What You Want to See

by Kristen Lepionka

  That didn’t tell me much—“departed this life much too soon” could mean anything. I deleted “obit” from my search query and tried again.

  Homicide detectives say A.J. Watson was found shot in the street in the 500 block of Lilley Ave, on the Near East Side, Sunday night. The 29-year-old was pronounced dead at the scene, homicide unit Sgt. Jessica Lopez said. Police do not have any known suspects or motives at this time.…

  “Christ,” I muttered. There was a streak of bad luck a mile wide through Agnes Harlow’s circle of acquaintances. Lilley Avenue wasn’t far from my apartment, but may as well have been on the other side of the world from her stately Victorian Village house.

  Shot in the street.

  Could this be related to Marin’s death? She’d also been shot in the street.

  I squinted at the screen and clicked on the next search result, a blog called Justice for A.J.

  A post dated four days ago read:

  Living as a Black woman in this political climate means I am no stranger to discrimination and racist behavior. But I have never experienced anything as blatant and inexcusable as the treatment that I have received from the Columbus police in the wake of my husband’s murder. It has been made clear to me time and time again that the police believe a Black man murdered on the street in a socioeconomically depressed area of town had to be involved in gang-related activity, which could not be further from the truth. Repeatedly I have been told that I “must not know [my] husband as well as [I] thought,” despite an overwhelming lack of evidence that any such involvement exists. I have been called “uppity” and “sassy” for pushing back on the lazy investigation into A.J.’s death. We live in a neighborhood that has gang activity. There are many people who live here that are not involved. Being active in the BLM movement online does not equal gang activity. Blackness does not equal gang activity.

  There were pages and pages of posts, chronicling the aftermath of her husband’s death and the lackluster police investigation. The sidebar showed a picture of A.J. with his arms around a woman, presumably Alecia, his wife and the author of the blog. Below the image it said, “A.J. Watson was gunned down in front of our home on Easter Sunday. There are no suspects. If you have information, please contact me.”

  Easter Sunday.

  Meredith Burns told me that it had been the week after Easter when she found Agnes at the bottom of her basement steps, where she’d been for at least several days.

  Agnes had mentioned A.J. that afternoon, too. That Herodias had silenced him. That he knew the details of how she was going to steal the kingdom, that he knew about the certified copies.

  I was afraid to take what she said as any sort of fact. But I was also afraid not to.

  I wandered into the kitchen and ate the remains of Shelby’s bread with peanut butter. I wasn’t hungry so much as I needed food as a vehicle for more painkillers. I chased the bread with three aspirins and looked out the window into the alley, where a plastic bag and a flattened soda bottle were being whipped into a miniature urban tornado. Rain was coming, and I wanted a drink.

  I quickly poured a shot and downed it, annoyed at myself but so, so happy.

  I liked whiskey. I liked the taste of it, the burn, the way it muffled the edges of things. I didn’t have a problem with drinking, I told myself, but with everything else. I had an unhappiness problem. A loneliness one. I stood in my silent kitchen, shot glass in hand, as I had too many times before. “I’m lonely,” I said, trying it on for size.

  I didn’t like it.

  I dropped the glass in the sink harder than I intended to, and it shattered.

  After I cleaned up the broken glass and collected myself, I went back to the computer.

  So, assuming Herodias was Agnes’s name for Marin, maybe she was saying that Marin was trying to do what she did before, when Bill Harlow died—take something that didn’t rightfully belong to her. Steal a kingdom. Steal a house. You couldn’t really steal a house, though. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Ownership of a house was both complex and bizarrely simple. Underneath all the mortgage and loan stuff, ownership, by law, was a matter of whose name was on the deed on file with the county recorder’s office. I’d heard stories of fraud perpetrated this way—steal a house right out from under someone, even if they currently live in it, just by filing a few documents.

  I opened a new browser tab and pulled up the county auditor’s site, typing in Agnes’s address, just to see.

  If Marin’s name showed up anywhere on the document, I’d know I was on the right track. If it didn’t, I could release the Herodias idea and quit thinking about it.

  When the result popped up, I said, “Holy shit.”

  The current owner of the property was not Marin, but Nate.

  * * *

  I needed a change of scenery. I walked over to the Olde Towne Tavern, where I sat at a table on the patio with a drink, a basket of nachos, and the county property databases, like the party animal I was.

  Under the most recent transfer heading I saw:

  Transfer Date

  Feb-11-2017

  Transfer Price

  $1

  Instrument Type

  QC

  So Agnes had transferred her house, for one dollar, in February, via a quitclaim deed, which meant that the rights to the property weren’t guaranteed to be free of liens or encumbrances the way a warranty deed would certify. There was nothing unusual about quitclaim transfers within a family. But to Nate? When Agnes had children of her own?

  I switched databases and pulled up the deed itself on the county recorder’s site.

