And I did.
thirty
sunday, april 27
Cheski picked me up at nine in the morning for our culinary field trip. “You get how this works?” I asked.
“You gotta do the hours to shop at the co-op.”
“Yup. To keep the prices down, individual members take turns working at the market. It’s different for us. We sell our excess farm yield at super-low prices to the market and that gets us a membership. There’s just so much you can freeze or can, and there’s no way we’d dump it. As long as it’s got a forty-eight-hour shelf life, the co-op will take it.”
“How many hours would I need to work?”
“It’s proportional to the volume of your purchases.”
Cheski’s face dropped; his eating habits could require him to work a sixty-hour week.
“I’m joking! Usually, it’s no more than a few hours a month. The co-op has thousands of members.”
Cheski’s phone rang, and I answered it for him. Lamendola was on the line, jabbering at rapper speed.
“Are you kidding?” I said into the phone. Cheski poked me in the arm for information. “He was up all night going through the list of accounts Harry Goldberg finally found the time to send,” I relayed. “Turns out Bob had a unit at HG storage. Unit 125.”
Cheski slammed on the brakes and swung the car around. “Get Frank on the phone.”
thirty-one
Unit 125. Each time Frank mentioned the number of Bob’s storage unit, it took on the mysterious allure of Area 51, the Bermuda Triangle, or the grassy knoll.
We met Harry Goldberg outside unit 125. It was almost noon. Harry had a ring of keys jangling from a pair of ironed, designer jeans. A crisp crease ran down both legs. Now that I’d learned my own jeans were dreadfully out of style, I had a bit more sympathy for other people’s denim dilemmas. Harry’s pressed jeans, cut high on his hips, were as outdated as my own.
Frank wasn’t focused on Harry’s jeans. “This was information we needed to know last week,” he spit at Harry.
“Give me a break,” Harry sniped. “I have thousands of renters. How the hell was I supposed to know the guy that died was a renter?”
“How? Because we told you his name,” Frank replied in disgust. “Just clip it.”
Harry opened the arms of a bolt cutter and clamped down on Bob’s lock. Frank pushed Harry aside and removed the remaining metal pieces and lifted the door.
“Hmmm,” I said as I peered into the storage unit. “I guess I’m not surprised.”
The interior of the unit was devoted to a single diorama, but instead of being constrained to the size of a shoebox, this scenario flowed over the entirety of the space save for one corner in the back for Bob’s workbench.
“Mother of God,” Harry said, shaking his head at the contents of Bob’s storage unit. “I gotta get out of this business,” he said, leaving Frank, Cheski, and me alone.
The unit was staged like a scene from a Tim Burton film. Bob had built an impossibly jagged mountain range that came up about waist high in the center of the unit. Teetering on the mountain’s only plateau was a long narrow dining table covered with pounds of carefully sculpted food. Having seen Bob’s work before, it was clear he wanted the viewer to feel a sense of overabundance. Piles of turkey legs sat next to towering chocolate cakes and bubbling mugs of an unidentifiable frothy mixture.
“This is getting weirder by the minute,” Frank said. “What’s with these people at the table?” The figures, or rather dolls, seated around the table were about a foot high. It looked like Bob had repurposed the dolls by interchanging their body parts. The effect was ghoulish, an odd gathering of misfits with strange deformities. It wasn’t hard to notice that if the diners moved their chairs back an inch, they’d plummet down the side of the mountain. The only thing that saved the bizarre dinner party were the faces of the dolls. They appeared to be radiantly happy.
Frank narrowed in on a figure seated in the middle of the table. The miniature man, cloaked in a velvet cape, had his arms stretched out on the table with his head tilted to the side. The other diners, deep in conversation with each other, seemed to be ignoring him yet aware of his presence. Frank circled the table from every vantage point.
“This guy,” he said as he identified another man-doll seated at the far end of the table. “I don’t like him.”
“Me neither,” Cheski said.
