The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  “Maybe is more than I want to deal with.”

  “Your problem, slumlord, is you don’t know your own talents. For the citizen to check you out, much less get you the report, speaks well of your innate abilities.”

  I stood and leaned on the sink and was reminded of my conversation with Dr. James. I went back to the table, though I remained standing. “I’m unaware of any abilities.”

  “To be sure. That allows for a great deal of inactivity.”

  I let myself show a flash of anger. “Damn it, man, I don’t want to do anything, and now I’m a fucking detective out on the street!”

  “You’re lying to yourself, slumlord.” He said it quietly, stood and prepared to leave. “Whether you know it or not.”

  I sat back down, the anger suddenly gone. “Maybe. Anyhow, thanks for the recommendation. And the dope. Should I be concerned about this mystery?”

  Julie shrugged. “It would be wise. Something is not aligned. I would stay alert.”

  “Terrific. No sleep for the weary.”

  “Slumlord, you ain’t alive enough to be tired.”

  Sunday was divided among newspapers, a couple of handyman house specials, Murder, She Wrote, and growing apprehension about my detective work. The feeling I had the other day, the transformation from hunter to hunted, was still fresh and I almost looked forward to talking about it in therapy. Only therapy was no longer therapy—it was a case. The police report indicated a straightforward burglary, but Julie’s warning and Phil’s difficulty in obtaining the report made it impossible to tell Dr. James there were no loose ends. Dope and alcohol numbed my nervousness but didn’t change the fact. The best I could do was try to put the burglary out of my mind until Tuesday.

  I awoke early Monday morning and, despite my headache and misgivings, arrived with time to kill before Fran left her large mockTudor home. It made me nervous sitting in a parked car on a tree-lined, quiet suburban street. I kept imagining that someone would report my presence to the police. Since I was carrying, I couldn’t afford a search.

  Luckily her departure beat my arrest. As I watched her gracefully enter her car I was struck with a mixture of respect and annoyance: she always looked so damned elegant, so in control. It was hard to picture her thrashing around in her bed in the throes of a nightmare. It was hard to imagine her thrashing around in bed, period. I was glad when her car pulled out of the driveway and I was able to concentrate on following her.

  Without city traffic the game was tough. I had to remain far enough behind not to be recognized, but close enough to keep her in view. It was almost fun until I realized that once again I wasn’t watching for anyone else. Eventually we turned onto a busier road where I tried to keep one eye on the cherry-red Mercedes and another on our surroundings. I was lucky I didn’t drive off the road.

  We cut a slow zigzag through suburbia toward the city. After two shopping plazas, one dry cleaner, and a croissant shop, we finally landed on Commonwealth Avenue. Although I never left my car it seemed like I had just played the great American sport of “shop ‘til you drop.” With a mixture of relief and revival of earlier worries I saw Fran pull into a space directly in front of 290. It took me a few minutes before I found parking on a nearby cross street, and by the time I returned Fran was nowhere to be seen. I would just have to take it on faith she was here to see a doctor.

  For a moment, insanely, I thought about doing some shopping of my own but this wasn’t an area I could afford. Instead I stooped it, smoking and watching as people busied by. Despite my resolution to ignore the burglary, sitting across the street from Dr. James’ building made it impossible. I had believed her when she said she wasn’t having an affair with Holmes, but I wouldn’t make book on her student/mentor explanation. It disturbed me to imagine my therapist blatantly lying. That she might be unaware of her feelings didn’t leave me dancing either.

  I looked up and down the street at the ornate oak front doors on many of the block’s brownstones. For a moment, scenes of my last family vacation in Aix-en-Provence and its famous portals stirred, and with it the longing for a life that no longer existed. I felt a familiar rush of angry helplessness and ground my cigarette under my heel. I looked at my watch, and, unable to stand still, crossed the street to reconnoiter the burglarized offices.

