Steve Hamilton: A Cold Day in Paradise

“Go on,” I said.

“I came to pay off a debt.”

“At this time of night?”

“He called me earlier,” he said. “He wanted the money.”

“What’s he doing at a motel?”

“He lives here. Some people do that, I guess. They live at a motel.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said. “How much did you owe him?”

“Five thousand dollars,” he said.

“You have it with you?”

“Yes, right here,” he said. He patted his coat pocket.

“So you drove over here to give him his money. Then what?”

“I knocked on the door and nobody answered.”

“So you went inside?”

“The door was open. I figured he fell asleep.”

“You walked right in.”

“I came all this way just to give him his money,” he said. “I wasn’t going to leave without giving it to him.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you go inside and you see him.”

“Right.”

“And then you call me.”

“Right. I’ve got a phone, too. In the car.” He pointed at his Mercedes.

“You see the dead man and then you call me.”

“Exactly,” he said. “God, have you ever seen such a thing?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have.”

“That’s right,” he said. “On account of you being a cop before. You probably saw a lot of that in Detroit.”

“Two or three times a night,” I said. “You get used to it.”

“Two or three times a night? Really? That often?”

For fifty cents I would have slapped his face right there in the truck. “Edwin, can I ask you one more question?”

“Sure.”

“Why in God’s name did you call me instead of calling the police?”

“I don’t know, Alex. I mean, you have to understand the state of mind I was in. I walk into that room and I see that guy, I just panicked, I guess. I didn’t know what to do. So I called you. And then I called Uttley.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. You called Uttley? You didn’t say that before.”

“Yeah, I figure he’s my lawyer. I better call him, too.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he’d be right here. I’m surprised he’s not here by now.”

“He lives right across town,” I said. “I had to come all the way out here from Paradise.”

“He must be putting his lawyer suit on,” he said. “Anyway, you were the first person I thought of, Alex. I hope you take that as a compliment.”

“Remind me to send you some flowers, Edwin.”

“And also, you know, on account of you being a private investigator and working for Uttley.”

“Right.”

“Not to say that I think you work for me, Alex,” he said. “Just because you work for my lawyer. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Uh-huh.” I could be home in bed, I thought. I could be home right now underneath my blanket.

“And then also on account of you being so close with the county sheriff, I thought that might be a good thing, too. Although like you say, this isn’t a county thing because it’s in the city. I guess I didn’t think that one through, either. I’m sorry, Alex, my mind is a mess right now.”

A Soo police car pulled into the lot, its lights flashing silently. “It’s showtime,” I said.

They were a couple of young cops, no more than twenty-five years old. I remembered being on the night shift myself the first couple years in Detroit. The night shift was all young cops breaking in and old ones putting in some overtime before retirement.

“Good morning, Officers,” I said. “This is Edwin Fulton. He discovered the deceased.” I tipped my head toward him. He looked pitiful standing there next to my truck with his hands jammed in his pockets. “I’m Alex McKnight.”

“Where is he?” one of the cops said.

“Room six,” I said. I thought of telling them not to look, but I knew they’d have to eventually. There was nothing they learned in the academy to prepare them for this.

“Holy Sweet Jesus,” I heard one of them say when they peeked into the room. They closed the door and kept it closed.

One of the officers came to me. “Chief Maven will be here in a few minutes,” he said.

“I figured as much,” I said. “Your partner going to be all right?” He had disappeared behind the squad car. I didn’t have to guess what he was doing.

“I don’t know. I’m going to go wake up the owner of the motel.”

Chief Maven pulled in a few minutes later. He came out of his car looking like a man who had been rousted out of bed in the middle of the night to come look at a murder scene. He flipped a pad of paper out of his coat and spoke to the officers for a minute, looked at the door of room six, and then at the two of us standing there. “McKnight,” he said as he approached us. “Alex McKnight.” The man had the cold blue eyes of a cop, the mustache that needed a good trim, the timeworn face. And that voice an old cop uses like a dentist uses a drill.

“That would be me,” I said.

“You called this in?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Start at the beginning.”

“I found him, sir,” Edwin said.

Ma ven shot him a look that would’ve taken the rust off a weather vane. “I haven’t started talking to you yet,” he said.

Edwin closed his mouth and looked at the ground.

“This is Edwin Fulton,” I said. “He found him, he called me, I came to the scene, and then I called the police. That’s it.”

“Says here you’re a PI.”

“Yes.”

“You have a card?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I’ve only had my license a few months.”

He tore a sheet from his pad. “Then why don’t you write your address and phone number on a piece of paper and we’ll just pretend it’s a card.”

I looked at him for a moment and then I took the piece of paper.

“Okay, now I’m talking to you, Mr. Fulton.”

“Yes, sir?” He was trying not to shake. He was trying very hard.

“Am I to understand that you found the deceased in that room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Am I to understand further that you immediately called Mr. McKnight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then what did you do after that?”

“I called my lawyer, sir.”

Miraculously on cue, Uttley pulled into the lot in his little red BMW.

Maven closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And then, Mr. Fulton,” he said. “What did you do next?”

“I waited here, sir. Until Alex arrived.”

“At any point did it occur to you to call nine-one-one?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. He looked at me for help, but he wasn’t getting any. “I didn’t think that far.”

“I see.”

“Good morning, men!” Lane Uttley appeared among us. Edwin was right, he had his lawyer suit on. It looked like he had showered, shaved, and stopped at his barber’s house to wake him up for a quick trim. “Alex,” he went on, slipping right into his lawyer voice. “Thank God you’re here. Edwin, you look terrible. Chief Maven, Roy, please, tell me what’s happening here.”

Maven looked at the lawyer for a moment. “Wait here,” he said. “All of you.” He went to the room and opened the door. We watched him from behind as he poked his head in. He stood there for a full minute, motionless. Finally, he closed the door and spoke to his officers again. They had woken up the owner of the motel, a bewildered old man who was standing between them wearing boots and a coat over his pajamas.

“How bad does the guy look?” Uttley asked me.

“He was shot in the face and his throat was cut open,” I said. “Aside from that, he looks fine.”

Maven rejoined the party. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it looks like the Soo just lost a bookmaker.”

“Tony Bing,” Edwin said. “I came to give him some money.”