Chapter 17

4:30 p.m.

The weather cleared, leaving a few patches of scattered gray clouds. The rain that had pounded the city was now a low drizzle as Francisco and I pulled into the driveway of 87 Calhoun Street. The house was a shabby Victorian. The white paint had faded long ago. The roof sagged. The windows were caked with dirt and grime. Many of the screens were missing or riddled with holes. Several green shutters hung on for dear life.

Francisco parked the Interceptor behind a silver Volvo station wagon. I called dispatch to run the tag number. It came back to Walter Johnson.

Francisco looked at me. “Maybe Libowitz gave a false address.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

We exited the car and followed the cobblestone path, overgrown with crab grass, and made our way to the front door. Cigarette butts littered the porch like spent casings. My partner gave the glowing doorbell a good ride.

The door swung open and we were greeted by a man old enough to be my grandfather. He tugged at his purple jumpsuit then stared at us with probing eyes and a deeply creased face. “Sorry, I’m not buying.”

Francisco and I looked at each other and smiled then retrieved our badges. “We’re here in an official capacity,” my partner said. “Does Steven Libowitz reside here?”

The old man coughed. A puff of smoke expelled from his mouth and seeped through the screen door. He studied me first, then Francisco. “Yes. Steven’s my grandson. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“May we come in?” I asked.

“Please, please. Where are my manners?” The screen screeched when he pushed it open and ushered us inside. The interior looked much better than the exterior of the house. A brand new flat screen television hung on the wall. A green couch in good condition was planted along the back wall, next to a matching love seat. Several magazines were strewn atop a pine coffee table. A big blue La-Z-Boy recliner was parked off to the side and in front of the TV. The scent of lemon Pine Sol lingered in the air.

The old man’s feet shuffled along the yellow-tiled floor in his padded slippers as he led us to the kitchen and gestured us to sit at an oak table. “Would either of you like coffee? The potʼs been turned off for several hours but I could heat it up.”

We both declined.

He looked at me with gray eyes. “My, my, you’re very pretty for a detective.”

“Thank you.”

The ghost of a polite smile remained on his face. He grabbed the handle of a coffee pot, poured some into three white porcelain cups then shuffled to the microwave.

A stainless-steel refrigerator hummed. The noise was hypnotic, or maybe it was because of the long day—exhaustion had set in. A yawn escaped me. I wanted to go home to the simple pleasures. A hot bath, a cold beer, and a good book.

The microwave dinged. He brought two cups over to the table and set one in front of me and my partner. Apparently, the man didn’t hear us decline the offer. He moved back to the counter.

My face scrunched as steam penetrated my nostrils. The black liquid resembled motor oil and smelled as bad.

“What is it you need with my grandson?” Walter Johnson asked, pouring sugar into his cup.

I pushed my cup to the side. “He might be a witness to a crime. Is he here?”

His feet dragged over the linoleum as he left the kitchen counter and took a seat next to me.

“Witness, you say. That doesn’t sound like my grandson. You know he’s a jailbird, right?”

Francisco leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Yes sir. He did four years for assault.”

“Sounds about right. Beat up his ex-girlfriend.” His hands shook as he sipped the hot liquid. I wondered if he’d get any in his mouth. “He might be my grandson, but he terrifies me.”

I retrieved a notepad and pen from the pocket of my windbreaker. “Why does he terrify you?”

“Because he’s a punk.”

“Then why let him stay with you?” I asked in a soothing voice.

“Ah, hell. He conned me into moving in after he was released. Told me he had to have a home plan, needed to find a place to live and get a job once he got out. I should’ve known prison wouldn’t have changed him. Even with anger management classes and seeing a shrink once a week.”

My partner rested a hand on Mr. Johnsonʼs shoulder. “You said he wasn’t here. Do you know where we might find him?”

“He works for a 24-hour car wash. Um, Crazy Pete’s off 90.”

“Thanks,” I said, jotting it down. “Do you know a lawyer named Lee Green?”

“Of course. I read the story about his murder in the paper. Why do you ask?”

“Does your grandson know who he was?”

“Yes. He defended my grandson before he went to prison.” His eyes widened. “Is he a suspect? Because if you ask me, Steven’s one cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch.”

