For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  “Jesus.”

  “Amen to that.” Ishimaru switched off his maglight and stood. “I bet it was coyotes.”

  “Any idea who we have here?”

  “No ID on him, but he’s Asian—at least I think he is. He’s got some Asian-style tattoos. Could be Chinese, Korean or Dzongkha.”

  “Jong-ka?”

  “The national language of Bhutan.”

  “Bhutan?” John looked at Duncan sideways, one eyebrow arched.

  “Okay, so I watch a lot of Jeopardy. It could be it Hebrew. My point is it’s not Japanese.” He flicked his flashlight back on to shine it on the body. “See the curving line of ink under his collarbone, just beside that glob of goo? It’s a script with symbols I don’t recognize, but it looks Asian to me.”

  “All right. Fair enough. What else?”

  Ishimaru used his maglight like a pointer to highlight something else. “The dark gunk on him. Cuthbert said she thinks it’s peanut butter. I smelled it. I think she’s right. It’s peanut butter and jelly. I bet this guy came out on a little lunchtime hike a couple of days ago. He slipped on a patch of ice, hit a few of those big rocks up there on the way down, squished his sandwich, and landed here.”

  “Who hikes out onto a snowy trail to have their lunch without a coat on when it’s as cold as it’s been? He didn’t slip.”

  “So, you’re saying he offed himself? He jumped with a sandwich in his hand?”

  “That’s right. He was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when he took a leap off Deer Trap Mesa.” John’s laugh was brusque. “Come on, Duncan. When men kill themselves it’s usually with a firearm or by hanging. Jumpers account for two percent of suicides.” John crouched to have a closer look at the dead man. “I’d say somebody pushed or tossed this guy off the mesa. He never saw it coming. Somebody he trusted gave him a shove or picked him up and threw him over the side.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. I think.”

  Murder was more of a big city than small town crime. John had had a gutful of brutal slayings and blood when he’d worked in Albuquerque and Denver. He’d walked away from all that after his father died. When he’d come back to New Mexico to be closer to his mother and sister, he’d taken a step back from being a detective. He’d joined the Los Alamos Police Department and spent three years as a patrolman before picking up the detective mantle again. Los Alamos had drugs, pedophiles, domestic violence, child abuse, and robberies, and he’d dealt with all those things with the competence, confidence, and necessary detachment of a seasoned law enforcement officer. As he settled into the beautiful mountain community and time passed, he’d come to believe violent homicides were behind him.

  Yeah. Life in Albuquerque and Denver had made him hard, turned him cynical, and he’d been glad to leave that brutality behind and find his way back to being human, but as he looked over the body of a man who’d met such a disagreeable end, it surprised him to realize he’d become a little Pollyanna complacent. He’d actually believed he’d never have to deal with this kind gristly scene ever again.

  Rising, John walked around the perimeter of the body, using his own flashlight to examine the scene. “He’s been here for a while.”

  “Cuthbert said the cold weather makes it difficult to estimate time of death, but she guessed maybe three days. She also said he’s been moved, dragged. Probably by animals.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Some kids looking for their dog. The dog found the victim. Then the kids found the dog. Fido was licking the peanut butter when they found him. Anyhow the kids are at the Medical Center being treated for shock. You know, JT, if you’re right, this’ll be the first murder we’ve had in Los Alamos since nineteen—”

  “Ninety-two.”

  Grim-faced, Ishimaru clipped his flashlight to his belt.

  John sighed. He’d wanted to get back to work, and work this was going to be. Ninety minutes on the Duty Desk had gone from paper shuffling to a homicide investigation. A crime like this had a huge impact on a community the size of Los Alamos. A crime like this would redirect public attention away from his lawsuit. A crime like this was really going to interfere with making another move on Queenie.

  A second later, when the notion registered and self-disgust rose up to slap him, John stared at the deceased man’s Nikes, not quite believing he’d thought about hooking up with a woman while he stood beside a human being who’d met such an unsavory end. Then self-loathing gave way to pragmatism and Celine Dion, and he came close, very close, but caught himself before he launched into the power ballad love theme from Titanic.

