by Joel Travis
Cynthia had been counting the suspects on her fingers. “That’s eight suspects.”
“Those are just the suspects who learned about the bet from my big mouth. In addition, there’s anyone your uncle told. That could include his friends, as well as everyone who lived in this house at the time he went missing.”
“Even me? I told you Uncle Melvin never told me about your bet.”
“Cynthia, I know you didn’t kill your uncle. The man was like a third father to you. But officially, you are on my list of suspects, just as John Enright and Andrea are.”
“Andrea? I think you can cross her off the list.”
She was right. Transportation alone would have posed an insurmountable obstacle for a seven-year-old. I told Cynthia I would cross her daughter off the list. It felt good to eliminate a suspect. I was one step closer to finding the killer.
Cynthia went upstairs to make sure Andrea was still in bed. I called Marty’s house to check in with my partners. I exchanged pleasantries with Susan. My sister-in-law passed the phone to Sheila and the pleasantries came to a halt. She was upset with me for running off without telling the team where I was going or when I’d be back. She claimed Ace and Barbara were mad at me too, but I figured she only said that to lend credence to her own petty grievances.
“Sheila, I’m at Cynthia’s Moreno’s house working on the case. I’m right in the middle of interviewing suspects. Unless you have something important—”
“What are we supposed to do all afternoon while you’re over there?”
I suggested they take turns studying the Codger photos with the magass. Suddenly Sheila was shouting at me, so I had to let her go. I turned the phone off in case she tried to call back.
Cynthia came back downstairs and reported that Andrea was pretending to be asleep, and that Enright had taken some medication and was ready to see me again. “Go now,” she said, “before the medication makes him drowsy and disoriented.”
I’m not sure it’s possible to enter Enright’s room without being shocked. Last time I was shocked by his appearance—the emaciated body, the liver-spotted face, the bulging eyeballs, the pointy nose, and the white, wispy hair which stood at attention atop his bony skull. This time I was shocked not by what I saw, but by what I couldn’t see. A cloud of smoke filled the room.
“Is that you back there, John?”
“Of course it’s me!”
I took a few steps toward the recliner. Enright himself was producing the smoke, puffing on what appeared to be a ten-inch cigarette. As I moved closer, waving at the smoke, I saw that the cigarette itself was normal length, but it dangled precariously from the end of a long, thin cigarette holder. An equation formulated in my mind:
Blindness + medication + spastic attack + dangling cigarette = old man on fire.
“I couldn’t see you through the smoke,” I said. “By the way, that’s the longest cigarette holder I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve been meaning to cut back.”
“On the smoking?”
“On the holder. As you say, it’s far too long. I find it unwieldy. It’s handmade, though.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I made it with my hands. Years ago I tried to start a cigarette holder business.”
“Didn’t work out?”
“I quit the business after a few weeks when I realized I was putting out a shoddy, flimsy product that no one wanted to buy.”
“I don’t mean to switch the subject—”
“Perhaps someday, long after I’m dead, cigarette holders will come back in style and people will say that I was ahead of my time.”
“I doubt it.”
He scowled at me. “What do you want?”
“I want to ask you about the evening Melvin disappeared.”
“Didn’t Cynthia tell you about it?”
“She said she was working late at the real estate company. She mentioned a meeting that her uncle—”
“I’m surprised she spoke of the meeting.”
“Why?”
“Never mind,” he said, waving a bony claw. “I’ll tell you what I know. You can draw your own conclusions.”
I took a seat and pulled out my notepad.
“On the night he disappeared, Melvin came to my room after dinner, around seven o’clock, and asked me if I needed anything. I asked him if he could finish reading me the rest of an Agatha Christie mystery—”
“Which one?”
“The Moving Finger.”
“That’s a good one.”
“I wouldn’t know. We never got to finish it.”
“Trust me, The Moving Finger is a good one. Great plot with a surprise ending.”
“I marked my place,” he said. “Could you read the rest of The Moving Finger to me?”
Unbelievable. His best friend had been murdered, yet all Enright cared about was The Moving Finger.
“Let’s get back to Melvin,” I said. “You asked him to read to you.”
“Yes. He said he didn’t have time because he had to attend a meeting at eight o’clock.”
“Did he say what the meeting was about?”
“No, he didn’t. I’m sure it was a business meeting. Otherwise, he would have told me. You see, Melvin never talked about his business.”
Enright took a drag through his cigarette holder, blew some smoke my way.
“Did he say anything else about the meeting?” I asked.
“He said he intended to ‘have his say’ at the meeting.”
“Have his say about what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Didn’t you think it was strange that his business was always such a secret?”
“Not really. Business deals are often confidential.”
Still, it seemed strange to me. Of course, when I was working for Cesar, I often gave vague answers to people who inquired about my business. If they pressed me, I would say I was in the playground equipment business. Then I would ask them if they had any children, knowing that if they did they would start talking about their kids and forget all about my business. If they didn’t have any children, I was forced to explain the underlying physics that made the teeter-totter so much fun, until they changed the subject or made an excuse to break away.
