The Little Sleep (8 page)

I think I’ve falsely harassed Jennifer Times and her DA father. I really don’t know anything about this case, and there’s still rice in my beard, but at least I have a client now. Yeah, tomorrow I’ll make the little road trip to the Cape and then a house call, but I’m not getting paid enough for this.

I’m in Ellen’s little green car. It’s fifteen years old. The passenger seat is no longer conducive to my very particular posture, which is somewhere between question mark and Quasimodo. Lower back and legs report extreme discomfort. It’s enough to keep me awake, which is miserable because I keep nodding off but not staying asleep.

We’re cruising down Route 3 south, headed toward the Cape. It’s off-season and the traffic isn’t bad, but Ellen maintains a running monologue about how awful the traffic always is and how nobody knows how to drive. Meanwhile, she’s tailgating the car in front of us and we’re close enough that I can see what radio station he’s tuned to.

I still have a driver’s license but no car. Renewing the license isn’t an issue for me. Driving is. I haven’t driven in six years.

Last night I told Ellen that I needed to go to the Osterville library to help with a genealogical search and was pressed for time. She didn’t ask for further details. She knew I wouldn’t give any. When she picked me up this morning, she didn’t ask questions about why all the toilet paper was unrolled and wrapped around my kitchen table—King Tut’s table now—and why the apartment door was unlocked but my bedroom door was locked. She knew the narcoleptic me went for an evening stroll with the apartment to himself.

My eyes are closed; we’re somewhere between Norwell and Marshfield, I think.

Ellen says, “Are you awake?”

I just want to sit and sleep, or think about what I’m going to say to the mystery client in Osterville. The names associated with the address are Brendan and Janice Sullivan. I was able to ferret out that much online.

I say, “No. I’m asleep and dreaming that you’re wearing the clown pants again.”

“Stop it. I just didn’t want to stuff them into my night bag and get them all wrinkly. Those wrinkles don’t come out. You’d think that wouldn’t happen with polyester. Anyway, they’re comfy driving pants.”

I say, “I guess I’m awake then.”

She says, “Good. You’ll never guess who called me last night.”

“You’re right.”

“Guess.”

I pull my fedora farther over my eyes and grind around in my seat, trying to find an impossible position of comfort. I say, “A state lottery commission agent. You’ve been winning too much on scratch tickets.”

“Hardly,” she says, and slaps my thigh. “Your new pal Billy Times called.”

She might as well have hit me in the groin instead of my thigh. I sit up and crush my fedora between forehead and car ceiling. I resettle and try to play off my fish-caught-on-a-line spasm as a posture adjustment. I say, “Never heard of him.”

“Come on, Mark. I know you visited him earlier in the week. He told me.”

“Since I’m awake-awake, I might as well be smoking. Mind?”

“Yes. I try not to smoke in the car.”

“Good.” I light up.

She sighs and opens her window a crack. “I’m a little impressed you went all the way in town to the DA’s office.” She says it like it was so far away I needed a passport. A condescending cheap shot, but I probably deserve it.

I say, “I had to hire a Sherpa, but I managed.”

“I didn’t think you were serious the other day with the whole DA-as-family-friend talk.” She stops, waiting for me to fill in the blanks. I can’t fill those blanks in, not even for myself. She thinks I have something going on. I do, but I’m not going to tell her about it. She wouldn’t like it. She certainly wouldn’t be transporting me down to the Cape to chat with Sullivan.

I say, “I’m always serious, Ellen.” All right, I need to know it all. I
need to know why the DA called my mommy. It’ll hang over me the whole time I’m in Osterville if I don’t ask. “So why’d he call you?”

“Actually, he invited me to one of his Sunday brunches. Isn’t that neat?”

“How nice. I’m sure your friends will be excited to hear you’ve become a socialite. You’ll be the talk of Thursday night bingo at the Lithuanian Club.” Ellen doesn’t say anything, so I add, “Come on, Ellen, you’re as bad a liar as I am. What did he want?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Ellen. Your clown pants puff out bigger when you’re lying. Come on, spill it.”

