by Jim Heskett
“You okay here?” she asked.
“Yeah, unless you found something sinister in the woods.”
He’d been joking, but the way she looked back toward the cabin’s door didn’t fill him with confidence. “You want to hang around for a while until they’re inbound?”
She nodded. “That sounds like a better plan.”
As Harry took out his phone to call in the cavalry, he realized something else. From what he could tell of the body, it had been stabbed.
Where was the murder weapon?
11
Harry vaguely knew the two Eureka Springs cops on scene, but he didn’t know the detectives from the nearby city of Rogers, who were apparently already in town today for a joint training exercise. Harry guessed it was a CPR demonstration, based on the mannequin-like human doll seated upright in the back of one of the squad cars. The thing looked like a crash test dummy and wore a seatbelt, just like a perp would. Kinda creepy.
The day had turned warm, creating a small and ever-present patch of sweat near the small of Harry’s back. No matter what he tried, the damp spot wouldn’t go away, so he learned to live with it.
Harry sat on the hood of his car as police vehicles trickled in, along with the hazmat suit guys with their cameras. Within twenty minutes, a parade of various vehicle tires had trenched the mucky yard around the cabin. Harry gave his statement, said a couple of quick hellos to the local first responders he knew. Most everyone else ignored him, which Harry liked, but didn’t seem like the safest option. There was a dead body fifty feet to the east, and for all these people knew, Harry was the murderer. The fact that they let him hang around the inside boundary of the yellow tape didn’t speak highly of their ability to secure the scene. But it was better to walk free than sit in cuffs, waiting for hours in the back of a sweltering police cruiser. Cops almost never cleaned their cars, so the interiors always smelled like a horrific mix of sweat and crime.
Harry watched two detectives in their ties and slacks, standing close to each other, whispering. Every few seconds, they tossed looks in his direction, which felt incredibly strange. But they were mostly occupied with things that Harry didn’t understand, like checking the angle of the sun, taking endless photos of the boot on the porch before finally dropping it into an evidence bag. Either these detectives were fishing, or they had methods far above Harry’s understanding. As a new PI, he desperately wanted to pick their brains. But given their furtive glances at him, he expected their brains were not available for picking.
Eventually, one of them wandered over toward Harry. “Afternoon,” he said. The man didn’t say his name, and he wore no name tag, but he did have an American flag pin on his suit coat, so Harry dubbed this guy Patriot.
“Hello,” Harry said.
Patriot took out his phone and tapped a few times, nodding to himself. “The officers told us you were acquainted with Mr. Maslow?” He drifted up at the end, turning it into a question.
“I knew Lukas Maslow, but I haven’t seen him in twenty years, maybe twenty five. I would say that yes, we were acquainted at one time. Maybe you could have considered us something like friends. But that was a long time ago and we haven’t stayed in touch.”
“Are you from the area, Mr. Boukadakis?”
Harry searched all over for a badge on a lanyard or clip to identify the man’s name, but still found nothing. “Not originally, no, but members of my family are. Did your guys find the murder weapon yet?”
Patriot flashed a placating smile, as if it were such a novel question. “Can I ask why you were in the holler today, sir?”
Harry pointed at one of the local cops. “I already gave my statement to Carla.”
“I’m sure you did, but I had a few questions for you, too. Don’t take offense, Mr. Boukadakis. We just want to make sure we have all the facts right, because it makes our jobs easier.”
“I understand that. But I’m sorta on the clock, so if we could hurry this along…? I need to get back to work.”
Harry took a breath and slipped his hands into his pockets. Five minutes ago, Patriot and the other detective had spoken at length with the same cop Harry had spoken to. Of course Patriot would want his own answers, on the chance they wouldn’t match up to what Harry had already told the uniformed officers. Easy way to bump Harry up to the top of the suspect list. Harry wasn’t shocked at his treatment as a potential suspect. It did make him unsettled, however.
