by Dan Taylor
But I also agree with Detective Lucy that Eric’s got something to do with Buddy’s death.
For the time being, it looks like I’m investigating two deaths: Tracy and her cat.
Eric interrupts my thinking by saying, “Why are you holding a gun?”
I glance down at it, having forgotten about it. “I was going to see if you could remember where your iPhone is if I put a bullet in your leg.”
Before Eric can reply, Detective Lucy says, “Great plan, guy! It gets my vote. And you can be damn sure it’s only a flesh wound.”
Eric looks at me, pleading. “Don’t shoot me, sir. I have no idea where my phone is.”
But I’m not thinking about that right now. That would be Buddy, and how she met her demise.
“Hold on a second,” I say to them.
As I walk back to Buddy, Detective Lucy says, “Don’t pussy out on me, guy.”
I’ve never been good with dead bodies. Even animal ones. A crow or a raven or some shit flew into a window at home, knocking the life out of itself. And it lay there for three days, until my wife mustered up the courage to bag it and put it in the trash. So inspecting Buddy for signs of death will take all my cojones. I put the gun down on the sofa, move the coffee table so I can get a better look of Buddy, and then get down on one knee.
Turns out I needn’t have worried about having to handle Buddy to find out. The reason becomes obvious when I spot something on Buddy’s left paw and whiskers.
I stand up, pick the gun up, and then walk over to the kitchen. Then it seems like a good idea to do what I planned: I shoot Eric Holloway in the leg.
45.
“That’s for Buddy, you asshole,” I say.
Eric’s writhing in pain, and not a great listener at the moment, so I should have probably waited a couple minutes to deliver that line.
Detective Lucy says something, but I can’t hear him over Eric’s wailing. I bend down, pick up the sock Eric had in his mouth, and shove it into his mouth. Then I ask the detective to repeat what he said.
Detective Lucy says, “I can’t believe you did it! If my hands weren’t tied up, I’d high-five you right now.” He thinks a second. “Why did you do it?” Another pause, while he answers his own question in his head. “How did that asshole kill Buster?”
Pensive, I say, “There’s a sticky brown substance on Buddy’s left paw, and on her whiskers, too.”
Detective Lucy recoils in disgust. “Ewww! Ewwwww! How the hell did he get Buster to eat his—”
“It’s the cake,” I say, interrupting him. “Buddy must’ve gone out to the porch when I went to Eric’s side of the duplex, and come back in again when she’d had her fill. Or she licked it off the floor.”
“The cake?” he says. “What cake?”
“The one Eric brought over here. As an…”
I was going to say “excuse” before my voice trailed off: “As an excuse to come over here and to see what all the commotion was about when I had you tied up.”
But it looks like it wasn’t an excuse at all. It looks like I was right about Detective Lucy’s calls for help being drowned out by his watching Stargate SG-1. Eric didn’t come over here to investigate those, as he never heard them. He came over to…
Detective Lucy interrupts my thinking by saying, “As a what? You didn’t finish your sentence.”
“The cake was poisoned,” I say. “And it looks like he was trying to poison one of us.”
46.
“That sick fuck was going to poison one of us?” Detective Lucy asks. I hope he’s thinking out loud and doesn’t think what he says next is pertinent to the investigation, as he says, “So that’s what that brown stuff is on you two. I thought it was—”
“I know what you thought it was.”
“Why did he try to do that?”
“Let me think a second.”
I leave them alone and go into the living room to think. I do so best sitting down, so I take the sofa chair and rest my chin in my hands. I realize a second later I’m pointing the pistol at my ear. I reach over and put it down on the coffee table. I’d be a gun range supervisor’s nightmare.
Before I can get to thinking, Detective Lucy says, “Don’t leave me alone in here too long.”
I ignore him and think about the question at hand: Why did Eric come over here to poison one of us? If not both, then which one?
On the surface, the motive for killing me would be obvious: He obviously knew Tracy was dead, and that I was over here, figuring out who’d done it. But there are more than a few holes in that theory. He’s had plenty of time to come over here and poison me, so why would he wait until Detective Lucy came over to do so? It doesn’t make any sense. Unless Eric’s got the IQ of a llama. But that doesn’t ring true. Not once have I got the impression that guy’s a few piano keys short of a full scale. The opposite, in fact. Dude seems sharp.
And the funny thing is, I don’t think he knew about Tracy’s death. Call it a hunch, call it a lack of REM sleep on account of me being a father with a young child, but it’s what my gut’s telling me. That, and that I should’ve eaten some of that Chinese food.
So that leaves Detective Lucy. Assuming my gut’s right, what reason would Eric have for poisoning him?
“The sock’s coming loose,” he calls over from the kitchen. “His wails are getting louder. I think you better come over and shove it back in. Might be a good idea to tape it in place.”
“Just a second.”
Maybe he freaked when he knew Detective Lucy was here without Tracy. Maybe he thought it a possibility that Detective Lucy would go up into the attic and find all the sordid shit he has on video.
No, that doesn’t seem right.
My instinct’s telling me something, and it only raises more questions than it answers. I whisper it, listening to how it sounds out loud. It doesn’t sound dumb. Not only that, it makes all the sense in the world.
