3 a.m. (Henry Bins 1) (3 page)

"Grab that card," I tell Lassie.

He jumps off my lap, licks the card, but
comes short of retrieving it.

I shake my head at him and grab it.

Ingrid Ray, Alexandria Homicide.

The police had probably spent the better
part of yesterday canvassing the neighborhood to see if there were
any witnesses. Knocking on my door and not getting an answer, she'd
slipped her card under my door. I pull out my cell phone and dial.
She would no doubt be asleep, but I plan on leaving a message that
I'd heard about the murder, but I hadn't seen anything.

Surprisingly, she answers. 

"Ray, Alexandria Homicide."

"Oh, hi, um, my name is Henry Bins. You
slipped your card under my door?"

"Where do you live?"

I tell her.

"I'll be there in five." She hangs up.

I look at Lassie and say, "Well, that didn't
go according to plan."

...

She shows up seven minutes later.

It is 3:33 a.m.

She has auburn hair held back in a ponytail.
She is clad in jeans and a Washington Redskins hoodie. She doesn't
have a trace of makeup on. She doesn't need any. High cheek
bones. Brown eyes. Too attractive to be a cop, which probably
accounted for her no-nonsense demeanor.

"So, you always up at this time?" she asks,
taking a seat at my kitchen table and running her hand over
Lassie's arched spine.

I decide for the short answer. "Yep."

"You some sort of weird writer or
something?"

"Nope. Day trader."

"It's night. Wouldn't that make you a night
trader?"

I smile. "It's day somewhere."

"Right, right. What markets do you trade in?
London? Tokyo?"

"Uh, yeah," I manage.

"So, are you up for the day or finishing for
the night?"

"Up for the day.” Not a total lie. Only my
day has fifteen minutes left. "Early bird and all that."

She forces a smile, then after a deep
breath, asks, "You hear about the girl that got killed across the
street? You know, between all that trading that you do?"

"Yeah, I heard about it."

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where did you hear about it?"

"On the internet."

"Right, you're always on that thing. With
all that trading in Tokyo you do."

I force a smile.

It is 3:49.

I have to wrap this up before I pass out in
front of this lady or at least before any more of my stupid lies –
which I wasn't even sure why I was telling – start to pile any
higher.

"You see anything, anybody walking around or
anything?"

I shake my head. "I was pretty busy two
nights ago, didn't even look out the window."

"Who said anything about two nights ago?"
Her eyebrows furrow.

"Oh, I thought I read that she was killed
two nights ago? Was she not?" I stammer. "Was she killed last
night?"

She stares at me for a couple seconds. "Not
sure. The coroner is still trying to figure that one out."

"Well, I didn't see anything last night
either."

"What about three nights ago. You see
anything suspicious three nights ago?"

I shake my head.

"You know her?"

"Who?"

"The girl from across the street. You know
her? Ever meet her? Ever take her out for coffee?"

"No. Never met her."

She nods. Stands. "Well, if you hear
anything, or remember anything, give me a call."

"I will."

My phone rings. Change
that, a phone rings. Not mine. My cell phone is set to
the standard BA-RING. This ring is set to chimes.

"You gonna get that?" she asks,
nodding towards the couch where my sweat pants and hoodie from the
previous night are strewn.

"Naw, probably not important."

"You get a lot
of unimportant calls at four in the morning?"

Remember how I'd had a feeling I'd forgotten
something? Something important. Well, I had. I try to keep a
straight face as I realize the phone ringing is the dead woman's.
I'd forgotten to put it back under the car because I'd been
overcome by the smell. And doubly stupid, I'd left the phone in the
pocket of my sweat pants. 

"Tons," I reply to her question.

"How many cell phones do you have?"

"Just the one."

She opens the door, then pulls her cell
phone from her pocket and hits a couple buttons. My cell phone, the
one in my pocket, BA-RING, BA-RINGs.

She ends the call with a grin. "I'll be in
touch Mr. Bins."

And then she's gone.

I look down at Lassie.

"What just happened?"

He didn't know either.

I wake up on the couch with the cell phone
in my hand. The last thing I remember is pulling the phone from the
pocket of my sweatpants and seeing that it is 4:00. I'd attempted
to find a decent sleeping position, but had failed. Miserably. I'd
slept with my feet up on the sofa and everything else corkscrewing
onto the floor.

I can feel the pattern of the carpet on my
cheek and know I look like someone has branded my face with a
cheese grater. I'm not sure where Lassie slept, but as I roll over
onto my back, he appears on my chest and begins licking my
forehead.

“
Hey, cut that out,” I
say, although I kind of enjoy it.

Pushing Lassie off, I stagger to my feet and
realize just how angry my spine is (which I'm pretty sure is now
shaped like a double helix.)

After a five-minute shower – a minute longer
than I ever allow – I can stand up relatively straight. Opening the
fridge, I decide I can't stomach another sandwich and grab a yogurt
and a piece of banana bread. Lassie splits both with me.

I pick up my phone to text my dad and see I
have three missed calls. All are from the same number. Detective
Ray.

Based on my performance from the night
before, I'm guessing while I might not be a suspect in the woman's
murder, I am at least a person of interest.

I look at the pink Samsung on the counter.
How could I have been so stupid? How had I forgotten to put the
phone back under the car? But to my credit, had I stayed in the
garage a single moment longer, I would have left some very acidic
chunks of Henry Bins behind. 

I'm not sure what course of action I'm
willing to take with the detective. I couldn't give her the phone
without her knowing that I had been inside the house. And without
the phone, they may never be able to connect the woman to Connor
Sullivan.

Conundrum. Check.

I decide my best bet is to write an
anonymous letter and mail it, along with the cell phone, to the
Alexandria Police Department.

