Deserted teashop
White rice puffs float in cold tea
I am not working—Debisu
Shays’ Landing’s exit gate doesn’t have vehicle detection. With the leasing agent long gone and the office locked, I get out the way burglars get in, by vulturing the main entrance until a departing resident opens the gate and drives through. I tailgate and slip through before it closes.
With a pretext about being a dutiful Block Watcher, I tell the Speed-E Pizza store manager about how I surprised a delivery driver lurking around a neighbor’s home and got a pie in the face for the effort. He assures me that Speed-E Pizza drivers don’t have house keys.
With a wary eye on my face, which stings as though sunburned, he says, “Can’t be one of our guys. Speed-E caps and jackets aren’t blue. They’re red, green, and white, like the boxes.”
So I’ve noticed as carriers hustle in and out of the shop.
“And anyway, fella, all our delivery drivers are independent contractors. We’re not liable for their actions,” the manager yells as I exit.
Stealthy delivery boy with heat-seeking pizza. Deserted luxury condo. If I were working, I’d be telling the lieutenant right now that this missing person case has just increased in gravity.
When I reach the Mercy Mission, it is well past suppertime. Nothing remains of the evening meal except the salty, steamy smell of soup and unwashed humans. The room is empty.
“Sister Clyde?” I call. “It’s Will Mansion.”
A rear door opens and Sister Clyde enters the room. “Ah, Will,” she says. She brushes her hands off against each other. “Just taking out the trash.” She wears the same fox-fur-collared coat as before, for the trip out to the alley no doubt, as the room is warm enough. “I was just about to relax with a cup of tea. May I pour you one?”
“Sure.”
She fixes two cups at one of two large stainless steel urns on the serving table and sets them on one of the redwood benches. “Please, sit. I don’t know about you but it’s been a long day. I need to get off my feet.” She hands me my cup. The chestnut aroma and stray puffs of rice tell me the tea is genmaicha. Funny, I would have expected industrial strength Lipton.
Sister Clyde scrutinizes my face. “My word, what happened to you?”
“I surprised an intruder at Hector’s condo.”
“Let me get you something for that. I believe I have something in the first aid kit.” She rummages around at the serving table and returns with a tube. “So, Hector had a condo?”
“Yeah, and that’s not all he had.” I tell her about the car, the wife, the Country Club villa, the jewelry store, the partner.
“And you believe this man, this Marvin Overshort?” she asks me.
“Not for a minute,” is my unconsidered reply, yet the minute the words leave my mouth I know they’re true. “Besides the store, it appears Hector had a nice little sideline going in drug trafficking.”
“You don’t say?” She sounds more interested than surprised.
“Looks like whatever poor-pitiful-me act Hector gave you was just that: an act.”
“So you don’t think he’s in trouble?”
“I didn’t say that. He may very well be.” I’m less worried about Hector than I am about myself. What if I find him–what if I find Shrike—and black out?
“So? Isn’t rooting out drug dealers your mission?” She looks around the room. “No pun intended.”
“I told you, I’m on disability. At this point, I think the case should be handled through official channels.”
She nods. “So, what you’ve learned so far will convince the police to open an investigation?”
Let’s see. No complainant, save Sister Clyde. No body. Nothing’s been stolen. No evidence of any crime at all, in fact, except my B & E at Hector’s condo, and I’m not about to mention that. “Probably not.”
She presses her lips together and nods again. “So you’re still the best man for the job.”
“Sister, I’m telling you. I’ve done all I can.”
“I see.” She taps pursed lips with an index finger. After a moment she says, “Detective, do you believe in predestination?”
“Couldn’t say. Never gave it much thought.”
“I do.” She sips her tea.
“Well, of course. You would.”
“What if I could prove to you that it’s your destiny to look for Hector?”
“Prove?” I chuckle. “I guess I’d be pretty impressed.”
“And you’d stay on the trail?”
There’s something of the card shark in her twinkling eyes, her hint of a smile. Nevertheless, she’s got my curiosity piqued. “Guess I’d have to, wouldn’t I? It being my destiny.”
“Great.” She rises from her seat. “Give me a moment, would you?” she says, and stands with her eyes closed, her palms pressed together. Her breathing is slow and deep. She opens her eyes, reaches into her pocket, and holds out her hand. When she unclenches her fist I see she has a coin. “Heads, you will continue looking for Hector. Tails, you won’t,” she says, and tosses. The coin comes up heads.
“Aw, that’s not Destiny, that’s just chance,” I tell her.
