The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “I don't know,” Ian admitted, “maybe nowhere. Maybe both women are alive and well. But one thing's clear: if Suzie Diamanti was killed at Metropolax that night, at least two people were involved in the crime.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, sitting more forward.

  “Because Suzie's body wasn't the only thing the killer would have to remove. He—or she—would also need to get rid of Suzie's car.”

  “Of course, her car! Duh, I didn't even think of that.”

  Ian continued, “You said that according to the cleaning woman, there were two cars parked in the lot that night, at least when she drove by. So it wouldn't make sense for the killer to drive Suzie's car somewhere and leave his own in the lot. How could he come back to get it? If nothing else, the person would need a ride. You see what I mean? There's another party involved in this; there has to be.”

  “What about Fritz Sachs?” I suggested. “He was the one who didn't want the police even looking into the break-in. Why would he want to cover up a possible crime against his own company like that? I can only see three reasons why someone would do that.”

  At this point, I stood up and paced, as I numbered with my fingers. “Either (A), Fritz knew who committed the crime and was covering for that person specifically, or (B) he stole the supplies himself, or (C) he's hiding something else about himself, and doesn't want the police sniffing around in general.”

  “There is a fourth possibility, Rocket. You're going to be disappointed when I say it, because it's fairly prosaic. But maybe Fritz Sachs just wanted to avoid bad press about his company. Isn't it possible that he simply didn't want the company to look insecure or foolish to his stockholders? Like you said, nothing valuable was taken anyway.”

  I couldn't deny that was reasonable. Then I had a thought. “What about the laptop? The report on the robbery said an old laptop was missing from the supply room.”

  “I’m afraid ‘old laptop’ doesn’t sound valuable, either, Rocket.”

  “No, but what if there was something on that laptop?” I began, as Ian came to his feet and picked up his coffee mug.

  “I suppose it’s possible. But since you generally can’t get something from nothing, there’s no way to pursue that theory, is there? Anyway, that's all I've got for now,” he said, then glanced at the clock above his door. “Rocket, look at the time! Sorry, you need to get to the printer's.”

  “Oh, right! I'll go now.” With his mug in hand, Ian began to follow me out of his office when suddenly, I heard the bell over the front door make a nervous sounding trill—followed by the bang of the door slamming shut.

  Ed Sogard charged across the office and got in my face. “Beller, I want to talk to you!” he yelled over my shoulder. “What the hell is this!”

  “Ed, please, this is a place of business,” Ian began calmly.

  “Some business you're running, you bastard! Screwing good people over just to pad your pockets!”

  “First of all, don't scream in a woman's face,” Ian instructed Ed, then spoke in a kinder tone to me. “Rocket, you can get going to the printer's now.”

  “Okay,” I said, ducking away from a seething Ed Sogard, who had a half-crumpled newspaper balled up in his hand.

  “Ed, if you have something to say on a civilized level, we can talk in my office,” Ian told him. “Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Over at my desk, I gulped. Wrapped my scarf twice around, bundled up in my coat. It was hard to say if Ed Sogard was all bluster, or if he might actually turn violent. I stole a glance over. I have to say, Ian did not appear intimidated. The fact that he was about fifteen years younger than Ed, and a good six or seven inches taller, probably didn't hurt.

  I grabbed the USB drive and zipped my bulky parka. As I hurried out, I heard Ed Sogard's voice start up again behind Ian's closed door, but I didn't stick around to eavesdrop this time.

  Chapter 27

  After work, I drove to R&D Labs to see Amy. I perched myself up on a metal stool while Amy settled herself at her table, in front of a computer and another complicated- looking device that was unknown to me (and would stay that way). On the wall behind her, a shelf was lined with microscopes. “Go ahead,” she said now, and stuck her pen behind her ear. “You can talk while I work. What I'm doing doesn't require much concentration. I'm just recording the sequence.”

  That was good enough for me. I'd never been a scientific person. Unless you counted the time I'd studied Charlotte the spider for twenty minutes, out of boredom. If Amy didn't elaborate on her work, I wasn't going to force the issue. Especially when I had my own self-involved topics to explore.

