The Highly Effective Detective

by Richard Yancey

  I reached under the table and put the two paper bags on the table. She gave me a quizzical look, then peeked into one of the bags. She stared inside for a long time, then looked in the other one. Then she looked up at me.

  “How much?” she whispered.

  “Two million. I was going to give you half. You know, for your trouble, for what I’ve put you through.”

  She was staring at the paper sacks. I slipped them back under the table, tucking them between my feet. “Ken Marks?” she asked.

  I nodded. “The man who I think torched Gary brought this to me at two A.M. this morning. Probably came straight over after taking care of Gary. Now there’s really only one reason I have it, just one explanation, and I think I understood even before I read this morning’s paper, because he said Marks had ‘confirmed my information.’ See, if he was just knocking off potential witnesses, he wouldn’t be paying me two million dollars for information he already had.”

  She looked hard at me and said, “Huh?”

  “This money has meaning beyond its purchasing power, and giving it to me can mean only one thing: Ken Marks is innocent— and he is also guilty. I thought he was guilty of the one thing, but I know he’s guilty of this thing. And now I’ve reached the real nub of it, Felicia, because I can walk. I’ve got two million dollars—well, one million, I mean—and I can go anywhere I want and do anything I want, but all I seem to want to do is sit down and cry. I thought I’d hit the wall before, but now I’ve hit reality with a capital W. Ever since I became a detective, or a nominative detective, I’ve been struggling with this issue of my moral character. See, I believe Ken Marks is a man of his word and a deal’s a deal. If I decide it ends here, it ends here. I could even go back to being a detective, you could go back to being my secretary, and nobody would ever be the wiser. And you could even argue that justice had its day and everybody got what they deserved. Lydia got justice and so did Gary, though of the primitive variety. But still two wrongs don’t make a right—or rather, one wrong doesn’t make two wongs white.”

  “ ‘Two wongs white’?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m very tired and talking too fast and that was like a tongue twister, like ‘toy boat.’ I meant ‘two wrongs right.’”

  “Ruzak…” She was searching for the right words. “Ruzak, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about doing the right thing. What’s the right thing to do? How can I be a detective now that I’m a material witness toting two million dollars in blood money in a couple of paper bags? Nothing I could have done would have settled things better than they are right now. Gary can’t hurt either of us now and, anyway, nothing can bring Parker and Lydia back. On the other hand, I’m soaked to the skin with blood keeping this money and if I don’t figure out what to do about it, I’m gonna end up like Lady Macbeth with the ‘Out, damned spot’ deal going.”

  “You’re going to have to back up and go slow for me, Ruzak.”

  I sighed. “I called Susan Marks after I read the story. Her dad’s been in Paris this past week, but he’s coming home in two days. I’ve got two days to decide: Do I let it lie, which some people might reasonably argue is the right thing, or do I figure out some way to trap him, which other people might reasonably argue is the right thing? Because here’s the other thing that occurred to me: What if a deal isn’t a deal and Marks decides he can’t trust me? Gary killed Parker to protect himself. What’s to stop Kenneth Marks from doing the same thing to me?”

  She sipped her cold coffee. Her nose didn’t quite crinkle, but it did scooch a little—more of a half crinkle.

  “I guess just one thing,” she said. “Teddy Ruzak, the master of detection.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  TWO DAYS LATER, I WAS WAITING FOR HIM JUST OUTSIDE the screening area at the Knoxville airport: After 9/11, unticketed people weren’t allowed on the tiny concourse. I was wearing a new trench coat with the collar turned up and a floppy hat, not to disguise myself, but because it was raining and the trench coat had large pockets, in which my new semiautomatic made hardly a bulge—plus, like a lot of big men in trench coats, I looked pretty good. I came the closest I ever had to looking the part of hard-boiled private eye. I wasn’t completely comfortable, though I looked good, and looking good takes you a long way toward comfort. I may have looked it, but I was a far cry from hard-boiled, and the gun might as well have been a cap pistol, given my proficiency with firearms.

