3— DECEMBER 16, MONDAY
Having said it, she was not sure why. The more she wondered what she had meant the less she knew. —Muriel Spark
There was something about the fat man that reminded Detective Sergeant Nedra Coughy of her father’s words to the wise. Quick eyes, slow tongue, he’d said whenever she complained that he didn’t say enough.
Whenever, she thought, he was tired of listening.
It wasn’t that the fat man looked like her father.
In fact, he looked nothing like him.
For one thing, the man was fat. A gut like a fifty-gallon drum. And his mouth actually hung open—a consequence, perhaps, of the rippling layers of heavy chin.
There wasn’t an extra inch of anything about her father.
No more, no less, he’d say.
When did he say that?
What did it mean?
The fat man turned and began to shift his weight away from the edge of yellow tape. For a moment, their eyes met. Nedra was the first to look away.
I’m tired, she said to herself. I’m tired and I don’t even know where I’d rather be. Then, out loud, to the officer outside the door, “Anyone in there?”
“Yes, Sergeant, ma’am. That would be Detective Robles.”
Nedra extracted a package of sterile gloves from the back pocket of her purse, then pulled the purse strap across her shoulder until it rested flat against her back. “No one in till I say, Nick.”
The office grinned, nodded, and pushed open the door with a flourish. He wouldn’t want his wife working a man’s job, but if it had to be a woman, then let it be Nedra Coughy. She was a fox, but she was always a lady about it.
Nedra fitted the gloves finger by finger while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She’d wear gloves all day if she could. White cotton so she could keep track of the grime. Why did the world get so much dirtier as she got older? Joe Robles burst into the kitchen-living area.
“Carajo! Didn’t hear you come in.”
Nedra ignored his remarks and pointed her toe at the body on the floor. “Did you get an ID?”
“Ah, sí.” Robles swooped to the body and hung there, flapping. “Alice Evart, wife of that tipo over here.”
Nedra looked where he thrust his arm. The back of a large, plush reclining chair faced a television. The picture was flickering, but the sound was off. Local news. A fire in the Everglades.
“TV on when you came in?”
Robles nodded.
“Sound?”
“También. Not too loud.”
She crouched and held her hand above the wound in the woman’s chest; it helped her concentrate.
“Same gun for both?” she asked Detective Robles, who hadn’t moved.
“Looks that way.”
“She had the box of garbage bags in her hand.”
“She was cleaning out the drawer in the bedroom. Already filled up the wastebasket from the bath.”
“Was it her mother, the old lady who lived here?”
“No, his.” This time he only waved a thumb in the direction of the TV, like a hitchhiker.
“She doesn’t look...” What was the word? Surprised. Horrified.
“She looks like a nice lady,” Robles said. “My mother-in-law gets red-handed with a thug in her living room and she won’t look so the angel.”
“When does your mother-in-law ever look like an angel?”
“Eso.”
“Let’s have a look at the fellow.” Nedra stood up and her left knee crunched. She shook it a few times before putting her weight on it.
“You gonna have that surgery soon, Jefa?”
Nedra walked around the recliner and stood with her back to the TV. First, she looked at the face of the man, his hands, his feet, then let herself see the flower of blood in the middle of his chest.
“Camilo Evart, son of Marvel and Harry Evart. Fifty-seven years old. 22476 Old Bridge Drive, Cleveland, Ohio. Looks a lot scrappier than you, don’t he.”
“Maybe being dead makes you look old.”
“He’ll never get any older; that’s a fact.”
“So, the killer came into the apartment,” Nedra backed up to the door, then walked forward to the back of the chair. “Mister Evart was watching TV; didn’t hear anything.”
“Didn’t feel anything neither.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I think about it muchísimo.”
“The guy blew his heart out. He’d never last a minute.”
“How long is a minute in a dream?”
“Long enough to miss Judge Judy’s point.”
“Okay, so I’ve killed the old man...”
“You’d have to do that first or he would’ve turned around...”
“Then I turn around and the lady’s standing there.”
“She came in to get the bags...”
“So, what did he take?”
Detective Robles shook his head and lifted his arms in time. He liked to wear very white, very stiff guayabera shirts; they made a neat rectangle of his torso. “Don’t know, Jefa. Nada out of place that I can see. Dead guy’s wallet’s in his pocket; lady’s purse is on the counter there.”
Nedra slowly spun in place, letting the rooms settle. Everything clean, straightened; Japanese scenes of changing seasons in bamboo frames; telephone and large address book on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room; no table—must eat meals out, but the kitchen indispensable for that homey feeling; the door with its blinds closed; picture window with blinds closed...
“You closed the blinds?”
“Haven’t touched a thing, Jefa, ‘cept for the volume on the TV.”
