Andrew Gross - Eyes Wide Open (aka Killing Hour)

The trials were a slam dunk. The evidence was overwhelming. The state had fingerprints, clothing, in many cases the defendant’s own words and bizarre confessions. None of the juries’ deliberations lasted longer than four hours. The people wanted justice quickly-and they got it. Houvnanian was sentenced to nine consecutive life sentences. As were Carla Jean Blue, Sarah Strasser, Nolan Pierce, and Telford Richards.

Susan Pollack, and two others who abetted the murderers, received sentences of thirty-five years.

I put the book down.

“Hey, brother…”

I looked into the sunlight and saw the panhandler I had given the five to the other day. He was wearing the same torn flannel shirt and filthy work pants, and a Seattle Seahawks cap. He looked like he might have spent the night in a field somewhere. Still, he was smiling.

I said, “You already hit me up once, guy. That’s all you get.”

“Nah.” He grinned. “I don’t need anything from you, boss. Just going by and wondering how your stay was going. You know you’re sitting right dab in the middle of my office, bro.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize that.” I smiled back, feigning an apology.

He waved. “Ah, make yourself at home. You just let me know if I can do anything for you. I’ll take good care. Chili dog? There’s a stand over there where they treat me pretty good. Maybe some water…?”

“No.” I shrugged politely. “I’m good.”

“Well, you just let me know, okay? I like to take care of my friends…”

“You bet,” I said to him.

The guy waved, with a gap-toothed grin, and started back along the path. I opened the book again. But instead of delving in, I met his gaze. It had been almost a week now since I had talked to anyone beyond the reach of Evan’s death, and a couple of words with anyone felt therapeutic. Even with this guy.

“How’s business?” I asked him.

“Business? ” He chuckled with amusement. “Look around, dude. This town is bone-dry. You watch the news. People out of work, the state’s going belly-up. It’s the trickle-down effect-even to a bottom-fisher like me, just trying to find a buck.” He screwed up his eyes, trying to focus on my book. “What ya reading?”

I shrugged. “Just something I picked up.” I flashed him the cover.

“End of Days, huh?” He laughed. “Now there’s a book I can surely relate to. My life’s resembled the End of Days for years!”

This time, I chuckled. His weathered face did look like it had witnessed its share of reversals in its time. “Bet it has.”

“Well, can’t stay and chat all day…” He winked. “There’s fortunes to be made, right, man…”

“Take it slow.” I waved.

“Always, brother. Any other way?” He started down the path again, when suddenly an idea popped into my mind.

“Hey, ” I called to him, “what’s your name?”

“Dev.” The dude grinned. “But most people call me Memphis. From Tennessee.”

“Can I trust you, Dev?” I asked.

“Trust me? ” The vagrant’s haggard face lit up like a lamp. “Like a bank, dude. These days, probably better.”

“So how’d you like to earn a fifty from me?”

“Fifty bucks? ” The guy came back over and said under his breath, “Do I have to kill anyone? Can’t let down my partners with any time in jail.”

The idea seemed a little crazy- I mean, look at the guy, I thought-but if Sherwood wouldn’t give me a car to watch over Charlie’s, why the hell couldn’t I find a set of eyes on my own?

“No, you don’t have to kill anyone. All perfectly legit. Promise.”

I told him I was worried about someone who was badgering my brother and how the police wouldn’t help me out. I described Susan Pollack’s blue Kia and gave him my brother’s address. I told him I just wanted him to watch out for it.

“I guess I could do that.” He shrugged. He looked at me in a strange way, then nodded. “Fifty bucks, huh?”

“Here’s thirty now,” I said, “the rest when you report back.” I reached into my pocket and dug out a few bills, handed them to him, probably more than he saw in a good week. I shrugged. “It’s not a fortune, but maybe it’ll get you out of town.”

“Oh, I find my way out of town from time to time,” he said with kind of a smile. “Was out of town just last week.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, a little surprised. “Where was that?”

The guy stuffed the bills in his pocket and said, eyeing me, “Michigan.”

Sherwood was making his way through an enchilada outside his favorite taqueria the next day when his cell phone rang. It was Carl Meachem, from the Las Vegas PD. “I located those records,” the detective said. “That suicide you were looking for. Greenway.”

Sherwood put his lunch down in its wrapper on the hood of his Torino and took out a pad. “You’re my hero. Shoot.”

“I’m not exactly sure what you’re looking for…,” the Vegas detective said. “By the way, you knew he wrote a book on the Houvnanian murders back in the seventies, didn’t you?”

Sherwood purposely hadn’t shared what his interest was but answered, “I knew that, yeah.”

“Just making sure… Seems Greenway moved down here, North Las Vegas actually, in 1986. After his big book was published. I guess it did okay. They made it into a movie and he retired. We all should find a case like that, right? You remember, it had that guy who won an Oscar in it-”

“I was actually more interested in what happened the night of his death,” Sherwood said, cutting him off.

“Okay, yeah, right…” Sherwood heard the sound of pages being turned. “Let’s see, night of November 6, 1988… Seems Greenway’s wife was at a dinner for some women’s golf committee at their club. Says here she came home and found her husband facedown in the pool. Called 911. That was nine thirty-eight P.M. The EMTs arrive, looks like, around twelve minutes later… Nine fifty,” the detective said. “Not bad. Unable to revive him. They estimate the TOD as a couple of hours before. No sign of any foul play. The doors were all locked and the neighbors didn’t see or hear anything going on. Didn’t leave a note-but officers found a half-drained bottle of Absolut on the kitchen counter along with a bunch of assorted pills… Says here the victim had been depressed lately. His wife admitted they’d been having problems. Apparently, there’d been some financial setbacks as well…”

“Sounds pretty clear,” Sherwood said, acknowledging it with a twinge of disappointment.

“What the autopsy seemed to confirm… Victim died from deprivation of oxygen to the lungs. Four point one percent blood alcohol. Along with elevated levels of barbiturates and various muscle relaxers. Though, hmphff…” Meachem grunted.

“What?” Sherwood asked.

“It seems they still kept the case open for a while, nonetheless. As suspicious. Until they checked out a couple of other angles…”

“What kinds of angles?” Sherwood asked. He felt a tremor of hopefulness pick up.

Meachem flipped the page. “One was that Greenway’s wife apparently didn’t seem to think vodka was her husband’s drink of choice. She said he was always a scotch guy. ‘Johnnie Walker, all the way…’ ”

“And the other?” Sherwood pressed.

“The other, it says here”-Meachem turned the page-“was something the ME discovered. In the victim’s stomach. Must have been fairly recent to the time of death because it hadn’t degraded…”

“What did he eat?”

“Not eat,” the Vegas detective said, clarifying, “ swallowed . It was half of a dollar bill. There’s even a photo here…”