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.”

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Riordan inquired after

did —? Do you

phone stopped ringing. The silence was even more

stabbed to death last night in the alley behind his apartment,”

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

known Robert since high school. He’s worked

problems there? What kind

at Chan. “He was okay,” I said, at

of friend was he?”

“Sorry?”

sleeping

opened my mouth but

you lovers?” Chan asked, glancing

“No.”

summing me up with those cool eyes, and

What of

“And Hersey was homosexual?”

two plus two equals a murder charge?” The pills kicking in, I felt stronger. Strong enough to get angry. “We were friends,

Or did I? I still couldn’t take it in. Robert murdered? Beaten up, yes. Arrested, sure. Maybe even dead in a car crash — or by autoerotic misadventure.

were sure. Probably everyone they interviewed asked the

have been staring fixedly into space because Riordan asked abruptly, “Are

“I’m all right.”

names of Hersey’s — uh — men friends?” Chan asked. The too-polite “men friends” put my

and I didn’t

pricked up. “I thought you

“We were. But —”

at Riordan. Though Chan was older I had the impression that Riordan was the main man. The one to

for

“Meaning?”

together all day; we wanted to

When was the last time you

seemed about to point out that I had just said Robert and I didn’t socialize. I finished

“What friend?”

“He didn’t say.”