Deception

by Randy Alcorn

“I thought you people could dunk it even when you’re old and fat. Hey, do you know Stevie Wonder?”

  “Not personally.”

  “I like his music. Tell him for me, would you? ‘Tutti Frutti’s my favorite.”

  “That was Little Richard,” Clarence said.

  “And ‘Hit the Road Jack.’ ”

  “Ray Charles.”

  “You know them, too?”

  “Yeah. Stevie, Richard, Ray, and I meet for chitlins and cornbread every Friday night.”

  Not bad, I nodded to Clarence. “Mrs. Butler, could you—”

  “I’m not a Mrs. My no-good husband left me.”

  “Ms. Butler, could—”

  “I’m not one of those either.”

  “Miss Butler—”

  “Do I look like I’m nineteen?”

  “No,” I said. “You certainly don’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that you are a youthful yet mature woman. May I call you Rebecca?”

  “Friends call me Becky.”

  “All right, Becky, did you—”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “Okay … did you see a man come out of the professor’s house last night?”

  “Who’s the professor?”

  “The man who lives in the house where you told my partner—”

  “The spic?”

  “We prefer to call him Hispanic. You told my partner you saw a man come out of the professor’s house.”

  “Whatever.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “The spic? Short and wiry. Burr under his saddle.”

  “No. I mean the man coming out the professor’s door … the man you saw. What did he look like?”

  “Like Abraham Lincoln,” she said.

  Now we were getting somewhere. Abe Lincoln wouldn’t blend into a crowd. “Tall?” I asked.

  “No. Medium. About my brother’s size.”

  “How tall’s your brother?”

  “I’m not on trial here. Neither’s my brother.”

  “You mentioned your brother. I’ve not had the privilege of meeting him.”

  “It’s no privilege.”

  “Is he six feet tall?”

  “Who?”

  “Your brother.”

  “You’re still on my brother?”

  “I’ll get off your brother as soon as you answer my question. Is he six feet tall?”

  “My brother? You crazy?”

  “Look, ma’am, I’ve never seen your brother. I can’t begin to guess how tall he is. I’m assuming you have seen him. Could you just take a guess?”

  “Six inches taller than me.”

  “How tall are you?” She was still sitting, like she’d been poured into the recliner.

  “You going to ask me how much I weigh, too?”

  “Only if you tell me your brother weighs forty pounds more than you.”

  She glared at me.

  “Could you stand, please?”

  “I’ve been up and down all day, answering the phone and the door and trying to fix the antenna for my soaps, and now you’re asking me to stand?”

  My face, if it was following orders, looked earnest and sympathetic. “I’ve got all day, but I don’t want you to miss your soaps. How about you stand just for a second then answer a few more questions, and we’ll leave you alone?”

  She stood slowly, but it didn’t take long for her to get straight.

  Five-foot-one, at most.

  “Then your brother’s about five seven?”

  “You tell me.”

  “If he were my brother, I would.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Kojak.”

  She aimed a frown at me, and when I wouldn’t let it land, she aimed it at Clarence. It landed.

  “I’m not getting smart,” I said. “You’ll know when I get smart. So was he thin?”

  “He used to be, but he’s been laid off and watches lots of TV. Loves the soaps and Oprah and Dr. Phil. He’s put on fifty pounds.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “My brother!” She looked at me like I was a finalist on American Idiot.

  “Let’s forget about your brother, okay?”

  “It’s about time. I told you he has nothing to do with this. He’s written bad checks and spent time in the pokey, but he’s no killer. And for sure he doesn’t know any professors.”

  “I’ll bet he doesn’t. How about the man who was at the professor’s door? Was he thin?”

  “Nope. Pudgy. Like you.”

  Clarence looked up from his PDA. He folded the lid.

  I paused, putting my tongue between my teeth to keep them from locking. “Did I miss an episode?”

  “Whatcha mean?” she asked.

  “I mean … in what way did this man remind you of Abraham Lincoln?”

