The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Look at that oil on the concrete. I really can't. Why don't I lean against the car while holding my hands over my head, then place my hands firmly on this little car's roof, and then spread my legs in the approved manner?"

  Ari knew this was perilous behavior. Carrington had the gray, cold look of someone who wanted to share the death of his soul. But he had dealt with men far more dangerous. Men who had had no soul to begin with. He was familiar with the lines that could be crossed.

  Carrington nodded. "Do it, then."

  Ari complied. The detective came up behind him and closed one end of a pair of handcuffs around his left wrist.

  "Reach behind with your hand," Carrington grunted. "No, your right hand, goddammit!"

  Once the cuffs were on, he pulled Ari back from the car and waved him towards the inner door. He marched to the base of the steps.

  "Stop."

  Ari stopped. Carrington stepped around him and opened the door, then drew aside, the gun still aimed at his prisoner.

  "Okay."

  Ari stepped up into the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. A glance at the back porch door revealed a curled piece of tape. He'd had a visitor. Carrington? Howie Nottoway? He had been wondering if Jackson or Mangioni had let drop the inconsequential detail that Ari had cooked up a lot of smoke while preparing his masgouf. Carrington might have made the connection between the air vent's poor performance and the prize blocking the tube.

  He intended to look at the stove when he entered the kitchen, but his attention was drawn instead to an envelope on the table. The return address was Ted's Custom Lawn Care & Landscape Design Service. His name was handwritten across the front, along with a crude smiley-face flourish.

  Two visitors?

  What time had they arrived? Had they met? That would have been interesting to see. Effervescent Fred and a terrified Howie. Or had Fred, or even Ted himself, come through the back door?

  "Sit," Carrington ordered.

  Ari sat facing the rear of the kitchen. The tape he had stretched between the Jenn-Air’s bottom access panel and the oven door was broken. Two visitors, then--unless the U.S. Marshals Service was investigating Richmond's drug trade, which Ari doubted. He was beginning to think of his house as a sieve that allowed in any passerby, including gun-toting detectives.

  Carrington looked at the chair across from Ari and recalled how uncomfortable he had found it on his previous visit. He leaned against the counter.

  "Ever hear the phrase, 'you in a heap of trouble'?"

  "No, but I can guess its import," said Ari with unnecessary and risky snobbery.

  "You assaulted three civilians. That may be an everyday thing in Godfather-land, but it's a crime here."

  "I wasn't aware of that. Obviously, you must arrest me."

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Carrington's eyes seemed to borrow weight from his heavy brow. They sank into a deadly scowl. "We're going to cut the crap here, right? You think I'm a cop on the take. That you beat up on some lowlifes who had done you no harm and that you can get away with it by blackmailing me. Am I right?"

  "I was only trying to find out--"

  "Yeah, well you found out the wrong thing. Make that double. First, you interfered with an ongoing investigation of illicit drug trafficking, then you interfered with an ongoing murder investigation. How about them apples?"

  Apples? Ari didn't inquire. The ghost of his beloved foreign language instructor had a few educational gaps to answer for. Ari's slang was obviously not up to par. He made himself as comfortable as he could with his hands bound behind him and worked on the problem of what to do if Carrington opened the envelope.

  There had always been a thespian element in the detective's behavior. It could be sarcastic. It could be menacing. But it had provided a kind of levity that was totally absent now. Carrington looked as heavy in mood as he was in body. Gravity had dragged him down to basic elements. Ari could tell it was not a pleasant situation for him. At heart, Carrington was not a cop who enjoyed a good wallow in human muck. Mother and the Kayak Express were bad habits left over from his lost youth. Ari, too, had known the consummate pleasures of family life. He had lost those pleasures early. Carrington had come upon them late. Both of them could become deadly if that lifestyle was threatened.

  "Mind if I smoke?" said Ari.

  "Be my guest," Carrington answered without humor.

  Ari flexed the cuffs behind his back and gave up on the idea.

  "Detective Sergeant Carrington, you look very tired."

