ESP.LITERATURE

A DoubleNickel Detective Story

Portland Case # 27

FIVE

I am the punishment of God…If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you. —Ghenghis Khan

The older man stood up and walked slowly towards me. He squatted  next to me,  agile and quick. He said, in articulate, grammatically correct English, “I do apologize. A moment of … trepidation.” He pointed to a square faced black watch on his wrist. “When I saw you in the hallway, disbelief was my initial reaction. I had been so careful. Then anger; and despite Rania’s admonishment, I took up the cudgel and … I do apologize. My intent was merely to stun, not to kill.”

“Cudgel, was it? Glad it was just a tap. May live.”

“We certainly hope so.”

“Why this place? You have enemies, I take it? Some kinda jihad, that it?”

They all smiled. The young man at the table managed a laugh.

“Nothing so lofty. But perhaps Rania should explain. It is her story.”

We all exchanged looks.

Rania said, “I had prostituted myself.”

The portly gentleman, her brother come to find out, put a hand on her knee. “We have discussed that at length. This was neither prostitution nor lust, nothing quite so salacious.” He turned to me. “She refused to accept any subsidization from me. She wished to make her own way despite the difficulties.”

The woman lowered her head, then put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “He was a good man.” Her eyes moistened, but she did not cry.

“He?” I asked. Question’s not really a question when you already know the answer. Best to be sure though.

“Judge Fogarty.”

I nodded.

The brother said, “I believe she had him killed, given the manner in which he was displayed, the way he was killed.”

She. Not too much doubt who that ‘she’ was. And the way he was killed? Nothing in the newspapers or online had mentioned the bizarre details of Fogarty’s death. I gave him curious.

“And you got the way he was killed from your magic ball?” I said.

“My friend has many contacts,” the brother said, looking with a nod to his friend.

Friend gave us all a blank face.

“The wife,” said the brother, “was certainly responsible. She wished to send a message, yes, that she knew and that she was vengeful.”

“The red scarf,” I said.

“And the whisky bottle. The man’s particular favorite.”

“And the scythe and …,” I hesitated, looking at the boy. “And the ligature?”

Rania lowered her head onto a hand, covered her eyes.

The brother said, “A grisly detail. Macabre.”

“He most liked old country western music,” Rania said. “Hank Williams. Patsy Cline, The Sons of the Pioneers. We would dance, swing dance, and he would sing a song, always the same song, one called ‘Don’t Fence Me In.’”

“Her way of ‘fencing’ her husband in for good and all,” her father added. He pursed his lips, raised a hand palm upwards. “So my sister called me. And we came. Tomorrow we would have been gone.”

“But now?”

He looked at me, eyes dark and dilated. A thin smile. “That, I believe, is up to you, sir.”

They all were looking at me. Piece a cake, from where I was sitting. Tomorrow they would be long gone.

I left them to their business. If they got in a jam, I told them, be glad to do what I could do. Went back to the boat. Punched up Lucy on the laptop.

“Got one for you,” I told her.

She tilted her head, waiting patiently. One of her best things.

“Need to have someone killed. Needs to be gruesome, something that sends a message, like that. Any thoughts on where a guy might go to find a man in that sort of business?”

“The Fogarty killing?”

I shook my head. “You been hacking police files again, sweetie?”

“Mr Dow was curious.”

As if that was an answer.

“So, okay, like that, like the Fogarty killing. Any thoughts?”

“No thoughts, Mr Nick. Despite what you read on Google, I don’t ‘think’ per se. I do have a large data bank. From that I shift the information I need and collate the various bytes; then report.”

“Bites,” I said. “Like snacking on the brie and crackers, that it?”

“Bytes, Mr Nick. B-y-t-e-s. By definition, something any AI app will tell you, a byte is the basic unit of digital information, and consists of 8 bits made up of 0s and 1s. Each byte represents a single character of data, such as a letter, number, or symbol. It is the smallest unit of memory in computing, used to measure storage capacity and file sizes.”

My eyes glazed over. “That’s swell, Lucy,” I said. “So you got any thoughts on this Fogarty thing?

“Certainly. Probability suggests that Mrs Gertrude Fogarty hired a man through her attorney, a man who could provide access to the criminal element she sought. Her attorney would not have any direct knowledge of a crime, but would be at least two removes from the assassin. He might surmise, but would not know. The chain may extend further, each link on a need to know basis.”

“So I should talk to the attorney?”

“No, there would be no point. As I said, he will have his safeguards.”

“So I should twiddle my thumbs?”

“No, I will work on the problem. I just do not have access to much of that kind of information. Information that I would need is stored by both the FBI and the CIA. Mr Dow had access denials added to my program after the Spinster Case. He was afraid, as he said, that someone might pull the plug on me again.”

“I see.”

“You might try Mr Bonacorso.”

“Next on my list. Ciao, Lucy.”

I punched out, sat and gave the mess a think. Called Bonacorse.

As per usual, he had been sitting by the phone just waiting for my call.

“What now, gumshoe?”

“Sleuth, I much prefer sleuth.”

“Shit or get off the pot.”

I gave him the scarves in Rania’s chest of drawers and “Don’t Fence Me In.” Told him it was from a reliable source. Told him Fogarty had a mistress, that Gertrude, bless her heart, knew and objected. Had hired a hit man through her attorney.”

My little recitation met with a prolonged and profound silence. He didn’t hang up on me. He sighed. Cursed. Then said, “Your reliable source got a name, gumshoe?”

“Wouldn’t be a reliable source if he, she, or it had a name.”

“This mistress got a name?”

“Got an address.” Rania and Buddy and the boys would, I hoped, be in the wind. I gave him the bakery.

He hung up on me.

A week later, which I had spent twiddling my thumbs, he stopped by. Looked glum.

“Didn’t do me any favors, Hawkshaw,” he said.

He clambered over the rail into the cockpit and sat down at the helm. Took the tiller in hand and moved it left and right. Port and starboard.

“Drink?” I said. “Sun’s over the yard arm.”

“Whata ya servin on this scow these days?”

“Irish. Writer’s Tears Red.”

He nodded.

They thought they had something on Gertrude. She had a ranch out past La Pine. Shed full of barbed wired rolls. None of which matched the ligature around her husband’s throat. Dozens of different wires, three or four different twists to get the barbs. Devil’s rope, they called it.

“And the lawyer?”

“Don’t know shit from Shinola.”

“Up a stump then.”

He shook his head. “Worse.”

“Worse?”

“Worse. Got a call from the Assistant Commissioner. We are to back off forthwith. The bitch is threatening a lawsuit. Guy called me direct. Then he called the Chief. Be lucky if I’m not out directing traffic next week.”

I topped off his glass. Mine, too.

“To truth and justice,” I said.

He snorted. “Know why justice got that blindfold?”

I did, but knew he weren’t really looking for an answer from me.

“Bitch just doesn’t want to know.”

I raised my glass. We drank.

Sun went down over the yardarm. The gulls mewed and keened. The river lapped the pilings. We ordered up some lo mein. To dine on.

END