A Murder Too Personal (ed rogan)

by Gerald J. Davis

  Finally, after what seemed to be the length of a Grand Opera with two intermissions, the professor spoke. “Our door is always open.”

  “What?” I shouted.

  “We welcome everyone. Anybody who wants to join us can enter.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I certainly am,” I said and leaned over toward him. “Was Alicia a member of your group?”

  “What?” he said.

  “Alicia,” I repeated. “A member of your group?”

  He shifted closer to me on the floor and spoke into my ear in a tone slightly higher than a whisper. “Our family,” he corrected me. “I liked to think of Alicia as a convert. She was one of my proudest achievements. Here I was able to take an exemplary member of the secular society and mold her into a seeker of eternal verities.”

  The stereo was making such a racket I could only hear every second word he was saying. “Can you do me a favor?” I said. “Can you turn down the music?” I was trying as hard as I could to be polite.

  He nodded eagerly. “It would make me very happy to be able to honor your request.”

  The professor rose slowly and shuffled over to the stereo. It took him about three times as long as it should have to do this. Everything took longer than it should have. It looked like he was moving in slow motion. He lowered the volume with a careful movement. Then he stepped into the kitchen, took something from the refrigerator and came back to me.

  I could make out two bottles in his hand. “I never imbibe alcoholic beverages,” he said.

  There are a couple of people on the face of the earth who follow this practice, I know. But I was hoping I wouldn’t encounter them right here and now.

  “I hope you understand,” he said.

  I was trying real hard to.

  “This is all I have at the moment. One of my disciples brought it today. It is completely organic.”

  At least I could hear him now. I took a bottle. The label said root beer. The professor produced an opener.

  I took a long drink of the swill. It was cold, but that was all I could say for it. The stuff tasted like bark and twigs-and it wasn’t even fermented.

  “Professor Garbarini,” I said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “What would you say was Alicia’s greatest area of interest?”

  “Yes,” he repeated, “her interest…her interest…her interest.” It sounded like a mantra. “I was glad to have Alicia with us. Everyone liked her. I always try to have as many people here as possible. This is not an ashram, of course, but many visitors stay here from time to time. The door is never locked.”

  I nodded. “Tell me more,” I said.

  The professor stared into the candle flame and took a deep puff on the joint. “I am a teacher of metaphysics, as you know, and I always like to have many souls surrounding me. My students enjoy coming here. Sometimes there are only two or three, sometimes ten or twelve. We listen to music, we smoke hashish, we make love to each other, we talk about serious themes. Ideas which have been discussed since the dawn of civilization. I’m sure Socrates and his students lay about in this way in the baths, debating these selfsame subjects. But they drank wine instead. This is a very close group. We love each other. We express our love in physical ways. Members come and go but the core remains. I am the Master, yes, that is true. But many interesting concepts come from the students.”

  He stopped rambling and stared at the flame. I didn’t know how to get information out of him. It was like trying to grab the fog.

  Just as abruptly as he stopped, he started up again. “Even when I’m not here, when I’m teaching or walking, people are always here. You might say it’s like an open house.”

  Yes, I might say that.

  “Did you have sex with Alicia?” I asked.

  He looked at me like I just stepped off the shuttle from Mars.

  “Alicia and I expressed our physical love for each other, yes,” he said. “But that is not unusual. I express my physical love for all my disciples and they express it for me. I believe you must empty your prostate every day. That is healthy. It does not matter who the receptacle is. The male essence or the female essence or those who express both essences in their nature.”

  “What kind of lover was Alicia?” I asked.

  “That was her problem. You know, each person has give and take within. Alicia would give but she would not take. A woman must always take, but Alicia would not take.”

  I was beginning to see a vague outline of what he was getting at.

  “Was Alicia a good disciple?”

  “She was one of my best, except that she would not take. She threw herself into metaphysics as if it were an obsession. She was obviously seeking a yang for her yin.”

