John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

I woke up before dawn and drank a glass of water while staring out the window. A torrential downpour — rain bouncing off the street. The window was open and the black curtains were filled with wind, swelling, and I looked at my reflection in the top section of the windowpane between the wind-parted curtains and thought of Elaine staring at my reflection in the windowpane at her house in the room where she’d found Gerald’s dead body, lying on the couch, with a knife in his chest. She was with her lover somewhere, and they were both in on the murder. What else could’ve happened? It was the only explanation that made any sense, I thought, staring at my own weak reflection. I knew she fled because of her involvement in the murder but I couldn’t help but think she’d disappeared under the impossible pressure of my desire. Somehow, even though I hadn’t said anything, she knew I loved her — so she fled, I thought. Temporarily, time and space made sense because I was in love. Or, rather, I thought I was in love, I thought. But she’s gone now, I thought, and I’ll never find her. The rain was loud like loud static and I tried to ignore the ghost of my image and concentrate on the water bouncing off the street, instead of my transparent reflection. I’m a huge sucker, I thought, an irremediable sucker.

I knew there was no way I was going to sleep so I worked on my notes. The insoluble is what keeps me going, I thought, it’s what keeps detectives going, knowing our work is never done, never good enough. I decided I’d go see Bouvert and Adamson in the morning and find out if I could get anything on the supposed quote unquote Adam and see if anyone, anyone at all, involved with Gerald had killed themselves in the last year or so. Also, I’d stop by the flower shop and check in on Darren. He said he had to work in the a.m. I’d bring him a Gatorade or something, I thought. I worked on my notes and drank tea till the break of dawn, then I drank black coffee and showered and shaved and put on a jacket and tie.

Before walking to Chez Marine I drank another cup of black coffee and stopped at the corner store and bought Darren a blue Gatorade so he could hydrate. The boutique de fleurs takes only about ten minutes to get to on foot from my place. The streets were sunny and bright but I was wearing sunglasses. I was hungover but wired. I walked with the cold blue Gatorade in my hand and debated opening it and taking a sip but didn’t. It was for Darren, I thought. I approached the boutique and saw myself in the glass storefront, holding the cold blue drink, and sunlight reflected back. I walked in and a small bell rang, quietly, and a woman with dark straight long hair looked up from cutting flowers and smiled.

‘ Bonjour ,’ she said, and I said ‘ Bonjour ’ back.

Darren was in the back and spotted me and said, ‘ Julie, c’est mon ami Bob! Bob James! ’

‘Nice to meet you, Bob,’ she said, extending a small hand.

I shook it and nodded. ‘ Enchanté .’

Darren came up to the counter from the back and said: ‘Good to see you, man! How’re you feeling?’

‘Good, good. I brought you something,’ I said, and threw him the blue Gatorade.

He caught it and said, ‘Thanks, man! I really need to rehydrate,’ and turning to Julie, ‘ On était un peu chaud, mais pas trop! ’

She smiled and nodded. Darren had started gulping down the Gatorade and Julie said, ‘Do you need any flowers today, Bob?’

‘I think I’m good today, for the moment at least.’

‘They give him headaches,’ said Darren, taking a break from his drink.

‘I’m sure they don’t all give him headaches.’

‘What are those ones called?’ I said, pointing to the ones she’d been cutting, the ones she’d been cutting when I walked into the store and she’d looked up from her task at the sound of the small bell.

‘ Lis . Don’t you know lis ?’

‘Lilies, yes,’ I said. ‘Clearly not always by sight but I know them. I bought some from you the other day, over the phone — I ordered some. That’s how I met Darren.’

‘You asked for a ride with Darren. I recognize your voice from the phone.’

‘I recognize yours, too. Anyway, sorry, I’m not good with the names of flowers. I couldn’t tell a mallow from a hollyhock.’

She smiled and said, ‘You have a very distinct voice. Have people told you that?’

‘Yes, it’s stupid sounding, right?’

‘ Non, juste distincte, une voix distincte .’

‘You’re making him self-conscious,’ said Darren.

‘No she’s not,’ I said, but she was. I stopped talking completely and just looked around at the flowers. It was a nice shop. I wished I could list off the different types of flowers but the only ones I could name by sight were the typical ones, roses and tulips and I thought lilies ( lis ) but I guess not. The smell was wonderful but did slightly hurt my head, but then again I was hungover and over-caffeinated and sleep-deprived.

‘Bob’s a private detective. He’s on a murder case.’

‘ Mon Dieu! ’ said Julie.

‘It’s true. A man was stabbed to death.’

‘That’s horrible!’

‘It is,’ I said. ‘And it’s possible that the wife did it, or might be involved somehow, but she’s disappeared.’

‘So now you’re looking for her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any leads? Clues?’

‘Clues, yes. Leads, no. Not really, no.’

‘Why would she want to kill her husband?’

‘He was rich. She was much younger. The murderer could be a business associate. The murderer could be her — sa femme — but I’m not sure at the moment.’

‘It was her,’ said Darren. ‘It’s the wife.’

‘ Pourquoi? ’ said Julie.

‘ J’ai mes raisons .’

‘ Quelles raisons? ’

‘She fucked over Bob! She gave him the slip! She totally used him!’

‘Darren!’ I said, embarrassed.

‘Well she did!’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘We’re pretty sure.’

‘I’m not sure about anything,’ I said.

‘In this case, maybe you should be.’ His forehead tightened and I became aware of the skull beneath the skin.

We said au revoir to Julie and went to make Darren’s deliveries, before going to see Bouvert and Adamson. Darren looked rough and didn’t say much. ‘You holding in there?’ I asked, as he coughed and weaved through traffic, looking dazed and possibly stoned. He looked skinny, I thought, even though I always thought of him as skinny, from the first time I met him, a couple of strange days ago. He was sweaty, too, as he zigzagged between cars. He didn’t answer so I said, ‘Are you okay, Darren?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, removing his hands from the wheel, rubbing his eyes, pressing his palms into his sockets, then heavily returning his hands to the wheel. ‘I’m just hungover and tired. I’ll be fine.’

‘Do you want me to drive?’

‘I thought you didn’t know how to drive.’

‘I know how, sort of, I just don’t.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m fine to drive.’

We pulled up to an office building, where Darren was delivering a bouquet to a secretary, he told me. ‘The guy who ordered it sends bouquets to women all over town. Obviously women he’s fucking,’ said Darren. ‘They’re always attractive.’

He flicked on the hazards and got out and grabbed the bouquet from the back seat. ‘I’ll be fast,’ he said.

‘I’ll wait here.’

I watched him enter the building and explain himself to a security guard and stand by the elevator bank, waiting for an elevator. I turned around and stared at the bouquets in the back seat. The colours were wonderful: the pinks and yellows, the greens and purples; red, dark stigmas and velvety stamens; bright filaments; and petals, thick and rubbery and thin and delicate. The diurnal morning glory and crocus, I thought, though I couldn’t identify either species, and there probably weren’t any in the back seat. On the floor sat Darren’s red and blue knapsack. There was a small black notebook sticking out. I looked toward the lobby to see if he was coming out and then picked up the notebook and opened it up. Inside were random notes, jottings, doodles and poems. I read one and quickly copied it out in my own small notebook, though it slightly confused me. I read and then wrote: