Cube Sleuth Read online

  Eve walked across the bridge every day at lunch, wearing whatever bold-colored, out-of-style suit she had on that day and those obnoxious white Reeboks. A path behind Paine-Skidder runs along the river and leads to steps that go to the surface of the bridge. She never let me walk with her, but I knew this had been her routine for years.

  As a newly jilted boy-toy, I make it my first order of business to ruin that routine. I park my car in the outdoor lot beside Paine Skidder so I can see her heading for the steps to the bridge. When she gets close to the steps, I get out of my car and jog toward her. I get close enough that she can see me but not so close that it’s harassment.

  The first day, Eve doesn’t see me until she turns around to walk back across the bridge. She stops momentarily, makes eye contact, then walks bravely past my thanks-for-nothing smirk.

  The second day, she’s on the lookout for me and spots me before she gets halfway across the bridge. If there’s a way back to Paine-Skidder without using the bridge, neither of us know it, so she has to come back the way she came. She crosses the street at the end of the bridge and walks back on the other side. So do I.

  The third day, she’s had enough. She walks up to me. “What do you want, Bobby?” She tries to look tough, but I can see she’s afraid.

  I keep the smirk going. “Exercise. A breath of fresh air. The cars ruin that, but the view is lovely.” I point to the Schuylkill, which looks nice enough despite being mostly unswimmable. On either side of the bridge the river is shallow water and jagged rocks.

  “Don’t do this. Have some class.”

  “Oh, you know all about class. What we did in my car. In your elevator. Classy lady.”

  “Let it go, Bobby. It’s for your own good. Trust me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Eve shoulders past me and shuffles back the way she came.

  The next day I sit in my car all through lunch and Eve never shows. Same thing the day after, and the day after that. Mission accomplished. I’m sure Eve found somewhere else to walk, but at least I put an annoying crimp in her daily routine, and that’s good enough for me.

  * * *

  The Monday after I ruin Eve’s lunch walk, I stand outside Paine-Skidder holding the business card of the detective who whisked me away from the scene of Ron’s death. The card reads JASON CAPILLO, HOMICIDE DETECTIVE, WEST CONSHOHOCKEN POLICE.

  I call him on my cell phone to see if he has any leads.

  “Leads?” Capillo sounds incredulous.

  “Suspects. Something. I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Pinker, your friend’s death was officially ruled a suicide.”

  “Your card says you’re a homicide detective.”

  “I am, and this case isn’t mine anymore. It’s probably closed.”

  I explain to him about Helen, about Not For Mixed Company’s show.

  “Ron was bipolar, Mr. Pinker. There’s no logic to what he did. It’s brain chemistry. An imbalance. I know it’s hard to accept.”

  “I talked to him that day. He wasn’t down. He was fine.”

  “They can hide it well. Look: there were no signs of foul play. No fingerprints that didn’t belong—”

  “Guy could’ve worn latex gloves.”

  “There’s more to it than that. And no one had any reason to kill the guy. None at all. And the evidence was definitive.”

  “What’s the other evidence?”

  I hear a beeping phone in the background. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pinker, I need to take this. I’m sorry for your loss. Hang in there, OK?”

  “Thanks.”

  Click.

  Capillo is wrong. They all are. It seems simple to them and they have no reason to keep looking. Ron’s mother accepts the suicide theory. There’s no pressure, no one pushing the police to dig deeper. Ron was a middleclass nobody, no political affiliations, no connections. I’m all he has now.

  Ron didn’t seem like a guy who had enemies, but he must’ve had at least one. Someone he knew, someone who could stroll up to his Jeep and get him to roll down the window. Someone who knew he was bipolar, knew to make it look like a suicide and not a mugging.

  I fear that the killer isn’t Ron’s enemy. Maybe he’s just some nut. Someone who met Ron or saw him somewhere and became obsessed with him. Someone I could never find.

  I can only accept the random psychopath option after exhausting all other possibilities. I need to know a lot more about Ron’s personal life; Ron’s mom is clearly not a viable resource. I go back to whitepages.com to find Helen Dale’s phone number.

  “Hi, this is Bobby. Um, Pinker. We met—I was doing a show with Ron.”

  “Bobby, yeah, hi. How are you?”

  “OK. You?”

  “Yeah, I’m OK. I mean, not really at all. But—”

  “No, me neither. Yeah, awful. But that’s…anyway, this is probably weird, but I was hoping we could get together to—”

  “Yeah, definitely. Definitely. I meant it when I said we should be friends. I didn’t think you’d—how did you find my number?”

  “I looked it up.” I decide not to spoil her enthusiasm about becoming friends with my fact-finding ulterior motive. I’m actually looking forward to her company as much as her knowledge about Ron. She’ll be a sympathetic ear, maybe the only other person who shares my gut feeling that Ron’s death wasn’t suicide.

  Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about the way Helen held my shoulders at Ron’s viewing. The way her two moist kisses dried on my cheek. The smell of her hair.

  “So, when’s a good day for us to get togeth—”

  “Come by tonight. I’ll make you dinner. You like chicken fingers?”

  If getting one of my interviewees to make me chicken fingers just like that is any indication, I may become the greatest private eye of all time.

  * * *

  I show up at Helen’s West Chester apartment with a little more product in my hair than usual, and an extra spray of cologne. Her hair has that same sweet strawberry smell. She kisses my cheek in the same spot, moist again, but this time it’s just one lingering press. She hugs me like we’ve known each other since childhood and haven’t seen each other in years. I oblige her this long awkward hug, feeling my body soften to her warm touch.

  Well, most of my body softens.

  She puts her mouth to my ear and says quietly, “I’m glad you came. We need to be friends.”

  I weigh my response carefully and settle on the subtle, clever, articulate, “Yeah.”

  When she steps back and flashes her tomboy grin, I see exactly what Ron was talking about.

  She starts grilling me on my life story the second my butt hits her couch.

  “I was in a sketch duo in college called Dead Man Talking. Me and my best friend Owen A. Hendrick. He always used that middle initial. He was weird like Ron. And he did all the writing like Ron. He moved to LA after college and I didn’t have the guts to go with him. He’s done some national spots and been in a few episodes of Scrubs. And I’m at Paine Skidder. Shrug. I didn’t do comedy again until I met Ron.”

  Helen’s eyes light up each time I say Ron’s name, but then her mouth purses, like she’s dying to talk about him but also can’t bear to. “How’d you guys start doing sketch together?”

  “One day Ron was talking to me in my cube, and when he left he said, ‘Whatever, I’m outta he-ere.’ It’s a quote from—”

  “The State. Doug. Of course.”

  “Yes! And I got the reference, and we talked about Dead Man Talking, and his group Professor Plum in the Hall with the Candlestick. He said they kicked him out because he wanted to do all the writing. I told him I didn’t write, I just wanted to act and do some ad-libbing. He was so happy he said we should make love. I said we should just form a duo instead.”

  “I saw some PPHC skits on tape. They were pretty good. Ron was by far the strongest performer.”

  “Yeah, so subtle. He could really act. It kills me that no one will ever see the show we wer
e working on. It was great.”

  Helen pats my thigh and sighs, then slips off to the kitchen.

  She breads her chicken fingers with ground Cap’n Crunch cereal. She bakes homemade fries seasoned with an ethereal mix of herbs and spices. She makes cucumber salad. I am by no means a man’s man, but I am a man, and Helen is a man’s woman. She is—for lack of a better word—cool. And it’s not an act.

  The only drawback about this man’s woman is that her fridge is filled with nothing but beer and a carton of orange juice that I assume is for screwdrivers. So I have a glass of OJ with my dinner, and Helen calls me a no-beer queer, which is apparently much worse than a two-beer queer.

  Helen’s apartment has the simplicity and geometry of a bachelor pad, but with touches of style: quaint curtains, a few plants, a lime green accent wall. Her place is the kind of clean that has to be maintained. She definitely didn’t just spruce the place up before I got there. It smells like her strawberry shampoo. The only thing out of place in the apartment is a dozen dead roses sitting in a vase by her kitchen sink.

