Tillandsia circinalis
Friday, June 29
Detective Robin Leigh stepped across the threshold of Gerald Fitzgerald’s condo, the oh-so-quiet squish of the rubber soles of her leather lace up boots brought to audible levels by the hardwood floors and general lack of upholstered surfaces.
Ikea bookshelves; several Alex Grey prints mounted in simple black picture frames; a drafting table covered with sheets of manuscript illumination, obviously practice pieces; an LCD television; a mail-rental DVD sleeve labeled: “Babylon 5: Season 5, Disc 1”; a dusty glass bowl containing pebbles and the desiccated corpse of an epiphytic bromeliad; a framed photograph of a man and what were clearly his daughters, the smiles marred by the obvious visual imbalance of the composition; a freezer containing six bags of frozen broccoli and a large package of frozen hamburger patties; groceries spaced on refrigerator shelves as roomily as clothing at a very expensive boutique clothing store; a toilet lid down; a hall closet with a single, uncategorized pile of dirty clothes; an undecorated bedroom.
Detective Leigh knew a great deal about Gerald Fitzgerald.
The condo manager fluttered noiselessly in her white summer dress, her body a tense mix of restraint and curiosity. She maintained a one-room cushion, but peered into the next room, eyes latched to the detective’s head, following her gaze from one item to the net in a vain attempt to decrypt the meaning of each object concurrently with the detective.
The detective’s eyes finally settled on a phone charging station near the front door. A short stack of business cards bore Gerald Fitzgerald’s name, title, and place of employment—the Naval Submarine Warfare Center at Port Hueneme.
–
The Navy Program manager recognized Detective Leigh’s voice.
“Do you have news about Ron?” he asked.
“No news about Ron, unfortunately. As I told you yesterday, without the LoJack working there’s not much for us to go on. We have to passively wait, hoping that he—or his car—will show up, undamaged. But were you going to call us about the other one? Losing two employees in one week is a bit unusual, isn’t it?”
“The other one? Oh, do you mean Gerald? Well, he’s not missing is he?”
“His family seems to think he is. When did he last show up for work?”
“Wednesday. But I didn’t report him missing because he was scheduled to go on vacation starting Thursday. I can send you the vacation request form that we approved last month, if you like.”
“No, that’s quite alright.” His answer was too forthcoming and quick, and her instinct told her not to press.
This didn’t make sense. Gerald’s adult daughters called this morning because their father hadn’t shown up for “movie night” last night, and hadn’t answered his phone at all. Why on earth would he have planned a vacation for at least a month, without telling his daughters?
Plus she had seen no evidence of travel plans in his condo.
It made much more sense to assume that the Program Manager was lying. If so, his practiced explanation and potentially forged paperwork made the situation very serious. The thought made her normally firm stomach flutter a bit.
–
Detective Leigh walked into the Whistling Thistle Bar & Grill at 1:30pm. A patron sat alone at the end of the bar. The bartender looked up and froze in recognition.
“Blaine Bish.” She had a way of stretching the syllables out that seemed at once friendly and chiding.
“Are you following me, detective?” Blaine attempted a smirk, and instantly regretted it.
“Should I be?” Blaine still couldn’t tell if she were asking him seriously or jokingly. This must be a police technique. He should treat it like a joke, obviously. But he had paused too long for a laugh to sound appropriate at this point. Maybe if he tried to reply with a humorous comeback, it would seem like the pause was just him thinking up something witty.
“Only if you have a license… to be bored.” He said. Terrible.
Detective Leigh made a face like she were about to sneeze. “I’m actually here on what I hope is a different matter. Were you working here Wednesday night?”
“I was.”
“Did a Detective Doubt come in, that you know of?”
“There was a detective here on Wednesday night. Older, grey moustache, a little… paunchy.”
“That’s him.”
“He ordered a hefeweizen.”
“Did he say or do anything unusual?”
“Well, what’s unusual for a detective? He talked about how missing person investigations go. He had just the one beer, and then left.”
“Did he leave his beer unattended at any point?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Anyone unusual at the bar that night?”
“No, just the usual suspects—regular patrons, I mean. This bar doesn’t tend to get very crowded often. Is the detective alright?”
“No, he’s not. He’s dead actually.” She watched Blaine’s reaction.
“Jesus.” The blood drained from his face. “What happened?”
“I won’t know for sure until I get the toxicology report from the lab.” She lied. No one was testing Doubt for drugs. The coroner had declared Doubt’s death the result of an arterial embolism brought about by hypertension and stress.
“When did he die?”
“Very early on Thursday morning.”
“Jesus.” He said again. “He was sitting right here two nights ago.” Blaine very much wished that Detective Doubt hadn’t been sitting right there two nights ago.
“Hopefully, it’s natural causes. But I’m just doing my due diligence. And you don’t know of any connection between Detective Doubt and Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“My parents’ neighbor? No.”
“Other than you, of course.”
Blaine’s scrotum puckered again. He shook his head.
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