thirty-one

Unit 125. Each time Frank mentioned the number of Bob’s storage unit, it took on the mysterious allure of Area 51, the Bermuda Triangle, or the grassy knoll.

We met Harry Goldberg outside unit 125. It was almost noon. Harry had a ring of keys jangling from a pair of ironed, designer jeans. A crisp crease ran down both legs. Now that I’d learned my own jeans were dreadfully out of style, I had a bit more sympathy for other people’s denim dilemmas. Harry’s pressed jeans, cut high on his hips, were as outdated as my own.

Frank wasn’t focused on Harry’s jeans. “This was information we needed to know last week,” he spit at Harry.

“Give me a break,” Harry sniped. “I have thousands of renters. How the hell was I supposed to know the guy that died was a renter?”

“How? Because we told you his name,” Frank replied in disgust. “Just clip it.”

Harry opened the arms of a bolt cutter and clamped down on Bob’s lock. Frank pushed Harry aside and removed the remaining metal pieces and lifted the door.

“Hmmm,” I said as I peered into the storage unit. “I guess I’m not surprised.”

The interior of the unit was devoted to a single diorama, but instead of being constrained to the size of a shoebox, this scenario flowed over the entirety of the space save for one corner in the back for Bob’s workbench.

“Mother of God,” Harry said, shaking his head at the contents of Bob’s storage unit. “I gotta get out of this business,” he said, leaving Frank, Cheski, and me alone.

The unit was staged like a scene from a Tim Burton film. Bob had built an impossibly jagged mountain range that came up about waist high in the center of the unit. Teetering on the mountain’s only plateau was a long narrow dining table covered with pounds of carefully sculpted food. Having seen Bob’s work before, it was clear he wanted the viewer to feel a sense of overabundance. Piles of turkey legs sat next to towering chocolate cakes and bubbling mugs of an unidentifiable frothy mixture.

“This is getting weirder by the minute,” Frank said. “What’s with these people at the table?” The figures, or rather dolls, seated around the table were about a foot high. It looked like Bob had repurposed the dolls by interchanging their body parts. The effect was ghoulish, an odd gathering of misfits with strange deformities. It wasn’t hard to notice that if the diners moved their chairs back an inch, they’d plummet down the side of the mountain. The only thing that saved the bizarre dinner party were the faces of the dolls. They appeared to be radiantly happy.

Frank narrowed in on a figure seated in the middle of the table. The miniature man, cloaked in a velvet cape, had his arms stretched out on the table with his head tilted to the side. The other diners, deep in conversation with each other, seemed to be ignoring him yet aware of his presence. Frank circled the table from every vantage point.

“This guy,” he said as he identified another man-doll seated at the far end of the table. “I don’t like him.”

“Me neither,” Cheski said.

“I’m guessing Bob doesn’t want you to like him,” I said. “Let’s take some pictures. There’s too much going on here to see it all in one viewing. Plus I’m getting the heebie-jeebies.”

Just as I mentioned my skin crawling, a low, flat groan filled the storage unit.

“Perfect timing,” Frank said with a smile. “The tuba lady has arrived.”

Frank instructed Cheski to finish photographing Bob’s storage unit as we headed in the direction of the music.

In the way a dog owner can resemble their pet, the tuba lady looked like her bulbous brass instrument. I guess if the goal is to force air through a centimeter-sized hole while balancing a twenty-five-pound hunk of metal between your thighs, you’ve got to have some heft to pull it off.

Frank waved to the tuba lady who was midstream in what sounded like the longest middle C in history. But who was I to judge? I couldn’t even play the kazoo.

“Impressive,” Frank said when she came up for air. “I’m Frank DeRosa. I work for the Cold Spring Harbor Police Department, and this is CeCe Prentice.”

“What’s your vice?” she asked Frank. “You look like a train guy to me, maybe Lionel?”

“Actually, I was into Bachmann N scale as a kid,” Frank said as he shook her hand. “I’m not a renter. Unfortunately, I’m here investigating a murder.”

“Is it Goldberg?” the tuba lady inquired as she rolled her instrument aside. “I’m hoping it’s Goldberg.”

