Chapter 7 - The Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 7

I let the green door slam hard on my way out. Even though I knew it was unlikely that she'd hear it from the basement, it was the only thing I could do to express my anger.

Sure, I could have chased after her and chewed her out, but that would have given her the chance to respond. Plus, I kind of liked the idea of Aimee unknowingly being in the basement with a gross dead body.

That two-faced behavior was just like her – really, I was to blame for having been taken in. She was never one to fully trust a woman, but it was typical of her to warm me up just to cut me down – especially given how much she blamed me for Pete losing his investment.

I realized I hadn't even thought to ask what her take on Pete going MIA was – after all, abandoning all his shifts must have really upped her hours. She was probably enjoying the extra tips.

I hopped a cab home and collapsed into the seat. My internal clock had been wound and rewound these last few days, and I needed some sleep, pronto.

I'm not proud of what I did once I got home. I was beat and my feelings were hurt. I'd selfishly imagined that, like me, Pete had remained single these last two years. Of course he hadn't. He was a man. He was a bartender. He was a charming, loser, fixer-upper stud. He probably got laid every night of the week. But, if Aimee hadn't just been saying that to hurt me, he'd also found someone to fall for, someone to actually date, at least for awhile. So I crawled into bed and cried.

Never a big sleeper, I was only able to force my body to accept three hours of sleep, and cursed my high-strung brain as I looked at the clock and saw that it was only 9pm. Then again, I should have cursed my stomach – that single slice of pizza hadn't done much to fill it and it growled at me again.

I grabbed a snack of crackers, deli cheese and apple slices. I wasn't being fancy. The apple was severely dented and I had to cut out good pieces. I really needed to go to the supermarket. I tell myself that every day.

I hopped in and out of the shower and was stuffing my dirty clothes in the hamper when I heard paper crinkling – like a red string tied around my finger.

I pulled out the slacks I'd worn yesterday when I dressed for the Harding meeting but ended up at Marlowe's instead. The day Len gave me the letter Pete left for me. The letter Pete wrote when, according to Len, he'd planned to be gone for good.

I ripped it open.

Claire –

Should have answered my email. Too late now.

There's a body in Marlowe's basement. I think it's real old, like from Prohibition, and if you get Marlowe's landmarked you can save it from the TST.

I'd ask Len but I don't want to put him in danger. You're kinda famous now so if you go to the press THEY can't hurt you. I would, but I don't want my shit to outshine Marlowe's. And no, I don't know who THEY are. I told someone my plan and then I was poisoned. I think it was Sodroxide. I even went to the library – me at a library huh? – and it's the only thing that makes sense. I don't know when I'll die, but it'll be soon.

Please do this for our friends and the bar Len put so much heart in.

Wish me luck wherever I end up.

Thanks,

• Pete.

I was stunned. I immediately pulled out my laptop and hit up a search engine, entering Sodroxide. The main ingredient in many industrial cleaning solutions, its only relevant use in Pete's life would be as a solvent for Kegger Klean, to clean the beer hose lines. I'd seen Pete do this when it was his turn.

It's usually done in the morning before opening, but if Pete was both opening and closing he'd sometimes do it before he left to get it out of the way. The kegs are disconnected and pressurized bottles filled with the cleaning solution are attached. After opening the tap to bring the solution all through the lines, it has to sit for twenty minutes before being flushed out completely. Then the keg is re-attached. If people knew they were drinking from poison-cleaned lines, all bars would be run out of business – but the solution is so diluted that one throw-away beer rinses the line effectively, rendering the next draft clean, crisp and just bubbly enough to make no one ever wonder how or how often tap lines are cleaned.

Sodroxide poisoning (0.5% concentration or more ingested orally) causes a slew of symptoms.

I kept re-reading them. One jumped out at me. Joint swelling. Pete had been pretty sure the dead hand's knuckles were swollen.

Another symptom: nail striation. Pete had swapped out his fingerless gloves for full-finger ones. Which would also hide his knuckles.

A third symptom: weight loss.

A fourth: death. Unless treated within the first few hours of exposure. Within minutes to days, depending on intensity of exposure.

I flopped on my back, thinking hard about all this info influx. Pete had been poisoned. Or he really really thought he had been. And he was showing one symptoms – weight loss – and might be hiding others.

How had Pete figured it out? That he was poisoned at all and that it was Sodroxide? There must be hundreds of poisons with similar symptoms – so did he watch himself get dosed, or did he find the Kegger Klean later and put it together?

Could he be wrong and he was just sick? Healthy thirty-three-year-olds get sick sometimes, and thirty-three-year-olds who drink too much, smoke too much and live his lifestyle are more at risk, right? I realized how little I knew but I didn't have the energy to delve deeper. Not right now.

The dead body – Denise's dead body? – might have shown at least one of the same symptoms – swollen knuckles. Pete mentioned in the letter that he confided in someone about his body-landmarking plan. Did he make the mistake of trusting the very person who'd killed Denise? And in so doing got himself poisoned too?

