Caesar's Fall

by Dorien Grey

  *

  Shortly after Steve left the next morning, again insisting on taking the el, to spend the afternoon painting, Elliott went online to the Wisconsin real estate agency’s website. The photo of the resort Blanton wanted was still up but with a “Sold” banner across it. He wasn’t surprised.

  Although he doubted the agent would be open on a Saturday, he called. The phone was picked up on the second ring.

  “Superior Realty.”

  A female voice this time, and Elliott was rather relieved he wouldn’t be talking with the same person, who might remember his earlier call.

  “Yes, I was calling about the resort I saw on your website a few weeks ago, and was wondering if it was still available?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, it was sold just last week.”

  “Ah, too bad. Someone from Chicago got it, I’ll bet.”

  “No, the buyers are from New York. They plan to turn it into a retreat of some sort.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in.

  “I see,” he said finally. “The buyer wouldn’t be a Mr. Blanton, by any chance?”

  “No, it was a company called the Ferrell Group.”

  “I see. Well, I thank you for your time.”

  “But if you’d like to give me your name and phone number, I’d be happy to contact you if a similar property becomes available.”

  “Thank you, but I can always just check your site. I appreciate your help.”

  New York? A retreat?

  His immediate impulse was to call Cabrera and Guerdon—or, since it was the weekend, to at least leave a message for them. Yet he realized that would be premature in the extreme. He had absolutely no way of knowing if Blanton was involved. If the woman had just said the buyer was from New York, he probably would have let it drop. But that it was going to be used as a retreat just seemed too much of a coincidence.

  Whether Blanton had any connections in New York, he didn’t know. His reverie was interrupted by the ringing of his cell. An automatic check of the caller ID showed it was Steve.

  “Steve Gutierrez! How the hell have you been? It’s been too long.”

  Steve laughed. “I know, I know, and I hope I’m not interrupting you, but I was wondering. Did you just get a really strong whiff of Old Spice? I was working on a painting, and it’s like someone held an open bottle under my nose.”

  “No. No Old Spice, but…” and Elliott related the results of his call. Steve said nothing for a moment, but when he spoke his tone reflected his puzzlement.

  “This is getting curiouser and curiouser. Why would I smell it and you not? You think it has something to do with your call?”

  “Well, that the phone call and the Old Spice pretty much coincided is a good indication it does. And as for the ‘curiouser and curiouser’ part, I wonder what the link is between Blanton and New York, and exactly who it was who bought the resort?”

  “You’re going to tell the police about it, aren’t you? Have them check into it?”

  “Yeah, but we’re walking on some pretty thin eggshells. I don’t want Cabrera and Guerdon—or Brad, for that matter—to think I’m trying to use the police as a private detective agency. They already think I’m strange—including Brad.”

  “You could hire a private investigator.”

  “Yeah, I could, but do I really want to? I’m way too far into this John/Bruno paranormal thing as it is. I don’t want it to intrude any more into my private life—our private lives—than it already has.”

  “Like we have a choice?”

  “Let’s not even go near that one.”

  “Okay. Well, I’d better get back to my painting. How about brunch tomorrow? Or dinner, and that way you could just stay over. Better a walk down one flight of stairs than driving six miles.”

  “Around six?”

  “See you then.”

  *

  Elliott went to bed early, hoping to hear from John. He segued seamlessly from closing his eyes to being at a cocktail party. One of Bruno’s, he knew-without-knowing, as is the nature of dreams.

  Well, this is a first.

  He turned around to find John standing behind him. Though John had never appeared to him before, other than as a voice in his head while he slept, he recognized him immediately from the postmortem photo Brad had shown him shortly after John entered his life. The shock almost woke him up, and his mind swam toward the surface of consciousness only to be pulled back down, back to the party.

  What the hell is going on?

  The dream-John smiled.

  I’m not sure. But it’s interesting.

  Cage was snorting lines of coke from a silver tray, using a rolled-up thousand-dollar bill, while Ricky leaned against one wall crying. Rudy and Blanton were at the buffet table grabbing fistfuls of money from an array of dishes filled with currency. Walter Means stood at the far end of the table wearing a Nazi SS uniform, sipping from a glass of champagne while viewing the scene with a combined look of boredom and disdain. Around the room, groups of guys sat on the floor, spoons in hand, scooping coins from what looked to Elliott like pig troughs.

  He spotted Steve across the room, looking at him with bemusement and shaking his head.

  Then everyone was gone except Bruno, who stood at the glass door to the balcony, looking out over the city. Elliott could see his face reflected in the glass. He was not smiling.

  Bobbing to the surface of consciousness, Elliott opened his eyes to look around the darkened bedroom then drifted back to sleep.

  As I said, that was a first.

  No images, no dream, just John’s voice.

  And I hope to hell it’s a last. What was that?

  A dream. But not yours.

  Bruno’s? I’m having Bruno’s dreams now? This is going way, way too far.

  Don’t panic. If you’ll remember, when we first got together you had a couple of mine. Mountains. Remember?

