by Josh Berk
“It’s part of the skills of being a good detective. Zant said that all the time.”
“Maybe Zant killed Toby. Zant sure knew a lot about the mind of the killer.”
“Why would Zant kill Toby?”
“Probably just jealous over how handsome he was. I don’t know if you noticed, but Toby was a really, really good-looking fellow.”
“You’re clearly just saying that because he looked like you,” Anoop says. “Which brings us back to our previous theory.”
“Whatever, whatever. Sure, sure. So what do we do next?”
“The way I see it is, we do one of two things,” Anoop says. “We either go back to the scene of the crime and look for clues, or we try to find Jacques Langman ourselves.”
“Those sound like terrible ideas,” I say. Because they do. “Isn’t there a third thing?”
“Well, there is, but I already did that this morning.”
“Nice.”
“So you choose, my friend. What do you think will bear the most fruits, as it were?”
“By ‘third thing’ I mean call the police, not whatever weird third thing you had in mind,” I say.
“The police aren’t going to care, Guy,” he says, and I know he’s right. “We have to do this ourselves.”
“Then let’s get to the golf course,” I say. It’s the least frightening of the two options. “At least we aren’t going to get killed there.”
“Unless you can die from dirty balls.”
“Which, if you can, you already would have. Are we allowed to just go walk around the golf course?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says. “It’s not like you have to pay to get in.”
Turns out you totally have to pay to get in.
We drive all the way over there only to get turned away by a snooty turd in a cardigan sweater. He’s like some sort of golf-course guard-Nazi in a little booth.
“You boys can’t just show up here looking like bums and defile this course,” he says. “It’s a public course, yeah, but there’s a dress code and a fee.”
I mutter, “You dick, you have dirty balls,” and shuffle off. Anoop has no intention of being dissuaded so easily.
“All we have to do is dress like golfers?” he asks the guy in the booth. The guy nods.
“I think my pink sweaters and lime-green slacks are at the cleaner’s,” I say.
“I’m sure your dad had some stuff that would pass as golfwear,” Anoop says to me. “He probably had some clubs too.”
“Dad hated golfing,” I say.
“Okay, you can go without clubs. You can be my caddy.”
“I ain’t your caddy, bitch,” I say. “You’re my caddy. Who’s your caddy?”
“I’m the Bengal Tiger Woods.”
“Good one.”
We drive back to my house on the slightly absurd mission of finding clothes that will allow us to pass the rigorous standards of the golf-course police. Anoop is right, though. Fran probably had lots of clothes we could use for the purpose. We get to the Manor, park the car, and head into my dad’s old office. There are enough rooms in Langman Manor that it isn’t exactly like one of those creepy houses where a shrine to a dead person lingers long after they are gone. It is just a room filled with crap we haven’t bothered to get rid of. Okay, possibly for shrine-like reasons. Mom likes to go in there and look around at Dad’s old stuff. Once I saw her wearing one of his old shirts—a polyester Hawaiian number decorated in scores of ukuleles and topless Polynesian ladies—and talking to herself in the mirror, as if she were him. She looked so happy that I didn’t want to interrupt. Funny thing is, she hated that shirt while he was alive.
It doesn’t seem like Polynesian tits would be the right motif to go golfing in, much less to appease Mr. Golf-Nazi, who is working the check-in booth, but Anoop insists.
“Dude,” he says. “That is the funniest shirt I’ve ever seen in my life.” He takes a few pictures with his phone. I model. Work it. Stuff like that. Anoop picks out a pretty funny ’80s-looking pink shirt and a pair of pink pants. Fran was pretty large for much of his life, his waistline of an epic girth, so we have to cinch up the pants with ginormous belts. It is a pretty weird look.
“Don’t we need golf shoes?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of bowling.”
“I’m not thinking of bowling.”
“You’re thinking of sticking your fingers into some balls, that much I know,” he says.
“That doesn’t even make sense, Anoop,” I say.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s roll.”
“Now you’re thinking of bowling,” I say.
“I’m thinking we need to get moving.”
