No Hope for Gomez! (11 page)

25.

Blog entry: Didn’t go to work the next morning. Decided to take the day off. Was still angry at the world in general and at two people in particular, so I decided to treat myself; I’d find out what my knack was.

But how to go about it?

My knack wasn’t painting, that much was clear. Painting pissed me off so badly it still boggled my mind, but it did give me an idea. Maybe my knack was the exact opposite of painting. And what was the exact opposite of carefree creativity using colors and visual imagination?

Maybe my knack was accountancy.

That’d make perfect sense. It would explain how my knack had managed to hide from me all these years, wrapped up safely in a reputation of tedious stuffiness. But just because I assumed accountancy was life-threateningly boring, that didn’t make it so. Today I’d cheat fate, uncover my knack, and turn my life around!

Went out and bought a slide rule, a ledger, pens, a calculator (with reverse Polish notation), more pens, a shinier slide rule, and the latest edition of Principles of Accounting.

Started balancing some made-up books.

Converted some foreign currencies.

Adjusted overall annual earnings with imposed import taxes.

Allowed for the time value of money to degenerate slow vesting investments.

Carried the one.

Then I realized that accountancy was, as improbable as it might seem, exactly as boring as I’d thought it’d be.

That almost never happens.

Threw the slide rule and the ledger across the room. Broke the calculator (with reverse Polish notation) in two. Mailed the Principles of Accounting to an evil stepmother.

On my way to the post office I mused on how good it was that I almost never sold anything at the store. If I did, I’d have to make it so expensive that I could afford to hire an accountant just to write it up, otherwise I might as well give the stuff away.

Blog entry: My bad mood brought back thoughts of the previous day; why hadn’t I received my profuse and generous thanks? Just because Dr. Hargrove happened to know her stalker, just because she thought he was harmless, did that make my efforts any less dangerous? Any less time consuming? Any less praiseworthy?

Of course it didn’t!

And why did women always assume that large, dangerous-looking men must surely be soft and cuddly on the inside? Had evolution taught them nothing? By attempting to solve her problem with a stern phone call, Dr. Hargrove had effectively ratted me out. If he wasn’t planning on doing so already, Harry must now be entertaining notions of exacting excruciating physical harm upon my body.

Blog entry:  Couldn’t think of another way to calm myself down than to read Warren’s manuscript. After a couple of pages my mind struggled to remember who it was, never mind why it had been upset.

Maybe there was something to Warren’s writing after all. 

Blog Entry: Phone rang. Picked up. It was Detective Moran. He sounded stressed and exhausted. He barely took the time to say hello. “We’ve found Dietrich,” he said.

I dropped the manuscript. My mind was back in the present instantly. “You found him? Really? Is he alright? Where was he?”

“You’re not going to like this,” Moran said. “In fact, you’re probably gonna hate it. Are you sure you want to know?”

“Of course I want to know,” I said. “Especially now you’ve made it sound so ominous. Is he dead? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Worse.”

“Worse than dead?”

A long pause. “It’s the way he died, Gomez. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” A sigh. “I wish I had better news, but this case is really bad.”

“So he was murdered...”

“Preliminary coroner’s report says it
could’ve
been an accident. Detective Norton might have fallen, hit his head, and never regained consciousness. Essentially he dehydrated. Between you and me, though, Gomez, yes, I think he was murdered. The circumstances are too similar to those of the Miller case to be coincidental.”

I took a moment to let this sink in. I’d really liked Norton. We’d had a good conversation and he treated me like a valuable asset to his investigation. Also, I got the feeling he was a good man, a righteous man. I’d really hoped he’d turn up unharmed.

Joseph and Dietrich dying similar deaths had to mean that Dietrich was killed to keep him from discovering something (or to keep him from sharing something he’d already discovered). The two men didn’t travel in the same circles, didn’t have similar hobbies, hadn’t joined the same clubs, so it was unlikely they’d attracted the killer’s attention the same way. It all had to be connected to Miller, the first victim.

“Norton was found in Miller’s basement,” Detective Moran continued. “He was lying at the bottom of the stairs.”

