Book walked up the stairs to his apartment, his mind racing. Part of him wanted to confront the killer and settle this once and for all. Another part still wanted him to pack his things and put a considerable distance between them. Still another part wanted to go back to Lena and tell her everything. He knew that she would never believe him, that he killed people for money and that if she did, she would run from him like the gates of Hell had opened behind her. She would be afraid of him. She would hate him. Even so, she would have to understand that fearing and despising him would be markedly better than the psychopath that was out there and knew of her.
Book stopped on the landing, his hand gripping the banister, feeling his head pounding.
There was also the possibility he had to consider that she would call the police and have him arrested. And if she did that, what would he do?
“Good evening, Mr. Book,” said a voice at the top of the stairs.
Book’s eye lifted and he saw the silhouette of a man, the hall light behind him putting his features in shadows. Book felt his legs tighten, as if they wanted to run in the opposite direction. He forced them forward at a relaxed pace. The man stepped back and Book looked into the face of Desmond Fine.
“Uh, hello, Detective ... “
“Fine, Mr. Book,” he replied. “How’s Ms. Truman?”
Book stared at the man as he reached the landing.
“I saw you walk away with her to the pub on the corner,” he said, “just before the vultures began to circle.”
“Oh,” Book said. “She was sleeping when I left.”
“Didn’t feel like spending the night?” Fine asked. “Or isn’t your relationship on that level?”
Book’s lips pressed in a thin line.
Fine smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
Book shook his head. “No,” he said. “That’s okay.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m as out of sorts as she is. I wouldn’t have been good company.”
“George Parnell was a friend?” Fine asked.
“Yes and no,” Book said pulling his keys from his pocket. “When I first worked at Boone, Fitzsimmons, and Parnell, and after the kids took over the operation, yes; maybe. But as time went on, well, George had his demons.”
“His coke habit, you mean?”
Book nodded. His hand paused ever so slightly when he brought up the key that opened his apartment door, knowing that, as soon as he entered, the security alarm’s warning beep would start. Book stepped inside, turned on the light and disengaged the alarm. He turned back and saw the detective in his doorway.
“This building get many break-ins?” Fine asked.
“Uh, no,” Book replied. “None, as far as I know.”
“Then why the alarm system?”
“Makes me feel safe, is all,” Book said.
Both men stared at each other for several seconds.
“I’m sorry,” Book said. “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
Fine stared in Book’s eyes. “Just a few questions,” he said. “May I come inside?”
Book continued to stare at the detective.
“If this is a bad time ... “ Fine said.
“Uh, no,” Book replied. “Please, come in.”
Fine walked in the apartment and looked around, his eyes falling on the Escher print across the room.
“That’s M.C. Escher, right?” Fine said using his chin to point out the print.
“Yes,” Book said.
“I’ve seen his work,” Fine said. “Guy draws like he’s on hallucinogens.”
Book walked into the small kitchen area and ran the tap for a second and filled a mug.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked without turning. “I’m having a cup of tea.”
“Tea’s fine,” the detective replied.
Book filled a second mug with water and placed both mugs in the microwave. From the corner of his eye, he watched the detective peer into different corners of the living room. The detective turned and flashed him a smile.
“How do you drink it?” Book asked.
“A little milk,” Fine replied.
“Sugar?” asked Book.
Fine shook his head. “Got any substitute?”
Book nodded as the microwave beeped. He removed both mugs and placed a bag of Earl Grey in each. He opened the refrigerator and took out a container of milk, poured a little in each mug, then brought the steaming mugs to the living room. He placed both on the coffee table, then returned to the kitchen to put the milk container back in the fridge and returned with two packets of sugar substitute. He passed one to Fine who was standing next to the couch.
Book sat down and stirred his tea, his eyes watching the detective add the substitute and stir his own.
“You can sit down, you know,” Book said, trying not to reveal his feelings of trepidation in his voice.
Fine shook his head, taking a sip from the mug. “No, that’s okay,” he said. “I think better standing.”
