by Dan Taylor
And if the person knew Tracy, there’s some evidence of their relationship in her duplex—email correspondence, text messages, or dirty photos.
She could even have a live-in boyfriend I don’t know about, who fled the scene of the crime a couple minutes before I got here. There wasn’t a car in the driveway when I came the first time. But that doesn’t mean shit. The guy could’ve been at work when I visited Tracy, come back while I was driving home, murdered her, and then fled.
If she does have a boyfriend, this investigation is going to go really well, really quickly.
I go up the stairs to her bedroom and start looking through her wardrobe. Most of the items hanging from the rail are obviously Tracy’s: glittery tops she’d wear out to a nightclub, smart-casual cardigans she’d wear to whatever job she does—maybe administration, office work—and other items that are certainly female. There’s one item of clothing that’s curious. It’s a pair of pants that look like they belong to a suit, gray pinstriped. I take them out and compare the dimensions to my legs and ass, and come to a conclusion: either Tracy lived with a boyfriend with child-bearing hips and short legs and who only owned one pair of pants, or Tracy wasn’t living with anyone.
There’s a collection of shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe, and they’re all obviously feminine.
I go to the kitchen again, and inspect the stew that was at a rolling boil. I remember it didn’t smell good, which means one of two things: 1) it’s been tainted, spiked with whatever substance took Tracy’s life, or B) Tracy can’t cook for shit.
I look around the kitchen, but don’t find a dirty bowl that looks like it’s contained the stew recently. There are dirty bowls, but they’re at least half a day old, and have dried, piled up in the sink.
Next I look in the dishwasher. Upon first glance it looks empty. As far as I know, Tracy lives alone, and it looks like she was either lazy or carbon-footprint conscious, the latter if she saved them up so she could hit them all with one wash cycle. When I pull out the lower shelf, I notice there’s a spoon in the cutlery basket, rinsed, freshly wet but most of the water having run off.
I inspect it, nodding, and then place it back.
I lift up the ladle resting in the saucepan, making sure I pull it up only half-full, and then sniff it.
It sure smells funky, and not something you’d charge ten dollars a bowl for at a restaurant.
But I need to know for sure.
I look up and see a cat in Tracy’s yard. It spots me looking, eyeing me skepticism, as though it knows what I’m thinking.
Tracy’s kitchen has access to the yard by a door. Putting ethics aside, although they’re already long gone by now, I’m standing inside the doorway, on my haunches, trying to coax it over. Cats and I have a mutual understanding that we leave each other alone. This understanding has served me well, but now I need to summon my inner cat lover.
I do the thing where you rub your fingers together as though asking for a tip from a hotel resident for whom you just carried their bags, and suck through my teeth repeatedly.
The only response I get from the cat is it moving its tail back and forth like a snake that’s being charmed, so I take out my keys, and start shaking them as noiselessly as I can manage.
Still no dice.
I don’t blame him or her, and have newfound respect for cats.
But by God I’m going to get that little fucker in this kitchen with me.
Conscious of the neighbor possibly being in his side of the garden, I creep towards it, knees bent, as I show it my open palm, whispering, “Stay where you are, buddy. Daddy’s got a surprise for you.”
I expect it to bolt just before I reach it. But somehow, someway, I gained this cat’s trust, and I’m able to scoop it up in my arms and make it back to the safety of the kitchen with only a few scratches.
I pat him, telling him he’s a good boy, which he doesn’t like; the little guy knows that’s the behavior of a dog owner. He starts squirming, so I place him down. He stands there, looking around, and I assume this isn’t Tracy’s cat. There’s no evidence of her owning one, and he’s looking at the place like a prospective home buyer, checking for cracks in the ceiling or signs of dry rot.
“Stay there, buddy,” I say to him, and take out a fresh bowl from the cupboard. I ladle out some of the stew and place it down for him on the floor.
“Go ahead, take a bite. It’s yours.”
Two minutes later the cat hasn’t tried the stew, despite my having crawled up to the bowl to smell it, with a goofy smile on my face, communicating Tracy’s culinary prowess, and having cracked some fresh pepper onto the surface of it.
I get an idea.
I go up to the refrigerator and take out a carton of milk. For some reason I smell it to check it’s fresh—a force of habit—and then I hold it up to show him. “You like this, don’t you, cat?”
All I get is a poker face.
I decant a little of the milk into the stew, to sweeten the deal, and the cat saunters up to the plate. I move back, giving her space (although I haven’t inspected its genitalia, I’m now convinced it’s female), and utter words of encouragement. When standing by it, the cat smells it, and saunters back over to where it stood originally.
“I don’t blame you, buddy,” I say, and then I go over to the door and open it.
The cat doesn’t go out. Not only that: It moves on through to the living room, without invitation, and takes a seat on the couch.
I sigh.
Looks like I’m going to have company for the evening, including Tracy.
11.
I’m sitting on Tracy’s couch, just about to look through Tracy’s text messages, when my phone starts to ring. Oh, boy.