She hits me again. “He did invite me. And, he asked questions about you. Asked if you were okay. He said your meeting was very odd and he got the sense you were struggling.”

“Struggling? More proof politicians have no sense.”

“Yes, struggling. That’s the exact word he used.”

“So what’d you tell him?”

Ellen sighs and moves her hands around while talking. Someone should be driving. “I told him you were fine, but I mentioned the accident and how you had narcolepsy now. I stressed that you’re doing fine, though.” She lilts with each biographical phrase, singing the song of me. It’s a dirge she’s sung many times before. She performs it well.

“Jesus, Ellen. Thanks a lot. Did you tell him I don’t like pickles or ketchup, I pick my nose, and I wet the bed as a kid?”

She says, “What’s wrong with you? He was just concerned, that’s all. Did you want me to lie or make something up?”

“No. Telling him I was fine would’ve been enough. He doesn’t need to hear my sob story.”

“I don’t understand why this upsets you.”

“If I ever need him for a case, he’ll never take me seriously now.”

“Of course he will. No one holds narcolepsy against you.”

“Come on, Ellen. Everyone does. No one really believes I have anything medically wrong with me. They think I’m lazy or just
odd
, like the DA said.” I stop talking but I could go on: most people think I really could keep from falling asleep if I wanted to, if I just focused, like narcolepsy is some algebraic equation I could solve if I worked at it hard enough, did all the homework. I’m a bad joke. A punch line. I’m Beetle Bailey, a cartoon character falling asleep at the switch for laughs. I might as well be wearing her goddamn clown pants.

“I don’t think that about you, Mark.” She’s mad at me and my pity party. I don’t blame her.

I inhale the cigarette down to the filter, more ash in my lap than in the ashtray. Yeah, I’m nervous about my meeting with Sullivan, and I’m taking it out on Ellen and myself.

I say, “You’re right. I know you don’t, Clowny. I’m your
American Star.
”

Ellen drops me at the Osterville Free Library. It’s a one-level brick building with white molding, trim, and columns. The Parthenon it’s not. Ellen has a couple of family-portrait photo shoots and a meeting with a prospective wedding client, so I have three hours to myself.

I make an appearance inside the small library, wander the stacks for a bit, avoid story time and the children’s wing, and check out a slim history of Osterville written and self-published by some local schmoe who probably has more cats than rooms in his house, not that I’m judging anyone. If Ellen comes back to the library before me, I can tell her I went for a read and a stroll. She might believe it or she might not.

The Sullivan house is two miles away from the library according to my Mapquest printout. The old Genevich homestead is on the other side of town, right off Route 28 and closer to downtown, so I’m not very familiar with this section of Osterville. This part of town has larger and pricier homes. No bungalows. No clapboard. These are summer homes for the well-well-to-do, mixed in with slightly more modest houses for folks who live here year-round. According to the map, most of my walk is down Wianno Avenue, left onto Crystal Lake Road, and then a quick right onto Rambler Road. Easy as A, B, and then C.

It’s an overcast day with gusty ocean winds. The fedora quivers on my head, thinking about making a break for it. It’s a quiet day otherwise. Only a handful of cars pass me on Wianno. None of them are red.

The exercise is good for my head, but the rest of my body thinks it’s torture. Cranky knees and ankles carry the scars of the accident too. I walk as slowly as I talk.

While on my little hike, I try to focus on the case. On what it is I’m supposed to find. And it is a
what,
not a
who.
On the phone, Sullivan asked if I had found
it
yet.

Thoughts of the DA and Jennifer Times nag at me. I guess I should call the DA and apologize for the confusion, for thinking he was involved with sending me the photos. Apologize for my mistake. But it hasn’t felt exactly like a mistake.