  "And the fun's just begun. Where is it?"

  Ari thought a look of innocence would be futile, but tried it on, anyway.

  "I mean everything. What you took from those boys, from Black Mamma. And what you found here. Just hand it over and we'll be squared. I mean it. I won't lay a finger on you or your...whatever the hell it is you do."

  "I don't have access to those items now. However, I do have $127 and some change on me. I'd be glad to give it to you, if that's the required fee in this country."

  "Fee?"

  "The fee for doing business, for not being harassed by the authorities, for just getting on."

  "You think I'm a grafter? This is the best goddamn country in the world. We don't have that kind of thing."

  "What would you do if I laughed?"

  "Knock the shit out of you."

  "Then I won't laugh."

  "You don't have the shit here? Or the money? I could search the house again. But like you said, I'm tired. I might just save myself the trouble and shoot you."

  "I've hidden it away. Quite far away. It would take over an hour to get there. And by then it would be dark and I probably wouldn't be able to find it. Even if I did, you would still probably shoot me, because that's not the real reason you're here."

  "Why am I here?"

  "To preserve your daughter's good name."

  "So..." said Carrington. And nothing else.

  "I'm sure you've tried to run a background check on me. I'm aware that you've run into unexpected obstacles. I saw your lips move when you looked at my credit card in the restaurant the other night. You were memorizing the account number. What were you able to learn from that?"

  "Bank of Nova Scotia my fucking ass." Carrington was stirred up. He had been thwarted professionally, a far sharper pang than having his peccadilloes exposed. "Yeah, I tried to run it. Got all sorts of bogus crap back about international law and Canada wouldn't release that kind of data to a shit-ass American cop. It's a fucking Visa, for Christ's sake. They don't have a country. Which reminds me...where do you keep your wallet?"

  "Inside jacket pocket."

  Carrington came over and took it out. He eased painfully into the chair across from Ari and opened it up on the table. "I'll be damned. One-hundred and twenty-seven dollars. Not many people know the exact amount in their wallets." He gouged through the wallet's inserts with his thick fingers, pulling out plastic square by square. He held up Ari's driver's license. "Now this is interesting."

  "Is it not in the approved format?"

  "It's a Virginia license. It's got your address on it. I mean the address here, on Beach Court Lane."

  "Yes?"

  "You've been here hardly a week. You realize that you have thirty days before you have to title. Your car has a two-year state sticker and a Richmond sticker. And insurance, too! Getting all that would take a day. Have you been to the DMV? Have you been to City Hall?"

  "Obviously."

  "Then tell me, which Division of Motor Vehicles office did you go to?"

  "The main one."

  "And where is that?"

  Ari had no idea.

  "Asshole." The detective took out another card. "Hey, Henrico County Library, issued today. Didn't take you for a bookworm, Mr. Ciminon."

  Lynn the Librarian had suggested Ari get a permanent card at the circulation desk if he planned on using the library frequently.

  "I try to improve myself," he said.

  "Check out any book
s? Any movies? No? Interesting." Carrington slipped out a small white envelope that bore the seal of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. He removed the card. "You got a helluva magnetic strip on here. I can see myself." He turned the card over. "Permanent Resident Card?"

  "My Green Card."

  "I saw the movie, with Gerard What's-His-French-Ass." Carrington studied Ari's picture, the biometric thumbprint and the arcane rows of numbers at the bottom of the card. Then he glanced over the personal information. "Born July 1, 1966. What sign is that?"

  "Sign?"

  "You know. In the horoscope. No idea? Hell if I know, either. My wife keeps track of that kind of thing. Every family needs a crackpot." The detective returned to the card. "Sex male. Country of origin, Italy. Resident since August 6, 2006. Where did you spend your time the last month and a half?"

  "In Sicily, waiting for my card."

  "How long you have to wait?"

  "Almost three years."

  "You sat around on that hot desert island for three years waiting for this?"

  "Your Hispanic workers wait at long as thirteen years." Ari ventured a smile. "Theoretically."