  “You mean a man?” I asked.

  He shook his head slowly, almost sadly, and wagged his finger the way you would at a kid who wet his pants. “Don’t be so literal. A yang is not necessarily a man. It is a complement to what is lacking in her being.”

  “And tell me what was lacking in her being.” I was starting to feel like an untutored jackass.

  “This we are not privileged to know. One can never know the inner soul of another person. One only sees the superficial exterior which may often be misleading.”

  He paused and put his hands over his eyes. “Kundelini…searching for Kundelini.”

  “What?”

  “Kundelini,” he repeated.

  What in the pluperfect hell was he talking about?

  Just about this time, with the incense and the bayberry and the music and the pot smoke and that goddam root beer, I was starting to develop a major headache. A really serious headache. I had an intense craving for a very tall, very cold glass of beer-any beer from any brewery in Northern Europe or the United States.

  “Tell me,” I tried again. “Would you have any idea why someone would want to kill Alicia?”

  The professor knitted up his brows so that twin furrows ran up his forehead. He concentrated his gaze on the flame. “Alicia was not contented. She had not reached spiritual peace.”

  I thought of the people I knew. Neurotic New Yorkers and people trying to become neurotic New Yorkers. “Many people haven’t reached spiritual peace,” I said. “What does that have to do with her death?”

  “This unfortunately I cannot tell you.” He looked at me intently. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be sincere or if he was just having me on.

  I tried again. “Do you know who supplied her with cocaine?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “We do not use cocaine. The only narcotic we use is hashish, in keeping with our beliefs.”

  This guy was the master of blue smoke and mirrors. In a whole lifetime of years, I’d seen few his equal.

  “Tell me, who was Alicia’s best friend?”

  For the first time, he seemed to come awake. He smiled to himself and rubbed his beard. “Her best friend and closest confidant was this person.” He motioned to the girl on the chest.

  “Rachel,” he yelled so loud I almost jumped.

  The girl uncoiled herself from her meditation and came over to us. The professor craned his neck to look up at her and gestured vigorously for her to sit down. She lowered herself gracefully into the lotus position and stared into our faces. There was the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

  “Rachel,” the professor said, “this man is looking into the circumstances surrounding the death of Alicia. I am sure he would appreciate any information you can give him. I, for my part, have given him as much as I could and I am sure it has been helpful.”

  I tried to give her a reassuring look. I hoped she had something more concrete than the professor’s sack of wind. She had finely-etched features and what looked like flawless skin in the dim light. She was slight and couldn’t have been more than five-two. An elfin creature. Her hair was dark and straight and cut short. Her eyes were large and her pupils were well-dilated. She was wearing a loose-fitting black top and bicycle pants. She looked to be in her early t
wenties.

  When she spoke, her voice was soft and well-modulated. I had to strain to hear her.

  “Please,” she said. “I’d like to do whatever I can, Mr.?”

  “Rogan,” I said. “But call me Ed.”

  Her eyes widened. They were deep and knowing. “You’re her ex-husband.”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “Like I know everything about you.” Her smile became a little broader.

  That was just a little unsettling. “Can we go somewhere to talk?” I asked.

  Her reply was swift. “Sure.”

  That was it. That was about all the damage I could do here. I gave my hand to the professor. He took it and held it tight between his two hands like he was measuring me for a glove. That lasted for an uncomfortable time. He looked deep in my eyes. I thought he was going to hug me. Instead, he suddenly released me and said, “Your spirit is just. Your motives are pure. Your soul is at peace. I wish you Godspeed in your quest.”

  It was the most gracious dismissal I’d ever gotten.

  I led Rachel out the door and gladly left behind the goddam noise, smoke and darkness.

  It was past midnight. I didn’t know if we’d find a place nearby, but there were two all-night coffee shops on the block. One was cleaner and newer than the other. It was called Athena. There was a Hellenic motif on the walls and on the plates. The aroma of garlic was strong enough to knock you back ten hectares.