  Right. But nothing like this! Dr. Freud would have a field day.

  I’m sure he would, though the symbolism could have been a little subtler. But like I said don’t worry about it. I think it could be a sign of real progress.

  I’d say it was about time.

  He’d just gotten out of the shower when his land-line phone rang. Padding into the den while vigorously toweling his hair, he picked up the receiver.

  “Elliott Smith.”

  “Ell! Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, I just got out of the shower. What’s up?”

  “This is gonna sound weird, but I had the oddest dream last night…”

  *

  Stopping on the way to Steve’s to pick up a bucket of chicken, Elliott drove into the garage under the deck at five forty-five, walked to the front of the building, and went upstairs.

  “Drink first?” Steve asked as Elliott handed him the bags containing their dinner.

  “Definitely!” He followed him into the kitchen.

  As he set the oven on warm and opened the door to put the bucket of chicken in, Steve pointed to the refrigerator.

  “Beer okay?”

  “Sure.”

  They returned to the living room and sat down.

  “So, that was John standing behind you? Nice-looking guy, from what I could tell.”

  “Yeah, he is…was. It was really good to actually…” He paused and made a dismissive wave with his beer. “Well, figuratively…see him, even for a few seconds.”

  They had briefly compared their recollections of the dream during their earlier phone conversation, and the details each recalled were basically identical. They had cut their conversation off after about ten minutes to get on with their day, agreeing to talk more about it when they got together. Getting on with the day had proved to be easier said than done, and the dream stayed in the forefront of Elliott’s mind.

  “What do you think it all means?” Steve asked, returning from the kitchen after getting them another beer and checking the oven.

  “Remember that dream we both had whe
n we first got together and I was trying to find out who John was and who killed him?”

  “The one about the mansion on the lake?”

  “Yeah, that one. John was just testing his wings, so to speak, and I think last night Bruno was doing the same thing. But even if he does start communicating more directly with John, that still doesn’t mean he knows who killed him. I just hope he might somehow be able to point us in the right direction.”

  “Maybe you’ll be able to communicate directly with Bruno yourself.”

  Elliott looked at him, long and hard. “Lord, I hope not! And I hope to hell he doesn’t try to go through you, either. That’s a big door I don’t think either one of us wants to open.”

  Steve considered that for a long moment. “You’re right. But what do I do if he tries?”

  “Good question. I’ll ask John to make it clear to Bruno that if he wants our help, everything is to go through John.”

  Steve didn’t look convinced. “I just hope it works.” He took a long swig of his beer and suppressed a belch before saying, “Have you decided for sure about telling the police about the resort and the infomercials?”

  “I think so. I’d really like to know where the money’s coming from, and they’re in a better position to find out than I am…than we are.”

  Steve grinned. “Hey, that’s okay, Ell. I appreciate your including me in all this, but it’s your ball game. I’ll be happy to do anything I can to help, but I’m just basically an interested spectator with a really good seat. That’s another reason I’m with you in hoping Bruno doesn’t try to get me more involved—it would just muddy the waters.”

  Elliott hoped his relief did not show too clearly.

  “Thanks, Steve. I don’t want you to ever think I’m holding things back from you. And two heads are always better than one when it comes to sorting some of this stuff out. I’m glad you’re here…for a lot of reasons.

  “Well, if dinner weren’t ready, I’d suggest a side trip to the bedroom right now.”

  Reflecting Steve’s grin, Elliott said, “Yeah, you’d better stoke up on the calories. I think you’ll need them.”

  *

  Just before heading out the door Monday morning, he called the 23rd to leave a message asking detectives Cabrera and Guerdon to give him a call, and was surprised when just he and his crew were breaking for lunch, the two detectives showed up at the worksite.

  “We were just down the street when we called in and got your message. Figured we’d stop by.”

  “Glad you did,” Elliott said. “Let’s go in the back where we can talk.”

  With a nod to Arnie, Ted, and Sam, he led the detectives to his all-but-finished office, where he’d brought in a couple of folding chairs from home a week before.

  “So, what’s up?” Cabrera asked as Elliott closed the door behind them. Neither of the officers sat down.

  He told them of seeing the infomercial, of calling the real estate agency, and of learning that the resort’s purchaser was from New York. When he finished, both detectives remained silent for a moment.

  “We understand your interest in this case, and appreciate the time you’ve put into it,” Cabrera said. “We’ll talk to Blanton to see what he has to say about this latest information, but to be frank, Mr. Smith, this isn’t the only case we’re working on, and our time and resources are limited. While it might be significant that the New York buyers plan to use the lodge for the same purpose Blanton had in mind, it’s also entirely possible it’s just a coincidence.

  “And the fact of the matter is that, while several people had a reason to kill Caesar, we still haven’t been able to find any solid evidence that anyone did.”

  Anticipating Elliott’s protest, Guerdon stepped in. “That Caesar had drugs in his system is a fairly good indication it might have been foul play, but there was a party going on, and chloral hydrate is considered a recreational drug. We can’t be sure whether the other men in the apartment had also taken it, so…”

  Elliott caught just a hint of Old Spice.

