Angry Jonny

  Jessica stared at the weatherized wood for a few more seconds. Thinking back, Eli had driven them over without once asking for direction. Maplewood Drive was a little known residential back road. Would a single visit to Malik’s house have etched the address in Eli’s memory?

  Or maybe Eli was just a little more familiar with the house across the street.

  Jessica put her game face on and returned to the car.

  Eli was still leaning against the driver’s side, arms crossed.

  Jessica joined him with an exasperated sigh. “That was a waste of time.”

  “What’d she have to say?”

  “That I was a real class act, bringing my new boyfriend around.”

  “The things mothers do for their children.”

  Jessica stuck her chin out towards the Castle residence. “Know whose home that is?”

  “Mr. Table Thirteen.”

  “Where it all began.”

  “Mm.”

  Jessica walked around to the passenger’s side. “Let’s saddle up then.”

  “Where we headed?”

  “Back to the apartment.” They buckled up, pulled a three-point turn. “The new management is holding a meeting so she can get to know all us pesky tenants and our petty little problems.”

  “Home it is.”

  “Need any special assistance getting back?”

  “I think I got it.”

  Of course, Jessica thought, watching Castle’s house grow small in the mirror. Not like you needed any help getting here, did you?

  Chapter 47: Taking Stock.

  Jessica only caught the last five minutes. The meeting was held at the future site of the new swimming pool. Spread out over a single picnic table were the snacks promised by the flyer. Judging from the untouched spread of donuts, Oreos, and cola, the crowd of twenty or so tenants weren’t in the mood to swallow much.

  Though Jessica had to hand it to Katherine Trace. That woman’s destiny had press secretary written all over it. Her every reply, every question, was a linguist’s wet dream. She had no use for yes or no, relying instead on phrases that somehow encompassed all possible outcomes.

  What happened to the clothes line?

  “We are a short time away from starting construction on the pool, and needed to remove the posts to help with the surveying. For those of you who need to dry your clothes, I have begun the process of requisitioning an extra dryer for the laundry room.”

  I’ve tried paging maintenance five times about our ceiling fan.

  “Our maintenance crew is working around the clock with the contractors to fix Camelot’s infrastructure. If there is an emergency, you can call me at the office, anytime. If I’m not there, I’ll leave a request log hanging outside my door. For any repairs that can’t wait, I’ll also post a list of businesses in the area that can offer immediate assistance. Pass the receipts over to me, which I will send to our board for reimbursement… Or just page maintenance.”

  A lot of us have night shifts. How are we supposed to get any sleep with all that construction going on?

  Angry murmurs erupted into a massive round of applause.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Katherine replied. “I’m in that office all day long with those machines going at it. Getting the noise volume down to an acceptable level will be my first priority.”

  Next morning, Jessica was awakened by the unrelenting buzz of a chainsaw that seemed to be coming from directly outside her window. With dry, tortoise shell eyes, Jessica squinted out onto the front lawn, where severed tree limbs lay scattered about.

  She struggled into whatever clothes were closest. Stopped by her aunt’s room to see if Eli wanted to join her. Relieved to find the room empty, no sign of him in the entire apartment.

  Three flights down, she paused at the bottom of the stairway.

  A pink flier had been taped to the front door, cheerfully boasting a loophole dressed as a solution: THIS IS ALL WITHIN THE LEGAL NOISE LIMIT ALLOWED BY LAW.

  Jessica was all set to tear it down, when a second notice caught her eye.

  Bold print on bright blue: IN ORDER TO SERVICE CAMELOT’S PLUMBING SYSTEM, THE WATER WILL BE TEMPORARILY SHUT OFF FROM 7:00 AM – 3:00 PM, 7/23/2009. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE...

  Below that, a familiar emoticon that deserved its own place in the Angry Jonny hall of fame.

  “Unbelievable,” Jessica muttered, and ran back up the stairs.

