Paul Cleave - The Laughterhouse

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“You were the only sane one out there, and I’ve heard if you hadn’t taken some control all of my detectives might have made the front-page news and be scouring the back pages for new jobs. That’s why you’re getting this chance. You earned it. But it’s a short leash. A very short one. Listen, I know I acted like a bastard ten minutes ago, but at least everybody is on your side now. If I’d stood up there and said what a privilege it was to have you back, they’d all have hated you because it’d have made it sound like they needed your help. This way they feel bad about how I treated you, and it’ll help them warm up to you.”

I’m not so sure it’s worked the way he thought it would, but I get his point.

“Plus what you came up with, if you’re right, it could be a good lead. Carl really thinks you can help,” he says, then nods at Carl who has come over to stand next to me. “People keep telling me you’re a loose cannon, but my way of thinking suggests maybe that’s exactly what we need, huh?” he says, and claps his hands together. “I mean, Jesus, this nutcase is a loose cannon, right? Time we fight fire with fire.”

“I appreciate the. . compliment, I guess.”

“Well we’re not paying you to waste time doing that,” he says, still smiling, “we’re paying you to help catch this son of a bitch. Good luck,” he adds, leaving me confused about what he really thinks of me. Then he turns toward Schroder. “A word?” he says, and Schroder follows him out of the room. I walk over to the window and stare out at the view, shielding my eyes from the sun. Still blue skies in every direction, but the south can’t be seen from this angle. At ground level people are walking about, some with purpose, some aimlessly, some heading to the parks that make up the Garden City. They’re pushing strollers and throwing Frisbees in what are the dying sunny days before winter.

I move over to the wall when Schroder comes back in.

“Was it bad?”

“Was what bad?” he asks.

“The warning Stevens gave you about me.”

“Like he said, you’re on a short leash.”

“Yeah? What else did he say?”

“He said nobody would file a complaint if I had to shoot you.”

I’m not sure if he’s joking and don’t ask in case he’s not. “So what’s my assignment? You want me to follow up with the stab wounds?”

“I’m on it. I want you to run with this,” he says, and he hands me a folder.

I open it up. Inside is a rap sheet belonging to a woman named Ariel Chancellor-a photograph of a twenty-two-year-old woman-who is now twenty-five according to the date of birth-stares back at me. She looks like she hasn’t eaten anything thicker than a potato chip since her teens. Her face is hollow and pale, her blond hair straight and lifeless, the ends of it frayed. She’s frowning at the photographer, the sense that if you could see her hand maybe she’d be giving the finger too. There are pictures of her fingerprints and a brief bio. She’s been arrested on drug possession and shoplifting. I look from the photo up to Schroder who, aside from the makeup and long hair, has a similar look on his face as the girl.

“Looks like a friendly girl,” I say. “She’s who was in Hayward’s car last night?”

“According to the fingerprints on his belt and in the car, yes. It’s your lead, Tate.”

There is no mention of prostitution in the file because the only crime in prostitution is the failure to declare your income. Whether you’re being shot in the line of duty or faking an orgasm for cash, Inland Revenue wants their share. There’s a last known address, which hopefully is still current.

“Jesus,” I say, “if she was in the car with him and she’s a prostitute, then Brad Hayward picking her up may have nothing to do with his death. It’s not like the other victims were picking up prostitutes.”

“It’s a lead,” Schroder reminds me, “likely a dead end, but it’s yours to follow.”

“And the stab wounds?” I ask.

“Look, I’m meeting the medical examiner down in the morgue in. .” he glances at his watch, “just over an hour. You’re welcome to meet me down there if you’re done in time. Until then, go and talk to this woman. Get her statement. Every line of inquiry needs to be wrapped up, Tate. That part of the job hasn’t changed.”

We head downstairs together, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, either to save power like we’re all supposed to be doing all over the world to save on resources, or for the exercise. We get to the bottom. Schroder goes out a door to the parking lot and I head into the foyer and down the front steps to the street. There’s a crowd of reporters forming a semicircle, and in the center of it is Superintendent Stevens, shaved head gleaming in the sunlight. He has the attention of everybody there, except for Jonas Jones, who breaks away from the group. I don’t hang around for the speech and the questioning. Jones follows me. I figure I could try and lose him, but a man of his abilities will already know where I’m parked.

I reach my car half a block away and somebody has backed into it, the front left headlight is busted and there’s glass on the ground and no note left behind. I sweep the glass into the curb with my foot. Traffic is backed up from traffic light to traffic light, people flocking to start the workday.

“Let me guess,” I say, turning toward Jonas, “you woke up this morning knowing somebody was going to damage my car?”

“That’s funny, Detective. Do I have that right? You’re a detective inspector again?”

“You tell me.”

“I can help you, Detective. We can help each other. I have a gift, and you’re wasting time by denying that.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I tell him. “Twice in a morning. You must be desperate.”

“Don’t dismiss me, Theodore. I can help. There is an opportunity here for us both to do some good.”

“And you’ll write a book about it?”

“You would get some credit. And paid, of course, and looking at your car I can tell getting paid isn’t something you’re used to.”

“No, thanks,” I tell him.

“I can help you, Theodore.”

“Yeah? Then why don’t you help me and tell me what the stab wounds mean?”

“Why don’t you help me, and tell me about the case? Whether you think I’m a fake or not, we can help each other. I know how people think. You must at least know that’s true.”

“Then you must know what I’m thinking right now,” I tell him, and I pull away, leaving him to stare at my car for a few seconds before he turns back the way we walked.

The day is still warming up. I take my jacket off at the first set of lights I stop at. My body clock is a little out of whack from daylight savings-for some reason every year daylight savings feels like we’re jumping forward or backward six hours instead of just the one. I stop off at a café and grab another coffee, figuring I can afford it now, figuring if I don’t take a few minutes to do this I’ll end up falling over in a gutter. I get the feeling I’m going to need two cups an hour just to stay alert through the day. I sit at a table and watch the city through the window, people passing by, cars doing the same thing, and everything looks normal and now, right now in this moment, Christchurch is the city it used to be.

The clouds from the south creep over the top of the café and start to cover the city. Somebody toots at another car and there’s an exchange of hand gestures and obscenities. A teenager in a hoodie walks past the window and sees me looking out. He takes the time to inhale a big wad of snot and spits it at me. It hits the window and slides down slowly, mostly green but with a bit of blood in there too, and he carries on looking angry at the footpath ahead of him. A man in the café behind me calls the waitress a whore and tells her coffee should be cheaper before storming out, and Christchurch is back.