Bliss Page 3

  Currently, I amended in my head, but said nothing. I just smiled and nodded.

  “Just a person of interest then.”

  He shrugged. Fair enough, I told myself. The guy is trying to make nice this time. I wonder what he wants.

  He tapped the file folder.

  “We have the coroner’s report.”

  “Ah.”

  “The findings are: heart failure, consistent with oxygen deprivation—and bruising on the face and around the mouth, consistent with something being held down over the victim’s face.”

  “So,” I said, “not consistent with suicide.”

  “That’s right.”

  I nodded. No one could hold something over their nose and mouth to the point of death. If they tried, they would simply pass out, and then, as their arm muscles relaxed, the pressure would diminish and they would be able to breathe again.

  After a silence, the detective continued.

  “You knew the deceased, and—I was wondering if you might have anything to suggest—I mean, to add to that.”

  “Really!” I was genuinely surprised.

  The detective did not react and, after considering, I nodded.

  “What have you done so far?”

  The detective shifted slightly in his chair.

  “Well, we’re holding his roommate, Horst.”

  “Really! Why?”

  “Well, he was the only one there, wasn’t he? We have the videotape of the security camera on that floor. No one entered or left that unit until you arrived in the afternoon.”

  “Huh.” I considered. “But the door was only one way to enter the unit. Remember the balcony.”

  The detective smirked slightly. “Yes, we have considered that. We interviewed the people living in the unit directly below. There was someone present during the estimated time of death, and no visitors. Also, there is a camera in the stairwells near the door that leads to the roof. And those are security doors with an alarm.”

  I nodded, then considered. “What about someone climbing up several floors, from balcony to balcony, or climbing onto the roof from another top floor balcony and then down?

  “Kind of a stretch, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  The detective let out a small sigh and tapped the table with his pen. “You know, it does seem like you might be going out of your way to suggest anything but the obvious.”

  “Which is?”

  “The roommate, Horst.”

  “And why would I do that? Why would I try to protect him?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but I had the impression that there was some kind of sympathy between you two.”

  Fuck and damn!

  I felt my face heat up, and took a careful deep breath. This cop was right, of course. And, further, it showed he was more perceptive than I had thought. But the idea itself I found infuriating. I felt my anger building, but fixed the man with a steady gaze.

  “I used to be a cop,” I said, keeping my voice even. “And I don’t protect murderers.”

  It was the detective’s turn to blush. He also bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement of my point.

  “How well do you know the man?”

  “What? Horst? I met him for the first time yesterday.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, in a tone that wasn’t challenging, just thoughtful. I kept hold of my temper.

  He shifted again in his seat, and cleared his throat.

  “The thing is, this man—Horst Ingram—isn’t being cooperative.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “He seems to have a chip on his shoulder about the police.”

  “Well,” I said quietly, “I can’t imagine why.”

  The detective shot a suspicious glance at me, but I kept my face blank. Still, it must have brought back memories of my jibes yesterday, for he seemed to grow angry.

  “You know,” he said icily, “the only reason we’re not holding you is that the security tape shows you arrived after the time window of the coroner’s estimation of death.”

  “Fair enough—officer.” I spoke with an even tone, but I also emphasized the last word and deliberately lisped the “s” sound in the same languid, insinuating manner I had used previously. Solomon must have been unsettled already, for I saw a spasm of outrage pass across his face.

  But it didn’t last long. With a clear effort he mastered himself, and again, I had to admit that I was impressed.

  “Well,” I said in a dismissive voice. “I wish you all the luck in the world with your person of interest. I am certain that if you show him the same degree of courtesy you’ve shown me, you will get the response you—well, deserve.”

  Detective Solomon stared, and as I started to rise, slapped the top of the table with the flat of his hand.

  “One minute!” he snarled, and then closed his mouth firmly, breathing in sharply through his nose. It was interesting to watch, and not entirely unattractive. I was struck as before with the conviction that the man wasn’t really a nasty person. He was just—frustrated. And his way of dealing with frustration was that typical of young bucks: bravado and aggression.

  I sat down again and watched as he recovered his equilibrium.

  “There’s something else,” he said.

  “Ah.”

  “Motive.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know that Quentin was quite wealthy, yes?”

  I nodded. “He was a trust fund baby. Not a happy fate.”

  “Really?” The detective was incredulous.

  “Yes, really. I’ve seen more souls lost because of an excess of unearned money in my time. It destroys initiative, warps any sense of meaning and orientation in their lives.”

  The detective only grunted at this.

  “And we have gotten a hold of his will.”

  I said nothing.

  “He left his estate, equally divided between eight individuals—all people he terms friends.”

  “Oh.” I began to experience a sinking feeling. “And?”

  “And—both you and Horst Ingram’s names are on that list.”

  I lowered my head and closed my eyes.

  “Does that surprise you?” the detective continued.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. Poor Quentin! I thought. He meant well, but really, I didn’t want his money—quite apart from being convinced that I didn’t deserve it. In fact, it was the first time that I really felt, first hand, the burden that money could be.

