13

At the bike rental shop, Lake asked the owner to store the bikes for us. We still had some time on the day rate. I got in Lake’s squad car and heard the clunk of the windshield wipers. We had two inches of rain and it still streaked into the fog, glistening like strips of metal.

We braked to see Baxter key open Power House’s doors—first the heavy doubles, then the old-fashioned swinging barroom type. Inside, he released the alarms.

Inside, physically the place hadn’t change in years. Like walking into a time capsule, it still had the same dark wood and brick walls, a long walnut bar with an old-fashioned wall mirror reflecting rows of liquor bottles and taps. The mirror distortion hadn’t change, either. Way back then, I watched myself get snockered in the fun house. The stale boozy smell assembled by forty years of quaffing hundreds of varieties of beers was signature Power House. Cigarette smoke of yore had embedded itself in the brick and wood. But overriding all this was an obscene odor—one of meanness and evil. Of dirty jeans and filthy skin and oily hair. An odor new to Power House since my days here.

I walked to the side door and looked into the second room. Still here was the pool table, video game machines, dart boards (how I loved to beat Portia at darts) and shuffleboards. The marks of a jumping game on the floor were nearly invisible now. Playing drunk usually resulted in skinned knees.

I came back to where Lake stood. Baxter came toward us looking like a huffy movie star. For some reason, he’d turned the multitude of televisions on. On football Saturdays, the walls flashed red because all channels were tuned to the University of Georgia game. UGA had cracked down (seriously) on taking booze inside the stadium, so, for we hard core drinkers, this was the perfect laid-back bar after a morning of tailgating.

Baxter threw car keys on the bar. “What is this about?”

Lake smoothed his wet hair. “Were you here earlier, say two o’clock?”

“No,” Baxter said. “I don’t open Power House. My bartenders do. At five o’clock.” His eyes roamed over Lake and me. His bright smile flashed for an instant. “Look at you. You’ve been playing in the rain.” When I told him we’d been riding bikes in the rain he looked solemn “Not the best day, to my way of thinking. Sergeant Thomas called to meet me here. Now you’re here, too. So I must ask: what is this all about?”

“He’s going to ask you if you made any phone calls from here this afternoon.”

“At two o’clock, you mean?”

Lake nodded.

“Then I shall tell him that I did not.”

I asked Baxter, “You still got the old wall phones back by the restrooms?”

“Only one now. For broadband and Wi-Fi.” He brushed straying strands from his forehead. “Who am I supposed to have called?”

“Someone called Athens PD from here and gave an anonymous tip.”

“That someone was not me.”

“Where have you been this afternoon?” I asked.

His eyes damn near glared. “You are working for me, right?”

“I’m looking for Damian Hansel and for facts surrounding Cho Martine’s accusations against you. And, yes, you are paying me to find both.”

“Fair enough.” His eyes shifted to Lake.

Through the plate glass, I saw the police car stop behind Lake’s.

Baxter crossed his arms. “Early this morning I went to Lionell Place to check on Dru.” He canted his head toward me. “She can confirm that. I knew about her car being towed away in the night. Then, I went back home and had a bite to eat, updated the menu on my website, ordered wine over the net, which I do myself, and finally reviewed spread sheets until Thomas called me to come here. I believe computers have timelines and you’re welcome to check mine.”

Thomas walked in the door. Baxter offered his hand. Thomas seemed a split second reluctant to take it, but in the next instant grabbed onto it. Two short chops, and the greeting ended.

“Lieutenant Lake told me about the anonymous call,” Baxter said. “I know nothing about it. I’ve worked on my PC nearly all day at my home on Prince Avenue. You may check it.”

Sergeant Thomas nodded like he would certainly be doing that. He said, “The call came from a landline number at this location.”

Baxter turned for the rear of the tavern. “Let’s see what’s going on back there.”

“No,” Thomas called. Halting, Baxter looked over his shoulder. Thomas said that the lab folks would be here shortly to go over the place. In the meantime, Bax recited his whereabouts today and ended by saying that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d used the land line here.

I spoke up. “Spoofing.”

Thomas said, “What?”

