My Detective

by Jeffrey Fleishman

  Three stories. Rising like a tree house. Windows open to a back courtyard of stone, ivy, bougainvillea, sage, and a small fountain with a statue, The Rape of Proserpina, glowing in moonlight. I remember seeing the original by Bernini years ago in Rome, on my European backpacking trip after college. A young Italian woman, Lucia, stood beside me as we admired it. “So much beauty in evil,” she said. She sketched it quickly and handed me the page of Pluto carrying the terrified maiden to the underworld. We went for Campari in the gardens, listening to footsteps in gravel and a man playing a violin amid busts of soldiers and poets. She told me that God was the first sculptor, the original artist, and that at night, he whispered his secrets into the dreams of Bernini and Michelangelo. We talked for a while; I was amazed at how you could meet a stranger in a museum and hours would go by and you’d be lost in those hours, in no hurry to have them end or to carry on with what you had been doing. She took my hand and led me to her Vespa. We drove to a small flat in Trastevere. It was messy with paintings, jars of brushes, loaves of bread. The sounds of stirred pots and old men with newspapers drifted through the square and into the alley. We drank wine and made love until morning. She disappeared before dawn, leaving on her table a sketch of me sleeping. I folded it into my backpack and took a train to Florence.

  I run my hand over Jamieson’s statue. Smooth, cool, supple. Pluto’s fingers pressing into the maiden as if stone had become skin. Like the Caravaggio of the cardsharps in Jamieson’s office, the statue is a fine reproduction but slightly off, as if the artist had wanted to pay homage but leave a part of himself in it too. I listen to the water and breathe in the night. A bikini top hangs on a nail in a tree. A telescope tilts skyward near a chair. I peek in. Cassiopeia fills my eye. I step over a half-finished bottle of vodka, a constellation map, a bag of peat, and a small garden trowel. I wander back inside. The crime scene guys are gone. A uniform sits at the kitchen counter.

  “Nice place. Guy really liked art. Old stuff, though, huh? Stuff they showed us in school,” he says.

  “Reproductions.”

  “Pardon.”

  “Not originals.”

  “Yeah. Hey, Detective, I’m about ready to roll. Crime scene told me to let you know they took a couple of laptops and other things off his desk. They’ll sweep them and let you know. Other than that, they bagged a few bottles from the medicine cabinet and took two wineglasses and a pair of bikini bottoms that were hanging from the fridge handle. Party for two, I guess.”

  The uniform nods and vanishes. I’m alone. I turn on a few lights, pull a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet. It’s quiet. The traffic on Sunset doesn’t reach this far—nothing but a dry breeze, scents of flowers and rich neighbors, all in for the night. It’s strange even now, after so many years, being alone in a victim’s house amid possessions arranged in a pattern that suited him. The line of a couch, angle of a chair. Every house is an intricate geography of things that don’t speak, but in their own way, they tell stories. I take a few sips. I could sleep here amid his things, the ghosts he’s left behind, framed photographs, books, blueprints, and a map of the world drawn before anyone knew of America. It is a good home. The lamps glow with an inviting, soft light, and the last music played was “Miserere,” by Allegri, and “Baby, I Love You,” by the Ramones.

  McKinley was right about Jamieson. He lived between two worlds. I can see that here. The statue and reproductions spoke to something ancient in him, but the scattered drawings on his desk have the lines, angles, and curves of a man who saw forward. One design is of an apartment building. It looks like a horizontal stack of cards, protruding left and right at increments. Rows of windows shine between the cards, and the building appears uneven, yet it is magically delicate, as if it could be subsumed by air and light and then reappear again.

  I polish my prints from the bottle and slide it back into the cabinet. I turn off the lights. The moon fills the windows and shines on the pool and The Rape of Proserpina. I close the front door, slip back under the yellow tape, and drive downtown.

  Chapter 15

  “You haven’t been yourself, Dylan” says Isabella.

  “Yes,” says John. “You’ve been distracted.”

  My boss and his lovely wife are concerned. They think I’m unhinged. That may be too strong a word, but they, in their tender, elliptical way, in a dinner out at my favorite restaurant—the one Isabella introduced me to when I first arrived in Los Angeles—believe I need mending.

