Where Bodies Lie

by D. K. Greene

  Peter clears his throat. “Right. None of those. I’ve got to hang this banner, though. Any suggestions?”

  “Removable poster tape is in the drawer under the whiteboard,” Sanchez answers, his voice less lively than his hair pretends to be.

  At the edge of the room, fancy cabinetry encases a large whiteboard. Peter opens drawers filled with ballpoint pens, pads of paper and finally, a single, almost empty, roll of double-sided tape. “Got it. Thanks!”

  There’s no reply, and Peter realizes Sanchez already hung up.

  He’s standing on a wheeled chair when the intercom lets out a long, low beep. Peter’s hands are over his head. He presses the banner against the wall and realizes he hasn’t taken the second layer off the tape to reveal the adhesive. He looks under his armpit, back toward the intercom. “Hello?” he asks, his voice muffled under his arm. The intercom beeps again and he realizes he’s got to press a button to answer the stupid thing. He lets the banner go. The vinyl scrapes against the wall as it falls, draping itself over toys on the table below.

  The chair shifts on its wheels as he scrambles down. He loses his balance, falling ass over teakettle. Somehow, he catches himself on the corner of the whiteboard cabinet before crashing to the floor. The intercom beeps again.

  Getting his feet on solid ground, Peter stretches across the table to push the flashing red button. His breath is unsteady, heart pounding against his ribcage. He’s about to tear into Sanchez for trying to kill him. “What?”

  “Mr. Willard, your two o’clock has arrived,” the receptionist announces.

  Peter looks at the banner. “Give me ten minutes, then send them up. Tell them I’m wrapping up with another customer.”

  The chair goes back to the wall and Peter climbs it, careful to stay balanced so the wheels don’t take off on him again. He pulls the tab off the adhesive and smacks the vinyl against the wall. It holds, and once he’s gingerly climbed down again, he looks back to find Alphabet Apes hanging almost level.

  He wheels the chair to the table and hits the space bar on his laptop, bringing it to life. He has the scanner gun set up beside it. The device doesn’t work, but it makes a convincing beeping sound when Peter passes it over the barcodes. As long as he keeps anyone from looking at the laptop screen, they’ll never know it’s announcing a reader error.

  Peter pulls up a spreadsheet with headers labelled Name, Date, and Location of Purchase. It has the same Alphabet Apes logo in the upper left corner that appears on his badge and business card. The whole setup looks almost legitimate. He feels a boost of confidence. This might work.

  There’s a knock at the door. Peter springs from his seat to open it, but it swings wide before he gets there. Jesse is short, wiry, and has eyes the size of saucers. He gawks at the loot piled around the room. Peter can’t help but smile. A tall, curvy woman arrives in the hall behind the teenager. She seems irritated and her mood doesn’t lighten when she finds the kid blocking her path.

  “Get in, or get out.” She pushes Jesse to the side and forces her way into the room.

  “You must be Tracey.” Peter extends his hand in greeting.

  “Mmm hmm.” Tracey turns her back on him, looking to her son. “Are you going to give him the box, or what?”

  Jesse swings a knapsack off his boney shoulder and pulls a box of cereal out of it. “I’m J. That’s my mom. I told her to bring ID like you said. Here’s my box. Do I get to pick a prize?” He stops his rapid-fire speech and takes a deep breath. “This is so cool.”

  Peter chuckles at his enthusiasm. “It is cool. Here’s how it works. I head over to my laptop and scan your box. It’ll tell me what you’ve won. Then, we’ll do a little paperwork and the two of you will be on your way.” He winks at Tracey.

  “You sure this won’t take long?” She shuffles her feet and looks longingly at the chairs surrounding the table.

  “Not at all. But please, pull up a seat.” Peter bends slightly, coming eye-to-eye with Jesse. “Want me to give you a tour of the goods?”

  “Fuck yeah!” Jesse jumps up on his tiptoes and does a little dance. His jeans dangle from his narrow hips and swish like a hula skirt as he moves.

  “Jesse!” Tracey screeches. “Language.”

  The teenager melts to the ground. “Sorry. I mean, yes, sir. That sounds great.”

