The Chemist, page 13
part #1 of The Chemist Series
How comforting.
Climbing the porch steps, donning latex gloves, Cale eased open the front door. He fought the sinking feeling that he was back at an all-too-familiar place.
Square One.
CHAPTER 26
"I had a talk with your old boyfriend today," Cale commented to Maggie over the hum of the Friday after-work crowd.
"Liam Hemsworth or James Marsden?”
He gave her a bemused grin. "Try Door Number Three: John Zackary."
They were in a local downtown sports bar, seated at a high rounded table in one corner. Green-and-gold Packers paraphernalia, Milwaukee Brewers and Bucks banners and pennants, and scarlet Wisconsin Badgers game jerseys decorated the walls like mismatched wallpaper. Ceiling-high windows rendered those inside a view of the steady cruise of downtown traffic.
Maggie had messaged him while he'd been touring the Tolver house. Could they meet for drinks? After work? Why not, Cale had replied, disgusted by his lack of progress in the case.
The place was half-filled, and music played around them, blending with the steady buzz of relaxed conversations. "What about?” Maggie asked. “Is Zackary accusing me of deserting my client?"
"Says he feels shitty about the way Paprika bird-dogged you."
Maggie hoisted her beer bottle in mock salute. "Here's to Lester the Molester…" Her voice trailed off gloomily.
Cale decided the tour of Tolver's house hadn't helped his mood any. Detective Blum and his men had bagged every iota of evidence, everything indicating Tolver had been involved in the manufacturing of crystal meth. Chemicals, glass beakers and vials, the stash of hidden cash. All of it. All that had remained was the chalk outline in the basement.
In spite of this, the puzzle burned in Cale's stomach. He'd worked Narcotics years ago, prior to Homicide. He'd seen his share of crack houses and homemade meth labs. In his opinion, Ray Tolver's home was neither. It lacked the dangerous feel dealers' houses had about them. The vibe was all wrong.
Cale watched as Maggie picked at the label of her beer bottle. "Sexual frustration," he said, giving her a wink.
"Now you're a shrink all of a sudden?"
"Scientific fact. Somebody won a Nobel Prize for the study."
"Some sexually frustrated PhD, no doubt." She grinned, casting her gaze across the crowd at the happy smiles. These were people released from the tedium of the work week, letting their hair down. "Why do you think Sanchez said that to me? About the missing girls?"
"Won't know that until we talk to him," Cale told her. "That's why I met with Zackary."
Maggie shivered as if a chill had descended. She set her bottle on the table, reaching for her purse. "Let's go home. A hot bath will do me more good than alcohol."
Cale decided not to argue.
They departed from the tavern, settling on Chinese delivery for dinner. She suggested he could order while she was in the tub.
"Takee-outee?" His joke was lame. When she rolled her eyes and giggled, he felt relieved. At least he could still make her laugh.
It was worth something.
As Maggie ran hot water in the upstairs bathtub, Cale phoned in their food order. Near the kitchen doorway, Hank meowed, and Cale filled a bowl of dry cat food for him. Hank settled in for his dinner with modest enthusiasm.
With thirty minutes before the food arrived, Cale decided he'd been putting the call off long enough. The number was on a list Maggie had attached to the refrigerator with a magnet. He stood against the kitchen counter, phone in hand.
When his call was answered, Cale said, “Hey, Chloe. Just thought I’d tell you…we’re making progress in the case.”
“You’re saying don’t need my help? After all?”
“Not this time. But thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.”
The investigation was too hot, Cale understood. Too much politics involved. The press were becoming more negative by the day. And now McBride and the chief were on the warpath. Not to mention the debacle over the “Packers angle.” No way could the investigators call in a psychic. Just imagine the fallout. Besides, wouldn’t it make them look like amateurs? Grasping at straws?
After hanging up, he stared at Hank again. Feeling his gaze, the plump feline stopped eating and shot him a questioning look.
"How about it, Hankster? Do you believe in ghosts? Spirits? All that woo-woo stuff?"
