Fatal Shadows

Cops before breakfast. Before coffee even. As if Mondays weren’t bad enough. I stumbled downstairs, unlocked the glass front doors, shoved back the ornate security gate and let them in: two plainclothes detectives.

They identified themselves with a show of badges. Detective Chan was older, paunchy, a little rumpled, smelling of Old Spice and cigarettes as he brushed by me. The other one, Detective Riordan, was big and blond, with a neo-Nazi haircut and tawny eyes. Actually I had no idea what color his eyes were, but they were intent and unblinking, as though waiting for a sign of activity from the mouse hole.

“I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr. English,” Detective Chan said as I started down the aisle of books toward my office.

I kept walking, as though I could walk away from whatever they were about to tell me.

“...concerning an employee of yours. A Mr. Robert Hersey.”

I slowed, stopped there in front of the Gothic section. A dozen damsels in distress (and flimsy negligees) caught my eyes. I turned to face the cops. They wore what I would describe as “official” expressions.

“What about Robert?” There was a cold sinking in my gut. I wished I’d stopped for shoes. Barefoot and unshaven, I felt unbraced for bad news. Of course it was bad news. Anything to do with Robert was bound to be bad news.

“He’s dead.” That was the tall one, Riordan. He-Man.

“Dead,” I repeated.

Silence.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Of course I’m surprised.” I was, wasn’t I? I felt kind of numb. “What happened? How did he die?”

They continued to eye me in that assessing way.

“He was murdered,” Detective Chan said.

My heart accelerated, then began to slug against my ribs. I felt the familiar weakness wash through me. My hands felt too heavy for my arms.

“I need to sit down,” I said.

I turned and headed back toward my office, reaching out to keep myself from careening into the crowded shelves. Behind me came the measured tread of their feet, just audible over the singing in my ears.

I pushed open my office door, sat heavily at the desk and opened a drawer, groping inside. The phone on my desk began to ring, jangling loudly in the paperback silence. I ignored it, found my pills, managed to get the top off, and palmed two. Washed them down with a swallow of whatever was in the can sitting there from yesterday. Tab. Warm Tab. It had a bracing effect.

“Sorry,” I told LA’s Finest. “Go ahead.”

stopped ringing, started up again. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” Riordan inquired

“How did —? Do you

The silence was

found stabbed to death last night in the

said, without missing a beat, “What can you tell us about Hersey? How well did you

high school. He’s

problems there? What kind of an

“He was okay,” I said, at last focusing on their

of friend was he?”

“Sorry?”

you sleeping

mouth

Chan asked, glancing

“No.”

figure, summing me up with those cool eyes, and finding me lacking

What

“And Hersey was homosexual?”

pills kicking in, I felt stronger. Strong enough to get angry. “We were friends, that’s all. I

thought as Chan made a note. Or did I? I still couldn’t take it in. Robert murdered? Beaten up, yes. Arrested, sure. Maybe even dead in a car crash —

if they were sure. Probably everyone they interviewed asked the

space because Riordan asked abruptly, “Are you all right, Mr. English? Are you

“I’m all right.”

— uh — men friends?” Chan asked.

I didn’t

“I thought you were

“We were. But —”

was older I had the impression that Riordan was the main man. The one

for me. Sometimes that put a strain on our

“Meaning?”

all day; we wanted to see

was the last time

dinner —” I paused as Chan seemed about to point out that I had just said Robert and I didn’t socialize. I finished lamely, “And

“What friend?”

“He didn’t say.”