  John had a general sense of compassion for the victim, he wasn’t a heartless, pragmatic prick, but he’d decided hours before coming to this crime scene that he was going to pursue Queenie. Enthusiastically. The point was, near or far, the guy on the ground was dead and life went on, hearts went on.

  There was something intriguing about this particular woman, beyond her hair. She was a mystery. Rationally, he could admit his lack of an active sex life played a part in his fascination—a big part, an embarrassingly huge part—yet as hackneyed as it sounded for a cop to say, he had a gut feeling about Queenie.

  And that feeling, like this almost-certain murder, warranted further investigation.

  Despite having had only two hours of sleep, John still got up at five. He was a routine early riser and appreciated the quiet of morning twilight. He liked the soft way the world began anew. His typical day started with a pre-dawn run and some weight training that finished by sunup. The cold weather and injury to his arm meant he’d had to make certain adjustments to his routine. Instead of an outdoor run, by five forty-five he’d had a run on the Ridge Park Clubhouse treadmill and done some weight work. It was a light workout but it hurt, made his arm ache and left him sweating from pain. Nevertheless, he was determined to maintain strength and restore his range of motion.

  Housework was his cool down.

  Sticky with drying perspiration, he’d vacuumed and tossed last night’s table linens in the washer. The Maytag in the laundry cupboard spun in harmony with the churning dishwasher. As John ironed a week’s worth of shirts for work, he made a bet with himself that the dishwasher would finish its final cycle before the washer finished spinning.

  If it didn’t, he’d mop the curry stains from the kitchen floor, shower, have breakfast, and chalk last night up to one of those things that happened to nice guys.

  If it did, he’d go over to see Queenie and ask why she left without saying goodbye last night.

  Apparently she got up early too. When he’d gone upstairs to get hangers for his ironing, he’d seen, from the big window at the top of the landing, the yellow glow of lamplight coming from her loft across the way.

  Steam hissed as he pressed the collar of his oxford. He moved on to the shirt’s right arm, careful of the gauntlet button snagging in the tip of the iron. The washing machine began to knock as the tablecloth and dishtowels inside began to spin a little off balance. If the Maytag stopped and he had to adjust the things inside the stainless steel barrel, the dishwasher would finish first, and he’d be on his way across the drive. The body from last night wouldn’t arrive at the coroner’s office in Albuquerque before nine, which meant he didn’t need to be there until ten, ten-thirty. He had plenty of time to persuade her to come over for breakfast.

  Unless…

  John set the iron upright. It was possible he’d read all of this wrong, misinterpreted her easy flirtation as something that was only meant to be gratefulness. She could have come over just to be polite, just to offer some kind of payback, because she had tried to buy his lunch after the flat tire.

  Naah. Queenie liked him.

  He could tell she liked him. Last night, it hadn’t been a case of built-up static from shuffling their feet across the carpet. He’d felt ohms, watts, AC and DC the second he’d shaken her ice-cold hand down on Route 14 yesterday morning. She’d felt it too. He’d seen it in her grayish-green e
yes.

  The washer rattled and clunked to a stop. He turned to look at it, smiling to himself.

  That’s when he heard the snoring.

  7

  John stood in the doorway of the downstairs powder room. “Well,” he muttered Jimmy Stewart’s line from It’s A Wonderful Life, “this is a very interesting situation.”

  From the burglar who’d fallen asleep inside the house he was robbing, the priest who got into a fistfight with the thieves who’d stolen his potted marijuana plant, to the nine-year-old who wanted to see how far he could fit his hand into the bowling ball return machine—in his days as a police officer, John had encountered all sorts of unusual situations, and all sorts of people in strange positions. He’d dealt with it all, seen it all, and heard it all.

  Until now.

  This was different.