  “Is this an intervention?” I say, laughing. “Get me out in public where I can’t make a scene. Boo.”

  They smile uncomfortably. The candlelight is gauzy. An evening rain sweeps the street and disappears. Voices, the snap of a napkin, the rattle of silverware. It’s good to be out. It’s been a rough week. (Do I even register irony anymore?) I do feel out of sorts, a kind of unraveling. I must stay composed. Pull myself together. Am I biting my nails? Is my hair okay? My clothes are fine. Skirt, matching top, smart jacket, shaved legs, and I can see in the window that my face is right. I look good. I say that with humility, but I do. Yet still … two men down. A toll. I expected it to be hard.

  There were moments when it felt almost glorious to be so powerful. A force. Oh, yes. That rush of things colliding in me, all of it sacred, animalistic. But hours later, when it fades, when the pulse slows, there are these things inside, images and thoughts, not loud but echoing. Maybe that’s what John and Isabella see. Maybe what’s inside slips out into the world if we’re not careful. Breathe. Breathe. Slow the heart, allow no betrayal on the face. Smile. Notice things. An old man pulls a chair out for a lady. The waiter is handsome, buttoned up in his white shirt. Calm. Calm. Let the minutes tick; calm. I can do this.

  “Do you still see that producer?” says Isabella. “What’s his name?”

  “Jacob. That’s not a steady thing. Jacob’s my diversion. My loyal, misbegotten terrier. He calls and takes me places I like, but no, Jacob is not a keeper. I do like his company, though, at times. He’s like one of those white-noise machines when you can’t sleep.” I smile at the metaphor, but John and Isabella, I suppose, are not here for laughs. “We saw a movie the other night. Nocturnal Animals. Have you heard of it? It opened with fat ladies dancing naked with sparklers.”

  “How fat?”

  “Obese. Like fleshy mountains.”

  “Why?”

  “I never figured it out.”

  “Jacob’s not your type,” says John, steering us away from the sparkler ladies.

  “What is my type?” I say, playing their game, sipping Shiraz in soft light. They are so good, John and Isabella, so pained and worried. I tell them they shouldn’t be. My work has been fine; my designs never better. John said so the other day. If they only knew, but why should they? Even my detective doesn’t know; he’s getting close, though. Jensen is the key. What shall I do with him? I always knew he’d be the toughest one. The chink. Jensen and his African queen wife, Wanita. What’s behind her regal mask? I’d like to know. I have seen them together. I have spied. Poor Jensen, not like the other two. He is … I don’t know how to say it, but Jensen is delicate, a man-boy almost. You can see it in his eyes, warm and fascinated, like beekeepers’ eyes. He got mixed up in it. But still he made choices. Yes, he did. We are as accountable for our weaknesses as for our strengths. I wish it weren’t so, that a measure of absolution could be given, but it can’t. He made choices. Choices. Choices. Choices. The word ricochets. Maybe I’ll discuss it with my detective. One day. But Jensen is the rub. That’s why he’s last. Isabella and John are looking at me.

  “I’m fine, really,” I say. “It’s lovely of you to care. Maybe I’ve been a little distracted. There’s so much to do. Some days, I’m full of energy; other days, overwhelmed. I’m sure you both feel that, from time to time. You have moods. The good days and the bad. Even you, Saint Isabella.”

  Why did I say that? That was mean. Unneces
sary. She looks at me, hurt. I reach for her hand, whisper, “Sorry.”

  “Of course I do,” says Isabella, recovering and determined to keep eyes on me. “It never stops at the shelter. Homeless women, abused women. They come every day. How to fix them? That’s what I tell John at night. How to fix them? It’s the world, isn’t it? How far we’ve let things go. What we accept. The gallery is a headache too. Artist egos. Haggling over prices, and even a few small tragedies. The other day, a glass sculpture by a Korean artist—you’ve never heard of her, but one day she’ll be big—tumbled off its pedestal and shattered across the floor.”

  “You have insurance?”

  “Yes. But every work is irreplaceable. Like a life, you know. What is that word? Ah, yes, ‘singular.’ Every piece exists only once. I called her, and she cried for hours. I felt terrible.”