  “You mind?” Helen holds up a brown cigarette.

  “It’s your place. That a clove?”

  She nods, dipping the cigarette between her lips. She slides a Zippo lighter from her back pocket and holds it between her thumb and first two fingers. She snaps her fingers and the lighter flips open. She rolls the flint-wheel against her thigh and the flame blossoms as she brings the lighter to the tip of her cigarette. I hate smoking, but Helen makes the act seem so sensual. And the smell of cloves is much better than regular cigarettes; instead of wanting to spray air freshener, I want to have some ham.

  Helen goes to the bathroom. I walk over to the dozen dead roses and take out the card attached to the vase. It reads I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOUR VAGINA. RON. I laugh out loud, but knowing that Ron sent these the day before he died gives me a chill. I tuck the card back in place before Helen comes out of the bathroom.

  After our dessert of chocolate-covered strawberries and strawberry Pop-Tarts, Helen sits me down on the couch and picks up a deck of cards from the coffee table.

  Even the way she shuffles the cards impresses me. Her fingers move deftly, her hands glide effortlessly. The cards dance for her. She has long, delicate fingers; nails unpainted but manicured. She lays out three rows of seven cards, face up. “Pick a card. Don’t tell me what it is. Just memorize it…you got it?”

  I nod, blinking slowly to keep the image of the card in my mind.

  “Which row is it in? One, two, or three?”

  I point.

  Helen scoops up the cards one row at a time. She deals them out into three rows of seven again. “I’m such a fucking douche nozzle. Why six weeks? Why not a month? A month was plenty of time to get over Theo. Actually, an hour was enough time to get over that shit-sniffer. I just needed the six weeks to detox from all the bad habits I had with him. Which row is it in now? One, two, or three?”

  “Three.”

  “If I’d said a month, we’d have had our first date and I could’ve at least given him some ass. I made him wait four years, then six more weeks. I’m a cunt.” She deals the three rows of seven again. “Which row? One, two, or three?”

  “Two. You saying you put out on the first date?” I wink at her.

  “I’m a total slut. Guy pays for dinner, he’s gettin’ in. And that’s just any old guy. This was—I loved him.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Last time: one, two, or three?”

  “Two.”

  She scoops up the cards again and starts flicking them at me one at a time. I giggle. The cards land in my lap, on my arms and chest. One by one she grabs the cards without turning them face up and throws them on the carpet, saying “no” to each one.

  One card remains, sitting on my right forearm. “That’s the one.” She licks her fingers and rubs her forehead, then sticks the card to it. Ten of diamonds. My card.

  “Awesome.”

  “It’s a simple one. Startin’ you off slow.” Pulling the card from her forehead, she wipes her head with the butt of her palm.

  “At least that one kiss you had was a doozy. He talked about it over and over. He forced me to act it out with him in my cube. Not the actual kiss, but the rest of it. Sometimes he was himself and I was you. Sometimes he was you and I was him. One time he played both parts and I played your car.”

  Helen laughs with her whole body, tears pouring down.

  “I’m sorry, Helen. Should I shut the hell up?”

  She shakes her head no and downs the rest of her beer, wiping the foam from her lips with the inside of her forearm. “Good tears. You know?”

  “He wrote the kiss into a one-act, mostly stage direction about the kiss itself. It had a few lines of dialogue. The last line is you saying ‘I love you.’ Ron goes, ‘She didn’t say that. I’m using my artistic license.’ He pulls out his wallet to show it to me, then says, ‘Shit. This is my driver’s license. I must’ve left my artistic license in my pea coat.’ My favorite part is that he—”

  “Didn’t own a pea coat. Yeah.” We crack up. I have good tears to match Helen’s. I cover my face with both hands.

  She grabs another beer, presses it gently against each of her burning eyes. “Do you think that if maybe we’d had that date, he’d still be here?”