“Shouldn’t we bring some clubs?”
“Small detail,” he says.
“Dad did have golf clubs somewhere,” I say. “He got them as a gift. Never used them.” We look through his office closets, unearthing boxes of papers and pictures of him as a young man, vivid and alive. I get sucked in, staring at the pictures, thinking about his life. The hair on that man! The hats! The ascots!
I find pictures of me too. Baby pictures. Kid pictures. Pictures of me hyper—playing baseball, grinning at the camera under an oversized blue batting helmet even though I don’t remember ever actually being happy playing baseball. Or maybe I was. I am happy in all the pictures, hanging on my father’s arm, both of us grinning like chimps. I’m smiling in every one of them. It’s hard not to think about what this means and how different it is from my life now. I see a bag of golf clubs and pick it up.
Then I find a lined yellow piece of paper. It’s folded in half. I open it up. Dad’s handwriting. A simple note. To whom? To himself? I read it and my eyes immediately fill with tears.
“What’s that?” Anoop asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all.” I tuck it into the pocket of my absurd pants. “Let’s roll.”
We drive to the golf course, park among the expensive cars, and haul our golf clubs across the lot. We look ridiculous—me in a Polynesian titty shirt and Anoop all in pink—but no one seems to notice. Is it that our clothes fit in here? Or that they’re so distracted whacking their balls? Golfers are an obsessive bunch of weirdos.
We get up to the desk and I’m happy to see that there has been a shift change. The annoying guy who gave us the stink-eye is gone, and in his place is a big fat guy who just seems interested in listening to talk radio and making out with a bag of Funyuns. We walk by in our ludicrous golf clothes and pretend we are going to go golf. As discussed, we figured we’d bust out some golf lingo to seem like serious players in case anyone was listening.
“The wind is looking mellow. I’m totally going to hit a bunch of boogies,” I say, just in case the other players think that maybe we were fakers. (Which we of course are.)
“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘bogeys,’ ass crack,” Anoop says.
“And I do declare that it’s boogies,” I reply. When I’m being fancy, like I think a golfer should be, I end up talking in a British accent. Anoop hates this, presumably because of India’s colonial history with the British. That’s right, I was paying attention in Social Studies, Mrs. Lewis!
No one is visibly impressed by my golfery lingo, but I’m pretty sure deep down they appreciate how awesome I am. Either way, it doesn’t matter. We aren’t actually there to play. We are on a different mission. We are there to look for clues, whatever that means. I figure I’d just whack a ball into the tree line, giving us an excuse to poke around in there. The idea of being at the spot where that body was found creeps me out a bit, but I take a deep breath and go for it. Someday maybe I’ll be able to wiggle my finger inside a bullet hole to determine its caliber. Maybe not. But for now at least, I have to be okay with being near where a dead body was. I mean, it’s not even there anymore. Quit being creeped out, Langman. Get used to this.
It turns out that it is hard to hit a ball into the tree line (how do you actually hit it into a tiny hole a
thousand feet away?), so I just pick one up and throw it in the general direction of where we want to hunt for clues. Golfery stink-eyes are given, but who cares? I’m not really all that good at throwing for distance and accuracy, so this takes a few tries as well. Finally. Sheesh.
“Oh Lord, whatever has happened to my ball, Anoop?” I say.
Anoop resists the ball joke for once and rushes off into the weeds. Or into the rushes! He rushes into the rushes. Because “rushes” are a kind of grass? Never mind. The ball is in the bush. (Ha-ha.) We use our clubs like machetes and enter the thicket, methodically chopping.
There is police tape marking off the scene, but only the small clearing where the body was found. No one is guarding it. No one seems to be looking for the killer. Maybe they don’t care who killed him? Or maybe they already know? Is this already a closed case? Do they have a suspect? Jacques Langman? No, couldn’t be. No one knows except me.
“What are we looking for, Anoop?” I ask. “I mean, not that this place is giving me the creeps and not that I’m afraid of birds, but ah! Did you hear that? A coyote?”