Hank blinked and turned back to his dinner.
"Just what I thought."
The doorbell rang. The delivery boy. Feeling a twinge of guilt about rejecting Chloe, Cale decided that he’d best pay close attention to his fortune cookie.
——
Maggie relaxed in the upstairs bathtub. The stress of the day seeped from her steam-filled pores. The pair of beers she’d had at the tavern blessed her with a pleasant buzz. The thirty minutes of smiling and laughing with Cale had given her a sense of normalcy again. Like back when they had first begun dating, when every little thing they did together had that spark.
Now the odd feeling of emptiness was returning. She sighed and squeezed the loofah sponge, feeling the hot water wash over her bare neck and shoulders.
Cale, she decided, appeared emotionally unfazed by it all. Wrapped up in his case, it didn't seem as if the unsteady nature of their relationship was affecting him. Typical male. He possessed that On-Off switch; the one that masked his true emotions. Compartmentalization. It’s what psychologists and couples’ therapists called it. Most law enforcement officers—females included—had the ability. That Cale could function like an automaton failed to surprise her. Fact was, she couldn't blame him. Not really. Not when he faced murder and mayhem on the streets each day.
And yet…
Did he need her? Maggie wondered. Would he care that much if he lost her? Like actual hurting care, if she decided to end their relationship? She didn’t want to leave; she still loved Cale so, so much. And yet…well, a gal’s got to do what she must, she reminded herself, cold, harsh and clinically.
The reality was, she was still moving out. The first week of July. Her thoughts rounded back to the primary question: What was Cale going to do to prevent it? To keep it from happening?
Actions spoke louder than words.
Maggie now heard footsteps thump up the stairs, along the hallway, and on the bedroom carpet. They stopped outside the bathroom door. In some romance movie, wouldn't he burst through the door and lift her into his arms, carry her off? Make love to her beneath star-filled skies and cypress trees? Somewhere exotic? They'd live happy ever after, nestled safe in a high cliff-house that overlooked crashing waves and rolling seas.
"Food's here, Maggie May!" Cale called, giving the door a rap.
"Out in a minute." She eased her shoulders and neck down deeper into the warm, sudsy water until they were immersed once more. "Set us up in the family room, why don't you?"
"Your wish is my command."
His footsteps faded. Maggie squeezed the loofah one final time, flushing warm water in a cascade over her now-pink cheeks. Melancholy washed over her.
Actions. Not words.
PART TWO
OLD COLLEGE ROOMMATES
CHAPTER 27
The Fox River runs through the heart of Green Bay, splitting the city in half like a giant axe wound. A few miles to the south, past coal factories and paper mills, stands a parade of fine homes. Estates really. They dot the riverbank landscape like a string of sparkling pearls.
Quarried red brick. High turrets. Twenty-foot tall windows comprising half the entire back wall of the house. From a distance, the multi-million-dollar Crenshaw estate appeared more castle than home. It sat nestled among the green glades and farmlands and overlooked the twisting, auburn-colored river.
The barbecue that Saturday was in celebration of Marla Crenshaw's thirty-fifth birthday. The crowd, some twenty-plus friends, was gathered in the backyard. The guests confined themselves for the most part to the low-walled patio outside or to the adjacent sunroom that was connected to the rear of the house. A few optimistic souls had erected a volleyball net, but the ground proved too spongy to allow proper footing.
That same turf, however, failed to inhibit the handful of children who had gathered around the small koi pond located a short distance from the house. They were attempting to catch the darting fish with a long stick and a seining net.
"Kendal! Bucky!" Marla called from the terrace. "You kids be careful near that water."
Glancing around for her husband, she spotted him standing among a quartet of men. They were discussing politics or the stock market or whatever tales men shared inside their secretive little bands at gatherings such as this.
"Toby! Please check on what the children are up to!" Marla called in his direction.
When he looked over, she flipped her head toward the glittering pond in the distance.