  Know all men by these presents, that

  AGNES LEIGH HARLOW

  the designated Grantor herein, for consideration of ONE dollar, to their satisfaction received, hereby give, grant, bargain, sell, and convey unto the said Grantee,

  NATHAN KENNEDY HARLOW

  whose tax-bill mailing address will be 862 NORTH PEARL STREET #2B, all interest in the following real property:

  Situated in the State of Ohio, County of Franklin and in the City of Columbus, and bounded and described as follows:

  Being Lot Number Six (6) of DENNISON PLACE ADDITION, as the same is numbered and delineated upon the recorded plat thereof, of record in Plat Book 17, Pages 42 and 43, Recorder’s Office, Franklin County, Ohio.

  Property Address: 2140 DENNISON AVE

  Parcel No.: 100-XX55X55X57

  The foregoing real property is granted by the Grantor and accepted by the Grantee subject to all the recorded reservations, conditions, limitations, highways, public roads, rights-of-way, leases, easements, restrictions, zoning ordinances, and any mineral rights severances, as well as real estate taxes and assessments both general and special …

  It was the sort of dull paper trail that usually made my eyes glaze over, but this one was riveting.

  I studied each page of the document carefully. It was a crappy scanned copy, but legible enough. It had been signed by Nate—his name dashed off in an angular scrawl—and Agnes—a shaky, oversize cursive—in the presence of a notary whose name and stamp were unreadable.

  Of course it was unreadable.

  I leaned against my hand, feeling bad about the world. A theory was finally taking shape, and I didn’t like it: that Nate Harlow somehow conned his schizophrenic aunt out of her house and then—what—pushed her down the stairs and murdered her case manager? It was a theory I wouldn’t want to share with anybody, not yet.

  I rubbed the scar on my wrist, remembering another theory I had that was too crazy to be real. Remembering how that had turned out.

  I needed to talk to A.J. Watson’s wife. I went back to her blog and skimmed some of the entries in chronological order:

  Crime Stoppers is offering a $5K reward for information.

  Thanks to the generosity of A.J.’s coworkers, we are able to set up our own tip line and offer $20K for information about A.J.’s murder.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE TIP LINE: Please do not call to le
ave condolences. Every time I get a message, my heart just races, thinking this is the one that will solve the murder of my husband. I appreciate the sentiment but please, reserve the tip line for tips. Feel free to comment on this page instead.

  To those of you asking how many tips we are getting, the answer is none that are viable.

  Ordinarily, I’d call Tom and ask for background on the case before bothering the victim’s family, but it sounded like Alecia Watson would probably be eager to talk to me. That, and Tom probably wouldn’t. I’d been out of line with him. But also, I’d been right: There was more to Marin than it had appeared last week.

  That didn’t make the prospect of calling him any more appealing.

  I ordered another drink and wished I could skip ahead to tomorrow morning, since it was after nine now and too late to visit A.J.’s wife. But that left me with several hours of solitude to fill. I wasn’t sure when I’d started minding that—or maybe it wasn’t so much that I minded solitude, but that I didn’t have anyone to keep me company anyway. Forced solitude. I thought about going to see my mother—she could always be counted on to be happy to see me, even when no one else could—but family dinner night was tomorrow and I’d surely get my fill of her then. A year ago, Tom would’ve kept me company. I shoved a nacho into my mouth. I was glad he’d met Pam. I was glad he was better.

  I wasn’t better, though, and it sucked.

  I could pretend I was for a while, and even fool myself into believing it. When things were going well—for example, when I was solving my cases and not watching nineteen-year-old women die in front of me—it really seemed true. But in times like this, frustrated and stressed, I knew it wasn’t. I grabbed my phone and dialed Tom’s number. As I listened to his voice explain how to leave a message, I tried to think about what I might say to him if he were here, in person. Maybe something like, I know I’m an asshole, I’m sorry for throwing you out of my apartment, we really need to talk about Marin Strasser, and I kind of miss you. But after the beep, instead of saying anything, I just hung up.

  I scrolled through my texts, pausing on one from Catherine that she’d sent last night while I was asleep on my porch. So …

  Quickly, as if I could outsmart myself by doing it fast, I texted her back:

  I’m at the Tavern.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Forty minutes later, Catherine walked in. She saw me and didn’t smile, but the light in her eyes changed in that way she had that was better than a smile any day.

  “Are you working?” she said as she walked up to me.

  I looked at her. She hadn’t responded to my text. I’d already closed my tab and sent the nachos away in preparation to make a discouraged exit. “Crime never sleeps.”

  “I thought it was crime doesn’t pay.” She caught the bartender’s eye and pointed at my drink and flashed two fingers.

  “Crime doesn’t sleep or pay.” I got out my wallet but she dropped her hand over mine, pushing my wallet away until her fingers grazed my thigh.

  “I’ll get it,” she said.

  The bartender brought over two whiskeys and Catherine slipped him a twenty. “So,” she said, “you didn’t tell me what happened.”

  “A car accident.”

  Concern flared in her pale green eyes. “Oh no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Related to Leila?”

  I explained what had happened after the meeting with Leila yesterday afternoon.

  “I had no idea that she was so treacherous,” Catherine said.

  “Does it make you like her more?”

