Chapter 8 - Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 8

The hallway was just as musty as it'd been that morning, stuffy even. The abandoned apartment, up on the third floor, was also locked, but I had a feeling this lock wouldn't take me as long. My hands were shaking when I pulled the pick set back out. The scraped, striped nail was staring back at me. I put my own probable Sodroxide symptoms out of mind for now and went to work.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. I didn't want Pete to hear us out there.

“Pete left me a letter, telling me he found a body at Marlowe's. He thought it was from the '20s, but I'm pretty sure it's more recent, like two years old.”

He interrupted me, “A body? Like, dead?!” It struck me then that that sort of outraged reaction was normal. For a fleeting moment I wondered what the hell was wrong with me that I wasn't more affected by the dead body, or its gruesome stashing in a wall, or the fact that I'd seen it, and held it. Then I pushed those punishing thoughts aside. If I could vindicate this body, there was no need to feel bad about my lack of compassion for it. I nodded.

George calculated quickly in his head. “Two years? Then it could be – ”

“Yeah, it could be Denise. But I'm not a doctor. I say two years based off of some forensic books I have at home, that I'm using for research for my second novel. The – ” I didn't want to say skull. He had known her, after all. I chose tact over literalness. “ – remains just don't look old enough to be historical. Pete was hoping that if there had been some famous speakeasy bust or gangster murder at Marlowe's, I could go to the press and get it landmarked, and stop the eminent domain. I'm not clear yet on why he didn't try to do it himself, but the letter said he was poisoned and that he's dying. And it said the poison is probably Sodroxide, which is in the keg-line cleaner that Marlowe's uses. I looked it up and knuckle swelling and striated nails,” I raised my striped nail, “are among the first symptoms, as well as vomiting – which I did three times yesterday – followed by death, unless treated immediately.”

The lock caught. We were in.

It was clear the place was abandoned. Well, more abandoned than when Pete had been hiding there. A quick walk-through confirmed that no one was there. We both visibly relaxed. I'd been nervous about Pete and George facing off, but talking to him was helping me clear my head. Nonetheless, I was glad I wouldn't have to deal with their opposing personalities.

“What is this place?” George asked, looking around at the curtained-off room. I was more interested in what was under the room than in it.

I went over to the couch. “This is where Pete was hiding out until this morning. I don't know where he might be now, and I have questions that only he can answer. I guess they'll have to wait until I figure out where he is now. But,” I said, crouching down by the floor where Pete had pried a board loose, “I'm hoping he's come back in the meanwhile to stash some of the remains.”

All the floorboards were down, flat. It was like a needle in a haystack – until I noticed one of the tool marks I'd seen earlier, in a groove. I pulled out my pick set and used the sturdiest torsion wrench as a lever, lifting the board. I peered into the hollow below.

It was empty.

Defeated, “Well, so much for that.”

“I don't understand.”

I sighed. “Everything I told you – I have no evidence.” I had to be blunt. “Pete has the head, and he had kept the hand in here, but now it's gone.”

“You had her head?”

“It was pretty decomposed, George. It could be her – the time-line might work, but I have nothing now. Nothing to take to the cops.”

“Where's the rest of the body?”

“Downstairs at Marlowe's.”

“Then why not just call up Detective Heath – he was the primary on Denise's case – and have him poke around?”

“So they can shut the place down for good and the TST wins?” I asked accusingly.

“So we can identify whoever's body it is,” he replied defensively.

“So what's stopping you?” I asked him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you got two good reasons to invite the cops back to Marlowe's – get justice for Denise and get Marlowe's for the TST in the process. So why haven't you dialed 911 yet?”

He blushed. “Detective Heath and I are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”

“And why's that?”

“Let's just say,” he said, “That he found me a little too enthusiastic about helping out with Denise's case.”

“You mean you made yourself a nuisance and were forbidden from contacting them?”

“Unless I have solid evidence, yes,” he admitted. I was impressed. This guy was an idiot. He was risking his career with the TST, his livelihood with Len and his reputation with the cops – all to get to the bottom of an employee's disappearance.

He looked out the window down at Marlowe's. “You think her body is there?”

“Somebody's is.” We both knew he wouldn't be volunteering to go there. But I might.

I absent-mindedly put my hand on the window frame as we peered down at the bar. I caught sight of my striped nail again.

So did George. “If you were poisoned too, why are you fine?”

That same thought had crossed my mind.

“Well, I was sick yesterday. I threw up three times. At first I thought I was just hung over, but now that we know about this – ” I tapped my nail on the window “ – it looks more like Sodroxide. The first upchuck was when I woke up at noon – ”

“ – noon?”

“Yeah, noon. I went to Marlowe's the night before. I stayed pretty late.” What was with this guy? “The second time was later that day, after you almost got me run over by a cab.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Then I threw up again when I woke up here, with Pete. I think he was keeping an eye on me, or Marlowe's, and saw me pass out after I threw up.”

“So you threw the poison up?”