“Telephone spoofing. There’s an App for it. On caller ID, the caller plugs in a different number than the real telephone number from which he’s calling.”

“That’s illegal.”

Lake almost rolled his eyes. “Next to murder, a mere foible.”

Thomas wasn’t amused. I said, “Actually it isn’t illegal. It might be if the House ever gets around to passing a bill. I hope they don’t.”

“Why not?”

“We use it. Most PIs do to protect their real phone numbers from Caller ID. It undoubtedly happened with Bax’s cell phone the night Damian disappeared.”

The shrewd expression in Thomas’s eyes told me he’d considered that possibility. “Most of that spoofing, as you call it, is students. We can find out the real number.”

“Sometimes you can’t,” I said. “Depending on how smart the spoofer is. Also, spoofing apps have voice changing ability.”

“It’s something we’ll be looking into,” he said, eyeing Baxter like he was a spoofer, a voice-changer as well as a murderer.

A man dressed as an old-fashioned bartender entered. Baxter gave a nod to his surprised face. The man acknowledged with a finger-wave and walked past to the back room.

Baxter said, “For your information, Sergeant, I’m going to sell this place.”

That transition seemed to perplex Thomas. “You losing money here?”

“Quite the contrary, but this place has never been my favorite bar, and you know what’s been happening here lately. I can’t get anyone to help me clear out or control the rednecks.”

“Watch who you’re calling a redneck, Mr. Carlisle.”

“You know I’m not talking about honest-to-God farmers, Sergeant. I’m talking about the trailer trash from up the road. I’ve asked you, and your predecessors, to help me get this place back to a fun bar for students, but no one hears me.”

“There’s a lot of bars in Athens, Mr. Carlisle. Rednecks have to go somewhere to buy their beer. Maybe if you didn’t offer a hundred brands of beer—some pretty cheap especially at Happy Hour—then maybe they’d stay home in their trailers.”

Baxter flicked his eyebrows. “Be that as it may be. And since we’ve cleared up the telephone mystery ...”

“I don’t know that we have,” Thomas said.

I need to go to Carlisle’s,” Baxter said.

“If you travel much father, let me know.”

“I’m not traveling,” Baxter said, grabbed his keys off the bar, turned, and said, “Come for dinner, at any time.” He hurried off before I could answer.

Crossing his arms, Thomas surveyed us. “Isn’t it funny, he didn’t ask what the anonymous tip was about?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to know,” Lake said.

* * * * *

“Isn’t it great,” I said to Lake when we were seated inside the squad car. “You don’t have to dole out duties to men under you. You don’t have to take orders from your commander. We can just go and find Damian Hansel and who killed Arne Trammel all on our own.”

“What a cheerful girl you are, and what an ideal prospect,” he said, reaching over and shaking my knee. “But first, let’s get to the condo where I can get dry, have a drink and phone home.” Home to Lake was the cop house.

Lake stopped at the bike shop, and I got into the midsize rental car. As I was pulling out, with Lake on my bumper, two male students passed on the sidewalk. I got the weirdest feeling and thought about Damian and Arne, buddies, traveling companions, two young men I’d never seen alive. Could there be any doubt that Damian was dead? Did Arne kill him and then himself? Was this all over Cho? I tried to keep the only image I had of Arne from my head, but I couldn’t. He hung there like a horror-house ghoul, only he’d been real. Had they taken him down yet?

A short mildly impatient toot came from behind. Lake, telling me to get a move on.

Before my cell could play Haydn, the Bluetooth voice-told me Baxter Carlisle wanted to speak. My elderly cars don’t have Bluetooth, and the hands-free system takes getting used to.

“Where are you?” Bax asked.

“Driving to Lionell Place. Lake needs to change ...”

“I need to know what’s going on. It’s like I’m in a nightmare. Maddox tells me you should keep me better informed.”

I told him to come to the condo with takeout, lots of it because Lake missed lunch and the dinner hour was nigh. “We can eat and talk. I don’t know how much Lake will want to confide. This is a police matter. You know how secretive they can be.”

“My God, you think I’m liable to broadcast this crap to everyone I know?”

