Читать книгу Deadly Games - Steve Frech - Страница 12

So, it’s no surprise that I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.

I don’t know how long I stared at my phone, but eventually, I started to fall asleep and dropped it on my face, hitting my nose and bringing tears to my eyes.

Don’t laugh. You’ve done it, too, and I’m not in the mood.

I didn’t reply to the pyscho’s text and I’m not going to. It would only give him the chance to further mess with my head.

I slept in fits and starts. Every time I woke up, I was certain I had been asleep for hours, only to check my phone and discover that it had been a few minutes. Then, I would check the news. Around four in the morning, the dam broke.

There it was.

Murder in Avalon! read one headline. Wife of Hedge Fund Manager Found Dead read another, which kind of pissed me off; that their best description of Emily was the “wife of hedge fund manager”. That’s really the best they could do? And on it went. Each article was accompanied by photos of Emily’s smiling face and the exterior of the Seaside Motel. Thankfully, the details of her murder were sparse. She had been discovered by a cleaning lady in the early hours of yesterday morning. There were some mentions of her throat being cut, but nothing about her being found naked on the bed.

Needless to say, I was up and out of bed in minutes. I chugged coffee and watched the local morning news, which didn’t have anything on the murder, yet. The next few hours were spent scrolling through the news but there were no updates. By noon, I realized that I was driving myself crazy. I had to get away from it, just for a bit, and did everything I could to get my mind on something, anything else. I cleaned my apartment. I tried to go for a jog but was nearly run over by a car because I wasn’t paying attention. Then, I went to the gym, only to half-ass a few machines, and walk out.

I’m just going through the motions.

It’s all I can do.

Four o’clock. Time to open The Gryphon.

I’ve done this so many times, it’s become mundane. I could do it in my sleep, but now it’s surreal. Everything looks the same as those hundreds of other times, but feels different, like everyone is watching me. Every window, every alley, every parked car that I can’t see the inside of holds a pair of spying eyes.

The blinking white figure of a stickman tells me it’s safe to cross the street, but I hesitate.

The Blonde is on the other side of the crosswalk, but she doesn’t start crossing. She’s waiting. What is she doing? Is she waiting for The Gryphon to open? She’s never done that before.

No. It looks like she’s waiting for me.

I cross the street and try to avoid eye contact as I step onto the curb to walk past her.

“Clay?” she asks.

I pretend I don’t hear her as I reach the door, extracting my key ring.

“Clay Davis?”

“We open in an hour,” I reply, fumbling with the key.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t get your Stella the other night. I was busy and—”

“No. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She’s obviously not going away, so let’s get whatever this is over with.

“Okay … What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Emily Parker.”

On second thought, let’s not even start this.

“Absolutely not.” I hasten my efforts to open the door.

“Please. Just a few questions.”

“‘Just a few questions’? I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask.

“No, I’m sorry. I totally messed this up,” she says, reaching into her pocket and holding out her card. “My name is Genevieve Winters. I’m with the San Francisco Herald.”

Of course, she’s a reporter. Of course she is. I don’t even reach for the card.

“Not interested.”

“I saw how you two acted towards one another at the bar,” she says.

Get away! Get away from her! my mind screams, which only adds to the trouble with the key. Talking to a reporter isn’t going to help me figure out who killed Emily. It can only get me into more trouble.

“I have nothing to say.”

I’m trying desperately to open the door, but my hands are shaking so bad, that when I attempt one last time to get the key in the lock, it slides off to the side and I stab the glass, thankfully not hard enough to break it. That’s it. She’s got me.

I finally look up.

She’s staring at me like a ravenous cat eyeing a one-legged mouse.

“How well did you know her?” she asks.

“I said I’m not talking to—”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

There’s no use trying to hide the fact that she’s rattled me. I give up with the keys and give her my full attention.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Like I said, I saw you two together. You seemed pretty … friendly.”

“I’m a bartender. ‘Friendly’ is kind of my job.”

“I’ve also heard some things.”

“Have you?”

She nods.

That question pops into my head; the question that changed the dynamic with Detective Mendez: What can I get you? What is it that I can get you that will get me what I want, and what I want to know is where she heard anything?

I take her card and stuff it into my hip pocket.

“Tell me where you heard that.”

“If I tell you, will you answer some questions for me?”

I make a small show like I’m thinking it over. “Sure.”