  John touches his wife’s shoulder. They look at one another, then at me.

  “We’re worried about you,” says Isabella. “Is it like the time before?”

  “No, no.” I shake my head. Be calm. Be calm. “That was different.”

  I wanted to die back then. Took all those pills in two gulps and waited to vanish away from what Gallagher, Jamieson, and Jensen did to me. But John and Isabella found me and took me to the hospital. I told them on that long-ago night about my crazy, manic mother. I was never as bad as she. Nooo. She could be so present, though, when she was there. Full of life. A splendid, restless cartoon. Then, the next day, curled in bed, covers up, blinds drawn. I’m not like that. I’ve been good for years.

  Isabella looks away and back. I think she might cry.

  “We care about you,” says John.

  The handsome waiter appears. Thank God. The table quiets. Lamb. Trout. Something vegetarian for Isabella. More bread. Fresh pours. An anything-else smile. He’s gone. I feel a tear coming, but I push it back. Strong. Strong. Strong. No cracks. But for a second, I think I’d like to cry in Isabella’s arms. Her warm, giving arms, her breasts, the scent of her, the Brazilian saint that she is. She has healing powers, I’m sure. I could say it all in a flood of words. Confess. Over dinner. My last supper. But no. Jensen may be weak; I am not. They made me strong, those men. They miscalculated. But here sits Isabella in candlelight, drawing me to her. Her alluring foreign accent, her giving self, her black hair falling, the glint of earrings. I almost lean in; part of me wants to. No. I stay in my seat and swallow my weakness.

  “I’ll never forget that night,” says Isabella. “You had just started working with John. We stopped by your house by chance. You were stripping wood floors and we wanted to help. You were unconscious. When we got back from the hospital, I held you on the couch until dawn.”

  “That’s why we’re worried,” says John. “We don’t know what happened before, so we don’t know if it’s happening again.”

  “It’s not.”

  “But …”

  “But what?”

  I’m silent. My eyes dart over them. My heart beats fast. I don’t like this interrogation. These questions. Why am I holding the butter knife so tightly? I release it, take a sip of wine. Calm, calm. They are friends. Smile.

  “Why did you stop seeing your therapist?” says Isabella, so gentle in cutting to the matter.

  “I was cured.” I laugh with perhaps a bit too much force. We are in need of levity, but I can see in their eyes, it’s no time for humor. I have a flashing thought, Detective: Will you look at me one day the way they are looking at me now? Oh, dear, I hope not. But I was done with therapy and dissecting childhood and adolescence. My shrink had me on too many meds. I’m better now, despite what they might think. I see the world clearly. I admit to being a little distracted, out of sorts, as they say, but it will pass. It will pass very soon. Note to self: It will pass.

  “All we want is to help.”

  “You are helping. This dinner, your friendship. You are the dearest people to me.”

  John reaches out and holds my hand. Isabella my other. I feel their warmth. But I can go no further. I can’t tell them what led me here, what led me to that night years ago when they found me on the floor. It is a ghost, yes, a reappearing ghost. But she’s mine.

  Dessert comes. Isabella and I share a chocolate cake; John has ice cream and a brandy. It’s good to be out. The hum of people. The charged air. The waiter glides along the bar. John looks up to the TV. Images but no sound. A picture of Jamieson appears with one of those cutouts like the dead-man graphics the TV uses for murder victims. John goes to the bar. The anchor speaks. The camera pans Jamieson’s building, the outside of his firm, one of his designs. Gallagher’s face pops up next to Jamieson’s. They look like two boys in a yearbook: the pretty one; the wiry, deviant one. The police chief speaks from a podium. A shot to the skyline of Los Angeles. And back to the outside of Jamieson’s building on Grand, the one where the deed was done, and dare I see, just beyond the yellow tape, you, my detective. A fleeting instant and you’re gone. Euphoria. I needed to see you. To know you are on the case. And you are. You look tired, though. Could use a haircut. But it’s you following clues. Back to the anchor. He purses his lips. We fade to weather.

  John returns to the table, shaken.