* * * * *

In the condo kitchen, I told Lake, “Bax’s is coming here.”

“Fabulous,” Lake said, looking not so fabulous at the prospect.

“Funny, at Power House he was annoyed at being inconvenienced, then he calls and all of a sudden wants to know what’s going on.”

“Sounds like the flake I’ve always known,” Lake said. “Everything’s outward appearance with Bax. You never knew what went on in that head of his. Linda used to worry about him.”

“In what way?”

“She thought he was a sociopath,” he said, going for the fridge.

“I wouldn’t think she’d know what a sociopath was.”

“Buckhead has its share, and living with Bax, she heard the word, I’m sure.”

“Do you think he is?”

“Hmmm,” he said, searching the shelves.

“I asked a question.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Baxter isn’t a deep person, but he cares. Sociopaths don’t care about things and people.”

“Not exactly correct, Lieutenant. They can act like they care.”

“I care about food right now.”

“Baxter’s bringing food.”

“See, Baxter cares.”

“He’s a restaurateur.”

“What’s he bringing?”

“His most caring takeout specialty.”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Uh-uh. Listen to this. When he called, he said Maddox told him he needed to know what was going on.”

“It’s Maddox who wants to know, is that what you’re saying?”

“I see Maddox as his father’s protector.”

The lines in his face looked etched in wood. “I see Maddox as a possible suspect.”

“Why?”

“He had access to Power House.”

“You suspect everyone.”

He straightened. “You winnow too early. Who’s your best guess?”

“I don’t guess. What we know is that somebody knows Arne is dead. Somebody called Athens PD from one of Baxter’s businesses or spoofed the call to Power House when it was closed. All this to implicate Bax. Don’t forget the spoofed call from his cell phone.”

“Spoofing is as yet an explanation, not proof.”

The doorbell symphony blared. Opening the door, I greeted Baxter. Behind him Maddox Gilmeath stood, hands holding big white metal boxes of delicious aromas. I looked over my shoulder at Lake, at the black scowl on his face. He didn’t like it that Maddox Gilmeath had come uninvited, even though it was Baxter’s condominium and Maddox had given us the keys, and Maddox now carried food, commodities precious to Lake’s heart.

We’ll get through this I thought.

Maddox took the boxes into the kitchen, and like a perfect waiter, began to disassemble them. First, the set-up: tablecloth, napkins, rings, china, silver, glassware.

Baxter said, “We begin with a fennel and almond soup.”

I didn’t look at Lake. Liquid licorice and nuts? Oh boy.

Lake went to the refrigerator. “You know me, Bax, I’m happy to graze standing with the fridge door open.”

Baxter said, “Maddox will lay the table and prepare the meal for us while we speak in the study.”

“Fine,” Lake said, holding a wedge of cheddar. “You got any crackers?”

Baxter took the cheese and control of the refrigerator door. “Go into the study. I’ll be right there with the Boursin and toast points. After the soup, we’ll have Boeuf tenderloin with caramelized onions and horseradish.”

Lake beamed. “Be damned, Baxter. You remembered. Linda’s specialty. My weakness.”

“Asparagus topped with wilted spinach.”

“Another favorite,” Lake said.

“And for dessert, cherry cheesecake with rum whipped cream.”

Lake had a hungry grin on his face when we entered the study. I leaned against a credenza and studied the Oriental rug, a beauty with a white background and blue birds-of-paradise. Lake and Baxter sat on white leather chairs. Without ceremony, Lake told Baxter about the scarecrow and the money clip in the Audi. Baxter said that the money clip sounded like one he’d seen Damian carry. “And,” he said, “that leaves me out. I was in jail at the time. I certainly wasn’t at Nancy Creek Trail with Damian and his money clip.”

“I’d bet the clip never left Athens,” I said. Baxter looked like I’d betrayed him.

“This stuff’s good,” Lake said, biting into a toast point.

“What was that anonymous tip about?” Baxter asked.

Lake stood. The look on his face said he didn’t want to spoil the meal by telling Baxter about Arne Trammel’s death. “We’ll get to that, I’m starved.”

