“Yes, Detective Ollie Chandler. That’s whose prints are on the wrapper, right?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? No prints?”
“No. I mean, prints, yeah, but …”
“Speak up, man. Whose prints did you find?”
“Well, sir, they’re. yours.”
The pause was so long I thought he’d detected the bug. Finally he said, “Hines, this is a setup. Don’t breathe a word to anyone. Understand? I need you to take home those results and keep them until we meet. Tomorrow’s New Year’s … all right, you come in Thursday, day after tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. No. Forget that. Bring it to me right now. Come straight to my home office. You know how to get there?”
“Yes, but, sir …”
“Listen to me. Bring the evidence bag with the wrapper inside. Understand?”
“But sir, I can’t remove an evidence bag—”
“Yes. Yes, you can. I’m the chief of police. You answer to me. Put it in something inconspicuous, and leave as soon as you can. Press the button at my gate, identify yourself, and I’ll let you in. I’ll expect you within the hour. Cross me on this, and you’ll be sorry. Cooperate and you’ve got a bright future. Follow me?”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked at the recording device, saw the numbers moving, and grinned. I fixed Mulch and me some Ovaltine, mine hot, his lukewarm. We might not have much of a New Year’s Eve party, but this was cause to celebrate.
Mulch listened attentively as I nuzzled him and whispered in his ear, “Getting the chief’s print on that gum wrapper, sorting through the trash, and making the switch in the evidence bag paid off, fella. You were the first to wet on the chief’s pant leg. But you won’t be the last.”
42
“You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, A STUDY IN SCARLET
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1, 8:15 A.M.
IT HAD BEEN A TAME New Year’s Eve. After Mulch and I celebrated with the Ovaltine, I met Kendra at Starbucks. She had a triple-shot macchiato because she wanted to stay up past midnight at a party with her friends. It felt wrong that I didn’t know her friends anymore. And I forced myself not to ask how her baby would feel about three shots of coffee. It was part of my new strategy of avoiding fights with my daughter.
Jake’s New Year’s party, my original plan, had been cancelled because Carly was still in the hospital. I’m not a Times Square fan. Watching the events prior to the ball drop is as entertaining as C-SPAN. Mulch and I welcomed the new year reading Nero Wolfe by firelight.
Groucho Marx said, “Outside a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside a dog, it’s too dark to read.” At midnight I gave Mulch a second Budweiser.
As the fireworks went off, I contemplated another year of my existence, wondering if this would be my last and trying to figure out how much it would matter.
Now, the day after, sleeping fitfully and getting up at eight, I’d gone to Mr. Coffee to plug myself into French roast.
Last night images and voices had haunted my dreams. Obadiah Abernathy and Sharon and a young man I didn’t recognize were talking. Then something happened. I wasn’t sure what. I woke up, heart racing, at 3:14. But I fell back asleep ten minutes later and resumed my dream, where a girl had joined Obadiah, Sharon, and the young man. I thought at first she was Kendra. Then I realized it was Carly Woods. The four of them and some other people hugged and laughed. They all seemed so alive, so happy.
And, once more, I stood outside the circle of their happiness.
Jake called at 9:45.
“I have bad news,” he said. “It’s Carly.”
I froze.
“She’s gone.”
My tongue stuck.
“You don’t have to say anything, Ollie. But … pray for us, would you?”
“Pray?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Is there … anything I can do?”
“No. Thanks.”
“When … did she die?” I asked.
“A little after three.”
“Is Janet … okay?”
“No. But we gave Carly to God years ago. Really, she was just on loan to us. She belongs to God, and now He’s taken her back. Not easy to let go. God’s been preparing us for this … except I guess you’re never really prepared. You know how it was with Sharon.”
“Need anybody there?”
“Clarence and Geneva are here. Friends from church are coming, already bringing meals. We’d love to see you if you want to come sometime.”
“I don’t have much to offer.”
“You’re our friend. That’s enough.”
“Okay … hang in there.”
That was stupid. I’ve been around death more than my share. But I’ve never known what to say beyond “I’m sorry” or “I’ll fry the guy who did it.”
It’s harder when you can’t go after the killer.
I didn’t want to go to Jake and Janet’s and hang around with Christians. It bugs me that they think they know something about death the rest of us don’t. On the other hand, who had more to offer Jake and Janet now—them or me? Not me. They’d be reading the Bible. What would I read? Nero Wolfe? Bertrand Russell? The Wizard of Id?
I shut my blinds, made sure the door was locked, and got on my knees. Mulch climbed on the couch and put his nose up to mine. His eyes looked sad. Dogs know.
“God, I guess You heard Jake ask me to do this. I’ve only done it once before, when I asked You to spare Sharon. You didn’t. I don’t know if You’re there. Probably not. But if You are, please help my friend Jake. And Janet. And if Carly … I mean if people still live after they die … well, I hope she’s okay.”
I was embarrassed. I told myself, if there’s no God, there’s no one to be embarrassed in front of. Somehow it didn’t make me feel better.
Once again, somebody wonderful had died. Somebody who didn’t deserve to die. Meanwhile a million people who deserved to die went right on living.
Why?
