by Lois Winston
“I’m no fool,” he continued. “I know these shows are scripted.” Then he pointed to my half-eaten turkey sandwich and barely touched beer. “You gonna finish that?”
“Help yourself.”
~*~
“Gut feeling?” Tino asked after we’d settled into the car and headed off to our next bar.
“I hope he isn’t going to get behind the wheel of a car any time soon. I’ve never seen anyone drink so many beers in such a short amount of time.”
“He won’t.” I turned to question him, but before I could say anything, he continued, “I slipped the bartender a twenty to grab Monahan’s keys and call his wife to pick him up.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“Even if he’s our killer?”
“I don’t think he is, even though I highly doubt he fell off his roof.”
“Aside from that,” said Tino, “his injuries are too fresh. They didn’t come from killing Philomena. Maybe we’ll have better luck with the next guy.”
~*~
Twenty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of an Applebee’s on Route 10 in East Hanover. Our next interview subject immediately zeroed in on our matching UsTV ball caps and approach as soon as we entered the lobby. He was a stocky man in his forties of average height with a dark complexion, close-cropped midnight black hair and a matching well-trimmed beard. Unlike Mike Monahan’s sartorial homage to grunge, he’d dressed in a charcoal gray pinstripe suit with a double-breasted jacket. He reeked of tobacco.
“Borz Kazbek,” he said in a thick Eastern European accent, extending his hand toward Tino.
“Tino Martinelli.” He nodded in my direction. “And this is my associate Emma Carlyle.”
Borz Kazbek didn’t offer me his hand, let alone acknowledge my presence beyond stating, “You brought your girl with you?”
This guy needed to be put in his place, and I was just the girl to do it. “I’m not his girl, Mr. Kazbek; I’m the senior producer. Tino is my assistant.” Take that, you smelly misogynistic cretin!
If I thought I’d receive an apology, I thought wrong. The guy quirked his mouth in disdain and said nothing. As the hostess led us to a table, Tino grabbed my arm to hold me back and whispered in my ear, “We might get more out of this guy if you let me do the talking.”
I nodded, knowing instinctively Kazbek would never open up to me. I was in for some major tongue biting.
As soon as we were seated and handed menus, a waiter appeared. “Can I start you off with drinks? We have a special on our house margarita today.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. Anything to help take the edge off what promised to be a very long hour.
“Want to split a pitcher of beer?” Tino asked Kazbek.
“I do not drink alcoholic beverages.” Disdain dripped from his words.
So much for loosening the guy’s tongue with booze but I suppose we shouldn’t have been surprised. When I called to set up the appointment and suggested the bar Tino had picked out, Kazbek countered with the Applebee’s down the street.
“Water for me,” he told the waiter.
“I’ll have a Corona,” said Tino.
While we waited for our beverages, Tino began to engage Kazbek in conversation. “As you know, we’re interested in doing a reality show that follows a group of out-of-work men on their search to find new employment.”
“I will be on your show. Your country has a negative image of my people. They need to learn the truth about us.”
“We’re in the process of interviewing possible candidates,” said Tino. “We’ll make our final casting decisions once all the interviews are completed.”
Kazbek folded his arms across his chest. “You will need an ethnic balance to avoid boycotts of your sponsors.”
Was that a threat? Good thing we fabricated the show. I glared at him, but he refused to make eye contact with me. To this guy I didn’t exist. Only he and Tino shared the table.
“Of course,” said Tino, doing his best to suck up. “Why not tell us a bit about yourself. What type of work did you do before you were laid off?”
“I presided over an international magazine with a staff of seventy-five.”
Luckily, our drinks hadn’t yet arrived, otherwise I might have snorted margarita out my nose. Not only did we already know Borz Kazbek was the production manager at Bear Essentials, we also knew the entire former staff consisted of eleven people. No Trimedia magazine had a staff of seventy-five. This guy was full of shit.
“What happened?” asked Tino.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you out of work?”
“The CEO gave my job to his whore.”
