John Miller - Too Far Gone

“Far as we know.”

“She stays inside in the daytime, but when the weather’s nice she comes out at night sometimes, like I said, with Miss Fugate, and they sit on the porch swing and rock back and forth. Once I called out to them about how nice a night it was and they went inside like I’d shot at them. I don’t think she’s quite right. The roommate. Is that right? You know, some people thought she was, you know…”-she dropped her voice to a whisper-“…a lezbin.” She resumed a normal tone. “But I say, live and let live and so what if it’s true, and I don’t have the foggiest idea yes or no. Living alone is lonely sometimes. Especially so when you’re cold to your neighbors.”

You don’t know the half of it. “Did you happen to see the roommate leave this morning?”

“No, I didn’t. A few nights back there was an old truck parked there when I went to bed, and the next day her car was gone and hasn’t been back.”

“Nurse Fugate’s?”

“A small black one of some sort. I don’t know cars.”

“Did Nurse Fugate have any company over? Any friends or relatives?”

“Nobody ever spent the night that I recall. This man with white hair used to come by at night, parked in the back of the driveway. And years ago a young man used to visit her during the summers for a few days. He was a small boy when he started coming. Stayed inside mostly. Odd-looking child. He stopped coming years ago. The last time I saw him he was high-school or college age, and he hadn’t changed much. Still odd-looking. Miss Fugate never took a vacation, as far as I know. I don’t know which hospital she was affiliated with.”

“River Run. It’s a mental facility.”

“So, when can we know what’s happened over there?” The older woman crossed her arms under her breasts as though she were suddenly chilled.

“Nurse Fugate passed away,” Alexa said.

Ms. Cline shook her head sadly. “Heart attack?”

“We’re not sure as to cause of death yet,” Alexa replied. “We have to locate next of kin before we make any announcements.”

“We get mostly heart attacks, cancers, and strokes in this neighborhood. Mrs. Childs caught her robe on fire once. She has scars all over her legs and arms, poor thing. You were to see it, you’d just cry. All that exercising she has to do, but she never complains.”

“Can you remember when you last saw her?”

“Day before yesterday morning. I took her over some sugar cookies. She says I could sell them in grocery stores. I couldn’t make enough to do that.”

Alexa was confused. “You saw Dorothy Fugate day before yesterday morning?”

“Oh, no. I thought we were discussing Mrs. Childs. She doesn’t get out much, she’s eighty-one. All of her family’s left the area. My son offered to take her out of here, because of the hurricane, you know. She might go, but she’s stubborn.”

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Fugate?”

“Maybe Sunday. It was a few days back I saw her when she was taking groceries inside. Didn’t see her after that.” She shook her head. “Most of us are retired. Some young people have started moving in as some started dying or going to nursing homes.” Sadness crossed her eyes. “It’s not a real official neighborhood watch or anything. I had my lawn mower stolen and Mr. Hamilton saw the man and called the police. That was last summer. No, the summer before. He was a black man with pants falling down so his shorts showed plain as day. The police didn’t catch him, said he probably sold it and bought crack to put up his nose. I had a nephew who crushed up his father’s medicines and sniffed them. The police that took the report said I probably wouldn’t get the mower back and I didn’t. Then Mr. Hamilton had a big hanging plant taken right off his porch in broad daylight. A plant, can you imagine that? Why would anyone steal a fern and leave two beefsteak begonias sitting right there. He collects coins. His son’s a plumber, but I don’t use him because he charges way too much and gets the floor dirty and doesn’t clean up behind himself.”

Alexa had to let Ms. Cline talk because the woman might tell her something useful, but now she interrupted since she didn’t have time for the grand tour of the neighbors. “Nobody else coming or going lately?”

“Just you and the salesman this morning, and I thought how unusual it was to see visitors there in the daytime.”

“Salesman?”

“I was waiting on the mailman and I looked out the window and saw the salesman going to the door. That was a little while before you got there.”

“How long?”

Ms. Cline looked at Alexa as though she were an idiot. “Well, you two were inside together. He got there twenty minutes or so before you and came out after you were in there a few minutes.”

“How do you know he was a salesman?”

“Because he was carrying one of those little suitcases.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, not that I was paying attention or anything, but I noticed the suitcase. He was white. He seemed tall, but I’m not sure. He might have had a sports jacket on, or not. He didn’t look suspicious, so I didn’t look for specifics. You had to see him in there.”

“Did you see his car?” Alexa pressed.

“Come to think of it, he parked down the street. Salesmen do that, going from one house to the next. Like I said, I don’t know kinds of cars, but his looked new and was gray, or silver.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?”

Ms. Cline gazed at Alexa over her glasses. “I’d guess older than you. Are you sure you’re an FBI agent? You’re awfully young and pretty to be one.” She smiled, trying to please the agent.

“Did you see his hair?”

“Red. Oh! I forgot about my cookies!”

“Thank you,” Alexa began, but Ms. Cline had already locked the dead bolt and disappeared. Through the sheers she looked like a body sinking in water.

Kenneth Decell, Alexa thought. That son of a bitch could have broken my neck.

She strode to her car, dialing Manseur as she went.

John Ramsey Miller

Too Far Gone

Alexa parked on Broad Street and hurried toward the front of the headquarters building. She was approaching the glass front entrance when someone yelled out her name. She turned to see Veronica Malouf carrying a briefcase hugged to her chest as though it were a baby in distress and she was trying to get it to the emergency room.

“Ms. Malouf,” Alexa said. “I tried to call you a few minutes ago to see what you’d come up with.”

“I couldn’t leave because Dr. Whitfield was closing the office early. So nonessential personnel could evacuate and I had to finish up. My phone battery was dead and I forgot my car charger, which I couldn’t find when I went home for these. Sorry.”

“The files I asked for?”

Veronica ignored the question. “They’re the ones you want. Call if you have any questions.”

Alexa took the valise and said, “If I have any questions, you’re going to answer them in person. After you.”

“But I need to get packed.”

They rode the elevator up in silence. Manseur looked from the papers he was reading as Alexa and Veronica walked into his office. “Agent Keen. Ms. Malouf,” he said.

“Veronica has something for us,” Alexa said, hanging her heavy purse on a chair.

“I hope you brought us a recent picture of Sibby Danielson.”

Veronica Malouf shook her head. “There isn’t one. I looked.”

“Let’s have a look at what you do have,” he said.

Alexa was amazed by what she read in the files, but Manseur might have been reading the phone book for all the reaction he showed. Veronica Malouf sat at the end of the conference table, looking into her lap-Marie Antoinette sitting in the ox-drawn cart being delivered to the Place de la Revolution, where a masked executioner with blood-spattered hands awaited her arrival.