thirteen

“Frank, should I start?” Cheski asked. Charlie, Frank, Lamendola, and I were seated at the conference table. Bits of tortilla chip dust covered our workspace. The guacamole bowl looked like someone had licked it clean.

I handed Cheski a cloth napkin. The general public thinks nothing of overusing paper goods, as if rolls of toilet paper were dropping out of the sky by the truckload. I blame the warehouse-style box stores for selling paper goods at cut-rate prices and advertisers for training people to use a full sheet to mop up a teaspoon of water. Cloth—a rewashable, reusable alternative—is the way to go if you have a conscience with more depth than a single-ply square of bathroom tissue. Cloth napkins make the food taste better too.

“I love eating here,” Cheski admitted. “I’m getting really good at ignoring the source of your food. Whatever Katrina does in that kitchen works for me.” Frank’s face pinched up. “You’ll get there,” Cheski encouraged him, as he wiped a blob of green goo off his lip. He looked at the monogrammed S on the napkin, meaningless since none of our family names started with an S.

I shrugged at Cheski. Who knows where I picked up half of the stuff we reused?

“Let’s start with badges,” Frank said, ignoring Cheski’s food fest. “You’ve made a list of large companies in the area?”

Cheski nodded to Lamendola, who ran through a group of local name-tag toting organizations. He paused awkwardly and looked at me. “The labs are on the list. After your brother’s death, they started to require electronic badges.”

“I guess that was the right thing to do,” I said, wondering if a simple name tag could have prevented Teddy’s death. “Go on.”

“There’s a midsized software company about ten miles east of here. They employ seventy-five people and produce software that manages employee efficiency.”

“Totally Big Brother,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “I know a few guys that work there. The software monitors the activity on your work computer and spits out efficiency scores to weed out the slackers.”

“Oh god, we’d last a day,” I laughed.

Lamendola smiled and then continued. “The local hospital requires badges. The county court house in Riverhead requires badges.”

“Nothing I didn’t expect,” Frank said. “Keep going.”

“All the banks in the area,” Lamendola continued. “Even those with just an ATM and small back office require badges. And we’ve got one insurance claims center, a satellite office with headquarters in Albany.”

“Ha, a satellite office,” Charlie said, stabbing his finger in the air. “You know those guys are racking up hours a day on Facebook.”

“What about the software company?” I asked. “If they can monitor efficiency, then they must know what employees are doing when they’re not doing the job. You know, like plotting a murder?”

“Charlie,” Frank said, “can you feel out your contacts there, see who their clients are?”

“Sure thing.”

“CeCe, did you get anything out of Katrina?”

“Nothing, really. She got a quick glimpse of the woman’s back and then a brief profile view as she took off.”

“Hair color?”

“Scarf with some dark hair underneath.” As I said it, it sounded weird. Who wears a scarf these days? “And Jackie O sunglasses,” I added.

Cheski laughed. “How about a fake nose and mustache?”

“I know,” I said. “It’s like this woman picked the most obvious undercover outfit of all time.”

“Amateur,” Frank commented. He was probably right. “Age and weight?”

“Eighteen to fifty, 120 to 140 pounds.” I raised my palms. “Basically, everyone who’s not a male.”

The group fell quiet as we mulled over the first batch of information.

Charlie raised his hand. “I’m going to just say it, because I know we’re all thinking the same thing: Is it possible Bob was involved in a green-washing scam?”

And just like that the flood gates opened. If fact, dozens of variations on the same theme spilled forth, none favorable.

Lamendola took a shot at it. “What if Bob had skimmed tech equipment off the recycling centers’ haul and sold it directly to a trash trader?”

“Maybe the equipment in the warehouse was his,” Cheski added. “Maybe Bob tried to cut out the middleman and got stuck when the market fell.”

“Could be,” Charlie said as he rubbed his face. “We should check the volume of tech waste processed through the recycling center. I wonder if we’d see big swings in the past couple of years.”

“I’m on it,” Lamendola said, eagerly turning to his partner, Cheski. “Let’s hit up the recycling center today and chat with Jimmy.”

The color in Cheski’s beefy face rose as the possibilities swirled. “Then we’ll swing by the storage place and find out if the Goldberg cousin knew Bob,” he added.

Charlie leaned back and ran his fingers through his healthy head of blond curls. “Shit. What if they all knew each other? I got a bad vibe from Goldberg. That dude had something to hide.”

With my sketchpad open, I listened to the crucifixion of my friend Bob by well-intentioned but seriously misguided assumptions. As the accusations escalated, my drawing pace picked up. Finally, I slid
my sketchpad into the middle of the table. In the few minutes it took my crime-stopping team members to lambast Bob, I had sketched every roll on Bob’s chins in exquisite detail. I captured his grin, his kindness, and his mirth.

“This is an honest face,” I said, tapping my pencil on the page.

Frank’s head was in his iPad.

“Frank?” I implored. “Say something nice about Bob.”

He looked up. His face was pale. “The EMT found faint needle marks on Bob’s arm.”

Dead air wafted through the room.

“Maybe something in the garbage punctured his arm?” I winced.

“A syringe, maybe,” Frank mumbled, “but not likely from the garbage.”

Cheski and Lamendola darted their eyes in every direction but mine. Charlie excused himself and left the room. The mention of drugs always sent Charlie running for an alibi. I can’t do this, I thought. I can’t keep defending my world alone. I’d chosen an alternative path, and I was drawn to others who lived outside the lines, like Bob. By definition, you can’t cross lines without ignoring a few rules. Now, some people might refer to rules as laws, but I liked to think of them as hurdles. Whatever Bob’s actions, I certainly wouldn’t let Bob’s memory be disgraced.

“So?” I snorted.

“We’re cops,” Frank said as he nodded to Cheski and Lamendola. “Evidence of track marks is important to us. If Bob had a drug problem, it will change the nature of this investigation.”

“Sure, now it’s an investigation,” I shot back lamely. What had I just said? I wasn’t even making sense. I had drowned in my inability to defend Bob. Of course, this was an investigation. I knew that, but I was angry and embarrassed. I had no idea whether or not Bob had a drug problem. I considered Bob’s dioramas for a second—intense, emotional, deep. An artistic lay person might add bizarre, psychedelic, scary, drug-induced.

“His art,” I said and smiled.

“It impressed me too,” Frank agreed, and then added, “It also got me thinking.”

“About what?”

Frank’s voice was low and careful. “About Bob, the human being.”

I drew a massive, loopy heart around Bob’s head. “He was a good person,” I said.

“Then let’s start with that. Up until this point, we’ve only received positive feedback about Bob.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Frank turned to Cheski and Lamendola. “See if you can find manufacturers that supply name tags to companies in the area. Then take Charlie to the warehouse and help him organize the tech equipment in whatever way makes sense to him.” Charlie poked his head in the door and gave a thumbs-up. Frank rose from the table and reached out for my hand. “You and I will go talk to Jimmy, find out how the tech equipment gets to the recycling center and where it goes after. Then we’ll stop by Barbara’s.”

“Okay,” I nodded.

“We start tomorrow,” Frank said as he packed up his papers. “Bright and early.”