The Murder Artist

CHAPTER 20

“You look like shit.”

Shoffler. It’s Saturday night and the detective has dropped by unannounced. My heart does a little loop-de-loop at the sight of him – does he have news? – but I calm down when he hoists aloft a six-pack of Sierra Nevada.

“Gonna let me in? I even brought your favorite yuppie-scum brew.”

“Hey.” I hold open the door.

He screws up his face at the state of the living room. “Where’s Martha Stewart when you need her?” and follows me into the kitchen, which earns another frown.

Shoffler pulls out two beers, holding them by the necks, then sticks the carton in the fridge. “Something’s evolving in there, chief.”

“You didn’t tell me you were promoted to the housekeeping police.”

At this lame attempt at a joke, Shoffler manages a polite little laugh: “Heh!” He twists off the caps, hands me one of the beers, then plunks himself down at the table. He raises his bottle, tips it toward me. “Cheers,” he says.

I reciprocate. “What’s up? How’s the new gig?”

He makes a disgusted face. “It compares favorably with gum surgery.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that essentially it’s an exercise in crowd control – that’s the bottom line.” He tells me that if there’s a terrorist incident in D.C., my best bet is to steal a canoe or rowboat. “Paddle out on the Potomac.”

“You call that an evacuation plan?”

“Don’t get me started.” He takes a long pull on the beer. “What’s up with you?”

“Not much.”

He raises his eyebrows at that. “So why do you look so played out?”

“Maybe it’s my total lack of success.”

“But what about Sandling? No leads from the files?” We’ve talked on the phone a couple of times since my trip to Florida, so he knows about my meeting there and that Emma Sandling got her lawyers to send me the police files.

“I’m sure it was the same guy… or someone working with him, but beyond that I got nothing useful. At least so far.”

“Nothing?”

“Jack.”

“Hmmmm.” He gets up, ambles to the refrigerator. “Another beer?”

“Why not?”

“So if you got nothing, what you been doing?”

“Come to headquarters,” I tell him. We migrate to my study, and I give him a quick tour through my lists, the stacks of Wanted posters, my online pursuits. He nods.

We head back toward the kitchen, where Shoffler hits the fridge again. “You?”

“I’m all set.”

He sits back down at the table and makes a gesture in the direction of my study. “What you’re doing – it’s like digging to China with a teaspoon. You know that, right?”

I shrug.

“You haven’t spared much time for… housekeeping, I can see that. Or grooming, for that matter. You look like hell.”

“Thanks. That why you’re here?”

“Matter of fact, I was going to drop by anyway, but yes. I got a call from a concerned party – your neighbor, Mrs. Whoosey, the one with the dog.”

“Mrs. Siegel.”

“Right. I told you doing this shit would burn you out and you are burning out. I mean – look at this.” He gestures at the room. “It looks like Baghdad. And look at you. This is fucked up, Alex.”

“Thanks for the concern.”

“Yeah, well, I feel like I owe you. I never should have bit on that T-shirt.” A frown of self-disgust takes over his face for a moment and he seesaws his big head in a slow, rueful way. “He suckered us.”

“So this is… what? Some kind of damage control?” I’m sorry as soon as this comes out of my mouth. My voice had the self-indulgent tone of a sulky teenager mouthing off to his parent. And I didn’t mean it. I like Shoffler and I know he’s here out of simple human concern. And the truth is, it’s a relief to have him in my kitchen. My personal contact with humans has pretty much dwindled down to brief exchanges with Damon at Whatsa Bagel and Consuelo at Vace’s Pizza.

Shoffler doesn’t so much stand up as vault to his feet, instantly offended. “You know what? Fuck you.” He slam-dunks his almost full bottle into the trash can, then stalks toward the door.

I follow him, unable to think of anything to say. When he gets to the door and turns around to face me, I see that his face is bright red. It makes me feel terrible.

“That was out of line, Ray. I’m sorry. I don’t know…”

He pushes my apology away. “I consider you a friend, Alex. I came here as a friend. And that shit you’re doing” – he slowly wags his head – “it’s good to do, don’t get me wrong. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get something. But if you do, it will be like winning the lottery. In all my years, I have never seen that kind of legwork pay off. Ever.”

I put my hands up, straight up, as if I just got busted and I’m surrendering. “I can’t just sit here.”

“You been keeping notebooks? You’ve been writing stuff down?”

“I’m your disciple there. I’m on number five. But I’ve been through them, Ray, over and over. I can practically recite what I’ve written down. I don’t think there’s one thing in there I haven’t followed up on.”

“Tell you what. You go out and get a pizza, and some more beer wouldn’t hurt, either. And while you’re doing that, let me take a look.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

When I get back, we have to clear space on the table for the pizza and search for napkins. It’s been so long since I’ve been shopping that paper napkins are long gone: there’s not a single paper towel left in the house, either. I end up in the dining room, extracting two pale green damask napkins from the armoire, where Liz keeps our linen, such as it is. The sight of the napkins, the feel of the fabric, sets off a small explosion of memories about the special occasions when we used these things. Christmas, Thanksgiving, the boys’ birthday.