  “He had a beard!” she said, with a look that confirmed I wasn’t merely a finalist for American Idiot, but had been crowned.

  “Lots of hair?”

  “He was bald.”

  I stared at her, giving the words time to go through my universal translator. It wasn’t working. “Bald … like Abraham Lincoln?”

  “Don’t know if Lincoln was bald. He always wore a hat.”

  “Not when he bathed.”

  “What are you, a pervert?”

  “No, ma’am. So, you’re saying he was short, mostly bald, pudgy, and looked like Abraham Lincoln? I’m glad to hear he had a beard.”

  “Of course he had a beard. How could he look like Lincoln and not have a beard?”

  “Black?”

  “Nope. I told you, he was a white guy.”

  “Do you think he could dunk it?” I couldn’t resist. It was worth it to see Abernathy. “What I meant is was his beard black?”

  “Not many blacks in this building,” she said.

  “How fortunate for them,” Clarence muttered.

  “I repeat—was his beard black?”

  “No way. This guy was … maybe Swedish. A pale face. What’s that other country that’s part of Sweden?”

  “Norway?”

  “Yeah, he looked sort of like one of those cow milkers with their red barns. Yellow hair. Funny accents. Go out naked in the freezing water.”

  “You heard his voice?”

  “How could I hear his voice? He was across the street, and Law & Order was on. It was during the last commercial.”

  I jotted it down. That put it around 10:50.

  “You said he was bald, but he had yellow hair?”

  “Yeah. The part that wasn’t bald was blond. You know, like what’s-his-name, the football announcer … Terry Bradshaw? The guy that played for the Cowboys?”

  “Steelers. He played for the Pittsburgh Steelers.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too. So the beard was blond?”

  “Grayish. Salt-and-pepper. But more salt than pepper. More like Lawry’s seasoned salt. You know, sort of orangish.”

  “An orange beard?”

  “Just a tint of orange, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Jeans. Coat. Shoes. I dunno. Plus the stocking cap.”

  “Stocking cap?”

  “Yeah. It was black. Or green. Could’ve been blue. Hard to tell it was so dark out.”

  I paused, sorting it through. “If he had on a stocking cap, how do you know he was bald … and blond?”

  “Look, don’t try to make this my problem. I didn’t kill Dr. Einstein.”

  Sometimes you keep fishing; sometimes you just cut bait and walk.

  “We’ll be going now,” I said. “We have business elsewhere.”

  She waved her hand, grabbed the remote, and turned up the volume.

  “Where’s our business?” Clarence asked as we shut the door behind us.

  “On planet earth.”

  He scrunched his face. “Maybe you cops earn your pay after all.”

  “I may be King of t
he Idiots,” I said, “but my kingdom is vast, and my subjects are everywhere.”

  7

  “Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”

  “To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

  “The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

  “That was the curious incident.”

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, SILVER BLAZE

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 6:30 P.M.

  WE HAD THREE more interviews after Rebecca Butler, but hers turned out to be the most productive. At least we got a time, 10:50 p.m., when a man, the Abraham Lincoln clone, came to the front door. Maybe. If it was the right night. And right program. And right commercial break. And right house … Dr. Einstein’s.

  I headed home in thick traffic on a stormy afternoon, dark clouds pressing on the car tops. Driving was slow, and radio didn’t interest me. When I’m caught in traffic on a rainy day, sometimes my car becomes a cocoon, and I’m transferred back to childhood. Thoughts from long ago resurfaced. Those led me into a series of reflections, somewhat random, but related at their core.

  My grandmother was a Baptist, and she took it out on the rest of us. She told me God was watching. He was out to get me when I did something bad. This meant He was out to get me seventy times a day. Grandma’s favorite phrase was “the day of reckoning.” Since she believed that most of what I wanted was sinful, I knew I’d be toast on the day of reckoning. It scared me. That was her point. Drive the fear of God into me.

  It had a side effect she didn’t intend.