Frank couldn’t suppress his smirk. “Mr. Goldberg is just fine and nothing dangerous has occurred on the premise. However, our investigation has led us here. Mr. Goldberg mentioned you use your unit quite a lot and that you play with your unit door open. I was hoping you could tell us what goes on at the storage facility.”

“Heats up faster than a South American mambo contest if I shut the door.”

I considered the size of the unit, the size of the tuba, and the size of the tuba player and realized there was little room left for air circulation given the combination of space and mass. Door open seemed to be the only solution.

The tuba lady gave us a quick rundown of her “hood” as she called it. Bob, no surprise, was one of her best buds. Frank didn’t tell her about Bob’s death and as her admiration of Bob’s talents escalated, I could see it was becoming increasingly difficult for Frank to break the news.

“Did you ever see Bob with a young woman? A woman with short black hair?”

The tuba lady shook her head. “No, never saw him with anyone, but this isn’t his first unit. Originally, he was two blocks over. He moved here about a year ago,” she said, laughing. “He says the view is better—as if a row of rusty metal doors was something to look at. I thought maybe he was flirting with me,” she guffawed. “Some of these guys, you know, they’re chubby chasers.”

At the mention of a better view, Frank pivoted in place. From Bob’s unit there was a clear shot of the warehouse. Frank pointed in that direction.

“Have you ever seen activity at the warehouse?”

The tuba lady nodded. “Big commotion recently. I couldn’t hear myself play, and I’m damn loud.”

“Was it the Groundsweep walkers?” Frank asked.

“Huh?”

“Were you aware that the warehouse was leaking toxins?”

“No, but then I guess the noise was worth it, because it took the movers three hours to empty the place.”

Frank, a master of self-control, was visibly excited. “What did you see?”

“Nothing special.” The tuba lady seemed surprised. “People move out of this place all the time.”

Frank started up his iPad and walked into the tuba lady’s unit. “Do you mind if I sit?” he said, pulling up an extra chair. “Were you aware of Bob’s day job?”

“Sure,” the tuba lady said. “He runs the recycling center.”

“I guess we need to tell you that Bob died last week. It’s possible he was murdered.”

The tuba lady emitted a low note that sounded an awful lot like her instrument in need of tuning. I entered the unit and placed my hand on her soft shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I said as she sobbed quietly.

“We think there’s a connection between the warehouse and Bob,” Frank said. “It would be helpful if you could tell us what you saw.”

She inhaled deeply. “There were two moving trucks. About an hour after the trucks arrived, a third showed up. That’s when I left.”

“Did you catch the name of the moving company?” Frank asked.

She shook her head. “It looked Chinese to me.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Trust me. I eat a lot of Chinese takeout.”

Frank nodded as he jotted down the first of what could be an important clue. “Do you remember anyone in particular from that day?”

“Just Goldberg,” the tuba lady said. “I called the office to complain about the noise, and he picked up.”

Frank slammed the door of Bob’s unit with such force I feared the cheerful dolls balanced in their chairs would tumble down the side of the papier-mâché mountain.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Can’t you lock Goldberg up?”

“For what?” Frank said. “Answering the phone at his place of business?”

“How about obstructing justice? He lied about Bob’s unit, and he lied about the warehouse.”

Frank’s face cracked, and he started to laugh. “From sketch artist to rookie cop in less than a week.”

“I’m just trying to help,” I said as I threw my hands up in the air. “Why don’t you give me something to keep me busy? How about something to sketch?”

Frank looked at me, and I could see he was thinking but not ready to speak. Instead, he fished around in a plastic bag, retrieving a new lock to replace the one Goldberg had clipped. He unwrapped the plastic covering, fiddled with the combination, and resecured the unit. Then he took a quick lap up and down the row while I stood in place and listened to the bellowing and, now, mournful moans of a tuba.

“Cheski’s photo of Cheryl Goldberg,” he said when he returned. “Can you draw a picture of Cheryl and make it look as if Katrina had gotten a good look at her and actually described her to you?”

“You want it close, but not exact.”

“Yeah, can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” Frank said happily. “Because we’re going to catch Goldberg in a lie. I’ll drop you at home and give you a few hours.”