Shoffler tucks a napkin into his collar, separates a slice of pizza and more or less inhales it. “Damn,” he says, taking a long pull of beer. “Burned the roof of my mouth. I always do – I missed that lesson on delayed gratification.”

“Kevin always burned-” I stop myself. I jump on anyone who refers to the boys in the past tense. And now I’m doing it myself.

Shoffler nods, then taps notebook number three, which I see is separated from the rest of the stack. “Here’s what I’d go after,” he says. “The Gabler twins.”

“The showgirls?”

“Showtwins. You went as far as you could with the Sandling boys, so next, I’d say check out Carla and Clara – and by the way, you kidding me? What kinda parents go and do that kind of thing?” He shakes his head, picks up another piece of pizza.

“But, they’re women. Adults. Showgirls. I don’t see how-” I shrug.

“Think outside the box a minute,” Shoffler says. “I’m going through your notebooks and what I see is twins who disappeared. Just like the Sandlings. Just like yours.”

“Except they didn’t come back.”

“Right, right, right. They were killed, so you don’t want to think there’s a connection.”

“They weren’t just killed. I never really took much of a look at it, but weren’t they mutilated or something?”

“Something like that – all the more reason for you to shy away from any connection to your case. But what I’m saying is that there’s a parallel. So maybe you should check it out. Go out there.”

“To Vegas? Why?”

“If it’s me? Because you can gamble all night and the food is great.” He lets out a high-pitched laugh, but then gets down to business. “I’m serious. I can see what you think of this, but I’m telling you…” His voice trails away and he resets himself in the chair. “Look at it this way – your instinct to follow up on the Sandlings was right, okay? Twins.”

“But they were the same age, they were kids-”

“But now you’re making a lot of assumptions. You’re thinking it’s about kids – and maybe it is. But you shouldn’t assume that. What if it’s about twins? It always struck me as odd – taking two kids. That didn’t sit right. You wanta get your kids back? – you gotta have an open mind. Because you don’t know. It might be about kids. It might be about twins. Or it might be about something else, something we can’t even guess yet. But your sons are twins who disappeared and the Gablers are twins who disappeared.”

“I don’t know.”

“So what – you think it’s a waste of time,” Shoffler says. “Like you’ve got something better to do?” He gestures toward the study. “Like you’re hot on the trail?”

I shrug. He’s right. I don’t have anything better to do, except stay in lockstep with my e-mails and phone lists.

“Look, it’s a lead. You might not like it, but like the man says, if you didn’t have this lead, you wouldn’t have no lead at all. I’m telling you. How many sets of twins who disappeared popped up in your research? I’ll tell you because I went the same route.” He counts them off on his fingers. “One – you got the Ramirez boys – but the guy who popped them popped himself. Nothing there. Then you got the Gabler girls. Then you got the Sandling boys. Maybe looking into the Gabler twins is a waste of time. But maybe not.”

“I don’t know.”

He picks up the notebooks in one hand and holds them aloft, as if we’re in court and they’re evidence. “I looked through these, I gave them a good hard read. And the only thing that stuck out – and this is a professional opinion I’m giving you now, after my eighteen years as a detective. The only thing that stuck out was the Gablers. That’s the only unturned stone.”

“This is… I mean, is this a hunch?”

“Don’t underestimate that shit.”

I shrug. “If you think it’s worth a shot.” I’m in what-the-hell territory, but it isn’t that simple. Maybe I’m agreeing to the trip as a way to make up for my earlier rudeness. Maybe Shoffler is selling me on Vegas and the Gablers because he thinks it will be good for me to get out of town.

“Anyway, it’s cheap as hell this time of year,” Shoffler says. “And I’m wired into the homicide squad there.”

“I hear you’re wired in everywhere.”

He makes a cynical face, but behind it I can see he’s pleased to hear that assessment. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m AT &T. For all the good it does.” He shakes his head. “No evacuation plan – can you believe it? We got this high-falutin’ antiterrorism task force and this is the major policy decision so far. It’s like the opposite of evacuation. We’re talking about a military cordon – keeping D.C. residents in.”

“People will go nuts if it leaks.”

“Oh, it’s gonna leak. I might dime the Post myself.” He pulls a hand back over his forehead. Under what, for lack of a better word, you’d call bangs, his forehead gleams a startling white. “Anyway… Vegas,” he says. “There’s this guy out there, friend of mine – Holly Goldstein. He’ll get you the file on the Gabler girls.”

“Holly?”

“Ha! Yeah – that’s the nickname of a nickname. Hollywood Mike Goldstein. Everybody just calls him Holly. I’ll give him a heads-up.”