“I’m guessing Bob doesn’t want you to like him,” I said. “Let’s take some pictures. There’s too much going on here to see it all in one viewing. Plus I’m getting the heebie-jeebies.”
Just as I mentioned my skin crawling, a low, flat groan filled the storage unit.
“Perfect timing,” Frank said with a smile. “The tuba lady has arrived.”
Frank instructed Cheski to finish photographing Bob’s storage unit as we headed in the direction of the music.
In the way a dog owner can resemble their pet, the tuba lady looked like her bulbous brass instrument. I guess if the goal is to force air through a centimeter-sized hole while balancing a twenty-five-pound hunk of metal between your thighs, you’ve got to have some heft to pull it off.
Frank waved to the tuba lady who was midstream in what sounded like the longest middle C in history. But who was I to judge? I couldn’t even play the kazoo.
“Impressive,” Frank said when she came up for air. “I’m Frank DeRosa. I work for the Cold Spring Harbor Police Department, and this is CeCe Prentice.”
“What’s your vice?” she asked Frank. “You look like a train guy to me, maybe Lionel?”
“Actually, I was into Bachmann N scale as a kid,” Frank said as he shook her hand. “I’m not a renter. Unfortunately, I’m here investigating a murder.”
“Is it Goldberg?” the tuba lady inquired as she rolled her instrument aside. “I’m hoping it’s Goldberg.”
Frank couldn’t suppress his smirk. “Mr. Goldberg is just fine and nothing dangerous has occurred on the premise. However, our investigation has led us here. Mr. Goldberg mentioned you use your unit quite a lot and that you play with your unit door open. I was hoping you could tell us what goes on at the storage facility.”
“Heats up faster than a South American mambo contest if I shut the door.”
I considered the size of the unit, the size of the tuba, and the size of the tuba player and realized there was little room left for air circulation given the combination of space and mass. Door open seemed to be the only solution.
The tuba lady gave us a quick rundown of her “hood” as she called it. Bob, no surprise, was one of her best buds. Frank didn’t tell her about Bob’s death and as her admiration of Bob’s talents escalated, I could see it was becoming increasingly difficult for Frank to break the news.
“Did you ever see Bob with a young woman? A woman with short black hair?”
The tuba lady shook her head. “No, never saw him with anyone, but this isn’t his first unit. Originally, he was two blocks over. He moved here about a year ago,” she said, laughing. “He says the view is better—as if a row of rusty metal doors was something to look at. I thought maybe he was flirting with me,” she guffawed. “Some of these guys, you know, they’re chubby chasers.”
At the mention of a better view, Frank pivoted in place. From Bob’s unit there was a clear shot of the warehouse. Frank pointed in that direction.
“Have you ever seen activity at the warehouse?”
The tuba lady nodded. “Big commotion recently. I couldn’t hear myself play, and I’m damn loud.”
“Was it the Groundsweep walkers?” Frank asked.
“Huh?”
“Were you aware that the warehouse was leaking toxins?”
“No, but then I guess the noise was worth it, because it took the movers three hours to empty the place.”
Frank, a master of self-con
trol, was visibly excited. “What did you see?”
“Nothing special.” The tuba lady seemed surprised. “People move out of this place all the time.”
Frank started up his iPad and walked into the tuba lady’s unit. “Do you mind if I sit?” he said, pulling up an extra chair. “Were you aware of Bob’s day job?”
“Sure,” the tuba lady said. “He runs the recycling center.”
“I guess we need to tell you that Bob died last week. It’s possible he was murdered.”
The tuba lady emitted a low note that sounded an awful lot like her instrument in need of tuning. I entered the unit and placed my hand on her soft shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I said as she sobbed quietly.
“We think there’s a connection between the warehouse and Bob,” Frank said. “It would be helpful if you could tell us what you saw.”
She inhaled deeply. “There were two moving trucks. About an hour after the trucks arrived, a third showed up. That’s when I left.”