If that happened, or he was poisoned in some other scenario, he must have also done something that prevented him from dying soon after. Taken an antidote of sorts. But he still thought he was dying, at least when he wrote the letter, which must have been some time after he sent me the email, but before I showed up at Marlowe's.

So the question was, who had Pete confided in? And/or – who had poisoned him?

I'd have to find out. And only one person might be willing – and able – to tell me. I had to find Pete.

*

I was on Seventh Avenue before I spotted him trailing me along my streetlight-lit path. I caught his reflection in the Starbucks window, then he hung back awhile. Then I saw him again in the bright headlights of the B75 bus that almost ran us both over as I darted across Ninth Street. Not very sly.

As I reached the curb, I spun around to face him.

George stopped in his tracks, causing abrupt traffic braking. He seemed stunned to be found out.

“Why are you following me?” I yelled over the honking horns.

I grabbed the collar of his hoodie (hey, he'd laid hands on me just yesterday) and pulled him up onto the curb. Traffic moved on. Drivers still leaned out their windows to curse at us. It was a normal Friday night in Park Slope.

He was dressed down. I was pretty sure his black jeans and Brooklyn hoodie broke the TST's casual Friday guidelines. Not to mention they made him look like a corporate lawyer trying to blend into a crowd in Williamsburg. Like a narc.

“Just let me explain myself, Claire, please. I know you have no reason to trust me, but if you hear me out and want me to leave you alone, I'll drop the whole thing.”

“Can't this wait until tomorrow? Or Monday? It's Friday night!”

“Got big plans?” He looked me up and down: fitted Seven jeans, black hooded cardigan, black sequined tank, three-inch strappy black heels. Regular B&E attire.

“None of your business!”

“I think you're in danger and I just want to warn you!”

An unjustified protectiveness from men was becoming alarmingly common in my life. “Fine but only if you walk and talk. It's getting late and I've had a crazy day.”

I needed to get twenty blocks further to see if Pete was at the abandoned apartment above Marlowe's. I needed to find out who he'd told about his plan the body right before he was poisoned so I could go to the cops and put this whole mess behind me. And unless the building locks were miraculously left open, I'd have to set aside at least fifteen minutes to breaking in.

Yes, I know how to pick a lock. The more simple the tumbler system, the easier it is, but it still takes me my sweet time to get in. I learned just for fun, actually, after having read dozens of female gumshoes do it in paperback mysteries. I bought a pick set and a few doorknobs on Amazon. I used to sit at the bar at Marlowe's on Sunday afternoons, practicing while Pete set up the bar for the day. I ended up using it in my first novel, putting my practical skills to pretty good literary use.

I had my pick set in my pocket, but I was already wary – it'd been almost a year since I'd last tried this, and it would be my first time trying to break in somewhere for real.

I took off and George was hot on my heels.

He said, “You know I've been watching Marlowe's – and by now you probably know why. I assigned this intern, Denise, to help me get inside info on Marlowe's and I know you and your friends think that's awful, but that's common practice in legal battles like this. It's what I did and then she went missing. But the night before she did, she sent me an email asking for an urgent meeting the next day. I think someone killed her to stop her from telling me something that would help the TST get Marlowe's.” Most people would have struggled to keep up while talking so much, but he met my stride easily.

I pretended to be disinterested but his story had my full attention.

He went on. “And I let the police handle it and they found nothing and I just forced myself to move on. Then a few weeks ago – almost two years after Denise goes missing – Pete brags to me that he discovered something huge that will help save Marlowe's, and how as soon as he fills Len in, the TST won't have a chance at buying it out. And the next day he disappears. I think the same person killed them both to cover something up and I think that person was Len.”

Wait, was this guy telling me that he was the person Pete told about his plan, the person that Pete's letter implied was responsible for poisoning him?

“What exactly did Pete tell you?” I tried to ask as innocently as possible. If he had killed Denise, and tried to kill Pete for finding the body, he was probably trying to trick me into leading him to Pete to finish off the job. Or he really just was an overly caring, conscientious boss.

He breezed right through the question with such ease that I could not help but believe him instinctively.

“He told me nothing. Just that he'd found something huge that would help save Marlowe's and that I might as well give up now.”

Sounded like Pete. Sounded like Pete had been referring to getting Marlowe's landmarked and saved from the TST.

I moved the focus back to George's perceived threat. “That's a pretty flimsy theory, though, isn't it? I mean, you have no proof that either Pete or that girl was harmed at all. Or that Len was involved.” I decided not to tell him I thought he was right. That, in fact, I was pretty sure I'd held Denise's skull earlier this morning. Why didn't I just tell him? I did not know this guy and had no reason to trust him. And I like holding my cards close to my vest.

“Yeah, it's just a theory, but it would be a pretty big coincidence. Listen – ” He stopped and the urgency in his voice made me turn. “I can't let anyone else put themselves in danger, not without warning.” He held my gaze. His earnestness was appealing – he was clearly a man of passion. After a beat, I looked away.

“Come on,” I said. We crossed the street. I saw how he reached his conclusion, but I knew more than he did. I figured if I kept this going I could get a better read on the guy.