“Coyotes rarely swear, do they? That was just one of those dumb-ass golfers shanking, or slicing, or whatever.”
“What are you doing?”
“Climbing a tree.”
“I can see that, but why? What are we going to find?”
“A clue.”
“Such as.”
“Look at me, Guy, it’s dramatic.”
“What?”
“I’m holding a clue.” I look up. And indeed he is. It’s a shred of fabric. Not just any fabric, but an obnoxious piece of orange fabric.
“North Berry Ridge orange,” I say. “What does it mean?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After our trip to the golf course, I decide to go home and take a bath. Sometimes I like to go all out, light some candles, use the scented oils. Make a mountain of bubbles. Don’t judge me. It’s relaxing. Blissful, even. I am just about really slipping into a beautiful bath coma when I am rudely interrupted. The door flies open and bangs the towel rack with a noise like a shot. I jump up, then dive back down into the tub with its obscuring bubbles. Because I have company. It’s not just Anoop—who has entered the bathroom on me before—but Maureen Fields and TK!
“Wha-wha-what are you guys doing here?” I say, checking the bubbles to ensure adequate wang coverage. Like I said, I use lots of bubbles, so I am safe. Still. “Please tell me Raquel isn’t coming,” I say.
“We called your cell like nine times,” Anoop says. “You are not taking the three-call thing seriously. So we came over. Your mom let us in. We called R, but she wasn’t around.”
“Sorry, Guy,” I hear Mom yell in a singsong from the hallway. “That Anoop can be quite charming. Let me know if you need a towel.”
“I don’t need a towel. I need these assholes to leave me alone!”
“That’s enough,” Mom says.
“Wow,” says TK. “You curse in front of your mom?”
“What are you doing here?” I say, choosing not to answer his question, but rather posing a more pressing one of my own.
“You didn’t hear?” he asks, in that little drawling way he has of talking. He turns to the others. “Oh, I guess he didn’t hear.”
“How would I hear anything?” I say.
“Internet?” he says.
“Um, I’m in the bathtub?” I say. I give Maureen a “what the hell?” look. She smiles.
TK gets out his phone and reads: “ ‘Coroner Adams announced today that Toby Weingarten’s death was ruled a suicide. The case is considered closed.’ ”
“What about the clue we found?” I ask, somewhat agitated.
“Wait, you guys found a clue without us?” Maureen says. She sounds mad.
“Yeah,” I say. “You didn’t tell her, Anoop?”
“I didn’t have time,” he says.
“We found a piece of fabric in a tree at the golf course,” I say.
“Not just a piece of fabric, but a piece of orange fabric,” Anoop says, tapping his temple with his finger. “North Berry Ridge orange.” He takes an evidence bag out of his pocket and shows it to Maureen and TK.
“Interesting,” TK says.
“Impressive,” Maureen says.
“It was quite a piece of undercover detective work,” I say. “We had to dress up like golfers and everything.”
Maureen laughs. “Oh man, I’m sorry I missed seeing you in your golfer outfits,” she says. “Now I’m really mad at you.” But she doesn’t sound it.
“Ha-ha,” I say. And for a second I forget that I’m in a tub. I forget that there are other people in the room. “I just don’t believe it about Toby,” I say.
“If you look at the comments in the article,” TK says, “lots of other people don’t either. They say the ruling happened too fast. They say that Adams just does what the mayor tells him. They say that if the mayor wants to cover up a murder, he does it. Murders look bad for the city, and the mayor wants to get reelected, and—”
“I don’t want to cut you off,” I say, cutting him off because I suddenly remember where I am. “But we’re going to have to continue this later. These bubbles aren’t going to last forever. This show is about to go from PG-13 to R-rated real quick. Strong chance of NC-17.”
“Okay, no problem,” Maureen says. “Text me later.”
Do I have Maureen’s number? No, I do not. She turns to the steamed-up mirror and quickly writes her digits with her finger on the steam. “I have to go anyway. Oh, and sorry I can’t do that with my feet,” she says.