  “Now what were you saying?” she asked, as she wrote on her chart. “Something about another possibility?”

  “Okay, you know Ian's whole overlapping-name theory?” I'd already explained it to her when I arrived. “Well, there's another name that overlaps: John.”

  “John...” she echoed.

  “John Black, the weird tax specialist guy.”

  “With the horrible clothes?” she said for clarification.

  “Right,” I said. “Do you remember that phone number we found etched on Suzie's desk blotter?”

  Amy let out a tiny little gasp, as she looked up from her work. “John Fredriksen,” she said, realizing. Solemnly, I nodded.

  Through her glasses, Amy blinked at me for a few thoughtful moments, maybe waiting for me to say more. But unfortunately, I had nothing else to say. Because I still didn't know why Suzie had had Fredriksen's personal cell phone number. Although if they were involved with each other, it was possible that she didn't want to write “John killed me” and have people assume it was her boyfriend, rather than weirdo John Black. Or vice versa. Yet this idea, like all my others so far, was entirely too theoretical to light a fire under Frandsen or any other member of the Big Clock Police.

  “What about simply asking Mr. Fredriksen how he knew Suzie Diamanti? Would there be such harm in that?” Amy suggested. “You don't have to tell him that you suspect ill will has come to the woman. You can simply act as if you were a friend or acquaintance of hers. As you mentioned the other day, you've become somewhat of a pathological liar anyway—”

  “I never said pathological! I said I was lying a lot because of the case. It's for the greater good!”

  “Fine, so what about that option?” Amy said, obviously not prepared to quibble.

  “I can't.” My shoulders slumped a bit. “I still don't know who Suzie was to Fredriksen; it's too risky. And I can't get into it with Ian, because Fredriksen's his boss, the one who signs his paychecks. I can't take a chance that Ian will pull some turncoat action on me and relay everything to Fredriksen to ensure that he stays in his good graces.”

  “I see what you mean. Although Ian doesn't sound like the ingratiating type.” Now Amy took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

  When she set them back on her nose, I said, “By the way, what's Bradley doing tonight? I haven't seen him in awhile.”

  “A family dinner, he said.”

  “You didn't want to go?” I asked.

  “You know I don't like Bradley's family,” Amy replied. I supposed that was true, however I figured having dinner out with your boyfriend and his tedious family might still be preferable to working late. But then, I was the only slacker present in the room at the moment.

  “Hey, Aim, let me ask you a question,” I said, thinking about the case again. “Do you think I'm nice?”

  “Yes, of course. We wouldn't be friends if I didn't. I would have thought you'd be rude since you're from New Jersey, but you're actually not at all.”

  I almost rolled my eyes, but held back, because I figured it might classify as “rude.” “No,” I corrected her, “let me explain something. New Yorkers are rude. People from New Jersey are just direct. But anyway...I think you're nice, too.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  “I mean, really, really nice,” I continued.

  “T
his might be one of the worst conversations we've ever had,” Amy stated.

  “Wait, just bear with me. Okay, so you're a super nice person—”

  “Please make it stop,” she murmured as she picked up her pen.

  “And yet,” I added, “I don't go around saying it constantly.”

  “Um, tonight's data suggests otherwise.”

  With a laugh, I clarified, “On a normal basis, I mean. Think about this: everyone at Metropolax keeps saying how 'nice' John Black is. But nobody can be that nice—that it would inspire constant observation? Bill said the women say it all the time, and I know Dede even mentioned it during our interview.”

  Amy stilled her pen, looked up over her glasses at me. “Wait. I'm not sure I follow.”

  I hopped off the stool and walked closer. “What I'm saying is, maybe John comes off so one-dimensionally 'nice' because it's not genuine—because it's a performance. Because he's compensating.”

  “For what exactly?”

  “What else?” I said and chewed my lower lip at the thought. “For a dark side.”