  Leaning into Jesse, Peter whispers, “Well then, fuck being quick. Let’s take a nice, long look.”

  His eyes sparkle. Jesse’s grin spreads so wide, Peter thinks he’ll crack his ears. They turn to the piles of goodies. The pair peruses the miscellaneous items first, and Peter’s comforted when Jesse finds it all as confusing as he does. They move on to the mountain of music stuff and the kid practically drools over a bright red electric guitar in the center of the display. He reaches toward it and lets his fingers hover over the strings. Tracey clears her throat, and he pulls his hand back.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Peter smiles.

  Jesse nods emphatically, and Peter uncovers the base of the guitar from the pile. He picks it up gingerly and hands it to the kid. He can see Jesse’s heartbeat throbbing in the side of his neck. His fingers tremble when he takes it. He holds it close to his body as though it were a newborn baby.

  “Odds are, it won’t happen,” Tracey announces. Her statement has all the warmth and comfort of a giant pile of dog shit.

  Her son slumps his shoulders and hands the guitar to Peter with a morose expression.

  “Let’s see what else there is.” Peter puts the guitar back and they move through art supplies and on to electronics. He leaves Jesse fiddling with a video game controller. “So, Tracey, how about we look at that box?”

  He picks the Alphabet Apes package up. It’s lighter than he expects. He flips the top open to find it empty. There isn’t even a plastic liner inside.

  “We didn’t know if you had to keep it,” Tracey explains, tucking a clump of her fiery curls into a high ponytail.

  Peter taps the spacebar on the laptop as he sits down. “I need to see your identification, Tracey.”

  She digs around her gigantic purse. It’s the color of baby vomit and is big enough to carry half a cart of groceries. She produces a smaller purse from within its depths, and from that pulls out a wallet. She flips the wallet open to a lengthy line of plastic cards and pushes the mass across the table. Her ID is locked behind a plastic screen, pressed so deep in the surrounding leather that she’d need a pair of scissors to get it out again.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Deere.” Peter smiles politely as he looks the wallet over.

  “Miss Deere,” she corrects. She smiles for the first time since she arrived. She taps the table with acrylic fingernails. “Never married.”

  “I apologize for the assumption.” He shoots her a polite smile, then gets ready to enter her information in the spreadsheet. “Tracey, where did you purchase this box of cereal?”

  “I got it at the grocery store off Cedar Hills Boulevard.” She opens her cavernous purse again. “Do you need the receipt?”

  “No, thank you. Just need to know the general area for our head office.” Peter fills in the blanks on his form. He looks at the box. The home-made sticker gleams from the lower left corner. He steals a look at Jesse. The teenager is holding a beginner painter’s set, but is staring longingly at the electric guitar across the room. Peter scans the box and the computer beeps.

  Jesse jumps, and Tracey leans forward. Peter grins. “Well, would you look at that...”

  The room is silent as he heads directly toward the guitar. The energy in the room shifts as he nears it, and he struggles to keep a straight face. Tracey groans when he touches the smooth red lacquer. Jesse gulps in air and Peter thinks he might start crying. There’s a collective sigh as Peter shifts the instrument off to the side.

  He digs in the swag below the guitar stand. He finds what he’s looking for and hands it over. Jesse looks disappointed and turns the small white envelope over in his hands a couple times. “What is it?”<
br />
  “A gift certificate for music lessons,” Peter answers quietly.

  Jesse’s eyes widen, unnaturally large on the kid’s narrow face. His eyebrows knit together. He trembles a moment before giving in to his excitement and dancing in place. Peter looks over at Tracey, who looks even more disappointed than Jesse had a moment ago.

  “Music lessons?” Tracey sinks in her chair.

  “Yes.” Peter turns to look at her straight-on. He puts his hands down on the table and leans forward. It’s fitting they’re in a conference room because he means business. “This certificate entitles J to five music lessons in the instrument of his choice. The locations are printed on the back, but the one closest to you is up on Cascade Avenue. Prizes are not transferrable or refundable.”

  “So, the lessons won’t be at home?” Tracey waves her son over. She takes the envelope from him, opens it, and reads the certificate.

