Chuck went to the fridge and grabbed two beers, handed me one and said, “They asked about you.”
We ventured through the dust to the balcony and sat in the lawn chairs.
“Like what?” I asked.
“About you and that Tiffany chick.”
“What about Tiffany?”
“I didn’t even know she was on the island.” He shook his head and drank some beer. “I told them I only met her once, maybe two years ago. Which was the truth.”
Unlike mine, Chuck’s balcony didn’t have a cover to provide shade and protection from the sun. For a moment, I worried my beer might boil. Luckily, Chuck had placed the beers in koozies to help keep them cold. I wore a hat and sunglasses. Chuck had neither.
“They kept asking about you,” he said.
“What about me?”
“Shit like why Tiffany came to see you. How long you’ve known her. How long I’ve known you. Crap like that.”
“What’d you tell them?”
Chuck looked at me and hesitated a moment. “I told them the truth. What’d you expect?”
I nodded. “Good, that’s what I’d expect.”
“They asked where you were when she died.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said I didn’t even know she was dead. I can’t remember where I was that afternoon, let alone where you were.”
“Anything else?”
“They asked about some guy at the bar the other night. I think it was the night you brought me home, the night Jasmine came over.”
“Lester?”
“They didn’t mention anyone by name, at least I don’t think so. I told them I was drunk and didn’t remember shit.”
“They ask you anything you didn’t know?”
“Yeah, they did.” Chuck wiped moisture off the upper part of his beer can, the section not covered by the coolie. “They asked if I knew anything about you being the father of her kid.” He took a swig. “Hell, I didn’t even know she had a kid.”
“A little boy.”
“Fuck, that’s bad. I feel terrible about it.”
“I’m not the father.”
“That’s what I figured, and I told ’em that. Not sure they believed me, though.”
I stretched my legs out in front of me. The balcony was narrow, so my feet touched the outside rail even though my chair was against the wall of the building. “This is ridiculous.”
We were both quiet for a minute.
The woman came out of the apartment with a fresh glass of wine and leaned against the railing. She had ditched the white T-shirt for a pair of capris and a button-down shirt tied at the waist.
“Anna,” Chuck said, “this is a private conversation. Can you go watch TV or something?”
She just stared at Chuck.
“Please?” Chuck said.
“Why do I not just leave?” she said.
A hint of a smile crossed Chuck’s face. “Okay.”
She gulped the remainder of her wine and walked into the apartment. A glass broke in the sink, and a door slammed.
“I’m guessing you have one less glass,” I said, half-smiling.
Chuck shrugged. “She’ll be back.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Chuck leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. “Seriously, R,” he said, glancing at me, “be careful. I think they believe you killed that girl.”
“Schleper can’t be serious. It’s got to be a game.”
“What does Arabella think? Does she know what’s going on?”
I sighed. “Not sure. But I need to find out.”
CHAPTER 42
AFTER LEAVING CHUCK’S, I considered walking across the street and having a beer at Vinny’s, let go of some stress. Maybe two beers. But I needed to get back to the office and see if the Rockford folks had checked in with any new information.
I fired up the Wrangler and continued down Kaya C.E.B. Hellmund. A side street one building past the YellowRock gave access to an alley that flowed into my rear parking lot, which is where I planned to park, as usual. Several units on the north side of the YellowRock were visible as I passed, including number five—Lester and Tiffany’s—and seven—Mandy Driver’s.
A guy walked out of Mandy’s door, strolling down the path in the direction of Lester’s unit. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled when I noticed the orange Chicago Bears hat and the same NIU T-shirt from the other night.
Freckle Eye.
It was time for me to find out who this guy was and why he was in Mandy’s room. Maybe meet her in the process, which was long overdue.
No parking spots were available on the street or in the front lot. If I stopped to get out and run toward unit five, I’d block traffic on the one-lane road all the way to downtown. My only choice was to park out back and double around on foot. It seemed like an eternity but was less than five minutes from the time Freckle Eye walked out of Mandy’s unit, and I knocked on unit five’s door.
No answer, so I knocked again.
Lester’s truck wasn’t parked out front, and I couldn’t remember seeing it when I passed earlier. He didn’t answer my third set of knocks, and I debated using my passkey. I had already used it once to enter his room without permission, and I didn’t want to abuse my privileges.
No answer when I knocked on Mandy’s door either. I knocked again, harder, and yelled her name. Still nothing. The lights were off, and the drapes were pulled shut, preventing me from peeping through the windows. Using my passkey in this situation was different and possibly warranted. An unknown man had left less than ten minutes ago, and now Mandy didn’t answer or respond. In my opinion, that constituted probable cause. A bit shaky, but it’d have to do.
I unlocked the door and eased it open a few inches, calling her name. When she didn’t answer, I slid my hand inside the door, flipped the light switch, and entered.
