Witch House (4 page)

“Good idea.”

“And find out when Pete’s Place opens. The
barkeep there may have been the last person to see René Landau
alive. Maybe he knows something.”

Carlos nodded, as though taking mental notes.
Naturally, I assumed I would have to remind him again later, but
that is the nice thing about Carlos. He may seem preoccupied at
times when really, he does get it. I do not know why, after all
these years I still do not give him the credit he has earned. I
suppose that is why I may never fully recognize Spinelli’s
credentials either. There is just not enough time in a witch’s
life, I suppose.

The slowing of rain made it easy to hopscotch
the puddles out front of Adam Landau’s house until we made it to
his door. The crosswinds kicking up as we waited for him to answer,
however, told me that navigating back to the car would not be as
uneventful. I looked back at Carlos and noticed he had remembered
his pocket-sized telescoping umbrella. I already owed him lunch at
the Percolator. I wondered what price I would have to pay to arrive
there dry.

The first thing that struck me about Adam
Landau, as he greeted us at the door, was how much he looked like
his father; the second was how he seemed none too surprised to see
us.

“Adam Landau?” I showed him my badge and ID,
and Carlos showed him his. I am Detective Marcella, N.C.P.D. This
here is Detective Rodriquez. May we come in?”

He stepped away from the door and presented a
path with a sweep of his hand. “Please,” he said. “Make yourselves
comfortable.”

We followed his invite and Carlos shut the
door behind us. It looked like Adam had been working out before we
arrived. His sleeveless tee shirt and shorts were wet with
perspiration, although the house was almost as cold as outdoors.
His hair was wet; beads of sweat ran off his brows and down his
temples, collecting on a towel draped around the back of his neck.
A similar cloth covered the seat and backrest of a Nautilus workout
machine across the room. I waited for him to pat his face dry
before delivering the news.

“We are here about your father,” I said.

He seemed bothered by that, perhaps expecting
we were there looking for him. “I’m not surprised,” he told us.
“What did he do, go and get himself in trouble already? I told him
last night not to go—”

“He’s dead.”

The abrupt silence drew my attention to the
start of raindrops tapping on the window outside. We had barely
made it in before the skies opened up again. I looked at Carlos and
noticed him clutching his umbrella just a bit tighter.

“What?”

I knew Adam heard me, and that his blinking
was merely an involuntary motor function tied to the psychological
defense mechanism of denial. “I’m sorry. We found him this morning
in an alley behind a bar on Jefferson.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered.”

“No….” He turned away, numb to the cold that
was my news and sat upon the sofa. “I don’t understand.” His voice
cracked above a whisper. “I just saw him yesterday.”

I moved in closer to hear him better, hoping
he would not have to repeat himself. “When was that, Adam?”

He shook his head lightly. “I don’t know,
noon, maybe. He had just gotten out of prison.” Adam looked up at
me. His gaze glossed over, but tears had not yet broken. “This was
supposed to be a new beginning for us. Do you know how long I’ve
been waiting for him to get out?”

“I do.” I sat down beside him. Carlos moved
in closer. I suspected so that he could hear better, too. “Were you
and your father close?” I asked.

He laughed. “We were, if you can believe it.
I wrote to him in prison all the time. You know, when I was a kid,
even as I bounced from one foster home to another, I always felt
that one day I would be with him. And now….”

He trailed off without needing to finish. I
looked up at Carlos and caught him checking his watch. It seemed
rude, but I am sure Adam did not notice. Outside, the rain began
hitting the window in squall-like intervals. I imagined it would
keep us there longer than any of us wanted. There had been no
thunder accompanying the weather system that week; not unusual I
suppose. I have seen it rain sometimes for days without a break in
clouds or a pause for thunder. A steady rain can grow on you
sometimes, its rhythmic pulse both seductive and hypnotic. It is
all right if you fall into a daydream listening to its charms in
peaceful confines, but to wallow in grief while in its trance can
easily push a man over the edge of depression.

“Adam,” I said. “Do you have someone you can
be with now, a friend maybe, to help you in your grief?”