  As I entered the building the feeling of being watched returned in force. I looked out the lobby window, saw nothing suspicious, waited, and glanced again. No one seemed interested in 290. I didn’t want to chance into Fran, so I took the stairs to the floor where the b&e’s occurred. The offices were laid out around the outside of the hallway.

  You could follow the hall around a square, ending where you started. I recalled the numbers of the offices that were entered, and Dr. James’ suspicions began to sink in. The offices weren’t adjacent to each other and there were medical offices in between those hit. A detail unmentioned in the police report.

  It was time to reclaim my perch across the street. I loped down the stairs, but before plowing through the front door took a moment to peek out the window to see if anyone was watching the building. I saw no one, though my paranoia got stronger when I walked outside. I felt breathless and stopped at the top of the steps. I didn’t hear the front door open behind me and grabbed the wrought iron railing to keep from losing my balance when I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder.

  I turned and stood eyeball to eyeball with Fran. She found her voice a lot quicker than I found mine.

  “Matt, what a nice surprise.” She looked at my hand that was still glued to the rail. “Though by the look of it more pleasant for me than you. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  “It’s good to see you, Fran,” I croaked. I tore my hand from the iron, turned and leaned against the metal. It quivered and, for an instant, I had .visions of falling to the ground. Fortunately everything held.

  “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  I shrugged. “Busy, I guess.”

  A look of displeasure crossed her face. “Well, you’ve been too much of a stranger and if you don’t start visiting soon, I’ll start to believe that you’re fighting with Simon. Or with me.”

  I began to apologize but she interrupted. “Also, I don’t remember seeing your r.s.v.p. for Wednesday.” A sardonic glint crept into her eyes. “Of course you might have told Simon and he could have forgotten to tell me.”

  I frantically rummaged through my head trying to remember what she was talking about. I couldn’t and she knew it. I’ll give her credit; she could maintain civility.

  “Our anniversary party. You absolutely must show and stay longer than ten minutes. Simon says you’re the only person coming he can relax with.”

  “He exaggerates.”

  “Whether he does or not, you have to come.” Her face was set, her feet planted. She wore her polite smile like a summons. She wasn’t going to leave until she got what she wanted.

  I couldn’t hide the reluctance in my voice. “I’ll be there but I might be a little late with a gift.”

  Her smile grew wider; it almost looked as if she meant it. “Oh Matt, no one expects a gift. You said the same thing at the wedding.”

  It was my turn to smile though it didn’t quite match the smoothness of hers. I wasn’t as adept at maintaining civility. “Well, at least I’ll be there. What time?” Fuck her if I didn’t remember her anniversary.

  She passed me on the steps. “People are arriving after dinner but you come whenever you want. There’s always enough food. Remember, it’s at Alex’s.”

  I mumbled my thanks to her back, and watched as she walked to her car and drove away. For a moment I wondered why she hadn’t asked me what I was doing there, but then remembered myself and rushed down the steps toward my car. I noticed a skinny, straggly bearded kid sitting in a luxurious cream-colored Lincoln looking at me. He seemed out of place and I must have slowed, because he immediately started the Lincoln and pulled away. I wondered if he had stolen it, or whether he worked
for the guru who lived in Oregon and collected limos.

  When I finally got to my car I had no idea where to go. Before I could decide whether I felt relieved or foolish, Fran’s car flashed by in my rearview mirror. I sped out of the parking spot, ignoring the blasts of angry horns, hurried down a block, swung a right, and waited for the light to change. Damn, Rockford made this look easy.

  The light finally turned and I kicked the engine; if I didn’t make the green on Boylston I’d have no chance of finding her. The horses complained but obeyed. I was in luck. It’s funny, when you’re hauling ass down a crowded city street, worries disappear. All I could think about was catching Fran and not killing anyone doing it. It was exhilarating.

  Until I lost her. I got stuck behind a bus and didn’t have the balls to blindly hurl myself across the center yellow line, an intelligent but humiliating decision. I was cursing and aimlessly circling the neighborhood when I had another rear-window vision. Damned if the cherry red wasn’t climbing up my back. I pulled to the side as if to double-park and kept my face down. I didn’t think she’d recognize my car. I was back in business and it felt great.