That caught my attention.

“He must’ve been working the case,” Moran continued, “looking for clues he missed before. No one thought of checking Joseph’s place for signs of Norton until this morning. By then, of course, it was too late.”

“Is it possible he simply lost his footing and fell down the stairs?”

Moran cleared his throat. “That’s the strange thing,” he said. “There were no signs of him trying to protect himself from a fall, no defensive wounds. As if he was out cold when he went down. And there was something else…”

“What’s that?”

“His eyes…”

I could sense a shiver traveling down the line.

“What about his eyes?”

“He had a look, Gomez. I can’t really explain it.” Moran took a deep breath. “When I looked into his eyes, I got the feeling he’d been conscious the whole time. Paralyzed and unable to move even the tiniest muscle. Effectively feeling himself dry out and expire over a period of days.”

I really didn’t want to think about that. “So,” I said, trying to remain calm, “you’ll be testing for drugs, then?”

Detective Moran huffed. “Tox screen will be clear, just like last time, mark my words.”

“Still…”

“Yeah, we’ll do a toxicology report, it’s standard procedure.” Moran was about to hang up, then thought of one last thing. “Just one last thing, Gomez,” he said. “You might find this particularly interesting. I checked Dietrich’s neck before they took him away. Found a strange red mark, like a bruise.”

“Like the one on Miller’s neck?”

“Maybe. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.”

Part Three

26.

Blog entry: My head buzzed with worry.

Was I next? Had Detective Norton suffered? Had Joseph suffered?

I couldn’t eat and when I tried to watch TV, nothing happened. None of the pictures and sounds reached my brain.

Blog entry: Was about to turn in when the phone rang again. Checked the number, didn’t recognize it. Toyed with the idea of letting it go to voicemail, then remembered the sick messages the phone-sex salesman had been leaving me, and I decided to pick up and give him a piece of my mind, vent some anger.

It turned out to be Dr. Hargrove.

“Hi, Gomez,” she said. She sounded excited. “How are you? Everything okay?”

“I’m fine.” My anger dissipated instantly. “And you? No more stalkers, I trust?” I reminded myself to tread carefully this time. I didn’t want to scare her off again. For one thing, I wasn’t going to make the mistake of asking her why she’d called.

“No,” Dr. Hargrove said, “that’s ancient history, thank goodness.”

“Great. I’m glad to hear that.”

“So…”

“So?”

“So, don’t you want to know what I’m wearing?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I could tell you what I’m wearing,” Dr. Hargrove offered. “You know, in case you were wondering.”

“Aren’t you wearing a lab coat?”

Dr. Hargrove huffed. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because I’ve never seen you without a lab coat. I think of Dr. Hargrove, I think: lab coat.”

“You think I wear my lab coat at home? Really? Why on earth would I do that, Gomez?”

I was getting confused. “I have no idea. Now I think about it, you’re right, it doesn’t make sense. Sorry. So, what
are
you wearing?”

She snorted. “Frankly, Gomez, I resent the fact that you simply assumed I’d be wearing my lab coat at home. Like I have no life, no imagination. Like I have no actual clothes…”

     “I’m really sorry. I hadn’t thought it through. If I’d let my mind run over the question more carefully, I would’ve pictured you wearing something nicer, much nicer. Honest.”

I was getting curious. She must be wearing something really interesting for her to call up a test subject to talk about it. I couldn’t imagine what it might be.

“So,” I said, “what
are
you wearing?”

A sigh from the other end of the line. “I’m wearing my lab coat.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

I was getting more and more confused. “Why ask me what you’re wearing if you’re wearing the exact same thing I always see you in?”

“This isn’t going as well as I’d planned,” Dr. Hargrove mumbled.

“It’s not?”

Another deep sigh. “I don’t
normally
wear my lab coat at home, Gomez,” she said. “Not ever. It’s just this once, just tonight.”

“But why? Why wear one at all?”

“I thought it might be, you know… exciting.”

“Really? And is it?”

A pause. “I’m not so sure anymore. What do
you
think?”