“Me too?” I say. The guys laugh. TK and Maureen head out. Anoop remains. I don’t think he’ll be seeing anything he hasn’t seen before. Once the door is closed, I get out of the tub.
“What the hell was that?” I say.
“Hurry up and get dressed,” he says. “New York is a pretty ‘anything goes’ kind of city, but I’m pretty sure we’ll get kicked off the bus if you’re buckass naked.”
“Wait, what?” I say. “Did I miss something?”
“Well, I thought the context clues would give you an inkling. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Please spell it out for me. I’m not thinking straight at the moment.”
“Is it because Neeruam totally gave you her phone number?” He points to the number written in steam on the bathroom mirror. He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll put it into my phone for you in case the steam goes away.”
That’s definitely not why I wasn’t thinking straight at the moment, but I’m glad that it diverts Anoop’s attention for a moment. While he’s entering Maureen’s digits into his phone, I grab a towel. I wrap myself in its fuzzy warmth and roll my eyes at him. I head down the hall to my room to get dressed. He tries to follow, still peering into his phone, but I’m quick. I slam my bedroom door in his face and quickly lock it.
“I’ll just wait out here, then,” he says through the door.
“Good idea,” I say. “So what the hell are you talking about New York for?”
“There is just one place for this investigation to go,” he says. “Or rather, there’s one place for us to go. New York, baby.”
“What on earth for?” I ask, though I think I already know. My stomach is tightening around the thought. It’s like a rock in my gut.
“We can sit around and wait for Jacques Langman to strike again,” he says. “Or we can go to him. I say we take the battle to the enemy, disrupt his plans, and confront the worst threats before they emerge.”
“Are you quoting the Bush Doctrine?” I ask.
“And you say you weren’t paying attention in history class!” he says. “Guy, I’m so proud of you.”
“Whatever. It’s a stupid doctrine. I don’t like any doctrines. Not the Monroe Doctrine. Not the … um, that’s the only other doctrine I can think of, but the Monroe Doctrine sucks! And so does this one. It’s a horrible idea. What are we going to do? Just go knock on his
door, and when he opens it we say, ‘Hey, here I am, kill me now?’ ”
“Well, no, we don’t do that, in part because he lives in an apartment, so we’d have to press his buzzer and get him to buzz us up. Then he kills you.” Funny.
The rock in my stomach gets bigger and heavier. I remember that I mentioned to Anoop that I found Jacques’s address with Hairston’s help. Anoop is not going to let this go. He does not believe in letting things go. It’s the Anoop Doctrine. I’m mostly dressed, so I open the door.
“This is not funny!” I say. “What if he does try to kill me?”
“Dude, I thought it through,” he says. “We don’t ring his buzzer, we wait outside. We do some surveillance, wait until he leaves. Then we confront him in a public place. He can’t stab you in the face in public. Somebody would be sure to notice.”
“Dude,” I say. “This is New York we’re talking about.”
“Okay, yeah, but he can’t just kill you on the street. We wait until he’s in a big crowd. We ask him what the hell this is about. If he runs, it’s as good as admitting his guilt. Plus, I’m packing heat.” He taps his pocket. Does he have a gun in there?
“Wait. What?”
“Just kidding. I might bring a kitchen knife, I guess.”
“Good. That way we can make him a salad if he tries to kill us. But really, I’m still not sure we can …,” I start to say. Then I have a simple revelation.
“What?” Anoop says.
“We don’t even have to find him,” I say. “We just fingerprint his doorknob! Make a match. Home in time to finish up the bubble bath.”
“Dude, you’re a genius!” Anoop says. He says it with total conviction. He’s one hundred percent sure I’m a genius. Why don’t I feel like one?
While I finish drying my hair, Anoop gets out his phone and brings up a map, bus schedules, all that. He starts flicking the screen with dramatic gestures, like a magician.
“Sorry to say it’s too late to go tonight, but we can catch an early bus tomorrow.”
“Yeah, so sorry that I can’t go get murdered as soon as freaking possible.”
“You’re not getting murdered. Look, that address is in Chelsea. Could someone get murdered in a place named for a girl?”
