His head began to ache. He leaned forward and fished the coffee mug off of the low table. Alright, breathe in, breathe out. Focus Bucko! What do you know for sure? Going up to the roof about eight, that sounded right. Okay, one step at a time. You smoked a cigar, thought about the article. Yeah, and then I got caught up in more recent history. Right, okay, not the best of topics anytime. Then Quinn remembered the cigar smoke, remembered his neighbor. Yeah, great, you were hoping that the smoke bothered the old bastard. Sorry James. Speaking ill of the dead. Not good. And then? What happened then? Was that the second stick, the first? Wracking his brain as hard as he might, Quinn could not come up with an answer.
Chapter 14
Meals
“Man, I just love kimchi,” said Barnes, swabbing the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. He watched Woo wielding chopsticks over the assorted dishes of pickled vegetables, lifting small bites to his mouth with delicate skill. His partner nodded, a typically silent response.
“Here you are, Gentlemen. You’re lucky, these are the last of the lunchtime noodles. You guys just made it in under the wire.” The young woman placed a plate in front of each of the men. The oblong platters scraped against the vintage formica table.
“Bless you My Child,” intoned Barnes, looking down at the steaming pile of irregular hand-made noodles piled on his platter. The twenty-something waitperson threw a flirty smile over her shoulder and disappeared towards the kitchen. Barnes snatched up a huge portion of the hot noodles with his chopsticks, willing to risk a scalded tongue.
Across the table, Woo spilled half a dish of the fiery kimchi across his mound of noodles. He looked at his partner while stirring in the red cabbage condiment. “You’re going to burn yourself.” He observed his partner’s frantic grab for a water glass. “Told you.” Woo turned his attention back to his plate.
“Yeah, well, it’s worth it.” Barnes sucked some cool air into his mouth and looked around. The detectives were sitting in what had once been the living room of an old house. One wall still sported a defunct brick fireplace. An assortment of formica tables with matching chairs were packed into the smallish room, each table filled with lunchtime diners. The two-storey house had been converted into a restaurant, with seating in the living room, and more tables upstairs in the old bedrooms. Barnes loved to watch the waitresses vaulting up the steep wooden stairs, bearing trays of Korean food to the tables above. He always tipped high, even when, as if by magic, the bill failed to appear.
Between mouthfuls of noodles, Woo spoke. “You know, with your taste in food and your taste in women, you’re going to ruin that Raymond Chandler image you cultivate so carefully.”
Barnes laughed around the noodles he was chewing. “Yeah, well, image isn’t everything. I’m just glad our dead guy had the courtesy to be found early enough that we could still make it here for lunch. Now that you’ve had some brain food, you got any more insight into our dead Mr. Watson?”
“Not much. Thin is still the word that I would use.” Woo paused, pushing at his noodles. “And I’m not holding out much hope for the coroner’s report.”
“What, you don’t have faith in Ghoul Number Two?” Barnes was all ears, a messy string of noodles dangling in midair over his plate.
Woo shook his head. “Blaine’s good. Weird, but good. That’s not the problem. He’s just not going to have anything for us.”
“Okay, based on what?” The string of noodles disappeared into Barnes’ mouth, leaving a smear of sauce over his chin. “Dammit, I’m trying to wear my lunch.” He reached for the already sodden napkin.
Woo placed his chopsticks on the edge of the plate, aligning them with precision. He looked up at Barnes. “Based on the probability that Blaine is not going to find anything that gets us closer to what happened. Time of death, sure, but that doesn’t help us much. At best, we have a crime of opportunity. Maybe someone pushed James Watson off of that balcony. That is possibility number one, the only one that I have. There is not enough evidence to indicate a struggle in the apartment. A broken vase of flowers, yes, but a struggle, no. There was no fight in that room, no one assaulted Watson. That living room was just too neat and tidy. If anyone else was in that apartment, Watson knew them well enough to let them in. And even if the perp killed him in the living room, why throw him off the balcony? No sign of struggle on the balcony either. The chairs were where they should be, the cushions on the chairs weren’t disturbed. It’s a very small space, barely enough room for two people to stand between the chairs, much less engage in a life-and-death struggle.” Woo picked his chopsticks up and fished for another mouthful of the rough noodles.