“Chance? Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
Certain of my reply, I open my mouth to speak and discover I’m not.
“Carry on, then, Detective. Destiny holds you in its hand.”
Sister Clyde was right about one thing. I don’t trust Marvin Overshort. He’s the one who sent me to Hector’s condo, a fool’s errand. Seems to me he owes me an explanation, and I mean to get it—first thing in the morning. All I want to do now, though, is get something for my face, which burns like fire, and my leg, which complains about kicking in doors and chasing Pizza Boy around Shays’ Landing. Once home, I spread the benzocaine cream Sister Clyde gave me on my reddened skin and down two aspirins, then a third when the recommended dose fails to deliver the instant relief promised on the package.
While I wait for the painkiller to kick in, I empty the trash bag I took from Hector’s condo onto the old Formica kitchen table and examine the contents. There are the utility bills, purchase receipts, and credit card statements with overdue balances, plus correspondence from Facets. The oldest of those are “Attention: Hector Waltann, copy to Marvin Overshort.” They advise Hector on some development at the store and ask for his input. Then they become memos to Marvin, copy to Hector, painting a picture of Overshort and Waltann’s chiasmatic trajectories. The most recent communications demand action from Hector. There’s something about “withdrawal of partner” and other legalese. The formal language doesn’t hide a menacing tone.
*****
Wednesday’s dawn is less a matter of sunrise than darkness lightening to gray. In anticipation of the day’s demands, I dress in a sport coat, shirt, and tie for more authority than a sweater and jeans can muster, and take a top coat against the threat of more cold wet weather.
My planned revisit of Facets is delayed by a follow-up appointment with the surgeon who worked on my leg. He checks the stitches and scowls. “I thought I told you to take it easy on this,” he says, tapping my leg.
“You said I could—”
“I said you could walk. A mile or two. I didn’t say you could run.”
My protest vaporizes as I flash on my foot pursuit of the pie-flinging Pizza Boy.
“You’re in pain, aren’t you?” he asks. “And you look exhausted. Pain keeping you up at night? I can give you a prescription for that. You don’t lose points if you take something to help you rest.”
Except that it’s not pain that robs me of sleep; it’s the nightmares.
The doctor grunts. “Now I mean it. Take it easy. And how’d you get that burn on your face?”
“Don’t ask.”
“All right, I won’t.” He does ask how I’m treating it and sanctions the benzocaine cream Sister Clyde gave me. “And the PTSD? Still having blackouts, paramnesia?”
With reluctance, I admit that I am.
The doctor isn’t pleased. “I was thinking of releasing you to return to work, but under the circumstances ... Additional counseling might help you with those flashbacks.”
What will stop the flashbacks will be the sight of Shrike on his knees, begging me for mercy.
I head for the Canterbury Bazaar where yesterday’s parking valet is again on duty. He starts toward Old Paint, then steps back and waves me on to the self-parking area.
This time I don’t linger at Facets’ coffee service or browse the pens and watches but head directly for the private offices. The corridor door opens and Heidi Quince and I collide.
“Oh, it’s you! No, no, you can’t go back there,” she says and throws herself on me in a delightful body block.
“Why not?” I ask, not moving, content to remain in her embrace as long as she’s willing to hold me. “I want to see Overshort. That address he gave me for Hector yesterday wasn’t any help and I think he knew it.”
“Shhh.” She takes my elbow and leads me to a far corner of the sales floor. “What do you want with Hector, anyway?”
“I don’t mean him any harm. Just tell me where I can find him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Maybe you should just leave him alone.”
“You know something about this. Tell me.”
She takes a step closer. “I know I’m glad to see you again. I know I wouldn’t like you to get hurt.”
“Well, I’ve already been hurt, in case you didn’t notice,” I say, although her delight at seeing me softens my rancor. I’m a cop, people are rarely glad to see me; offenders spit and claw at me, civilians revile me, politicians condemn me, victims denounce me. “I want to talk to Overshort about it. Now where is he?”
She sighs deeply. “He’s at Knockers. Please, Mr.—”
“Mansion. Will Mansion.”
“Will. Just forget about all this, can’t you?”
“I’m afraid not.” I head for the door and she follows along behind. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you when I find Hector.”
She latches onto my arm to stop me from leaving, scribbles on a business card, and slips it to me. “Call me.” In a more relaxed tone she adds, “If you find him, that is.”
I give her a reassuring smile and take off down the esplanade in the drizzle.