I had no words of wisdom or comfort. I had nothing to offer my friends.
Maybe that’s what really bothered me. Others could offer them the one thing I don’t have—hope.
Funny though. Now I had a third reason to want to go to heaven. Sharon Chandler, Obadiah Abernathy, and Carly Woods. The Christians would tell me I should only want to be with Jesus. But I don’t know Jesus. I did know them.
For a moment I wondered, did what I loved about Sharon, Obadiah, and Carly come from Jesus? Then my thoughts went to someone else, someone I’d tried to put out of my mind for twenty-five years. Chad.
I felt wetness on my face. Mulch, sad-eyed, licked the tears. I hugged him.
Mulch kept me from feeling alone in the universe.
One moment Carly Woods was awake in a world of pain. The next moment she felt herself falling to sleep. A rush of sound and light awakened her.
At first she thought she was walking through a glowing passageway. Then she realized she was being carried, effortlessly, in mighty arms.
Behind her was a ruined paradise, a wasteland waiting to be reclaimed. Ahead of her was a world of substance and light, overflowing with color. The place beckoned her to come dive into it, to lose herself and find herself in something greater than she’d ever known. In one moment, Carly Woods had moved from midnight to sunrise.
“Awesome!” she said.
“Yes,” said a deep, resonant voice above her. She turned and looked up at the rock-chiseled face of a great creature, a shining warrior, looking like a man, yet different. She’d never seen anything like him. Yet somehow she thought she’d known him for years. She sensed he was rescuing her, that his job was to carry the wounded to where they’d be made well.
“I am Tor-el, servant of Elyon, God Most High. I have served Him by watching over you each day of your life in the Shadowlands.”
“I never knew.”
“Elyon knew,” he said, the edges of his lips turni
ng barely upward. “That is all that matters.”
She turned to look where she was going. With every step the warrior took, she saw more color, detail, and activity. She could taste and smell life. The place reached out to her, pulling her in, as a magnet pulls iron filings.
“I’m getting stronger,” Carly said, recognizing her voice, but realizing it was much fuller. She’d never liked the sound of her voice. Now she did.
“I thought my life was over. It feels like it’s just begun.”
The voice above her spoke again. “The end is behind you, little one. This is the beginning that has no end.”
People crowded against a beautiful white fence, reaching their arms toward her. She heard their applause and an enchanting laughter. The warrior put her down.
She turned and said, “Thank you, Tor-el. For everything. I … I’d like to talk more.”
“We will. There is much for you to discover in the new world and much to learn about what happened in that world. It will be my honor to guide you. But now is the time for celebration and greeting. Your welcoming committee awaits you.”
She ran toward the joy and leapt carelessly into it. The years of sickness had been but labor pains. Now she was being born into heaven.
Uncle Clarence’s father, smiling broadly, waved to her, beckoning her to come in. Standing next to him was a woman she’d seen only in pictures … Ruby Abernathy, Clarence’s mother.
“Carly!”
It was Uncle Finney, a voice she hadn’t heard in many years. She ran toward him and threw herself into his arms. They laughed. He whispered to her. Then they danced. And as they danced, Carly caught a glimpse of a young man she didn’t know but thought she should and next to him a woman so beautiful and vibrant that she felt unworthy to speak her name.
“Aunt Sharon?”
“We’ve been waiting for you, Carly,” she said. They hugged hard. And then Carly hugged her a second time, even tighter.
“That was from—”
“Ollie,” Sharon said. “I know, sweetheart. Thank you. But there’s someone else waiting to greet you.”
Sharon bowed her knees to the ground, and bright light shone on her face. All who were around her bowed too, eyes fixed behind Carly, who turned to behold the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.
She saw the brightness of a billion galaxies, contained in one person. She beheld a man who was God, Creator of the Universe. His face was as young as a child’s, yet His eyes had seen all that had ever been and all that ever would be. This was God Himself. He put His hands upon her shoulders. She thrilled at His touch.
“Welcome, Carly, daughter of God!” He smiled broadly, the smile of a Galilean carpenter. “Well done, my good and faithful servant. Enter into your Master’s joy!”
He hugged her and she hugged Him back, realizing she’d felt this embrace before. She’d been sad not to marry a man on earth. But she knew now that this was her Bridegroom, the object of all her longing, the fulfillment of all her dreams.
“My Jesus,” she whispered.
“My Carly,” He whispered back.
When the embrace ended, it continued, even as they stepped back to gaze upon each other.
He put out His hand to her face, and she saw on it a terrible scar. She stared at His other hand and at His feet. She fell to her knees, overcome.
He knelt beside her and looked into her eyes. She saw in Him an ancient pain that was the doorway to eternal pleasures.
“It was worth it, Carly,” He said. “For you, I would do it all again.”
43
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
THURSDAY, JANUARY 2
I’D ASKED CARP to provide me a copy of the photo mysteriously given to Mike Button at the Trib. She’d made the comparison to all the photos taken; no match. Nothing with the photo frame we’d mistaken for an evidence kit.
“So …” I said, “you didn’t take the picture. I didn’t. Carlton Hatch didn’t.”
“Who’s left?” Carp asked.