She smiles triumphantly, confident that she has a story.

“I’ve been asking around. People said you two were friendly. Some people were suspicious that she was having an affair. Even the police know about it.”

I scoff. “The fact that she was found naked in a dive motel wasn’t enough to tip them off that she was having an affair? You are some reporter.”

“How did you know she was found naked?” Genevieve asks.

This is exactly why I didn’t want to start talking to her.

She waits.

“Are you gonna answer my question or—?”

“Nope,” I reply, finally sliding the key into the lock.

“‘Nope’? What do you mean, ‘nope’?”

“I’m not going to answer your questions.”

Her initial shock quickly gives way to anger. “We had a deal.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I’ve gotten what I needed and it’s clear that I know more than she does.

“Are—are you serious?”

“Yep,” I say, opening the door.

She’s royally pissed and not without justification, but I don’t feel sorry for her.

She gives me a furious stare. “You open in an hour?”

“That’s what the sign says.”

“Well, maybe I’ll come back, have a drink, and talk to some of your customers to see what they might know.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you harass them like that. If you come back, I’ll call the cops.”

“Fine,” she fires back, not missing a beat. “Maybe I’ll just have a drink. It’s a free country.”

“Yeah but, see, it’s not a free bar.” I step inside the door.

“You need to talk to me! I can get your story out th—”

“There’s a TGI Friday’s up the road. It strikes me as a little more of your kind of place.”

I close the door and lock it.

There’s a brief staring contest through the glass before she turns and leaves.

Once she’s out of sight, I sprint to the bathroom and vomit.

This is the longest damn shift of my life.

Katie and I have barely said two words to each other. I want to ask her for more details about her talk with Detective Mendez yesterday, but there’s no time for talk and she doesn’t seem very receptive. We’re still putting on our little show for the customers, but the ass-slaps are half-assed, the innuendo is weak, and I’m on a short fuse, which is obvious to all.

Things that I normally let slide are setting me off.

A group of office bros order a round of drinks but only one at a time, which is a massive headache. I make one drink, bring it to them, then they order another drink. If you’re in a group, order your drinks all at once. Good bartenders can work on three or four drinks at a time. They’re going one by one.

“Come on, guys,” I sigh after their fifth drink order. “Let’s act like we’ve been to a bar, before.” That stops them in their tracks. Katie shoots me a look.

Later on, a man studying the bottles in the display asks, “What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got here?”

“You,” I reply.

He blinks like I just slapped him in the face, which I sort of metaphorically did. He walks back to his table, has a quick word with his friends, and they collect their things and leave.

To top it all off, I’m catching snippets of customers talking about Emily’s murder. It’s not much. Not everyone knew her, but there’s enough that I try to discreetly eavesdrop on the conversation, only to find that, like Genevieve, I know more about what happened than they do.

An hour later, a young-looking girl orders a Long Island. I ask for her ID and she hands me this utter monstrosity of a fake. There’s no hologram. The picture is dark and obviously photoshopped. And here’s the secret to spotting a fake ID: a blind person can do it. It’s not how an ID looks, but how it feels. Is it flimsy or hard? When you handle hundreds of IDs a night, you know what a real one feels like in your hand. This thing is as hard as a rock. Avalon is a wealthy town, so we get our fair share of rich kids who have spent a lot of money on fake IDs and I’ve seen some damn good ones, but this is laughable. Normally, I’d hand the ID back, and wish her good luck someplace else, but tonight ain’t that night.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“What is this?” I ask, holding the ID.

Her eyes go wide. “It’s, uh … It’s my ID.”

“Okay, I don’t know how much money you paid for this, little girl, but you should ask for a refund.”

She wilts but for some stupid reason keeps pushing it. “It’s … It’s real.”

I sigh. “The image is shopped and too dark. It’s hard as a rock and there’s no hologram.”

“I—I left it in the wash.”

“Now I’m worried that you don’t understand how a washing machine works.”

“Okay … okay. I’m sorry,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’ll take it back.”

I nonchalantly toss the ID into the trash behind the bar and nod at the door.

“Get out.”

Stunned, she turns and quickly leaves.

Wonderful. I’ve turned into the asshole bartender I’ve always hated.

“Clay?”

Alex is staring at me from the end of the bar. He’s been watching me and obviously doesn’t like what he sees.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

I walk over. “What’s up?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. You want to take a break? I know it’s been a crazy forty-eight hours.”

