The Moreau Quartet: Volume One: 1

  He shook loose bark from his fingers and walked up to the house. He pushed the call button next to the door and waited for an answer.

  A speaker near his hand buzzed briefly, then spoke. “Damn, just a minute.” There was a very long pause. “Who do we have here?”

  Nohar tried to find the camera. “My name’s Nohar Rajasthan. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to a Ms. Stephanie Weir.”

  Another long pause. “Well, you got her. You have any ID?”

  Nohar fished into his wallet and held up his PI license.

  “Stick that into the slot.”

  A small panel under the call button slid aside. Nohar tossed it in.

  Nohar stood and waited. He was tempted to push the call button again. But, without warning, the door was thrust open. Nohar had to suppress an urge to leap back. Weir offered his license back. “What can I help you with, Mr. Rajasthan?”

  Pronounced it right her first try. Nohar was relieved, and a little puzzled, not to smell any fear. He was also grateful Weir didn’t wear any strong perfume. She had an odd smile on her face and he wished he was better at reading human expressions. “I’d like to talk about Daryl Johnson.”

  Weir bit her lip. “Complicated subject. You better come in.”

  Nohar watched her walk away from the door before ducking in and closing it behind him. He could stand in the living room and not feel cramped. He wondered what she did with all this space. A comm was playing in the background. He recognized the voice from his research, ex-mayor Russell Gardner, Binder’s opponent.

  “. . . is in a crisis. Our technological infrastructure was fatally wounded when Japan was invaded, as surely as if the Chinese had landed in California. For nearly a decade my opponent has been leading a policy of government inaction. For twenty years our quality of living has been degrading. There are fewer engineers in the United States now than there were at the turn of the century—”

  “Sit down.” She motioned toward a beige love seat that looked like it could hold him. “I was just about to fix myself a drink. Want one?”

  Nohar sat on the love seat and wriggled to get his tail into a comfortable position. “Anything cold, please.”

  Gardner went on as if he had found a new issue.

  “. . . space program as an example. It’s been four decades since a government program—a program since disbanded for lack of funding—discovered signals that are still widely believed, in the scientific community, to be an artifact of extraterrestrial intelligence. NASA’s nuclear rockets have been sitting on the moon ten years, waiting for the launch and we are losing the ability to maintain them. We’ve lost the ability to maintain cutting edge tech...”

  Nohar wasn’t interested in the political tirade. Instead of listening, he wondered why the pink female was acting so—relaxed wasn’t quite the word he was looking for.

  Weir walked into the kitchen and Nohar’s gaze followed her. He enjoyed the way she moved. No abrupt motions, every move flowed into every other seamlessly. He watched as she stretched to get a glass from a cabinet. The smooth line of muscle in her arm melded into a gentle ripple down her back, became a descending curve toward the back of her knee, and ended in the abrupt bump of her calf.

  She said something, and Nohar asked himself what he’d been thinking about.

  “What did you say?”

  Weir apparently assumed the comm was too loud. She called out, “Pause.” Gardner shut up. “I said I’ve been waiting for you to mention it.”

  Nohar felt lost. “Mention what?”

  She returned with two tumblers and handed one to him. He couldn’t read the half-smile on her face. “Well, I’d picture a detective jumping all over me for not being more broken up about Derry.”

  “I was just trying to be tactful.” That was a lie. The fact was, Nohar had been so nervous he hadn’t even noticed. He took a drink, hoping it was something strong. It turned out to be some soft drink whose carbonation overwhelmed any taste it might have had. At least it was cold.

  “I guess I’m not used to tact.” She sat down in an easy chair across from him. He could identify her natural smell now, somewhere between rose and wood smoke. He liked it. “So, let’s talk about Derry.”

  Nohar took another long pull from the glass. It did little for him but give him a chance to think. “Could you describe your relationship with him?”

  “We weren’t that close. At least, not as close as it was supposed to look. I suppose you’ve gotten the intended message from all the photo-ops and the social events. All window dressing, really.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Just what I said. It was supposed to look like Derry was hot for me when he could really care less about women. It was all an elaborate game. I was supposed to cover up one of Binder’s political liabilities.” Now Nohar could read her expression. The hard edge in her voice helped.

  “Daryl Johnson was gay?”

  She nodded. “I got recruited by the Binder campaign right out of Case. Major in statistics, minor in political science. So I can go to parties and look cute. All because Binder is too loyal to fire his chosen, and is too right-wing to accept a homosexual on his staff. Publicly anyway.”

  That was amazing, even though he had some idea how extreme Binder was. “That attitude’s bizarre.” He had to restrain himself from adding, “Even for a pink.”

  “You don’t know the man.”

  “You put up with that?”

  That brought a weak smile. “Selling out your principles pays a great deal of money, Mr. Rajasthan. Until he died, anyway.”

  She noticed they both had empty glasses. She got up. “Can I get you a refill? Something a little stronger this time?”

  Nohar nodded. “Please—”

  He didn’t like questioning good fortune, but he was beginning to wonder why she was so open with him. “What was playing on the comm?”

  “One of Gardner’s speeches. Sort of self-flagellation.”