To harmonize with the Canterbury’s pseudo-Tudor theme, Knockers is done up like an Olde English pub. The corporate line is that the bar’s name derives from the extensive collection of antique door knockers decorating the lobby. When challenged, their spokesman always insists it’s pure coincidence that their waitresses are all buxom. Also coincidental is that these attributes are prominently displayed by off-the-shoulder peasant blouses tucked into the mini-est of ruffled skirts. This is part, if not all, of Knocker’s appeal. It’s certainly not the food. Equally good if not better burgers and beer can be found elsewhere. The Buddha taught that sexuality is a powerful energy, one that can easily mislead. Sounds like my dad talking.
At the door, the hostess sticks out her chest and does a little curtsey. “How may I serve you, sir?” she asks with all the provocative ambiguity of a Victorian maid willing to sleep her way out of the scullery.
“I’m looking for someone,” I tell her.
She wiggles bare shoulders. “You’ve found her.” When I fail to flirt back, she giggles and says, “If you tell me whom, I can direct you, pub or dining room.”
I describe Overshort.
“Mr. Overshort is in the pub.”
I head that way with a backward glance for the hostess who waggles her fingers at me in a little wave.
The bar is dark wood, antique brass, and coats of arms with clumps of plastic straw swept into the corners. Across the room, Overshort and a man in a billowy shirt with sleeve garters face a wall-mounted dartboard. An arm’s length away from them a high table ringed with stools holds schooners of beer and plates of food. In his rumpled shirt and baggy slacks, Overshort looks out of place here. He throws a dart and hits the twenty-point segment in the double ring, an excellent shot. Though he’s got good aim, he’s too beefy to be the blue-capped pizza slinger who attacked me yesterday at Shays’ Landing.
“Nice shooting.” I nearly have to shout over the noise. The Hopps Lite Golf Classic, the Verve Cigarettes’ Pacer 500, and Redi-Chaw big time wrestling play across dozens of thoroughly modern television monitors suspended from the beamed ceiling.
Overshort turns around slowly. “Shit, that’s nothing. I usually get a bull’s-eye.” He points a dart at the target. “Want to bet?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
With a shrug, he sets his darts down, shakes out a cigarette from a pack of Verves, and lights up. The smoke tickles my nose. My whole body tenses. He tells his companion, “A beer for my friend, here.”
Before I can decline, the man in the sleeve garters goes behind the bar, draws one, and sends it over with a cocktail waitress who carries her tray just under her ample breasts. She stops at Overshort’s side.
“The beer’s for him, but here’s something for you, babe.” He tucks some bills in her décolletage. She minces over to stand at my elbow, giving me a very good view, and departs for the bar with a flounce. Overshort tosses a dart after her. It sails over her shoulder and impales a support post. She lets out a shriek, which sounds genuine, then a giggle, which does not.
Overshort laughs. “I love a moving target.” He takes a swig of his drink. “Find Hector?”
“‘Fraid not. Got any other suggestions as to where I could look?”
“What do I look like, a detective?” He cackles.
I sample my drink, not room-temperature ale as would befit an English pub, but garden-variety American suds. The ice-cold effervescence goes down like tonic. “You don’t sound very concerned.”
Overshort chomps a huge bite of hamburger. “Hey, what’s the big fucking deal? Hector’s a big boy. I don’t see how what he wants to do with his personal life is my business, or yours, or anyone else’s. You being paid big bucks to look for him?”
“Actually, no.”
“See, like I said. No big deal. “Anyway, I got to get back to work.” He launches a dart and scores, but no bull’s-eye. With a shrug, he steps away from the table.
“It’s OK. I know what’s going on.”
He pauses. “Yeah?”
“Hector’s in trouble and you’re covering up for him to keep the store afloat. But wouldn’t it be better if we got him some help?”
There’s a slight but definite hesitation before he responds. “What would be better would be for you to just butt out,” he says and makes to leave.
I call after him, “Your cigarettes—”
“You keep ‘em,” he says. Almost as an afterthought, he plucks a dart from a mug at the bar and flings it carelessly at the target. This time he hits the twenty but in the treble ring—bull’s-eye. He gives me a cutting smile.
The waitress piles mugs and plates on her tray. She picks up the pack of Verves. “Want these?”
Yes! “No. Yes. No.”
She grins, reaches inside my jacket, tucks them in the breast pocket, and pats my chest. “How ‘bout the darts?”
