The Cleaner (35 page)

“You know where the Styx Bridge is?” he asks.

“Out Redwood way, right?” I ask. I went over it the other night to reach the highway when I took Walt for a drive.

“Meet me at ten o’clock underneath it. Don’t try anything funny.”

I’m no comedian. “I won’t.”

“How do I know ten grand buys your silence?”

Good question. I’m surprised he’s asked this, considering he can’t afford to fuel me with any suspicion that he’s preparing to kill me. Again, I’ve been thinking about this all day knowing he had no choice but to ask it.

“For ten grand, I’ll give you both the photographs and negatives of you at the Everblue. I’ll give you the negatives and photographs of you leaving Daniela Walker’s house on the night she died. And on top of that, if I wanted more money, I’d be asking for more. I just want enough to get out of the city before the cops close in on me.”

“Ten o’clock then.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. He’s realized I’m cleverer than he first thought, I’m clever enough to have photos of him from the crime scene, and he’ll wonder how this is even possible. It’ll take him a while, but in the end he’ll conclude that I’m lying. I look at my watch. I have more than three-quarters of an hour not to show up. Plenty of time not to do several things.

Plenty of time not to kill.

I reach down and scratch at my testicle through the padding, realizing it isn’t my remaining testicle that has me in discomfort, but the missing one. The itch is where the skin is mending. Melissa left me some disinfectant and some talcum powder. I grab them from my briefcase and sit down on the edge of the bed. I remove the padding—it pulls at the hairs and I have to stifle a scream—then clean the area and sprinkle on the talcum powder. By the time I’m done, my testicle looks as though it’s been dusted for fingerprints. I replace the padding and lie down on the bed and focus on not falling asleep. The problem is the bed is so comfortable I’m wondering if I can somehow steal it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The graveyard is mostly deserted. It’s late to be out here, but Sally wanted somewhere quiet to think. She parks next to a car that has a guy inside it slowly drinking from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. He looks at her and she can see pain in his eyes and for a moment she wants to help him, to tell him that things will get better, but she isn’t so sure it’s true, not for this guy. She’s seen him out here before, and she’s seen him around the police station a few times too, talking mostly to Detective Schroder. She thinks he used to work there. She doesn’t know his story, and doesn’t want to ask.

She makes her way to her brother’s grave. Long blades of grass, those close to the gravestones missed by the lawn mower, are bending under the weight of the dew. Other than going to church, she feels like the cemetery is the closest place to God.

Last night, rather than having some of her questions answered, Sally was only led further down the path of her confusion. No, further into the world of Joe’s fiction. Just how much is he lying about? Did he attack himself?

She thinks about the blood on the stairs at his apartment building. If Joe attacked himself, he must have done it outside. It doesn’t seem likely. As unlikely as Joe driving? She knows she needs to confront him. She was going to today at work, but she’d become scared. She didn’t want to lose Joe. Though, really, that has probably already happened. Maybe his mother hasn’t told him yet of her visit, but she soon will.

She wipes the back of her hand across her face, streaking the tears across her cheeks. Her breath is forming a mist in front of her face. She doesn’t want to let Joe down.

The same way you let down your brother?

The tears start to come more freely. Nobody blames her for what happened to Martin, at least that’s what they say, but she knows they do. She certainly does. Her parents must do. As for Martin and God, well, one day she’ll find out. She pulls out a tissue from her pocket and dries her face. Across the graveyard, mist looks as though it’s seeping out of the ground. Fog is hanging around the gravestones but doesn’t have the strength to climb any higher. By the time she gets back to her car her legs feel damp.

She turns the heater on to full as she drives to Joe’s apartment. The hot air dries her legs and her face. Sometimes on the way home from seeing her dead brother, she can’t stop the tears.

She parks in the same spot she parked in the first time she came here. She grabs the first-aid kit from the backseat. She will help Joe by removing the stitches before she will help him by confronting him.

Nobody appears as she makes her way up to the top floor. The small splotches of blood are still on the stairs. Some of them have been smeared to the size of a watch face. She knocks, but nobody answers. A cat appears at the end of the hallway and walks down to her. It has a slight limp. She squats down next to it and starts petting it.