  Rachel slid into a booth and said brightly, “I’m famished, you know. I haven’t had anything to eat all day.” She looked up at me the way a child looks at an adult. “Is it alright if I indulge in like some red meat?”

  I sat down opposite her. Somehow her question seemed in character. “Sure,” I nodded. “How about a slab of tenderloin?”

  She was older than I had thought. In the candlelight of the professor’s apartment, she looked to be in her early twenties. I wondered what Alicia would have had in common with a girl that young. Now, in the fluorescent glare of truth, I could see she was on the backside of thirty. She had the kind of skin that looks fresh and dewy when it’s young, but looses its moisture quickly and develops fine lines around the eyes and mouth as it ages. She had the movements of a younger woman but the presence of one who’s lived through a few of life’s more educational experiences.

  A waitress hovered over us and made a perfunctory wipe over the Formica with a greasy rag. Then she shoved a couple of worn plastic menus at us. Rachel shook her head and said, “Let me have a big hamburger, half a pound, and make it like red rare.”

  “Same for me,” I said, “but put more fire on mine. And give me a Bud.”

  The waitress put her hands on her hips. “No beer,” she said.

  “OK. Cup of coffee, then.”

  The waitress grunted, nodded and shuffled away.

  “I thought with all this ashram business you’d be a vegetarian,” I said to Rachel.

  “I am. But sometimes I just have like such a craving for red meat,” she said with a wicked grin. She was one of those people who had to emphasize certain words with a dramatic flair.

  I didn’t waste any time. “How do you know everything about me?”

  She flushed. “What I meant was that Alicia told me a lot about you two…about your marriage, I mean. About how you lived…” She held my gaze for a minute and then looked down. The set of her jaw was determined but her eyes gave away her uneasiness.

  I nodded slowly to reassure her. “Tell me more about what Alicia was doing. About how you met her.”

  She nodded. “At the New School. It was like last year in a night class called Contemporary American Fiction. We sat next to each other and started talking and never stopped. You know what I mean?” She looked up at me. Her eyes were deep and dark. “About how you meet a person and, you know, start talking and you just can’t stop talking and you have so much in common.” As she spoke, her hands made delicate movements in the air. Her fingers were long and fine. The nails were manicured and covered with clear polish.

  “We became good friends. As a matter of fact, she was probably like the best friend I’ve ever…”

  Suddenly, out of the blue, she started to cry. Her body shuddered with the sobs. She put her face in her hands and bawled like a schoolgirl.

  Just then the waitress came by. The woman grunted again, but this time in sympathy. “There, there,” she said. She put the food on the table and shot a dirty look at me. It was a look that would have made Attila the Hun crap in his britches. She patted Rachel on the shoulder and asked, “Is everything all right, sweetie?”

  Rachel managed a small nod and a sniffle. That seemed to satisfy the witch and she shuffled away again. It took a couple of minutes for Rachel to pull herself together. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue using short, quick strokes.

  When she got back to normal, she attacked her burger with a ferocity that had to come from some primordial swamp. She didn’t even bother to put ketchup on the meat.

  We both finished eating and stared at each other. Something cold and distant quickened behind her eyes. I touched her hand. I wanted to feel her skin. She didn’t move her hand but she bit her lip. There was a long silence. She didn’t lower her gaze this time.

  “I want you to lead me through Alicia’s life,” I said finally. “Tell me everything you know about her. What she did. Who she saw.”

  I stared into those deep dark eyes. “Will you do that for me?”

  She finally cast her eyes down. “Yes,” she said softly.

  CHAPTER X

  Outside the coffee shop, we turned north and walked up Fifth. At that time of night, there wasn’t anybody on the street. When we reached Fourteenth Street, she reached out and held my hand as we walked. That little gesture surprised the hell out of me. Christ, no one had held my hand since the sixth grade. Her hand felt as small as a child’s.