  “What?” I said, shaking my head to clear it. “Surprise me? No. Not really. I think I told you: Quentin was an odd sort of guy. Almost nothing he might do would really surprise me.”

  “Did you know that you and Mr. Ingram were included in his will?”

  I raised my head and looked at the detective sharply. He reacted by smiling in a satisfied manner, thinking he was onto something.

  “No, no, no!” I said wearily. “I didn’t even know he had a will. I mean, he was only in his early thirties. And he had sometimes talked about giving his money away when it came to him on his twenty-fifth birthday. It embarrassed him—among other, more pernicious effects.”

  I was well aware how there was no way to prove anything I had said. Plus, it gave weight to the idea that Horst had been responsible for Quentin’s death, and that I might be in league with him. I groaned and held my head.

  The detective said nothing further, and when I had recovered, I sat up and looked at him calmly.

  “Officer,” I said, quietly and without the lisp, “I revoke my consent to this interview. If you have anything else to ask me, you must read me my rights, first.”

  The detective, who had turned red during this speech, opened his mouth, and closed it again. Then he lowered his head and massaged his forehead, shielding his eyes. He gave a low groan and murmured, “Very well.”

  I got up and left the room.

  The fact that he had not added, “You may leave,” struck me as a good sign. Clearly the man was discouraged an
d hesitant to be especially aggressive. I began to think there was hope for him after all.

  But I was also very worried about Horst. Had he done something to my friend? Somehow, I just couldn’t see it, and I usually had good intuition about such things. And, besides that, what really bothered me was the fact that there were others things, odd things that just didn’t make sense. And I had hoped to be brought into the case, and yet I kept getting onto the wrong foot with this young detective.

  And what bothered me about that, was that with each interaction I found myself liking him more—despite everything.

  * * * *

  The next day I woke up angry—which always annoys me. Having intense negative emotions before I even get my thoughts going, is something I consider unfair. But there they were, images in my mind from of the meeting with Detective Solomon, the most unpleasant moments—and, consequently, their associated emotions.

  With a groan I sat up, put my feet on the floor, and with my eyes closed, set about calming myself. I managed this by focusing on my breathing—slowly, in and out. After doing this for some minutes, my mental processes had calmed sufficiently that I could think rationally. Immediately, my mind returned to those unpleasant images and their associated reflections.

  Much of my annoyance was directed towards myself. The detective had been arrogant and hostile, but at the same time seemed to have been asking for my help, and perhaps almost willing to ask me to join the case. And in return I had set him off, and myself. Damn!

  The result was that now I both wanted and didn’t want to help in the investigation. I wanted to help find out what had happened to my friend and, because of the emotional residue from yesterday, I wanted Detective Solomon to fail in this case. The man fairly radiated desperation, which of course made him more arrogant, and not in an attractive way.

  Except for the fact—the annoying fact—that part of me was a little attracted.

  Damn!

  What now? Well, I could do some work on my own. On the other hand, I knew from firsthand experience that a pissed-off cop can come up with all sorts of ways to make things hard for a private investigator.

  Shaking my head, I got up and had a long shower. I was just finishing my breakfast when I got a call from Captain Harper, my old boss at the station. When I saw who it was, I accepted the call and started the conversation with our usual ribaldry.

  “Hello, Mike! How are things hanging?”

  There was a low chuckle from the other end.

  “Limper and limper,” came Harper’s deep, slightly lugubrious voice. Eleven years my senior, I had always looked up to him—in more ways than one. I knew he enjoyed a modest level of impropriety, and it felt good to hear his amused tones.

  “Probably due to my absence,” I suggested.

  The captain tut-tutted, but then chuckled.

  “Things okay with you and Carol?” I continued, putting a tone of forlorn hope into my voice. This got a laugh from him.

  “Now you stop, Ian! This is an official call.”

  “Oh, yes? What have I done now?”

  A longish pause told me that the captain was preparing himself to discuss a prickly subject—and of course I knew what the subject was.

  “I guess it’s about Detective Solomon? The Smith case?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And—what?”

  Another pause, then, “Any chance you could give the guy another chance? He’s not a bad sort, really. I know he’s got a few issues—to use the term that’s so in use these days.”

  “I’d say more than a few.” I decided to allow my annoyance full play. “The guy’s a jerk, Mike.”

  “Mmmm—maybe you’ve got a point, but you don’t have the full picture. The kid has potential.”

  “Really?” I was surprised. If Mike Harper thought a junior detective had potential, then there was probably something in it. He had, after all, been the person who had seen that in me.

  “Yes. What do you think?”

  “Don’t know. All I’ve seen is jerk.”

  “All the more reason to give the guy another chance. You might be surprised.” A pause. “Look, I’ve had a talk with him. I told him that he could learn a lot from you. He’s eager, Ian, wants to learn, and he’s got lots of energy; it’s just not well-directed yet.”