“Hey, little one, aren’t you just the cutest?”

The cat meows as if to agree, then starts purring. She knocks on the door again, still hunched down next to the cat. Joe doesn’t answer. Is it possible he has passed out again? Or been attacked? She knocks louder. Most likely he isn’t home, but what if he is? What if he is lying on his bed, bleeding, the other testicle removed?

She reaches into her first-aid kit, where the copy of Joe’s key has been since the day she had it cut. She stands up and inserts it into the lock. She realizes the chances are higher that she’s looking for an excuse to enter rather than Joe being in trouble inside. This realization doesn’t stop her from turning the handle and pushing the door open.

“Joe?”

Joe doesn’t answer, because Joe isn’t home. She closes the door behind her. The cat sits down on the table next to the goldfish bowl. The bowl is empty. Did Joe not feed them? Has he bought a cat to replace them? His clothes are scattered across the floor again, though this time there aren’t any patches of blood on any of them. The pile of latex gloves she had made has become smaller. There are dishes in the sink, exposed food on the table. The bed is unmade, and has possibly been that way since the attack. Would Martin have lived like this?

Sally starts to walk around the apartment. This isn’t right, being here, but whatever’s happening to Joe isn’t right either.

Happening to Joe?

She looks through the folders he has brought home from the police station—there are extra ones now. The photos are disgusting, and she can bear only to look at them for a few seconds. She replaces them. Why would Joe have these here?

Perhaps a more important question would be what he’d say if he came home and found her looking around his apartment. Yes, it’s best that she goes. She is about to pick up the cat when it races under the bed.

“Come on, little one, come on. You can’t stay under there.”

But the cat thinks that it can. When she gets onto her hands and knees and looks under the bed, the cat is right in the middle. Next to it is a small piece of paper. Curious, Sally reaches under and grabs it.

It’s a ticket from a parking building. The time and date printed across it are several months old. It doesn’t make sense to still have the ticket, because the ticket gets handed back on the way out of the parking building so the guy in the booth knows how much to charge you. She reaches under the bed and puts the ticket back on the floor.

She clicks her fingers for the cat, which a moment later is purring in her arms. She carries it into the hallway, sets it down, then heads back outside.

CHAPTER FORTY

I try putting myself into Calhoun’s head. He’s seeing a chance not only to apprehend the Christchurch Carver, but also to eliminate the only person who knows about his secret life. I’m sure he’s also weighing up the fact that he can’t take any credit for it. He wants to be a hero, but if he takes me alive, he knows I’ll talk. So he needs to catch me in a way in which he can have an excuse for killing me. It’ll be difficult to do. Difficult to explain.

His easiest option is to kill me and hide my body. His glory will be lost, and the file I opened months ago with my first victim will remain open. Nothing will be added to it, but it will never close. There will be no glory to be had. The Christchurch Carver will vanish. While everybody is investigating the case, he can be off somewhere playing golf.

I slip my jacket on, adjust my gloves, and leave my room. I keep my hands thrust in my pockets, but it doesn’t matter, since I don’t pass anybody. I make my way to the top floor and head along to Calhoun’s room. The number was in his
file. Problem is, the only way I can get in is with a key card.

I get in the elevator. Just as the doors are closing, a maid comes out from a nearby room, almost like fate intended it. I slap at the open door button on the inside panel, and step back into the hallway. The maid smiles at me as we cross paths. She looks in her fifties, has the worn-out look of a mother who has maybe six kids and has to clean up after hundreds of adults forty hours a week. Her black hair is dyed, and she looks so thin that if I picked her up and threw her into the wall, she would land in a thousand pieces. I smile and nod back, then turn and watch as she comes to a stop a few doors down.

I wait for her to go inside, then, looking around to make sure we are still alone, I go in after her, knowing there has to be something I can say to convince her to give me the key card I need.