  "You've got an Italian passport?"

  "A European passport. Upstairs."

  Carrington thought for a moment. "I guess it won't say anything different from this," he said, tapping the Green Card.

  "No."

  "Forget it, then. Anything else in here? Where's your Social Security Card? You can't work legally in this country without one."

  "It's in the mail."

  "No pictures? You haven't got any family or friends you care to look at?"

  "I'm not a sentimental man."

  "No kidding." Carrington laid the driver's license and Green Card side by side. "This stinks. I mean, you've arrived all processed and prepackaged. I've got one thing solid, and it doesn't make any sense."

  "And what is that?"

  "Iceland."

  It was Ari's turn to be shocked into stillness. He immediately comprehended his mistake. The phone call....

  "Fortunately, our department has a better relationship with the phone companies than fucking Nova Scotia and their Canadian comrades. It seems that someone used your credit card to make a call to Iceland from LaGuardia Airport a couple of weeks ago. It only lasted a few minutes, but it was pricey as hell. You should know better than to use a credit card to make a phone call. They'll gouge you blind."

  Ari glanced down at the envelope. Carrington noticed, but stayed on topic.

  "I called the number, of course. The department gets better rates, not that it matters, with the taxpayers ponying up and all. I got a nurses' station at Foosvug…Foss…Fossvogur City Hospital in Rayjack…Ray…aw shit. Reykjavik! That’s it! I asked if there was someone named Ciminon there. Nada. I asked if there were any Italians there. Nyet. I asked them if there was someone from the Middle East there. They asked me who I was. I said I was a cop and they hung up. Fucking foreigners."

  Ari made no comment.

  "So what am I supposed to make of this? You don't look Icelandic. You don't even look Italian. If you were some sort of foreign spy, you would've picked a house in Washington or New York, near one of the hot spots. Hell, you'd be living out of a suitcase. Unless you're one of those moles they talk about. But there again, you couldn't pick a less important place than Richmond, unless it's Fleatown, Arizona or something."

  "So you've come to no conclusions?" Ari asked.

  "I intend to find out more. Right now, what I think, you've got a relative hiding out in Rejectvick…Rackjack…fucking Ratville. So I've got your wife or somebody by the neck."

  "And I've got your daughter."

  "Yeah..."

  "I will be happy to explain all of this to you if you will allow me a few minutes to digress."

  "Those missionaries who taught you English must've had cucumbers stuck up their ass."

  "It was your friend and my neighbor who first told me about the murders. In fact, I learned about it on my first day."

  "Howie Nottoway is no friend of mine."

  "Your acquaintance, then. Don't you know each other through the Neighborhood Watch Association? I believe you have provided liaison services for them on occasion."

  "Fucking internet," Carrington groused.

  "My interest was piqued. As you may have surmised, I was once an officer of the law, myself."

  "Would you stop talking like that? I know you can talk normal. So you were a cop..."

  "In a small way. A desk cop, I believe is the phrase. I was in charge of the registration department of a large prison."

  "From what I've heard, all Sicily should be a jail," said Carrington. "So you were a clerk."

  "I happen to have a lot of time on my hands. When I found out about the Riggins family, I thought it was my opportunity to take on a real case."

  "Amateur hour."

  "Perhaps. But I think I've done very well within my limitations. I know who the killer is. And his accomplices."

  "Go on."

  "Several years ago, Jerry Riggins entered a severe state of depression that did not lift until his death. You can see it in his paintings. Those 'smudges', as you call them. They got darker and darker as the years wore on. I don't think there was any profound artistic symbolism at work here. Jerry didn't have that kind of talent. It's an open question as to if he had any talent at all."

  "None whatsoever," Carrington grunted.

  "He did win some regional award for outstanding new artist of the year before his marriage. Perhaps that was his downfall. The award inspired delusions of grandeur. When sales of his artwork did not match those delusions, he did not console himself the way most failed artists do, by claiming he was ahead of his time, that he was misunderstood, that the mass of humanity is philistine in the extreme...which I would agree with, by the way," Ari added, giving the detective an arch look.