“Did you catch the name of the moving company?” Frank asked.
She shook her head. “It looked Chinese to me.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Trust me. I eat a lot of Chinese takeout.”
Frank nodded as he jotted down the first of what could be an important clue. “Do you remember anyone in particular from that day?”
“Just Goldberg,” the tuba lady said. “I called the office to complain about the noise, and he picked up.”
Frank slammed the door of Bob’s unit with such force I feared the cheerful dolls balanced in their chairs would tumble down the side of the papier-mâché mountain.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Can’t you lock Goldberg up?”
“For what?” Frank said. “Answering the phone at his place of business?”
“How about obstructing justice? He lied about Bob’s unit, and he lied about the warehouse.”
Frank’s face cracked, and he started to laugh. “From sketch artist to rookie cop in less than a week.”
“I’m just trying to help,” I said as I threw my hands up in the air. “Why don’t you give me something to keep me busy? How about something to sketch?”
Frank looked at me, and I could see he was thinking but not ready to speak. Instead, he fished around in a plastic bag, retrieving a new lock to replace the one Goldberg had clipped. He unwrapped the plastic covering, fiddled with the combination, and resecured the unit. Then he took a quick lap up and down the row while I stood in place and listened to the bellowing and, now, mournful moans of a tuba.
“Cheski’s photo of Cheryl Goldberg,” he said when he returned. “Can you draw a picture of Cheryl and make it look as if Katrina had gotten a good look at her and actually described her to you?”
“You want it close, but not exact.”
“Yeah, can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” Frank said happily. “Because we’re going to catch Goldberg in a lie. I’ll drop you at home and give you a few hours.”
thirty-two
My mother, on Sunday furlough, thanks to Dr. Grovit’s persuasive use of medical jargon, rested comfortably on my attic futon. Katrina lay next to her, a human beach ball with limbs.
“How much is this going to hurt?”
My mother shrugged. “I opted for pain medication, before, during, and after.”
“Yeah, like twenty years after,” I laughed.
Katrina grimaced and rubbed her stomach. I could see that her present level of discomfort had weakened her resolve. “If it gets bad, I might consider taking something.”
“I know this is going to be a home birth,” I said as I tweaked the finishing touches on Cheryl Goldberg’s nose, “but have you decided on the room?”
“The kitchen,” Katrina replied.
“Nice, Trina.” I nodded. “You really don’t want Frank to ever enjoy a meal here, do you?” I brought my completed drawing and the Facebook picture over to the futon for comments. “Drawing first,” I said as I held up my pad. I let Katrina and my mother eyeball a charcoal of Harry Goldberg’s girlfriend/David Goldberg’s wife for a full minute. I had drawn Cheryl looking positively sultry, which I knew would get a rise out of Goldberg. Her scarf and sunglasses gave her image a Marilyn Monroe effect, as if she were hiding from the press. “Now, her actual picture.” I revealed the Facebook photo Cheski had secured.
“The hair is different,” Katrina noticed. “It’s not as poufy.”
“Cheski and Lamendola did a drive-by yesterday. Based on their description, her in-person look is not as dramatic as her Facebook glam shot.”
Katrina propped herself up on her elbows. “So that guy I met at the storage place, he’s having an affair with this woman? This is the lady I thought broke in?”
“Yeah, it’s his cousin’s wife,” I confirmed. “You wasted a jelly sandwich on that loser.”
“What a sleazeball,” Katrina said, grabbing the slanted wall for support to reach a full sitting position. “And the day we saw him dancing around the warehouse, that was a total lie?”
“Can you believe it?” I said. “It was an act. He knew the warehouse was empty, and we think he knew Bob was dead too.”
“Why didn’t he just say so?” My mother was stating the obvious. It was a good question, and one we’d all been wrestling with since the tuba lady had tipped us off to Harry.