  We drove to the wharf where she pulled into a multi-storied parking garage close to the Aquarium. I followed her in, and kept driving up and around the structure until I passed her car. She had her back to me and was heading for the elevator. The place was quiet, so I pulled into a vacant spot, stayed in the car, and waited for the elevator to whisk her away. I jumped out of my car and started for the stairwell until I noticed the 6TH FLOOR sign. I turned, lit a cigarette, and walked back to the elevator. There were limits to industriousness.

  When I was gung ho about detecting I used to pick out strangers and follow them. Women had a better sense about being watched. For good reason. I managed to find Fran again, though, as soon as I got to the street. The bushy electric blonde hair made it simpler. I stayed a reasonable distance behind and was surprised to see her turn toward the Aquarium’s entrance booth. I didn’t want to follow.

  I hadn’t been in the Aquarium since the accident. The three of us used to go there on Friday mornings. We even had a fish tank at home. When I moved I left all the equipment behind; I didn’t even eat whole fish anymore.

  I stood by the outdoor harbor seals and smoked. I wanted dope and considered returning to the car, but before I could decide Fran came streaming back out the door and I had to turn quickly to avoid being seen. A great deal of my relief was smashed by her intent walk to the dolphin boat: she wasn’t leaving, she was going to the show.

  I glanced at the sign on the admission kiosk. Along with shock at the cost of a ticket, I noticed show time was an hour away. My curiosity overcame my inertia. I saw her enter the main door but when I pulled quietly on the handle it was locked. I trotted back to the booth and bought a ticket. If I was going to nose around a locked ship I wanted to have a stub to make the lying easier.

  When I went back to the boat I didn’t bother with the main entrance, but walked around the deck to see if there was another entry. A door toward the back was wedged open with a rock. I listened carefully for voices, then slipped in without making much noise.

  The inside was dark and humid; and my nose was attacked by the stench of chlorine. In the distance I could hear the sounds of splashing water. I saw a crack of light, waited for my eyes to adjust, and walked carefully toward it. I made it without falling into anything, and looked out the door onto the main show arena. There were a couple of dolphins swimming in the pool and two trainers chatting amiably on the stage. I stood there feeling like an intruder, momentarily caught in memories of better times. I could even remember the dolphins’ names. Unless they too were dead, and these were new ones. I was getting set to leave when I noticed movement in the dark shadows of the audience seats. I stared at the intermittent motion until I was sure. It was Fran and someone else, but the room was too gloomy to see the person beside her.

  I wanted a closer look. The unlit corridor wrapped around the pool and auditorium, so I began a slow careful journey to where I could see them. It took an eternity but I finally got to a doorway that I thought would work. It was closed, so I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and smothered the latch as I edged the door ajar.

  Simon was wrong; it wasn’t blackmail. The ugly suspicions I’d had when I connected Fran with the gynecologists in 290 were becoming all too solid. I was close enough to watch Fran’s friend’s hand disappear under her jacket, and it was nowhere near her pocket. I was close enough to watch her lean her head forward, close enough to watch her lips open and lick his. I was close enough to feel my stomach tighten with disgust and rage.

  Home didn’t help. No matter how high I got I couldn’t get the smell of chlorine out of my nose or the knot out of my stomach. When I first started social work I had counseled a young couple, and in the course of a conversation about sex I asked the woman something about what she enjoyed. She told me that she liked to insert hairbrush handles. I sat there dumbfounded. Later the supervisor suggested that I not ask questions if I wasn’t prepared for the answers.

  I wished I had just lost Fran after her doctor’s appointment. And I fucking well wished my friend hadn’t gotten me involved to begin with. I felt like calling and telling him, but odds were he’d ask why, and I didn’t feel like letting him know that his wife had nightmares because she was either diseased or pregnant.

  It was too early to go to sleep. Too early to watch TV. Too early to do much of anything.