I glance over at Detective Lucy, who’s distracted by staring into space. I whisper it again, “They know each other better than I thought.”
47.
“Are you done yet?” Detective Lucy says. “It’s getting late, and we need to find this cat-poisoning asshole’s iPhone if we’re going to get that guy to come here.”
I pick up the gun and go back over to Eric and Detective Lucy. The latter glances at the gun, a little worry on his face. “Aren’t you finished with that yet?” he asks. “I mean, if you’ve shot the guy—” a nervous laugh “—then why do you still need the pistol in here?”
“I like the feel of it in my hand,” I lie.
I look at Eric. He must’ve gone into shock, as he’s no longer crying for his momma. I think a second about how to play this. Who I need to ask questions to.
I decide it’s Detective Lucy’s turn for a little while. I ask him, “How often did you visit Tracy, Detective?”
He’s taken aback. Looks at me like I just put a hand on his titty. “What’s this, guy? I get the impression we’re not shooting the breeze.”
“It’s just a question I need answering.”
Playing ball, or at least pretending to, he says, “Regularly, I guess.”
“How would you define regularly?”
“Like anyone else. Fuck, twice a month?”
“How well do you know Eric?”
“Well enough that I didn’t know his name.”
He’s right. Or at least he didn’t appear to know Eric’s name.
I frown. “His name never came up in conversation with Tracy?” I ask, shaking my head.
“What’s this about?” he says, stoic.
“Just answer the question.”
He feigns thinking a couple seconds. “No,” he says. “Guy’s name never came up in conversation.”
“So she never mentioned him?” Skeptical.
“Sure she did. She called him Comic Book Guy, like the guy from The Simpsons. Complained about the piece of shit having his TV too loud.”
“A name y
ou haven’t used once while referring to him tonight?”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “I like more caustic nicknames. I’m not as mild-mannered as Sis was. That good enough for you?”
“I don’t know, Detective.” I come clean, to see how that goes. “I’m just trying to work out why Eric would come over here and try to poison you.”
“Me?” he asks. “You think that cake was meant for me?”
“Yeah.”
“I was thinking it was you he tried to poison.”
I tell him that he’s had ample opportunity, and that I’ve been here for hours. Eric only came knocking when he arrived.
“And that means what? That I’ve got something to do with it? Because from your tone, it sure sounds like that’s what you’re implying.”
“I don’t think that at all.”
He nods at the gun. “Then why are you still holding that? Still like the way it feels in your hand?”
“I know better than to shoot a cop,” I say. “Think a second. What reason would Eric have to poison you?”
“I can give you five off the top of my head, but I don’t see how it’s going to help you catch Spaghetti Bean.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“I didn’t put the guy on my Christmas card list.” Flippant.
“It’s time to play serious, Detective.”
“Okay then, we didn’t get along.”
“Why?”
He frowns. “Because I come from the suburbs, he from the city.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
He senses my tone, glances at Eric’s bloody mess of a thigh, and says, “All right. All right! Sis used to send me around there. Knock on his door. Make the complaint look official.” He shrugs. “Sis liked her quiet.”
“And you think that’s good enough reason for wanting to poison you with a tainted mud cake?”
“That’s not what I’m saying. You’re coercing reasons out of me, and I gave you a reason for us not getting along. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
I look at him for a long ten seconds. Detective Lucy sits there looking like he’s in the principal’s office.
I think of something. I go through Tracy’s living room, to her front door, and then out of it. I go up to my rental, look at the front tires. Nothing. But I find what I expected to see in the rear-right tire. It’s flat. Upon closer inspection, I see that there’s a thumbtack hammered into it.
I look around for any prying eyes, and then go and inspect Detective Lucy’s Honda Accord. All the tires are inflated.
Eric wanted to keep me here tonight.
48.
Alarm bells are ringing, and my mind’s working overtime.
I think of what this means in the context of the mud cake, and who the target for its active ingredient was. I also think about if I’m going to keep this information to myself, and if it would be more useful that way.
But decide against it.
I go back to Detective Lucy and tell him what I’ve found, and that it all but confirms he was the target for the mud cake, if I didn’t know that already.
Eric Holloway has come around some, and is murmuring in pain. Muffled by the sock in his mouth.
“How does that make any sense?” Detective Lucy asks.
“Think about it a second.”
“I already did.”
“Let’s assume Eric didn’t have much time to sabotage both cars. Maybe he was afraid of getting caught, or maybe hammering a thumbtack into a tire so that it didn’t make a pop audible from inside Tracy’s side of the duplex took a whole bunch of care and time. Or whatever. Whose car would he target? The guy who he’s going to poison, or the guy he isn’t?”
Detective Lucy frowns. “We don’t even know it was Eric who sabotaged the car.”
“Okay, let’s ask him.” I ask Eric if he did it, and he doesn’t say a word. So I feel around in the hole in his pants and stick my thumb into his bullet wound. He cries out in pain, throwing his head back. When the pain subsides somewhat, I ask him again, and he nods.
