Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

I went into some bar, a real dive, McCann’s or McKay’s, and sat there drinking beer until it was dark out Then I felt so bad, I walked over to the Winter Garden and got tickets to Cats. She loves that show, my mother. She’s seen it three t-times already. No, that’s another lie. I got the tickets not to please her, but so that I could get into my own fucking apartment without her savaging me all night. I got the tickets to shut her up, and now I have to see fucking Cats again.” He reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, and held out the tickets for me to see. Two balcony tickets for Cats. “The old b-bat won’t walk a step outside alone, even though the doctor says there’s no reason on earth for her to stay inside the way she does. She says she’s afraid, unless I’m with her. I bought her a d-damn walker, to steady her. But does she ever use it? No, she d-doesn’t. She waits for me. I’m not a nice person, Rachel, you can see that. She’s right about that. Only Lisa, she didn’t care about the horrible stuff I said. She l-liked me anyway. I used to c-confide in her, tell her things I couldn’t tell anyone else. I n-never had a f-friend like L-Lisa. I probably n-never will again.”
    “Of course you will,” I said, reaching over and stroking his hand. “Anyone would be lucky to have you for a friend, Howie.”
    “Do you really think so?” he asked. Looking at nothing in particular, he began ferrying pickle chips and cold fries into his mouth, one after the other. I doubt he would have noticed if the place caught on fire. I watched his big, strong hands, delicately lifting each morsel and moving slowly and steadily between the paper plate and his mouth, as if he were performing a religious ritual.
    “Howie,” I said, after he’d finished the last of his food, “what did you make of the note Lisa left? The suicide note?”
    “At first I thought she’d written it to me, because of the way I cried when she told me she was leaving.” Howie took the wet tissues and blew his red nose. “But I know that’s stupid.” He ran his finger across his empty plate and licked it off. “It couldn’t have been to me,” he said softly.
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’m not that important to anyone,” he said. He took a swig of soda and just looked down into his lap for a moment. “Except, of course, my mother.”
    2

I Tried to Imagine It

    I COULD HEAR the music out on the street, the pounding beat that apparently helped people do enough reps to tear their muscle tissue so that, during the repair process, the muscle would grow larger. I could see Janet through the window, doing her own workout, her mouth twisted in agony as she hoisted her own weight with the strength of only one arm. I stopped at the desk and asked for her, and the guardian of the lobby, a budding bodybuilder who introduced himself as Skip, told me to wait while he went to find her. Perfect, I thought, because what I was after was not Janet. It was her appointment schedule.
    As soon as the door to the gym closed, I leaned over the desk and did some hoisting of my own. I hoisted the trainers’ schedules, kept in a three-ring binder, turning to yesterday and checking Janet’s appointments between four and six. According to the book, Janet had been working when Paul was killed. I wrote down the names of her clients—Barb Lefrack at four, Sandy Stiller at five, Mike Farley at six. Each name had a phone number beneath it, in case the trainer needed to cancel or reschedule. I copied those down, too.
    When I’d come for my session, Janet had been busy on the phone.
    That’s how I’d led three lives for ten minutes, one as myself, Rachel Alexander, private investigator, a second as Lisa Jacobs’s smart-mouthed cousin, and a third as Chippy the hamster, working out on the treadmill and hating it, thank you.
    She could have easily disappeared while I was warming up, couldn’t she? Suppose she’d had to answer a call of nature or run out and take care of some urgent business?
    Paul had been killed only blocks away, and the murder itself probably took less than a minute, maybe a full minute if you left time for a quick “hi” before the deed got done and a hand slipping into his pocket to remove his cash afterward, so that the murder would look like a mugging that had gone too far.
    Had the killer in fact approached from the front or the back? I couldn’t recall Marty specifying that.
    I tried to imagine it, a strong