  “We’ll look into any possible connection between Blanton and whoever bought the resort, but we just want you to understand there’s only so much we can do.”

  “I understand. And I really don’t mean to make a pest of myself or add to your workload, but there are just a lot of small details that might really mean something.”

  “True in every case, and we find not being able to follow up on all of them as frustrating as you do. But we do the best we can.”

  “I know, and I think I said before, I don’t envy you your job.”

  “And we don’t mean to discourage you,” Guerdon said. “If you come across anything solid, don’t hesitate to call.”

  He extended his hand, which told Elliott the meeting was over, and after exchanging a handshake with Cabrera as well, he led them to the front door.

  *

  Elliott called Steve when he got home to tell him he’d picked up the paint for the gallery space, then told him of the visit from Cabrera and Guerdon and their not-so-subtle hint they thought he was more a nuisance than a help.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not surprised, really. They’re right.”

  “So, what now?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “You want to come by for a drink tomorrow night after work?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then.”

  *

  It was nearly eleven thirty by the time he got to bed, but it seemed as though his head had just hit the pillow when John was with him.

  Busy time.

  Yeah, I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you since our little group-dream thing. What’s going on with Bruno?

  We’re talking, sort of…it’s a little hard to explain. Anyway, he knows about your talking with Cabrera and Guerdon today, and he’s really concerned they’re giving up on finding out what happened to him.

  I don’t think that’s true at all. But they did have a point about their not having the ability to track down every single possibility. I have to admit, the New York thing is a bit of a stretch.

  I’m not so sure. I get the feeling there may be some connection between Blanton and New York, but I haven’t a clue what it might be. We’re not conversing that fluently yet, but I’ll keep trying.

  Please, do.

  Oh, and I did mention to him that everything will go a lot smoother if he just concentrates on trying to communicate more clearly with me rather than spreading himself thin trying to involve you and Steve.

  Thanks, but how could you know I wanted to ask you that? Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting you know what I’m thinking.

  Sometimes. Only sometimes. Not always. We’ve talked about this before. Don’t start getting paranoid on me.

  You’re right. So, I’ll just wait to hear if you can find out anything more about Blanton and New York.

  Well, one of the things about being dead is that time doesn’t have the same urgency it does for the living, and until the, uh…let’s call them the new arrivals…get a handle on it, things can either drag out or fast forward so quickly it would give the living whiplash. That’s pretty much what’s going on with Bruno now.

  *

  Though he wasn’t dead, Elliott could understand the concept of time’s ability to cause mental whiplash. He thought of those periods as “blur-days”—one day blending into the next with no clear dividing lines.

  Painting the entire gallery area, the two offices, and the bathroom blurred Tuesday and Wednesday, and the arrival and laying of the new flooring Thursday and Friday took care of the rest of the workweek. Plus, he’d talked to Cessy two or three times and Brad once, and heard briefly from John on Wednesday, only to learn Bruno was circling Blanton’s New York connection without actually making it clear yet.

  Larry called to say he’d lined up a couple of potential properties for Elliott to consider for his next project. Work on the basement storage areas and getti
ng things organized there would take up a couple of days the following week, but after that, the Armitage project would be finished and it would be time to move on.

  He’d also, in addition to talking with Steve every day, had dinner and a sleepover at Steve’s on Thursday. That Steve was busily making plans for the opening of the gallery, even though he didn’t talk very much about it, was evidenced by his suggestion they have Ralph over for dinner Sunday.

  “Maybe he can bring over a portfolio of his work so you can see how talented he is.”

  Elliott grinned. “I’d like to see it, but I hope you don’t think you have to get my approval for anything. If you decide you want to work with him when the gallery opens, that’s fine with me. This is your baby.”

  “Yeah, but we’re partners, don’t forget.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.”

  *

  He spent Saturday catching up on paperwork, getting things ready to transfer to his new office and researching on the Internet for office desks and chairs. He looked forward to the extra room in his den removing the two file cabinets currently there would create. He also drove by the properties Larry had mentioned and made a note on two he wanted to take a closer look at.

  Because Steve wanted to finish his current painting, they decided to skip their usual Saturday night get-together. Ralph had accepted Steve’s invitation to dinner Sunday at six thirty, and Elliott planned to go over around three to transport a few office things and do a final clean-up of the ground floor—sweep, pick up leftover material from the floor laying, throw out the trash.

  Steve brought him down a cup of coffee as he was finishing the sweeping.

  “This is really beautiful, Ell,” he said, looking around. “When are you going to take down the paper from the windows? I’m eager to see it in full light.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about that. I was thinking of having Ted build a stand-alone modular panel for you first. We can hang one of your paintings with a display light and put it in front of the first support post. All the focus would be on the painting, and it might give people an idea of what’s to come.”

  “That’s a terrific idea, Ell!”

  “So, if you can do a sketch of what you want the panel to look like, and what kind of covering you want for it, I can give it to Ted tomorrow.”