Detective Lucy says, “You could ask him if he’s the Dalai Lama and stick your thumb in his wound, and he’d tell you he is. But that wouldn’t make it so.”
“Who else could’ve done it then?”
“Spaghetti Bean? Could be anyone.”
I look at him for a few seconds. Then I say, “Shit, it was you, wasn’t it?”
“No.” Lying.
“Sure it was. You’ve got liar written all over your face.”
“Oh yeah. How’d you know that?”
“I went through a lengthy divorce, Detective. I’ve seen a liar or two in my time.”
Before Detective Lucy has chance to reply, I hear a vibration. The sound of a cell phone. Very faint, but it’s definitely in this room.
Detective Lucy hears it too, and says, “Is that a cell?”
I nod yes. Then we start looking around, Detective Lucy restricted to just using head movement.
It doesn’t sound like it’s on a hard surface, as it’s barely audible, which explains why I missed it last time.
We realize at the same time. Not only is it not on a hard surface, it’s pressed up against the softest surface in the room.
Detective Lucy and I are both looking down at Eric’s ankle, where I’m sure it’s been stuffed into his sock.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Detective Lucy says. “Looks like we’ve found the cell phone.”
49.
“Well what are you waiting for?” Detective Lucy asks. “Get it!”
For a moment I’m like a deer in the headlights. But I spring into action, get on my haunches, and pull the cell phone out as quickly as I can, making sure to keep my fingers away from the screen, just in case I inadvertently receive the call.
I look at the screen, and then show Detective Lucy, who reads it. He says, “‘Uncle Robert.’ Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
We both say it at the same time: “Spaghetti Bean!”
I stare at it a couple seconds, thinking. Then Detective Lucy says, “Well what are you waiting for? Answer it!”
“Not so fast,” I say. “I think someone else needs to do the talking. With a gun to his head.”
We look at Eric to see he’s passed out. Detective Lucy says, “Stop faking, asshole,” and then attempts to kick him, falling short by a few inches.
The phone stops vibrating. Detective Lucy notices, and then says, “Jesus!”
“Relax,” I say. “We can easily phone him back. We just need Spock to be back on planet Earth before we do.”
“Wake up, asshole!” Detective Lucy says.
“I think he might’ve passed out from the pain.”
Detective Lucy looks at me. “Don’t be so naïve. Right at the point his douchebag uncle phoned?”
I’d be inclined to believe the detective, if not for one pertinent fact: When I dug my thumb into his wound, I’m pretty sure I felt bone. And to look at Eric, he doesn’t look like he’s faking it. There’s dribble running down his chin. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Detective Lucy looks at me. “What are you going to do, make the microwave go ping!?”
“I’ve got a better plan.”
Twenty seconds later, Detective Lucy says, “Maybe he’s not ticklish?”
“That isn’t what I was doing.”
I hold up my hand to show him what I’m holding between my fingers. Detective Lucy squints and looks at it. He recoils in disgust and horror, and then he convulses, like he’s going to vomit. When he’s recovered somewhat, coughing, he says, “Yep, he’s not faking.”
I dispose of Eric’s armpit hair in the waste-paper basket and then wash my hands with dish soap—twice. It wasn’t a pleasant job, but someone had to do it.
“What do we do, wait for him to come to?” Detective Lucy asks.
“That, and look at his phone. See what we can find.”
“Isn’t it locked?”
L
ooking at the phone, I say, “It is.”
“I guess we’re not going to be able to guess his code,” Detective Lucy says.
“We don’t have to.”
I press Eric’s thumb to the menu button—or whatever the fuck it’s called—and hold up the cell phone for Detective Lucy to look at. “Bingo!” he says. “You’re a God-damn genius.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Look at his text messages to Uncle Robert.”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“What do they say?” he says, impatiently.
I ignore him and navigate to the message conversation between ‘Uncle Robert’ and ‘Me’, and start looking through them. After reading a couple, I sigh.
“What?” Detective Lucy asks.
“This is all bullshit. Just stuff about arranging a fishing trip.” I look at the dates and sigh again. “These messages date back months ago.”
“Are you sure you’ve got the right ‘Uncle Robert’?”
“There can only be one on the phone, right?” I think a second. “Can you have multiple contacts entries with the same name?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
“You’re a cop.”
“Google it.”
I do, and learn what I feared. The ‘Uncle Robert’ who phoned has to be the same ‘Uncle Robert’ who he’s corresponded with about bullshit, nothing to do with covering up Eric’s having filmed his neighbor going potty.
I tell Detective Lucy, and he says, “Then it’s likely not Spaghetti Bean who was phoning, but some other guy, Jake.”
“Thanks, Detective,” I say. “But I got there all on my own.” I think a second, and then say, “What did you call me?”
Before he has a chance to reply, Eric comes to, and starts screaming muffled screams. He looks at me, eyes wide, and says something.
I remove the sock from his mouth and ask him to repeat it. He says, “Why does it feel like my armpit’s on fire?”
“Who’s Uncle Robert?”
He frowns, looks around. Then he says, “Is Uncle Robert here?” He notices his cell phone in my hand, and says, “Oh.”
