The Museum of Desire

Chapter 28

“She’s a customer,” said Milo.

“Definitely,” said Frieda Graham. “That hair — I think last time it was purple. But definitely yes, that face. I remember her because she was touchy.”

“About what?”

“Not touchy-sensitive, touchy-feely. Like this.”

She leaned over the counter and dabbed his shoulder lightly with a green-nailed fingertip. “Like a pecking bird. Kind of annoying but you know, the customer’s always right. Hold on. Juan? Come over.”

The sweeper joined us. “She’s been here, right?”

He nodded.

“I told them she liked to do this.” Repeating the dabbing on Juan’s arm.

He laughed. “Mosquito.”

Milo said, “She ever give you problems, Juan?”

“No. Just mosquito.” Jabbing air. More laughter.

“Thanks.”

Juan returned to his broom.

Milo turned back to Graham. “Can you remember the last time she was here?”

“Hmm,” said Graham. “Not recently — maybe a month? Five, six weeks? Could even be longer. What I can tell you is she always bought the same thing: prepared jerk chicken dinner and Red Stripe — that’s a Jamaican beer. Also veggies — yellow and purple yams. That hair, I figured her for an artist. Am I right?”

“Art dealer.”

“Oh. That also makes sense. I assumed artist because one time she had a painting tucked under her arm — or maybe it was a drawing, I never actually saw it. Big, thin square wrapped in brown paper. She saw me looking at it and said she didn’t want to leave it in her car. Did she pull off one of Mr. Solomon’s tabs? Sorry, no idea. It’s a courtesy we extend to the neighborhood, we just make sure to keep the board squeaky clean.”

I said, “Don’t see any security cameras.”

“Oh, I’ve got some,” said Graham. “Two in the parking lot and another outside the rear door leading to the delivery area. But for the store, I rely on my rolling gate, my dead bolt, and my alarm. So far, we’ve been okay. Three false alarms during the fourteen months we’ve been here. Old wiring.”

“Do you have tape from the parking lot?”

“No, it self-cleans every forty-eight hours.”

“Thanks for your time, ma’am.”

“Of course. I hope you get whoever hurt Mr. Solomon.”

Milo crossed his fingers and we started for the door.

Frieda Graham said, “Can I give you guys something for the road? Just got some sandwiches made by a guy who runs the best Caribbean food truck in the city.”

Milo said, “Sounds great, but no thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

His voice and face said he was far from certain.

“Oh, c’mon.” Chuckling, Frieda Graham produced four sandwiches from under the counter and handed them to him. “It’s in my best interest. You’ll taste and want to come back. Two chickens, one crab, one ham and pineapple. All on hard-dough bread Robert bakes himself.”

Milo said, “You’re too kind.”

“So I’ve been told.”

I waited for a traffic lull and turned north onto Western. “Mosquito.”

Milo said, “Well equipped for drawing blood.” He punched a preset on his phone.

The call to Deputy D.A. John Nguyen produced no surprises:

“Your intuitive suspicions of Okash might even be right but they’re worthless from a legal standpoint.”

“So I’m stuck, John?”

“But for my creativity you would be,” said Nguyen. “Her violent assault conviction combined with the store owner’s confirmation of her presence where Roget hung his ads is, in my opinion, just enough to justify a two-month phone subpoena. As in skin-of-the-teeth enough.”

“What about Dugong?”

“Don’t push it.” Nguyen laughed. “What a fucking stupid name.”