The Devil and the Detective (6 page)

11

‘R
ick! Rick!' I woke up feeling far from refreshed. My nose stung as I inhaled. O'Meara was standing over me, holding the cherry of a lit cigarette directly under my nose. I coughed and gagged. My eyes stung, too. ‘Rise and shine, sleepyhead,' O'Meara said. ‘I'm going to uncuff you but you're not free to go. Understand?' He looked out of focus to my bleary eyes. ‘Understand?' he said and pushed me.

‘Yeah, yeah,' I said.

He released me from the handcuffs and I rubbed my wrists, like in the movies, I thought, and kept rubbing my wrists. They were red and chapped and sore and I felt generally sick. ‘Can I get something to drink?' I said.

‘I want you staying put in this office,' said O'Meara. ‘Is that clear?'

‘Clear as mud.'

O'Meara left and I sat rubbing my wrists. I was parched. My mouth tasted awful. I opened Gerald's desk drawer and inside was mainly just a mess of papers – bills and receipts mainly – and some business cards. I sorted through them quickly but only recognized a lawyers' card, Bouvert-Adamson (Bouvert was the name of the lawyer Elaine gave, I thought, when she first called), and I slipped it into my wallet. I looked around at the books and stood up and tilted my head and read the spines on the shelves. I pulled down a copy of
The Art of War
and opened it to a bookmarked page: ‘18. All war is based on deception,' it said at the top of the page.

O'Meara's voice and footsteps were approaching. I shelved the book and slid back behind the desk. O'Meara entered the office.

‘Did you fuck her, Rick?' he said. I didn't answer. Again, he said, ‘Did you fuck her?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Are you telling the truth?'

‘Yes.'

‘If her body turns up and we find any of your
DNA
, even a hair, a single pube, I'll make sure you're locked up for eternity.'

‘Okay,' I said.

‘This is serious, Rick. You don't sleep with your client when you're on a case. It's these kinds of stunts that kept you from becoming a detective.'

‘I am a detective.'

‘A real detective.'

‘I am a real detective.'

‘Right. Keep telling yourself that, Rick.'

After a few more minutes of O'Meara's bullshit he said I was free to go for the time being, stressing the point,
for the time being
, over and over again, and I said whatever you say, then searched my wallet for Darren's card.

I used Gerald's desk phone. Darren picked up after three rings. I asked if he wouldn't mind grabbing me – said I'd explain in person – and he said he'd be there in fifteen minutes. O'Meara watched me the whole time but I didn't give a shit. He didn't intimidate me. He never does, I thought, though he thinks he does. He thinks going to the academy and rising up through the ranks of the force to become a detective like him is what I wanted, but that's where he's wrong, I thought. I never wanted to be that kind of detective.

I sat on the front porch waiting for Darren. The police officers weren't so friendly and I was anxious to leave the scene of the crimes. Light pink clouds drifted westward in the sunset. Parts of the sky were a deep clear blue. Darren pulled up to the house in his flower-filled hatchback and lightly beeped the horn twice. He waved.

Right away I thanked him for picking me up and said, ‘Let's get the hell out of here.' He nodded and drove off. I told him everything, for some reason, that is to say, I told him about Gerald's murder and Elaine calling, O'Meara, the narrowish bar, the surfeit of whiskies, waking up on my couch, receiving a call from Elaine, O'Meara again, dinner, drinking, sleeping with Elaine, waking up alone, the interrogations, the handcuffs and so on and so forth. Darren listened. I told him about what an asshole O'Meara is, about how we've never gotten along, even when we first met, though then we were civil.

‘It sounds like you two are competitive,' said Darren, ‘like your jobs are too similar for you to be friends –
odium figulinum
, trade jealousy.'

‘Perhaps, though I've always felt that our methods and motivations – our
modi operandi
,' I said, showing him I knew a few words in Latin, too, ‘are so different that it cancels out what our trades have in common. I don't even feel like we're playing the same game. Ours are different trades, in many ways.'

I still agreed with him, though. There was no denying that we didn't get along, without a doubt.