Not quite the truth but Borz Kazbek definitely had serious issues with women. I certainly could see him beating Philomena to a pulp to revenge the slight to his honor and manhood. Dumping her body back at Trimedia would also make a statement, but my gut told me, as with Mike Monahan, Borz Kazbek wouldn’t have stopped with Philomena. He would also have gone after Gruenwald.
I never thought of myself as biased; I try hard to like everyone with the possible exception of Mafia loan sharks, my dead louse of a spouse, and his curmudgeon mother. However, I was having a hard time controlling my urge to stereotype Borz Kazbek and an even harder time stifling the urge to swing my leg under the table and make hard contact with his shin. And that was before he started spouting his philosophy on women.
“In my country women do not take a man’s job,” he said. “Women know their place.”
“Barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen?” I asked.
He made eye contact with me for the first time. “Precisely.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, “because in my country—this country—women can do anything they want, and this woman is making the casting decisions for our new show.” I stood and tossed my napkin on the table. “Let’s go, Tino. I’ve heard enough.”
Once out in the parking lot, Tino said, “We might have gotten something out of him if you hadn’t lost your temper.”
“All we were going to get out of that jerk were outrageous lies. He may be our killer, though. He definitely hates women in general and Philomena specifically.”
Tino beeped the car locks open and ever the gentleman, held the door for me. “Which is why we should have stayed.”
“Waste of time.” I settled into my seat, grabbed the seatbelt, and stretched it across my body.
“Which we now have too much of before our next appointment,” he said. With that, he slammed the car door.
When he’d rounded the Focus and wedged himself behind the wheel, I asked, “Was that guy really in the U.S. army? He’s not American.”
“Reserves. And you don’t have to be a citizen to enlist, although he might be one. His family moved here from Chechnya in his late teens.”
“I suppose that explains his attitude toward women.” By the time he’d arrived on American soil, Borz Kazbek’s old-world misogynistic philosophy was set in concrete. “I pity his wife. He probably beats her if she burns his morning toast.”
“Could be.”
“He might be our killer,” I repeated.
“Want to go back to ask him?”
“I’ll wait in the car. You can have the honors.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Wuss.”
Tino and I stared each other down for a moment before he broke the silence with a deep chuckle and shook his head. “You definitely need that margarita before we meet our last suspect, Mrs. P.” He started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.
Tino drove east on Rt. 10 to pick up Rt. 280, which took us to the Garden State Parkway. We then headed south into Union Township, a once middleclass town that had turned working class over the past few decades.
Our appointment with Christina MacIntyre’s husband Paul was scheduled for two o’clock. We arrived at the Five Points Tavern on Chestnut Street half an hour early, surprised to find Paul MacIntyre already waiting for us. Given his ine
briated state, he’d bellied his massive beer belly up to the bar some time ago. His bloodshot eyes squinted to focus on us the moment we walked through the door.
Apparently sober enough to recognize the logos on our jackets and caps, he waved us over. “Paul MacIntyre,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand in greeting. Instead, it remained firmly gripped around a glass half-filled with brown liquid. He raised the glass to his lips, drained the contents, and slammed the glass down on the bar. Then he stumbled off the bar stool and lumbered his way to the one vacant table in the room. Tino and I followed.
“You see this guy rappelling down Trimedia’s roof?” I whispered to Tino. Paul MacIntyre weighed so much, while seated at the bar, his butt cheeks had spilled over the sides of the bar stool.
“Looks like he packed on a few pounds since his Marine days,” he whispered back.
Borz Kazbek looked better and better as prime suspect material. The guy had both the motive and the physique, plus the arrogance to believe he’d get away with murder. I wondered if Batswin had questioned him yet. I’d love to be a spider under the table during that interview.
Once seated, Tino waved over a waitress and ordered a margarita for me and a pitcher of beer for himself and our final suspect, not that MacIntyre, reeking of whiskey, needed any more alcohol. He also told the waitress to bring a platter of nachos for the table even though we’d both already eaten lunch.
