Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

"Okay," he said, nodding. "But I warn you, I'm very good."

"Extreme Prejudice."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's one of my favorite movies. Who directed it?"

"Oh, I didn't realize you were starting." Wallace couldn't help his superior smile. "Walter Hill. Nick Nolte and Powers Boothe were the stars."

"Wow. How about The Hand?"

The same condescending smile. "Early Oliver Stone. Michael Caine is a cartoonist whose hand is severed."

"The Big Heat."

"Fritz Lang. Glenn Ford is the policeman whose wife is killed and he goes after Lee Marvin."

"Do you remember the actress who gets the hot coffee thrown in her face?"

"Gloria Grahame. A marvelous performance." Wallace put his hand over his mouth to stifle a cough. "The films you're asking about- they're all extremely violent."

"I guess that's true," the blond man acknowledged. "It's what I like, though. I wonder what that says about me?"

"This has been extremely entertaining," Wallace said, "but I guess we should get on with it. What am I receiving?"

"Receiving?"

"From the Journal. I assume that in addition to the story, the very least I'm getting is a free subscription. Although that still doesn't make up for the sloppiness, you know." Wallace worried that, because he was in such a good mood, his rebuke wasn't as harsh as it should have been. "That doesn't make up for the kind of mistake this was."

"Do you think I could get a glass of water? Before I tell you what you're getting?"

Wallace stood up, not bothering to hide his annoyance, and went into the kitchen to get the drink. The blond man didn't even look up when he heard a glass drop and break and his host begin to sputter. In a couple of seconds, Wallace came storming back into the living room, staring at the blond man, then turned back toward the kitchen, his mouth open.

"I'm not giving you a free subscription," the blond man in the living room said.

"I'm not either," the second, identical-looking blond man in the kitchen said.

"What is going on here?" Wallace whispered to the second blond, who now stepped through the kitchen doorway into the living room. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

"You were really angry about that obit, weren't you?" the first blond man said.

"I'm not now," Wallace said, stuttering. "It d-d-doesn't really matter."

"What's the pin in Wallace P. stand for? Pissed off?"

"You know," said the blond who'd been in the kitchen, who was still lingering in the doorway, "sometimes when you're angry, it's better just to keep quiet."

"Yes." Wallace nodded quickly. His head bobbed up and down several times. "I understand that now. And that's what I'm going to do. Keep quiet."

"We know," the first blond said. And, smiling politely, he drew out of his jacket pocket an SIG-Sauer with a silencer attached, pulled the trigger once, and shot Wallace P. Crabbe right in the middle of his forehead.

"He sure was surprised to see you," the first blond said.

"They're all surprised to see me," the second one said.

Then the two men smiled at each other and, professionals that they were, began to clean up. Justin was holding the phone to his ear, gripping it tighter than was necessary. It had rung ten times now. He was hoping that the little shit in his spotless, impersonal house would answer the phone, irate at being awakened. He was hoping that Wallace P. Crabbe would give him living hell and then call the East End Harbor police station to register a complaint against him.

He let the phone ring twenty times before burying his head in his hands and bending over in despair. He only hung up when he was certain that Wallace sounded enough like Walrus that Wallace P. Crabbe wasn't ever going to answer the phone again.

"Hey, Westwood."

Justin was sitting at his desk, his eyes closed, doing what he liked best, which was drifting away in his self-created cloud of darkness. The voice jarred his eyes open and he glanced over at the cop at the desk next to his. What the hell is his name again? Westwood thought. Oh, yeah. Got it. Chalk one up for my side.

"What do you want, Brian?"

"I just want to tell you I think you're an unbelievable fucking pussy."

Justin nodded wearily. "Is that right?"

"You let those guys from Middleview push the shit out of you."

"No I didn't. I just didn't push back."

"You think that missing guy is dead. I heard you with the chief. You convinced him you were right."

Justin shrugged. "Well, they didn't believe me. And there was nothing I could do to convince them."

"Bullshit. You just rolled over and played dead."

"Maybe it's because I don't know if I believe me."

Brian didn't say anything to that. He didn't have to. The look of scorn on his face said more than enough.

"Westwood."

This time it was the other one, Gary. Justin looked up at him but didn't bother to respond.

"What's the deal with the chief and you?" Gary said. He didn't seem to care if Justin was ignoring him.

"What deal is that, Gary?"

"It's like he thinks you're…I don't know what. Like you're special. Like you know stuff." He looked at Justin, took off his silly-looking ultra-cop sunglasses and took a long look. "What is it you know?"

"He don't know shit," Brian said.

Gary kept looking. "Is that right?" he asked, but he wasn't asking Brian. He was asking Justin.

"That's right," Westwood said. "It's the first smart thing I ever heard your little friend say." Then he got up and walked out the door of the station, onto the East End Harbor streets.

As he walked, he thought about the conversation he had had with the Middleview police.

He'd called them the night before, right after he gave up on reaching Crabbe. He explained his fear and the department dispatched two men to check out Crabbe's house. He wasn't there. The house was empty. But there was no evidence of B and E. No blood. No sign of theft or a struggle or that anything violent had occurred. The sergeant at the desk called Justin back, asked him to explain his suspicions, and then said he thought it would be best if they could talk in person. Next, Justin called his chief, filled him in on what was happening. Leggett was nervous. Justin could tell that he wasn't wild about the call to the Middleview force, but he agreed to back Justin, said he'd be at the meeting in the morning. And he was. Two cops from Middleview showed up at the station around nine o'clock. They went into the chief's office and Justin did his best to explain his thought process as calmly and cogently as he could. But as he spoke he realized he didn't have much. Yeah, he had a witness saying that Susanna Morgan had been murdered. But there was no motive and very little physical evidence to back it up. There was a connection between Susanna Morgan and Crabbe, but it was a tenuous one at best. And there was absolutely no proof that anything had happened to Wallace Crabbe other than the fact that he might have decided to stay at his girlfriend's house for the night. Halfway through his explanation, Westwood could feel the two cops tune him out. They weren't buying it. Not enough proof. Too much of a stretch. Absolutely no evidence. And it was all coming from a schmuck walking a one-street-long beat in a basically crimeless town.

So he clammed up. The passion that had come out when he'd explained his theory to Leggett was gone. He finished his story in a quiet monotone, listened as the cops politely said they'd check up on Crabbe and keep Justin informed as the investigation progressed. They had glanced at each other and smiled at the word "investigation."

It was over. Without Wallace Crabbe's body there was nothing.

As the two cops left, he heard one of them say to Brian, "What's the story with that guy?" Brian responded, too low for Justin to hear. Then he heard them all laugh knowingly. One of the cops also said, "Hey, isn't this where that intern's from? The one who's missing in D.C.?" And this time it was Gary who answered, "Maura Greer. Yeah. She was a townie."