‘Do you think Elaine's all right?' said Darren. I said that I wasn't sure. ‘What's your next move?' Darren said.

I opened my wallet and read the address on the Bouvert-Adamson business card. ‘I figure someone will still be at the office if we get there soon.' Although the sun was setting, it wasn't yet six o'clock. Darren said he could get me to their law offices in ten minutes. He said he knew the old building well because he'd photographed its gargoyles for an architecture forum.

‘Actually, technically they're not gargoyles – they're chimeras,' he said. ‘They don't spout water.'

I said, ‘Cool,' and nothing else. We drove on in silence. Darren respected my privacy; he let me think, uninterrupted. I watched the city go by, anonymous buildings housing anonymous people, some of whom were up to no good. I didn't care, though. It was a Montreal that didn't concern me. I wondered, however, if Elaine was hiding out in any of those buildings or homes, holed up with a lover, one she never mentioned, not Gerald or Adam or me but someone secret, or at least kept secret from me – or perhaps she was being held in an apartment against her will, tied up, blindfolded, hungry, tired, scared, hurt, bloody or worse. We drove on to the lawyers'.

Adorned with menacing-looking gargoyles, or chimeras rather, as Darren had explained, sat the stout old building. It looked like a less dilapidated, though less benign, version of the old building I inhabit. Dark clouds gathered above it and its chimeras. I was going to meet the lawyers, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what they knew, if anything, for Elaine only mentioned her lawyer, Bouvert, once, saying that he'd recommended me specifically, giving her my telephone number, though I'd never met the man in my life. I recognized the name but I'd never met the man. Darren pulled up to the curbside and said he'd wait.

‘You don't have to. I can get a cab from here. I appreciate you grabbing me from the Andrewses' in the first place, but you don't have to wait.'

‘It's no problem really,' he said. ‘I'll wait. And if you don't come out in half an hour I'll come in and get you.'

‘I think I'll be okay,' I said. ‘It's just her lawyer.'

The elevator never came, so I climbed six flights of stairs to the Bouvert-Adamson offices. The reception area was large, with an empty waiting area to the side, with leather chairs and a table covered in current magazines. An attractive woman sat behind a sparse, tidy work station. Right away she asked if she could help me. I said yes and told her my name and that I'm a private detective, a private detective representing Mrs. Elaine Andrews in the case of her murdered husband, Mr. Gerald Andrews.

‘Mr. Bouvert will want to see you right away,' she said, standing, and I said I figured he would.

Bouvert's office was large, too, with large windows behind his desk that looked out on the street. Everything was black leather. I sat in a large black leather chair in front of his desk. The walls were book-lined and there was a black leather couch and to its side a small locked metal cabinet in which I imagined he stored liquor and cash and possibly a gun. Bouvert was a large man, well dressed, wearing a dark grey suit, with a dark tie and what looked like black pearl cufflinks, though it was difficult to tell. He was bald and kept the few hairs he had close cropped. He wore a heavy watch that I imagined was platinum with a pearl face. His teeth were bad. He didn't say much after introducing himself and shaking my hand. He motioned for me to sit down and then he sat down behind his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at me in silence.

A younger, slighter man in a dark suit similar to Bouvert's entered the office. Bouvert looked at me and said, ‘Bob, Al. Al, Bob.'

‘Nice to meet you,' said Al.

I nodded.

‘Bob here was the detective Elaine Andrews called after she found Gerald Andrews's body,' said Bouvert.

‘Did you see the body?' Al said.

‘No.'

‘Are you sure, Bob?' said Bouvert.

‘Sure I'm sure. I didn't see the body, even for a second. I hadn't been inside the house till yesterday, early evening, around five or so.'

Bouvert and Al exchanged knowing looks, though as to what they knew, I had no idea whatsoever. Al seated himself on the black leather couch. Bouvert stood up and walked around to the front of his desk and continued his questioning, resting his ass on the lip of his desk and leaning, saying, ‘Did she mention anything about another man? Did she talk about any men other than Gerald?'

‘I have a question first. Why'd you recommend me to her?'