  This wide walkway leading up to the metal detectors and screeners was divided by a fountain constructed of boulders hauled north from the Little Pigeon River in the mountains. It was pretty to look at but very loud, a constant humming roar, so friends and family waiting to greet the arriving flights practically had to shout to be heard. The incessant sound of running water also had an effect on my bladder; I had been to the men’s room twice since arriving at the airport. I stood apart from the group, near the big windows that overlooked the gates and the runway. I watched as the plane touched down and slowly taxied to the gate. I looked at my watch. Right on time. That was good, because I had people waiting for us back at the office and I was adverse to keeping people waiting as a general principle.

  He was walking by himself, pulling a little rolling carry-on. He didn’t see me, or if he did, he didn’t recognize me. I fell into step with him and said, “Mr. Marks,” raising my voice a little to be heard over the roar of the falls.

  He barely slowed down. “Mr. Ruzak.” So maybe he had seen me, or was adjusting brilliantly to the surprise. Another thing that separates the very successful from the rest of us is their ability to adapt to rapid change.

  “Have a good flight?”

  “I had a long flight, Mr. Ruzak.”

  “You must be tired, and then there’s the jet lag. I wouldn’t bother you, Mr. Marks, but there’s been a development.”

  He didn’t ask me what the development was. He just kept walking toward the escalators that took you down to the baggage-claim area.

  “Gary Paul died three nights ago when the house he was renting from you burned to the ground.”

  He still didn’t say anything, just stepped onto the escalator, which was too narrow to stand abreast, so I rode a couple steps back from him, and for the first time, I noticed a bald spot on his crown, which might explain why he wore his hair so long: It wasn’t a fashion statement; it was a comb-over. For some reason, I felt an irrational wave of pity for Kenneth Marks wash over me. It wasn’t too late to call this off, and besides, who was I to think I could outwit a guy like Kenneth Marks, who made a living going toe-to-toe against the best and brightest business minds in the world? It was like a dog playing chess with Bobby Fischer. We got off the escalator and I followed him to the baggage claim, where he stood stiffly erect, his posture absolutely perfect, and again this struck me as quintessentially German, the quasi-militarist precision of the man. But speaking of precision, the Swiss are known for their watches—and army knives.

  “I hardly see what that has to do with me, Mr. Ruzak.”

  “Really? Well, maybe not, but it’s got everything to do with our little deal, and that’s what we need to talk about.”

  “Very well.”

  “Not here. I don’t know what your schedule is like, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to take you back to my office.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Mr. Ruzak, I believe I told you my flight was quite long. I’m tired. Perhaps in a day or two…”

  “I’m afraid it can’t wait, Mr. Marks. See, a potential witness has come forward, and the three of us need to sit down and hammer this thing out before the whole shebang blows up in our faces.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “A potential witness?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “A potential witness to what?”

  “I’d really rather not talk about it here, Mr. Marks.”

  He thought about it, or at least I assumed he was thi
nking about it. But you shouldn’t always assume just because someone falls silent that they’re thinking about something.

  “Very well,” he said.

  His luggage was one of those hard-sided numbers about the size of a large cedar chest and must have weighed about a hundred pounds. I know because I pulled it off the conveyor belt for him and walked behind him, pulling his luggage to the sidewalk outside like his coolie. A big black Lincoln was parked there, engine idling, and as we stepped out, the big crooked-nosed man with the cauliflower ears swung his bulk from the driver’s seat. He gave me a quick nod, one rich man’s henchman to another, and snapped open a large umbrella, holding it over the man as Ken Marks turned to me.

  “I’ll follow you there,” he said.

  “I’m parked in the garage. Why don’t you have your driver pull up and I’ll follow you?”

  “Very well.” Mr. Crooked Nose held the door for him and he disappeared behind the tinted glass.