“I have Trish.”

“Who is that?”

“Trish Rosado, my girlfriend.” He leaned back
on the sofa, gesturing with a nod toward a framed photo on the end
table. Carlos and I followed his gesture. In the picture, we saw
Adam, his arm around an attractive young woman, blond hair, curls
to her shoulders, a movie star smile and azure eyes like ocean
jewels. “I was going to ask her to marry me,” said Adam, “now that
my dad was out of prison.”

“Oh?”

“He was going to get a ring for me to give to
her. That’s where he was going when he left here.”

“Where was that?”

He looked up at me without moving his head.
“He went to break up with his slut bag fiancée and get back the
ring he gave her.”

“Stephanie Stiles?”

“That’s her.”

“You don’t like her, I take it.”

“Chyea! Ya think?”

“Why is that?”

“Because, the bitch hops. She’s a
pigeon.”

“A pigeon?”

“What? You don’t know what that is?”

“Well, it’s just that I….”

“You know, maybe you should leave now. I want
to be alone.”

In that instant, I felt the reins of the
interview slipping from my hands. I think Carlos sensed it, too. He
stepped in and asked Adam, “What’s her bad, man?”

He looked up at him curiously. “You want to
know?”

“Yeah, why you all salty on her?”

“I’ll tell you why. While my dad’s cribbin`
up at Walpole, she’s out cup-cakin` in all that, jockin` her monkey
for drinks and smack and kickin` boots with any L7 lookin` her
way.”

“Whale-tailin` that badunk-a-dunk, eh?”

“Yeah, and her bobo tatas, shit.”

“She ain’t the lick.”

“Damn straight she ain’t!”

“I’m down with that, man. I feel it.”

He smiled up at Carlos. “Man, for Five-O, you
ain’t bad. You know that?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They laughed at that and finished off by
bumping fists. I admit I had no idea what had just happened, except
to surmise that Adam thought lowly of Stephanie Stiles and he
probably let his father know his feelings in terms equally certain.
I cleared my throat and asked Adam, “Can you tell me where Stiles
lives?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. I know she
has an apartment out by the river district. Don’t know how she
affords it, though. Probably mackin` some poor schmuck. I heard my
dad tell the guy on the phone where he was going when he called for
the taxi.”

“I see.” I glanced back at Carlos. Once
again, he was taking notes of the particulars. “So your father went
to see her straight from here?”

“That’s what he said. Now, if he got in the
taxi and changed his mind from there….”

“Did you see him after that?”

“After he left here? No, he never came back.
For all I know, he made up with the bitch. I couldn’t call him. He
had no phone.”

“I understand. Let me ask you, do you happen
to have Stiles’ phone number?”

That earned me a look similar to the one I
got from Carlos when I asked him to drive us over there. “Please,
why would I have her digits?”

“All right, we’ll drop it, but if you think
that Stephanie’s relationship with your father might have
contributed to what happened to him, I would—”

“I know. You would appreciate it if I let you
know.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, Detective. If I find out that
bitch capped my dad, you will be the first to know.”

I looked to Carlos and got a high brow from
him that almost made me laugh. He can do that sometimes when we are
interviewing people, and I will laugh, but he does not always know
when to apply restraint for respondents that are more victim than
suspect. I drew a bead across my lips and aimed to change the
direction of the interview slightly.

“Adam, you say that you and your father kept
close ties while he was in prison?”

“Yeah, we wrote each other all the time,
especially these last few months when it looked like he was going
to get his papers.”

“Did he mention anything about anyone being
out to get him? Was he worried about someone maybe looking for him
when he got out?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any contacts he might have
had with anyone else while he was in jail?”

“I don’t. I’m sorry. Is this about the money
from the armored truck hold up?”

“You know about that?”

“Of course. I may have only been a kid when
he robbed that truck, but I was not stupid.”

“So, what do you think happened to the
money?”

He leaned back again and laced his fingers
over his stomach. “There is no money, Detective. It burned up in
the fire.”

“Along with Johnny Buck?”