  Odd way to put it. “Are you still with Binder organization?”

  She stopped on the way to the kitchen and shook her head. “Binder’s legendary loyalty doesn’t apply to the window dressing. After all I put up with—you know, someone even started a rumor I was a lesbian.”

  “Are you?”

  Weir’s knuckles whitened on her glass. Nohar thought she might throw it at him. The smell Nohar was sensing was powerful now, but it was more akin to fear and confusion than anger. The episode was brief. She quickly composed herself. “I’d really rather not talk about that right now.”

  Nohar wondered what he’d stepped in with that question. Pinks tended to lay social minefields around themselves. Nohar wished had had a map. “Sorry.”

  She managed a forced smile. “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’ve never been very good around people . . .” She sighed.

  Nohar tried to get the conversation back on track. “I’m supposed to be here about Johnson. Not you. What do you know about Johnson? What kind of enemies did he have?”

  Nohar watched covertly as she walked to the kitchen and went from cabinet to cabinet. “I suppose his only enemies would have been Binder’s enemies. He had been with Binder since the state legislature. Straight from college. Loyal to a fault. A big fault considering Binder’s attitude toward homosexuals. I never understood it, but I wasn’t paid to understand. Young and Johnson were already an organizational fixture when I came on the scene.”

  “Were they—”

  She came back with the drinks. “I really shouldn’t talk about it. It’s Phil’s business. But he shouldn’t have snubbed the funeral. After fifteen years, Derry deserved more than Phil worrying about someone figuring out the obvious.”

  “Could you tell me about what Johnson was doing the week he died?”

  “I didn’t see him the week he died. I think Young ment
ioned him seeing some bigwig contributor.”

  “When was the last time you did see him alive?”

  “A fund-raiser the previous Saturday. On the end of his arm as usual. He left early, around nine-thirty.” She lowered her eyes. “You know what the last thing he said to me was?”

  “What?”

  “He apologized for consistently ruining all the dates ‘an attractive girl’ should have had.” She lifted her glass. “To the relationships I should have had.” She drained it.

  The way she was shaking her head made Nohar change the subject. “Can you tell me why Johnson would have three million dollars of campaign funds in his house when he was killed?”

  Weir looked back up, her mouth open, and her eyes a little wider. “Oh, Christ, in cash?”

  “According to the police report’s interpretation of the finance records, yes.”

  Weir got up from her chair and starting pacing.“Now I’m glad they let me go. There’s no legitimate reason for having that kind of money in a lump sum—”

  “Why would he?”

  “Could be anything. Avoiding disclosure, a secret slush fund, illegal contributions, embezzlement—”

  “Could this have to do with Binder pressuring the police to stop the investigation?”

  “I heard that, too. Sure. That’s as good a reason to pressure his old cronies in the council and the police department as any.”

  Nohar stood up and, after a short debate within himself, held out his hand. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Weir.”

  Her hand clasped his. It was tiny, naked, and warm, but it gave a strong squeeze. “My pleasure. I needed to talk to someone. And please don’t call me Miz Weir.”

  “Stephanie?”

  “I prefer Stephie.” Nohar caught a look of what could have been uncertainty cross her face. “Will I see you again?”

  Nohar had no idea. “I’m sure we’ll need to go over some things later.”

  She led him to the door and he ducked out into the darkening night. Before the door was completely shut, Nohar turned around. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Why stop now?”

  “Why are you so relaxed around me?”

  She laughed, an innocent little sound. “Should I be nervous?”

  “I’m a moreau—”

  “Well, Mr. Rajasthan, maybe I’ll do better next time.” She shut the door before Nohar could answer. After a slight hesitation, he pressed the call button.

  “Yes?” said the speaker.

  “Call me Nohar.”

  • • •

  Nohar sat in the Jerboa and watched the night darken around him. He was parked in front of Daryl Johnson’s house, a low-slung ranch, and wondering exactly why he’d acted the way he did with Weir—with Stephie. He really couldn’t isolate anything he’d done or said that could be called unprofessional, but he felt like he’d bumbled through the whole interview. Especially the lesbian comment—“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” Nohar wondered why. She was willing to talk about anything but, even seemed reluctant to let him leave.

  The night had faded to monochrome when Nohar climbed out of the convertible. He decided the problem had been Maria. Thinking about that was beginning to affect his work.

  Nohar watched a reflection of the full moon ripple in the polymer sheathing that now covered the picture window. The scene was too stark for Shaker Heights. The moon had turned the world black and white, and even the night air tried to convey a chill, more psychic than actual. From somewhere the breeze carried the taint of sewer.

  The police tags were gone. The investigation had stopped, here at least. Nohar approached the building, trying to resolve in his mind the contradictions the police report had raised.

  He stood in front of the picture window and looked across the street. Five houses stood in line with the window and Daryl Johnson’s head. Similar ranch houses, all in well-manicured plots, all well lit. The specs for the sniper’s weapon said it weighed 15 kilos unloaded, and it was over two meters long. None of the possible sniper positions offered a bit of cover that would have satisfied Nohar.