  This was different because this odd circumstance was in his house. And one glimpse of what his Irish Aunt Eilish referred to as a lady’s gig, was enough to make him forget that with twenty-four years of police work under his belt, he’d seen everything.

  In a decidedly un-ladylike position, Queenie sat slumped on the can, snoring, her head cushioned by the new roll of toilet paper he’d put there yesterday. Dark pantyhose were pushed down around her left knee; her right leg was wedged between the white porcelain bowl and wall. Her dress was askew, the fabric bunched up on one side and loose on the other, which is why he’d caught sight of her gig pretty much as soon as he opened the powder room door.

  Her hair down there was blonde, as dark a blonde as he still mostly was.

  Joseph, Mary, and St Jude, you did not just notice that.

  Yes, I sure as hell did.

  Nice. All right you deviant, get to work.

  Work? What the hell do I do?

  Well, for starters, stupid, use your brain instead of your Johnson.

  Thinking. Now that was a novel idea. “Queenie,” he said.

  She went on snoring.

  “Queenie,” he said a little louder, but all she did was whimper, groan, and get back to snoring.

  John stepped into the little room and stroked his jaw as if he still had a beard. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook it. “Queenie … Willa, wake up.”

  The snoring stopped for about two seconds. Then it picked up again and it was clear what he was going to have to do.

  Leaning forward, knees bent, he began to slip his hands under her arms, and he wondered just what the hell she’d been doing when she’d passed out. Well, yes, it was sort of obvious what people did when they sat on the john and that fact of nature made him a little uncomfortable, but he’d deal with it. After all, this wasn’t exactly bomb squad kind of work. There was no danger of losing limbs or sustaining injuries that would lead to horrific scarring. This was no different from his niece. He’d changed Sofia’s diapers before and knew what, where, and how to clean up a baby girl.

  But not a full-grown woman he’d had erotic thoughts about.

  John froze. He felt moisture bead on his naked upper lip.

  And that was all it took. Sweat and a little jolt of ridiculous fear were enough to shock his system back on line. Queenie’s state, the disarray of her clothes, clicked into a different focus.

  Cop that he was, John surveyed the scene. She had one boot on while the other lay on the floor. Her pantyhose were only partially removed. They were bunched limply around her left knee. As for her panties… Well, she wasn’t wearing any, and there wasn’t a pair on the tiles underfoot. Judging by her position, she could have slipped when she was taking off a boot and hit her head on something, like the ceiling, except she was far too short to do that, and the sink and vanity were too far away to have played any part in the process either.

  No, she’d been seated when she passed out. Quite simply, she’d sat down and stayed down.

  Whatever the reasons for her spending a comatose night on the toilet wasn’t important. She couldn’t stay where she was for the rest of the morning.

  He took a moment to preserve her modesty, adjusting the wine-colored dress around her before he leaned forward again and eased his shoulder into her chest. Careful of the tender part of his left arm, he hoisted her upwards with one quick jerk. And promptly banged his head on the sloping ceiling. “Shit,” he uttered softly, wincing.

  As he turned towards the door, her cheek lolled against his back. She stopped snoring. “Miles,” she murmured. “It’s miles.”

  Willa’s mouth tasted like the bottom of a locker room shower.

  She rolled over and felt the comfortable warmth of flannel draped over her shoulder. Her head lay partially embedded in a squishy feather pillow. She opened her eyes to soft sunlight streaming in through a window. The aroma of coffee hung in the air.

  Something was wrong with this picture of gentle morning, besides the flavor of mildew and athlete’s foot on her palate and how her neck ached along the left side.

  It didn’t take long to figure out what it was. She remembered yesterday and last night. There wasn’t a big blank spot in her memory. She’d met John’s, cousins, and an angry Dominic had duped her into drinking something toxically alcoholic. She’d also dreamt about Miles.

  Yet, there remained a few holes in the not-so-blankness.