“I was following a lead to recover property stolen from my client.”
“And how did you know it was here?”
“I didn’t.” He opened his mouth to say, “we,” but stopped himself milliseconds short. Better to leave Serena out of this entirely. “I was exploring the holler, and I saw this cabin and got a hunch. I was prepared to visit fifteen or twenty locations today, but I got lucky on my first try.”
“Why this one?”
Harry pointed at the proud and tall archway made out of animal bones. “It’s kind of eye-catching. Wouldn’t you stop here too?”
“Understandable. And what led you to explore the hollers in general?”
“Crime.”
Patriot raised a suspicious eye. “Crime?”
“Yeah, these hollers are home to all sorts of nasty things, from what I hear. The police can only whack so many of those moles at once.”
Patriot frowned at him. Maybe he’d assumed whack in the mafia sense, not in the Whack-a-Mole sense Harry had intended. Either way, he didn’t mention it. “And details about your client and his property are already in your statement?”
“You know they are.”
Now Patriot’s smarmy smile waned. “Is there a problem, Mr. Boukadakis?”
Harry could’ve named two: first, Patriot terrified him. Second, Harry didn’t trust this guy, but he couldn’t say why. He had a strong urge to not be here any longer, stuck under this man’s needling microscope.
“No problem. I’d like to get back to work.”
“I understand. And what do you do?”
Now Harry gritted his teeth. This question was designed to humiliate him. Maybe Patriot assumed Harry was a PI because he’d failed a physical and washed out of a police academy. Obviously, Harry wouldn’t tell this smarmy detective that he’d spent the last two decades toppling dictators and assassinating terrorists, not futilely dreaming of becoming a cop. Not that Harry had done those things literally, but he’d aided and managed the field agents who had carried out the orders. Without him, none of those missions would have succeeded.
“I’m a licensed private investigator in the state of Arkansas. That’s what I do.”
“Alrighty then. To confirm: your client didn’t report the theft of his property to the police?”
“Correct. Instead, he hired me to look for it.”
“Did you ask him why he wasn’t interested in reporting the crime?”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe I did, but that’s privileged information.” As far as Harry knew for sure, Kemba Wood had committed no crime, so he wasn’t obliged to report anything about their conversations to the police. Harry had found it necessary to tell Officer Carla some of the basics, since he needed to explain the chain of events that had brought Harry to the cabin in the holler.
“That’s fine,” Patriot said.
Harry tilted his chin toward the cabin. “Find anything interesting in the foot locker?”
“Why, did someone else hire you to find their missing dildo, too?”
Harry zipped his lips as a wave of angry nervousness passed through him. Part of him wanted to tell off this smug detective. He entertained a moment of the fantasy, picturing Patriot’s face falling as Harry lands a perfect quip. But no way would Harry do anything like that in real life.
“I’m just trying to do my job.”
“So are we,” Patriot said. “We might have questions for you later, but there’s just one more thing I’d like to ask now: do you have any reason to think your client knew who took his property?”
“I don’t think so. He hired me to find the person.”
Patriot nodded, and Harry had spat out his answer in a sort of childish defiance. But, honestly, he didn’t know Kemba Wood at all. The man had lied about how his time playing pro football had ended, so maybe he had other secrets.
Patriot wandered away toward the other cops, standing in a circle, everyone with their phones out, chatting and texting. Harry watched Patriot scribble something on a piece of paper, fold it, and then approach and insert himself into the circle. Quickly, without anyone else seeing, Patriot slipped the piece of paper into one of the other cop’s pockets. Curious.
But even more curious was Harry’s desire to get back to town. He had to talk with Kemba, right away.
12
Harry arrived at the strip mall in the early afternoon to see Kemba wrapping up a haircut. The big guy made muted small talk with the frumpy woman in his chair, and then he walked her to the checkout counter without a word.
