Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Forty-Two





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 . . .”

“A dollar bill?” Sherwood dug into his wallet and pulled out one. “Which half . . . ?”

But before the Vegas detective even replied, he knew.

“Which half?” Meachem replied curiously. “Let me see, the half with the pyramid on it; why? Anyway, it seems it never led anywhere. A couple of days later they called it death by suicide and let the matter drop.”

Sherwood couldn’t stop from grinning. He looked at his dollar. He almost felt light-headed. “Sonovaf*ckingbitch!”

The pyramid didn’t mean something, in itself. Except for what was directly above it. Something he’d seen a thousand times and never thought about twice. But now it meant everything.

An open eye.