  "Yeah right, I can't tell Rembrandt's ass from Picasso's elbow. Get on with it."

  "Using his new father-in-law's money, he began hiring galleries to display his work. There were gushing reviews on the internet, which I'm fairly certain Jerry wrote himself. I understand Hemingway wrote anonymously to Edmund Wilson--"

  "Cut it out."

  "Jerry began receiving civic awards for outstanding contributions to the city's welfare. Again, his father-in-law's money was at work, but there was another force, also. You."

  "I don't follow."

  "You are very much involved in community affairs. You were Sergeant Santa for three years running until, I suppose, other duties took you away from that. You helped sponsor Howie Nottoway when he set up the Riverside Neighborhood Watch. You were well-established to assist Jerry, and Moria, as up-and-comers in local affairs--thereby increasing publicity for that novel young artist, Jerry Riggins."

  "The little fuck piggy-backed."

  "As you say. During those early years, the Riggins couple produced two wonderful boys. Jerry was secure in his delusions, while Moria seemed content with married life."

  "Only 'seemed'?"

  "I've heard things that lead me to think she wasn't a sterling wife."

  "You mean you've been listening to that slut, Tina."

  "But then Jerry found out something that put a crimp in his enthusiasm. He must have wondered why you were always in the vicinity of his family. There are two pictures of you and Jerry and Moria in the newspaper archives. In the older one, Jerry and Moria are all smiles. In the last one, it almost seems that Jerry finds you repugnant. He must have first thought you were having an affair with his wife. Then he somehow discovered it was even worse than that, because it could cost him a fortune. When did you tell him?"

  "When the little shit accused me of sleeping with Moria. I set him straight. His jaw dropped to China."

  "It was when I saw a family portrait sitting on Moria's dresser that I realized the truth. The resemblance between the two of you--"

  "How could you see a family portrait? This house was cleared out long
before you ever got here."

  "When I reviewed the pictures of the crime scene. In one of the pictures of Moria's body, you can see-- Detective! Do not strike me, or you will pay a terrible price."

  Carrington had risen from his seat, his fist raised. He stopped. There was not a trace of bluff in Ari's words. "What, you're going to sic your Mafioso worms on me? Do I look like I give a shit?"

  "I give you credit for common sense. You haven't heard me out. I can assure you that beating me will only make me stubborn and silent."

  "Those photos are police property."

  "Another reason for you to sit quietly and listen. You have no idea of who else knows about this. Don't you want to find out?"

  Suddenly, the detective took his gun off the table, pressed it to Ari's temple, and pressed the trigger.

  There was a click.

  "Oops. Forgot to load the damn thing." He leaned over Ari's shoulder. "Hmm. You didn't piss your pants."

  "They're new. I wouldn't want to ruin them." Ari took in a long but discreet lungful of air. He had misjudged Carrington's sadistic streak. It was quite a bit longer than he had suspected. "Would you please sit?"

  Carrington sat. The weight in his eyes had grown heavier. His show of power had given him no pleasure. It had, in fact, drained him. Ari wondered if he might not fold his arms on the table, lay down his head, and fall asleep.

  "I can't tell you how I came by those pictures. Only that they provided me with the final pieces. I know what happened that night."

  The detective watched him carefully, as if he wasn't handcuffed.

  "At around five o'clock on December 23, neighbors heard a loud argument and banging at the Riggins house. Some of those neighbors chose to ignore what they assumed was a private domestic dispute. Another neighbor watched the house closely, waiting for any sign that things had gotten out of hand. Things quieted down, but the neighbor kept an eye out--if for no other reason than out of concern for his property."

  "Howie."

  "He had seen Jerry steal a sledgehammer out of his shed. He must have noticed a peculiar look on Jerry's face and decided not to confront him about it. Then he heard the banging. He couldn't see what was happening through the trees and must have assumed Jerry would return the sledgehammer when he was done. But night came, and Jerry didn't come back."