  The events of what happened after she wobbled her way into the downstairs washroom were iffy. The state she’d been in would have precluded her wandering upstairs on her own. While the inside of her mouth tasted foul, her throat wasn’t raw, which meant she hadn’t belted out ‘Good Girls Don’t’—The Knack’s post -’My Sharona’ top-twenty hit—like she had when she was twenty-one.

  Just to be sure on another item, Willa wiggled her toes. Clearly, she hadn’t pirouetted on a table laden with Indian curry either. If she had, her toes would hurt like hell because it had been years since she’d danced en pointe.

  On the four occasions in her life she’d been drunk, she’d done the same four things: sing, dance, barf, and pass out. Now there was something new she could add to the inventory of stupid drunk behavior.

  The flannel sheets smelled faintly of Earl Grey tea, of John. She was in his bed, and she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Eons had passed since she’d last welcomed a visitor to the palace gardens. The gates had probably rusted shut. Odds were, if they’d been pried open to invasion, or invitation, she’d feel some sort of after-effects. Then again, a lack of morning-after sensation meant nothing. Her toes might actually hurt, she might really be saddle sore, and not feel it because the booze still narcotized everything—except the filthy flavor coating her tongue, the neck crick, and the ghostly, muffled ache in her head.

  Which meant it was possible she’d slept with John.

  And if that was the case, it was about damn time she got back on the horse.

  No, it was past about damn time.

  A flutter moved through her, twisting down low between her legs, and Willa tried to recall being wrapped around John. Had it been fast and dirty? Drunk and sloppy? Had she been on top?

  She tried hard to conjure up the feeling of his skin slippery with sweat, to call back how it had been with his weight upon her, his breath in her ear, his hands on her breasts, his fingers tickling, caressing, tracing over her mouth and nipples. She tried to go to the moment he’d slid inside her. She licked her lips to see if there might be some flavor of his that remained.

  Nothing. There was nothing there. There was nothing on her lips and nothing in her memory.

  Willa groaned. A couple of years of nothing but going at it solo had ended in a drunken night she couldn’t recall. And didn’t that just suck?

  She heard John. He was in the adjoining bathroom, chanting, “Hey, you, hey, you, I wanna be your boyfriend!”

  Was he singing … Avril Lavigne?

  Willa sat up and put her back against a high wooden headboard. As far as mornings after went, this definitely took the top spot for weirdness. She groaned again and tipped her chin up towards the ceiling. It did nothing to release the te
nsion in her neck.

  “Hey. You’re up,” John said from the doorway.

  Ridiculously, struck by a sense of prudishness, Willa jerked the covers up to her chin. “Yeah,” she said, gazing at him as heat flooded into her face, “I’m up.”

  “I thought you might be.” John tried not to stare. The woman in his bed was a total disaster. Mascara was smudged under one eye. Her hair was a pouf of white. Blotches of pink stood out on her cheeks, and the bedclothes had left long, scar-like imprints across her forehead and neck.

  She looked a lot like The Bride of Frankenstein and, Jesus God in heaven, he wanted to dive on top of her and do a little ‘Monster Mash’.

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets, just so he wouldn’t be tempted. “There’s coffee for Majesty on the nightstand,” he said, thinking his voice had come out a little on the Boris Karloff side.

  “Coffee. Thank you,” she said, leaning sideways to take the cup from bedside table. Blankets secured by one hand, she had a greedy gulp of warmish brew. Mercifully, it replaced the moldy flavor in her mouth.

  ”It’s black. I think you said you liked it black yesterday, but if I’m wrong, I figured it’d be better, considering. “

  Willa felt heat rush into her face again. She had another swallow of coffee because it was do that, try to remember what he looked like naked, or stare at how his corduroys fit him. A shirt and tie with cords usually equaled nerdy IT guy, but on John the combination looked good.

  Too good.

  Her head began to throb as her pulse quickened. She exhaled. Well, quit drooling. Get it over with and go home. “I’m sorry if I made a mess. I usually make a big mess when this happens.” How does one go about thanking a man for the screw and puke clean up?

  “A mess? No. There was no mess.”

  “Thank God.”