“Okay, I don’t disagree with any of that Partner. But you said opportunity. Where are you going with this?”
Woo chewed thoughtfully before replying. Barnes knew him well enough to wait.
“The coroner’s report is going to tell us that Watson died of massive head trauma caused by hitting a concrete sidewalk due to a fall from his balcony. I see it like this.” Woo pushed a square ceramic dish of sugar packets to a bare section of the table. “This is the wall of the balcony. Forty-two inches high.” Woo picked up a spoon and held it on end against the sugar dish. “Here is our victim, a tallish man, standing on the balcony.” Woo leaned the spoon forward at an angle. “The victim leans out over the balcony wall for whatever reason. At that moment, someone gives him a push.” Woo inverted the spoon over the ceramic dish and let it fall to the surface of the table. The head of the spoon rang against the formica. The impact of the spoon left a small red blotch of kimchi on the grey surface. “He falls head down onto the concrete. Any bruising from the impact of a push is hidden by the impact of the fall.”
Barnes mulled over his partner’s scenario. “So then our killer flees the scene, knocking over the vase of flowers on the way out. He forgets to close the door because the Dashiell Hammett principle kicks in. Blood Simple. Is that how this version of yours plays out?”
Woo broke into one of his rare smiles. “You better stop making literary references, you know? Remember your image.”
Barnes smirked. “Hey, you’re the one that brought up Chandler. So the broken vase?”
“Right. On the way out, the killer knocks over the flowers. That’s all I have. I can’t see any physical evidence that is going to get us any closer. We’re down to motive and opportunity. What’s your take on the guy in 302?”
Chewing on his lunch, Barnes played out the morning’s interview in his head.
“Something is not right with Mr. Boyd, but I can’t get a hard read on it. He was genuinely surprised when I dropped the bomb on him, that’s for sure. Either that, or he’s good enough for an Oscar. Which I doubt. The kid is an open book for the most part. Something is bothering him though, something other than the obvious. He seemed confused about the timing of last night. He was having trouble with time in general. What time he went up on the roof, when he came back down, those sorts of details. He was struggling with it.” Barnes paused to consider. Putting his thoughts in order, he continued.
“By his own admission, we have him on the roof during the time frame when our victim hits the pavement. So no alibi for Boyd. And we have him with motive for sure. Possibly opportunity. If he isn’t our killer, there’s the possibility that he might have heard something up there on the roof and he’s keeping it to himself. What do you think?”
“Motive, that is a certainty. We’ve both seen people killed for less than an accusation, unfounded or not. By the way, do you think Boyd was the car vandal?”
Barnes waved a hand, dismissing the notion. “No way. I think we concentrate on the accusation itself.”
Leaning in over the table, Woo asked the next question. “What do those finely honed cop instincts tell you? Is this guy our killer?”
“Killer as in premeditated murder-one, no, I don’t see it. Not this guy. But if we’re going with this crime of opportunity theory, a push off the balcony, yeah, it’s possible.” Barnes weighed his
own words, looking at them. “Yeah, we keep after this guy. Like I said, there’s something about him that’s not adding up for me.”
Woo nodded. “Okay, I agree with that, but we need to talk to the responding officers. That leaves us with opportunity, which is there, even if it’s thin. Boyd is in the building at the same time our dead guy goes off the balcony. So there’s that.”
“And the idea that Mr. Boyd heard something up there on the roof?” Barnes dug into his dwindling pile of noodles.
“Doubtful. I don’t mean to rush to Mr. Boyd’s defense, but unless Watson screamed or called out, there wouldn’t be much to hear.” Woo paused. Barnes waited.