“The criminalists. The paramedics. The patrol cops on guard, Dorsey and Guerino. It’s SOP to have a camera accessible.”
“What about that other detective who showed up?”
“Kim Suda—of course! Detectives always have a camera.”
“And she sent it to Button?”
“Why not? She was working with the chief when she bugged my place. Maybe she was working for him when she gave the photo to the Trib.”
I must have scowled when I said Trib, because Carp asked, “To one of those dirty rotten journalists, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean … Trib photographers are great. It’s the writers I don’t trust.” I searched her face to see if I’d closed the door on future pizzas.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t trust half of ’em myself. From what you’ve told me about police detectives, I trust them even less.”
Our booth at Lou’s is secluded, in the far right-hand corner, at the back. It allows us to see every direction. We know when we’re being approached. The speakers connected to the jukebox that keep it relatively quiet in our corner but send out a layer of filtering sound. You don’t discuss a murder investigation where someone can eavesdrop.
I’d invited Ray Eagle, but Clarence and I arrived fifteen minutes early. Jake was out of the loop until after tomorrow’s funeral. Clarence pulled out four quarters, apparently motivated by fear of “MacArthur Park.” We listened to Ray Charles, “The Night Time (Is the Right Time),” and the Drifters, “Under the Boardwalk,” then Mahalia Jackson, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” singing like she believed it. Okay, the lyrics weren’t as notable as “someone left a cake out in the rain,” but it was mood music, one of the reasons I go to Lou’s Diner.
“I’m going to tell you something I never thought I would,” Clarence said, seeming nervous. “You know how I said my daddy liked you and asked me to look out for you?”
“Yeah. Made me feel pretty good.”
“Well, he said something else. He said, ‘Son, won’t be easy for you, but you need to be full of grace and truth so Mr. Chandler can see Jesus in you.’ He said, ‘Truth comes hard for some, Antsy, but for you truth comes easy. It’s grace that comes hard.’ ”
I laughed, partly at how Clarence’s voice was a bigger version of his father’s and partly at how perfectly he captured his daddy’s inflections.
He went on: “ ‘Ollie Chandler needs to sees grace in you. You hear me, boy? And when he does, he’ll know he’s seein’ a miracle.’ ”
We both laughed.
“Daddy’s eyes sparkled when he said it. You know, he could rebuke me, and somehow I still felt loved. Anyway, Ollie, I’ve done better praying for you than looking out for you. And I’m not sure you’ve seen much grace in me.”
“More than you realize,” I said. “Now Manny maybe hasn’t been overwhelmed by your grace, but …”
“Don’t remind me,” Clarence said, shaking his head.
“One of the biggest regrets of my sorry life is that I knew your daddy for such a short time.”
“You know what I’d say to that, don’t you?”
“Yeah. That if I want to know your daddy longer, I could choose to live where he’s going to live forever.”
“See, I didn’t even have to say it, did I?”
By the time Ray arrived, I’d moved the gardenias to make room for an album Carp had put together for me, with photos of each homicide detective.
“Helps to visualize suspects,” I explained. “But it’s weird that I’ve known all the suspects for years.”
After Rory took our orders, we ran out of water. I brought the pitcher over to the counter for a refill.
“Scusi, Mr. Ollie. I noticed your pictures on the table,” Rory said. “I know you talk about important things, so I
stay away. And if I see or hear something, I never tell anyone.”
“I trust you, Rory. You know that.”
“It is probably not important, but I have a good memory for faces. I recognized two of the people in these pictures. They have come here before.”
I took the water pitcher to the table and exchanged it for the pictures. I brought them back to Rory.
He pointed first to the picture of Karl Baylor. “This man was in last week, Christmas Eve day. You were here and greeted him.”
“Sure. I know him.”
“He and his wife seemed nice. They left a generous tip. But a woman in one of your pictures came at 6:00, when I opened.”
I showed him Tommi Elam.
“Not her.”
I turned two pages. The moment he saw Kim Suda’s picture he said, “That is the woman.”
“You’re positive?”
“She was by herself. Acting strangely. I would look over, and she seemed busy doing something; then she would see me looking and would talk into her cell phone. She would turn and twist in the booth as if she was trying to get better reception. She even moved to the other side.”
“Interesting.”
“But something else very odd. Because she was alone, I offered her to sit at a table or small booth. But she wanted the big booth.” He pointed.
“Our booth?”
“Yes. I told her up to six people can sit there. Naturally, if it is you and Mr. Clarence, then not so many—”
“Yeah, I know.”
“She is a small person, and it seemed strange for her to sit in that big booth by herself.”
“When was this?”
“A Wednesday morning—she had the special, my vegetable omelet, with the sautéed red peppers. A week ago yesterday. I am certain.”
“Thanks, Rory. You have a sharp eye. Don’t mention this at our booth, all right?”
He put his finger in front of his lips.
I went to the booth and promptly knocked the water pitcher onto the table, requiring a mass exodus. I apologized for being a clumsy fool. Rory came to clean up, but I said we should move. When we’d relocated to another booth at the opposite side of the diner, I asked Ray Eagle if he had the bug sweeper in his van.