“If Harry was actually stuck with the e-waste as a result of the green washing scam,” I explained, “then, unfortunately, he’d have to get rid of it under careful EPA supervision. That would cost him a mint.”
“Isn’t the disposal of a storage unit’s contents the responsibility of the renter?” Katrina asked.
“If he could find the warehouse’s renter, I’m sure he’d sue the renter for the cleanup. But, based on Frank’s investigation, the company that rented the unit was bogus from the start.” I gave my mother and Katrina the low-down on green washing, an eco-unfriendly scam. “I think it was cheaper for Harry Goldberg to pay to have it illegally removed and then feign surprise when the e-waste had mysteriously disappeared from the warehouse.” I handed the drawing to my mother.
“It’s good, honey,” she said, reaching into her pocketbook, “but this is the woman I’m really interested in.” She unfolded the dated newsletter of Dr. Carolyn Corey. “I guarantee this woman was at our house after your procedure.”
I frowned. “I’m starting to lose track,” I said, referring to the ever-increasing number of female faces we were juggling. Between Lizzy James, Carolyn Corey, Bob’s maybe daughter, the skinny jeans lady, and Cheryl Goldberg, I was on visual overload.
I took the picture from my mother and studied Dr. Carolyn Corey. She seemed pleasant enough in the photo, and I noticed she had her arm around Lizzy James. For an office photo, the pose seemed somewhat personal. Were Lizzy and Carolyn friends? They appeared to be an unlikely pair, yet there they were, arm in arm. If it was Carolyn’s job to manage the surrogates, then there must have been a certain level of intimacy in their relationship, although Lizzy James didn’t let on to that when we met her. Was it possible Carolyn Corey felt badly for Lizzy, or was she more like my father, an opportunist on the lookout for an available and hopefully healthy uterus?
I was about to quiz my mother on Carolyn Corey’s visit when Frank entered the attic. I loved seeing Frank in my attic studio, because he always appeared impossibly out of place. He wasn’t artsy, so my canvases and supplies held no interest for him. And then there was his stature; he was too physically large for the space. Given the present company of a pregnant woman and his girlfriend’s mother, he must have had a good reason for making the pilgrimage to my attic workspace. Especially on a Sunday, one of the few days he actually took off.
“I’ve been staring at this picture of Bob’s diorama all morning, and I�
��m coming up dry,” he said. “It needs an artist’s interpretation.” He handed his iPad to my mother, who held it at arm’s length and squinted her eyes.
“So this piece wasn’t with his others?” my mother asked thoughtfully.
“It’s currently in a storage unit,” Frank said. “Bob has a studio at his house that appears to be his main work area. There are easily eight dioramas at his home studio.”
“Is there room for one more at his home studio?” my mother asked as she scrutinized the photo.
“This piece”—Frank pointed to the picture—“is pretty big, but I’m guessing he could have made space at home.”
“What are you getting at, Mom?”
My mother placed the photo on her lap and addressed Frank. “When CeCe’s father and I started to have problems, I painted the most godawful canvases with painfully transparent messages. I was a one-trick pony, churning out paintings of a screaming woman with her hair on fire.” My mother posed for us by running her fingers through to the ends of her hair and stretching her mouth. “Unlike a diary, a piece of art isn’t so easy to shove in a drawer, so I hid them in the basement boiler room.” She laughed at her own expense. “They’re probably still there.”
“Do you think Bob hid this diorama from Barbara?” I asked
“I don’t know,” she said as she brushed her hair back into place. “Maybe he just ran out of room? Regardless, I do think the change of venue is odd. Usually an artist gets in a groove in a certain locale.” She moved her hand across my workspace to prove her point. My attic was my sanctuary. It’s where it all happened.
Frank nodded. “It’s a very good point, Mrs. Prentice. I wondered why Bob would lay down hard cash for the extra space. It seems out of character for a Freegan opposed to spending money, but if he really needed privacy, this may have been his only option.”
Drawing Blood Page 14