  “Eh. Mostly I’m just mad that she hurt you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She watched me for a while. “On Sunday you said I’m not good for you. So what prompted you to pass along information about your whereabouts tonight? Hopelessly lonely?”

  I tried to think of something clever to say in response, but I couldn’t. “Yeah.”

  She nodded and didn’t say anything. Then she set down her glass and leaned her head on her hand. “Sometimes I think I’m not so good for myself. And before you say anything about the sudden bout of self-awareness, don’t. Do you remember a conversation we had, like, a million years ago, about the brain and when it stops developing?”

  I did remember that. “Sure, about when the brain’s adolescence actually ends.”

  “And you said,” she went on, gesturing for me to fill in the blank.

  “I said the reason that so many people seem to have a quote, quarter-life crisis, end quote, around age twenty-five or so is that, finally, the brain is developed enough to understand that your life isn’t actually how you thought it would be,” I said. “It was right before you went to London.”

  She nodded. “And I was, what, twenty-six at the time. Very much having a quarter-life crisis. And yet you swore up and down you weren’t talking about me.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “I should’ve listened.”

  “I should’ve done everything I could think of to keep you from going.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Short of physically restraining you, I kind of did.” I finished my drink and pushed my glass away. “And—”

  “And I didn’t. Even. Write,” Catherine said, correctly guessing what I was about to say. “Sometimes I look back at things I’ve done and I just don’t understand why. Not in a holy shit, that’s so fucked up way, but like I genuinely don’t get it. Things that hurt me too, things no one is making me do, things I don’t even want in the first place. Who does that?”

  “It’s like the scorpion and the frog,” I said. “The fable. Know that one?”

  Her pale green eyes were sparkling. “No, enlighten me.”

  “So there’s a scorpion and a frog, chilling next to the river. The scorpion decides she wants to go across to the other side. But she can’t swim.” As I spoke, she laced her fingers through mine and I got that roller-coaster feeling in my stomach. I continued, “She asks the frog to take her across and the frog says, How do I know you won’t sting me? The scorpion says, Because if I sting you, we’d both drown. So the frog lets the scorpion climb on her back and they start out across the river. Halfway through the trip, the scorpion stings the frog, who says, Now we’re both going to die! Why did you do this? And as they both slip under the water, the scorpion shrugs and says, It’s in my nature.”

  “Ooh, ouch,” Catherine said. “Let me guess. I’m the scorpion here, and you’re the frog.”

  I shrugged. “Interpretation is up to you. I’m the scorpion in my own story.”

  She brought my hand up to her mouth and pressed her lips against my knuckles. “If I had one hour left to live, and I could do anything I wanted—anything, okay—I could go skydiving, I could do ecstasy and swim naked, I could eat a hundred oysters…”

  “If you’re going to die anyway, why not eat a hundred oysters?”

  “Exactly,” she said, “but I’m saying, if I could do anything I wanted to make my last hour on earth as enjoyable as possible, I think I’d pick listening to you talk.”

  I stared at her.

  “I wouldn’t even want to kiss you. I’d just want to listen to you, Roxane, because you’re the only person I’ve ever met who isn’t capable of boring me to tears.”

  “High praise, coming from you,” I said, but I felt an electric heat spreading through my body, like someone had flipped on my seldom-used happiness switch.

  “I guess what I’m saying is I’m sorry,” she finished. “Don’t make a joke. Just let me say it. I’m sorry. For always acting like I never owed you anything and expecting you to put up with it, just for the thrill of my company. These last couple of months, you keeping to yourself, as you say, I’ve been lonely a lot too.”

  I didn’t respond, just watched her instead. Even when she was acting her worst, she was lovely. Now, repentant and open, she was irresistible to me. I said, “Are you s
ure you wouldn’t want to kiss me?”

  * * *

  The air was cooler as we slowly walked the five blocks south and four east to my apartment, like the approaching storm was almost here. I was still carrying my computer bag, so there was some urgency to get home before the skies opened up on the device that was responsible for most of my income, but that didn’t stop me from pausing under a streetlight to kiss her. Catherine’s mouth was full and soft, slightly minty from the lip gloss she had applied as we walked out of the bar. Her hands gripped my shoulders, thumbs trailing across my clavicles. I drew in a sharp breath and stepped back. I’d actually forgotten about the pain for the last hour. “Sorry,” I said, peeling down the edge of my turtleneck to show her the damage, “I wasn’t kidding about the car accident.”

  Her lips pursed with concern. “That looks awful. Are you sure this is a good idea—”

  “Yes, God, yes,” I said, maybe a little too fast. “But you might have to be gentle. If you can handle that.”

  We resumed walking, her arm linked through mine again, her long blond hair brushing my elbow. “I think I can handle it,” she said.

  When I opened the front door to my building, the lobby was pitch black again. “That’s not scary or anything,” Catherine murmured.

  “I keep meaning to call the landlord,” I said, but then I heard a sound: there was a faint whimper, a fluttery breath. I held an arm in front of Catherine so she wouldn’t go any farther into the darkness.

  I pulled my gun out of my bag, listening hard. “Who’s there?” I said.