  “No. They’ll be right in the music store, so the sound won’t bother you.” Peter doesn’t trouble himself with hiding his smug grin.

  “Oh, it’s not me.” Her hand goes to her chest defensively. “Honestly, it’s the neighbors. We live in an apartment. We’re on our last legs with management.”

  When she hands the envelope back to Jesse, he raises it to his face and says, “Oh. My. God. I’m getting guitar lessons.” His lips quiver and he whispers a repeating, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod...”

  After returning Tracey’s wallet, Peter offers the empty cereal box. She pushes it back, but Jesse snaps out of his trance and snatches it. Both Peter and Tracey look at him. Jesse’s so happy his pale skin practically glows.

  “I’m keeping it. I want to remember this forever!”

  Peter congratulates the kid. Jesse resumes his excited shuffle and dance. Soon, the awkward teen and his mother head down the hallway toward the elevator. Peter eyeballs the mass of stuff he has to re-pack to take home. It’s raining again, which is a bother since he wants to keep everything looking new. The whole fiasco is a giant pain in the ass.

  He remembers the look on Jesse’s face when he found out he was getting music lessons. He decides it’s worth the effort.

  Thirty-Seven

  “How did it go?” Dougy presses his body into the person in front of him as if he can push the line along by force.

  “How did what go?” Peter concentrates on keeping both plates of sloppy Joe balanced on his tray. The inspector keeps bumping into him. Peter doesn’t want to drop his dinner. Sloppy Joes were Peter’s favorite meal back when his name was Henry and he had two functioning parents. After he got sent to foster care, he didn’t have the liberty of favorites anymore.

  “The interview,” Inspector Douglas says, lowering his brow suspiciously.

  Peter’s attention snaps. He looks at Dougy in a panic. “What interview?”

  “Your dad told me you had a lead for a job, and that’s why you weren’t here yesterday.” Dougy leans back and gives Peter a long look.

  “Oh, that. It went well.” He tries to hold his sigh of relief in, but it doesn’t work. A whistle of air passes through Peter’s teeth and he wheezes in concert with the lady in line behind him. He trips over his own feet when he steps forward and almost loses one of the plates. Sloppy Joe slips over the edge of the tray and drips down his fingers.

  “What kind of work is it?” Dougy turns his attention to where an overtired nurse fumbles with change at the register.

  “It’s a non-profit,” Peter says. “They support needy families. It’s a real nice setup.”

  They shuffle a few feet in silence, then stop while the old man the inspector’s been trying to push forward digs around in his hospital robe for his wallet. Inspector Douglas pats Peter with a heavy hand. “I’m sure they’ll call you back.”

  Peter’s shoulder dips under the weight of his touch. “Yeah, probably.”

  “You need to build up a little confidence.” Dougy winks as he slides up to the counter. He gives the woman behind the register a full smile and extends his hand. “Hello, there. I’m Inspector Richard Douglas. This is my friend, Peter. We’re working a big cold-case.”

  The lady lifts a thin smile to her sallow cheeks and grips the tips of his fingers in a weak handshake. “Nice to meet you, gentlemen. Paying together?”

  “Separate,” Peter and Dougy announce.

  She rings them up, and they start the lengthy walk to Oliver’s room. The inspector beams at Peter. “See what confidence can do? She didn’t even charge me for the coffee. On the house because I’m an inspector. A confident inspector. She was practically swooning. It’s good that I’m a faithful man, Henry. Women throw themselves at me like that all the time.”

  “Like Special Agent Jones?” he jokes. The only thing Mac wants from her partner is his notice of retirement. Peter sniggers when the inspector narrows his eyes.

  “Go ahead. Laugh. When we first started working together, she fell all over herself every time I looked at her sideways. It was like having a groupie out in the field with me.” Inspector Douglas notices Peter’s disbelief and urges, “It’s true. There was a time when she treated me like a rock star.”

  “What happened?” An uneven smile creeps across Peter’s face.

  Dougy drops the jovial banter, suddenly long faced. “I told her it would never happen between us. I’m a married man.”

  “Sure, you did. Was that before, or after, she got pissed you weren’t retiring?”

  A thick crease appears around the inspector’s mouth as he frowns. “You’ve picked up on that?”