Baxter stood and glanced at me. “Rick and his food. And look at him, a thirty-inch waist and a body mass index of an underwear model.”

I laughed. I once told Lake he could be an underwear model, not that I would encourage that. I had enough competition as it was without fighting off gay men, too.

Turns out, Lake slurped the fennel and almond soup like it was a hearty Brunswick stew. I ate the soup but passed on the steak. Arne Trammel’s hanging in the closet like a side of beef didn’t do anything for meat-eating. The spinach-topped asparagus was divine. The wines were fine, too.

The cherry cheesecake turned me flat off. Reminded me of Arne’s face. Lake ate three large wedges. Meal over, Maddox wrapped the leftovers and refrigerated them. He began the clean-up, which was putting all the dirty things into the white boxes to be returned to the restaurant and its hyper-hot dishwasher.

I followed Lake and Baxter into the study. Lake faced Baxter and said abruptly, “Arne Trammel is dead.”

Baxter’s face went whiter than the walls. If Baxter knew about Arne’s death, he’s a candidate for an Oscar. Trying to speak, his mouth reminded me of a goldfish’s.

Lake said, “Appears it happened a couple days ago.”

Baxter staggered to a white chair “Happened?” he breathed out. “Happened?”

Something about his reaction mystified. Happened. That’s all he could say? Most people would say what happened, or asked how.

Lake waited while Baxter stared at the floor like he was counting the feathers on a bird-of-paradise.

“Paradisaea rudolphi,” Baxter said. “From Papua, New Guinea, exclusively. Hunted for its plumes. On the world’s Vulnerable List.” He looked at Lake. “Related to crows and jays; family Corvidae.”

Lake ran his foot over the carpet. “You inherited this rug from your and Linda’s mother, I remember. She knew all about birds-of-paradise.”

“She went there, you know?” Baxter said. “Had to see them in the wild. The males, when they’re mating, they hang upside down from a branch and fan their violet plumes.” He folded his hands and hung them between his knees. His thumbs worked a steady rhythm. He looked up at Lake. “Would you do that for Dru?”

Lake grinned. “It wouldn’t be as impressive a sight, but if she wanted me to, I would.”

Baxter straightened and sat back. “This is about the anonymous call to the police from Power House, isn’t it?” Lake nodded. Baxter fingered his collar. “I didn’t really know him. I really didn’t like him. But I didn’t kill him.”

“Nobody says ...”

Bax raised his hand. “They will. I was there, at his place, you see.”

Lake’s eyes narrowed. “You saw him dead?”

“No, Sunday he was very much alive and wagging his fat tongue at me.”

Oh my God—the fat tongue. Was this an inadvertent mis-speak on his part? I glanced at Lake. Did he catch it? I couldn’t tell.

“Why would you go to Arne Trammel’s place on Sunday?” Lake asked.

A ticking quiet lengthened. Impatiently, Bax broke in. “Day before, Arne came to the restaurant and accused me of doing something to Damian because Damian didn’t show for a party Friday night, and didn’t meet him that morning like they’d planned. Then, he warned me against stalking Cho. I told him I wasn’t stalking her. It got nastier from there. I stopped by his place on Sunday to apologize for my part in the argument and ask if Damian had returned. “He rolled his shoulders as if to ease muscle tension. “Arne was so angry he literally spit at me.”

Was he trying to cover a slip of his tongue?

“That the last time you saw Trammel?” Lake reminds me of Dick Tracy when his face looks so unyielding.

“Swear to God.”

“Yet, you told us that you hadn’t seen Arne since the beer incident in Carlisle’s.”

“I lied.”

“That was dumb. Had you told us sooner, we would have gone to Arne’s place sooner and he would have told us about talking to you on Saturday and Sunday. You see how this looks?”

It looked like we should have gone to question Arne sooner than we did, but it wasn’t as if we were diddling around. Sometimes you don’t grasp your priorities until they’re past being priorities.

Baxter said, “I’m a dumb liar, but I am not a killer.”

“I never said he was murdered.”

“Rick, please. Don’t play games with me. He was, wasn’t he?”

