Beach Strip

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  “I’m a little confused,” I said, pouring iced tea for both of us.

  “About what?”

  “About why you’re here. It’s been how long? Three, four years?”

  “Nearly five.” He sipped his tea, watching me over the rim of the glass. “Four years, eight months. Since we talked, since I saw you last.”

  “You’re kidding me. Not that it’s been that long, but that you remember so accurately.”

  “Josie.” His hand reached across the table and rested on mine. “You know I’m a little, uh, confused about things, um …”

  “Dewey—”

  He pulled his hand away. “Do you know why I never made a serious pass at you?” He frowned and looked away. “I didn’t, did I? Did I?”

  I assured him that he hadn’t, that he had been a perfect gentleman in my presence, warm and funny and sweet.

  “The reason I didn’t,” he said, “was because, if I had and if you had turned me down or been insulted, we wouldn’t, we couldn’t be friends. Not the same way. And I loved you as a friend. I really did. But I also wanted to love you in other ways.”

  “Dewey—”

  “But women …” He leaned back in his chair, frowned, and shook his head. “Women are so turned off when a man is less than totally masculine, they call it.” He leaned forward again, speaking faster. “I mean, some men, I knew one guy especially, they get really turned on about the idea of having a relationship with a bisexual woman, thinking, I guess—”

  “Dewey—”

  “—they can fulfill some threesome fantasy about them and two women together and there’s no threat to them, the man, if the women start getting it on because—”

  “Dewey!” A little sharper this time.

  It worked. “What?”

  “I don’t care about fantasies, and I don’t care who or what you sleep with, and I’m not even sure I understand deep friendships between men and women that don’t have a sexual connection. But that’s okay, to hell with it, let Dr. Phil or somebody else work that one out. I just want to know why, after four years and whatever—”

  “Eight months.” He smiled, embarrassed.

  “Why, after all that time, you suddenly call me. I mean, after you called to say how sorry you were to hear about Gabe.”

  He seemed to consider that for a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, “I always wanted to call you. Just to talk with you. But calling a married woman, especially one married to a police officer, a detective? It was just too … too risky, I guess. I was happy for you, Josie, really. I just haven’t been so happy myself since you left the shop and got married.”

  I believed him. Dewey was that sweet. Who wouldn’t believe him? “So,” I said. “Who’s minding the chihuahuas?”

  “The dogs? It’s Wednesday. I’m closed Wednesdays now. Give myself some time off.” He looked around the garden. “This is so pleasant. I’ve never seen it from this angle before.”

  “This angle?”

  “Well, I’ve seen it from, you know …” He was blushing. “The boardwalk back there. The beach, usually.”

  “You’ve been here?” I said. “Looking into my garden?”

  “Only from the beach. A lot of people walk on the beach, Josie. It’s a public beach, and sometimes I thought we might bump into one another, just to talk. I mean, I thought if we met here we could talk.”

  I was working this over in my mind when he added, “I saw your husband. I saw Gabe a couple of times, him out in the garden here. I don’t know where you were. I introduced myself once, and we kind of chatted about things—”

  “You introduced yourself to my husband?” I said. “Did you explain how you knew me?”

  “I said we’d been friends, Josie. That’s all. I said we were friends, and Gabe wanted to know how we met, and I explained how I used to come into the veterinarian’s now and then to help with the dogs.”

  “Gabe never told me he spoke to you.”

  “He seemed like a nice fellow. Really nice. He came over to the gate to talk to me. I was never in the garden, not like now. I told him I thought he was a lucky man to be married to you. That’s what I said to him. ‘You’re a lucky man.’”

  “And what did Gabe say?”

  “He said he knew. Every day he knew just how lucky he was to be your husband.” Dewey thought for a minute, then added, “I had a feeling he was preoccupied with something. I mean, he had been sitting right here, at this table, writing in a little notebook, and I think I interrupted him. He seemed to be doing more thinking than writing, so I didn’t stay long.”

  “When was that?”