  ***

  The water pressure in room 214 was so divine, so hypnotic, that Jessica considered taking residency right there in the spotless, marble bathtub. Each time she told herself it was time to get moving, there was another setting to play with. She got as far as pulse. High-caliber rounds roughly massaging her shoulders, when, with great resignation, she shut the water off.

  Jessica wrapped herself in an oversized bathrobe woven from pure, white clouds. Guest amenities were spread out over the bathroom counter like pastel chess pieces. She made good use of the blow dryer, moisturizer and hand creams. Didn’t figure Chaucer would be using them anytime soon.

  By the time Jessica had finished tightening her double-Windsor, he still had not returned from the gym. She put the bathroom in order. Considered extending the favor to Chaucer’s bedroom. He wasn’t much of a housekeeper. Bed unmade, undershirts strewn over Victorian chairs, a couple of Heineken bottles gathered on the night table.

  She moved to the double doors leading out to the balcony.

  Drew back the white lace curtains, and stared out across the golf course.

  She heard the sound of a keycard sliding into the lock. The door opened just a crack.

  “You decent in there?” Chaucer called out.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  He came bearing gifts: a Styrofoam cup in one hand – “coffee fresh from the lobby” – a manila folder in the other – “and a complete manifest from the few months Malik interned at the Center for Human Genetics.”

  Jessica relieved him of the folder. “They got this in the lobby along with the French roast?”

  “Yeah.” Chaucer set his coffee down and hovered over Jessica’s shoulder as she perused list. “See, right there. May through July of 2008. Here’s the receiving list for the second week in June…”

  Jessica clenched her toes, pinching carpet fibers. “Two bottles of chloroform missing. Two vials of morphine?”

  “Take a look at the following week.”

  “One more vial of chloroform. Two vials of something called benzodiazepine – ”

  “Mm-hm… now take a look at the first two weeks in July.”

  Jessica ran down the list. Instead of the handwritten negative numbers, she found a plus one for the first week and a plus two for the second. “There’s a surplus of morphine and benzodiazepine.”

  “And no discrepancies for the rest of the month,” Chaucer concluded. “So what do you think?”

  “Whoever took those items, it looks like they panicked and started slipping them back in.”

  “All that’s missing –”

  “One vial of benzodiazepine… and three bottles of chloroform.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Chaucer, you’re really sweaty.”

  He sat down on the bed with a tired grunt, and began to remove his sneakers. “Looks like our booster never had the chance to return the goods.”

  “Maybe because he was fired…” Jessica tossed the folder next to Chaucer. “The kind of thing that might not get you arrested if your father happens to be a tenured Pantheon professor.”

  “Goddamn.” He eyed her cautiously as she sipped her coffee. “Hell of a cold call, there, Jessica.”

  “Dinah’s on the hook for murder. It’s game time.”

  “What happened to your knuckles?”

  Jessica turned her hand over. In doing so, she dumped the contents of her cup onto the beige carpet. “Shit!”

  Chaucer smiled. “In my day it was a wristwatch and a pint of beer.”


  “I’ll go get a towel –”

  “Saw your aunt’s ex-boyfriend at the lab,” he interrupted. Smile fading into a soft, inquisitive stare. “Carlton Walsh. Saw him at the lab. Looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with Lennox Lewis. Left eye swollen shut. Nose broke. Lips split to hell… what’ve you been getting yourself into, Jessica?”

  Jessica forgot to smile. “Nothing I can’t handle, Chaucer.”

  “Don’t lose your head over this, now.”

  “Don’t plan to.”

  “This is probably going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

  “And I’m saying, I’m ready,” Jessica said, utterly impassive. “It’s everyone else better watch out.”

  Chaucer continued to stare her down, icicles forming between them. Realizing they weren’t going to melt without leaving a mess, he simply nodded. “Can’t say I don’t understand.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You need anything else?”

  “I’m late for work. Gonna just get my clothes and head down.”

  Chaucer pulled his laptop from under the bed. Wandered over to a small, cherry-wood table and took a seat. All discussion done with.

