The Cleaner (32 page)

I start to head down memory lane. Thoughts of buying my fish start flooding my mind. I bought them because I was sick of living alone. At first they only suited the purpose of giving my apartment a feeling of life, but within months there was a bond between us that I knew would one day be broken by death. But not this day. Not so soon.

I pour the murky water from the fishbowl down the sink. Dad keeps coming into my thoughts, and I wish he’d just leave me alone. I scoop my goldfish into a clear plastic bag, then tie it shut before heading downstairs. In the front lawn of this apartment complex—and the word
lawn
is being generous—I
pull aside some of the weeds, then use my hands to dig a hole. I put the plastic bag inside, then scoop dirt back over it. I could easily have flushed Jehovah and Pickle away, but I did not want to insult their memories by having their bodies float around for eternity with pieces of shit. I pat the dirt down nice and tight before saying some words over the piece of ground where my friends lie. My eyes fill with tears. I swear revenge on their grave.

I look for the cat, and though I can’t find it, I can feel its eyes on me. After digging the dirt out from beneath my nails, I manage to get into bed early, which is the only good thing to happen to me all night.

I dream of death, but of whose, I can’t be sure.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Sally wouldn’t mind living on a street like this. Every night she would leave her window open, listening as the ocean crashed against the shore. Every summer morning she could go for a swim before heading to work. She’s sure the people living out here must be more laid back, more relaxed. Martin would have loved living out here, she thinks. He used to love the beach.

Yesterday afternoon, she stayed by the corner of the police station just out of sight watching while Joe talked to the woman. She fought with the idea of approaching Joe and asking him straight out what was going on; she was also regretting the chance she’d passed up to look through Joe’s briefcase. If the opportunity arises again, she will take it.

Then she drove to the graveyard and, while standing above the grave of her dead brother, she concentrated less on grieving and more on Joe. She wanted to know, no,
needed
to know what was going on. She decided she couldn’t wait. She apologized to Martin, promised him she would return the following
day, and drove toward Joe’s apartment. She was going to confront him. She had to, if she had any chance of helping him. Anyway, his stitches would need removing, and she had to give back the copy of his key she’d had made.

Only she didn’t make it all the way there.

A few blocks from his apartment she saw him driving a car. And she is certain, absolutely certain, it was him.

She drives her car slowly down the street, checking every few mailboxes, watching the numbers climb. Most of the houses look as though they’re only a coat of paint away from being charming character homes.

When the door she wants opens not long after she knocks, she knows immediately she has the right place. The resemblance is obvious.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not buying,” the woman says, and starts to close the door.

“I’m not selling anything,” Sally quickly says, but the door doesn’t slow down. “My name’s Sally. I work with Joe, and I was hoping—”

“Well, why didn’t you say so,” Joe’s mother says, swinging the door open nice and wide. “I’ve never met any of Joe’s friends. I’m Evelyn. Please, please, come inside. Would you like a drink? A Coke perhaps?”

“Sure. That’d be nice.”

“Sally, Sally. That’s a pretty name.”

“Why . . . thank you,” Sally says, and nobody has ever said that to her before.

Joe’s mother leads her down the hallway and into the kitchen. The décor is around thirty years old, Sally thinks, and suspects Joe’s mother has been living here that entire time. She sits down behind a Formica table, and Evelyn opens the fridge and a moment later joins her.

“So what time is Joe getting here?” Evelyn asks.

“Joe’s coming here?”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re meeting Joe? It’s a
bit late for dinner, but I suppose I can still whip something up. Perhaps I’ll call him and see if he’s on his way.”

“Actually Joe doesn’t know I’m here.”

Joe’s mother pauses and the edges of her mouth turn downward. “I don’t follow, dear.”

“I came here because I wanted to talk to you about Joe.”

Now the rest of Evelyn’s features follow the direction of her mouth. “About Joe? Whatever for?”

From the moment Sally looked through Joe’s personal file earlier in the day to get his parents’ address, she knew the questions his mother was going to ask.

“I, well, there were a few things I wanted to talk to you about. I have some . . . concerns.”

Evelyn starts nodding, slowly, as if she is suddenly saddened by Sally’s possible concerns. “I know what you mean, dear.”