“I appreciate the concern,” I continued, “But seems to me you've created one scenario, and stuck to it. What else could have happened? Denise could be living peacefully in New Hampshire or Puerto Rico, having already forgotten all about Brooklyn, Marlowe's and the TST. Or,” I added, “She could have run away. She could have been abducted by a stranger. She could be dead, or she could have been killed by a maniac.”

“Like Len,” he said.

“Len has a temper, but why would he kill her?”

“Maybe he found out she was a mole.”

“Maybe he didn't,” I countered. “You have no proof. You're just sticking to your guns for the sake of it.” Of course, I had proof – in Marlowe's basement wall. Proof of something, at least.

George looked around. “Wait, where are you going?” We were a block from Marlowe's. “I can't go in there.”

“It's Friday. Len doesn't work Fridays.”

“It's not just Len, everyone in there will rip me apart.”

“Don't worry, we're not going inside.”

I sidled up to the abandoned apartment's doorway a few buildings down from the green door. I angled myself to hide the door handle, selected a thin torque wrench and pick from my set, and went to work.

“Fine, maybe someone else did it. Maybe Pete did it,” he said, looking nervously at the bar just a few yards away.

“Really? I thought you said he was killed too, by the same person.”

George finally noticed what I was doing.

“Are you breaking in?”

“Trying to.” I glanced up and down the street. Pretty quiet for a Friday night. I'd angled myself so that on the off chance anyone saw us from across the street, it would just look like I was having trouble with my keys.

“Well hurry up.” He looked nervous, but I could tell he was glad I was hearing him out. Otherwise his by-the-rules self would have bolted the moment he saw the lock picks. “Look, maybe Pete was nuts. Let's be honest, Claire, he wasn't exactly the most stable guy. I dealt with him for almost two years and he could be night and day.”

“So now you're saying, what, that Pete killed his girlfriend?”

“Maybe. And maybe the guilt drove him nuts. Maybe he killed himself. Maybe I've been wrong this whole time and it wasn't Len. I still think that guy's a time bomb – ”

“Cause Len made you wet yourself?” I enjoyed pushing his buttons.

He blushed deeply. “That's not what happened.”

I scoffed, “That's not how I heard it.” I could feel the first tumbler catch. Felt like a four or five tumbler lock.

“You have to admit he has a temper, Claire.”

I agreed, but I couldn't see him killing anyone on purpose. I didn't say as much, yet. I wanted to hear how far George's theory reached.

So instead, I deflected again. “It could have been anyone, George. Assuming Denise was in fact killed,” the second tumbler caught, “it might have been someone connected to Marlowe's. Then again, it might have been related to the TST, after all, which is not the most beloved company. Or it might have been completely random. You really don't know.”

My hand slipped and scraped painfully against the door jam and I cursed.

I had to start over, but my hands remembered, and I got the first tumbler almost right away. Picking a lock is like plotting out a story. There are tricks of the trade and steps to take but really you just get a feeling when it's right. I could feel the second tumbler start to catch almost right away.

“But,” George said, “if Denise's disappearance had nothing to do with Marlowe's, why get rid of Pete?”

The second tumbler caught.

“That,” I said, “is the first valid point you've made. Except for one thing.” Third caught.

“What's that?”

“Why do you assume Pete is dead?” I could feel the fourth tumbler align. I tried the handle. It didn't give. Five tumblers it is, I thought.

George was looking around impatiently, clearly nervous about being caught. “It comes back to Len. Pete was going to Len with his big secret, then he disappeared. Denise had something important to reveal, then she disappeared.”

“Maybe you did it.” Now, I didn't really think that. It was true that I didn't know this guy from Adam, and what I did know from hearsay or experience was not good. He had a reputation for being a tenacious douche and experience had shown that he was persistently stubborn. Beyond that, I knew nothing about him. More than anything, I wanted to see how he'd react to my theory.

“How do you figure?”

“Denise was going to tell you something the day after she disappeared. Maybe you killed her and maybe you killed Pete to cover it up.”

He was getting flustered. He wore it well. “Well shit, Claire, maybe I did and I'm the crazy one.”

The fifth tumbler caught. Just like riding a unicycle. I surreptitiously turned the knob, but didn't open the door yet.

His reaction was just what I'd expected: honest exasperation at a personally negative accusation that would, if true, resolve the actual mystery he and I were both pursuing. That is to say, he definitely didn't do it. “Really?” I asked.

He sighed. “No, I didn't kill either of them. I almost wish I did – this has been eating me up since the first day she didn't come to work.”

I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Something caught my eye as I moved into the streetlight. A few pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell into place.

“Well, good thing,” I said, ushering him into the building's entryway. “Because I got to tell you, Pete's not dead, but he was poisoned, probably by the same person who killed Denise – who probably is dead – and he thinks he's dying,” I paused, holding up my hand. “And it looks like whoever got them tried to kill me too,” I said, pointing at my scraped fingernail.

My knuckles, I suddenly realized, were swollen. But what had really caught my attention was my ring finger nail. Where it had hit the building's stucco, my plum nail polish had been almost all peeled off.

And the nail-bed was clearly striated.