“You had a question?” Book said.
Fine chuckled. “Mr. Book, I always have questions,” he replied. “That’s my job. Looking at people, seeing what they do, understanding why they do it, and seeing if they’re hiding something.”
Book nodded taking another sip from the mug.
“You find many people hide things?” he asked.
“Everyone hides something,” Fine said. He took a deep sip and smacked his lips. “Good tea,” he said. “This the Earl Grey?”
Book nodded again. “My favorite.”
Fine took another sip. “I can see why. Good stuff. I may buy some for the office.” He grunted. “Better than that excuse for coffee they got at the precinct.”
“Are you hiding something, Detective?” Book asked.
Fine grinned. “Always, Mr. Book,” he said. “Can’t go showing my cards all at once, you know. Gives me the advantage. The edge. If the suspect thinks I’m not, then he’s liable to open up to me. Tell me something I need to put him away.” Fine drained the mug and placed it on the coffee table. “Real good tea,” he said. “Anyway, that’s the art of what I do. Gain the suspect’s trust, make him feel comfortable, give him the feeling that he can tell me anything. And when he does ... Are you?”
Book’s mug stopped inches from his mouth.
“Am I what?”
“Hiding something,” answered Fine.
Book smiled. “I have nothing to hide, detective,” he said.
Fine smiled. “We all have something to hide,” he said. “Could be a slight case of shoplifting; getting that pack of gum you want when you’re short on cash or the checkout line’s too long. Fudging numbers to make you look more profitable than you really are. Telling your significant other that they are the only one. Drug addiction.” Fine’s smile widened. “Murder. You name it. There are skeletons in everyone’s closet, Mr. Book. Something we don’t want anyone in the world to know about. It’s human nature.”
“You don’t seem to have a high level of trust for people,” Book said.
Fine shrugged. “It’s part of my job description.”
Both men chuckled.
“So, Mr. Book,” Fine said walking in front of him. “When you found out that Parnell was heavily into the blow, you dropped a dime on Phil Byers; his connection.”
Book blinked.
“It’s in the police report,” Fine clarified. “You called it in.”
“I was trying to help him,” Book said.
“Very righteous of you,” Fine said, walking towards the desk in the corner. “But Parnell was too far gone for that.” His fingers tugged on a locked drawer and he turned back to Book who had stood up from the couch. “Thing about junkies, Mr. Book, is that they always have a failsafe connection. Or a few others in case the backup dealer runs dry.” Fine shoved his hands in his pockets. “And you tipped off Boone and Fitzsimmons that Parnell was using and milking the company.”
“It’s my job to report ...”
“No,” Fine said sharply. “It’s not. Your job is to report the firm’s profits and losses and make financial recommendations. What you did was try to protect the company. You dropped a dime on Byers, hoping that would cut Parnell off. You told the partners, hoping that they would get Parnell the help he needed. But that didn’t work because Parnell continued to use and continued to drain the company coffers.”
Book blinked several times.
“But I was told that George couldn’t approve ... “ he began.
“Mr. Book,” the detective interrupted. “You’re just the hired number cruncher. You really think that Parnell didn’t have other ways of getting money out of the company?”
“May I ask a question?” asked Book.
“Of course,” said Fine.
Book stepped forward and looked the man in the eye. “Am I a suspect, detective?”
Fine smiled. Then he grinned. Then he began to softly laugh.
Book felt his temper rise. He knows! his mind told him. He knows and he’s playing with me. Book waited in silence for the detective’s laugher to subside.
“I apologize, Mr. Book,” Fine said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I found what you said amusing for two reasons. First, it sounded like a line from a Law & Order episode.”
“Law & Order?” Book repeated. “The TV show?”
Fine nodded. “When the two detectives on the case question a character you know is going to trial in the second half, the guy invariably asks – usually in the show’s first fifteen minutes - if he’s a suspect.”
“Oh,” Book said. “And the second?”
Fine smiled again and shoved his hands back in his pockets. “That you asked someone whose job is to suspect everyone.”