“You do?”

“I have concerns of my own,” she says, the downturned features of her face softening. “Tell me, do you like my son?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m here.”

Evelyn starts nodding. “I always thought more women would like him, but he doesn’t seem to have any interest in them. He’s . . . special, you know.”

“I know. He reminds me of my brother.”

“Oh? Your brother is that way?”

“He . . . is,” she says, not saying
was,
because
was
has a finality about it that she doesn’t want to think about right now.

“And you like Joe.”

“I like Joe a lot,” Sally says.

“That’s good, dearie,” Evelyn says, and she pops open the Coke she got for Sally and hands it over. “I like hearing that. It means there’s still a chance for Joe.”

“But these concerns, well, I don’t really know where to start.”

“We’ve already started, dearie.”

“How long has Joe been able to drive?”

“What was that, dear?”

Sally takes a sip from the Coke. It’s warmer than she thought it would be, either the fridge isn’t set that cold or Evelyn only just put the can in there. “How long has Joe been driving?”

“I don’t see how this relates to you liking him.”

“Well, it doesn’t, not exactly. But I saw him driving last night, and—”

“He was coming to see me. He’s such a good boy.”

“I know. It’s obvious Joe has a big heart. He’s really such a lovely guy. But I didn’t know he could drive.”

“You didn’t know he could drive?” Evelyn asks, sounding surprised. “I thought you said you work with him.”

“I do work with him.”

“Then surely you must have seen him driving the cars around.”

Does Joe tell her he drives the police cars around? It would be the sort of big-kid thing he’d do. She doesn’t want to spoil the illusion for Evelyn. It’s bad enough just being here, invading his privacy. Even now she’s fraught with guilt, and scared about how Joe will react. By trying to help him, she’ll likely end up hurting him, and he’ll likely end up hating her.

“Sure. I was just curious as to how long he has been able to do it, that’s all.”

Evelyn gives the statement a dismissive shrug. “I don’t know,” she says. “Years, I imagine. But what I’m more interested in is you, Sally. I take it you’re not married?”

Sally smiles. “No, no, not married,” she says, and takes a mouthful of Coke.

“Do you have family? Any other brothers and sisters? And what do you do with Joe? Are you his receptionist? Do you clean the cars? Are you a cleaner?”

“I live with my parents,” she says, wanting to get through this part quickly so she can get back to talking about Joe. “I don’t clean the cars, and I don’t think Joe does either.”

“No, of course he doesn’t. Why would he?”

Sally shrugs in reply. Why would a cleaner have a receptionist?

“What do you do then?” Evelyn asks. “At work, I mean.”

“Well, I’m a maintenance worker. I kind of keep things in order.”

“Oh, that sounds very interesting, Sally. You don’t see many female mechanics. Do you want to sell cars one day?”

“Sell cars?”

“Yes. Do you want to sell them?”

Maybe selling cars is a dream of Joe’s. “I guess I’ve never thought about it.” She picks up her drink and takes another large swallow. Speaking to Joe’s mother is turning out to be just as difficult as some of the conversations she has had with Joe. “The thing is, I came here to talk about something I think might be happening.”

“Between you and Joe? Oh, that would be marvelous!”

Sally leans back, struggling not to sigh. Suddenly she can’t go through with it. Joe has created a world for his mother to see him in, and no doubt it’s taken a long, long time. She could destroy all of that with some careless words. No, she is best to end this. There are no answers here as to why Joe can drive. No answers as to who attacked him. She takes another mouthful of drink, trying to get through it quickly, wanting to get out of here.

“I knew Joe would find somebody.”

“He really is something,” Sally says, unsure of what else to say. She takes another mouthful. Only another mouthful to go.

“After his father died, well, I was unsure how that would affect him, you know what I mean? I thought it might mess him up a little. Make him a little odd.”

Sally nods. She didn’t know Joe’s father had died.

“Joe became quiet. Withdrawn. Not long after, he moved out. Do you know, I’ve never been to his house? I worry about Joe. I suppose that’s the job of a mother.”

“I worry about him too.” Sally finishes off her drink. “Well, I’d best be going.”