  “The last time I saw him. He said you were out. He thought you were out shopping. That’s the last time I was here, which was a week ago last Monday.”

  I sat back in my chair. “The day before he died.”

  “That’s right.” Dewey nodded. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I mean, that’s really weird, isn’t it?”

  I told Dewey I had errands to run, places to go, and gathered up the empty glasses. We shook hands, and I told him it was all right to call me again sometime, maybe in another week or so.

  I didn’t have places to go. I just had one place to go, and I should have gone there much earlier.

  CENTRAL POLICE STATION HAS NO PARKING SPACE for visitors. I drove through the lot, passing spaces marked for judges, lawyers, cruisers, detectives, emergency vehicles, and maintenance workers. No one, I suppose, is expected to visit Central unless they’re either official or arrested. I parked two blocks away and walked back, through the late-summer afternoon. It seemed everything had slowed to a crawl, including law enforcement investigations.

  The uniformed cop behind the desk asked who I wanted to see. I told him I wanted to see Sergeant Hayashida. If he wasn’t available, I would see Sergeant Mel Holiday. If he wasn’t in, I’d settle for Walter Freeman, the asshole. I didn’t say “the asshole” aloud, but I was thinking it, just to keep me in the mood.

  The cop stayed cool, said he would call Hayashida, and asked me to sign in please.

  THE FIRST THING I LEARNED ABOUT COPS after I married Gabe was that they are lousy housekeepers. Even the women cops I’ve encountered work among stacked files, dirty coffee cups, scribbled sticky notes, and general chaos. How can they find bad guys when they can’t find a sharp pencil? Hayashida was no different, but he dressed better than other detectives—button-down shirt, knit tie, summer-weight jacket, pressed trousers, tasselled loafers. Not a GQ magazine cover, maybe, but he was the most fashionable thing in his work cubicle, except for me in my pink ruffled blouse and black pencil skirt, plus the alligator pumps I bought at Saks in New York on a holiday with Gabe. If you’re going into a den of lions, it helps to look like a lioness.

  “What’s up?” Hayashida said when I’d settled into the only other chair in his cubicle.

  I took my time crossing my legs, tugging my skirt over my knee, folding my hands primly, and taking a deep breath. “I want to see the report on my husband’s death,” I said. “The one that says he killed himself.”

  Hayashida seemed faintly amused. “Why?”

  “Because I’m his wife,” I said. “His widow, actually. And don’t give me that stuff about it being confidential. It’s a public document, and if I have to get a lawyer to demand a copy, I’ll get a lawyer.”

  “I can’t let you keep a copy.”

  “I don’t want a copy to take with me. I just want to see it. Let me read it and I’ll hand it right back to you.” I smiled and tilted my head. “Okay?”

  “What do you think you’ll learn from it?”

  “I have no fucking idea.” I really did say “fucking.” It was part of my attitude.

  Hayashida handled it perfectly. “Well, in that case,” he said, and swivelled to face the computer terminal on his desk, which he turned at an angle to prevent me from seeing the screen. With a two-fingered typing style, he entered whatever he needed to find the file on Gabe and slapped a few more k
eys. From the corridor beyond his cubicle, I heard the soft whir of a printer. Hayashida rose and left the cubicle, dropping three sheets of paper in my lap when he returned. “No pictures, okay?” he said. “If you want pictures, you’ll need that lawyer.”

  “I don’t want pictures,” I said.

  Hayashida sat at his desk and began scribbling something on a notepad. It might have been his grocery list. I didn’t care.

  The top sheet was headed “Non-Accidental Death Report” and listed everything I already knew—Gabe’s name, address, birth date, all of that, plus the description of his body on the blanket, names of witnesses, with reference to the files containing their statements, and next of kin, which was me. Gabe’s gun was identified as a standard-issue Glock G22 model, serial number HPD7836. Three Determination of Death choices were provided: Homicide, Suicide, and Undetermined. Someone had checked the box next to Suicide. The form was signed by Walter Freeman, Chief Investigating Detective, and Melville Holiday, Assisting Investigator.