Book nodded. “But you haven’t answered my question,” he said.
Fine stared at Book. “Well, to answer your question, Mr. Book; yes, you are a suspect.”
Book felt a tremor in his leg.
“You’re under suspicion of criminal naivety,” said the detective.
Book couldn’t stop his eyes widening in surprise.
“You thought that turning in Parnell’s dealer and telling the partners of his drug use would stop him from draining the company funds,” Fine explained. “You thought that confronting him would make him see the light; see the error of his ways. But you don’t understand the junkie mentality, Mr. Book. You’re an accountant. How could you? Parnell was on his personal road to Hell, and neither you, nor the partners were going to stop him. If the 3-Monkey Killer didn’t get to him, Parnell would have been found dead in his office with his nose freshly powdered. Like all junkies, that’s what ends up happening.” Fine shrugged.
“I see,” Book said nodding, a feeling of relief washing over him.
Fine held out his hand. Book took it. Fine’s eyes looked into Book’s.
“You tried to help a man beyond help, Mr. Book,” Fine said with a smile. “That’s more than anyone usually does. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Same here,” Book replied smiling back.
As the detective opened the door, Fine turned back chuckling. “You actually thought I suspected you were the 3-Monkey Killer?”
Book grinned sheepishly and lifted his hands.
Fine smiled. “Mr. Book,” he said. “You couldn’t harm a fly.” A thoughtful expression crossed the detective’s face. “Funny. Remember that old flick, Psycho? That’s what Norman Bates’ mother said about him, too. Have a good evening.”
“You too, detective,” Book replied.
Book was about to shut the door when a thought crossed his mind.
“Detective!” Book called.
Fine was hovering over the second stair. He returned his foot to the landing and turned back.
“Yes, Mr. Book?”
“You said if your suspect thinks you’re not hiding something, he would feel relaxed enough to open up to you and probably incriminate himself.”
Fine smiled again. Book was beginning to hate that smile.
“That’s correct,” he said.
“But since we both know that you are hiding something, wouldn’t that mean that you’re being forthright about my not being a suspect?”
Fine grinned. “That would also be correct, Mr. Book,” he said.
Book forced back a sigh of relief.
“Unless you consider reverse psychology,” Fine added with a wink. “I took a class one year. Interesting stuff. You have a good night.”
Book watched Fine descend the staircase and out of sight. He stayed in the hallway, listening to his echoing footsteps and the door to the building open then close behind him.
He felt his whole body begin to tremble. He walked to the refrigerator and pulled out three cold beers. He sat in the living room drinking one after the other without pause. When he finished the third beer, his eyes went from the Escher print to the I, Claudius set on the shelf, to the empty mug Fine used. Not only did the killer know him and where he lived, but now the detective in charge of the investigation did as well. He walked back to the fridge and pulled out two more. Book remained on the couch until sunrise, trying to come up with a solution to the complicated equation that was his life and found none.
As the dawn broke over the city skyline, Book slammed his fist on the arm of the couch.
How could this be happening? he asked himself. I thought of everything! I considered all possibilities and all variables!
Except one, his mind muttered. You forgot the Chaos Theory.
Book stood from the couch and went to his binder on the desk. He had compiled facts and data since he was in grade school, in order to have a better focus on his orderly life. He flipped to the C-section (of course, the binder was alphabetized by either subject or title) and found the pages concerning Edward Lorenz’s Chaos Theory; also called the Butterfly Effect.
The butterfly effect is a metaphor that encapsulates the concept of sensitive dependence on initial conditions in chaos theory; namely that small differences in the initial condition of a dynamical system may produce large variations in the long term behavior of the system.
In other words , Book thought, no matter how you adjust the numbers to reach your desired calculation, all it takes is a single unknown variable to change the sum of the equation.
Book snapped the binder closed.
He did not calculate on the 3-Monkey Killer targeting Kostakis. He didn’t even consider it. How could he have known?
Book suddenly felt exhausted, leaned to his side and rested his head on the arm of the couch and immediately fell asleep.