“Maybe. Do you want to know how he died?”

“Not particularly, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”

“By hanging, slowly choking to death, his fat tongue sticking from his mouth.”

* * * * *

Holding a slender glass of Grand Marnier at ten o’clock that evening after Baxter left the condo so badly-shaken Maddox had to steady him out the door, I said to Lake, “With all that’s happened, I haven’t had a chance to tell you that Cho Martine doesn’t exist.”

“I know,” he said.

“You talk to Webdog?”

“Thomas told me they can’t find her. A neighbor said she saw her leave about noon. Neighbor said it looked like she had suitcases in the back of her car.”

My heart beat bumped up.

Lake went on, “Thomas was waiting for her to come in and sign another complaint.”

Sometimes you don’t grasp your priorities until they’re past being priorities—or they flee.

Lake said, “They want to question her about Arne Trammel, as well as Damian Hansel. Seems Arne was her alibi for being in Athens over the weekend when Arne and she were supposed to have been together looking for Damian.”

“Arne’s death calls that into question,” I said. “One or both could have gone to Atlanta and put the cell phone on the trail, but only Cho could have put the scarecrow on the trail and the money clip in my car’s grill, because Arne was dead, and that’s if she’s involved in the disappearance of Damian and the death of Arne.”

Lake breathed out, looking dour. “Two college kids kill their friend, string clues from Atlanta to Athens, then one of them kills himself and the other flees?”

“Damien may not be dead and I wouldn’t bet Arne Trammel killed himself.”

“What we know is that Trammel’s dead, Damian might be dead or not, and Cho Martine is nowhere to be found.”

I took a deep breath like I was pushing off for the hundred-meter backstroke. “You weren’t listening carefully when I said Cho Martine doesn’t exist.”

Lake raised his chin and pushed hair from his forehead. Troubled as I was, the gesture still made my heart bounce. He said, “What are you saying?”

I told him what Webdog had reported this morning, and, before I’d finished, he was judging me harshly. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

I couldn’t breathe for the adrenaline flowing. “I wasn’t holding out.”

“Yes you were,” he said, dead serious. “You wanted to find out her identity by yourself.”

“I wanted to find who she was, yes, but ...”

“Dru, you can’t hold back stuff like that. It’s clear now, she skipped, and they could have had her before she ran.”

Heat rose from the base of my spine. “It was my employee who discovered the information. Thomas and his crowd could have found out if they had investigated Cho’s stalking claims against Baxter. They took her word against his, even when her boyfriend goes missing. Joe Hagan and Atlanta PD could have found that she was an imposter. All you had to do is a backgrounder, starting with the school.”

“Dru, look ...” He blew slowly from his lungs. “I don’t have time to argue with you.”

“There’s nothing to argue about. When I came into the case, not much had been done by the Athens police. They took Cho Martine’s word over a long-time citizen of this city. Not until Damian’s father came to town demanding answers did they get off their duffs.”

“We better brief Thomas and Joe Hagan.”

“You might suggest to them that they contact the Martines.”

He pressed his lips. “Let’s go.”

“Have they tried yet, or do they like to stay behind the curve?”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, standing, “except to bathe and get under the covers. I’m exhausted. I’ve a lot to do tomorrow.”

“If Athens PD lets you.”

“They damn well better. You got Henry’s card.” I held out my hand. “Tomorrow I get hold of Henry and check out Damian’s apartment.”

Lake continued to stare, keeping his mouth tight. When Lake’s inflexible it puts my back up. I wriggled my fingers. “Give.”

He got up and adjusted the hardware at his belt and under his arm in the official way cops do when they have an objective. “He’s staying at The Classic City. Room 268.”

“Thanks,” I said, to his back when he walked out of the study.

Lake got back to the condo at midnight. “You’re awake,” he said.

“Observant.”

“Let’s not argue.”

“What did Sergeant Thomas say?”

“We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“Now.”

“In the morning.”

“Did you talk to Webdog?”

“Yes. He confirmed what you told me. He’s hasn’t been successful locating the Martines.”

“And?”

“We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

I rolled over. “Good night. Close the door on your way out.”