at First Sight (2008) (12 page)

"Have you got anything?" she asked. "Are there any, you know, clues or anything?"

"Yes, we have a few leads."

"Would it be . . . Is it possible for me to know what they are?"

"Sure." He leaned back and looked at her. A sleepy look crossed his face. "You weren't planning on getting a divorce or anything, were you?" he drawled, unexpectedly.

"Huh?"

"Everything okay in the marriage? No girlfriends in Chandler's life, no fights where stuff got thrown?"

"Fuck you." The rage suddenly returned. Who did this skinny jerk think he was?

"Perfect answer," Butler said, made a note, then looked up and smiled apologetically. "Gotta ask. Wouldn't be doing the job 'less we looked at everything. Even though I believe you, I'm still gonna check around. Just to make sure. Everybody's a suspect 'til I get my focus. All of this is for Chandler, just remember that. In a wrongful death, my job is to speak for the dead. I'm Chandler's last advocate. He's my guy now . . . my client. I gotta look at everything. If you'd killed him and I didn't check on your relationship, then I would've let my guy down."

"Give me a lie detector test." She was still smoking mad. Did he really think she was a suspect?

"Don't need to. At least not yet. For right now, 'less your friends tell me different, your anger was all I needed to see."

She sat across from this man with his rumpled suit and cracker smile and felt her anger recede. In retrospect, she knew he was right. He had to look at her. It was possible that she could have done it, or hired someone to kill Chandler. She took a deep breath to calm herself and nodded.

"So, we friends again?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Okay. Here's what we got. CSI's found some paint fragments on his body. We're analyzing it now. We've got one good tire impression. A Firestone with what looks like a factory flaw across the midline tread on the right side. The preliminary paint analysis should be able to give us the make and color of the car. Looks like it was blue?'

"That sounds like you have a lot."

"Better than nothing. We're looking for a blue car, probably with some right front fender damage and a cut center tread on one of the right-side tires. So that's something."

"That's wonderful," she said again, then asked, "How long will they let you work on this? I know that once an investigation is a few weeks old, the police will make it a cold case and stop working it. You have to stay on this until it's solved, Detective Butler. Don't let them take you off."

"Where'd you get that?"

"I read a lot of crime novels:'

"Okay, here's the headline. You wanta know how long I'll work the case? I will work it until thorns start popping up on orchids and butterflies grow fangs. I will work it until my brain turns to applesauce. In short, Mrs. Ellis, this guy who hit your husband has got a bulldog on his ass--excuse the language. I won't quit. This folder will never be off my desk. I ain't necessarily the smartest cop on the force, but I'm sure the most stubborn. If I don't solve this case and you come up here unannounced two years from now, Chandler's folder is gonna be sitting right here--right in front of me. We square on that?"

She nodded, clutching her purse in both hands. For the first time, Paige felt a glimmer of hope. "But why? You didn't know him."

"Because we didn't catch the one who ran over Althea, didn't get whoever did that. Course, I couldn't work that case. Out of policy for me to work my own wife's death. These guys around here gave it both knees, but we never cleared it. Chandler is gonna get better service. Got my promise."

She left by the side door and drove back to the house, feeling somehow better. But the memory of the white-hot anger lingered. She'd heard that anger often followed the death of a loved one, but she certainly hadn't been prepared for it to be such murderous rage.

There were ten cars parked out front when she arrived. A flower delivery van was wedged in the driveway. More flowers . . . just what she needed. She walked up the stairs to the front door and confronted the crowd of anxious friends. They hovered and fretted. Lots to do. Plans to make. "Do you want to rent the extra room at the mortuary for the reception after the funeral or use the rectory at the church?" "Who's going to call all these people from out of state and tell them when the funeral is?"