“Watson falls from the fourth floor of the building, maybe thirty-six, forty feet, max. Enough to kill him, but not enough time to do much screaming.” Woo paused again, as if checking off items in his brain. “Two seconds, maybe three, tops. A body hitting a section of concrete pavement is not going to make much noise. Just a dull thump. The impact kills him immediately, or he’s so shocked it doesn’t matter. I don’t think there’s anything to hear up on that roof.” Woo pushed away the half-eaten plate. “Two meals in one. I can never finish one of these.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then folded the napkin so that the corners matched. Raising a hand, Woo caught the waitress’ eye and signaled for a to-go box. He looked back at Barnes.
Thin, very thin. Woo was right. Barnes wiped a finger at the corner of his mouth. “So we either find a way to put Boyd at the scene, or we look for a new angle, right?” Barnes dropped his chopsticks on the empty plate and leaned back in his chair.
Woo nodded. “There’s nothing here for the DA, nothing. At best we have a dead citizen who somehow fell from his balcony. Without anything more substantial, accidental death is where this thing is going to end up.”
The waitress appeared and picked up Woo’s plate. “I’ll be right back with this. Anything else for you gentlemen today?”
“Just the check, thanks,” replied Barnes.
“Not today Detective. Last of the noodles and all. It’s on Frank.” She smiled and headed around the corner towards the kitchen.
Barnes watched her go while reaching for his wallet. “I got this one Partner.” He peeled off a ten and slid it under his empty plate.
Woo pushed back from the table. “You know, I would guess our server is all of twenty-two. I don’t suppose Celia would necessarily approve of the motivation for your generosity.”
“That’s a fact,” said Barnes, standing up. “That is a fact.” He smiled at Woo’s deadpan face. “C’mon, lets see if we can catch Perkins and his partner before they go on shift.”
Quinn stared out across the Willamette River. The lights of the Hawthorne Bridge reflected off the black surface of the water. Sonya’s voice pulled him back from the expanse of glass that stretched across the width of the living room.
“You need to eat something Quinn.” The voice was measured and deliberate. Sonya stood at the granite counter of the kitchen bar, spooning food out of white cardboard to-go cartons. “C’mon Baby, food, right? Have you eaten anything today?”
Quinn turned away from his own reflection, a dark backlit shape hovering in the darker glass. He padded across the deep carpeting of the living room.
“No, I really wasn’t thinking about food today.” Quinn managed a wan smile, looking into Sonya’s beautiful face.
Sonya laid down the serving spoon and walked over to Quinn. She folded her arms around him and pulled him close. “It’s going to be okay, right? You know that.” Her soft voice filled Quinn’s head. Sonya leaned away from him, placing a gentle hand on either side of his face. “This is all just a crazy misunderstanding, okay? It’s going to be alright. First we’re going to eat some food, yes?”
He let himself be guided to one of the stools at the long kitchen bar. Sonya pushed a plate of Thai food in front of him. “Look, Pad Kee Mao, you’re favorite. Dig in. From the sound of it you’ve had enough questions for one day.” Sonya slid in beside him and pulled a plate across the polished surface.
Quinn tried to let the day fall away, tried to enjoy the fiery noodles. He was glad to be out of that damned building, a little bit more removed from the insanity of the morning.
After the cop walked out of his apartment, the morning had seemed like an eternity. What the hell was he supposed to do now? When the streets finally cleared of cops, he packed his messenger bag and left the building. He needed to be out, anywhere else, out of that damned nightmare. Wandering south across Burnside, Quinn headed towards the city, walking past the busy food trucks and the queues of lunchtime workers. He kept looking back over his shoulder, expecting to see some shadowy figure following him. He veered north to Stark and bought a few cigars. The routine of the cigar store did nothing to ease the darkness pressing down on him from the inside. He found himself heading for the river as the anger started to take hold of him. That son of a bitch. James fucking Watson. You stupid dead prick, what are you trying to do? You want to ruin someone’s life, go ruin your own and leave the rest of us poor bastards alone. Easy for you, you’re dead. The word pushed back against the anger. Dead. Okay, I guess you have ruined your own life, you miserable excuse for a human being.