“A moment ago, you said you were surprised Cynthia mentioned the meeting to me. What did you mean by that, John?”
“I was referring to what Andrea told the police.”
“What did she tell them?”
“She said she was playing football in the front yard. Between seven-thirty and eight o’clock, Melvin walked past her without saying a word, as if he had something on his mind. He walked down the sidewalk, heading west.”
“He was going for a walk?”
“I don’t think he had time to take a walk before he went to the meeting. He never told me where the meeting was to take place, but there are certain implications to be drawn from the fact that he walked instead of taking his car.”
“The meeting place was within walking distance?”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand why Cynthia doesn’t like to consider the implications.”
“What kind of scientist does it take?” I asked, still in the dark.
“Cynthia is my landlord. Under the circumstances, I can say no more. You must draw your own conclusions.”
Throughout the interview, I had maintained eye contact with the witness. It occurred to me that this was unnecessary, since the witness was virtually blind. Tired of looking at his bulging eyeballs and the rest of his shriveled face, I glanced down at my notepad. I hadn’t taken any notes from our interview. From my interview with Cynthia I had recorded only one word. My eyes locked onto that six-letter word. I knew where Enright was trying to point me.
Cynthia popped into the room. She invited me to stay for dinner. I checked my watch. Dinner was several hours away. What happened to lunch?
“I don’t often get the chance to prepare one of my gourme
t dinners,” she said. “Andrea and John eat like birds.”
Explains why they look like birds.
I told Cynthia I’d love to stay for dinner, but I needed to get back to Marty’s to consult with my partners about the investigation. She suggested I finish my interview, go meet with my partners, and come back later. It would take several hours to prepare the meal she had in mind. We could dine at nine. Just the two of us.
#
I used to own one of those hats gourmet chefs wear. Although I wore it often, I never once used it for its intended purpose. I’m not sure how the hat helps you cook better anyway. I’ll bet I could put on a dunce cap and make a better sandwich than any gourmet chef. But I can understand why chefs wear those hats. Makes it child’s play to smuggle food out of the kitchen. Just stick a pineapple under your hat at the end of your shift and you’re good to go.
One night I did cook a delicious dinner for my wife. As I recall, I had just stretched out on the couch to watch the upcoming Maverick-Laker game when Sheila asked if we were going out to dinner. When I said no, she started to sob. I asked her why she was crying.
“It’s my birthday, you stupid ox!”
No one was more surprised than the stupid ox to hear that late-breaking news. I had no gift for the birthday girl. I couldn’t take her out to dinner, because I’d miss most of the game. The only way I could save face and still see the game was to say that I’d planned all along to cook her a special birthday dinner.
Sheila wasn’t impressed with the meal I prepared during halftime. Personally, I thought the Sloppy Joes were delicious. But Sheila is never satisfied. When I think of how I tried to please that woman! Cooking special birthday dinners. Taking her to Vegas for Christmas. Working my ass to the bone at every strip joint in town.
No, nothing was ever good enough for the rich girl from New Orleans. Thank God I met Cynthia. A rich girl, yes, but so much more. A soulmate. A soulmate’s value can’t be measured in dollars and cents, unless you get divorced.
If everything works out like I hope and my soulmate divorces her husband, don’t be surprised to see me down on my trick knee proposing marriage. And if she’ll have me, the two of us shall be joined together in holy matrimony and we shall be as one, if you follow the math.
One heart, one soul, one bank account, forever and ever, till death parts us like a hot knife through butter.
Chapter 15
Old man Enright craned his puny neck forward, eyebrows arched above the bulging eyeballs. A look of surprise.
“You mean to tell me that all the partners on your team are suspects in the same case they’re investigating?”
“All the partners, yes,” I said. “There’s an associate partner, battle-ax by the name of Crenshaw, who isn’t a suspect.”
“Don’t you see a conflict of interest in having the suspects investigate themselves?”
“I see your point, but it was the best team I could throw together.”
Enright shook his head. “It’s clear to me that you don’t know what you’re doing. Perhaps I can help you. During my stint in the Army, I learned a thing or two about how to conduct a proper investigation.”
“I thought you were a cook in the Army.”
“I was. But sometimes a utensil would turn up missing. It was my job to find out who took it and why. Whether you’re tracking down a killer or a missing spoon, the process is much the same.”
“Ever catch anybody?” I asked.
“Oh yes.”
“What kind of punishment did they get for swiping a spoon?”
“I’d tell the culprit he could keep the stolen spoon, but not to do it again. I’d let him know in no uncertain terms that thievery would not be tolerated in my kitchen.”
“Came down pretty hard on ’em, huh?”
“That’s the way it is in the Army.”
I checked my watch. “As much as I love hearing your war stories, I have a bus to catch.”
“If I still had my driver’s permit and my vision, I’d run you home myself.”