“But you only just got here.”

“I know. Next time I’ll stay longer. I just wanted to come by and say hello.”

“You really are a nice young girl.” Evelyn walks her to the door and opens it. The night has cooled off in the fifteen minutes she has been here. She thinks it’s going to start raining again. “Did Joe tell you about Walt?”

“Walt?”

Sally stands in the doorway with her arms wrapped around her body, listening as Evelyn recounts the story of Walt. When it’s over, she thanks Joe’s mother, then walks down the path to her car. She grips the steering wheel, but doesn’t start the engine.

According to Evelyn, Joe is a car salesman. Joe was out test-driving a car when he ran into her old friend Walt.

She clutches the crucifix around her neck. Joe has created a fictional world to keep his mother happy. What else has he created? Joe is more than he seems and, in a way, that frightens her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The next morning my internal alarm wakes me into what is another glorious Christchurch morning—according to some old guy giving the forecast on the radio. Looking out the window shows something different: gray skies and dark storm clouds on the horizon, which make me think the forecaster must be crazy or drunk. There is some condensation on the window and the floor is cold.

I stare at the coffee table before leaving for work. There is a tin of fish food on it and no dead cat. I leave my apartment and head downstairs and out into the first frost of the year. The lawn looks crunchy, and there are leaves filling the gutters. I’m shivering a little when I hand Mr. Stanley my bus ticket, and today he punches it. I wonder if this is an omen. I want to tell him about my goldfish, and I don’t know why. I don’t even know if he would care.

When he drops me off opposite my work, we exchange waves.

The day doesn’t suggest that it’s going to get much warmer.
I keep my hands buried in my pockets as I make my way across the road. Sally catches me by the elevator. We make inane conversation up to my floor, but mostly Sally seems preoccupied, and then she is gone.

I’m unable to gain access to the conference room, so I end up doing what I’m paid to do. I keep an eye on Detective Calhoun when he is around. I try to figure out just how he’s feeling, but I don’t know him well enough to see if he’s going through a personal crisis. I also keep an eye out for Melissa, but she doesn’t show. I vacuum and clean and wipe and do the general workday things that bring in the big janitorial bucks. Nobody treats me any differently. Nobody gives me the sort of look they’d reserve for a serial killer.

The station doesn’t have the same buzz about it as yesterday, when everybody thought the case was about to bust wide open. Even the conference room is empty. I step inside and take a look around. The composite picture Melissa helped them with is on the wall. Dark, bushy hair; cheekbones that can’t be seen, let alone felt; lots of stubble. A flat nose, big eyes, high forehead. The cold, calculating expression on his face looks mean, as though the person in this picture was born to be a criminal.

The picture in no way represents how I actually look. My hair is finer, swept back, and kept reasonably short. It’s dark, which is the only similar thing, but I have high cheekbones with no flab, and my eyes are thinner too. And stubble? No way. I’m lucky if I need to shave once a month. I grin at the picture. It doesn’t grin back. On the table with the folders is the knife. Shrouded inside a plastic bag, sitting inside a cardboard box, it has already been studied for fingerprints, blood, and DNA. If my fingerprints were found on it, I would know by now. All employees in this building have been fingerprinted. It’s standard. Melissa wasn’t lying. It isn’t standard for all of us to have given DNA samples.

I grip the handle tightly, feel it beneath the thin plastic. This knife was stolen from me in circumstances I can never
possibly forget. This knife was there the night I suffered my greatest indignity, my greatest pain, and experienced my greatest hatred. I quickly put it back down. It isn’t mine anymore.

I take time to read the reports. The prostitute I left in the alleyway has been identified. Charlene Murphy. Twenty-two years old. I’d pegged her at being closer to thirty. Prostitution ages people fast. She was, however, a mother of one. That much I’d guessed. Her boyfriend isn’t a suspect, since he was in jail at the time on unrelated charges. Her photograph is up on the wall keeping company with the other women.

The second whore who died, Candy number two, is still to be identified.

I don’t need to take any information away with me, but I find myself collecting what I can anyway, more as mementos than anything else. I also take the tape from the recorder in the potted plant. I’m back in my office when Sally knocks at the door and comes in.