I reach my arm over her shoulder before she even knows I’m there, and pull it tightly across her throat, using my other hand to support the back of her head. I tighten both arms slightly to slow down her breathing. She, of course, is starting to struggle, but quickly stops when I suggest it isn’t in her best interest. She stops fighting, and I’m wondering if she’s gone through this before. Maybe that’s why she’s got six kids.

I don’t want to do anything to her. Not sexually, anyway, because she’s old enough to be my mother. Here she is, just doing her job—a low-paying, demeaning job like my own—and suddenly it could cost her her life. Well, I’m going to give her a chance to hang on to it. For now.

I tell her to shut up or she’s going to die. Then I tell her to keep facing ahead, that if she turns, if she tries to see me, she will die. From my voice she knows I’m not bluffing.

I ask for her key card. She lowers her hand to her waist and unclips it from her waist, and hands it to me. She knows it isn’t worth dying for. She’s thinking I can steal all the towels and free soap I want from any room I want. With my arm still
around her throat, I tuck the key card into my pocket, lead her forward, and push her onto the bed. When I straddle her back, she doesn’t complain, doesn’t cry out. She’s a quick learner. Then again, I also threatened to kill her husband and her kids.

I use a sheet to bind her arms and legs, another to cover her eyes.

I tell her to keep still for twenty minutes, because I’m going to be back. Perhaps even sooner. If she’s gone, I’ll find her and kill her. If she’s still here, I’ll let her go. I don’t want to create a crime scene. I can’t afford any attention coming this way. Satisfied she isn’t going anywhere in a hurry, I head into the corridor, wheel the cart into the bedroom so nobody will see it, then close the door.

I put the key card into the lock of Detective Robert Calhoun’s room. He’ll be waiting for me, probably getting pretty impatient by now. I figure he’ll give me maybe another ten minutes. Even if he’s leaving now, he still has to drive into town. I’ve plenty of time to go through his room.

I close the door behind me, shutting myself into complete darkness, then reach into my pocket and pull out the small flashlight I’ve brought along, then realize there’s no point in sneaking around, and turn on the lights. The kitchen’s bigger than mine, and Calhoun has a larger range of utensils, pots, and cutlery. I see he made himself a sandwich before leaving for work.

In order for the police to get cheap rates, they need to do their own housecleaning, which includes dishes. Calhoun is a man in his fifties away from his wife, which means the dishes at the moment are stacked high and haven’t been washed in about a week. He’ll probably live off junk food for a few days before he’ll wash them.

I pull out my knife and set it on the bench next to its twin, making sure they’re indeed identical. Satisfied, I wrap them into separate plastic bags, careful not to smudge Calhoun’s
fingerprints. I slide the bags into my pockets—mine in the left, Calhoun’s in the right.

Perfect.

I look through his drawers, his suitcases. Even though he’s been here more than a month, he’s hardly unpacked. I find a collection of pornographic magazines, a pair of handcuffs (standard issue—though not for police), and a leather gag with a rubber ball in the center to keep people quiet. I consider taking it with me, but it’s probably not wise. Anyway, I’m happy with my own technique. There are other sex toys, many of which I’ve never seen. The man’s a real deviant, and I begin to admire him.

The door automatically locks behind me when I leave.

It looks like the maid has struggled to escape from her bindings, but has failed. Pretty much what I expected. I move into the kitchen and find a third identical knife, which I put into a different plastic bag.

Back in the bedroom, I tell the maid to shut up and to keep facing away from me. Then I untie the sheets, put my arm over her shoulder, and hand her a thousand dollars. This will definitely buy her silence, and I still consider myself up a grand after not paying Becky the other night. Plus it’s good not to make another crime scene. I feel her eyes scanning over the money, her mind already spending it. I can see her thinking what she has to do to earn more. I tell her to stay where she is for another five minutes. If she understands, she’s to nod. She nods vigorously while still looking at the money. I toss her key card onto the bed (a hard decision because I could have a fun time going from room to room), turn my back, and walk away, closing the door behind me. She’s probably thinking that unless there’s a report of a crime, there’s no reason for her to tell anybody what happened. The knife from Calhoun’s room feels heavier than the one I took there, even though it’s identical. His fingerprints are weighing it down.