  Jessica scooped her clothes off the bathroom floor. Slid them into her book bag. Gave herself a once over in the mirror, grudgingly slipping into work mode. She smiled and mouthed a few pleasantries. Had some problems getting her eyes to comply.

  “Welcome to the Prescott,” she recited, softly. “My name is Jessica. I’ll be your server. Want to hear the specials? Which one of you really deserves to be here? Deserves this special treatment? And what have you done, in your lifetime, sir, to end up here? Who have you stepped on, whose good graces have you talked your way into? What lies have you told? What horrible things have you done to people you will never meet, for just a taste of what I’m about to serve up. Sit tight… I’ll be right back with your drinks… I can promise you, I’ll be right back…”

  She drew close to the looking glass, nose to nose with herself. Large brown eyes casting their own reflections, something different in those depths.

  Though not entirely unrecognizable.

  “Jessica!”

  She drew back from the mirror, shouldering her bag. Walked into the bedroom to find Chaucer peering at the screen. “What’s up?”

  “Angry Jonny.”

  Jessica shrugged. “That’s, what, four in the past two weeks? These Jonny wannabes ain’t exactly Dinah’s ticket out of jail.”

  “I don’t think that’s what this is.”

  “Don’t get my hopes up,” she said, opening the door. “Can’t handle hope. Not before work.”

  “No, for real…” Chaucer turned in his chair, gears turning in his head. “Man had his house broken into. Chloroformed in his sleep. Tied down, eyes and tongue. The whole nine.”

  “Has our victim got a name?”

  Chaucer raised his eyebrows. “Terence Woods?”

  “Never heard of him, not my problem.”

  “Jessica –”

  “Angry Jonny and I have something going on. For better or for worse I’m the tie that binds. I’m his muse. I’m the one who determines what he does and who he does it to.”

  Chaucer crossed his arms. “And when do I get to meet the nice young man?”

  “Angry Jonny wouldn’t make a move without letting me know.”

  “How do you know he hasn’t?”

  Out in the hallway, a housekeeping cart rolled by. Wheels in need of oiling.

  “I’ve got to put in some time at the paper after work anyway.” Jessica managed. “Then we’ll see what’s what.”

  “Want a ride?”

  Jessica nodded. Stepped out into the hallway, and closed the door.

  She buried her face in her hands, palms growing hot with her breath.

  “Everything OK, miss?” asked the maid, crouched down beside her cart.

  “Yeah, fine,” Jessica said, slightly startled. Hadn’t even seen the woman, uniform filled in with a short, rotund body. Jessica gathered herself and strode towards the elevators. “This guy’s room is just a real mess.”

  A real big mess, she added, pressing the button and waiting for the elevator to take her down.

  Chapter 48: A Face In The Crowd.

  Since Dinah’s initial arrest, the Observer had become just another grind. Jessica, just another intern. Coffee, lunch orders, office supplies, fetch as fetch can.

  Her relationship to the staff had undergone its own sad metamorphosis. At first, Jessica had simply been treated as a relative of the deceased. Sympathetic nods, requests measured with an excess of please and thank yous. When discussing the Angry Jonny case, the word alleged had been perfunctory.

  But the longer Dinah remained in jail, the easier it had been for them to ignore the elephant in the room. Without Jessica contributing, she faded into the background. Standing on the sidelines as the staff grew more confident with the suspect the authorities had fed them.

  Jessica hadn’t complained once. High school was boot camp for groupthink, and she had soldiered through far worse. More importantly, Al had been keeping close watch over her. If perseverance served no moral purpose, then it was at the very least an unspoken form of capital.

  And it was time for Jessica to cash in.

  She caught Al between meetings and told him she wanted to do a story on the sale and renovation of Camelot Apartments. Her pitch was an unrehearsed, succinct overview of collected grievances from those who now found themselves at the mercy of Daedalus Incorporated.