Sullivan’s ringing question,
You didn’t show the pictures to anyone, did you?,
was the same thing the DA asked me when he first saw the pictures. He didn’t come right out with
It’s not Jennifer.
He asked if anyone else had seen the pictures. I didn’t think anything of it
earlier because I’d assumed he didn’t want his nude daughter subject to roving packs of prying eyes. Now, I’m not so sure.

Something’s not right there. It’s why he called Ellen too.

I turn onto Crystal Lake Road, and there are blue and red lights filtering through the trees ahead, and right there is Rambler Road. It’s blocked to traffic by a police car. There are more flashing lights and the occasional chirp of a siren. Sullivan’s house. I think the worst. It’s easy to think the worst when it always happens. Crystal Lake Road loops around to the other end of Rambler via Barnard Road, but I bet that end is blocked off too.

I stuff my map into a pocket and walk toward the roadblock. There’s one cop, leaning on the hood of the car, arms crossed over his chest. He’s skinny, a straw that isn’t stirring any drink. He wears sunglasses despite the overcast day. I tip my hat. Surprise, surprise, I get to pass without answering his questions three.

Fifty yards or so beyond the roadblock are two more police cars parked on the side of the road. The homes on Rambler don’t crowd each other; groves of trees help everyone keep their distance.

The Rambler Road locals must all be at work. There are no rubbernecking neighbors on lawns, dressed in robes and slippers and sipping their home-brewed coffee. There’s just me.

My left ankle is swelling up, rebelling against the sock, but I make it to the other cop cars. They’re parked next to a black mailbox with
Sullivan
stenciled in golden cursive. The Sullivan home is set back from the road. If it were summer, the place would be difficult to see from the street because of the trees that surround it and flank its L-shaped gravel driveway, but it’s March and there are no leaves or blooms. I see everything through the empty branches. The house is
big and white, with a two-car garage. The exterior shows signs of wear, missing shingles and peeling paint.

There’s a clearing and a small grassy patch at the end of the gravel driveway. Two more cop cars are parked on the grass. An ambulance cozies up to Sullivan’s front door with its back doors open. A blue SUV sits in the driveway, the only civilian car on or around the property.

“Can I help you?” Another cop. He suddenly appears next to the mailbox and me. Neat trick. This one is my size and build, but no beard and no mangled face. Nobody’s perfect.

I say, “Depends. Can you tell me if Brendan is okay?”

He says, “Sorry, I don’t know anything. Move along.” He’s not wearing sunglasses. He doesn’t look at me but past me. I’ve been dismissed, if considered at all.

He doesn’t like me. I can tell. It’s okay because the feeling is mutual. I say, “I guess you can’t help me, then. I don’t suppose you’re going to let me walk up there and find someone who will actually, you know, help me?”

He sways on his feet, an impatient boxer listening to the referee’s instructions, waiting for me to crawl out of my corner. He lets me get through my slow I’m-running-out-of-batteries spiel. He doesn’t interrupt. I guess he deserves an iota of credit for that.

He says, “Why are you still here? Move along.”

I hold up my hands. “Just a concerned acquaintance of the Sullivans out for a walk. I saw the lights and figured I’d check in and be neighborly.”

Nothing from angry cop.

I say, “Well, you just keep on protecting the people, officer.” I consider showing my PI ID and pushing back some more, but it would produce nothing but a migraine headache for me. Whatever happened at the Sullivan house isn’t good, and I probably don’t want to be connected to it. At least not right now. The last thing I need is to have to answer a bunch of Barney Fife questions
downtown,
and calling Mommy to pick me up at the police station would ruin the whole vibe for everyone involved. I’m more afraid of having to answer Ellen’s questions than theirs. She’s tougher.

My craven need for information will have to wait. I tell myself that patience will work best here and I’ll find out what happened eventually. It’s the only play I have right now.

I slowly walk away, exaggerate my limp, maybe give the cop some Keyser Söze thoughts. I’m aimed at the other end of Rambler, figuring to loop around to Wianno Avenue and back to the library. I have the time now, and not having to walk past the same set of cops is a good idea.