  Downtown Knoxville was a twenty-five-minute drive from the airport, which was actually not in Knoxville but in Alcoa, named for the aluminum company that was the major employer there. The rain couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be fitful or torrential; I kept having to adjust my wiper speed. I’d always liked this drive on Alcoa Highway into Knoxville, with the high ridges on either side of the road, and especially in the fall, when the leaves changed, though spring wasn’t bad, with all the dogwoods blooming, the white-and-pink blossoms seeming to float on pillows of bright green. The blossoms had fallen and the rain turned the leaves a deep emerald green and whispered as it fell to the carpet of rotting leaves from the year before, the compost that fed the saplings. Life was like that, indefatigable: After meteors and ice ages and cataclysmic upheavals, wars and famines and droughts and plagues, life just kept coming back for more. It’s been fashionable since Hiroshima to be down on the human race and our chances for survival, but I’m an optimist, like I’ve said. I’ve never really believed we’ll end our days in a single orgasmic instant of fire or go down in a long twilight struggle against forces more in love with death than with life. Even stuff like Ebola and AIDS and global warming don’t concern me too much. Even though I lack the spiritual component to combat that kind of despair, I really don’t think human beings have an apocalypse in their future, beyond the inevitable blowing up of the sun in about four billion years. It’s easy to get down on ourselves, but if the race is really in trouble, what Kenneth Marks and Gary Paul did wouldn’t be crimes and, probably most importantly, Parker Hudson wouldn’t have given a flip about the deaths of six baby geese.

  Crooked Nose double-parked in front of the Ely Building and waited on the sidewalk, holding the umbrella over Marks’s balding crown while I searched for a parking place on Church. I saw Marks talking on his cell phone and I wondered, first, whom he was talking to; second, if Crooked Nose was the thug who’d started the fire that killed Gary; and, third, if I would ever find a place to park in this town that never seemed to have enough parking spaces. I finally found a spot on Gay Street and it took me about five minutes to maneuver my little Sentra into the spot. I’d never been good at parallel parking.

  I hoofed it the three blocks back to the Ely, my floppy hat pulled low over my forehead, the gun bumping against my thigh. Marks said something sotto voce to Crooked Nose, who got back in the car. I breathed a sigh of relief. The muscle would stay outside, which indicated a measure of trust on Marks’s part. He followed me up the creaky stairs, and my labored breathing sounded very loud in the close space. Marks glided silently as a ghost.

  We stepped into the little secretary’s area and shook the rainwater off our coats. I took off my hat and hung it on the rack by the door, then shrugged off my coat and hung that on the peg below the hat. Marks was staring into my office, at the back of the man’s head sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs. I nodded toward the secretary’s desk as she came around to take his coat.

  “Mr. Marks, this is my secretary, Felicia.”

  “How do you do,” she said. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Marks? We have coffee, juice, Evian, soda…”

  “The office sprang for one of those minifridges,” I told him.

  “Nothing, thank you.” He looked at his watch.

  “I guess I’ll have some coffee,” I told her, and waved him into my office.

  I made the introductions. “Mr. Marks, this is Mike Carroll.”

  Marks barely glanced at him. He sat in the other chair with the same Teutonic stoicism as the first time he sat there, which seemed a very long time ago. Mike was nervous, kind of rocking in the chair, ankles crossed. He was wearing one of those woven leather ankle bracelets or anklets and a COME TO JAMAICA, MON T-shirt.

  “How long is this gonna take?” Mike asked. He watched her set my coffee by my elbow and added, “Nobody offered me anything.”

  “We got any half-and-half in there?” I asked her.

  “I’ll check, Mr. Ruzak. Mr. Carroll, what would you like?”

  “You got any diet Coke?”

  “Just regular, I think.”

  “What about Dr Pepper?”

  “I don’t think so. I’d have to look.”

  “If you don’t have Dr Pepper, I’ll take a Mountain Dew.”

  She bent over the open half fridge and said, “We don’t have any Mountain Dew. How about a Pepsi?”

  “What about the Dr Pepper?”