* * *
He made Lena comfortable in her bed before he left. He took the telephone off its hook so her needed sleep wouldn’t be disturbed by the ringing. The one thing Book did not do was close the curtains in her room.
The morning sky was blue and cloudless. The brilliant rays of sunlight that came through her bedroom window sent a vertical bar of light across her face. Lena’s eyes scrunched together as her brain registered the morning sun. Her eyes opened in twin slits and Lena hissed and groaned like a vampire as the hangover went into overdrive. She crawled out of the bed and staggered over to the window muttering curses and shut the curtains. She then made small hesitant steps to the bathroom and felt around the medicine cabinet for the aspirin, emptied four in her palm and winced when the cold water rushed from the bathroom faucet. The sound of her swallowing caused another moan to come from her lips and after a moment of standing in silence, made her way back to the bed. It was only then did she realize that Carlton was not there.
She slit her eyes in the shadowy room and glanced around. The note was next to the clock; its red LED numerals boring into her head like lasers. She held the note close and through squinted eyes read it.
At first she felt hurt that he left her, but then reason took over and she knew that he had done all he could to get her through the shock. Besides, he did promise to call her later on. The pain in her heart remained, but the pounding in her head took precedence.
She lowered her head back on her pillow in slow motion and let her head sink into the memory foam. She felt her eyelids relax and smooth over her eyes and section by section, she relaxed her shoulders, arms, torso and legs. When Lena got to her toes, she felt her stomach shift in an upwards direction. She leaped out of the bed and rushed to the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet, and released a torrent of sickly sweet alcohol scented vomit into the blue water. Her head screamed as she vomited again and again. She sagged against the porcelain as stagnant air came from her mouth. Lena felt her stomach lurch, but all that came up was more vile smelling air. When the spasms ended, she rocked backwards on her heels and fell against the tiled wall.
Lena crawled the short distance from the bathroom to the bedroom and tried to climb back into bed, but was too weak to do anything but lie on the cool carpeted floor. She opened heavily crusted eyes and looked up at the clock on the night table. The time read 1:30 PM. She mused that she either fell back to sleep or passed out (it really didn’t matter which), but was thankful that she did. The hangover was a quiet throb now and much easier to deal with.
She pulled herself up on the edge of the bed and felt slightly dizzy. Despite the vertigo, Lena continued until she was sitting on the bed’s edge. She leaned forward and brushed the hair from her eyes, staring at a spot on the carpet that had been there when she moved in several years ago. She needed something in her stomach, she thought. She ran her tongue across her teeth and knew she needed to brush her teeth to remove the horrid taste from her mouth. She pulled herself up to a standing position and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. She turned on the basin light and winced at what stared back at her in the mirror.
“Never again,” she muttered.
She used mouthwash, brushed her teeth, then rinsed her mouth again. She turned on the shower, made the water hot and adjusted the head to spray a fine mist. Lena Truman took very quick showers. Carlton always teased that he was amazed she got wet at all. This time she stayed in the shower for a full fifteen minutes, letting the gentle spray of water run over her skin, relaxing the tightness in her back and shoulders, trying to return to something more ‘human’.
She toweled dry, put on her purple running suit and walked into the kitchen to check the fridge. She was a tea drinker, but knew this was a coffee occasion and cursed when she discovered that she was out of milk.
“Nope, Truman,” she muttered at the empty space the milk would have been in. “You ain’t drinking black coffee. You’re not that desperate.”
Lena returned to the bathroom to blow-dry her hair and put on a little makeup to cover her pale skin. She opened her bag and saw all she had was one wrinkled single. Have to go to the ATM as well, she thought.
Lena slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and walked the ten flights to the first floor versus take the elevator. She went down the street, used the bank on the corner’s ATM, took out forty dollars, then walked a half a block to the 24 hour store.
“Good morning, Ms. Truman,” said the man behind the counter. He was watching the news on a small television behind the counter.
“Hi there, Mr. Hessen,” Lena said making her way to the dairy section. She stopped and stared at the new rack. “You have muffins?”
