Mike Faricy: Russian Roulette

Nikki’s duplex was second from the corner and sported shabby, brown asphalt siding that was supposed to look like brick. Eighty years on and in the afternoon drizzle it just looked like shabby asphalt siding. The floor on the wraparound porch had apparently been painted gray years back, but the paint had pretty much peeled off exposing bare wood, which accounted for the buckled floor. A post supporting the leaky roof stood dangerously close to a rotted two-foot hole in the porch floor. A rutted, muddy driveway turned to weeds toward the rear of the house then just disappeared altogether beneath the rusting remains of a green Bonneville. The car, or what was left of it, sat on cinder blocks. The hood and the engine were missing, five year’s worth of dead leaves rotted beneath the thing. Kerri had mentioned that her sister’s car had been parked in the driveway I hoped she wasn’t referring to the Bonneville.

The front door had probably been elegant at one time. The glass, long gone, was replaced with weathered plywood. A jagged hole had been drilled through the plywood, slightly off center, presumably to look from the inside out. Although closed, the door was unlocked. Two black metal mailboxes were mounted just to the left of the front door. The top one had a faded, handwritten piece of cardboard taped to the front. #2 Nikki. No last name.

I pushed the door open and followed the squeak inside. There was a small hallway that led to a grimy door beneath a staircase. The number one had been drawn on the door in black marker. The staircase, sporting a railing of 2x4s painted flat gray ran up the right hand wall to a landing where it turned left and went up another half dozen steps. The wall was stained and dingy from years of grimy hands running up and down. The 2x4 railing wiggled dangerously as I began to climb the stairs. The air held just the slightest hint of mouse.

Nikki’s grimy apartment door sported four panels that had been painted an icy flat white a very long time ago. You’d have to look hard to find an uglier color. On the door a haphazard 2 had been drawn in black marker. The door was locked, although by the look of the frame and the panel next to the doorknob, the door had been kicked in more than once.

Surprisingly the key turned the lock, and I pushed the door open then stood on the small landing with my ears perked. I heard nothing. Eventually I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The place was soulless nothing on the walls. A single recliner looked orphaned in what served as a living room. No carpet or rugs, just dull, worn wooden flooring. No end tables, no lamps, no television, not so much as a radio or a clock. The kitchen was much the same, an old refrigerator, bare. Empty cabinets, one plate, a coffee mug, no silverware. No pots, no pans, no food, no soap.

Amazingly the bedroom sported a bed and a dresser. The dresser drawers, more empty than not, held a pair of jeans, a T-shirt. In the small closet a cheap, dark blue rayon robe hung alone on a nail. I could still detect faint perfume from the robe.

What looked to be a full roll of toilet paper hung in the bathroom. A white plastic shower curtain was draped across the shower entry. A full container of Soft Soap sat on a corner ledge in the fiberglass shower. No tooth brush, no toothpaste, no makeup. No shampoo or conditioner for a redhead with hair down to her shoulders.

There was no wastebasket to go through. No computer with files to copy. No stacks of mail to sort. No phone with a message light blinking. Nothing. So had Nikki lived here and moved everything out? Recently? I couldn’t imagine someone living like this for very long, say more than an afternoon, and then only if she had a good book and at least a six-pack.

I did a brief walkthrough twice more and came up with even less. There was nothing there. It was like the place was a sleazy hotel room and somebody forgot a couple of things in their haste to just get out. I thought maybe Brad the Cad, the ex-boyfriend/lawyer, might be able to shed some light on things.

Bradley Cadwell answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Brad,” was actually how he answered.

“Brad Cadwell, please,” I said.

“You got him,” still pleasant but the hint of a question in the tone.

“Mr. Cadwell, my name is Devlin Haskell I’m hoping you might be able to help me with some information. I’m …”

“Concerning?”

“A woman by the name of Nikki Mathias.”

There was a pause in retrospect I think Brad was choosing his words carefully.

“I haven’t seen Nikki for at least a year, more than that actually, much more. No, I doubt I can be of any help to you.”

“I wonder if we could talk, anyway, at a time of your convenience. I’m attempting to locate her and…”

“I told you I haven’t see her in maybe two years, I wouldn’t know where she was, I’m married now. Happily. I really don’t think …”

“Could I just get five minutes of your time, that’s all I ask? Or, I could come to your office?”

Another pause, a little longer.

“Okay, but not here. I could meet you tonight I suppose, but I really have no idea where she is. It’s been over two years since I last saw her.”

“I can appreciate that. I promise I won’t take more than five minutes of your time. You just name the place.”

“A place. Okay, there’s a bar in downtown, you familiar with St. Paul?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“You know where Henry’s is, across from the Hilton?”

“I do. Would six be too early for you?” I asked.

“I’ll make it work. Tell me your name again?”

“Haskell, Devlin Haskell.”

“All right, Mr. Haskell.”

“Thanks, I appreciate your time. Look, you’ll be able to recognize me I’m a dapper guy, stunningly handsome. I’ll be wearing a black leather jacket, St. Paul Saints baseball cap, and blue jeans. I’ll be sitting at the bar in Henry’s at six o’clock, tonight.”

“I’ll find you,” he replied and hung up. If he was smart, I figured he would be checking me out right now.

I phoned Aaron LaZelle, a cop I know, and ended up leaving a message. Then decided to drive to the BMW dealership out on I-94 and look at little sports cars. If the note I wrote on the dry-cleaning receipt could be trusted, Kerri drove a Z4. I looked at one at the dealership. A roadster with a retractable hardtop. Twenty-four miles to the gallon, as it turned out. Three hundred thirty-five horsepower, and I was right it was way out of my price range. They started at sixty-one five and headed north based on extras. I’ve owned houses that hadn’t cost that much.

I was sitting at the bar in Henry’s fifteen minutes early, nursing a root beer and waiting for Brad the Cad to show up. A few minutes before six two guys entered through the side door, passed eight or ten open stools, sat down beside me and proceeded to work hard to ignore me. They ordered beers, Summit Extra Pale, then embarked on a forced conversation involving what could only be a fictitious office tryst. They had the look of college jocks, former college jocks. The muscle had, if not quite turned to fat, been at least downgraded from prime A category. I waited a few more minutes and at ten past six, Brad the Cad arrived, stylishly late.

He had the former college jock look too, maybe a little less extra weight, say ten to fifteen pounds as opposed to the twenty-five apiece the guys next to me sported. I guessed they had probably all played on the same hockey team. They had that hockey look noses broken at least once, scars along the chin three to five stitches long, skater’s thighs. Being oh so clever, they all made eye contact for a brief nanosecond as Brad walked past and stood next to me.