I shook my head. “Doesn't work like that. As soon as the Sodroxide starts being digested, it reacts with your natural stomach enzymes, creating nausea-inducing acids and, soon after, caustic acids that eat away at your stomach lining and enter your blood stream, killing you. Unless you get treatment right away, you'll either wither away or die right away, depending on how much you were given. Either way, it should happen within a few hours.”

“Then why is Peter still alive?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. I didn't have a chance to ask him – I didn't know he was poisoned until I read his note, and that was after he left.”

George was looking around. “Where did you throw up?”

“In a trash can.”

He walked through the apartment. “If it's still here, maybe the cops can test it for the poison. That would give us some credibility, at least,” he said.

I hadn't thought of that but it didn't have legs. I walked straight to the tiny run-down bathroom, emerging with the empty trash bin in hand.

“He dumped it down the toilet, probably,” I said.

George leaned against the couch, defeated. Moving on, he asked, “So Pete gave you the antidote?”

“He might have. I looked into Sodroxide briefly online. He mentioned it by name in his note. I just focused on the important bits: symptoms, source.”

“I'd say antidote is pretty important, Claire.”

“Well, I didn't scroll down that far. I also didn't know I was poisoned until just now. I thought I was throwing up because I'd drank too much.”

“Could Pete have slipped you the antidote without you noticing?”

“Well, I know he gave me something. He slipped me Ambien last night to knock me out until Marlowe's was closed, and this morning so that he could sneak back into hiding.”

“Could he have poisoned you instead?”

“I was sick before I ran into him.”

“Maybe he was giving you more than just a sleeping pill. Maybe he was giving you the antidote too.”

I liked that thought. “Maybe.” I smiled.

George was getting exasperated. “How can you smile at the thought of a guy who slips you a mickey? That just reinforces the idea that he's off his rocker. He killed Denise in a fit of passion, the guilt drove him nuts, and he poisoned you just because he's crazy, or to promote this delusion of his that someone is out to get him.”

“Hey, you don't know Pete. I dated the guy for two years. We practically lived together.”

“What happened?”

“Excuse me?” I knew what he meant, but I do not like talking about past relationships. Especially ones that ended badly.

“If he's so great, so beyond reproach, why aren't you still with him?”

“That's none of your business, and it's not that he's not beyond reproach – I just can't see him killing her, just because he broke up with her, or even if she broke up with him.”

He held up his hands. “Sorry I asked. I just want to find out what happened.”

I had to put this in perspective for him. “You can't let go because you feel responsible for Denise, right?” He nodded. I'd hit the nail on the head. I continued. “Well, I feel responsible too. I used to love Pete, and his life went straight downhill after we broke up.”

“While yours went uphill,” he guessed.

“So let's try to figure this out. You wanted to warn me, save me? I don't think I need saving. Ever since Pete slipped me that last sleeping pill at my place, I've felt fine. So logically, he must have given me the antidote then. Why he can't give it to himself and save himself, I don't know, but I don't need saving. He does. So let's try to save him. Or at least redeem Denise.”

George nodded.

I sat on the wood-frame couch. “Who else could have killed Denise? Outside of Marlowe's,” I added.

“I didn't know her very well. Not intimately. She was my assistant, basically a paralegal intern while she finished up her first year of law school at NYU. She had good grades, she was always nice. But I didn't even know she had started dating Pete until it hit the newspapers after she disappeared.”

“For the moment, let's set Len aside as a suspect. Could it have been anyone in Denise's professional life?”

“No one jumps out at me. She was very friendly. A little too friendly, if you know what I mean. She didn't have girl friends at work; she was dating a second-year intern who got her the job, then she started dating Shawny, one of the firm's other associates. That was a no-no but by the time I found out and had to have HR talk to her, it had already ended. She worked for me for two months before I assigned her the Marlowe's gig. Actually, she was very gung-ho about it, volunteered, basically forced us to let her do it. I think she had visions of corporate espionage, intrigue, cloak-and-dagger stuff. She was disappointed when she found out how boring her job really was. All she was supposed to do was gather basic information on the clientele's morale, report any organized protests as they cropped up, and guestimate how business was doing.”

He sighed, “I didn't want her to get as involved as she did, but she couldn't help it, I think.” He looked down at his hands guiltily.

Gently, I asked again, “Was there any conflict at the office?”

He shook his head. “Nothing that would warrant murder. And even if there was someone at work, why try to kill Pete too?”

“Good point. How about this, then. A jealous ex-boyfriend finds out she's dating someone new and kills her in a rage?”

“Not that she would, but she didn't mention any ex-boyfriends. She was always very professional with me. She didn't confide in me – it would have been weird. But if it were an ex, why try to kill Pete two years later, and why poison you?”

“I don't like Len for this, but it's starting to look like you might have been on the right track. The only thing all three of us have in common is Marlowe's.”

“And Pete.”

“I suppose it's possible he did it to himself, but why?” We thought in silence.

George changed tack. “You felt sick the morning after you went to Marlowe's?”