  “That’s stupid. Don’t even—Let me ask you this: Do you really think he killed himself?”

  “What do you mean? Like, did I dream the whole thing and he’s gonna walk through the door any second?”

  “I mean, do you think maybe he was killed?”

  “He shot himself in the head.”

  “Maybe someone made it look that way.”

  She isn’t buying it. “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. I’m looking into it.”

  She gives me an are-you-shittin’-me? grin. Then she says, “Are you shittin’ me?”

  “You talked to him every day, right? Did he seem down?”

  “He was bipolar.”

  “Did he seem down?”

  “No, but—”

  “Did he do or say anything that seemed like he was tying up loose ends, making peace?”

  “No.”

  “He was happy. Because of you. Not For Mixed Company. Life was good. He had no reason to do it.”

  “Maybe he stopped taking his pills.”

  “Where’d he get a gun? Other than stealing a gun from Theo’s gun rack, Ron wouldn’t know the first thing about where to get a gun.”

  Helen sits up straight. Her face tightens, her eyes open wide. “You’re right. It’s too violent for him. He was a total pacifist. He would’ve used pills or something like that. You’re right.”

  My heart flutters. I feel giddy. I want to kiss her. She’ll be in this with me to the end, until we find Ron’s killer.

  “Who would want to kill him?”

  “I was hoping you might have some idea. I already talked to Theo. I don’t—”

  “You what?”

  “I went to see him. Wanted to know if he was the jealous type.”

  “And?”

  “He’s already with someone else. And…” I immediately wish I hadn’t said that, but I know why I did.

  “Yeah?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He claimed he was seeing this other girl and you at the same time.” I expect tears from this revelation.

  Helen shrugs. “I’m not exactly surprised. I had myself tested the week after I left him, and I was shocked to find out my twat was clean as a whistle.”

  “Theo didn’t strike me as bright enough to make it look like a suicide. That true?”

  “Very true. If he did it, it would’ve been impulsive and sloppy. A crime of passion, something Theo doesn’t have. He cared about me, but only the way you’d care about a car or a big screen TV.”

  “Anyone else come to mind? Someone who hated Ron, or maybe someone Ron hated?”

  “Not enough to even spit
at him. Refill on that OJ, tough guy?”

  I nod. Helen grabs my cup and heads into the kitchen.

  Her voice echoes from behind the refrigerator door. “Ron didn’t betray people. He had no money. I doubt he got mixed up in something shady. Maybe it was just some nut who did it because he saw it written in his alphabet soup.”

  “I don’t think nuts make it look like suicide. They either don’t care who knows what they did, or they think they’re serving God and want their handiwork out in the open to spread their ‘message.’”

  She hands me my orange juice. “You’ve really thought a lot about this, huh?”

  “Not much else worth thinking about lately.”

  She sits sideways on the couch and puts her legs across my lap. Her bare feet bounce gently next to my left hand. She has beautiful feet, prettier than my hands. Like her fingernails they’re not painted, but pedicured. They smell like peppermint lotion.

  “Did Ron keep a journal?” I playfully pat her feet. “You should put on some socks. Your feet are freezing.”

  “I like them cold. I get overheated easily. I don’t think he kept a journal. He had that blog, but that was all silly stuff and those indecipherable haikus.”

  I laugh, remembering. “Do you think Ron’s mom would let you go through his room? You could tell her there are some pictures that you want or whatever.”

  “I don’t need an excuse. She’d let me. What would I be looking for?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You should come with me.”

  “I can’t. Don’t mention me, or what we think.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “I told her my theory. She called me a retard.” I endure a long laugh at my expense.

  “Sorry. I just—you gotta love Mrs. T.”

  * * *

  After hours sitting beside Helen’s cold pretty feet talking about Ron and any other topic that comes up, I say it’s getting late and I should get going.

  Helen sits up on her knees and presses her nose to my cheek. Her nose is as cold as her feet. “Stay over.”

  “I don’t have a change of clothes. Toothbrush.”

  “I need a snuggle partner. I won’t try anything, I promise.”