As soon as she left with the order, MacIntyre plunged into beg-mode. “I don’t care what I have to do on your show; I’ll sweep floors. I need a job, any job.”
Even though we’d scratched MacIntyre off our list of probably suspects, Tino and I had to maintain our ruse. I parroted my spiel about the early stages of the process and conducting preliminary interviews, ending with, “Why not tell us about your situation?”
He immediately launched into a summary of the trials and tribulations that comprised his life, beginning with a one-car accident that had permanently landed his wife in a wheelchair two years ago and cost him his career.
“What caused the accident?” I asked, suspecting I already knew the answer.
He didn’t disappoint. “The cops said I was drunk, but I wasn’t. I’d only had four beers that night. They used a faulty Breathalyzer.”
I wondered how often the police heard that excuse.
“We skidded on a patch of black ice,” he continued. “The car swerved off the road and slammed into a tree. Christina suffered permanent nerve damage to her legs. I walked away without a scratch.”
“Man, that’s rough,” said Tino.
“Tell me about it. She’d just gone back to work after eighteen months of treatment and therapy when that douche bag Gruenwald fired her.”
“Fired?” Tino raised his eyebrows and challenged MacIntyre. “I thought you said on the phone that she was laid off when the magazine she worked for folded?”
“Did I? Fired. Laid off.” MacIntyre shrugged. “What’s the difference? She’s out of work, thanks to him.” He continued to whine until the waitress returned with our drinks.
“What about you?” I asked after taking a sip of my margarita. “You said the accident cost you your career. Why? You weren’t injured.”
“I can thank the cops and their damn false police report for that. According to my employer, I violated their code of conduct, and that’s grounds for dismissal.”
“What type of work did you do?”
MacIntyre mumbled his answer. “I was a drug counselor for the state corrections bureau.”
“I see.”
He slammed his hand on the table, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers and sloshing the liquid in our glasses. “No you don’t. I’m a big guy. I can handle four beers, dammit! I wasn’t drunk.”
Like he wasn’t drunk now. I’m sure, had he lived for me to learn his secrets, Dead Louse of a Spouse would have denied having a gambling problem. Addiction and denial went hand-in-hand.
The waitress brought out the platter of nachos. Even though I had no appetite, I placed a few on my plate to nibble while I drank, not wanting the tequila to go to my head.
Tino and I were wasting our time with this guy, but I continued to let him rant while I sipped my margarita, nibbled on a few nachos, and allowed my mind to wander. From dealing with Mama and Lucille over the years, I’d perfected the fine art of pretense. With frequent nods of my head and the occasional, “I see” or “Uh-huh,” I gave the impression of engaging in the conversation while my mind focused elsewhere. As Paul MacIntyre continued to blame everyone else for his own shortcomings and troubles, I contemplated how few variations of Lepra-Bunny-Bears I could get away with making for the March issue.
After another ten minutes, Tino glanced at his watch. “Look at the time. We’ve got to hustle to make it to our next appointment on time.” He signaled the waitress for the bill, then headed to the bar to pay it.
“Sorry to cut this short,” I said to MacIntyre when Tino returned to the table. “We’ll be in touch once we’ve made our decisions.”
“I meant what I said; I’ll do any job you’ve got.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. MacIntyre. Good luck to you and your wife.”
“Luck?” He laughed derisively. “If I had luck, I wouldn’t be sitting here begging you for a spot on some stupid reality TV show, would I?”
I decided not to answer. Instead, I turned my back on him and headed for the exit, happy to leave Paul MacIntyre to cry alone into his beer, blaming the world for his woes as he continued to add to them.
As we left the tavern, Tino said, “He drank three double bourbons before we arrived. I gave the bartender money to call a cab for him.”
“How do you know about the bourbons?”
“The waitress added them to our bill.”
“I’ll bet he told her to do that before we arrived.”
“No doubt.”
“I hope Mr. Gruenwald is reimbursing you.”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
I wouldn’t have let Paul MacIntyre scam me out of three double bourbons, but people who spend twelve hundred dollars on designer sunglasses don’t sweat such trivialities.