  * * *

  On my way home, I stopped at Cup/Cakes to pick up some dinner and was greeted by the debonair, genteel Ed Sogard, sitting at the counter. It was too late to pivot-turn and run out of there; he'd already spotted me through the panoramic mirror that hung on the opposite wall. “Well, well, well,” I heard him mutter at the sight of me. Then he buried his big mouth in his coffee cup.

  Cup/Cakes was adorned for the holidays with white icicle lights that hung from the ceiling and wrapped around the pale pink trim of the cafe. A crocheted, striped stocking was draped over the register, with two little bells fixed at the top. A waitress named Ella spoke to me over the counter. “Hi, what can I get ya?”

  “Let me see...” I checked the specials board. Today's special was Lutefisk Hot Dish (nose plugs optional?) and Rhubarb Cake. I know New Jersey has a bad rep in some areas for smelling like gasoline, car exhaust, and tar. But the Garden State also has plenty of areas that are fragrant with green grass, and others blessed with the aroma of New York pizza. When I'd moved to Minnesota, nothing had prepared me for the smell of lutefisk.

  I opted for a sandwich that had been renamed for our mayor, who frequented the cafe and ordered it all the time: turkey and cheddar on French bread with chili Dijon sauce and arugula. “A Kreppwich to go,” I told Ella. “And a double espresso, please.”

  She nodded, jotting my order in shorthand. “Gonna be about ten minutes.” Smiling, I thanked her, then roamed my eyes around, trying to avoid looking directly at Ed Sogard. But my avoidance proved unsuccessful. “You know, that boss of yours is a piece of work,” Ed remarked. “Definitely got two sides to him, that's for sure.”

  Reluctantly, I met his gaze in the mirror. “Um, well, I don't really know anything about what happened, so...” With that, I pretended to busy myself with my cell phone.

  “No, I wasn't talking about the ad of mine that got pulled,” Ed insisted. “No, in fact, I want to apologize to you for the scene I made at the paper today. I guess I made a bit of a fool out of myself.”

  “No, no, you didn't,” I assured him. “Colossal fool” was far more accurate.

  “What I meant was, it's a funny thing acting all high and mighty with me about paying my bill, like I'm some kind of a child—”

  “Oh, he's a little didactic sometimes,” I explained, trying to pacify him, “but he doesn't mean anything by it. You can't take it personally.”

  Now Ed swiveled in his chair to face me directly, his eyes all scrunched up. “He's wha—?”

  “U-um...” I didn't dare treat Ed like a child by explaining what the word “didactic” meant. Thankfully he kept going.

  “My point is, the man's got a helluva nerve looking down on me, with the way he conducts his life. Beer bottles always piled up outside his door. He lives upstairs from my hardware store you know. I'm there late a lot of the time and I can hear him up there, having wild parties every night.”

  “What!” I blurted, unable to hide my shock. Now I was the one with contorted features. “What do you mean?”

  Ed's laugh was a wheezy, bitter sound. “Up there drinking and partying, and having easy-looking women leave your place in the morning, and you're gonna look down on me?” he remarked to the air. “Ha!”

  “No, you must be mistaken,” I told him. “That doesn't sound like Ian. Besides... he's married.” Call me old-fashioned but being separated was not the same thing as being single; until his divorce was final, Ian was still technically a married man. It was hard to picture him cavorting in the sleazy manner that Ed was implying, and being married was only part of the reason why.

  Ed let out another laugh and threw back his head as he yelped, “Married! That's a laugh! Married? Well, I guess his wife doesn't mind him partying till all hours and having no regard for common decency. But that's America for you!”

  For some reason, my stomach sank. It was like a pit of disappointment, or maybe disenchantment with a person I'd come to respect. I stood there shell-shocked, trying to reconcile this image of Ian, with the boss I knew at work, but I just couldn't wrap my mind around it. Feeling disgusted, I decided to kill the rest of my ten-minute wait elsewhere. I wandered over toward the Christmas tree on display in the window. It had white branches and glittered from top to bottom with pink and silver satin bows.

  “Frandsen—you getting coffee?” someone called out and I turned.

  My eyes landed on a table of five police officers in the middle of the room, and then trailed to the heavy-set, bearded Detective Frandsen, who appeared to be on his way to the men's room. “Yeah, order me a cup,” he called back and continued on.

