by John Gaspard
While the urn was slowly lowered, I looked out at Lake Calhoun, which is adjacent to the large and sprawling cemetery. From my vantage point, I could just pick out Trish’s condo tower on the far side of the lake. It was the tallest structure at that end of Calhoun and easy to spot high above the trees.
I thought about what Deirdre had said about Trish and the Last Man Standing syndrome and what she’d said about Mr. Lime. I wasn’t so sure he was dead, but I also wasn’t surprised she hadn’t been able to find a trace of him. He was like a sickly wisp of smoke, quick to appear and impossible to grasp.
Harry stood by my side as we all listened to the last strains of Amazing Grace and without even thinking about it, I put my arm around his shoulder and, after a few moments, he leaned into me and sighed.
“Twice in one day. It’s like I won the lottery.” Deirdre looked at me from behind her desk, her reading glasses perched near the end of her nose.
I stood in the doorway, not yet getting the sense I was approved for entry. “Can I come in?”
She nodded as she took off her glasses. “The DA’s office is always glad to welcome the general public.” I entered, eyeing the guest chair in front of her desk but not wanting to commit to it just yet.
“How was the burial?”
I shrugged. “Sort of odd. A bunch of ashes are stuffed into a two-hundred dollar tin can and then dumped into a hole in the ground. A peculiar custom.”
“And this coming from the same fellow who once tried to convince me of the value of buying matching cemetery plots for our second anniversary?”
“What can I say, I’m a romantic guy. And as I remember, it was a hell of a deal.”
Deirdre chuckled. “My loss. How’s Harry?”
“I think it was good for him to go through the ceremony and the rituals. He’s still down, but I guess that’s to be expected.”
“So what brings you into the office?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Give it a shot.”
I wasn’t sure how to phrase it, so I just blurted it out. “Can I look at the Dylan Lasalle crime scene photos again?”
She gave me a long look and I felt any warmth that might have existed suddenly drain from the room. “Why?”
“I have an idea. A theory. I’d like to check it out.”
“Would you care to share that theory with me, and when I say ‘me,’ I mean the Assistant District Attorney in charge of the case and not your long-suffering ex-wife?”
“I’d rather not.”
Another long pause. “Why?”
“Because it’s probably stupid.”
“It won’t be the first time you looked stupid in front of me.”
“And it certainly won’t be the last. But this time, I’d rather avoid that.”
We looked at each other for what seemed like a long time without talking. “Humor me,” I said finally.
“Eli, I’ve been doing that, in one form or another, since the day we met.”
I had to give her that. “Then once more won’t kill you.”
Sensing this was one of the rare arguments with me she was likely to lose, she rifled through a stack of file folders on her desk, pulling out one that was stuck in the middle.
“I see it’s no longer at the top of the pile.”
“It’s not a cold case yet, but it’s getting cooler every day,” she said as she carefully opened the file. She flipped past pages of documents until she got to the photos and then placed the folder on her desk. She unhurriedly rotated the folder so I was looking at the photos right-side up.
I could feel her staring at me as I slowly looked through the images. They were just as graphic as I had remembered. I did my best to show no reaction as I reviewed photo after photo of Dylan’s body, photographed from multiple angles. There was one thing I was looking for, one thing that should have been there. And it wasn’t.
I got to the last image, gave it a long look, and then closed the file folder. I lifted my head and caught Deirdre’s eye.
“Well?”
I shook my head. “Nope,” I said. “Dumb theory.”
“Would you care to share it now?”
I shook my head again. “Let’s just forget we even had this conversation.”
“Happily.” She grabbed the file folder and placed it back on top of her stack of folders. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Give my best to Harry.” She put her reading glasses back on and returned to her work.
“Okay,” I said quietly as I walked out of her office.
As I stepped into the elevator, I wasn’t thinking about how I had just lied to my ex-wife. Instead, I was thinking about high-school reunions and Max Monarch’s skill with cards and old people with age spots holding hands. And I was thinking about a withered psychopath and a movie poster and a garbled prediction from an occasionally reliable phone psychic.
In short, I was thinking I finally understood what was going on and why nothing had happened to Trish. Or worse, why something was about to happen to Trish if I didn’t get there in time to stop it.
The only thing I wasn’t thinking was the likelihood I might be wrong.
Chapter 24
“Hello?” Trish’s voice, filtered through the lobby intercom system, sounded stressed.
“Hi,” I said, leaning toward the small holes in the silver plate on the wall. “It’s me, Eli. I’m downstairs, in your lobby. I tried calling you on your cell, but I kept getting put into voicemail.”
“Eli? Is everything okay?” She still sounded stressed, but now she seemed to be stressed about me.
“Oh, sure. I just wanted to talk to you. I got some insight. Today. Into Dylan’s death. I think. Maybe.” The more I talked, the less sure I felt.
