CHAPTER 33: WHERE’S THAT NOISE COMING FROM?

Instinct is a marvelous thing. It can neither be explained nor ignored.

Agatha Christie

After we toasted, Sylvia started on the Parsegian’s paperwork, but she was pouting. Vincent helped her, and I worked the lot. It was a good thing too, because I was getting that I can’t-identify-the-irritating-noise-in-my-car-feeling again. I walked to the end of the lot and back a couple of times, stopping occasionally to wipe a windshield or buff a spot on a grill or bumper. What could it hurt if I tried to figure out what was bothering me? It didn’t mean that I was going back on my word to Vincent. Right? It was just a matter of satisfying my curiosity. I’d thought of something that I needed to ask Jay. My twin would understand. Right?

Right. I’d try calling him at the police station, but not from our office.

I went back to the office and poked my head in. “You guys mind if I take a quick break?” Both were too busy to object. I hurried out before Vincent realized I was leaving the lot unattended.

The door to Flynn’s opened, and Jay almost knocked me down. “Just the detective sergeant I was looking for,” I said.

“The chili was fantastic.” He held up a bag. “I’m taking some to my partner in criminology.”

“I need to ask you a question about Arabella’s murder.”

“Victor, boy. I thought you’d sworn on a Bible to lay off.”

“There’s swearing and there’s swearing an oath. And I don’t remember a Bible anywhere near my hand. Listen, you found Sweets’ fingerprints on a glass, right.”

“Yep.”

“Was there a lab test done on the contents?”

“Of course.”

“What were the results?”

“Vodka.”

Was I relieved or annoyed, I couldn’t tell. If it had been Pappy Van Winkle. . .still. . .Madonna.

Jay interrupted my thinking. “But forensics also picked up traces of whiskey.

I closed my eyes. I heard myself ask, “What kind of whiskey?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure forensic can isolate brands. Ask Carter Innis. He has all the forensic results.”

“Yeah, I guess I will.”

He looked at me and cocked his head. “All right, Victor. Pony up. What do you think you know?”

What could I say? I didn’t know in what direction this was going, but I suddenly felt like I was driving toward the edge of a cliff, and couldn’t put on the brakes. I needed to go to Carter’s law office. I needed to see a photograph of the glass, find out what brand of whiskey. “Sorry, Jay. Got to run. Don’t worry. Everything’s cool.” I took off running back to the lot. I sprinted past the office to the back and jumped into my Mustang, fired up the engine and sped out of the lot, burning rubber as I turned onto East 14th. I imagined Vincent and Sylvia standing next to each other at the open door to the office wondering what I was up to. Vincent probably figuring it out quick enough, and cursing me for a liar.

As I drove, my thoughts were pin-balling around in my brain, lighting up corners of memory.

Parsegian telling me that Winona was a snoop; Winona always short of money; Winona with an accounting degree. There were only two possibilities. The first would either stick Sweets in the gas chamber or set him free. The second possibility I didn’t want to think of.

My off-ramp appeared suddenly on my right. I veered across two lanes of traffic, ignored the horns and screeching tires, and dropped into the city. I made it to Carter’s office without wreaking my car. His secretary said he was on the phone. I brushed past her. Carter looked up from his desk, and said something into the phone and put it down.

“You got some balls, Victor. You tell me you’re going to interview that old neighbor. I don’t hear from you, then you call my cousin and cancel your date, and she calls me absolutely furious. Now you come rushing in like a crazy person. Shit, you look like you’re on drugs.”

“Carter, calm down,” I said.

“You telling me to calm down. Why don’t you calm down yourself. This is my office that you just barged into.”

“I need to look at evidence from Arabella’s apartment. Jay said all the evidence along with the lab tests were sent to you. I need to look at photographs of the glass that had Sweet’s fingerprints on it.”

“You mean Detective Sergeant Jay Ness?”

“Yeah, that Jay. I just talked to him. He told me the DA is required by law to hand over all the evidence they got on Sweets to his defense attorney. That’s you, right?”

“You’re correct there, Victor. I’m an attorney for that dumb-ass friend of yours, but not because I want to be, but because my old man dumped it into my lap to drive his son crazy.”