  “Paul Jamieson’s been murdered,” he says. “They found him naked in his apartment. A finger missing.”

  The finger is irrelevant. Really. It was a whim, just happened. A sudden impulse. Like picking at a scab. It must have been in my subconscious. God knows what’s down there. But the news likes a missing finger. I can’t blame them. It is a nice tidbit, a ghoulish touch for my mystery. John sits at the table. His ice cream is nearly melted. Isabella holds his hand. He finishes his brandy and looks back to the TV as if Jamieson will reappear.

  “What’s happening?” he says. “Two architects in less than a week. Something’s connected.”

  “I didn’t know them well,” I say.

  “They’re looking for Stephen Jensen.”

  I think to myself with a sly inside smile, Oh, where, oh, where can he be?

  Chapter 16

  I get home and toss my shield and gun across the counter. I’ll call Ortiz later. Another message from Susan Chandler at the Times. She’s relentless, but I don’t feel like talking to the fourth estate. I shower, pour a French press, and sit by the window in my leather chair, looking down Hill Street into the jewelry district. Nine p.m. Tired but restless. I go to the piano, try to play, but nothing comes. I pour scotch into the coffee and rifle through a pile of mail. Dentist. Credit card. Save a dog. Rescue a child. I turn on a lamp and read all the New Yorker cartoons. I think of my life as a cartoon, and what bit of satire or dry wit I could be reduced to. I put the magazine aside and sink back into the chair. It’s good and worn; its soft cracks run like veins. The feel of the leather makes me feel rich in a way I can’t explain. I found it years ago on a sidewalk outside a bankrupt lawyer’s office. A uniform and I threw it in a cruiser.

  I lift an inlaid box from beneath the chair and fish Jamieson’s track victory news clipping out of my pocket. I drop it into the box next to Gallagher’s wedding ring, and mementos from other vics over the years. I’ve collected something from every body I’ve come across. They’re like mass cards to help me remember. The tooth from Jamal Lewis, eight years old, killed in a drive-by; a lock of hair from Ji Su Kim, shot in a market robbery, the doer whacked out on opioids; the St. Teresa medal of Andrea Torres, an illegal beaten to death and left in an alley off Broadway, her body never claimed; a quarter spilled from the pocket of Patrick Davis, a USC student carjacked two days from graduation. I run my fingers over them, hold them one by one up to the light. Pieces and artifacts of strangers, except for one: a lace from my father’s boxing glove. Hard and stiff, faint with his blood, it was the first thing I put into the box. I think, at times, I should stop collecting. I can’t. It’s not so much compulsion as a need to record. But I do feel a bit like some meticulo
us night manager in a back office with a ledger. Each belonging tells of a mistake, a lead missed, evidence lost; those failings that make me less than omniscient and remind me how lonely it is to die in a place invisibly marked for you. Not to know it’s coming, and then to be gone. I wonder where my place will be. When? It’s better not knowing. I’m heading toward it, though; we all are. It could be years, could be tomorrow, but the place is there, waiting.

  I close the box and turn to the window. Esmeralda is coming up Hill with two suitcases in tow, a clump of scarves around her neck, and a bright orange cap. She arranges herself in front of the Hotel Clark. Placing the two suitcases like walls, she slides between them, throws over a sheet of plastic, and disappears until she emerges seconds later like a flower peeking through dirt. That is her pose. I get dressed, pour a mug of tea, and head down to her.

  “Here.”

  “What is it?”

  “What is it always? Tea.”

  “A little scotch in there?”

  “I’m out.”

  “What kind of man could be out of scotch? I’ll tell you what kind. A sorry-ass one. A man who’s lost his way and given up on things that matter. What day is it? Feels like night was just here; now it’s back. Where you been?”

  “Went to Boston to see my mother.”

  “You got a mother, huh? Still alive?”

  “Not doing well. Remember, I told you her mind’s going.”

  She looks at me as if I were an odd face in the mirror.

  “What kind of tea is this?”

  “Green,” I say.

  “Tastes more like hot water. You come down here giving me hot water pretending it’s tea.”

  “It’s tea.”

  “Hmmmmm. How about ten dollars?”