“Around noon, when I woke up, remember?” I said sarcastically.

He waved that off. “Was anything unusual about you going there that night?”

“I hadn't been there for almost two years. Since Pete and I broke up.” I saw where he was going with this and picked up the thread. “And nothing else unusual happened that day. Went to Marlowe's. Left around five.”

“Five?”

“Am. It's a regulars thing. And I read that Sodroxide is most often ingested orally. It's a liquid after all, so it'd be pretty easy to slip into a drink.”

“Especially if you were the bartender,” George said, “Like Len.”

I shot him an open-your-mind look. “Or pretty much anyone else there that night. I wasn't exactly guarding my drink. I was up and about, talking to people, schmoozing, being social.”

“Being drunk.”

“What's your problem? Do you hate Marlowe's, or just bars in general, or all alcohol?”

“I just don't get the place's appeal, I guess. And I've witnessed some pretty grave wastes of time and money there, before Len had me banned.”

“But you're saying I was probably poisoned by someone who was there.”

“If it couldn't have happened anywhere else.”

I hesitated. “Well...”

“What?”

“I did have something else to drink yesterday. Right before I saw you.”

“When you were in the basement with Len?”

I nodded. “I had a beer.”

“At two in the afternoon?”

“Half a beer,” I said in my defense.

“So Len could have poisoned you then.”

“But I'd already thrown up that morning.”

“But you said originally you thought that was from having drank too much the night before.”

“I did. But now it looks more likely that it was from Sodroxide.”

“Does it?” he asked, “How long is the chemical's incubation period?”

I thought back to what I'd read up online. “It varies, I think. It can be one hour or up to twelve.”

“So,” George said, “you could have been poisoned by Len.”

“Or anyone at the bar the night before. Assuming that's when it happened,” I said, pointedly, “we also have to consider at what point that night it happened. I felt fine until I woke up the next day. So it probably happened at the end of the night, within five to seven hours from when I left the bar, and not when I first got there, which was over twelve hours before I got sick.”

“So who was there towards the end?”

“Let's get this out of the way: Len was there until I called a cab and left.”

“But you want to explore other options. So who else?”

I thought back. “Rob and Jenkins.”

“The old guys?”

That's how I'd always referred to them in my head, too. “Yeah. Well, Rob is in his late forties and Michael Jenkins is way older, closer to seventy.”

“What do you know about them?” he asked.

“Rob is a public advocate. He represents tenants in cases against landlords. Tenants' rights, basically,” I said. Rob loved to rant about his cases, especially after a few too many.

George nodded. “Explains why he hates the TST so much. What about the other guy?”

I crinkled my nose. “Jenkins? Let's see, I think he's officially retired but I know he's not solvent – he scrapes by on social security. He's a sculptor who had some success years ago, but nothing I've heard of recently.”

“Do either of them have any reason to want to kill Denise?”

“Not that I know of, but I really don't know much about her, or what's gone on at Marlowe's recently.”

“Do either of them seem the type?”

I shook my head. “The killing type? No one I know is the killing type, George.”

“That's what you thought,” George said, “But clearly someone is.”

I wasn't liking this, pulling my friends apart. It was different than what I usually do, where I try to create rounded characters inspired by them in my head. That's my way of connecting with people, even if they never know it. I wasn't comfortable trying to find a killer among them.

George's gaze was boring into me. “I know this is tough – but you have to realize something. Someone tried to kill you. Someone saw you at Marlowe's two nights ago and saw you as a threat. But you also have no proof of that and no proof of the worse crime, and if we don't figure out who did this they might finish the job or do it to someone else down the line.”

I sighed. “Okay.” I was on board. I thought back to his last question. “I can't see why Rob or Michael would want to kill Denise.”

“Good, for now. Who else was there?”

I told him about talking to Louise, who's a teacher who lives nearby, about her broken engagement to Gerald (who wasn't there that night), and talking to Travis, a trumpet player who performs at Marlowe's in a few different bands, and letting Carl, a single and pretty lonely construction worker, buy me shots.

“So Carl bought you a shot?”

I nodded. “Two. I guess it's possible he slipped something in.” I concentrated on my memories of that drunken night. “He's the only patron, I think, who ordered and carried me over a drink.”

George nodded. “So he's a possibility.”

“But I can't think of why he'd want to.”

“We'll figure that out,” he said.

I closed my eyes and thought back. “There was also a couple I don't know in a booth, but they weren't acting like they knew anyone there. Oh, and Johnny.”

“Who?”

“Johnny Red,” I said. “That's not his last name, but he drinks Red Label so that's what everyone calls him.”

“What's his deal?”

“He's a loser. Bad boy, womanizer, usual jerk who hangs around until the end of the night to scrape lonely women off the floor.”

I was pretty sure that's all I had, and I didn't know any more now than I did before I left my house that night. It was just better organized in my mind.

“But what does this all mean?” I asked.

“It means,” George said, “That you need to go to Marlowe's to do some recon.”