ARG! The website is still not letting me update. The server that updates hasn't been working and it's been very frustrating. I thank everyone for sticking it out and 'roughing it' as it were. Here's chapter 11, I hope you enjoy! And keep checking the website for up-dates.
http://bleedinghearts.nav.to
Chapter 11
We checked at Mrs. Fields' house once more before we left but there was still no answer. Novak stuck a card in the doorjamb and we made our exit amid Bessie's noisy protests.
"She thinks the kid did it," Novak commented, interrupting my dark thoughts on the chances of our getting back to the office alive.
"Mrs. Haynes?" I asked after my brain caught up.
"Yeah, and so far we've not heard anything that would make me think otherwise. Have you thought about how you're going to feel if it turns out he did do it?"
"It doesn't really matter much to me either way," I said honestly. "I don't even know this kid and he didn't exactly endear himself to me on our first meeting."
"You're doing this for some reason."
"I told you, I'm doing this for my friend's sake. Why are you doing this?"
"Insatiable curiosity," he said with a big grin. He pulled the business card Becky Haynes had given him and flipped it over in his fingers a few times. "We're going right by here on our way back. Need a trim?"
"It is getting a little shaggy, don't you think?"
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but now that you mention it..."
A few minutes later we pulled into the small parking lot for Curl Up & Dye. It was a private home that had been converted into a beauty parlor, the type found in every small town in America. A small sign in the front yard bore the name of the business and a silhouette of a blow dryer and scissors. We walked in and six heads swiveled to stare at us, two of which sported plastic caps and sat under dryers. We were the only males in the room and quite possibly the only ones under 200 pounds.
"We're looking for Nadine Tingle," Novak said. I was impressed. He didn't sound at all intimidated. I was fighting the urge to hide behind him.
One of the ladies stepped forward. She was a large daunting woman with even larger hair that was an unnatural shade of orange. "And who are you?"
"My name is Shane Novak and this is my assistant, Killian Kendall. We need to ask Ms. Tingle some questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"Are you Ms. Tingle?"
"No, I'm Anita Johnson. You got a problem with that?"
I was ready to sound the retreat, but Novak actually seemed to be enjoying himself. "Ma'am, I assure you it's none of my business what you need. I just need to speak to Ms. Tingle."
Anita sputtered and the other ladies tried to hide their guffaws under a sudden coughing epidemic. The back door swung open and a tiny woman with bottle-blonde hair strode into the room. From the looks of things, I would guess she spent a lot of time in a tanning bed; her skin looked like worn leather it was so tanned.
"It's ok, Anita. I'll talk to him."
"Are you Ms. Tingle?" Novak asked.
"Oh please, call me Nadine," she drawled in a husky smoker's voice. On closer inspection she was quite a bit older than my first impression. A web of fine lines bracketed her eyes and lips and her teeth were tobacco stained. "Unless you're the IRS, then you can call me tomorrow."
Novak held out his hand, "Shane Novak, I'm a private investigator. This is my assistant Killian Kendall."
We shook hands, and then Nadine gestured towards the door. "Why don't we step outside? This room has more ears than a bushel of corn and they don't mind telling what they hear."
Everyone pretended not to hear that as we followed Nadine's tight jeans out the door.
"Hope you don't mind if I smoke," she said, as she lit up a cigarette. I hadn't even seen her pull one out; it just appeared in her lips, as if by magic.
"It's your lungs," Novak said easily.
"Amen to that. I'm so tired of the government trying to tell me what I can and can't do with my own body," Nadine said as she blew a stream of smoke straight up into the air. "So what do you want to talk about? This something to do with Ira?"
"Good guess. What can you tell us about him?"
"About Ira? Ha! Not much. Not much good anyways. Mean son of a bitch. Meaner than a hog-nosed snake. And a drunk to boot. And he weren't no happy drunk neither."
"Weren't you dating him?"
"Honey, I haven't dated anyone since I was 20. Dating is a young person's game. We met certain needs for one another."
"And what needs were they?"
"Some things a lady just doesn't talk about."
Novak smiled knowingly. "What about his son, Caleb?"
"What about him? Weird kid, he was real quiet. Didn't see him much when I was around. He was always out back somewhere. Prob'ly kept girly magazines in the barn or something."
"Were you surprised that the police think he might have killed his father?"