  “The way she trudges around makes it hard to miss. With you down here, she’s probably basking in the glory of being alone.” Peter winks, then nudges him with an elbow. “Hey, Dougy?”

  He looks at Peter with an expression that says he’s itching to brainstorm ideas for dealing with his insubordinate junior partner. “Yeah?”

  Peter tips his head toward a sign hanging over the java station. “The coffee’s free for everyone.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Progress has been slow, but eventually Oliver’s pneumonia clears up enough for him to return to prison. Inspector Douglas wastes no time setting up a trip to search the Sea Lion Caves on the coast outside Florence. Yesterday, the medical staff listed Ollie as fit for general population. Today, Peter packs for a mid-week stay at the beach.

  A winter storm is set to roll in by the weekend. That gives the search crew three days to comb over the caves and surrounding areas. Peter’s not sure this search will be successful. Thousands of people, millions of gallons of salt water, and hundreds of sea lions pass through the caves every week. He voiced his doubts, and Special Agent Jones echoed them. The inspector wouldn’t listen. Oliver says he left a man named Fisher there, and Dougy intends to find him.

  The Oregon coast is mildly comfortable during the height of summer. It’s gloomy, foggy, and soggy in December. Peter’s packed every piece of warm clothing he owns in a duffel bag and knows it still won’t be enough to fight the damp chill. He wonders if someone from the prison will have the foresight to send his father off with a heavy coat and pants. He may be a heartless killer, but even murderers can have a relapse of pneumonia if they aren’t careful.

  Peter updates the voicemail message on the AA phone to let potential winners know the office is closed. He shuts the phone off and hides it inside a loose air vent in the living room. After he reorganizes the closets, he pulls his bed and couch away from the walls a few inches so there’s room to shove prizes behind them. Everything associated with Alphabet Apes is out of sight, hidden in every available nook and cranny of the apartment.

  If anyone breaks in while he’s gone, the only thing that’ll look out of the ordinary is the stack of mail erupting on the coffee table. Peter thinks about browsing through the pile of bills while he waits, but the moment he picks up an envelope there’s a knock at the door. The investigative duo is early.

  Dougy pushes his way into the apartment the second the door opens. Trailing behind, M
ac looks irritated. Peter moves away from the open door, tossing the power bill back on the coffee table. The pile shifts, sliding across the far end until a single letter drops over the edge.

  “Anything important in there?” Special Agent Jones wrinkles an eyebrow, looking at Peter like a concerned mother.

  He raises his palms in the air. “I don’t know. Is electricity important?”

  The inspector flicks his gaze at Peter. “Not if you’re okay with takeout and cold showers.”

  Refusing to comment on his newfound lack of concern for life’s necessities, Peter retrieves his coat and picks up his duffel bag. The second the luggage is in his hand, Dougy retrieves it and is halfway out the door before Peter even registers what’s happened.

  Mac mutters an irritated phrase under her breath, then looks around the room. “Do you have everything?”

  Peter picks his keys up off the kitchen counter. “If it’s not in the bag, I won’t need it.” He gestures toward the door and she leads the way out of the apartment. He turns the lock on the knob as he pulls the door closed behind him. He shoves his keys in his pocket, not bothering to secure the deadbolt the way he used to. They’re making the short walk toward the parking lot when a loud horn startles him.

  “We’re coming!” Mac yells at the car idling behind Peter’s parking spot. She looks at him with narrow eyes. “Want to sit up front? He’s been like this all morning. It’s driving me crazy.”

  Peter picks up his pace when the inspector revs the engine. “What’s got him so excited? Hasn’t he ever been to the Sea Lion Caves before?”

  She stops short of the car and touches Peter’s arm. “Let’s just say the local Sheriff isn’t crazy about our request for a visit. They had it out on the phone this morning and it’s got him on edge.”

  He opens his mouth to ask if anyone’s ever been excited to have Ollie visit, but before the words come out Dougy’s rolled the window down.

  The inspector leans across the passenger seat, glaring at them from behind the wheel. “Will you chatty Cathies hurry up? If you’ve got something to talk about, have your conversation in the car.”