“No. It’s okay. I don’t need a break.” It’s getting late in the evening and the last thing I want to do is stop working because I’ll start thinking.

“All right,” Alex says, “but if you could do everyone a favor and stop being a jerk, that would be great.”

“She was trying to use a fake ID.”

“I get that, but she’s not the only person you’ve been a jerk to this evening, is she?”

My shoulders drop. There’s nothing to say in my defense.

“Sorry. I’m just on edge.”

“Listen, I know that Mrs. Parker was one of your regulars and these past few days have been kind of crazy and if you need a break to calm down, that’s fine. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

As I turn back to the bar, I catch a glimpse of a lonely figure sitting at a high-top table against the wall across the room.

Genevieve Winters.

She’s sipping a cocktail by herself, eyes locked on me. In front of her on the table is a notepad.

There’s a knot of businessmen two tables over, sizing her up, deciding who’s going to make a move.

How did she get in here without me seeing her?!

Once our eyes meet, she casually glances down and starts writing in her notepad.

“Alex! Alex, hold on.”

Alex halts his retreat to the office.

“What’s up?”

“See that woman sitting over at table twenty-four?”

He glances over and definitely sees her.

“What about her?”

“We have to kick her out.”

“What are you talking about? She’s been here before.”

“She’s a reporter. She was waiting for me when I opened up and started harassing me. She said that she was going to ask customers about Mrs. Parker’s murder. She’s gotta go.”

He takes another look.

“She’s not talking to anyone right now.”

“But she might.”

“We’re not kicking her out. She’s minding her own business.”

“But—”

“Clay, we’re not kicking out someone for calmly having a drink at a table, especially if they’re a reporter. I wouldn’t want her writing about it.”

“She’s a reporter, not a Yelp reviewer.”

“Whatever. If you’re not going to take a break, then you need to calm down, stop being a jerk, and do your job, okay?”

With that, he turns and goes back to the office.

Through the sea of people, Genevieve has been watching my discussion with Alex. She can tell from my expression that she won and gives me a light wave with her fingers.

I fight the urge to wave one finger at her and get back to work.

The hours drag on.

Alex’s little admonishment worked for a time, but the simmering frustration is building into a flame and it’s fanned every time I look over and see Genevieve watching me. She’s been here for six hours. It feels like twelve. Every drink order is tedious. Every special instruction for a martini or a Manhattan is a chore. Every question is inane.

“What do you have on tap?” a customer asks while looking directly at the beer taps.

“What can you make?” a girl asks, which is like asking an accountant what they can “math”.

Business picks up steam. Katie and Tommy are pulling my dead weight. I botch one drink order after another. People are simply yelling their orders at me before I acknowledge them.

“Can I get a beer?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

“Can I get a Jack and Coke?”

I grit my teeth. “One sec.”

“Hey, man! We want to do a round of shots!”

“I’ll get to you in a minute,” I mutter through a clenched jaw.

“Buddy, we’ve been waiting here forever.”

Okay. To hell with this. To hell with Alex. To hell with Katie. To hell with The Gryphon.

“Can I get one of those margaritas you were telling me about?” someone asks behind me.

And to hell with whoever this clown is.

I turn from the beer I’m pouring and look back over my shoulder. “Yeah. Can you hold on for one damn sec—”

Detective Mendez sticks out from the crowd like a sore thumb. He’s short, stocky, alone, and smiling at me like we’re long-time friends.

My heart takes the stairs to my throat.

“S-sure …” I manage to sputter. “Be right there.”

I finish the beer, drop it off, take a breath, and then start his margarita while keeping a side-eye on him as he surveys bar and the crowd.

I take my time. This will be—no, this has to be—the greatest margarita I’ve ever made.

I salt the rim of a glass, then fill it and a shaker with ice. Using the most expensive tequila we’ve got, I pour a shot into the shaker … better make it a double. This would normally be a sixty-dollar drink, but it’s on the house. Alex and the inventory will have to suffer. I add the Cointreau and our own special margarita mix, squeeze a few lime wedges in there, give it a vigorous couple of shakes, and strain it over the ice in the salted glass. After popping a lime wedge on the rim, I set it on the bar in front of him.

“There you have it,” I say. “The Clay Special.”