Lukas Maslow’s body had been discovered about an hour ago, and Harry wondered if Kemba already knew. The grapevine moved at gigabit speeds here in this tiny town.
Or, Harry reminded himself, Kemba might already know Lukas is dead because he’s the one who did it. It didn’t seem likely, but Harry had to keep it in mind as a possibility. Amateur investigators made assumptions early and often, and then charted a straight line from their knowledge. But real private eyes considered every option, including the possibility they might be flat-out wrong.
Harry was a real private eye. He had a piece of paper saying so, at least.
As Kemba swiped the lady’s credit card, Harry waited for her to leave and then march off toward downtown. As far as he could tell, the lady hadn’t made eye contact with Kemba once.
Harry entered the barbershop to see the owner sweeping up the chunks of brown locks all over the floor. He tossed one eye at Harry. He didn’t smile or nod, he just looked at Harry while he finished his business.
“Can we talk?” Harry said, and then Kemba gave him a look that sent a spike of fear into his heart. Just a flash of the eyes, but Harry hadn’t missed it. For a split second he saw the intensity that hundreds or thousands of opposing football players had seen before. Kemba wore no black marks under his eyes to blot the sun, but his gaze said he was ready to tackle someone.
“Sure.” He tilted his head toward the barber seat while he retrieved a folding chair from across the room. As Harry sat, he glanced at the collection of razor-sharp scissors at the haircutting station. He tried to guess if one of those scissors was missing, but it was impossible to tell. Maybe if Harry had thought to inventory and catalog every pair of scissor in the place yesterday, it might have led him to useful information. But the thought of tracking scissors as murder weapons hadn’t occurred to him.
Kemba sat and folded his hands. “What can I do for you?”
Harry noted the barber had rough hands, ashy and weathered. He had several bruises along his cuticles, and they reminded Harry of a construction worker’s hands. Not the smooth and soft tools of a man who cut hair for a living. But, then again, Harry hadn’t studied the hands of too many barbers, so maybe he was projecting suspicion onto the man for no reason.
“I found your cigars.”
Kemba’s face lit up for a moment, his lips parting and eyebrows raised. It seemed a genuine-enough expression. Then his gaze darted to Harry’s arms, around his feet, probably wondering why Harry wasn’t handing them over. Eventually, he frowned. “Cops took my stoagies, didn’t they?”
“I’m sure they took what was left of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your cigars were found in the possession of a man named Lukas, who shredded them to bits. It stands to reason he also did the breaking and entering and the thieving part, too.” Harry waited a beat to gauge Kemba’s reaction. He seemed to flinch slightly at the mention of the name, but it wasn’t conclusive enough to count as recognition.
“Wow,” Kemba said, and initially seemed like he had more to offer on the topic, but he closed his mouth.
“Lukas Maslow,” Harry said. “Do you know who that is?”
Kemba shrugged and pursed his lips in blank confusion, but Harry couldn’t tell if his confusion had been a little too blank or not. Serena had a similar range of unreadable facial expressions, but Harry knew her well enough to understand what some of hers meant. Kemba was too hard to read.
“I don’t think so. Aside from you and your bodyguard, I don’t know anyone else in Eureka Springs. I haven’t had a lot of chatty customers yet. Haven’t had a lot of customers at all, actually. Hopefully that’ll pick up once I have a working front door again.”
Harry pondered Kemba’s comment from yesterday that he had chosen this place with the throw of a dart at a map. An idea jumped up inside Harry’s head, waving its hand insistently. Insurance fraud. Kemba rolling into town, finding Lukas outside the grocery store, then hiring (or conning) him to break in so Kemba can make a payday from the insurance claim on his brand new place of business. He adds the illegal cigars into the mix to make it seem less staged. But then maybe Kemba worries mentally challenged Lukas will blab, so he follows him to his cabin and guts him there.