Overshort pauses at the bar’s entrance. I hand the waitress all the darts but one. With one eye on Overshort and one on the target, I fire. The dart misses the target entirely and nails the wall off to the side. Overshort smirks and gives a satisfied nod before exiting.
Butt out. There was a similar “butt out” quality to Overshort’s comments about Facets’ theft, both to me and to the Crier’s reporter. I don’t like it. The newspaper article made it sound as if the missing jewels were of some significant value though Overshort demurred. Admittedly, I don’t know much about gems. However, I know someone who does. I put my hand in my pocket and finger the business card of “Heidi Quince, Certified Gemologist.” I do believe I need to talk to her again. Later, and away from Facets, when she can talk freely. Meanwhile, perhaps I can learn something about the theft from the security company and the janitorial service mentioned in the article.
One small suite of a commercial strip on Dogwood is all Secur-It needs for a Paradise City office—this location is home to the local sales reps only. The personnel, dispatching, and monitoring are handled in Haviland, but maybe I can pick up some background here that will open doors down there. A young woman with orangey-red corkscrew curls and dangly-jangly earrings holds down the reception desk. I ask for the sales rep who handled Facet’s account.
The redhead looks up from her work. Neon pink lips purse, an equally pink bubble forms, inflates, and pops. She sucks the gum back into her mouth, blinks, and stammers, “He’s not here right now. Why don’t you wait?” She bats eyes with impossibly long lashes. “Please.”
I take one of two armchairs bracketing an end table against the foyer wall. She sets her elbow on the desk, props her chin in her palm, grins at me, and blows another bubble.
To avoid her unblinking scrutiny, I leaf through the magazines on the table: People, well-thumbed copies of Sports Illustrated I’ve already seen, and Modern Locksmith. I read a complete article on electrical access and exit control systems before the receptionist pipes up with, “I guess I should mention it could be some time.”
Now she tells me. “I’d really like to talk with him about the system they used at Facets.”
She replies, “I can have him get back to you just as soon as he checks in. You could look at a spec sheet if you want, only you can’t take it with you.” She bends to open a file drawer and the dangly earrings swing forward. I marvel they don’t become tangled in her hair.
“Fine.” I retake my seat. She resumes gazing at me and blowing bubbles until she’s interrupted by the phone. With an annoyed frown, she takes the call, holding the receiver on an angle to clear her earrings.
While she talks, I study the system’s specs. She finishes her call and I ask, “Do you know anything about these systems?”
“Try me.”
“I see this has a door alarm. Why didn’t it go off the night Facets was burgled?”
She unprops her chin and sits up straight. “Oh, you shouldn’t let that worry you. There’s nothing wrong with the system, believe me. I remember everything about that night. Ask me anything.”
“Well, for starters, what went wrong?”
“Good question. Hell, it’s still got us stumped,” she says with a frown. “The alarm system didn’t fail. It was never tripped. So like, that’s not our fault, huh?”
“And the security camera showed nothing?”
“Not a thing. Once the store closed for the night, the showroom was quiet.”
So only the showroom was monitored. “What about the inside security camera?”
She shrugs, which sets her earrings jangling. “They didn’t have one. It’s not like we didn’t encourage them to get one. But Mr. Waltann said he trusted his help. So like, that’s not our fault, huh?”
“Especially if the theft was an inside job. Besides Mr. Waltann, who had a key to the system?” Another guess, but a safe one.
“Code, you mean.”
“Of course, the code.”
“According to our records, Mr. Waltann and Mr. Overshort, the manager. Or, I guess he’s in charge now. ‘Course, they could have gotten careless or given the codes to whoever they wanted and not told us about it, but hey, that’s not our fault, huh?”
“Who said it was?”
The receptionist leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, and tucks her chin. “Mr. Overshort, when he canceled our contract. That’s what’s got you worried, huh? That they fired us? Believe me, Mr. Waltann never would have done that to us. He would have worked with us, to find out what went wrong. He would have given us a chance to make it right. But Mr. Overshort, he just fired us, just like that.” She pops a bubble. “Broke Corky’s heart.” Scott Corcoran, she explains, was the officer on duty that night, and he saw nothing unusual.
“Does he work out of this office? I thought the dispatching was done out of Haviland.” At least, that’s where the PD’s calls came from whenever Secur-It’s alarms went off.
“Oh, yeah, it is, but Corky was a local guy. Lived in a trailer park over in Linfield.”
“Lived? Did he move?” Maybe there’s something he would tell me that he couldn’t tell the police or reporters.
“Unh uh,” she says. “He died.”