  I got more dope from the stash and sat at the kitchen table. The gun didn’t feel comfortable anymore so off it went. I spent the next forty-five minutes furiously smoking and cleaning the weapon. I didn’t even bother to turn on the radio, just sat there and worked up a sweat. Finished, I reholstered it and hung the whole damn thing over the chair. I changed into shorts, got down on the floor, and started to work out. My lungs needed a breather so I stopped and smoked a cigarette. After the smoke I felt drained so I popped a Valium, showered, and lay down. I don’t know how long I slept or what time it was; I only knew it was dark when I woke to the banging at my door.

  For a wild moment I thought it was Simon coming to kill me for what I had seen. I stayed tucked and groggy in my bed hoping for the commotion to stop. Only the hammering continued. Finally a strange voice began hollering my name. I didn’t want to move, but it would be only a matter of moments before Mrs. Sullivan’s light began to flash. I padded over to the door, calling “Wait a minute,” and had just unlocked it when it was pushed hard into me and knocked me backwards.

  I stood there confused as two large men filled the entrance. One was a fat white man with silver hair and a bulbous red-veined nose that looked as if it had been pickled in boilermakers. The other was black, with hard eyes and a body built by Gold’s Gym. Both wore suits and looked like they just walked out of a barber shop—Lenny Bruce’s tell on cops. I got sweaty thinking about my stash.

  “What do you guys want?” It wasn’t snappy, but neither was I.

  The Nose growled something unintelligible. I hoped his friend had brought a leash.

  “Do either of you speak English?”

  The black man smiled though his eyes never softened. A part of me began to hope they were cops.

  The black turned to his friend. “We have a smartass here.”

  The fat man’s jowls began to shake and his mouth opened in what seemed to pass for a smile. He took a step forward. I tried to figure out how to get to my gun.

  “Wait, Connolly, if you start now he won’t be able to talk.”

  “What are you doing here? Do you have a warrant?”

  “Listen to the man, Connolly, he wants to know if we have a warrant. I told you he was smart. He guessed we were police.”

  My admirer walked over to me and slapped me hard across the face. I kept my head still but the blow brought tears to my eyes.

  “You like our warrant?”

  I didn’t say anything. I hoped they found that agreeable. Connolly began to wande
r around the room while his partner stood and stared at me.

  “We have some questions.”

  I kept quiet.

  “I hope I didn’t knock your tongue out. I’d hate to feed you to Connolly here.” Body-by-Gold never took his eyes off me.

  “What do you want?” It wasn’t easy to talk, my cheek and jaw still throbbed.

  “We want to know about your sudden interest in 290 Commonwealth.”

  “What interest?”

  Connolly started to walk toward me, but the black guy moved between us. Just as I began to relax, he slammed me across the other side of my face.

  “I just did you another favor.” He nodded toward Connolly. “Now we can do this hard or we can do it easy?”

  Something told me that easy wasn’t going to be easy. “I don’t know what you want. That’s my shrink’s building.”

  This time he let the dog through. I picked myself off the floor after he hit my stomach.

  “Shamus, you are being foolish. It’s really a simple thing here. What does a shrink in the building have to do with a bad stakeout?”

  Any doubts about their being police vanished in the face of calling me shamus. I hadn’t spent enough time watching 290 for someone to have identified me without the help of a government computer.

  “Who hired you?”

  “No one hired me. I felt fucked up and thought about seeing her. Just didn’t want to when I got there.”

  “And I didn’t want to do this when I got here.” He nodded toward the Nose and I thought about running, only there was nowhere to go. When I opened my eyes I was on the floor again with a black boot headed in my direction. It seemed to be moving in slow motion and I figured I’d have no trouble avoiding it, but I was wrong. All I could do was inch my face out of the way. My neck didn’t appreciate it.

  “That’s enough,” the hard body ordered.

  Connolly didn’t think so. He bent over and grabbed me by the front of the shirt, pulled me up and held me while he punched me in the belly with a hand that looked as big as his foot.