All the YellowRock units had the same basic layout. The main room was the combination living/bedroom area situated at the front with a kitchenette along the side. A small wall indentation served as a makeshift closet. Tucked far in the rear of the unit was the bathroom. They are all-over plaster, painted in whatever pastel color I found on sale at the hardware store. The floors were white ceramic tile. The ceiling fan over the bed rotated on the slow setting and needed a new bearing, making a clinking sound with every turn. The smell—a persistent odor, accrued over the years—was a combination of seawater-wet swimwear, fast-food grease, and alcohol. Possibly some Pine-Sol in the mix, as well.
No sign of Mandy.
The bathroom door was partially open, so I walked over and called Mandy’s name again. When she didn’t answer, I pushed the door fully open and hit the light switch. The bathroom was empty.
It was also incredibly sparse.
At first glance, the lack of items in the bathroom jolted me, made me wonder if I were in the right room. Many tourists use the shower rod to hang swimsuits and wet clothing, but there wasn’t anything drying in this bathroom. Not many toiletries, either. Lying on the vanity was a comb, a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a half-bar of hand soap.
Arabella traveled lighter than most women, but Mandy was the master. No makeup, hairspray, fancy conditioners, oils, or any other feminine products. A partial bottle of complimentary shampoo from the YellowRock sat on the shelf in the shower stall.
I turned out the light and left the bathroom door as I found it.
Not much of a wardrobe, either, only a few T-shirts and a pair of gym shorts hanging on the rod in the small closet. No clothes lying on the bed, the chair, or the floor and no food containers or empty beer bottles on the small counter. Both wastebaskets were empty. The unit felt barely lived in, almost vacant.
Sometimes, what isn’t found can be as interesting as what is found.
I took a piece of paper and a pen from the drawer of the small corner desk and wrote a note asking Mandy to please stop by the office. I turned off the light, locked the door, and
left.
CHAPTER 43
NEITHER PENN NOR Traverso had left any messages or emails. I had expected Traverso to call after Penn chatted with him about my requests, but maybe they didn’t have anything yet. Or they had decided to go dark. Nothing would surprise me right now.
Regardless of some mysterious note Schleper claimed to have, I didn’t buy the whole suicide-by-car-fire story and didn’t see how anyone ever would. It appeared to have been a regular workday for Malfena, and the condition of the snack shop didn’t lead to the thought of suicide. Nothing to suggest she had decided to stop living. Yesterday, she was full of energy. Her death, hours after our discussion, was a big coincidence to ignore.
But Schleper and his team were doing just that.
The internet search function was a marvelous invention, and I had used it more in the last few days than in the previous year. I prepared to up that tally.
My search for “suicide by car fire” generated several relevant hits. I read several case studies of people who committed suicide in this fashion. They’d start the car on fire then lock themselves in the trunk. Once the lid slammed shut, the commitment made, the person couldn’t back out, which the article claimed, “strengthened their resolve.” One piece stated that the commitment is lightened by most modern cars because the back seats fold out, allowing someone trapped in the trunk to escape. Also, since 2002, models manufactured in the USA were required to have a release handle located inside the trunk. If trapped, pull the handle and the trunk pops open.
I didn’t know the year and model of the car Malfena burned in, let alone if it was manufactured in the States. Vehicles destined for other countries didn’t always require the same safety devices as U.S. models, so it became a crapshoot whether Malfena was “trapped” or not. The VIN, or Vehicle Identification Number, could tell a lot about the car, including safety packages and place of origin. But I didn’t have the VIN, nor did I ever expect to get it.
Regardless, the victims in those studies all exhibited signs of being suicidal, unlike Malfena’s demeanor. One article included quotes from a psychologist who specialized in suicides and made mention that women preferred methods that weren’t disfiguring. No specifics, but I’d put car fires in the disfiguring category, as I bet most people would.
I leaned back in my chair and took stock of what displayed on the monitor. My unscientific, twenty-minute search of the internet confirmed my suspicion.
Malfena hadn’t committed suicide.
I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge at the same time two police officers sauntered through the office door. It’s a small island, but I didn’t recognize either of them. One, the larger of the two, walked toward my desk leaving his partner standing by the door, guarding the exit.
Drat! My escape foiled.
“Mr. Conklin?” he asked.
I leaned back in my chair and put my feet up.
“Sir, Inspector Schleper wants you to come to the station.”
I looked at the cop guarding the door, then back at the one standing over me.
“Why?” I asked. “Kind of late in the day, isn’t it?”
He shrugged and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner and turned back toward me to resume his glare. Some people can’t get enough of me.
I’d given up being shoved around by a police department at retirement and counted to ten. Another chat with Schleper was needed, but I wanted it to be on my terms, not his. “Tell the inspector I’ll stop by in about an hour.” I turned up the water bottle, downing several swallows, and looked at the office wall clock, making a point of comparing its time to the display on my cellphone. “Make that”—referring to the wall clock again, and then my cellphone—“an hour and fifteen minutes.” For no reason, I studied my phone a moment, then tossed it on my desk. “That’ll give me enough time for a few beers.”
The cop frowned and put his hands on the desk, leaning toward me. “The inspector told us to escort you to the station.” He leaned further over the desk, closer to me. “Now.”
I ran a hand over my face, applying pressure to my forehead. My nap was past due. I opened the fridge, and grabbed a Bright, opting for a can instead of a bottle. I drank it in one upturn. After crushing the empty in my hands and throwing it in the bin, I stood and headed for the door.