She thought a moment. "I was and I wasn't. I was surprised that he would have the nerve to do anything as gutsy as kill anyone. He was scared of Ira. Can't say I blame him. Like I said, Ira was mean. And he was especially mean to the boy. That's what I mean by I wasn't surprised. I don't really blame him if he did kill him. My only question is: what took him so long?"
"So you are comfortable with the idea of Caleb committing this murder?"
"Comfortable? Who'd be comfortable with a thing like that?"
"I meant you think he did it."
"Oh, well that's something else entirely. I don't know. That's not for me to decide, now is it?"
"Is there anyone else who would have wanted to kill Ira?"
She snorted and a puff of smoke shot out her nostrils. She was a lady alright. "Sugar, just list all the people who ever met the SOB and you'll know who's wanted to kill him at one time or another."
"What about right now? Who would have wanted him dead at this particular time?"
She took one last drag on the cigarette and flicked it away with a practiced gesture. "Now I'm not saying anything one way or the other, understand? But have you talked to the folks down at the Ease Inn where he worked?"
"No, is there any reason you would mention them?"
"You could say things weren't real good between them lately."
"And why was that?"
She smiled, "That's your job to find out, now isn't it?"
Novak smiled back, I swear he seemed to be reveling in the banter. "I suppose it is. And who might I ask for when we visit the Ease Inn."
"You might ask for Prince Charming but God knows you won't find him there. Ask for Phil Zaranski. He runs the place. I gotta get back inside now. I got Ethel under the blower and her hairs as brittle as dry spaghetti. I can't leave her too long. We're done, aren't we?"
"We're done," Novak agreed, "And may I just say that it has been a pleasure indeed."
"You wanna come in and say good-bye to Anita?" Nadine said with her hand on the knob and a wicked grin on her face.
"That's one pleasure I can do without."
She turned with a cackle and went inside.
Novak dropped me off at home since Adam had driven me to work that morning. He would have come picked me up as well, but Novak insisted it was on his way. I had barely closed the door before Steve grabbed me from behind in a huge bear hug.
"Uh, it's great to see you too," I choked out.
"I settled on the house today!" he laughed, "You're looking at the proud owner of one of the finest examples of 19th century architecture in the state!"
"That's great! Congratulations, Steve!"
"Don't go anywhere; we're going out to celebrate. Adam, Killian's home, let's go!"
Adam padded into the hallway barefoot and wearing his working glasses, "I'm in the middle of this project and I need to get it finished. You two go on without me."
Steve frowned, "Adam, it's a celebration dinner. I'd really like you to be there. The job can wait. Come on."
"Fine," Adam said with a sigh. "Let me get my shoes on."
We drove to a wonderful little Mexican restaurant that was a favorite of ours. It was an unpretentious, intimate place with great authentic food, live music and the cheesiest decorations you can imagine. Purple and pink sequined sombreros hung on the wall between papier-mâché burros and strings of plastic chili's. We went there often enough that the waitresses knew us by sight and when they heard we were celebrating they brought us a round of sangria on the house.
Steve prattled on excitedly about the house as we munched nachos and homemade salsa while waiting for our entrées. Adam was noticeably quiet. I tried to cover for his conversational absence by being overly effusive, but it was painfully obvious. Steve's enthusiasm began to flag as the tension built. I decided drastic action was called for.
"You know the Cohen murder case that's all over the news?" I asked casually.
"Is that the one where the police think that boy killed his father?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"With an ax, right?"
"Uh, yeah." I took a deep breath. "Well, Asher knows the kid, they're friends. He doesn't think he did it. So he, uh..." I suddenly wasn't so sure this was such a bright idea.
"He what?" Adam said, speaking what I think were his first words since he'd placed his order.
"He, uh, asked me to, uh, kinda look into it."
Adam picked up his wine glass and drained it in one gulp.
"And I assume you said no," he said calmly after he'd set his glass back down.
"Well, not exactly," I said with a growing sense of trepidation.
He grabbed Steve's sangria and slammed it back.
"Novak is working on it with me," I said quickly, "It's nothing dangerous. We're just asking some questions."
"I've heard that before," he said heatedly.
"It's good training for me."
"Training? Training? Dealing with a dangerous psycho who chops people up with an ax is training?" His voice was climbing with every word and a few people were turning to stare.
"Adam, calm down," Steve said soothingly and Adam threw him a murderous glare.
I rushed on, trying to diffuse the situation before it exploded, "If Caleb did kill his dad then he's in jail and he can't hurt me, right? And if he didn't do it, shouldn't someone be trying to figure that out?"