His sad tale struck a familiar cord. Familiar, as in family, as in Pop, as in Onore. “I understand completely, Carter. Believe me my pop has been on our backs ever since Sweets was arrested. But, seriously, I think I’m on to something that can get your client off. Could you just let me look at the physical evidence? Please.”

Carter scrunched his little eyes, wrinkled his brow like he was thinking. I didn’t say anything else, but I placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward.

“You have your hands on the evidence,” he said. I looked down and saw I was leaning on two portfolios with the seal of Alameda County on them. “Sorry,” I said.

“Pull over a chair, Victor. Take a look. I’ll get us some coffee. He rang his secretary and ordered. I was already reading when she arrived with two cups on a tray with sugar and cream. I wouldn’t have noticed if she smiled at me the way she usually does. I was too busy looking at a photograph of a glass, marked Exhibit #4. Exhibit #3 had been a set of fingerprints that were removed from the glass. The fingerprints belonged to Sweets. The glass looked exactly like the kind we bought at the Five and Dime for our office. But those were cheapo glasses found in any Woolworths, so that meant nothing. I turned back to Exhibit #2, candy wrappers. I counted ten, photographed as they were found on the floor of Arabella’s apartment. Exhibit #1 were fingerprints retrieved from the wrappers, most were partials, but two were identical to Sweets’ fingerprints found on the glass. But there were no fingerprints on any of the furniture or any other object in the apartment. Carter was standing behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“What is it, Victor? Why are you so worked up?”

“I’m not worked up, at least not yet. Where is the laboratory report on the contents of the glass?”

Carter leafed through the portfolio and withdrew a page. I began to read. The Vodka was Smirnoff and consistent with the bottle found in Arabella’s kitchen. The whisky traces were of straight bourbon. Not Scotch or rye. A specific whiskey could not be isolated, but a notation read that it was detectably of a high quality followed by a list of possible brands, one of which was Pappy Van Winkle. No bottle of whiskey of any kind had been found in Arabella’s apartment. My head slumped onto the open portfolio where I let it rest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whispered.

“What, what, what, Victor, talk to me. I’m a lawyer. Attorney client privilege. I’m as good as your priest.”

“I’m not your client, you ciuccio, Sweets is.”

“You’re my detective,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah.” It didn’t matter. I couldn’t tell Carter what I was thinking. If I was right, there was a whole lot I still didn’t understand. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I said under my breath.

“Victor,” Carter said.

“Carter, you’ll have to trust me. I wouldn’t let a fellow Gael down. It’s just right at the moment, I’m totally fucked up. Engines can’t operate without carburetors. I’m missing the Goddamn carburetor and a few sparkplugs and I’m not sure what else.”

“Are you insane? What’s with the carburetor and sparkplugs?”

“I’ll be in touch.” I stood up and headed to the door.

“You can’t leave me hanging like this Victor. My father will want to know.”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t tell your father anything. I promise I’ll be back to you very soon.

Very soon,” I repeated as I opened the door and closed it behind me. Mouthing thank you to Carter’ secretary, I hurried out of the office and got on the elevator.

Outside I found my car with a parking ticket on the windshield. I stuck it in the glove box and started the engine. I needed to think. My thinking Porsche was too far away. My Mustang would have to pick up the cognitive slack. I drove to Berkeley and Grizzly Creek Road, I passed the turnout and drove down the other side. At the tunnel road I turned around and curved my way back up, this time pulling off onto the turnout. Going through the gears relaxed me. I sat, looking out through the windshield toward Treasure Island. In the distance the sun was hovering above Coit Tower. If only I could run this by my twin. All our lives we’d been able to confide in each other, but if I’d made a promise to him there’d be no more detecting.

I did not start out my life believing in a spiritual world that coexisted with our physical one.

But as this began to unravel and the ghost of Winona Davis continued to appear like she was now, in the backseat of my car, what else could I believe? I was not hallucinating. You might argue that ghosts are a form of hallucination, but I knew what my mother’s crippled cousin had meant when she had said fantasmi. So, I did not bother to ask Winona’s ghost why she was there and what she wanted. I knew. I didn’t need ears.

Twenty minutes later I was parked in front of the Black Panther’s headquarters with a bunch of really scary black guys in leather jackets hanging out in front giving me the evil eye.