“It’s really cold in here.”
“Thermostat turned down as far as it goes.”
“So, this wasn’t an ordinary robbery.”
“What robbery?”
“The killer calculated and planned. Perhaps the deaths themselves were the object. What’s the bedroom look like?”
“Same as here: very tidy.”
Nedra sighed. “Is it a puzzle, Joe?”
“Ahora, it’s just a mystery.”
“All right, go see what you can get from the people in charge around here. Send the photographer in. Get the names back to the station—Camilo... is that Italian?”
“Or Spanish.”
“Unusual choice with his surname.”
Robles shrugged. “His mama must’ve picked it. No son of mine’d get hung with a girlie name like that.”
She smiled and dismissed him. Joe Robles had four children, all daughters. “Come back and get me when you’re done.”
* * * *
Irwine opened the right-hand cupboard door above the stove and removed the wooden bowl. Crudely carved, minimally polished, he’d seen it in the window of the jumble shop a few weeks ago, propped upside down to display the words Made In Haiti burned into the bottom. Originally a fruit or salad bowl, Irwine filled it with tortilla chips and layered salsa over the top, like green spume on golden waves. Right. Then, he lowered himself into the only chair in his living room and turned up the volume on the TV—just as the logo music began to play. Damn. He’d missed the murder. He turned the volume back down as the Brooklyn Bridge, red white and blue in traffic lights, cut to a commercial.
Irwine let the back of his neck sink into the top of the chair. He closed his eyes and his hands slipped from the sides of the bowl on his lap. Law & Order or no, sometimes consciousness just wasn’t exciting enough to keep one from wanting to fall asleep. Fall asleep and dream. Or not. Fall asleep and fall away from the poundage of daylight, of dreaming. Oh the weightless allure of darkness.
Tart tomatillos, coarse salt, onion, jalapeño. The cold green spice. The crunch. The crisp. And a beer to clean the palate between mouthfuls, each bite a flavor assault.
Irwine turned up the volume with one fat fingertip tapping. Vincent D’Onofrio cocked his head, curled his lips. Fifty-three minutes later, Irwine rolled himself out of his chair and farted like a jaguar.
* * * *
Nedra stared into the open drawer. For a moment, the beige and white shapes looked like soft bodies at the bottom of an aquarium. Soft bodies stirred by the current. An illusion of life for they were lifeless.
With a pencil, she lifted the bottommost strata. Pale grain of wood. A little sand.
The victim hadn’t been looking for anything here. She’s just been cleaning it out, layer by layer. And the perp hadn’t looked either. Not even curious.
What did he know was here? What did he take? Why?
The photographer stuck his head through the doorframe. “All done, Sergeant, Ma’am. Can they bag the bodies?”
“Have the folks outside gone to lunch? Then, do it. Shut the door when you leave.”
The other rooms, the living room and kitchen, had pictures, color, a sense of purpose. This room was bland and disorganized. It was the inconsolable room of a woman who cared about appearance.
Nedra sighed and ran her hand over the surface of the bed. A pale blue bedspread with a light greenish stain streaked across the bottom. The fabric was both snagged and pilling.
Did everything have to have a reason?
Is there anyone who can live his life randomly?
That morning, Cara, her daughter, had left for work before sunrise, taking Timo with her. She’d also left the bed unmade, towels on the floor, bathroom sink full of greenish spit, coffee cup on the floor by the couch, cereal bowls half full of milk.
When Cara’d been a baby, she’d loved her so much. So much it felt like sin.
Nedra walked the perimeter of the room, looking for the odd, the unnatural. Looking out of the corner of her eye.
On a dressser, a chest of tiny drawers. One of them was open. Nedra pulled it out and looked inside.
Earrings, grimy with tarnish and wear. She opened a few more drawers, here and there. More of the same.
Maybe random wasn’t the right word.
Random was like algebra: it couldn’t apply to human behavior.
What was the right word, then?
Nedra sighed and turned away from the dresser. On the top of the bookcase to the left of the backdoor was a key. She looked at it closely, but didn’t pick it up. The edges were sharp. It was a new. Holding it by the edges, she removed the key from the backdoor lock and placed it next to the one on the bookcase. They were identical. Why would anyone store a spare two feet from the everyday?
“I’m back, Jefa.” Robles stood in the doorway. Nedra motioned him in.
“I want forensics on these keys and the door here. What did you find out?”
“Camilo and Alice Johnson. Phoenix. He’s retired insurance—owned his own place in Ohio. Parents Harry and Marvel. Moved here three years ago. Harry died about six months later; Marvel died last week.”
“Funny name, Camilo.”
“Maybe they was funny.”
“What kind of name is Mavel?”
“Funny.”
Nedra looked at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting. You know what to do.”
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