  God reading my mind and spying on me and wanting to skewer me made Him seem petty. Like He had nothing better to do than wait until I thought or did something wrong … which, trust me, would never be a long wait.

  My options were to disbelieve in Him. Or give up trying to please Him. Or live with constant guilt because I wasn’t the kind of person He—and my grandmother—wanted me to be. I’ve never been a big fan of helpless, self-flagellating guilt, so I turned away from “spiritual things” to “worldly things.” I liked cars, sports, girls, and everything else that sends a guy to hell.

  Jake Woods assures me that not all Baptists are like my grandmother. I have no plans to find out.

  I’m not religious, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about whether things are right. I care about that more than anything.

  If I told you “Justice is my middle name,” it might surprise you that I mean it literally. My given name is Oliver Justice Chandler. My middle name came from my mother’s grandfather, Justice Elwin Carlson, a bricklayer. His father had lived in Justice, Illinois. He was named after a town, not a virtue. But the name Justice shaped me.

  As a kid, I wasn’t wild about Oliver, but I was proud of my middle name. My favorite comic book? The Brave and the Bold, featuring the Justice League of America. My favorite Justice Leaguer? Green Lantern, test pilot Hal Jordan, given the ring of power by a dying alien. I dreamed about the Justice League, about flying in with my green cape and rescuing people and making things right. I wore a green ring to bed every night for five years. I’d take my flashlight under my covers and read comics way past midnight, waking up with my face on the pages.

  At age ten, I recited Green Lantern’s words a bazillion times a day. Fifty years later, as Mulch would testify if he could, the words still roll off my tongue: “In brightest day, in darkest night, no evil shall escape my sight. Let those who worship evil’s might, beware my power … Green Lantern’s light!”

  Hal Jordan’s closest friend was Green Arrow, real name Oliver Queen, so my first name made the big time too. But Green Arrow’s powers weren’t great enough for me—I wanted to protect the solar system, Green Lantern style. As far back as I can remember, this passion for justice fueled me.

  I didn’t feel like waiting until some far-off day of reckoning. When guys ganged up on somebody, I went after them. I figured, if you can do the reckoning today, why wait? Green Lantern wouldn’t.

  As the years went on, my little boy’s naïveté gave way to the cruel facts of life. I sort of believed in God when I was a kid, but it didn’t hold up. When you once had faith and no longer do, I suppose it’s like a woman carrying a dead baby. The sight of live babies becomes painful. Maybe that’s why Jake and Clarence bother me sometimes. But I guess I never had a faith of my own. It was my grandmother’s, foisted upon me like a backpack loaded with stones, strapped to me till I was big enough to cast it off.

  In the months before she died, Sharon ended up believing like the Christians. I saw the peace it gave her, but you know what—people find peace believing in Krishna or the Dalai Lama or Oprah or chocolate or multilevel marketing.

  I don’t doubt Geneva Abernathy’s or Janet Woods’s sincerity—I’ll always be grateful for the care they gave Sharon when she was dying. But I sort of think they took advantage of my wife. She needed encouragement. But Christianity? I thought we were doing okay without it. I was there for her. I felt like they were saying, and she was saying, she needed someone else.

  Before I lost her to death, I’d already lost her to Jesus.

  The dark was already two hours old when I turned up the street to the old brownstone, 151st and Yamhill. It’s actually a single-story ranch house, built in 1968. But I call it “the old brownstone” because that’s what Archie Goodwin named the three-level house in New York City where he lived with Nero Wolfe, detective genius.

  The moment I turned the corner onto Yamhill, I slowed to a crawl. The living room light of the old brownstone was on, as it should have been. But the light in my office, which I keep on through the dark winter, wasn’t.

  Any normal person would assume the bulb had burned out. But I’m a cop. I parked roadside, sixty feet from my house. I approached the house like a black cat. A cat with Daddy Glock in one paw and Baby Glock strapped to his ankle.

  I ducked under the bedroom window and moved across the front porch, then slowly turned the front doorknob. Locked, as I’d left it. I inserted the key and quietly opened the door. A loud noise followed, then a jumping movement, straight at me.