"Someone like the police, maybe?" Adam snapped. "This is dangerous, plain and simple. Novak is a trained investigator and an adult. If he wants to risk his life that's his business, but you're just a kid!"
Bang.
"I'm not a kid," I said angrily. I was beginning to lose my cool. "I have to learn somehow. This is what I want to do with my life. It's my decision, not yours."
"Nothing is my decision anymore," he shouted. More people turned to watch the floor show. The guitar player played on, oblivious to the drama unfolding before him.
"Both of you, calm down," Steve tried again.
"I will not calm down, damn it!" Adam growled through gritted teeth, "I'm sick and fucking tired of being calm while my life spirals out of control. I don't feel calm and I'll be damned if I'm going to pretend to be calm just to keep from embarrassing you."
He stood up abruptly, shoving the table back as he did and toppling his chair. Steve water tipped over sending a cascade of cold liquid into his lap and making him leap to his feet as well. This time even the guitarist took notice and stopped playing with an astonished look on his face. The owner of the restaurant, a barrel-chested, animated little man, came rushing out of the back as Adam stormed out of the restaurant.
"Is everything ok?" the owner asked in a heavily accented voice.
"Apparently not," Steve said grimly. He pulled his wallet out and tossed a wad of cash onto the table. "That should cover everything," he said and followed Adam out the door.
"I'm so sorry," I mumbled, my face hot with embarrassment as I rushed to make my exit as well.
I could hear them arguing from across the parking lot as soon as I cleared the door.
"What the hell is going on?" Steve was yelling.
"What do you think is going on?" Adam yelled back.
"I don't have the slightest idea! I wish someone would tell me! Ever since I found the house you've been acting like a spoiled brat. You told me I could do this, you know it's been my dream, and yet you can't even be happy for me for one damn night!"
"Yes, this is your dream - your dream! Not mine. And yet you're expecting to me to just drop my life, move out of my home, give up my business, and for what? For what?"
Steve looked like he had been slapped. "I thought when I moved in with you that we shared our lives. I thought it was our house, our dreams. I've never expected you to give up anything. Maybe it would be better if you just stayed in your house." He started backing slowly away.
"Maybe it would," Adam snapped. He yanked open the car door and jumped inside. Steve turned and started back for the restaurant.
"Where are you going?" I asked him.
"I'm calling a cab," he muttered darkly.
I watched him walk inside and then ran across the parking lot and got into the car, which Adam had idling. He pulled away without a word. The drive home was quiet and tense. When we pulled into our driveway Adam was out of the car almost before it stopped moving. He banged into the house and disappeared into the den. I didn't follow him, deciding that it would be safer for all involved (namely me) if I stayed out of his way for now.
Steve must have stayed at a hotel or a friend's, because he didn't come home that night. I thought about their fight long into the night, wondering if they were going to break up or if they would somehow pull through this. I also thought about Asher and I, and wondered if we had done all we could to salvage our relationship. Had we given up too easily?
I finally drifted off somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. I definitely wasn't ready to get up when the alarm went off a few hours later, but I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. I was moody all morning at work; snapping at telephone solicitors and generally taking my frustrations out on the office equipment.
Finally Novak had enough. "Ok, let's go," he said as he breezed out of his office after I'd kicked the jammed copier for the third time that day.
"Where are we going?" I asked in confusion.
"We're getting you out of here before you destroy the office," he joked.
"Are we going anywhere in particular?"
"Does the Ease Inn ring any bells?"
"That where Ira Cohen worked."
"Bingo. We're going to pay a little visit to Mr. Zaranski."
The Ease Inn was not what you would call a quality establishment. Once upon a time, perhaps, it might have been a respectable motel, but these days it was simply a run-down, rather seedy affair that catered to druggies, hookers and those unfortunate souls who find themselves fallen on hard times. It was the type of place your mama warns you about.
The motel itself is shaped like a horseshoe with the office occupying a separate cottage-like building in the center. Everything was squat and dingy, built of cinderblock and once painted a light blue that had faded and peeled in places to reveal the white base-coat underneath. As we pulled into the parking lot Novak laid out the game-plan.
"Ok, when we get in you stay quiet. We want him to notice you as little as possible. In fact, I won't even introduce you. I'll get him talking, get him to give us permission to look around, then I'll distract him. I want you to nose around."