“Yeah.” He unstitched his fingers and went
back to folded arms. “Along with Johnny Buck.”

“Is that what your father told you?”

“Yes. He thought it was funny how everyone
went looking for the money. All these years and nobody found it.
You would think they might figure it out.”

“You believe it’s gone.”

He looked at me, and this time turning his
head to assure eye contact. “Yes, Detective, if my dad said it’s
gone; it is gone.” He looked up at Carlos and caught him staring
with opened mouth, his pencil frozen mid-sketch atop his notepad. I
waited for him to release Carlos from his glare before pressing
on.

“Do you still have any of his letters?”

He blinked a few times before answering,
which made me think he was considering denying if he had them. Then
he turned and looked toward the Nautilus workout machine, and the
desk beside it. “Over there,” he said. “Help yourself.”

I got up and crossed the room, stopping at
the old secretary-desk littered with bills, papers and letters of
all sorts. The correspondences from René Landau were easy to single
out. Those were the ones on prison stationary neatly refolded and
tucked back into their original envelopes. I removed one letter
from the top envelope; the one dated latest, and read it. There
seemed nothing curious in its contents, and indeed, it seemed to
convey an expatiation of a joyful reunion. I was still reading when
I heard Adam clear his throat.

“Find anything of interest, Detective?”

I folded the letter and stuffed it back into
its envelope. “No,” I said, “except that I see your father and I
had something in common.”

He smiled curiously. “Oh?”

“Yes, we are both just a bit dyslexic. I see
he wrote;
till next time
, only he spelled time,
tmie
.”

He laughed. “I do that, too. It’s about the
only thing he ever gave me, that and his big French nose. He had
the same problem with numbers. Half his letters never made it to my
door without first getting rerouted through someone else’s
mailbox.”

“I see in this letter that he also mentions
the cabin.”

“Yeah, he wanted to go fishing up there as
soon as he got out. It’s something we used to do all the time when
I was a kid.”

“He knows of a sweet hole, does he?”

“What?”

“He makes reference to a fishing spot with
GPS coordinates.”

“Oh, that.” He seemed to pass it off with a
shrug. “The lake’s fed by hot springs. It’s got lots of hot spots
where the fish gather. He was always mapping them out for future
visits.”

“Adam,” I held the letter up for his
inspection. “Would you mind if I borrowed this? I am hoping there
might be something in here that may lend a clue into your father’s
death.”

He dismissed it with a wave. “Sure, if you
think it’ll help.”

“Thank you.” I pitched an ear toward the
window and listened for the rain. It had let up significantly,
though I did not expect that to last long. “I suppose we should be
getting on now.” I glanced at Carlos. He could not have looked more
relieved. Adam got up and met me halfway across the room.

“Detective?” he offered his handshake. I took
it. “If you find out anything about my father’s killer,
you’ll—”

“I will let you know. I promise. In the
meantime,” I gave him my card, “call if you need us or want to
talk.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and one more thing. I have to ask you
this. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Right here, Detective.”

“Excuse me?”

“That is what you were going to ask me, isn’t
it? You want to know where I was last night.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I was here the entire night.”

“You can substantiate that?”

“You can ask my girlfriend. We were
together.”

“That’s Trish.”

“Yes.”

“Where is Trish now?”

“Working.”

“Where?” I saw Carlos reach for his
notepad.

“Down at the Percolator. She’s a waitress
there.”

“I see.” Carlos slipped his notepad back into
his pocket. “Just for the record, do you own a gun?”

That seemed to catch him by surprise. “I hate
guns, Detective, even more so now.”

“Then you don’t own one.”

“No.”

“All right then, I guess that’s it.”

Adam Landau walked us to the door and saw us
out. As I suspected, the rain came in on a swell of cold air
pushing in from the Atlantic, soaking us to the bone on our run to
the car. I asked Carlos why it is that murderers cannot wait until
calmer weather to commit their crimes. He reasoned that crimes
usually take only an instant to commit, whereas solving one takes
the passage of time in which no weather can wait. I swear,
sometimes he is a philosophical whale in an ocean of minnows.