  It was the kind of night that was perfect for walking. Cool and clear. It almost made the city look good. At a certain hour, and in a certain kind of light, New York was like a hooker who can trick you into thinking she’s passably fuckable.

  As we walked, Rachel told me about Alicia. About her conversion to feminism, her joining some kind of Earth Mother cult, her visits to a psychiatrist who held a bizarre fascination for her. When she talked about the shrink, her tone took on a strange animation.

  There was hardly anybody around on Fifth in the Twenties and Thirties. We passed darkened showrooms and grimy office buildings, some with bums passed out in the doorways. An occasional taxi would slow down as it passed to ask if we wanted a ride, but I waved them on.

  There were a few more people on the streets when we hit the Forties. And there were always the Senegalese hawking Rolexes for ten dollars and Hermes scarves. Mostly, I let her do the talking, but I stuck in a question now and then. She was good at sorting out the details and highlighting what she thought were the important parts. When I asked her where Alicia got the coke, she gave me a blank stare. I told her if I could nail the supplier, I’d have a few more answers. That didn’t seem to impress her a hell of a lot.

  Fifth Avenue had more people when we reached the Fifties. Some of the stores were open. Mostly electronic rip-off joints that reamed the tourists.

  As she spoke, I got a sense that she wanted to help but that she wasn’t opening up completely. And I couldn’t tell if what she was holding back was worth anything.

  The streets became deserted again in the Sixties. We crossed Madison and walked north a couple of blocks past small overpriced boutiques and then turned left on Park.

  She told me about Chisolm and Stallings, or at least how Alicia had described them. Then she said that Alicia had told her she would never be dependent on a man again and that she was willing to take certain risks to achieve that. How much risk would she have taken? Rachel shook her head. She had no idea. In my experience, some people would risk a lot to be independent.

  When we reached Seventy-second, I stopped and turned for a
minute and looked South toward my office building some thirty blocks away down Park Avenue. I could see my window still lit up. How many evenings had I sat in that room? Close to ten years worth. Putting pieces together, asking questions, jumping to hasty conclusions, busting chops. I shrugged without moving my shoulders. It all meant very little, after all.

  Then Rachel told me she lived at Park and Seventy-third. It was a pre-war building with huge apartments that cost large sums of ill-gotten money.

  “You own your apartment?” I asked.

  She nodded wordlessly. The girl obviously had some independent means. What I was curious about was how she got it.

  “You live alone?”

  She nodded again.

  “I want to see you tomorrow,” I said. “I need more answers.”

  She gave me a look that asked why at the same time that it knew the answer. “Is that all you need?” She laughed a sweet, delicate laugh.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.

  She nodded. But her eyes were tough to read.

  CHAPTER XI

  It was almost seven in the morning and I was finishing my second cup of real coffee when the doorman buzzed me from the lobby.

  “Detective Forgash is here to see you, Mr. Rogan,” came John’s voice with its rich Irish brogue over the intercom.

  “Send the lowlife up.”

  When I opened the door, Forgash brushed past me and walked through the foyer into the living room. He didn’t look like he was bringing me any chocolate chip cookies.

  “What? No Good Morning greeting?” I gave him what I thought was a real warm grin. I was always told that a host should make his guest feel welcome.

  “Listen, scumbag. Stay out of my fucking case. You understand me clearly?”

  I used to dislike him intensely. Now I was starting to like him even a little bit less.

  “I thought by now you’d be pounding a beat on Tremont Avenue.”

  He scowled at me. “Don’t be a wiseguy.”

  “I’m not. For you that would be a promotion.”

  He sized me up. Contemplating… Those thin little seamstress fingers were clenching and unclenching rapidly. “Somebody made an unauthorized entry into that fucking apartment. Somebody who didn’t belong there.” He looked like he wanted to slug me one. “I know it was you. It had to be you. Nobody else would be that dumb.”