“We need to ask him some questions. Do you know if he knew anyone by the name of Jason Grogan or Eric Baxter?”

Walter pointed a long, bony finger at us. “They don’t sound familiar, but my grandson doesn’t tell me much about his life.”

Francisco handed him a card. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Johnson. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.”

****

Crazy Pete’s was located off Highway 90 next to an Enterprise car rental. Crazy Pete’s had an electronic sign featuring daily deals. Today’s special was Super Soaker Saturday for $12.99. Even with all the rain we had, cars were lined up waiting their turn to drive through a red two-story building the size of a department store. Cars entered an opening to the right, cycled through and exited on the left. It looked like an amusement park ride for vehicles.

Francisco parked the sedan near a small building next to the car wash. Inside were two benches where customers could sit and wait for their vehicles to be cleaned, a counter with a pot of coffee, and some paper cups. A receptionist, sitting behind a desk, her white hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sadly, she looked like she should have retired during the last century. She was on the phone telling someone about Monday Monsoon and directions to get here. She hung up and looked at us with bloodshot eyes; a cigarette wagged between her lips. “Take a seat and I’ll be right with you.”

Francisco flashed a smile. “We’re detectives with the Eugene Falls Police Department. Could you tell us if Steven Libowitz is working today?”

She took a drag of her smoldering cigarette. “Yup. He’s a good worker too. Came with a great recommendation. He’s punctual and in the six months he’s worked here, never missed a day of work. Wish I had twenty more like him.”

“Thank you for the résumé, but where can we find him at the moment?”

She glared at him. “You don’t have to be rude. Do you need to speak to him now? I hate to interrupt the crew while they’re busy. Car washing is a process. Take one person out of the equation and it ruins the fluidity of the procedure.” She took another drag. “Are you going to arrest him? If you do, can you give me time to call someone in?”

“As of now we only need to speak with him.”

She hooked a finger. “He’s with B crew. They’re behind the building detailing the inside of the vehicles.”

When we approached the back of the building there were a dozen or so men. Some were using vacuum cleaners inside the various cars, while others waxed and shined the outside. Each employee wore dark blue coveralls with Crazy Pete’s Carwash stenciled in red letters on the back. I tapped one of the guys on the shoulder who was applying a spray to the front tire of a gold Subaru.

“Can you tell me where Steven Libowitz is?”

He stood and pointed to a black BMW. “Steve’s the one cleaning the inside.”

“Thanks.”

Libowitz was running one of those industrial style vacuum cleaners, wearing noise-cancelling headphones. Francisco slapped the hood and flashed his badge. Libowitzʼs eyes widened when he caught sight of the gold shield and he started blinking fast. He switched off the machine, removed his headphones and stepped out of the car.

He was a tall, stocky man with short, cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tattoos. Libowitz swallowed. “I haven’t done anything.”

Francisco smiled. “Really? That’s not what we heard.”

“Whatever you heard from the bitch is a lie.”

“You know what they say. Once an abuser, always an abuser. But that’s not why we’re here.”

Libowitz rubbed the back of his neck. “Then what do you want?”

“You remember Lee Green, don’t you?”

“Sure. The man got me four years in the pen. Some lawyer he turned out to be. Makes me wonder if he took a bribe from the DA.”

“Yeah, well you sent him a number of threatening letters.”

“I was only letting off a little steam. If you got sent away for a crime you didn’t commit, wouldn’t you be pissed?”

“Did you know Mr. Green was murdered?”

His eyes widened. He raised a hand. “Hold on. I had nothing to with the guy’s murder. I didn’t like the bastard, but that’s water under the bridge. And if you think you got something on me, go ahead and bring me in. Otherwise, I have work to do.”

“One last question, hotshot,” I said, moving toward the driver side door. “Where were you last Friday night between midnight and two in the morning?”

His lips curled up. “I was in the city jail for an ‘allegedʼ DUI. Damn five-oh always busting my balls. I had one drink and they pulled me over. I wasn’t even drunk, but all you cops know how to manipulate that breathalyzer. Anyway, my grandfather posted bail at 9:00 a.m. Saturday morning.”