Tobias nodded. He waved at Marla as his friends broke out in laughter at a joke-teller's punch line, one he didn’t hear. The sound was covered by music wafting from the wireless speakers concealed in the shrubbery at the borders of the patio.
Looking back at his wife, Tobias noted that Marla looked particularly fetching on this pleasant spring afternoon. She was dressed in a shimmering jade blouse and slender dark slacks. At the moment, she was conversing with a group of women that included Jen Clayton and Dot Robicheaux. Attempting, he guessed, to convince Dot to upgrade into a six-bedroom colonial, which had just come on the market.
Without much effort, Tobias could hear her sales pitch cantering on the wind. Real estate was still the best investment out there; and his wife preached this with conviction, like a charismatic never tiring of lecturing her flock. By this time, he had her sermon memorized.
At the koi pond, the kids were being kids. They had captured one twisting fish that flopped about on the brownish grass. Just as fast, the pack turned its collective attention to a frog that had escaped beneath the mucky surface.
"You kids watch yourselves!" Tobias called to them in a parental voice.
"We will, Dad!" called back Bucky, not glancing up from the water. The rest of the gremlins likewise failed to look up, maintaining focus on their project.
Having done his duty, Tobias turned and drifted away from the pond. He made his way around the periphery of the gathering. Minutes later, he found himself alone near the boathouse, content to observe the gathering from a modest distance.
"I hear there's a sick pervert on the loose,” said a voice near his shoulder. “Preying on innocent young women."
The sudden words startled him. Tobias wheeled around to find he was staring at the absolute last face on earth he expected to see. An apparition? For a weird and indecisive moment, he couldn't be certain.
"Tazeki?" he said, finding his voice less than steady. Tobias waved his beer bottle in front of him like a magic wand. "What on…? Is it really you?"
Tazeki Mabutu was garbed in pressed charcoal summer-weight slacks and a gray mock-turtleneck. Fifth Avenue cocktail chic. His grin was smug. In a low voice, he asked, "Who were you expecting? Nelson Mandela?"
Tobias stared into the coffee-brown eyes of his old friend. "No. It's just that—"
"Stop staring, please," Tazeki interrupted, grabbing him by the elbow, steadying the wavering bottle. "You’re acting as if I’m a ghost."
"What are you doing here?" Tobias narrowed his eyes. "Are you insane? Showing up like this?" At that instant, a wild thought grabbed him: If Tazeki was here, there must be trouble. Something he didn’t know about; something undoubtedly bad.
Dots of perspiration popped across Tobias’s brow, and he felt his skin pale.
"Relax." Tazeki’s voice was a calm breeze. "Just in the neighborhood. Thought I'd pay a visit to my old college roommate."
Trapped between anger and fright, Tobias could manage no pithy comeback.
——
Tazeki glanced across the patio at the gathering of people. Who was this slick foreign visitor? they must be wondering. A visiting celebrity? A new Packers coach? Was he someone famous they should know?
He smiled back at the bevy of inquisitive faces. He gave off a Buddha-like grin, displaying ivory teeth. He whispered to Tobias, "Perhaps they think I'm your gardener."
"That much I doubt." Tobias remained taken aback by his old friend’s presence.
What they could not know was that he, Tazeki Mabutu, was royalty in his own country. Cousin to the crown prince. Head of an elite government security force. A powerful figure. What these simple party guests could never imagine was that with a single phone call, despite the great distance from his homeland, he could have three armed warriors here within an hour. The warriors could break the guests’ bones to bit, sever hands, arms, feet, and splay torsos open. They could take the steaming organs and feed them to the yard dogs.
If Pazuzu willed it, of course.
Such was the power of Tazeki Mabutu. And even better, because he was an official of his sovereign nation, he possessed diplomatic immunity. Although he was traveling incognito—under the radar, so to speak—it was nice to know that such powers were there if he did require them.
"I'm uncomfortable with your showing up like this," Tobias admitted, in a tight, low voice. "Unannounced."
"You are not my chaperone, old friend. I come and go as I please."