~*~
Tino dropped me off at Trimedia shortly after three o’clock. I slipped out of my UsTV windbreaker, removed the ball cap, and undid my ponytail before opening the car door. “You’re not coming in?” I asked when he remained seated, the engine running.
“Can’t. I have to pick up Mr. G. in the city.”
“I’ll try not to get myself killed,” I said.
“You better not. I don’t want your death on my hands.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Tino.” I waved good-bye and headed upstairs to cram a day’s worth of work into a couple of hours.
“Where have you been all day?” asked Cloris when she caught me ducking into my cubicle. “Off catching bad guys?”
I filled her in on my latest theory regarding Bear Essentials. “Of the three most likely suspects, I think we can eliminate two of them.”
“And the third?”
I told her about our meeting with Borz Kazbek.
“Aside from being a woman-hating creep, why do you think he’s the killer?” she asked.
“Process of elimination.” I pulled out my sewing machine from where I stored it under the counter and hoisted it onto a cleared workspace. “If not Kazbek, then whom?”
“You’ve ruled out your hunky shadow? What about the crystal embedded in the sole of his shoe and the one in the trunk of the car?”
“Coincidence. He probably picked up both in Gruenwald’s office. If Philomena and Gruenwald were having an afternoon delight, those crystals could be hiding in the carpet, stuck between the couch cushions, anywhere.”
Cloris scrunched up her nose. “TMI. Not to mention what it says about the cleaning staff.”
“But logical, right?”
“I suppose. Now what?”
“I mention Borz Kazbek to Detective Batswin, just in
case he’s not on her radar, then get back to my real job.” My Lepra-Bunny-Bear deadline couldn’t wait for me to solve Philomena’s murder.
For the remainder of the work day, I concentrated on the March issue. Pulling muslin from the storage closet and three sizes of bunny and bear patterns from my files, I constructed a prototype of a Lepra-Bunny-Bear family—mama, papa, and baby Lepra-Bunny-Bear. Once satisfied with the results, I called it a day. It wasn’t until I stepped out of my cubicle and headed to the elevator, that I realized I’d totally lost track of time. Quiet filled the halls.
TWENTY-TWO
Ever since last winter when I returned to work after hours and discovered a dead body in my cubicle, silence in the workplace has creeped me out. The lack of click-clacking computer keys, chattering coworkers, and tap-tap-tapping of heels along the corridors reminded me a killer still lurked in our midst. At times like this, I wished the overprotective, imposing hulk of Tino Martinelli stood by my side.
The elevator dinged its arrival. I inhaled a deep calming breath as the doors swished open and stepped inside, pushing the button for the ground floor. I took comfort in knowing that even at seven o’clock in the evening, I wouldn’t exit the building into total darkness. Although the days steadily grew darker, the end of Daylight Savings Time wouldn’t arrive for several weeks yet.
As expected, the parking lot was empty except for my Jetta. I beeped open the door lock and slipped behind the wheel. After locking the door and fastening my seatbelt, I inhaled another deep breath, but instead of exhaling a sigh of relief, I gasped. A folded piece of paper sat trapped under my windshield wiper.
I sat statue-still for a solid minute, a death grip on my steering wheel, as I stared through the glass at the small white square of folded paper. My mind raced with all sorts of scenarios, none of them good.
Had Borz Kazbek followed Tino and me back to Trimedia and figured out we weren’t who we said we were? Was the note a threat? There was only one way to find out, but I first needed to screw up the courage to do so. Part of me—a very large cowardly part of me—wanted to convince myself that ignorance was bliss.
A much smaller part of me knew I had no choice but to open the door and reach around to retrieve the note. First, I started the engine. Then I unbuckled my seatbelt and unlocked the door. As fast as I could, I swung open the door, stepped one foot out onto the blacktop, reached over the door, and grabbed the note. Then I slipped back into the car, slammed and locked the door, and sat trembling with the note in my lap.
