Paul Cleave - The Cleaner

“You know her?”

“Huh?”

He nods his head toward Melissa. “Looked like you recognized her.”

I shake my head. “No.”

He grins. “Just staring, huh? Don’t blame you, and don’t feel bad for being caught out.”

“Caught out?” I say. Oh, Jesus, it’s come to this, it’s finally come to this and my gun is in my office. I can’t believe it. Weirdly, I feel like crying.

“You’re not the only one,” Schroder says.

“What?”

“Half the men in here are staring at her.”

He’s right. Half the men in here are staring at her.

“Just don’t let her catch you,” he says, and it’s good advice-better advice than he really knows.

He disappears back in the direction he came from, as if he’d only shown up to make chitchat. I’m still standing in the same place I was when I saw Melissa, only now I’m feeling more obvious about it. I need to leave. Do I go for my briefcase in case I need to shoot my way out of here, or do I just head for the door now?

I carry the bucket and mop back to my office, close my door behind me, and grab my briefcase and at the same time I’m opening it, I remember I don’t have my gun anymore. I slump into my chair. I don’t know what to do, with a little more distance between Melissa and my remaining testicle, I can think a little clearer.

Melissa didn’t point me out. That’s not why she’s here. She’s here because, just like my gun, she owns me too. This is her game. She’s come here today to make sure I know who’s in control.

I get out of my chair. I stare down at the city for a few seconds, the people out there moving quickly through the cold. I take one of the knives out of my briefcase. It’s small and easy to conceal, but I figure if I’m going down I can take one, maybe two people with me. I slip it into my pocket. When I head into the hallway with the vacuum cleaner, Melissa and Calhoun have gone. They’ll be in the smaller of the two conference rooms up here. It’s similar to an interrogation room, but with nicer décor, designed to get information from nice people in a comfortable way. There will be tea and coffee and a light lunch, nice music. It’s foreplay where the goal is catching a killer. I wish I could be in there listening, and at the same time, I wish I could be a thousand miles away. When I open the door of the main conference room, I see a gaggle of detectives standing around, staring at the board. I expect them to all turn in unison toward me, like I’m a gunslinger entering the local saloon, but only Detective Landry comes over. He’s somewhere in his forties. Has those rugged good looks of a movie actor playing a policeman. His clothes are wrinkled, his sleeves are up, and he looks like the sort of guy about to make a breakthrough. He smells of cigarette smoke.

“This probably isn’t a good time, Joe.”

“Oh?”

“The room’s pretty clean. Probably won’t need going over for a few more days.”

“Okay, then.”

He pats me on the shoulder. Does he leave his hand there for a second too long? Is he looking at me differently?

“Thanks, Joe.”

I turn toward the door, fighting the temptation to run. I remind myself that I’m the one in control, that I’m the one running this show, but if that were true, I wouldn’t have this God-awful sick feeling in my stomach. Throwing one last glance at the board before I step into the hallway, I see a photograph of a burned car. Christ. I’m learning nothing. I’m out of the loop.

Then suddenly a chance appears to learn at least something: Detective Wilson Q. Hutton is blubbering toward me, a chocolate bar clutched in his sweaty hand like it’s a tube of insulin. It’s obvious the Q doesn’t stand for quitting. He’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater. Fact is I’ve never seen him wearing anything else. I don’t get the look he’s going for, and I figure he doesn’t know either. Maybe it makes him feel as though he looks important. Or less fat.

“Afternoon, Joe.”

“Hi there, Detective Hutton. Looks pretty busy. There something going on?”

He smiles at me with the same pity in his eyes he always has. “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“We’ve got a description of the guy.”

I feel as though I’ve just been punched in the stomach, but I force myself to play Slow Joe. Are these people just playing with me? Is this an elaborate trap to call me out? I reach into my pocket and feel for the knife. A guy like Hutton, I just don’t think the blade is long enough.

“How?” I ask, trying to keep my voice under control.

“There was another victim last night, Joe. Another prostitute. This time a witness saw him driving away from the alleyway where she was dumped.”

Jesus, I wonder how Calhoun is feeling now that the woman he paid for sex two months ago has been killed. Is he feeling worse than me? He’ll make the connection with the dead hooker, but will he believe it?

“Have you caught the bad man yet?”

Hutton shakes his head. “Not yet. The car used was stolen.”

“You know that already? Wow, you’re smart.”

“The car was used to dump another body later in the evening.”

“Another prostitute?”

“I can’t say too much, Joe.” He pauses to take a bite from his chocolate bar, like he needs the energy to come up with the words that he can’t tell me. Chocolate-stained teeth begin mincing the confectionery. A few tiny pieces flake onto the collar of his turtleneck. I’m not sure why he doesn’t just swallow the whole damn thing in one go.

“Any suspects?”

He shakes his head and keeps chewing. “Better carry on, Joe.”

“Sure thing.”

I head back to my office. My hands are trembling slightly. Calm down. Calm down.

It’s easy to think, but hard to do. I need to create order from this Goddamn confusion that Melissa has dropped me into. The only problem is I’m coming up with nothing, only more excuses to hurt her. In the end I sneak open my office door and glance into the hallway. It’s empty. Could I just leave and follow her? Is it that simple? Will the police let me leave?

I wait for thirty minutes, peering out from my office every few minutes or so, watching for Melissa, watching for the police escort to take me away. It doesn’t happen, and I start holding out hope that it isn’t going to. I grab the vacuum cleaner and let myself be seen. I mooch around the hallway, sucking dust mites and food crumbs from the carpet, biding my time. Occasionally one or two detectives will come from the conference room and head either to their cubicle, or out to the street, but they don’t glance at me. Other times they simply come to get coffee. They nod and smile at me without really seeing me.

The day starts to drag. I keep looking at my watch, almost accusing it of lying. I don’t feel so good, and every time I clean a bathroom, I sit in one of the stalls for a few minutes with my face resting in my hands and my fate resting in the hands of those who have sat here before.

I keep an eye out for Melissa, but can’t find her. I don’t see Calhoun either. Or Schroder.

All the regulars are gone, or maybe they aren’t-maybe they’re just waiting around the corner, watching and waiting. Except for Sally. She’s always there. Just milling around, asking me how I am, how my mother is, asking me if I would like a lift home.

I don’t know how, but four thirty eventually arrives. The relief is almost nonexistent, because I have no idea how far I’ll get before somebody calls my name and tells me to stop walking, to get the hell down on the ground, to put my arms behind my back. Back in the hallway, with my briefcase, my hands still trembling, I am barely in time to see that Melissa is only just leaving, being escorted by Detective Calhoun, and I wonder if she has waited around for me to finish. Nearly three hours she’s been here, talking to detectives. What in the hell has she been saying?