"I will," she said, suddenly needing something to do. She took the stack of file cards. One of her friends had gone through her Rolodex and separated out business and personal contacts, then written a name and number on each card and alphabetized the stack. She went into Chandler's office and sat by the phone. The top card read:

BEAU AND SUE AVERY, MIAMI, FL

She started dialing, telling friends when the funeral was. Ten cards down she finally hit Chick and Evelyn Best.

Chapter
14

ONCE I GOT HOME FROM CHARLOTTE, I FOUND OUT THAT our Talmudic attorney, Jube Shiver, had managed to get Melissa's bail set at twenty thousand. We had to put down 20 percent, so in my absence, Evelyn charged it on her trusty card for all occasions, the good old black Amex. Once Evelyn bailed Melissa out of juvie, our grateful daughter immediately skipped her bond, or, to put a better face on it, she disappeared, and nobody quite knew where she was. According to my wife, it was my job to try and find her. That meant I had to call Big Mac. I got him on the phone after trying at least six times. I shouldn't have wasted the effort.

"Look, man, I ain't the bitch's babysitter," was the way he addressed my question as to her current whereabouts.

"Mr. McKenna, I am not suggesting that you are. It's just that if Melissa has some crazy idea about running and not facing thes
e c
harges, then things will only get worse. She needs to put herself in the hands of our attorney and fight this in court."

Before you say, "Duh, Chick"--or more to the point, "Why don't you take your own flicking advice?"--let's remember that Melissa was only facing a possession with intent to sell charge, and I was facing second-degree murder. In life, the way you choose to deal with any given problem is usually in direct relationship to its degree of jeopardy.

"If I see your bang-tail daughter, I'll tell her, but I'm fuckin' tired a gaffling with that bitch. What a dumb-ass move leaving her meth in my crib. Now I got major heat coming down on me. Fucking pisses me off."

"Yes," I said softly. "I can certainly see how it might."

Okay, okay. I know. Don't even go there. But the guy scares me. So, I couldn't find Melissa. God only knows where she was.

Evelyn and I got into a huge fight a day later. It was about Mickey D and the American Express account, which was a collective topic as well as a selective one. My no-limit Black Card had just been canceled because of the Hawaii trip. I'd failed to stay current. The less valuable Optima Card was only good for up to ten grand. Four had gone for Melissa's bail, but Evelyn spent another six--and wait till you hear what it went for. She maxed it out by prepaying a two-room, high-roller suite for her and Micky D at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas. It was for the coming weekend, and cost twenty-five hundred a night. Apparently, Mickey D was going to compete in the Mr. USA bodybuilding show there. She spent another thousand on new clothes fo
r t
he occasion. She wanted to be there to root Mickey on. Rooting, in case you forgot, is something hogs do.

Why was this happening?

Did Evelyn really think I was going to finance a trip to Vegas for her and this walking woodpile, who I'm now absolutely certain is wet-decking her?

You're probably saying to yourself: "Why all this anger, Chick? You don't even like her. Since you're working up to a divorce and you don't want to make love to her yourself, what's the problem if her trainer fulfills your sexual obligation? Once you hire the private detective, Mickey D is gonna get a starring role in your divorce anyway. It's win-win." I'm sure that's what you're thinking. Am I right?

So here's the deal on that. It's about respect, okay? The fact that I'm thinking about divorcing this angry woman, and would probably be thinking about it even if Mickey D wasn't in the picture, just isn't what it's about. If you think it is, then you're missing the point completely.

Not to be overly simplistic, but let's say I've got a car that I don't drive any longer because there are things about it I don't like. Let's further say that I have a newer, better car that I enjoy driving much more and I'm even thinking of getting rid of the first one. Does that mean I'd let some asshole I hate drive the old car around when I'm' not using it? See the problem?

So I said no to the Vegas trip. Mickey D could get somebody else to oil him up before his big pose-down.

Of course, Evelyn went completely off the tracks over this.

"Nothing is going to happen, Chick. It's just a sporting event."

