Paul Cleave - The Killing Hour

Only Cyris wouldn’t knock. The police would knock. The police would want to know if I knew where Jo was. They wouldn’t be too thrilled with the way I looked, all beaten up and bruised. They wouldn’t be thrilled with the way my house looks, or with whatever is in that box.

Action Man: hold no fear. Action Man: save the world.

“Who’s there?” I ask, feeling nothing like Action Man.

“Mr. Feldman?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Mr. Charlie Feldman? My name’s Bill Landry,” a small pause, then, “Detective Inspector Bill Landry. With the Christchurch Police Department. Mr. Feldman, I’ve a few questions for you. How about you let me ask them inside?”

“I’m quite busy.”

“I figured as much since you didn’t come to the door straightaway.”

“Sorry about that,” I say, “but I didn’t hear the first knock.”

I put the chain on the door, unlock it, and open it enough to look at him. The man standing there looking at me is around six feet tall and heavily built. He has the same build as Cyris, but is far better groomed. He’s wearing a shirt that looks like he’s slept in it, and a tie that is one of those unique items of clothing that will never cycle back into fashion. He’s standing on a slight angle that makes him appear as though he could pounce forward just as easily as he could jump back. He looks like he’s expecting me to do something. Maybe run. Maybe attack. He has one hand behind his back, perhaps reaching for a gun, or for some handcuffs. His other hand is holding out his identification. I take a look at the photograph. A good, long look. Same buzz cut graying hair, same brown eyes, same strong jawline, same long nose. The sort of face you’d expect to see cast as the hero in some war movie. The sort of face you don’t want on your doorstep behind a policeman’s badge with the intent of arresting you. His lips have little or no color in the photograph, but even less in reality, just like the rest of his face. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look unhealthy and tired and remind me of the guy who sold me the broom handles. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in the background on the news. I suddenly feel like I’m going to faint.

I close the door, toss the stake into my bedroom, close that door, then take the chain off and hold the front door open, standing in the way so as to not invite him inside.

“Expecting trouble?” Landry asks.

“Huh?”

“The way you inspected my badge, it looked as though you were expecting somebody else. Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse not to let me in.”

“I’m merely being cautious. Is that a crime?”

“Not at all, Mr. Feldman.” His smile has about as much warmth as ice. “In fact I wish more people were as careful as you. Have you finished taking a look?”

When I nod he closes the ID and tucks it into the back of his pants.

“You look anxious, Mr. Feldman. Like you think half the world is out to get you.”

“What half are you in?”

“That depends on how you answer my questions. Perhaps we can step inside?”

Before I can answer he tilts his head and gives me a direct look. “Unless of course you have something to hide?”

“Come on through,” I say.

“After you,” he says, and I realize he doesn’t want to turn his back on me.

I walk down the hall. I can feel his eyes on me. I hear the front door close. I wonder what Jo is thinking. I lead him into the dining room. A light sweat has formed across my forehead, but I do nothing about it. I drag a seat from the table for him and sit opposite. He pulls out a notebook and rests it on the table before he sits down. He doesn’t open it, just slowly taps a fingernail against the cover. I rest my right elbow on the table, cross my legs, and don’t offer him a drink.

“I’m curious-if you didn’t hear me the first time I knocked on your door, how did you know you were answering it after my second?”

I open my mouth to answer, but can’t come up with anything. He smiles, but it seems he doesn’t really want an answer. He saves me from the awkward moment by taking me into another one.

“Who hit you?” he asks.

I raise my hand to the bump on my forehead. It stings on contact. I try not to wince, but fail. Gets me every time. “Nobody hit me.”

“Walked into a door, did you?”

“A tree.”

“Wouldn’t be the same tree that broke into your house?” The detective twists his head and points his thumb at the back door. “Who broke in?”

“I don’t know. I only just got home.”

“Anything taken?”

“No.”

“Damaged?”

“Just the door.”

“Why would a man who comes home to find his house has been broken into not call the police?”

“I was about to,” I tell him, trying to figure out if he’s here because of Jo, or because of Kathy and Luciana.

“Would you like me to help you look through your house?” he asks.

“No, no. That’s fine,” I tell him, and I know he’s driving at something.

“You said you just got home. From school?”

“Yeah.”

“I rang your school today, Mr. Feldman. They said you weren’t in.”

“I took the day off, but I had to go pick up some work.”

“Where were you on Sunday night?”

“Sunday night? Umm, let me think.” I run my hands through my hair trying to look like I’m trying to remember. Trying to act as though Sunday night was no different from any other night. Nothing to make it stand out. “I was at my parents’.”

“Doing what?”

“Just catching up. You know what it’s like.”

“What time did you leave?”

I shrug. “Not sure. Maybe somewhere around eleven o’clock, give or take.”

“Where did you go when you left?”

“Home.”

“You came straight here.”

“That’s right.”

“And went straight to bed.”

“I had a shower first.”

“Anybody see you?” he asks.

I shrug. “My shower isn’t outside.”

“Did you spend the night alone?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“You’re sure you came straight home?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Uh huh. Well, I guess that pretty much sums it up,” he says, but he doesn’t make any attempt to get up. He just sits there, staring at me, maybe pissed off because I haven’t offered him coffee, or because he thinks I’m a cold-blooded killer. He hasn’t put his pad away.

“Good.” I lean forward and start to stand.

“Just two more questions.”

“Just two?”

“First, why haven’t you asked me why I’m here?”

I sit back down. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t ask what I’m investigating. All these questions. It’s like you already knew. You just opened the door and resigned yourself to the fact that I was here to arrest you. I’ve seen that look many times, Mr. Feldman. It’s the look of somebody who was hoping they wouldn’t get caught, but aren’t surprised they have been. I saw it in your face. You didn’t ask what I wanted because you thought I was here to take you into custody for murder. You didn’t go through the whole routine of trying to figure out why a detective inspector would show up on your doorstep late at night wanting to ask you questions. An innocent person would have. Or a good liar. Your problem, Mr. Feldman, is that you’re neither.”

It’s buzzword time. “That’s crazy.”

He stops tapping his finger and points it at me. “Have you ever heard of Camelot Drive?”

I know what’s coming and can’t see a way out of it.

“Mr. Feldman? Just a yes or no will do.”

“No,” I answer quickly.

“The body of a young woman was found there yesterday morning. But you know all about that, don’t you?”