‘Pardon me?' said Bouvert.

‘Why did you recommend me to Elaine?'

‘I didn't.'

‘She said that you told her to call a private detective, then gave her my number.'

‘Mr. James, I'm sorry to contradict your story, but I never told her to call a private detective.'

‘Then why did she call me?'

‘I don't know,' said Bouvert.

Al sat silent and stolid on the black leather couch.

‘Did she mention me to you at all?'

‘Yes,' said Bouvert. ‘Yesterday afternoon Elaine and I talked. She sounded withdrawn, but I expected as much. I asked if she wanted me to come over to keep her company, and she said that she'd called a private detective. She said you were on your way over. I asked her why she'd hired a private detective and she said that she wanted to get to the bottom of the case as soon as possible. I thought that made some sense.'

‘What else did she say?'

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘I told her I'd call again soon and said goodbye and she said goodbye and that was that.'

Al remained mute and motionless.

‘And that was the last time you talked to her?'

‘Yes,' he said.

Bouvert seemed to be telling the truth. I didn't think he told her to call me, but some questions still remained unanswered: Why did she call me? Who put her in touch with me? Why did she lie, saying that her lawyer, Bouvert, gave her my number? I put these questions to Bouvert and his associate, but neither seemed to have the slightest clue as to why she had called or who put her in touch with me. When I began asking questions about Gerald, neither seemed to want to talk to me anymore. I insisted, though: ‘Why would someone want to murder Gerald Andrews and target his wife?'

‘Mr. James,' said Bouvert, ‘Gerald's murder and Elaine's disappearance come as a great shock to us, too.' He walked around behind his desk and sat in his large chair in front of the large window. ‘The truth is neither Al nor I have any idea whatsoever why someone would target the Andrewses.'

When I opened the door to the hatchback I asked Darren if he smoked and he said yes but we couldn't smoke in the car because of the flowers and because it belonged to the florist, so we sat on the curb and smoked cigarettes under a streetlight. I'd quit, years ago, though nevertheless I was smoking, not caring about the consequences, and my old cough reappeared immediately, a curt bark. I inhaled deeply, holding the smoke, then slowly exhaled the warm pinching smoke through my nostrils. My eyes were closed and I listened to the soft sounds of occasional traffic. Darren didn't talk. He was a nice kid. Respectful of others. I stood up and crushed the cigarette underfoot, thinking, I don't need anymore goddamn cigarettes in my life. A city bus approached and I said to Darren that I could take the bus home and he said that he was going my way anyway, and we got in the car. We drove off and I turned to Darren and said, ‘Thanks for waiting, bud.'

My apartment was dark and I didn't turn on any lights, just placed my keys and wallet on the mantel and went to the kitchenette and poured myself a drink and drank it back and poured another one, emptying the bottle, and dropped face down on my couch and kicked off my shoes and that was that.

12

A
buzz startled me out of sleep and I woke on my couch, thirsty, listening to the rain on the fire escape. I remained still, then let my eyelids close under their immense weight. Again, however, there was a loud buzz. It was my doorbell. I sat up on the couch and grabbed the glass sitting on the floor beside it and held the glass up to the meagre light from the street; it was empty and opaque with fingerprints. Again, there was that loud grating buzz and I said, ‘Hold your horses.' I stood up and did up my pants and belt and walked toward the door, unlocked it and opened it. Much to my chagrin, O'Meara stood there, with one of his plainclothes minions.

‘Mind if we come in, Rick,' he said, as they pushed past me into my apartment.

‘Make yourselves at home,' I said, lighting a cigarette.

O'Meara pushed me up against the wall, slapped the cigarette out of my mouth, and said, ‘Don't get smart, smartass!' I shoved O'Meara, and the plainclothesman punched me in the stomach. I dropped to my knees. I fought back vomit while trying to catch my breath.

‘Now here's how it's going to be, tough guy,' said O'Meara, ‘we're going to ask the questions and you're going to provide the answers. Understand?' I nodded. ‘Did you rape Elaine Andrews?'