“Oh, great. Why don’t you—why don’t you come up?” There was a click on the speaker, followed by a buzz by the door. I grabbed for the door handle and pulled it open, heading into the lobby and toward the elevator bank.
As I waited for one of the three elevators, I couldn’t help but think of Franny’s admonishment to ‘stick to the lobby level,’ and for a brief moment I even considered calling Trish again and asking her to come down. But then the middle elevator dinged, the doors slid open and I stepped in and pressed the button for the twenty-ninth floor. Before I could give it another thought, the elevator began its quick ascent.
“My, you’re all dressed up.”
I had forgotten I was still in the suit and tie I had worn to Max’s memorial service. I hadn’t expected to start the conversation talking about my wardrobe, so I was momentarily thrown off the plan I’d put together in the elevator.
“Yes, I just came from...ah...there was a memorial this afternoon. For one of my uncle’s friends.”
Trish had moved away from the front door, crossing the room to pull the only set of curtains that weren’t already closed. It was nearly dusk outside and three lamps lit the living room. Hanging lights over the center island in the kitchen illuminated that part of the room.
“A memorial service. Sorry to hear that,” she said as she pulled the curtain cord. “I remembered your problem with heights,” she continued, gesturing to the curtained windows, “And thought you’d be more comfortable without the view.”
“Yes, that’s great,” I said, stepping slowly into the room and shutting the door behind me. “That’s very thoughtful.”
She gestured toward the couch. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Iced tea?”
I shook my head as I sat down. The couch was less firm than advertised and I sank into the cushions rather further than I had anticipated. “No thanks. But if you want something, don’t let me stop you.”
“No, I’m okay,” she said, taking a seat on a matching chair across from me. I glanced around the room and noticed two suitcases on the flo
or by the hallway.
“Are you going somewhere?” I pointed toward the suitcases.
“No, I wish,” she said with a laugh. “I was doing some cleaning and realized I have far too many suitcases. I’m not sure where they all came from. So I set a couple of the older ones aside to bring down to the homeless shelter.”
I smiled. “I have a bunch of things I should unload as well, I guess. Who knows how it all piles up?”
We both laughed in agreement. After a suitable pause, Trish leaned forward. “So you said you had something about Dylan’s death? I think you said insight?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Some pieces sort of came together in my head today. I went down to the DA’s office and did some checking—without,” I was quick to add, “letting them know I might be onto something.”
“Okay.”
I sat back, trying to figure out the best way to start what was feeling more and more like a wild-assed idea. Trish waited patiently while I gathered my thoughts. Finally, I leaned forward and just dove in.
“There’s an idea in magic, raised by a really great magician named Darwin Ortiz, that if you can get the audience to ask the wrong question, you are guaranteed they’ll never come up with the right answer.”
“Okay.” I could tell she was being patient with me, letting me present my idea before asking any questions.
“For example,” I went on, “if you get them thinking you’re using sleight of hand, they’ll never realize a card trick is essentially self-working.”
“All right,” she said, drawing the words out. I sensed I needed to get to a point of some kind.
“So, the question we’ve all been asking is who killed Dylan, right?”
She nodded in agreement.
“But the problem we’re running into,” I continued, “is no one is getting anywhere with that question—not you, not me, not the police. But I think that might be the wrong question, and that’s why we can’t come up with the right answer.”
“So, what is the right question?” Trish said quietly as she leaned forward, moving to the edge of her chair.
“I think the correct question is, ‘Is Dylan really dead?’”
It seemed to take her several moments to absorb the meaning of the words. “Is Dylan really dead?” she repeated.
“I was at a memorial this afternoon for this magician, Max Monarch, a really terrific card magician. And one of his signature moves was a deck switch.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like—at some point in a performance, you take a deck of cards that has been thoroughly examined or shuffled by an audience member. You take it and, unbeknownst to them, you switch it with a cold deck, which is a deck you’ve prepared in some special way. And I think that’s what Dylan did—he switched decks.”
“He switched decks? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, not literally, of course.” I was gaining traction and started to dig in. “Look, remember when we were at the reunion and they stamped our hands with an ink mark as we came in?”
She nodded as she thought about it. “Something about keeping interlopers from coming in and eating our food. I think it was supposed to be our school mascot, but it really just looked like a black smudge.”
“That’s right. And we all got one. I even looked at the photos that pushy photographer is trying to sell online, and you can see everyone got one. And I also remember it took me about ten minutes to wash it off the day after the reunion.”
Trish continued to nod. “Yes, I remember how annoying it was.”
“Well,” I continued, “I looked at the crime scene photos of Dylan’s murder again this afternoon. The police were very thorough about the photos—they shot every part of him. And there wasn’t a mark on his hand. Either hand. No stamp.”
Trish sat back as she considered this. “Maybe he washed it off before he went out jogging?”
“Maybe. Maybe. But it seems unlikely. You said you both came home and he went out immediately for a run. He didn’t take a shower or anything before he left, did he?”