It seemed a gross overreaction to kill a human being over something like this, but that was how Harry’s brain worked. He had no idea how the man sitting across from him thought. Maybe doing such a horrific thing seemed perfectly reasonable to him. Harry had met plenty of people who could commit unthinkable evil without batting an eyelash.
And then, Harry reminded himself that this was one possible scenario. Locking himself in this line of thinking could only hurt him.
“I understand,” Harry said.
“You did everything I asked, Harry, and I appreciate that. I’m sorry someone got hurt, but I’m glad it’s over. I guess this means the case is done, right?”
Harry opened his mouth to say that since Lukas was an acquaintance of his, he intended to keep digging. But he decided to withhold that piece of information. Instead, he said, “Not necessarily. The man who took your cigars was found dead in the woods. The police are currently considering it a homicide.”
Kemba cocked his head. “He was murdered?”
“No, homicide and murder aren’t exactly the same beast. The killing could have been justified, like in self-defense. I don’t believe the ESPD know at this point. Or, maybe they do. I’m not a cop, so they don’t tell me these kinds of things.”
Kemba kept a blank expression for a few seconds. “Oh. I see. Was he young? I assumed it was kids.”
“No, he was in his forties. Luk… Mr. Maslow was slow.”
“As in, mentally?”
Harry nodded.
Kemba sat back in his chair, contemplative, with a scowl on his face. “I’m sorry to hear about his passing. This isn’t the sort of thing I wanted to jump into in my first week in town. I was supposed to meet with a hair product distributor later today, but now I’ve got all this to deal with.”
“Speaking of: when I gave my statement, I told them everything that led me to the cabin in the holler, so you should expect a visit from the police. I know you didn’t want them involved, but I couldn’t leave you out of the equation. Sorry, my hands were tied.”
Kemba didn’t seem happy about this, but he kept his expression tame. “I understand. I should have expected it would all come out, but this isn’t how I wanted to make my introduction to Eureka Springs, you know?”
“Yes, I do.” Harry hesitated, trying to stop his lower lip from trembling. Now the conversation had to turn to less pleasant things.
“Can I ask where you were last night?”
“Oh,” the big former football player said, appearing momentarily wounded. “I guess it’s a fair question. I was here until about five, I think. Then I was at home, watching TV. I suppose you could… check my Netflix watch history, or something? Oh, I got a takeout from the Asian place between leaving here and going home and ate it on my couch, b
y myself. I watched three episodes of my show and then went to bed around eleven, or maybe a little after.”
Harry had a flash from yesterday, seconds after the glass breaking. He’d seen Kemba returning from the convenience store, with a phone up to his ear. Who had he been talking to? Had he been on the phone with Lukas?
Harry wondered what it would take to get those phone records. A court order seemed like the most logical path. But Harry also knew with a little determination and elbow grease, he could hack into the phone company and find out himself. He wouldn’t feel good about doing it, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it.
“Where did you get the takeout food?”
Kemba chewed on his lip for a couple seconds. “Mountain Street? That’s not the name of the place, but that’s where it was. I think there was a panda on the sign? Sorry, I don’t remember the name.”
Harry knew the restaurant. “I have to ask you something, and it’s not going to be pleasant. But I have to know.”
“Okay.”
“You said your career ended at the Dolphins because of an ACL injury. But I know that’s not true.”
Harry left the words hanging there, waiting for the man to respond. A bubble of uncomfortable silence hovered between them, and Harry worried he’d come on too strong, too fast. If Kemba closed up and refused to cooperate, then Harry might find himself lacking vital information.
Kemba kept his head down for a few seconds, then he nodded. “It’s a scarlet A I’ll carry around for the rest of my life. I dated a team reporter two or three times. Not a big deal. We didn’t even sleep together. It really wasn’t the scandal they made it out to be, but they wanted me cut from the team anyway, so it was an easy out.” Now he looked up, making unnerving eye contact with Harry. The barber’s eyes were bloodshot, almost yellow at the edges of his pupils.