He regards it with that infuriating neutral expression, but thanks to Genevieve, I know that he knows or at least suspects that Emily was having an affair.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says with a gesture to the crowd. “This place is great.”

“Wait until you try the margarita.” I smile. It’s unnerving how quickly I’ve slipped back into my bartender persona.

He brings the straw to his lips and takes a sip. He leans back and his eyes light up.

“Whoa! That packs a punch.” He takes a second sip. “But it’s really smooth,” he adds before going in for a third sip.

“The trick is to really shake it. It makes it ice-cold and knocks down the heat of the alcohol but not the flavor of the tequila.”

He raises the glass. “Mr. Davis, you are an artist.”

I execute a humble bow as he takes another healthy pull on the straw, and sets the drink on the bar.

“This is the perfect end to the work day,” he says.

“How’s that going?” It’s not the most subtle transition I’ve ever made, but I need to get him talking, and fast. At any moment, I’m expecting Genevieve to come crashing over.

He considers the straw sticking out of the margarita. “I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

Yeah, he probably shouldn’t, but I can tell he really wants to. If he didn’t, he would have looked me in the eye. That’s something you notice on this side of the bar. As I’ve said before; you know more about what someone wants from their body language rather than the words they use.

“I completely understand.” I nod, sympathetically. “A lot of people here have been talking about it, though.”

“Really? What are they saying?”

I shrug, trying to play it cool.

“Just rumors about her … personal life.”

He leans in. “What kind of rumors?”

I slyly look to the left and right, making sure no one will hear our conversation. “You know, like maybe she was having some fun with someone on the side.”

He’s enjoying this. We’re conspirators, again, just like back at the station.

“Well … that might be true,” he says.

“Yeah? What makes you say that?”

He takes another long sip of his margarita, which is now almost finished. “Well, we were looking at her accounts yesterday for anything suspicious and found out that she was renting an apartment, just outside of Avalon.”

An apartment? She never told me about … Oh, shit … Shit … SHIT!

“We were at the apartment this afternoon,” he continues. “We found her fingerprints and the fingerprints of one other person. Looks like they were using it as a little bootypad.” His eyes go wide and he covers his mouth in embarrassment, but can’t resist a short laugh. “Okay, I definitely shouldn’t have said that.” He laughs, again. “Whoa! Clay! What did you put in this margarita?”

I’m laughing with him but I want to scream.

I know the apartment. Of course I do. I was there, yesterday, putting my fingerprints all over everything. Through my nervous laughter, all I see is that damn winky-face emoji.

Detective Mendez catches his breath and wipes his eyes. “That’s our little secret, okay?”

“Of course.”

He polishes off the margarita and sets the glass down on the bar. “Mmmmmm. That is delicious. You do know your trade, Mr. Davis.”

“Thank you,” I say and want to add, “but if it’s all the same, I want to curl up in a ball and die”.

They’re not closer to catching the psycho who killed Emily. They’re closer to catching me.

He stands up and steps away from the bar. “Well, I should go. Wouldn’t be a good look for a detective to get pulled over for a DUI, but thank you for the drink.” He extends his hand.

“My pleasure,” I say, shaking it, because of course, Detective Mendez is the kind of guy who thinks I pay my rent in handshakes.

Someone moves behind me.

Detective Mendez glances past me to my left. “Ah, Ms. Watson.”

I turn in time to see Katie stop dead in her tracks, almost dropping the drinks she’s carrying.

“Oh … hi, Detective Mendez.”

“We’re still on for another discussion at the station tomorrow, right?”

“… of course,” she says, trying not to look at me.

“Great. You two have a good night,” Detective Mendez says, turns and walks out the door.

I stare at the door, unable to move. Now my heart is taking the elevator to my feet.

He knows that Emily was having an affair and he’s already asked Katie for another interview. It has to be because of the apartment and the rumors. He’s going to ask Katie, and Katie isn’t going to lie.

“Clay?” Katie asks from a million miles away. “Clay, I was going to tell you but he called me this morning bef—”

“It’s okay,” I reply, mechanically.

In the span of two seconds, I’ve already forgotten her and Detective Mendez and the blood in my car and the fact that I’ve been set up by a murderer. I’ve forgotten all of it because moments after Detective Mendez walks out the door, someone else walks in.

Henry Parker; the husband of the late Emily Parker.

And he’s walking right towards me like he has something to say.