Quinn found a quiet bench along the Willamette promenade. Smoking ban be damned, he thought, lighting up one of the cigars. He could see clouds of smoke rising from the knots of homeless people gathered up and down the length of the park. The pungent smell of ganga drifted to his bench from the nearest group of tattered souls. He found his cell phone in the jumble of the messenger bag and hit Sonya’s number.
By the time the conversation was over, Quinn remembered that he was not alone. Sonya was the voice of reason, cutting through the insanity of the day. Sonya was not freaked out. Concerned, but not freaked out. Standard police questioning, nothing to worry about, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Of course he was upset, who wouldn’t be upset? No, if he didn’t answer their questions, they would just be back. Yes, much better idea for him to spend the night at her place. Would he be alright until she got off work? Yes, he would call Scotty B.
“Quinn, are you okay Baby?” Sonya had turned her stool to face him.
“Yeah, sorry. Drifted off in my head.” Quinn laid down the fork that was dangling in his hand. He managed another weak smile.
“How much of this do you want to talk about tonight? I mean, do you need some time? Like I said, you’ve probably had enough questions already.” Her eyes were searching his, looking deep.
Quinn took in a deep breath and blew it out. He smiled at Sonya, a real smile. “I’m sorry to dump this on you Baby. I know this can’t be any fun for you either.” He fell back in the stool and reached for her hand, felt her grasping his own. He looked into Sonya’s face, saw her watching and waiting. He squeezed her warm hand and held on.
“I feel like I’m coming to grips with what happened today, the cops beating on the door, the news of James being dead. I’m working on sorting it out into things I can change and things I can’t. I get that part.” Quinn paused to sort through his thoughts. He felt Sonya giving him as much time as he needed. “There is really only one part of this that I’m struggling with.”
“And what’s that My Love?”
The jumble of thoughts in Quinn’s mind seemed to distill to a single point. There is no way out except straight through the middle, Bucko. Nothing else will work.
“While I was up on the roof, I sort of lost track of everything. I remember mulling over the damned article. I was turning the stories of Charlie and Jebidiah over in my head, trying to get inside them, you know.” Quinn looked at Sonya.
“Right, that’s what you said, you were up on the roof and lost track of time. That wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened Quinn.” She smiled at him, teasing and reassuring at the same time. Despite her efforts to hide it, Quinn saw the cloud of worry behind her smile. This was not going to be easy.
“I know, I can get a little obsessive when I’
m working on something.”
“Your word, not mine.” Sonya’s smile became a little more self-satisfied. “Sorry.”
“So, I remember smoking the first cigar. I started thinking about the old man, the old house. I got into a really dark place about it, you know?” Quinn shook his head, looking down at the plate of food. He straightened up and turned back to Sonya.
“What’s freaking me out is that I don’t remember coming down off of the roof. I don’t remember going to bed. Maybe it’s because I was disoriented, you know? Getting woken up by the cops banging on my door. I don’t know. And that’s what’s got me rattled. I’m pretty sure I had a second stick, that I was up there for a lot longer, maybe midnight. That’s what I told the cop. If I had that piece of it, a clear handle on the time, I would just chalk this whole thing up to being one of the weirdest days of my adult life. But for the life of me, I cannot remember coming down to the apartment or getting into bed.”
Quinn watched a shadow roll across Sonya’s face. It lingered there for a moment until it was replaced by a look of firm resolve. That was a face that he knew well. He braced himself.
“I know that you’ve had more than your share of questions today, but I need to ask you one thing, okay?” Her face was set and unsmiling.
“Whatever you need to ask me Sonya, please do. This is killing me.” Bad choice of words, Bucko.
Blood Rust Chains Page 12