"What am I looking for?"
"Anything and everything; specifically anything that looks interesting, anything you think looks out of place or stirs your curiosity. You're a smart kid; you'll know it when you see it. You've got a knack for this stuff."
I glowed at the praise but wished I was as confident in my abilities as he was.
A loud, annoying buzzer sounded when we opened the office door. A moment later, an inner door swung open behind the counter and a disheveled man appeared. He was not quite old enough to be called middle-aged but he looked like he'd passed his half-way point a long time ago. He was painfully thin with a receding hairline, a pasty parlor, and bloodshot eyes. He looked like he'd forgotten to shave that morning and maybe every morning for the last week. He eyed us suspiciously but didn't say anything. I guess we weren't his usual caliber of customer. Or maybe he thought I was turning trick and Novak was my john. Then again, maybe he wasn't thinking anything. The last one seems the most likely now that I think about it.
"We're looking for Phillip Zaranski," Novak said.
"What for?" the man asked nervously. I suppose one didn't get asked for by name very often in his line of business.
"Are you Mr. Zaranski?" Novak countered.
"Maybe, who're you?"
"We're looking into the murder of Ira Cohen." Novak was the master of evasion.
"I thought you boys had the killer. The papers said his kid did it."
"We're tying up some loose ends. We understand Mr. Cohen worked here, is that correct?"
"Yeah, you could say that. He worked the night-desk a few nights a week; so I could have off."
"Do you own the motel?"
"Me? Ha! Not hardly. It's owned by some outfit out of Baltimore. I just manage the place."
"Would you mind if we took a quick look around?"
He frowned, "What for? Do you have, like, a warrant or something?"
Novak laughed, "You've watched too much TV, Mr. Zaranski. We were hoping you'd be cooperative and we wouldn't need anything like a warrant. After all, if you've got nothing to hide what harm could it do?"
"Yeah, ok, I guess you're right," he conceded reluctantly. He raised a section of the counter and stepped back to allow us back.
Novak gave me a slight signal towards the backroom with his eyes before he turned to Zaranski. "Why don't you take me step by step through the sign-in process and then show me the logs for the last week Mr. Cohen worked," he said.
I slipped into the backroom practically unnoticed. It was as shabby and pathetic as the rest of the place. An unmade bed sat in one corner. The opposite corner held a small, unsanitary looking kitchenette, barely more than a hotplate, microwave and a dorm-style refrigerator. A beat-up recliner was parked in front of a newish-looking television set next to the bed and a desk took up the rest of the space. I headed straight for the desk.
It was a large metal institutional-style desk with 3 drawers down each side. On its scarred top sat three security monitors. One showed a view of the front room, with Novak and Zaranski still bent over the counter. One was trained on the back parking lot and the last was pointed right down at what I assumed was the back door of the office.
I pulled open the first drawer but there was only a stack of unused receipt books, pens, pencils, rubber bands and paper clips. The next held a series of unremarkable folders. I didn't take the time to look through them but they looked fairly ordinary. The next few drawers were much the same. The last drawer was locked. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I realized that this was what Novak was talking about. I knew there was something in that drawer. I scanned the top of the desk again. My eyes fell on a set of keys sitting on the corner of the desk. I glanced towards the door, but the drone of Zaranski's voice continued punctuated occasionally by questions from Novak.
I grabbed the keys and flipped through them as quickly as possible for the one that would open the drawer. I found a likely candidate and slipped it into the lock. I almost let out a yelp of joy when I felt it turn. I slid the drawer open. I felt my stomach drop. It held a couple Hustlers and a bottle of cheap whiskey. I pushed the magazines aside and felt the flutter of excitement return. Under the porns sat a small remote control. Why would someone lock a remote in a drawer?
I picked it up and looked it over. It was a strange looking remote. It didn't have the usual numbered keypad, just a few unmarked, color coded buttons. I pointed it at the TV and hit one of the buttons. Nothing happened. Then I realized that the security monitors had changed their views. Two now looked onto empty rooms, but the third showed a naked man sitting on the edge of a rumpled bed. An equally unclothed woman knelt on the floor in front of him bobbing busily between his legs.
It took me a few second to figure out what I was looking at. At first I thought I had switched to some cable porn channel. Then it dawned on me that I was looking at three of the motel rooms. Someone had placed hidden cameras in the rooms!
"What the hell are you doing?" Zaranski yelled from the door.