The officer at the door led the way as the other one followed me. The bigger cop, the one behind me, grabbed my arm before I got to the Wrangler. I twisted at the waist and yanked free, as the other cop put his hand on his weapon, taking a defensive stance.
“Seriously?” I said to Big Cop.
Big Cop shook his head at Small Cop, then turned to me. “The inspector told us to give you a ride.” He motioned with his head toward their police truck.
At least they hadn’t cuffed me.
Big Cop opened one of the back doors and closed it after I climbed in. A single breath reminded me that every cop vehicle I’d ever been in had a distinct smell, and it wasn’t pleasant. It’s the smell of being lived in sixteen to twenty-four hours a day. Cops hastily eating fast food between runs and spilling coffee during long stakeouts. Drunks and unwashed perps sprawled across the back seat. Most of all, it smelled of discharged bodily fluids. Exactly where I sat.
To a veteran cop, it smelled normal, like home. But not to me. Not anymore. It reminded me of a sewer. Or my dumpster.
None of us made small talk on the ride to the station. I held my head out the window and breathed through my mouth as much as possible. The radio blared several times, for the most part in Papiamentu or Dutch, but on one transmission I recognized Malfena’s name. During another, a chill slithered down my spine when I heard my name.
We parked behind the station and went in the back door. Big Cop and Small Cop escorted me up a set of stairs to the second floor. Only a couple of the officers watched us as we walked through a large open room, past mostly empty desks, and down a narrow hallway. Big Cop opened the door to a small, windowless room, and motioned me in.
“Please have a seat,” he said and left, shutting the door behind him.
The room smelled musty, like the place in the basement of my hundred-year-old former house in Rockford that stored all my useless crap.
The walls in this interview room were a similar faded beige as the previous one, and an identical gray desk and two brown chairs, one with wheels, sat in the center. A large mirror occupied the majority of one wall, presumably the wall behind where Schleper would sit. I’d sit facing the mirror, and anyone on the other side could see me.
But I couldn’t see them.
CHAPTER 44
SCHLEPER EXPECTED ME to sit facing the mirror. Not my first choice. I knew the other chair better; the one with wheels; the one Schleper would sit in. People of suspicion—convicts, criminals, suspects—occupied the one facing the mirror.
Today, that felt like me.
Leaning back in the wheel-less, uncomfortable chair, I put my feet on the table, laced my fingers behind my head, and took a deep breath. I fought the temptation to steal a glance at the mirror. My jaw tightened, and I counted to ten.
People stared, watching me. I didn’t like it.
Schleper strolled in about fifteen minutes later, a clear indicator that his time was more valuable than mine. He laid his notebook on the table, flipped on the fan, and sat in the chair with wheels, his back to the mirror. He didn’t acknowledge me, instead, taking his pencil and jotting some notes.
I waited.
After a few minutes, he raised his head. “Mr. Conklin, there are a few things to clear up.”
Difficult as it was, I continued to ignore the one-way glass. “Clear up? Like what?”
Schleper exhaled. “I’ll ask the questions.”
I lowered my feet and rested my arms on the table. “Ask away.” I hesitated then added, “Inspector.” An instant after saying it, I wished I hadn’t and leaned back again.
He glared at me, rubbed the side of his nose
with the pencil. “Tell me again, who found the body and how.”
He knew the story, so I made a point of drawing out a long, slow sigh before starting. “Lester and I found her, north of the entry point at Karpata.”
“It was you and Mr. Jeffrey who found the body?” He poised his pencil at the paper, ready to write as if waiting for a starter’s pistol to be fired.
“Well … no.”
Schleper’s head didn’t move, but his eyes slowly raised to meet mine. He laid down the pencil and rolled up his sleeves. I wore a T-shirt and didn’t have sleeves to roll up. I felt cheated.
“We went down the stairs, and I told Lester to go south. I went north. She was a few yards up the north shore.”
“You found the body.” He made a few notes. I waited, continuing to resist the urge to peek at the glass, my resolve dwindling. “How did you know which way to go?”
“What do you mean?”
“You sent Mr. Jeffrey in the other direction.”
My heart pounded in my chest, and I jumped to my feet, the chair falling behind me. I didn’t bother counting to ten. “What is this?” Unable to control the urge any longer, I glanced at the one-way glass and wiped several beads of sweat from my face. “What are you implying, Inspector.”
A vein in Schleper’s forehead pulsed. For a moment, neither of us said anything. I calmed myself and got my breathing under control, then picked up the chair and sat. This conversation needed to go my way, and thus far it hadn’t. I needed to turn it around, keep Schleper from having control.
Schleper leaned back and placed his hands on his lap, a non-confrontational posture taught during Interrogation 101.
The door opened, and an officer walked in. Schleper waved him over to the table and extended his hand. The officer handed Schleper a plastic bag and walked back to the door but didn’t leave. He shut the door and remained standing near it—on the inside of the room.
Another escape blocked.
I jerked a thumb at the officer. “You think I’m dangerous?”
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