  “Hello, boy,” I whispered. “You don’t have company, do you?”

  Something in Mulch’s eyes kept my guard up. When your dog greets you the same way every day, you know when something’s different. I walked back to my office, which years ago had been Kendra’s bedroom. The door was shut. But I never shut that door. The office has a western exposure, and Mulch likes to bask in the afternoon sunlight, which is why I leave the blinds open … and the door.

  I entered and looked at the office window, seeing the back side of my security sticker that warns you a SWAT team, two Black Hawks, Vin Diesel, and Force 10 from Navarone will appear if you even think about intruding. I’m too cheap to actually pay for the service, but the stickers were three for a buck, and there’s no monthly charge.

  Window was unlocked. I’d opened it yesterday for fresh air, but surely I’d relocked it. I always do.

  I examined the floor for footprints. Nothing.

  I poked the barrel of my Glock into the mirrored sliding closet door and pushed it open slowly. I got it open a foot, then yanked. It slammed against the far side. Mulch barked up a storm, then jumped and grabbed a coat sleeve, pulling it to the ground.

  It was an old army surplus coat I’d used for hunting a few times. Mulch taught it a lesson it won’t soon forget.

  I checked the rest of the house systematically. Everything appeared secure. My Browning was in the middle cabinet. I reached below the bathroom sink, behind the Lysol, and checked my Kimber Gold Math .45. Since kids never visit the old brownstone, I’d hidden it there, figuring if under fire I’d be on the ground, so it was a good place for it. I breathed easier, knowing all my babies were sleeping peacefully.

  I went back to the office to see if the desk lamp bulb was burned out. I turned the switch. Light.

  Had I forgotten to leave it on? Maybe. But turning it on was as routine as making coffee. And the door closed? I turned on the ha
llway light. Scratch marks all over the door. Fresh? I could see grooved varnish. I put a sheet of printer paper under Mulch’s front right paw. I ran my hand over the paw and several brown flecks dropped to the paper. Perfect match. He’d been trying to get in the door.

  Was he going after an intruder?

  I looked at his worried eyes. “Talk to me, boy. Tell me what happened here.”

  I don’t know where instinct comes from. I’ve heard about whale language and saw a film about how bees convey information to each other. And read a book about a gorilla named Sema who used sign language to communicate abstract concepts. I’m telling you, animals are smart. Generally you can trust them more than people. But when it comes to extracting detailed information from dogs, it’s not easy.

  Mulch looked at me with such earnestness that for a split second I thought he was going to spill it. If there’s a world where dogs talk, I’d like to live there. But tonight Mulch’s lips were sealed.

  I grabbed a bag of carrots. I don’t eat them, but Mulch does. Once he finishes his meat, I’ve seen him go for carrots and corn before apple pie. He even likes broccoli and cauliflower, especially with a dab of gravy. This came in handy when Sharon was on a crusade to feed me vegetables. I’d shovel them under the table to Mulch. In biology this is called a symbiotic relationship. It means everybody’s happy.

  We had Dinty Moore beef stew with Jiffy cornbread muffins, which always soothes him. I made a fire and pulled my recliner toward it, then turned on Rex Stout’s Over My Dead Body. I lined up my Budweisers while Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin came into my living room, read by Michael Pritchard, who seems like an old friend now. Mulch usually lies on the right side of my recliner, where I reach down to stroke him. This time he crawled up on my lap. He’s a lot of dog. But then, I’ve got a lot of lap.

  With my left hand, I reached to the inside back flap of the recliner and felt for the duct tape, and under it the 9 mm SIG-Sauer P226. I looked at the coffee table, two feet from my elevated slippers, at the three-year-old Family Circle magazine. It was Sharon’s. I could never bring myself to throw it out. Next to Sharon’s magazine lay one of my best old friends besides Mulch, Jake Woods, and Mr. Coffee … Daddy Glock.