Trish shook her head. “No, no he didn’t.” She got up and crossed the room, picking up one of two wine glasses on the kitchen counter. She opened the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of wine. She uncorked the half-full bottle and was about to pour when she stopped. “But I identified the body. I went downtown and identified the body.”
“I know. But I think Dylan found someone about his same height and build, switched clothes and then shot him.” I suddenly remembered Franny’s odd psychic prediction: ‘The man who got shot was the man who got shot but he wasn’t.’
I had made the assumption that it referred to Jake and the character he was playing in the movie. But in retrospect I think she saw right through Dylan’s staged mugging and the scenario he was trying to create for the police. Dylan was the man who got shot but he wasn’t.
“They said he was shot first in the heart, and then in the head,” I continued, trying to keep my thoughts focused on recounting my theory for Trish.
“In the face,” Trish corrected. “It was horrible.”
“It certainly was,” I agreed, remembering the photos. “Under those circumstances, it’s completely understandable you’d think it was Dylan. In fact, I think he was counting on that.”
She finished pouring the wine and held the bottle up to me. I shook my head. She set the bottle on the counter and headed back toward her chair. “So if Dylan is alive...” she began, taking a sip as she sat down.
She left her sentence hanging, so I finished it. “If Dylan is alive, then suddenly the other murders make sense. He was in business with Howard Washburn and maybe Washburn knew about his plan to fake his death.”
“And Sylvia Washburn?”
“Well, given her reaction when I mentioned Dylan to her, I think they may have been having an affair. Maybe,” I added in an effort to soften that blow.
“With Sylvia Washburn,” Trish said quietly. “That makes sense. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“And maybe with those loose ends tied up, Dylan really has disappeared. Mr. Lime said something about Dylan taking some money that belonged to him.”
Trish interrupted. “Mr. Line?”
I shook my head. “No, Lime. That’s not his real name, just the name he told me. He’s this creepy old guy that knew Dylan and had some sort of dealings with him.”
Trish sat back. She took a sip of wine and repeated the name quietly. “Mr. Lime.”
“Anyway, he said Dylan owed him. I think it might have been money, something from one of his courier jobs. Maybe Dylan has taken that money and is really gone for good.”
“You keep saying ‘maybe,’” Trish said.
“Well, I say maybe because there’s always the chance he considers you to be a loose end that still needs to be tied up.” I sat back, again sinking in further into the couch than anticipated. “But since he hasn’t made any attempts so far, I think that’s becoming less and less likely.”
Trish considered what I had just told her. “And you haven’t shared this theory with the DA or the police?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I said, “if Dylan really is gone, that’s a good thing for you. The police have no further leads and this is quickly turning into a cold case. I think if nothing else surfaces, they’ll file it away as unsolved.”
“And what happens if you tell them your theory?”
I shrugged. “Maybe nothing. But if they think Dylan is alive and on the run, that could blow this thing up even larger than before. If he’s crossed state lines, that might pull the FBI into it. It could get big.”
Trish smiled. “And you prefer the version where Dylan is gone and I’m free and clear?”
I returned the
smile. “I do. I think you’ve had your share of bad guys.”
“I think you’re right. Thank you, Eli.”
“No problem. And, as long as Dylan is convinced there are no more loose ends, I’d say everything is going to be fine.”
“The problem is,” said a voice behind me, “that now I have one more loose end to clear up.”
Trish rolled her eyes. I tried turning around, but that was harder than anticipated as I was being swallowed by the couch. I was finally able to prop myself up against a cushion and turned to see who this new voice belonged to. In my gut, I already knew.
Standing in the hallway, with a gun in his hand, was Dylan Lasalle.
Chapter 25
Trish was on her feet in an instant and she was surprisingly angry. “For God’s sake, Dylan, he wasn’t a loose end until you stepped out of the bedroom. You just made him a loose end. Every time I think you’ve been as stupid as a person can possibly be, you find a way to go ahead and top yourself.”
“But,” Dylan said, “he had it figured out. He had most of it figured out.”
“Yes, and he wasn’t going to do anything with that information, because he thought it would make my life worse if the truth came out. Were you listening at all to what was going on out here?”
“Some. Most. I heard most of some of it,” he mumbled.
It was absolutely Dylan, but I’m not sure if I would have recognized him if I’d bumped into him on the street. I guess that was the idea. He sported a shaggy brown beard and his previously blond hair was now a mousey brown. But it was clearly Dylan, as evidenced by the macho swagger and insolent attitude that had been his trademark.
“Perfect,” Trish snapped. She turned sharply and headed back to the kitchen. She set her wine glass on the counter with so much force I was surprised it didn’t break. “Just perfect. We’re a half hour away from hopping on a plane and you have to take care of one more of your idiotic loose ends.”
“But he figured it out,” Dylan repeated.
“And what about Howard Washburn? He didn’t figure it out, but that didn’t stop you from shooting him.”