I suddenly had a flash of insight. The poor doctor had completely blind-sided me. I was so used to things
not
going my way, I had no hope of seeing this coming.

“Anyway,” Dr. Hargrove said, “I guess I should be going…”

“No, wait!” I’d turn this thing around if it was the last thing I’d do. Now that I understood what was going on, I could do better. “The coat is a real turn-on,” I said. “I mean, when you wear it at home as opposed to at work – very sexy!”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s all, you know, neat and hygienic, but slutty at the same time.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, yes. I wish I could see you right now, standing around in that clean, sexy coat.”

“It’s really tight,” Dr. Hargrove offered. “Especially around my breasts. And it completely hides my fat thighs.”

“I know it does.” I said. “I know it does. It wraps around you very nicely. And sexily.”

“And you wouldn’t believe my ass,” she said. “It also looks sexy in my clean lab coat. Very, very, sexy.”

“I’m sure it does. Tell me more!”

“Well, the sleeves almost totally cover my weird, bony wrists.”

“Yeah!”

“And the padding hides my uneven shoulders.”

“You got it, baby!”

“And when I pull up the collar, my neck doesn’t look so wrinkly at all!”

“No, it doesn’t. Not at all. You’re one sexy doctor!”

“Thank you, Gomez.” Dr. Hargrove sounded breathless. I was on a roll. I couldn’t believe my luck. “So, Dr. Hargrove,” I said, “I was wondering…”

“What’s that, Gomez?”

“Maybe you could help me with this…”

“What is it, Gomez? What were you wondering?”

“I was wondering… what are you wearing
under
your lab coat?”

Ten points for me! Gomez the Master Seducer! On to the next level!

A long pause, then, “I have to go.” Dr. Hargrove’s voice was suddenly flat and disinterested. “I hope you have a good night. Bye.”

“Eh… yes,” I said, wondering what had just happened. “Thank you. I hope you have a good night too.”

Blog entry: Women!

Who knew how their minds worked? Not me, that much was clear.

Blog entry: Couldn’t sleep. Far too angry and confused. Got up at 1 a.m., created a new eBay account, and put in a few bids on Hicks. That should get the ball rolling.

27.

Blog entry: Woke early but not refreshed. Made a light breakfast and contemplated staying home. Then it occurred to me that I’d have too much time alone with my thoughts, so I opted to open up and hope for some interesting customers to distract me.

Was going to miss Hicks’ company but I didn’t mind not having to open at nine precisely. Took my time getting ready, found a pair of matching socks.

Blog entry: Tiptoed down the stairs past Warren’s floor. Apparently today was a good day; he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was waiting by the elevators.

Note to self: Find out what Warren does for a living.

Blog entry: Quiet day at the store. Only one customer, who didn’t buy anything. Shouldn’t call him a customer actually – he was just another browser. Right away though, I felt something was off. He was dressed correctly – not too sandally, not too normal. He acted correctly – didn’t ask too many questions. And he left me alone, most of the time. But still something wasn’t quite right. I didn’t realize what that was until he rubbed his chin in response to one of my fictional answers. It was his Adam’s apple; it was unusually large and pointy. And as soon as I’d noticed it, I couldn’t take my eyes off it anymore. Every time he swallowed, every time he spoke, my eyes followed the monstrosity all the way down, and then back up again.

I couldn’t stop myself. I almost sensed the thing scraping against the inside of his skin, stretching his throat to the brink of bursting. How did he not feel that? How did that not cause him excruciating pain?

I was going to have nightmares for days.

“You have a really nice store,” he said, after asking some questions about my side tables. “Do you run it by yourself?”

“I do,” I said. “For the most part. I have a guy coming in to do some sweeping from time to time.”

“I really like the range of your collection,” he continued, his Adam’s apple jumping from syllable to syllable. “I don’t often come across such diversity. It’s really amazing.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, trying not to vomit. “This is just what happens to come in.”

I was about to add a few more void statements when something clicked in my mind. I’d seen this guy before and I remembered where. Pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even know I owned started to fall into place. “So,” I said, “no large, fake moustache today?”