‘Are you fucking crazy?' I said, and the plainclothesman kicked me in the left kidney, from behind, and I gasped in pain, clutching my side, gritting my teeth and waiting for the pain to dissipate.

‘Did you rape her, Rick?' he repeated.

‘You know I wouldn't hurt her.'

‘Rick, we found your friend in a parking lot dumpster, the parking lot of a florist near you, Chez Marine, with her hands tied behind her back, gagged, and there are clear signs of forced penetration. Cause of death was a severe blow to the cranium. You wouldn't know anything about that – would you, Rick?'

‘O'Meara, I didn't fucking kill her!'

The plainclothesman was holding up one of my boots, looking at its sole.

‘Well?' O'Meara said to him, and he said, ‘It's a definite match.'

‘All right, cuff this motherfucker,' and the officer was on me, with his knee in my spine and my hands pulled around my back and clasped in handcuffs. The cuffs drew blood.

‘You have nothing linking me to her death,' I said.

‘Rick, you were the last person to be seen with her, one; two, we took plaster casts of the footprints in the Andrewses' backyard and guess what, buddy? That's right – your boots are a match!'

‘I never set foot in the Andrewses' backyard.'

‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.'

‘Fuck you.'

Someone punched me again in my kidney, and again I fell. ‘Listen, you sick fuck, you're under arrest and you're going to rot in jail,' he said into my ear, both of us gritting our teeth, me in pain and him in anger, ‘and I'll make sure you get bunked up with some twisted fuck who's going to ream you out every morning, every afternoon and every evening, you fucking scum!' My ear was wet with his spittle.

‘You're a fucking moron, O'Meara,' I said, and then I was hit in the head with something hard and blacked out.

When I came to I was cuffed to a chair in a dark interrogation room under a bright hot light. I heard voices, though I couldn't see faces. ‘Who do you think you're fooling?' said a voice. ‘You're transparent as all hell. We know. We all know.'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' I said.

‘Playing dumb won't help you, Rick.'

‘Hi, O'Meara.'

‘Come clean, Rick.'

‘Okay, I'll come clean. I think you're a fucking moron.'

A fist emerged from the darkness and caught the edge of my jaw. I bit my tongue when my teeth snapped shut and immediately tasted blood.

‘We know what you're up to, psycho. There's nothing mysterious about it, you sick lonely fuck.'

I tried to talk but couldn't form words. Blood and saliva ran down my chin. The disembodied voices kept talking but I could no longer follow.

‘I bibn't boo banybing,' I said.

‘I bibn't boo banybing,' said O'Meara, laughing in the dark. And then he said, ‘Work this degenerate over. We don't need fucks like this walking the streets,' and fists, many sets, emerged from the darkness and started pounding on my ribs, jaw and kidneys. My eyes shut tight, I gritted my teeth, and then I passed out from the pain.

I woke up, in the dark, still cuffed to the chair. The bright interrogation light was off. I called out and no one answered. I was alone. Immediately I thought of Elaine and felt sick. I pictured her, gagged, hands restrained, like mine, dead from head trauma. She was found in a dumpster, I thought. How'd she get there? How'd someone get her out of the house without me or the officer out front knowing, without making a sound or leaving a single trace? I looked hard into the darkness. I could make out nothing, which wasn't a surprise. I didn't kill her, I thought. I said out loud, ‘I know I didn't kill her.' How could I? How could've I killed her, done away with the body, and made it back to inform the police? What was O'Meara thinking? A horrible buzz sounded and a red light flashed in the corner of the interrogation room. I stared up at it, frightened, and it kept sounding, over and over, and the light lit up again, and the room went red, then pitch-black, then red again, with the buzzing sound. I stared at the painted bulb. There was pounding at the door. ‘Open up, Rick,' I heard, and the buzzing continued, now relentless, without pause, a solid grating sound, and the light stayed red, giving the room the horrifying atmosphere of a darkroom, where negatives, negatives of unspeakable acts, bloom into being. ‘Open the fucking door, Rick!' And the pounding and buzzing continued. I tried to speak but couldn't. I tried to say, ‘My fucking hands are cuffed!'