No high-fives for guessing who it is and why she’s phoning.
I take a few deep breaths and then answer, attempting to sound breezy and like I’ve been expecting her call when I say, “Hancock speaking,” a greeting I realize my wife might find jarring a second after I’ve said it.
But she doesn’t notice, as she says, “Thank God! I thought you’d crashed again, and was about to start phoning hospitals.”
The crash Grace is referring to involved my bumping into the back of another car, not even enough to scratch the paint on the bumper of my rental, but enough to warrant, in Grace’s mind, her inspecting my scalp for bumps and bruises.
“I’m very much alive. But I’ve got some bad news.”
Silence a second. “They’re out of Sauvignon Blanc at Joe’s?”
Grace is referring to Joe’s Liquor Store.
“Worse than that, I’m afraid.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re driving. Are you not coming home?”
“I will at some point.”
“I meant are you not on your way home now?”
“No.”
She sighs. “I suppose it’s good news, you having work; I just haven’t seen much of you today. I kinda miss having you around.”
“And I miss being there. If I were you, I wouldn’t wait up for me.”
“What’s she called?”
“What? Why would you even think that? I’m not with—”
“Jake, relax. I’m just busting your balls.”
“Good, I suppose.”
“Where are you?”
The cat’s been silent the whole time she’s been in the duplex; she was even silent when she scratched the shit out of me on the way here. But now she decides to purr, eliminating ninety percent of the plethora of places I could’ve said I was.
I make a slitting-throat gesture to the cat, telling it to keep its trap shut, but it’s too late: “Is that a cat?” Grace asks.
“It is.”
“Then where are you? Are you in a client’s home?”
Telling her I am would be easy, but she might get suspicious if I just go along with what she suggests. And knowing Grace, it’s probably a trap, this the first of many questions to ensnare me in my own spider’s web of lies.
; “No.”
“Then where?”
“Cat shelter.”
“Why?”
“I was thinking about getting us a cat. But the adorable little guy or gal I’m looking at just ruined the surprise.”
“You hate cats.”
“I wouldn’t use that strong a word.”
“You would and have. In fact, you said as much last week.”
“Did I?”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Parents with small children who own cats are certifiable. Those things are a scratched cornea and lifelong blindness waiting to happen.’”
“That quote didn’t include the word hate.”
“Then you said, ‘I hate cats.’”
“Then my being here shows what sacrifices I’m willing to make to make you happy.”
“I agreed with you.”
“You’re using the wrong tense, honey. Agree. You agree with me.”
“Not that. I also said I hate cats.”
“I took that to mean you like them. I thought you were doing that thing wives do, when they say the opposite of what they mean.”
“You don’t sound right, Jake. I’m worried.”
“Do I sound different?”
“You’re speaking in a high-pitched voice, talking in marriage clichés, and acting strange.”
“How so?”
She does an impression of me, sounding like Mickey Mouse experiencing a bad acid trip.
So I say, “Not that. How am I acting strange?”
“Well, you’re visiting a cat shelter, and after saying you were coming home.”
“That’s not strange.”
“Has this got something to do with when you were caught in that traffic jam all night? Is there something I should know?”
“Okay, I admit it. I’m not at a cat shelter.”
“Then where are you?”
I lower my voice. “I am at a client’s home.”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“This client wants me to be discreet. So discreet I’m contractually obliged to not even inform my wife I’m working for him or her. They’re a VIP, the rich and eccentric kind.”
There’s silence a second. I glance at the cat, which I’m sure is looking at me like I’m a bozo.
Then Grace says, “So it was a lie when you said you had a client who wanted you to prove their soon-to-be ex-spouse is a terrible pet owner?”
“Yep. It says I’m discreet in my ad. I guess that’s why I got the gig.”
“And it makes sense you wouldn’t be at the office, if this client wants you to be as discreet as possible. Jeez, I’m really sorry, honey, for even doubting you for a second.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’ll make it up to you when you get back.”
“There’s no need. Really. But if there were a need, what would that entail?”
She says it to me in a sultry voice.
And I say, “Wouldn’t that wake Ellie?”
“Not if you do it right.”
“Then it’s a deal. I have been a good husband.”
I think of something, so I say to Grace, “I’ve got to go.”
“Can you at least confirm whether it’s a movie star before you go? The more time I spend at home, the more I find myself wanting to experience other people’s excitement vicariously.”
“I can’t do that. But let’s just say this person has statues in their home, the type that can fit on a mantel piece.”
“Really? Is it big bucks?”
“Yep, they’ll barely fit in my wallet. Gotta go, honey. The butler’s just come in and nodded at me, letting me know my client’s finished in the bathroom.”
“Just one more thing.”
I sigh. “What is it?”
“Are you going to be long? Should I stay up?”
I think about the lack of men’s pants in Tracy’s wardrobe, and say, “Might be an all-nighter.”
“Oh. I guess I’ll go to bed, then.”