  “Or controlled.”

  “Mmm. I think directed is a better term in this case: guide rather than suppress, you know?”

  “I guess.” I considered. “Okay, Mike. For you, and because I want to see if you’re right about him having something.”

  “Great! Could you come down, ASAP? He’ll be here. He’s a challenge, but I have great confidence that you’ll be able to handle him.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Half an hour.”

  As I got dressed, I thought about the last part of Mike’s comment. “Well,” I told myself, “I guess we shall see.”

  * * * *

  At the station I was shown to the same interrogation room. I noticed that the little red lights on the two cameras hanging from the ceiling were off. That was a good sign. Maybe off-camera the detective would be less of a jerk. I sat down and waited, but again, in less than a minute, the door opened.

  At first, I thought he was someone else. The man who entered was wearing a police uniform, and wearing it well. Even when I recognized him as Detective Solomon, it seemed that the man had a different air about him—though I admitted to myself that this might be due to the uniform. The problem was that I couldn’t really be objective, for I have a thing for men in uniforms. The thrill I experienced now was a forceful reminder of this. It made me feel distinctly vulnerable, and that I had lost some kind of high ground. And I feared that the detective, having learned of my susceptibility, had worn the uniform deliberately.

  Nevertheless, as the man stood there, my eyes traveled up and down him appreciatively. I just couldn’t help myself. The detective seemed aware of this scrutiny, for he looked down at himself. Rubbing the sleeve of one arm, he murmured, “I was just at a funeral.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes,” he said, rubbing the sleeve of the other arm now in a self-satisfied and most distracting fashion. “I guess I’ve gone a bit law enforcement today.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. One of our own.” He seated himself opposite me.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, and meant it. The death of a cop still does something to me.

  He sat back, shifting his position in the chair. “Yes, it’s tough, but what can you do?”

  I nodded, and then, because of the sensations provoked by this uniformed masculine presence in front of me, I couldn’t help saying, “Except, judging from your sartorial display, you might have said you had gone military.”

  “Military?” He looked at me, puzzled.

  “Well, haven’t you?” I said, my face slightly flushed. “I noticed it when you came in.”

  The detective, holding up his arms slightly, again looked down at himself as if searching for a rip in his clothing. Suddenly he started and reddened, and when he looked up again, didn’t look directly at me, but cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

  “You mean ‘going commando,’ I guess,” he said in a constricted voice.

  “Funny thing to do for a funeral,” I added with quiet maliciousness. “I mean, no undershorts.”

  The detective’s flush deepened, which suggested he had deliberately dressed to provoke. Strangely, I found myself reacting to this, and the information, with a surge of intense arousal. I even felt slightly flattered.

  I added, “Though I have to say, it does present you in a more impressive light.”

  This remark made the cop reach down and adjust himself. He apparently did this without deliberation, for when he had his hand down there, he froze for a second, as if aware of being caught in the act of something improper. I had to suppress a smile. I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all. That sort of adjustment, when a guy is “going commando,” generally has to do wi
th comfort, and that means that things have shifted down there, due to blood flow.

  The detective brought his hand up again with a slow, deliberately casual motion. Then, clearing his throat, he tapped the file folder on the table before him.

  “Just to keep you up-to-date on the case,” he said. “We’ve examined the videotape of all security cameras for the day in question. We have more or less ruled out anyone unusual entering or leaving any unit, or the building itself.”

  “More or less?”

  He shrugged. “We’re still chasing down a few people. It’s a high-class condominium, a lot of people are middle aged, and don’t have people coming and going much.”

  I nodded. “I’m impressed,” I said, and meant it. “That’s a lot of people.”

  My accolade made the detective swell slightly with pleasure. “We had a team of uniforms on it.”

  “Huh,” I murmured. Then an unpleasant thought struck me. “So, I’m guessing you’re going to charge Horst with the crime now?”

  The detective studied me. “Well, we’re thinking of doing that.”

  But you’re hesitating, I thought. Which is all to the good.

  “I guess the evidence so far has been circumstantial. Though, as you said, you do have motive. What’s he saying?”

  The detective shook his head. “The man’s still not cooperating.”

  I frowned. “Did you ask him to do a polygraph test?”

  “Yes. He refused.”

  “Ouch! That’s not very positive.”

  “Yes, but, as you know, we don’t want to charge the guy without sufficient evidence to convict, hoping for further evidence down the road. And we can’t hold him much longer. On the other hand, he might be a flight risk.”

  I shrugged. “Why don’t you take away his passport?”

  The detective shook his head. “It’s a big country. People sometimes just—disappear. We don’t want that to happen here.”

  I considered. “So, what? He’s said nothing whatsoever?”

  “That’s right. Except for the statement he gave to Detective Hayberry at the scene. After that he just clammed up.”

  “And what did he say in the statement?”

  The detective looked grim, and extracted a piece of paper from the folder and turned it for me to read.