  “Christ, I’m sorry, Jessica…” Al popped into the break room and poured a coffee. “We did a piece about this a couple of weeks ago. It hadn’t occurred to me that you –”

  “I don’t like to complain.”

  “It hasn’t escaped my attention.”

  “So it should be fairly obvious I’m calling in a favor.”

  Al dumped some cream into his cup. Too much, hands clumsier than usual. “When did you get this idea?”

  “It came to me this morning, when I woke up to find myself impaled on a wasp.”

  “My, my…” He drank his coffee, dabbed his mustache with a paper towel. “You know, Jessica, an article’s going to have to be more than just a list of things that suck.”

  “How about interviews with residents? A letter from the Historical Preservation Association of Verona? Every written document sent to the tenants?”

  “Well…”

  “There’s even word that they’ve been meeting with Pantheon officials. Gathering financial information on their more privileged students. For a company that insists they want to keep their present tenants, they sure seem to be sniffing up some interesting trees.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “I know where I can start.”

  Al began to stir the coffee with his little finger. “I notice you haven’t asked about the latest on Angry Jonny.”

  “It was my understanding that wasn’t my business anymore.”

  “What if I told you they’ve got someone new in custody, even as we speak?”

  Jessica kept it to herself.

  Knowing from experience that, any second, Al would motion for her to join him in his office.

  ***

  His name was Scott Stoppard. Thirty-eight years old, African-American, married fifteen years. Ten years straight working for a private security outfit; all hours spent patrolling banks, government buildings, corporate strongholds on the outskirts of Verona County. Two priors on his record; one for possession, another for disturbing the peace. Both before turning twenty, nothing since.

  He was found at one in the afternoon in a motel outside of Charlotte. With the help of the Mecklenburg county police department, the VPD had brought him in for questioning. His alleged victim, Terence Woods, ran a small real estate company specializing in adjustable rate mortgages. Four years ago, Woods had sold Scott Stoppard and his wife a house at a monthly rate somewhere in the neighborhood of too-good-to-be-
true. When the slowdown became a full blown recession in 2008, the Stoppards went bust along with the entire United States.

  Only difference was, as most Americans continued to frantically point fingers in all directions, Scott Stoppard had apparently found his own particular place to lay the blame.

  “So what?” Jessica rubbed her forehead, hand still damp with the musty scent of the Prescott’s kitchen. “So what? Even if he did do it, there’s not much a chance he was involved with the other three.”

  “Why’s that?” Al hoisted himself from his seat with great effort. “Between all four assaults, what’s the difference?”

  “He got caught. For the cops to have found him so fast, Mr. Scott Stoppard must have made mistakes Angry Jonny never would have.”

  “Cops had nothing to do with it. Wife turned him in…”

  “His own wife?”

  “He left her a letter before heading for work last night…” Al picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to her. “Here’s the transcript.”

  Jessica ran her eyes over the words, reading out loud. “Dear Josephine. Tonight, I finish what I started. There is no justice in this world. Not even the kind I have tried to provide for you, for the memory of our precious daughter, and for the whole human race. I can’t lead this double life any more. I was always your husband, and I will always love you. But now, there is only Angry Jonny left. I do not know how to be anyone else. Do not try to find me… Scott.”

  Jessica glanced up. “It’s hardly four-thirty. How do you already have this?”

  “The wife contacted us.”

  “She turned him in and went to the press?”

  “Called in the tip and came to us. It’s called an exclusive.” Al paused. “And as you haven’t made the connection yet, I guess I finally have the dubious pleasure of telling you what’s what.”

  “What is what?”

  “Notice anything different about the security desk today?”

  Jessica didn’t need to think too hard. She must have walk past that warm, smiling face almost every day since her first time signing in. All the way back in early June…

  “Our Scott?” Jessica’s voice cracked like a teenage boy. “From downstairs, our own security –”

  “Yeah. Yeah, and that’s not one bit alleged. It’s a fact.”

  Jessica shook her head, sorting through what felt like pieces from five different puzzles. “How could he possibly be Angry Jonny?”