  “No…”

  “Mr. Ruzak,” Marks said. “Do you think it’s possible we could discuss the matter you have insisted we discuss this morning?”

  “All right, give me a Coke,” Mike Carroll said.

  She handed him his Coke and me my half-and-half.

  “Will there be anything else right now, Mr. Ruzak?”

  “I don’t think so, Felicia.”

  “Do you need me to stay and take notes?”

  “No,” Marks said, raising his voice a little. “No notes.”

  “Maybe no notes are necessary, Felicia,” I said.

  “Okay.” She flashed a smile in Marks’s direction and went back to the secretary’s area. From my desk, I could see her right shoulder and half her head during the rest of the meeting.

  “Perhaps now you can tell me why I am here, Mr. Ruzak,” Marks said.

  “Yeah. I’d like to know the same thing,” Mike said.

  “There were just a couple of things I wanted to clear up,” I said. “A few dangly little threads. See, for the past couple of months, I’ve been operating on this working theory, and now it’s not fitting together so well, and I thought maybe you two could help smooth out the edges a little.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Ruzak,” Mike Carroll said. “And I don’t give a shit about your theories or rough edges. Like I told you before, I don’t know nothing about any murder of anybody.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Mike. I’ve been going back and forth on that in the R & D phase of my theory—you know, ‘What did Mike know and when did he know it?’ I really didn’t know how tight you were with Gary, but I figured it couldn’t be too tight, since you rolled so easy on him when I waved a little cash under your nose. Spilling the beans on that gosling ruse would have been an incredibly stupid move if you were involved in Lydia’s murder.”

  Mike stared at me and said, “Huh?”

  “Mr. Ruzak,” Marks said. “Who is this man?”

  “This man is Mike Carroll. He’s a friend of Gary Paul.”

  “Not a close friend, like he said,” Mike said.

  “You said he was a witness. A witness to what?”

  “That’s a good fucking question, because I haven’t witnessed shit.”

  “Come on, Mike,” I said. “There’s a lady present.”

  He glanced over his shoulder toward Felicia’s area.

  “And as a friend of Gary, I thought he might tie up one of those danglies that’s been bugging me.” I pulled the MISSING poster from my desk drawer and held it up for Mike. “Do you recogni
ze this woman?”

  Mike’s eyes cut away. “Yeah.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t remember her name. I met her a couple times, maybe, but that was over a year ago.”

  “Who is it?” I asked again. Marks had turned his full attention on Mike.

  “Gary’s girlfriend,” he said in a soft voice. Marks took a deep breath. I slipped the poster back in the desk, closed the drawer, and took a sip of coffee.

  “How do you know she’s his girlfriend?”

  “A couple of reasons, Ruzak. First, he was draped all over her. And second, that’s how he introduced her—’Mike, this is my girlfriend.’”

  I turned to Marks. “Lydia managed your properties for you while you were overseas?” He nodded. “That’s it, then,” I said. “That’s the piece I didn’t have. I couldn’t figure what Gary’s connection to Lydia was if it wasn’t Mr. Marks here. Thanks, Mike. I think I’ve got it all now, Mr. Marks, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to run my working theory by you and see what you think.”

  He gave another brief nod. He was the picture of studied calm. It played counterpoint to Mike’s obvious discomfort.

  “Can I go now?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” I said. “Mr. Marks probably wouldn’t want you here for the next part.”

  He set his Coke on my desk—I hadn’t seen him take the first sip—fairly sprang from the chair, spun around, and headed for the door. I picked up the can so it wouldn’t leave a ring and put it back in the minifridge. I grabbed a bottle of Evian because coffee dehydrates you and my mouth was very dry. I sat behind the desk and called out for Felicia to hold my calls.

  I took a sip of water and said to Marks, “Did you know Americans spend more on bottled water than on gasoline?”

  “Do they?” He had laced his fingers together, his elbows on the armrests of the visitor’s chair, staring at me over his diamond rings the same way as the first time he’d sat in this chair.