“Great idea. Rest up for tomorrow. Try to sleep through the night. Bye, honey.”
She hangs up without saying bye, letting me know I’ll be getting oatmeal for breakfast the next couple days instead of bacon and pancakes.
I put my phone away, go over to Tracy’s front door, thinking a second about the nosy neighbor, waving to me as he smiled when I returned.
12.
This is a delicate situation. I’ve got to go and speak to the next-door neighbor, as there’s a better-than-good chance that nosy asshole saw someone leave Tracy’s side of the duplex before I got here. But I’ve got to do so without raising suspicion of who I am, and preferably without him finding out Tracy’s dead. He could turn out to be a do-gooder who’ll get straight on the phone to the cops to let them know his neighbor’s dead. I hate assholes like that. Always meddling.
I take a look at myself in Tracy’s full-length mirror in her hallway, preparing myself. I don’t know if this is a good thing, but I don’t look the least bit stressed out. I’m either cool under pressure, or totally lacking in empathy.
I decide the former, take a deep breath, go out Tracy’s front door, close it behind me, and stroll over to his front door. I can see the back of his head through the window. He’s sitting watching TV, and he has a bald spot. I also observe he’s one of those lunatics who has tacky drawings of wild cats adorning his walls. The ones with the rainbows and glitter and the cats looking majestic and like they wouldn’t rip your throat out for a midnight snack.
I knock on the door, doing so harder than I’d like, and he turns around, startled, and looks at me. He frowns, ignores me, and goes back to watching whatever TV show it is.
So I knock again.
He gets up this time, and thirty seconds later I look down to see his letter slot slap opening slowly.
Then he says, “Are you a cop?”
My plan’s to keep him relaxed, to handle him with silk gloves, but my default setting kicks in, and I say, “If I were, that would be a really dumb thing to say to me.”
“Go away, asshole.”
The flap closes.
I knock again.
The flap opens.
He tells me to go away again, so I play hardball: “I’ll knock all night if I have to. This is important.”
Silence a second. “What’s it about?”
“Can you open the door? No offense, but I’d kinda like to be able to see your face when I ask you this question.”
“Why do you want to see my face?”
“That tends to be how people have conversations. And looking at my face has gotta be better than looking at my crotch.”
Ten seconds later the door opens, and I’m presented with a late-thirties librarian-looking type with a body that’s never seen a training studio, jowls, and a hard expression on his face, like I’ve just woken him up at 2 A.M. to have this conversation.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“I’m Tracy’s friend from work, and—”
Interrupting me, he scoffs. “Yeah, right. And I’m the Dalai Lama.”
“Truly, I am. I was just wondering—”
“Look, you can tell Tracy the TV’s as low as I can have it without me having to use subtitles.”
“That’s not why I’m here. She hasn’t even mentioned that.”
“Then what are you doing banging on my door so loudly? You scared the shit out of me. And you can drop that friend-from-work thing. I’ve lived next door to Tracy for five years. I’m not a jackass.”
“Then just a regular friend. That’s what I am.”
He raises an eyebrow.
So I say, “Would you believe I’m a relative?”
“I’d believe it if you said Tracy showed you her bedroom before she had chance to offer you a drink.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Look, don’t take it personally. But you, what you are, you’re totally Tracy’s type.”
I want to get the conversation back on track, but I’m also in
trigued by what he means, and why I might take it personally. “What’s Tracy’s type?”
“You’ve got married guy written all over you. Bored married guy.”
“The reason I’ve come over, Tracy’s not home.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“That’s why I’m standing here.”
“Then wait for her…” He shakes his head, then says, “I don’t know what to tell you, guy.”
“What I mean is, did you see anyone leave Tracy’s home before I got here? I’m worried about her.”
“Of course.”
“Who?”
“Is this some sort of weird joke you’re playing, because if it is, I’d rather just go back to watching Stargate SG-1.”
Noting his perplexed look, I frown and asks again, “Who?”
He shakes his head, and then says, “You’re fucking with me. I don’t know why, but you are. Can you come back when I’m not high? I think this, whatever it is you’re doing, will be more fun then.”
“I’m confused.”
“You look it, too.”
“Help me out here, buddy. Who did you see leave Tracy’s duplex?”
“You are being serious?”
I nod yes, feeling sheepish, though I have no idea why.
Slowly, like he’s speaking to a child who’s pissed his pants for the fifth time that day, he says, “Think about it. If Tracy’s not home, then who do you think I saw leave?”
The reason I told him Tracy’s not home is because I wanted a reason to come around here asking him questions. But he’s neither found it a surprise nor… I don’t know how to finish that sentence. All I know is that I’m confused, and that the guy standing in front of me estimates my IQ to be that of zucchini.
I think about his question again, and say the only answer that would make sense, if I didn’t already know Tracy’s dead.
After I’ve told him, he says, “Well done. We got there in the end.”
“You saw Tracy leave five minutes before I came back?”