  Chapter 7

  It didn’t rain on Friday.

  Philip Young still refused to answer his comm, so Nohar donned his suit and went to see the finance chairman in person. Philip Young’s address was in the midst of the strip of suburbia between Moreytown and Shaker. It was close enough to home that Nohar decided to walk. By the time he was halfway there, his itching fur made him regret the decision. When he had reached Young’s neighborhood, Nohar had his jacket flung over his shoulder, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist, and his tie hung in a loose circle around his neck.

  Young’s neighborhood was a netherworld of ancient duplexes and brick four-story apartments. The lawns were overgrown. The trees bore the scars of traffic accidents and leaned at odd angles. Less intimidating than Shaker Heights—Moreytown, only with humans. He still received the occasional stare, but he wasn’t far enough off the beaten path for the pinks to see him as unusual. Only a few crossed the street to avoid him.

  Nohar felt less of the nervousness that made his interview with Stephie Weir such an embarrassment. Nohar was well on his way to convincing himself he might just be able to get Young to give him some insight on that three million dollars. His major worry was exactly how to approach Young about homosexuality. Pinks could be tender on that subject.

  Nohar stopped and faced Young’s house with the noontime sun burning the back of his neck. Young should be home. The staff had the week off because of Johnson’s death.

  Gnats were clouding around his head, making his whiskers twitch.

  He wondered why the finance chairman—who presumably guided those large sums under the table—lived here. This was a bad neighborhood, and the house wasn’t any better off than its neighbors. The second floor windows were sealed behind white plastic sheathing. The siding was gray and pockmarked with dents and scratches. The porch was warped and succumbing to dry rot. It was as much a hellhole as Nohar’s apartment.

  And the place smelled to high heaven. He snorted and rubbed the skin of his broad nose. It was a sour, tinny odor he couldn’t place. It irritated his sinuses and prodded him with a nagging familiarity.

  Why did Young live here?

  Young was an accountant. Perhaps there was a convoluted tax reason behind it.

  Nohar walked up to the porch with some trepidation. It didn’t look like it could hold him. He walked cautiously, the boards groaning under his weight, and nearly fell through a rotten section when his tail was caught in the crumbling joinery overhanging the front steps. Nohar had to back up and thrash his tail a few times to loosen it. It came free, less a tuft of fur the size of a large marble.

  After that, he walked to the door holding his tail so high his lower back ached.

  The door possessed a single key lock, and one call button with no sign of an intercom. Both had been painted over a dozen times. Nohar pressed the button until he heard the paint crack, but nothing happened. He knocked loudly, but no one seemed to be around to answer. He had the feeling Young’s directory listing was a sham, and Young lived about as much at his “home” as Nohar worked at his “office.” He carefully walked across the porch to peer into what he assumed was a living room window. The furnishings consisted of a mattress and a card table.

  So much for the straightforward approach.

  Nohar undid his tie and wrapped it around his right hand. He cocked back and was about to smash in the window, when he identified the smell.

  The tinny smell had been getting worse ever since he had first noticed it. Nohar had assumed it was because he was approaching the source, which was true. However, he had been on the porch a few minutes and the smell kept increasing. What had been a minor annoyance on the sidewalk was now making his eyes water.

  The smell was strong enough now for him to id
entify it. He remembered where he had smelled it before. It had been along time since he’d watched the demolition of the abandoned gas stations at the corner of Mayfield and Coventry, since he had watched them dig up the rusted storage tanks, since had had smelled gasoline.

  Instinct made him back away from the window and try to identify where the smell was coming from. His tie slipped from his claws and fell to the porch.

  The smell was strongest to the left of the porch. It came from behind the house, up the weed-shot driveway.

  The garage—

  Carefully, he descended the steps and rounded the porch. He walked up the driveway toward the two-car garage and the smell permeated everything. His eyes watered. His sinuses hurt. The smell was making him dizzy.

  The doors on the garage were closed, but he could hear activity within—splashing, a metal can banging, someone breathing heavily. He slowed his approach and was within five meters of the garage when the noise stopped.

  Nohar wished he was carrying a gun.

  The door shot up and chunked into place. Fumes washed over Nohar and nearly made him pass out. Philip Young faced him, framed by the garage door. Nohar knew, from the statistics he had read, Young was only in his mid-thirties. The articles had portrayed him as a Wunderkind who had engineered the financing of Binder’s first congressional upset.

  The man that was looking at Nohar wasn’t a young genius. He was an emaciated wild man. Young was stripped to the waist, and drenched with sweat and gasoline. Behind him were stacks of wet cardboard boxes, file folders, papers, suitcases. Some still dripped amber fluid. Young’s red-shot eyes darted to Nohar and his right shook a black snub-nosed thirty-eight at the moreau.

  “You’re not going to do me like you did Derry.”

  Nohar hoped his voice sounded calm. “You don’t want to fire that gun.”

  The gun shook as Young’s head darted left and right. “You’re with them, aren’t you? You’re all with them.”

  Young was freaked, and he was going to blow himself, the garage, and Nohar all over the East Side. “Calm down. I’m trying to find out who killed Derry.”