He pleaded with me to stay awhile longer, saying he didn’t get many visitors. I felt sorry for him, cooped up alone in his room day after day.
“Don’t you have any friends?” I asked.
“Melvin.”
“Melvin’s dead. Anyone else?”
“Well, my old Army buddies.”
“They come by and visit now and then?”
“They’re coming this weekend,” he said. “Cynthia organized a reunion for me. She sent out thirty invitations. My friends will be staying here in this house.”
“All thirty?”
“Not thirty. Cynthia informed me that some of my friends passed away. Others couldn’t make it this weekend, or they live too far away.”
“How many people are you expecting?”
“I’m expecting five or six, but I’d settle for one.”
“I’m sure someone will show up.”
“I hope Charlie Fogelman comes, even if he’s the only one. Charlie and I worked in the kitchen together. The man really knew his ingredients. Kept a perfect inventory in his head, always knew when we were running low on condiments.”
“Sounds like an interesting fellow.”
“Oh, he is. I hope you’ll drop by and meet him.”
“I’ll do that, if he comes.”
“Even if he doesn’t, I hope you’ll drop by. I can tell you a few stories about Charlie.” He chuckled. “Some of the stories I can only tell if he’s not here, if you know what I mean.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I didn’t follow up due to lack of interest.
“Well, I think it’s nice that Cynthia put together a reunion for you,” I said. “It’ll be fun to see your old friends after so many years.”
“That your idea of a joke?”
“What?”
“I’m blind, you bastard.”
“I’m sorry, John, poor choice of words. I meant it will be fun to spend some time with your old friends after so many years.”
“Be better if I could see them,” he said.
“I think it’s better if you can’t see them. Remember them as they were in their heyday.”
“Those were the days. We went through hell together, but it made us stronger,” said the weakest man I’d ever seen.
He began to advise me on how to conduct a proper investigation. “How much experience do you have interrogating witnesses?”
“Today and Saturday.”
“That may present a problem. You see, it takes experience to tell when a witness is lying. Witnesses often embellish the facts to make themselves seem more important, or to make their stories seem more interesting. They make things up off the top of their heads as they go along. Such witnesses mean no harm, but they have a way of muddling the facts. If you’re not careful, it’s easy to confuse these innocent ad-libbers with the guilty liars.”
“So how do you tell the libbers from the fibbers?” I asked.
“My experience as an investigator taught me that there are three men in this world who can be counted on to tell the truth.”
“Three men in the whole world?”
“Three types,” he said. “The first is the man who has nothing to gain by lying. The second is the man who has nothing to lose by telling the truth.”
“Sounds like the same guy.”
“I know you have a bus to catch,” he said. “I hope what I’ve said will be helpful in solving the case.”
“Well, I don’t see how it would be. But thanks for keeping it brief. I think I can still make my bus.”
I was halfway down the hall before I realized I’d been shortchanged. I retraced my steps and poked my head back in Enright’s room.
“Hey, John,” I said, “you forgot to tell me about the third man.”
“What third man?”
“You said there were three types of men who could be relied upon to tell the truth. You only told me two.”
“I said three types? You sure a
bout that?”
“Positive.”
“Don’t worry about it. The third man is not important.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but I’m curious. Who is the third man?”
“Very well,” he said, “if you insist. The third type of truth teller is the man who believes he’s on his deathbed. To clear his conscience and salvage his soul, he must confess the truth.” A smile crossed his lips. “I even know of one case where someone made an incriminating deathbed confession and forgot to die!”
He doubled over in convulsive laughter, holding his side, and that was how I left him. As I exited the front door, I could still hear him laughing from the third floor. The booming laughter from above gave me an eerie feeling, as if God himself was laughing at my life.
#
I strolled along Inwood Road, keeping a sharp lookout for the bus. If I missed it, I’d have to wait an hour for the next one. Not taking any chances, I picked up my pace. I was walking pretty fast when a black Lexus pulled up alongside me. The driver’s window was down and I caught a glimpse of him. About my age with slicked-back, black hair, wearing a black suit. Black car, black hair, black suit. Black must be one of his favorite colors, I thought nervously.
I slowed down; he slowed down. I ran about thirty yards and stopped. It was no use—I couldn’t shake him. He smiled and waved me over. I waved back, pretending I was too stupid to understand that he wanted a word with me. I kept walking, looking straight ahead. I tried to give the impression that I had forgotten all about the black Lexus driving alongside me. As if I had other things on my mind besides the black Lexus and the smiling man with the slicked-back hair.
He was playing rap music on the car stereo. I began to bob my head up and down to make it look like I was really into the song. I figured it would be harder for him to blow my head off if it was bobbing around like that.
“Car trouble?” he asked.
I pretended I thought he was talking to someone else.
“Need a ride?”
I pretended I was so into the music that I didn’t hear him, adding some hip-swinging to my head-bobbing. He turned the music off.