  I turned to the second sheet, headed “Autopsy Report,” which made me sit up straight, anticipating what I was about to read. It was easier than I expected.

  The deceased, I read, had been a man in his early forties, 183 centimetres tall, 81.7 kilograms in weight, and in apparent good health. It listed his scars, eye colour, dental work, everything that I knew far better from the living Gabe than any coroner could expect to learn from the dead one.

  Near the bottom of the sheet was a diagram of a body, one of those simplified genderless drawings with no hair and no genitals. A line had been drawn into the head, at a slight downward angle. Beneath the drawing, I read:

  Projectile entered 2 centimetres above the right temporal line, 6.5 centimetres posterior to the aural canal, proceeding in a posterior angle of approximately 18 degrees from the lateral axis and 40 degrees from the vertical axis, penetrating the temporal lobe, medulla oblongata, lodging in the left temporal lobe as indicated. Powder burns noted, indicating close proximity to weapon muzzle. Brain matter emerging from entry wound weighed at 16.8 grams. Projectile is in good condition, confirmed as standard-issue Remington model 9-GM. Death attributed to massive destruction of brain, severe swelling resulting.

  I turned the sheet over to find more bureaucratic ways of saying someone’s brains had been blown out. The coroner had been provided with a choice of four boxes beneath Determination of Death—Accidental, Homicide, Suicide, and Unknown. He had checked Unknown. Now I had a buddy who disagreed with Walter Freeman. But then, most people did.

  The third sheet was headed “Forensics Report,” beneath an impressive stamp of the Attorney General’s office. This one included four photographs embedded in the report, but they were of bullets not bodies. One bullet was pristine and pointed and, let’s be honest here, penis-like. The other was crumpled at the front. Two other photographs showed dark angled lines on metal, as seen through a microscope, rifling marks they were called, made from the grooves inside guns to make the bullets spin when they leave the barrel, helping the little devils fly more directly to their destination in flesh and bone. God, I hate guns. I hate them so much I wish I didn’t know so much about them.

  Both bullets—”projectiles” in the language of the forensics lab—were identified as having been fired from Gabe’s gun, the ugly-named Glock G22, serial number HPD7836. Somebody named Amanda at the forensics lab had confirmed that projectile A, provided by Sergeants Holiday and Hayashida, was from the same gun as projectile B, retrieved from the body as described in Non-Accidental Death Report HP-04-289, the one I held in my hand, the one describing Gabe’s death. The lab also tested paraffin applied to Gabe’s right hand by the coroner and, using GSR analysis by energy dispersive X-ray spectrometry, found particles containing lead, antimony, and barium.

  “What’s GSR?” I asked Hayashida.

  “Gunshot residue. Stuff that’s in the powder and leaks out when you fire a gun.”

  He probably knew what “energy dispersive X-ray spectrometry” was as well. I didn’t care. The report said the bullet came from Gabe’s gun and that Gabe had fired it. I kept staring at the words, looking for the line that said this was all crap, all a game. I didn’t find it.

  I looked up to see Hayashida watching me. “So?” he said, and reached to take the sheets of paper from me.

  “Why does the coroner call the circumstances of Gabe’s death unknown instead of suicide, like Walter Freeman says it is?” I asked.

  Hayashida began crumpling the sheets and dumping them into his wastebasket, one by one. “Don’t read too much into it. Walter needs evidence of criminal action. The coroner just needs to look for it, and when he doesn’t find something obvious, he writes that it’s unknown to him. If Walter finds evidence of homicide, he presents it to the coroner, who will confirm that it does not conflict with his findings.” He rubbed his hands together, as though removing any evidence that he had ever handled the reports. “What else can I do for you?”

  “Where’s Mel Holiday?”

  Hayashida stood and looked over the top of his cubicle. “Anybody seen Holiday?” he called. A disembodied male voice announced that he was out, gone for the day. Hayashida tilted his head at me. “Anything else I can do?”