  The bathroom wasn't a bad idea, I realized. I would run to the ladies' room myself, and surely my order would be ready by the time I came back.

  As I stepped into the L-shaped corridor that led to the restrooms, I heard male voices. I recognized both of them even before I rounded the bend to see their faces. “Mayor,” Detective Frandsen said, “Good seeing you, Sir.”

  “You, too, Tim,” Mayor Krepp replied.

  “Glad we agree,” Frandsen added, then stuck out his hand. When Mayor Krepp went to shake it, I noticed something tucked against his palm. As I realized what it was, I nearly gasped. Krepp appeared to be slipping some folded cash into Frandsen's outstretched hand.

  Quickly, I backed up a step so they wouldn't see me. A snapshot of the detective's white skin locked in a handshake with the mayor's dark brown skin could have made an efficient poster for racial harmony—if it wasn't for the money rooted in the center, tainting the whole image.

  Once I heard the mayor leave and surmised that Frandsen had stepped into the mens' room, I leaned against the wall and sighed. What was the world coming to? Mayor Krepp paying off a cop? Ian Beller throwing wild parties? Dear God, I thought, what's next?

  I learned shortly thereafter that it was never a question you wanted to ask unless you were ready for the answer.

  Chapter 28

  That night I couldn't get to sleep, which worked out well considering the unexpected text message I received from Bill:

  hey-wanna meet out? We're going 2 H.Christian's

  Predictably, I texted back: who's we?

  some work ppl. Come meet up, it will be fun...

  The wheels in my mind began to turn. I couldn't sleep anyway, and since I told Ian I wouldn't return to Metropolax, I should probably take this opportunity to mingle with the staff and see what more I could learn. Maybe I could even find out who among them was called “Sox.”

  I wrote: okay, see u in an hour.

  When I arrived at the restaurant, I spotted a familiar bald head in the entry. “Stu?” I said, approaching him even though he was busy playing on his phone.

  When he saw me, he smiled. “Hey—Suzie's cousin! How're you doing? I'm sorry, I forgot your name,” he added, and his face appeared genuinely apologetic.

  “No worries. It's Caitlyn. Good seeing you
again. Did you ever end up hearing from Suzie?” I asked.

  His smile tipped sideways like the down end of a seesaw, as Stu shook his head. “Nah...I was hoping she'd drop me a line, but she never did.”

  “I wasn't able to locate her either,” I told him. “The truth is, I'm a little worried about her. She's not at her apartment, she's not answering her phone, and I'm getting concerned. Was she dating anyone, do you know?” I said, trying to ask the question delicately since Stu clearly wanted to date her. “I thought, if she was, maybe I could reach out to him, make sure Suzie's okay.”

  Stu's clear blue eyes blinked widely, appearing somewhere between concerned and confused. “No, she definitely wasn't dating anyone,” he replied. “I know that for a fact.”

  Curiously, I tilted my head. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because of that guy from her past. See, there was a reason that Suzie had trouble getting close people,” Stu explained. “She'd been involved with someone who committed suicide a long time ago. Didn't she tell you? She told me the guy was so obsessed that his crazy love for her pretty much drove him around the bend.”

  “Okay...” I said, taking in the bizarre tale.

  “And so that was the reason Suzie didn't want to get to close to me, or to any other guy. She was afraid of opening up, you know, getting heavy feelings with someone again.”

  “Oh...I see,” I told Stu. Though I didn't specify exactly what I saw, because Stu seemed like a sweet guy and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Granted, what he relayed could have been a true lead. Perhaps “Sox” was a person from the past who still blamed Suzie for what happened, maybe a relative of the man who committed suicide, etc. But it sounded an awful lot like Suzie was trying to let Stu down gently—giving him a nebulous excuse that he couldn't take personally. In fact, call me a romantically cynical New Jerseyite, but the whole thing sounded a little too Shakespearean, and I doubted it even happened.

  “So you really think she's in some kind of trouble?” Stu asked me now, obviously becoming more concerned.