Right. It's a sporting event like eating shit is a dining event. Standing around in a bikini brief, glistening like an oil wrestler in a strip joint, does not, in my opinion, qualify as a sport.

But Evelyn was in full rant; her pinched features turned blood red with anger. "You know, Chick, you sit around all day bitching about everything. The business sucks, the gardeners suck, the way I want to train sucks, Melissa sucks. But what do you do? What interests you besides complaining?"

"Lotsa stuffl" I shouted.

"Not a fucking thing. Nothing! You got no hopes or dreams, no hobbies or interests. You're as boring as a boiled chicken dinner. Why don't you go do something? Anything. Why don't you try, just for once in your goddam life, to work up some enthusiasm for something?"

This from a woman who finds emotional fulfillment in measuring her own biceps. I'm telling you, it's over. I'm absolutely done with this marriage.

The argument raged, but I didn't back down. I didn't relent. In fact, I was sort of beginning to enjoy it, because it took my mind off everything else. But the thing about fighting with Evelyn is you have to be ready for it to turn dangerous. She's tough, and on a whim will attack you physically. So when I argue with her, I always keep some furniture between us.

The next morning I was still pissed. I left before she got up. I climbed into my new Porsche Targa, backed out of my driveway, an
d j
ust drove around. I was dreading going into the office. Everything down there was a shambles. I was also dreading ever having to go back home and face Evelyn and my problems with Melissa. I was dreading turning on the news and hearing about Chandler, dreading running into Mickey D or Big Mac, dreading not being able to get it up next time I tried. I had nothing at all to look forward to.

I was about as low as a guy can get, down at the bottom, French-kissing the drain. Evelyn said that I had nothing in my life--nothing worthwhile that I cared about. While these words were shouted in anger without much thought, from a woman with the emotional complexity of a truckstop waitress, there was a modicum of truth in what she'd said.

Amongst all my possessions and accomplishments, I didn't really have anything I cared about. Nothing did interest me. I had only one ambition. I wanted to be admired by others. When you stop to think about it, that's a pretty worthless goal.

Okay, here's another embarrassing admission, which I'm sure you've already figured out anyway. Under all my strutting and boasting, I had been depending on other people to grade my paper--to validate me. And with bestmarket
. C
om falling on its head, that wasn't happening much lately. Since I wasn't proud of my accomplishments, I was left trying to be proud of a bunch of possessions, which, once purchased, had instantly begun to depreciate at about 20 percent a year.

So despite all of Evelyn's bullshit, there was some truth in her accusations. I let a bunch of hucksters on Madison Avenue define me. I wore Armani because David Beckham did, or the Breitling Navitime
r b
ecause Travolta wore one and "It's the instrument of professionals." See the problem? Even my status-heavy black Porsche Targa, which I bought because it was a car "with no substitutes:' now just seemed like an overpriced Hamburg penis symbol. Despite all those flashy possessions, I was pretty much lost. I wanted other people to want what I had, and nobody seemed to care. Pathetic.

I drove around the UCLA campus with the top down, hating myself in my hundred-thousand-dollar sports car. I was a psychiatric joke--a middle-aged Balsa Boy who couldn't get it up, hoping college girls would think my car was cool and smile at me. Of course, they didn't think I was cool. They looked at me like I was a guy delivering a pizza. I couldn't take a full day of that, so finally I headed home, arriving around noon. When I got there, thankfully, Evelyn was gone and the phone was ringing. Maybe it was Melissa.

I had to run for it and caught it just before the answering machine picked up.

"Hello?" I said, out of breath.

"Chick?" a woman replied.

"Who is this?" I didn't recognize the voice.

"It's Paige Ellis." And right then, my heart leapt. I'm not sure whether it was from fear or joy. Fear, because what if she knew I'd done the hit-and-run on Chandler? What if she was about to accuse me of it? Joy, because the sound of her voice sent a pure streak of ecstasy through me. You can see how tangled up I was inside.