Hessen nodded. “I’ve decided to add muffins to the store,” he replied, not moving from his seat behind the counter. “Trying to beat out that Dunkin Donuts that opened on the next block.”
Lena came back with a half gallon of 2% milk and placed it on the counter.
“What muffins do you have?” she asked.
“Got pistachio, cranberry-orange, banana and chocolate chip right now,” Hessen said, pointing over her shoulder.
“Yum!” Lena said. “Ring me up two cranberry-oranges and a banana, please.”
“All the same price,” Hessen said, turning his eyes back on the small screen.
Lena came back with the muffins and Hessen placed them in a bag separate bag from the one that held the milk. She looked down at the gum and candy shelf and grabbed two Hershey bars with almonds and placed them on the counter. “One last thing,” she said. She walked over to the coffee urns and picked out the one marked ‘Hazelnut Cream’. She filled an extra large styrofoam cup with the steaming brew. She added two packs of sugar and fresh cream, snapped on the plastic lid and returned to the counter. “That’s it,” she said.
Hessen rang up the milk, muffins, candy bars and the coffee, took Lena’s twenty and passed back the change. She popped the edge of the lid and took a deep swallow of the coffee and immediately felt better. She gripped the plastic bag and said goodbye to Hessen and walked back to her apartment.
As she walked down the block, standing on the opposite corner was a man also drinking an extra large hazelnut cream. The man had just finished a chocolate chip muffin. He brushed the crumbs from his jacket as he followed her.
Lena walked into her apartment and immediately put the milk and the candy bars in the refrigerator. She took out a plate from the cabinet above the sink, placed one banana and one cranberry-orange muffin on the plate, and placed the lone muffin on a shelf in the fridge. She carried the plate and her coffee the short distance to the living room and placed everything on the coffee table. She snuggled against the pillows and grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. Choosing to avoid the news, she accessed the grid to see what movies were playing on cable.
As she lifted the coffee to her lips, there was a knock on her door. Lena rolled her eyes and carried the coffee with her. It was probably Mrs. Greenberg next door. The woman was elderly and lived alone. Whenever she saw Lena returning from work, Mrs. Greenberg would stop her in the hallway and bend her ear with stories of her late husband Myron, her adult son and two daughters (who never called), always mentioning the current medical condition of Mabel, her calico cat (who had to weigh at least thirty pounds).
Lena swore that she would give Mrs. G only five minutes - ten at the most. She liked the woman and would be more conversational another time. She just wanted to relax.
When she looked through the peephole the memory of the day before came flooding back. Lena opened the door and stood staring at the smiling man who looked familiar.
“Lena Truman?” he asked.
Lena swallowed and almost dropped her cup. She nodded only because her throat was locked.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “I mean, better than yesterday.”
“I’m fine,” she croaked.
The man had stepped forward and was now standing in the doorway. There was no way she could close it with him there.
“I mean,” the man said, “If you aren’t up to it, I can come back later.” His smiled widened. “Though I’d rather talk to you now. I tried calling ahead, but your phone seems out of service.”
Lena swallowed again. She looked over to the telephone on the wall and saw its business end hanging on the box’s side. Carlton, she thought. She looked back at the smiling man (who looked familiar).
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Have we met?”
The man’s eyes bored into her head, which had begun to pound again. She could feel a vein throb in her temple.
The man grinned and reached into his pocket. Lena was about to scream until he pulled out a wallet, which he held open in front of her. Her eyes stared at a gold badge.
“We met yesterday,” he said. “But I understand you not remembering me.” His smile faltered. “Yesterday was bad. I’m Detective Desmond Fine.”
Lena released the air she was holding and tried to keep upright, her legs feeling wobbly.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. You want to talk about Mr. Parnell, don’t you? Well, there’s not much I can ... “
“Oh, no!” interrupted Fine. I want to talk to you about Carlton Book.”
Lena felt her jaw drop. “ ... Carlton?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Fine. He grinned. “May I come in?”