But first, I need to go for a run.

The time is 3:22 a.m.

Lassie is pawing at the front door as I pull
the beanie down over my ears.

“
What do you want buddy?
You want to go outside?” 

Meow.

“
Promise to come
back.”

Meow.

I open the door and he darts out.

The corpse of the woman continuously creeps
into my thoughts as I run, but each time I am able to ward it off
with a tight squeeze of my eyes and a gaze up at the starry sky.
This is my time. Not hers.

After two miles, the muscles in my back
start to relax and it no longer hurts each time I inhale. As I head
back, a shadow darts out from behind a tree and into my path.

“
Ahhh,” I
scream. 

Under the streetlight I can see him
smiling.

Once I get my heart rate back under 200, I
say, “Have you been waiting there all this time just to jump out
and scare me?”

Meow.

I make a scary face and claw the air at
him.

He claws back.

Best friends.

“
Come on, let's
go.”

I start running and he falls in next to me,
gliding along silently.

As we take the steps up to my third story
condo, I'm startled to see two people walking away from my door.
Detective Ray is wearing a brown jacket and her hair is down. It is
longer than I would have thought, cascading down well past her
shoulders. She reminds me of René Russo from the Thomas Crown
Affair. (It is my dad's favorite movie and one of just twelve I've
seen. I’d watched the original and the remake over the course of a
month. I prefer the original but I also prefer to see René Russo
naked.) The gentleman with Ray is twice her age and three times her
size. His head is shaved bald and he has a perfectly trimmed goatee
circumventing nearly invisible lips. He is more muscle than fat,
but barely, and he wears his Men's Warehouse attire
smartly.  

“
He always go running with
you?” asks Ray, bending down on her haunches to pet the approaching
Lassie.

“
Sometimes.”

She nods her head upwards and says, “This is
my partner, Cal.”

I nod my acknowledgement and step past
them.

“
We have some questions
for you,” barks Cal, the words aimed at my back.

“
Then I shall answer
them,” I say bending down to untie the key from my shoelaces. “I
could do something later this week.”

“
How about right
now?”

I look down at my cellphone. It is 3:48.

“
Why are you always
checking the time?”

I glance up at Ray with raised eyebrows.

“
Last night, I must have
seen you check the time on your phone eight, nine
times.”

Was she counting?  I squint at her, but
say nothing.

“
What's one minute to the
next at three in the morning?”

Those minutes are my life, I nearly scream.
Those minutes that you take so much for granted because you get a
thousand of them each day are priceless to me. Your life is
measured by title, wealth, and status. My life is measured in
grains of sand, trickling from one teardrop to the other.

My nostrils flare when I'm angry and I
wonder if Ray feels a small gust of wind. Taking a calming breath,
I ponder telling her that I'm Henry Bins and I have Henry Bins. I
don't.

“
I’ve always just been a
little OCD like that. We all have our quirks, am I right? What's
yours Cal?” I'm guessing it's his goatee. It is too perfect.
Rulers, levels, and protractors have been consulted in its
creation.

He isn't amused.

I put the key in the lock, twist and pull. I
ease the door open four inches and Lassie darts through. With a
puff of my cheeks, I say, “I can't really do this right
now. How ‘bout tomorrow. Say 3:15?”

I don't wait for a response, though I’m
fearing if there is one, it will be, “We have a warrant.”

A response does eventually come.

“
Callie Freig.”

I'm dazed. Not because the name means
anything to me — it's just a name, a woman's name,
indistinguishable among any of the seven billion on this planet —
but because she has been humanized. As in birth, a fat,
crying, pink baby becomes Jake or Molly, the woman in death has
become Callie. 

The two detectives use my second of stunned
silence to move past me. I sidestep them and knowing they are too
far in to forcibly remove them, I retreat two steps.

The phone –
Callie Freig's phone – is on the table next to the
laptop.

“
Hey, can you guys take
your shoes off?”

Not an unreasonable request and both lean
down to comply. The kitchen table is ten carpeted steps away, but
it would look odd if I didn't also remove my shoes.

“
Just set them
outside.”

Slightly more unreasonable, but my only
chance.

In the split second it takes for both to
toss their shoes outside, I flick the beanie. It flips end over
end, hits my laptop, then falls.

“
What?” Ray asks, cutting
her eyes at me. “What's so funny?”

“
Nothing.” I'm just an
amazing beanie tosser is all.

Flipping my shoes next to the door, I say, “So,
who is Callie Freig?”

~F:ve~

“
Callie Freig is
the girl you've been watching out your window for the past three
months,” Cal bellows.

I shake my head. “Sorry, buddy, but I've
never seen her before.” I had, just not while she was alive.

“
You've never seen a woman
who has lived across the street from you for three months?” asks
Ray.

“
She's only lived there
three months?”

Both Ray and Cal look confused by my
question and I can't blame them. The woman could have lived there
for the past six years and I might never have seen her.

“
I never saw her,” I
repeat.

“
What about the Clemens,”
asks Cal. “Have you seen them?”

“
Who are the
Clemens?”

“
The people that own the
house. The people that have lived there for the last ten
years.”

“
Oh, the Clemens—” I
pause, “nope, not ringing any bells.”

“
How long have you lived
here?” asks Ray.

“
What did it say on my
lease?”

She glares at me. “Seven years.”

“
That's
correct.”

“
And you've never seen the
people that live in the house directly across from your window?”
barks Cal.

“
I'm not awake during the
day very often, I'm sort of a night owl. If you haven't realized we
are having this conversation at four in the morning.” Well, 3:54.
If it was 4:00, he would be having a conversation with
the linoleum.

The two detectives take this in and I ask,
“So who is Callie Freig?”