The customer looked stricken. “What?” he said, touching his face. “Fake moustache? Of course not…”

“And you’re no longer a fan of the suit-with-sandals combo I see?”

He glanced down, as if to verify.

“And I suppose the sombrero is no longer on your favorite items list?”

His Adam’s apple scraped about nervously. “It’s in the shop,” he croaked. “For repairs.”

“I see.”

“Yes.”

“So…”

“So?”

We stared at each other. For a long time we had no idea how this encounter should continue. We’d arrived at a stalemate. My main problem, I suppose, was the fact that he hadn’t done anything illegal. Or immoral. Or even disagreeable. He’d just acted weird, which pissed me off. It made me want to get to the bottom of his odd behavior.

Minutes passed.

Neither of us spoke.

When it was clear he wasn’t going to offer any explanation, I asked him flat out, “Why don’t you just tell me what you really want?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well,” he said, “that, eh… would be tax forms.” Then, with more authority, “Yes, I was wondering if I could browse through those boxes some more. I’m looking for a 1984 exemption of import duties statement. Hopefully one with a validity of, say, around 6 months?”

“Are you sure that’s what you’re after?”

“Yes, yes. I’ve recently become very interested in import duty exemptions. It’s a very hot and exciting topic right now. As you might well understand.” He tried to smile reassuringly. He didn’t manage.

I thought about prodding him some more but realized my weariness already outweighed my curiosity. I pointed him to the back and told him to have his way with my administration.

Blog entry: Started on my blogs but couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t noticed the Adam’s apple before. Surely the sombrero and the moustache couldn’t have distracted away from it? Perhaps it was a prosthetic Adam’s apple?

Then I wondered, briefly, where one might obtain a prosthetic Adam’s apple, and what its primary use would be.

Blog entry: Sombrero guy didn’t find any exemptions to his liking and left the store empty handed.

Blog edit: Over the next couple of days he came back several times, nodding a curt hello and disappearing to the back. For the most part he did away with the curious disguises, but from time to time he appeared wearing either the fake moustache or the sombrero. I didn’t notice the Adam’s apple again.

Blog entry: The rest of the day I kept myself busy reading this internet site about picking up girls. My vast resources of time weren’t doing me much good. I needed help focusing them correctly. I needed some expert guidance.

One section of the site in particular caught my attention. It explained how girls actually liked guys who ignored them. That sounded counter-intuitive at first, but as I read on, it made perfect sense. When a guy played hard to get, a girl felt like she’d really earned something when he finally did notice her. The ignoring had set him apart from all the no-hopers who drooled over her all day. If he’d shown an interest from the beginning, the girl wouldn’t have allowed herself to believe he was interested in anything but her looks.

I vowed to start playing hard to get with Dr. Hargrove.

When I thought back over my life, though, I realized I had actually been playing hard to get almost continuously. I’d ignored women intensely (to the point of being a danger to them in traffic). I’d ignored them because I’d assumed I didn’t stand a chance. So why hadn’t all these women tried to jump me?

Annoyed, I returned to the index page to search for a chapter on playing
too
hard to get. I must’ve been stone-cold sexy this whole time without even realizing. I must’ve overshot my mark by light years!

There was no such chapter. Nothing on over-achievers in the ignoring game.

Morons! They hadn’t even anticipated the likes of me!

But it might not be a problem. I could still use the information to my advantage. All I had to do to become a total babe magnet was to tone down my ignoring-intensity.

If I played slightly less hard to get, I’d be in!

Blog entry: Went home at 2 p.m. Called Hicks. He told me he’d probably be in tomorrow. I said he’d better be, because now
my
routine was getting upset. I had no idea what to do with this kind of freedom. It wasn’t good for me.

Told Hicks to concentrate on getting well, but I didn’t take him off eBay yet. I’d do that when he actually showed up for work.

Blog entry: Milled around my apartment. Suddenly had this intense feeling of being watched. Checked through the blinds but saw no one. The courtyard was empty.

Had I caught ‘Hargrove’s Disease’?

Probably not. Someone had actually been watching her.

Closed my blinds all the way, just in case.