‘Why would a man who had just spent a hard week calling in his debts, and who is fixated on mending his relationship with his daughter, hang himself in a basement just when he’s managed to get some cash together?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, what: he was going to give his daughter the money, or use it to move to Bangor?’
‘Neither,’ said Shaky. ‘If I understood him right, I think he was hoping to hire you to find her.’
He seemed to remember that he still had his coffee. He drank half of what remained in one gulp, and turned an eye to the muffin on my plate. I pushed it towards him.
‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘I’m not as hungry as I thought.’
We spoke for an hour, sometimes about Jude, sometimes about Shaky himself. He’d served in the military, and that was how he had come by his bad arm: it was nerve damage of some kind caused by a jeep tire exploding.
‘Not even a proper wound,’ as Shaky told me. ‘I used to lie about it to make myself sound brave, but it just don’t seem worth the effort no more.’
At the end of our conversation, two things were clear to me: Shaky knew Jude better than almost anyone else in Portland, and he still didn’t really know him at all. Jude had only shared the barest of information about his daughter with Shaky. To Shaky, it seemed as though the more troubles his friend encountered, the more reluctant he was to seek help with them, and that was how men ended up dying alone.
I bought Shaky another maple latte before I left, and he gave me instructions for how best to reach him. As with Jude, he used the Amistad Community and the good folk at the Portland Help Center for such communications. I then drove to South Portland to meet my prospective client at her home, and she gave me details of where her husband was working, where he was living, just how much of an asshole he now was and just how much of an asshole he didn’t used to be. She didn’t want to involve the police for her children’s sake, and she hated her lawyer. I was the least bad of the remaining options, although she did ask if I knew someone who would break her husband’s legs once I had made it clear that this wasn’t something I was prepared to take on, or not without a better reason.
Since I had nothing else to do, I went to visit the errant husband at his office in Back Cove, where he was a partner in some hole-in-the-wall financial advice and investment business. His name was Lane Stacey, and he didn’t look pleased when he discovered that I wasn’t there to give him money to invest. He did some hollering and grandstanding before it became clear to him that I wasn’t about to be intimidated back on to the street. A calm demeanor always helped in these situations; calmness, and having a good forty pounds on the man on the other side of the argument.
Like the Bentley-owning Hyram P. Taylor, Stacey wasn’t a bad guy. He wasn’t even as priapic as Hyram. He was lonely, he missed his wife and kids and he didn’t think anybody else would be willing to have him. His wife had just fallen out of love with him, and he, to a lesser degree, with her, although he had been more willing to keep things going as they were in order to secure a roof over his head and have someone around to nurse him when he caught cold, and maybe sleep with him occasionally. Eventually I ended up having lunch with him at the Bayou Kitchen, where I explained to him the importance of not stalking his wife, and of paying to support his children. He, in turn, confessed he’d been hoping to force her to take him back by starving her – and his kids – into submission, which went some ways toward explaining why his fears that he might not find anyone else to put up with him had some basis in truth. By the time lunch was over I’d secured some guarantees about his future behavior, and he’d tried to sell me on a short-term bond so risky that it was little more than a personal recession waiting to happen. He took my rejection on the chin. He was, he said, ‘optimistic’ about the country’s financial future, and saw only great times ahead for his business.
‘Why is that?’ I asked.
‘Everybody loves the promise of a quick buck,’ he said, ‘and the sucker store never runs out of stock.’
He had a point.
After all, I’d just paid for lunch.
12
A couple of calls gave me the name of the detective whose name graced the file on Jude’s case. It came as both good and bad news. The good news was that I knew the detective personally. The bad news was that I had once kind of dated her. Her name was Sharon Macy, and ‘dated’ might have been too strong a word for the history between us. She’d come into the Bear a couple of times when I was bartending, and we’d had dinner once at Boda on Congress, which was not far from her apartment on Spruce Street. It had ended with a short kiss, and an agreement that it might be nice to do it again sometime soon. I wanted to, and I think she did too, but somehow life got in the way, and then Jackie Garner died.
Sharon Macy was an interesting character, assuming you were content to accept the Chinese definition of ‘interesting’ as resembling a kind of curse. Some years earlier, she was temporarily stationed on an island called Sanctuary out in Casco Bay when a group of hired guns with a grudge came calling, and a lot of shooting had resulted. Macy came through unscathed, but she blooded herself along the way, and had acquired no small degree of respect as a cop with clean kills. As a result she hadn’t been destined to stay in uniform for long, and no one was surprised by her move to detective. She worked in the Portland PD’s Criminal Invesigation Division, and was also heavily involved in the Southern Maine Violent Crimes Task Force, which investigated serious incidents in the region.
Macy’s cell phone was off when I called her number, and I didn’t bother to leave a message yet. She wasn’t at her apartment when I went by, but a neighbor said that she had gone to drop off her laundry at the eco place on Danforth. The guy at the laundromat confirmed that she’d been in, and said that he thought she might be waiting in Ruski’s while he did a fast wash-and-fold for her.
Ruski’s was a Portland institution, opening early and serving food until late. It had long been a destination for those whose working hours meant that breakfast was eaten whenever they happened to want it, which was why Ruski’s served it all day. On Sundays it was a magnet for regulars, including cops and firefighters from anywhere within an easy drive of Portland who wanted somewhere dark and friendly in which to kill an afternoon. It boasted darts, a pretty good jukebox, a shortage of places to sit, and it never changed. It was what it was: a neighborhood bar where the prices were better than the food, and the food was good.
Macy was sitting by the window when I walked up, drinking and chatting with a patrol cop named Terrill Nix. I knew Nix a little because one of his brothers was a cop out in Scarborough. Nix was in his late forties, I guessed, and probably already thinking about cashing out. His hair was thinning, and his face had assumed a default expression of pained disappointment. The remains of a hangover special – hash, toast, eggs, home fries – lay on the plate beside him, but he didn’t look like he was trying to beat down a hard night. His eyes were bright and clear. He could probably see all the way to retirement.
Macy looked like Macy: small, dark, with quick eyes and an easy smile. Damn. I tried to remember why I hadn’t called her again. Oh yeah. Life, whatever that was. And some dying.
Nix spotted me before Macy did, as she had her back to the door. He nudged Macy’s left leg with his right foot to alert her. It didn’t look as though there was anything between them, just two cops who had happened to cross paths in Ruski’s, where cops crossed paths with one another all the time. Anyway, Nix’s wife would have emasculated him and left him to bleed out before decorating the hood of her car with the pieces if she even caught a whiff of another woman on him, not to mention the fact that Nix’s brother had married Nix’s wife’s sister. The whole family would have helped to weigh down his corpse in the Scarborough marshes.
‘Charlie,’ said Nix. ‘Detective Macy, do you know Charlie Parker, our local celebrity PI?’
Macy’s initial surprise at seeing me gave way to a lopsided grin.
‘Yes, I do. We had dinner once.’
‘No shit?’ said Nix.
‘Mr Parker never called for a second date.’
‘No shit?’ said Nix, again. He clucked at me like a disappointed schoolmarm. ‘Hurtful,’ he opined.
‘Uncouth,’ said Macy.
‘Maybe he’s here to make amends.’
‘I don’t see any flowers.’
‘There’s always the tab.’