John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

‘Did you know the Andrewses at all?’ I asked. ‘Did you see them ever come into the office or anything?’

‘Yes, of course. Both mister and missus.’

‘Would they come in often?’

‘Not often, I wouldn’t say, but they were important clients and treated as such. Bouvert would golf with Gerald Andrews from time to time or they’d go for dinner. Elaine Andrews and Bouvert would dine together once in a while, too.’

‘Not Adamson?’

‘He’s not as social.’

‘What else can you tell us about the nature of Gerald and Elaine Andrews’ relationship with Bouvert and Adamson?’

Michelle shrugged. ‘Not much. Like I said, they were important clients — they spent a lot of money at the firm.’

‘Right.’

‘Did you talk to the Andrewses much?’ Darren said.

‘Not really, no. They said hello when they came in and I booked their appointments sometimes but they’d often bypass me and call Bouvert directly on his cell, especially Gerald Andrews.’

‘What’s your general impression of Elaine Andrews?’ said Darren.

‘I’m not sure. She’s beautiful, of course, and seems intelligent, but we don’t talk much. She’s hard to read, I guess.’

‘And Gerald?’

‘Rich and powerful.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know. Intimidating. He was handsome and nice enough to me but again I didn’t have much contact with him.’

‘We appreciate your help,’ I said. ‘Now let’s get you a drink.’

Darren and Michelle and me sat drinking but Michelle didn’t have much more to tell us. Darren looked tired, rough, but seemed happy to be around Michelle. He had gold sparkles underneath his eyes, embedded in the dark circles, from rubbing at his tired eyes after picking at his beer’s green and gold label. I stared out on to the rainy street, thinking about the case, while Darren flirted with Michelle. The puddles were undulating and spitting in the wind and rain and changing colour with the traffic lights. A detective attempts to make sense of both what’s presented to him or her and what’s hidden from plain sight, modestly trying to parse things out, not accept received opinions, while maintaining one’s own dignity; this is why those of us, those of us without power, are detectives, that is to say, we wake up to a world every day that has all sorts of plans for us and we spend our time figuring out said plans, battling the day, till we’re too tired and need drink and/or love to put us to sleep again. This is what a detective does, I thought. Michelle had one vodka-cranberry and then left. Darren and I needed to come up with a plan.

‘So what should we do?’ said Darren.

‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ I said.

‘And …?’

‘Well, we’ll get there first. Stake it out.’

‘We should probably pick up your gun.’

‘I don’t own a gun.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a camera?’

‘Yes.’

‘We should get photos of the payoff.’

‘Right.’

‘Also, man, we need some sort of weapon. They’ll all be packing, for sure.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘I don’t know. What do you have?’

‘A Louisville Slugger. A block of kitchen knives. You?’

‘Some old golf clubs, I guess, and a baseball bat, too. We have a nail gun in the back of the boutique.’

‘Great. Let’s collect our gear.’

‘Okay,’ said Darren.

We went to my place first, since it was on the way to chez Darren and Chez Marine. Darren waited in the car out front while I ran in to get the baseball bat and camera and anything else I could find. I ran up the three small flights of stairs and dug around in my pockets for my keys. I was fumbling and flustered. While inserting my key into the lock I was greeted from behind with an X26 Taser buried in my side. I was down on the ground in a second, neuromuscularly sedated with 50,000 volts, and once again in cuffs. The cops had me in the back of a squad car before I knew what was happening; for a moment I thought I’d had a heart attack and/or a stroke.

Sitting handcuffed to a chair, I thought, I spend an inordinate amount of time handcuffed to chairs . They left me in the interrogation room alone for at least twenty minutes, which is pretty much sop. Sometimes they make you wait much longer but O’Meara had a rendezvous with the Devil, I thought, or Devils , plural, or at least with some real bad assholes, so he couldn’t waste too much time. Still, he wasn’t there to attempt to intimidate me right away and left me sitting there restrained, still rattled from the 50,000 volts. On the car ride to the station one of the officers asked me if I’d ever had a taste of an X26 before and I said, ‘Why would I have?’ He told me that in the academy he’d volunteered to be shot up with electricity and had been OC-sprayed, too. ‘Like pepper-sprayed?’ I said, and he said yes and said that OC was an abbreviation for Oleoresin Capsicum . I asked him which was worse, the X26 or the spray, and he said they were both bad but before both they took away his service weapon and that if he’d had it after the Taser he would’ve shot the cadet who’d Tased him and if he’d had it after the pepper spray, he would’ve shot himself. ‘The academy sounds like a gas,’ I said, and we stopped talking for the duration of the ride.

O’Meara entered the room carrying a phonebook and we both knew what that was about. He kicked the door shut behind him and walked swiftly over to me and whacked me across the face with the book. It hurt so badly that I instantly tasted blood and felt sick.

‘Okay, okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hit me with that again. What the fuck’s your problem?’

‘Rick, you know damn well what’s my problem.’

‘Me?’

‘Bingo.’

‘Well, sorry I guess, but his wife hired me.’

‘Yes, I know. You fell for Clytemnestra.’

‘Impressive reference for a flatfoot.’ O’Meara swung the phonebook back, ready to deliver another blow, but I said, ‘Seriously, please don’t do that again. I’m not here to fight.’

‘You’re here because you can’t follow orders and have no respect for authority,’ he said. ‘But authority will simply knock you down when you get out of line. And, Rick, you’re out of line.’ Then, of course, he hit me across the face with the phonebook and for a second I blacked out.

‘Man!’ I said, sniffling, nose bloody. ‘We’ve known each other for a long time and I get it — you’re a cop and I’m a private dick and we don’t like each other — but I was hired by the wife of a murdered man and now you’re beating me up for doing my job.’

‘Rick, you’re horrible at your so-called job.’

‘So be it, so you think. But you don’t need to beat me like a fascist.’

‘Rick, the world is fascist, first off, and secondly, you’re lucky you’re not dead.’

‘Doesn’t feel like it right now.’

‘I want you to leave town.’

‘Can I have till sunup since sundown’s past?’

‘If you don’t leave town you’re dead.’

‘You’re going to kill me?’

‘Someone will. I’m doing you a favour.’

‘What have you got yourself involved in?’

‘Don’t ask questions.’

‘What the fuck’s going on? Who are these people?’

‘Leave town.’

‘Where’s Elaine?’

‘I have no idea but I suspect she’s far, far from here.’

‘Where’s Elaine?’

‘I’m not lying, Rick. I have no idea.’

‘What were you paid for?’

‘What are you implying?’

‘I’m not implying anything, O’Meara. I’m asking you straight: What did they pay you for?’