  “How about helping me prove that Gabe didn’t shoot himself?” I said.

  “Not my case anymore,” Hayashida said, sitting down. He turned back to his computer, effectively dismissing me. “It’s Walter Freeman’s now. And Walter’s not talking to anybody about it.”

  I STOPPED ON THE WAY HOME TO VISIT MOTHER. I was feeling more alone than ever, and secretly wished that I had been more sociable with our neighbours, or that Tina was still here haranguing me, whichever was easiest.

  Marci, the girl on duty on Mother’s floor, told me Mother was in her therapy session, so I asked if Helen Detwiler was available. I was feeling guilty about not doing my bookkeeping job, although I obviously needed the time to deal with Gabe’s death. In truth, I was beginning to realize that I needed routine back in my life. I didn’t know when I would be ready to return to work, but it would improve my sense of self-worth. It would also provide me with opportunities to visit Mother and talk with her, waiting for her response to my questions written with chalk in her lovely handwriting.

  Helen greeted me by rising quickly from behind her desk and approaching me with outstretched arms. “You poor dear,” she said, hugging me. “We’ve been so worried about you.” She stood back, holding my arms. “Tell me you’re all right. Tell me you’re going to get over this somehow.”

  I assured her that I was handling it as well as I could, and asked about Mother.

  “She’s fine,” Helen said, then added, “She’s wonderful, actually. So emotionally strong.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Would you like me to bring her from therapy class?”

  I told her no, just let her know I dropped by. “I’m hoping I can be back to work next week,” I said. “Perhaps I could start Tuesday.”

  “Whenever you feel up to it,” she replied. “Mind you, no one does the job as well as you. I wouldn’t want you to think that we don’t miss you. But I’ll let the others know that we could see you here Tuesday. Perhaps you could let me know by the end of the week.”

  Her words were comforting, but I left feeling even more despondent and alone, which is a dangerous mood for me. I wanted to see Mother, but I didn’t want to make a fuss about it. That was Mother’s way. Don’t make a fuss about things that concern you. Where Mother was concerned, I followed the rule diligently. At other times …

  I stopped to buy groceries and a padlock for the garden shed, and arrived back on the beach strip just before four o’clock, wondering if I had enough energy to cook dinner and enough appetite to eat it.

  Two men had been at my house while I was away. One was the mailman, who had brought me a notice from some police official informing me that the first of Gabe’s pension cheques would be arriving soon, and I could expect to receive one each month for the next ten
years. A quick calculation told me that the pension money plus my earnings from Trafalgar Towers would cover my expenses with a little extra for goodies, and that in ten years, when the payments would cease, I would be over fifty. Now I had two reasons to live it up over the next decade.

  The other man had been in my garden shed, because the door that I knew had been tightly closed when I left barely an hour ago was now wide open. I walked out the back door and crossed the garden, unwrapping the new padlock and considering the best place to hide the keys. I had little intention of entering the shed in the future. I just wanted to ensure that the guy who went in while I was gone wouldn’t be there again.

  I was wondering just who this might be, since Wayne Honeysett was already dead, when I reached the open door and realized I was a little late in keeping somebody out. Because somebody was already there, glaring at me from inside the shed, holding an axe in his hand.

  16.

  I think I screamed. Not one of those screams that stop trains and break crystal, but the scream I might make if I saw a mouse run across the kitchen floor. I took a step backwards, unsure about what was more menacing—the axe, which Gabe had bought to break driftwood he collected on the beach for our fireplace, or the expression on Walter Freeman’s face.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. I kept walking backwards into the middle of the garden, where I knew people passing on the boardwalk behind the house would have an unobstructed view of me confronting a chief of detectives and potential axe murderer.

  Walter slapped the face of the axe into his palm. “I wanted to ask you that down at Central,” he said, in a voice that reminded me of wet gravel. “What the hell were you doing there?”

  “It’s a public building, Walter,” I said. “This, on the other hand, is private property. That’s a big difference, right? And why are you threatening me with an axe?”