Tazeki continued to flash his movie-star smile at the crowd, nodding with feigned earnestness. Little did these provincials understand that they were gazing like unwitting chickens into the eyes of the most cunning of wolves.
Tazeki watched as Marla Crenshaw glided across the patio to where they stood. Her blond hair was stylishly coiffed, bangs in front, golden earrings dangling. He noted her confident air, the undercurrent of sensuality. A splendid catch for Tobias, he decided.
In her role as gracious hostess, Marla extended a slender hand. Tazeki accepted, adding the gallant bow of a practiced diplomat.
Tobias introduced them with reluctance.
"A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Mabutu," Marla said, playing the gracious hostess. "Toby's told me so much about you. From back in your college days. Right?" Appraising the visitor, she added, "You two sounded like quite the daring duo!"
Tazeki's grin was unrelenting. "Ah, yes. Good old Madison. Madtown. Those were the days, weren't they, Toby?"
Tobias grinned the way a mongoose smiles at a cobra.
CHAPTER 28
Another pair of couples moved up to join the group. Introductions all around. As he shook hands, fractured memories of his college years shimmied across Tazeki's consciousness.
Of meeting Tobias his first day on campus—his roommate for the next four years. Tazeki's major was political philosophy; Tobias, on the other hand, was destined for a degree in organic chemistry. In spite of their scholastic differences, however, the roommates discovered that they shared a bevy of similar interests. A love of sports, as well as an equal penchant toward anarchistic ideology. And also, no doubt, there were the women. Madison, Wisconsin was a bastion of liberal thought in those days. The campus had been teeming with nubile young coeds whose sole desire, it seemed, lay in proving their blossoming independence.
Friendship had formed fast for the new roommates. And out of this camaraderie spawned a growing trust. Each soon found that he could share his dreams, his longings, even his most dark and secret fantasies. And share they had. Regardless of how disturbing those passions, in the future, might prove to be.
Yes, college. Those were the days.
"Go Badgers!" Tazeki offered now, pumping a rah-rah fist in the air. “Go Big Red!”
Everyone grinned and laughed. No worries; he was one of them.
Everyone except Tobias, who, if Tazeki wasn’t mistaken, was having difficulty preventing his left eyelid from spasming with a persistent tic.
——
"What kind of game are you playing here?" Tobias asked tersely. His eyes were narrowed, his dark hair tousled as if set upon by some invisible wind.
The two men were standing inside the library room of the oversized home.
Tazeki had taken his time surveying the spacious room—three glazed oak tables, tall mahogany book shelves ripe with leather-bound tomes. All the classics. There was a wall display of medieval artifacts, oh so nuevo-contemporary. Sets of double-height, beveled French windows rendered a magnificent view across the outer lawns. There the trees stood like tall sentries along the western flank.
In his tasseled loafers, Tazeki stepped across the room to an oversized globe in one corner. His eyes sought out Africa's southernmost coast, then around the horn and up to Liberia, home of the proud and free.
“Liberia, Oh Liberia.” Tazeki jabbed his finger to the globe, spinning it. “My homeland.”
“What of it?” asked Tobias, gloomily.
A minute passed, before Tazeki swung his attention back around to face him. "I'm checking your progress, my friend." Tazeki’s voice was flat. "Making certain our little business arrangement is, how shall we say, secure?"
"You failed to add this time."
"All right. Yes. This time."
Tobias removed his tortoise-shell glasses, employing two fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. His left eyelid continued to spasm, and he stood alongside one window, as if unable to sit while Tazeki was here.
"And this is necessary?" he asked. "In your view?"
Tazeki's smile was feathery. "You are not a natural criminal, Tobias. No one understands this better than me. And after the incident last year…well?"
Tobias offered no reply.
"I deemed it prudent," Tazeki continued, "to ensure there be no repeat of such unfortunate business."
Tobias glared at him. Tazeki was referring, of course, to the sorry situation with last year’s third victim. What was her name again? Ah yes, the Vanderkellen girl, he reminded himself. As if he could ever forget.
