against his wrists. I ran back to the shop and retrieved the box-cutter.

The blade broke as I tried to saw through the rope, and I had to stop and change it, but within ten minutes he was hopping on his bare feet in the snow and gathering his boots and clothing.

“Come in and get warm,” I told him, picking up his pricy equipment bag.

When we were both in the back room, I pulled the door to the shop closed and called my father at the station.

“Keep him there,” Dad said. “And lock the doors. Stay out of sight and keep the shop closed until I tell you. I might not be able to get there right away. We got a situation going—wait, does he need medical attention?”

I pulled the phone away from my face and addressed Kelley. “Do you need medical attention?”

He was still shivering, but he shook his head and went for the coffeepot.

“He says no,” I said into the phone.

“Okay, then stay right there. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

I set open a folding chair and made Kelley sit in it while I poured the coffee for him, then helped him steady both hands around the cup. I walked through the shop to make sure no customers had come in when I was distracted, then I locked the door and flipped the sign to “closed.” Taking a moment to scan the street, I was a bit unnerved to see Pastor Pete strolling on the sidewalk with his neck craned in my direction.

A shiver ran up my spine. Was he watching the shop? Or did he have something to do with the attack on Kelley? Maybe he was back to finish the job. Or maybe he was just walking down the street. No crime in that. Dad was right, though. I needed to stay out of sight, even if only to stop fueling the paranoia.

I sprinted through the shop and ran up to the apartment to grab my Lego Movie blanket (yes, it’s awesome) for Kelley. He clutched it tightly around himself. I even bumped up the thermostat a couple of degrees.

When the shivering stopped, I pulled open another chair and sat opposite him.

“Thanks, you might have saved my life.” He took a long sip of the coffee. “Although, I was working on the ropes. I probably could have gotten myself out, eventually.”

Yeah, right. “How long were you strung up like that?”

“I don’t know. What time is it now?”

I checked my cell. “Ten after seven.”

He rocked a little in his chair. “Two hours. Maybe three. I’m still a little hazy how it all happened.”

“What do you mean? What did happen?”

“I was surveilling the back of the shops, and I had just gone behind your dumpster to, well, you know.”

“I know what?”

“Relieve myself.”

“You’ve been peeing behind our dumpster?”

“Everybody pees.”

“But not behind our dumpster.”

“Liz, it’s a stakeout. All cops—”

“Don’t go telling me I wouldn’t understand peeing because it’s a cop thing, all right? Because I might have to hit you. My father’s been a cop longer than you’ve been alive, and he doesn’t go around peeing behind people’s dumpsters.”

“Oh, yeah? You ask him about stakeouts. I’ll bet he’s peed behind plenty of dumpsters. Now, do you want to hear the story or not?”

I bit back a sharp retort and calmed my voice to the point it sounded like a harried nanny pushed past her patience. “Yes, Lionel. Please tell me the story.”

“Fine. I had just finished, you know, and I swore I saw a bit of light coming from the back door of the barber shop. Just a sliver, like a door opening or closing. Then it went dark.”

“Someone turned the light off?” I said. “Or closed the door?” Good heavens, Lionel was right about the criminal returning to the scene of the crime.

“I mean someone conked me on the head.” He reached up and gingerly touched the back of his head.

“Lionel.” I jumped up and examined the spot he pointed out, and sure enough, he had quite a goose egg already. I pulled out my cell phone.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Remember your training,” I said. “All head wounds get checked out. Especially if you lost consciousness.”

“I don’t think I did.”

“But you just said everything went dark.”

“Dark, hazy, blurry. But I was awake. It’s almost all better now.”

“I’m still calling you an ambulance.”

I made the call, answered a few questions, looked deeply into Lionel’s eyes to examine his pupils to see if they were unnaturally dilated, and waited for help to arrive.

“So you didn’t see who it was?” I asked.

“They must have come on foot, because I didn’t hear anyone drive up, and there had to be more than one of them to get the jump on me like that.” He sat up straighter. “You know what this means, don’t you. I was right! It had to be the Russians.”

“Did anyone speak? With an accent or in another language?”

“No, I only saw the one guy. And he never said a word.”

“You just told me you didn’t see anyone.”

“I didn’t make out anyone. He had on one of those ski masks that covers the whole face. But I remember the eyes. Deep, piercing, Russian eyes. If I ever see those eyes again, I’ll know.”

*   *   *

I texted Dad to update him that Kelley was on his way to the hospital and then did a poor job of cooling my heels in the closed shop. I jumped every time someone jiggled the handle trying the front door, but otherwise I hung out in the back room, peering through the small, square window in the steel door, trying to see if the police had arrived yet. And pacing. I did a lot of pacing.

Why had I promised my father I wouldn’t leave the shop? Now I was more curious to see if someone had broken into the barber shop and what they might have done there. And if they might still be inside!

Then again, I’d already seen Pastor Pete rubbernecking the shop. Who else might be lurking nearby? Perhaps Dad’s advice to lock the doors and stay out of sight was prudent. As if on cue, someone—hopefully an impatient customer—banged on the front door. Too bad honoring my promise to stay safely out of sight kept me in the dark about what might be happening just next door.

During one of my trips back and forth across the small room, I noticed Kelley’s bag of gadgets still by the door. But it wouldn’t be right to go through his things.

Then again …

Kelley had gone through our stock at the toy show last year without our permission. And he’d kept me waiting unnecessarily when he promised I could watch the video tape. Add the fact that he’d sent me to senior speed dating—not to mention the dumpster-peeing incident. I was pretty sure he owed me the chance to see if something in the bag could help figure out what was going on next door.

One of the first things I came across was the camera with a long flexible tube—the one that looked like something you could use for a do-it-yourself colonoscopy. I found the on switch and a Bluetooth button. Within minutes, my phone asked if I wanted to connect with the endoscope—at least now I knew what to call it. As soon as I clicked “yes,” images appeared on my phone.

The next step was finding the right-sized hole. I went back into our still incomplete comic book room and knelt down next to the roughed-in electrical outlet. There was a little space on the side, and after a few tries, the camera went through.

It took me a while to figure out how to manipulate the camera to see anything, but eventually I was able to scan the room and even record the video scan to my phone.

I saw only the new, smaller back storage room of the barber shop, but it had obviously been ransacked. Bottles, tubes, and tubs of pricy hair product had been pushed onto the floor. I could read some of the labels, not that I knew what they did. Hair food. Pomade. Primer. Masques. Shields. Vitalizer. Soother. (Maybe those two could duke it out.) And hair bonding glue. Glue?

The only item I could have picked out of a lineup was the single aerosol can of Aqua Net. My mother always had one or two of the exact same cans of hairspray sitting on the bathroom vanity.

I couldn’t see around the door to get a glimpse of the rest of the shop, but I suspected it was torn apart too.

Someone had been looking for something. Money? Drugs?

Once I saw everything I could, I pulled back the endoscope so that I imagined it was flush with the other side of the wall. No sense alerting anyone to the fact that I was just on the other side of the drywall. I pushed myself off the ground and dragged a chair into the room, so I could continue to monitor any developments in the barber shop—at least in the store room of the barber shop.

I realized I must have left the apartment door open, probably when I came down with the blanket, because Othello wandered into the comic room. He checked out the endoscope, still jutting from the electrical outlet, giving it a sniff, then a rub with his cheek.

I picked him up. “Sorry, fella. That’s gotta go back to Lionel Kelley.”

After the brief distraction, I glanced back at my cell phone to see if anything had changed.

A giant eyeball was staring back at me. And Lionel Kelley’s words echoed in my head:

Deep, piercing Russian eyes.