All Things Lost (20 page)

     “You might ask for Prince Charming but God knows you won't find him there.” She snorted at her own joke. “Ask for Phil
Zaranski
. He runs the place. I gotta get back inside now. I got Ethel under the blower and her hairs as brittle as dry spaghetti. I can't leave her too long. We're done, aren't we?”

     “We're done,” Novak agreed. “And may I just say that it has been a pleasure indeed.”

     “You
wanna
come in and say good-bye to Anita?” Nadine said with her hand on the knob and a wicked grin on her face.

     “That's one pleasure I can do without.”

     She turned with a cackle and went inside.

* * *

     Novak dropped me off at home since Adam had driven me to work that morning. He would have come picked me up as well, but Novak insisted it was on his way. I had barely closed the door before Steve grabbed me from behind in a huge bear hug.

     “Uh, it's great to see you too,” I choked out.

     “I settled on the house today!” he laughed, “You're looking at the proud owner of one of the finest examples of 19
th
century architecture in the state!”

     “That's great! Congratulations, Steve!”

     “Don't go anywhere; we're going out to celebrate. Adam, Killian's home, let's go!”

     Adam padded into the hallway barefoot and wearing his working glasses, “I'm in the middle of this project and I need to get it finished. You two go on without me.”

     Steve frowned, “Adam, it's a celebration dinner. I'd really like you to be there. The job can wait. Come on.”

     “Fine,” Adam said with a sigh. “Let me get my shoes on.”

     We drove to the Cactus Café, a wonderful little Mexican restaurant that was a favorite of ours. It was an unpretentious, intimate place with great authentic food, live music and the cheesiest decorations you can imagine. Purple and pink sequined sombreros hung on the wall between papier-mâché burros and strings of light-up plastic chili peppers. We went there often enough that the waitresses knew us by sight and when they heard we were celebrating they brought us a round of sangria on the house.

     Steve prattled on excitedly about the house as we munched nachos and homemade salsa while waiting for our entrées. Adam was noticeably quiet. I tried to cover for his conversational absence by being overly effusive, but it was painfully obvious. Steve's enthusiasm began to flag as the tension built. I decided drastic action was called for.

     “You know the Cohen murder case that's all over the news?” I asked casually.

     “Is that the one where the police think that boy killed his father?” Steve asked obligingly.

     “Yeah, that's the one.”

     
“With an ax, right?”

     
“Uh, yeah.”
I took a deep breath. “Well, Asher knows the kid, they're friends. He doesn't think he did it. So he, uh…” I suddenly wasn't so sure this was such a bright idea.

     
“He what?”
Adam said, speaking what I think were his first words since he'd placed his order.

     “He, uh, asked me to, uh,
kinda
look into it.”

     Adam picked up his wine glass and drained it in one gulp.

     “And I assume you said no,” he said calmly after he'd set his glass back down.

     “Well, not exactly,” I said with a growing sense of trepidation.

     He grabbed Steve's sangria and slammed it back.

     “Novak is working on it with me,” I said quickly, “It's nothing dangerous. We're just asking some questions.”

     “I've heard that before,” he said heatedly.

     “It's good training for me.”

     
“Training?
Training?
Dealing with a dangerous psycho who chops people up with an ax is training?” His voice was climbing with every word and a few people were turning to stare.

     “Adam, calm down,” Steve said soothingly and Adam threw him a murderous glare.

     I rushed on, trying to diffuse the situation before it exploded, “If Caleb did kill his dad then he's in jail and he can't hurt me, right? And if he didn't do it, shouldn't someone be trying to figure that out?”

     “Someone like the police, maybe?” Adam snapped. “This is dangerous, plain and simple. Novak is a trained investigator and an adult. If he wants to risk his life that's his business, but you're just a kid!”

     Bang.

     “I'm not a kid,” I said angrily. I was beginning to lose my cool. “I have to learn somehow. This is what I want to do with my life. It's my decision, not yours.”

     “Nothing is my decision anymore,” he shouted. More people turned to watch the floor show. The guitar player played on, oblivious to the drama unfolding before him.

     “Both of you, calm down,” Steve tried again.

     “I will not calm down, damn it!” Adam growled through gritted teeth, “I'm sick and fucking tired of being calm while my life spirals out of control. I don't feel calm and I'll be damned if I'm going to pretend to be calm just to keep from embarrassing you.”

     He stood up abruptly, shoving the table back as he did and toppling his chair. Steve water tipped over sending a cascade of cold liquid into his lap and making him leap to his feet as well. This time even the guitarist took notice and stopped playing with an astonished look on his face. The owner of the restaurant, a barrel-chested, animated little man, came rushing out of the back as Adam stormed out of the restaurant.

     “Is everything ok?” the owner asked in a heavily accented voice.

     “Apparently not,” Steve said grimly. He pulled his wallet out and tossed a wad of cash onto the table. “That should cover everything,” he said and followed Adam out the door.

     “I'm so sorry,” I mumbled, my face hot with embarrassment as I rushed to make my exit as well.

     I could hear them arguing from across the parking lot as soon as I cleared the door.

     “What the hell is going on?” Steve was yelling.

     “What do you think is going on?” Adam yelled back.

     “I don't have the slightest idea! I wish someone would tell me! Ever since I found the house you've been acting like a spoiled brat. You told me I could do this, you know it's been my dream, and yet you can't even be happy for me for one damn night!”

     “Yes, this is your dream -
your
dream! Not mine. And yet you're expecting to me to just drop
my
life, move out of
my
home, give up
my
business, and for what?
For what?
”

     Steve looked like he had been slapped. “I thought when I moved in with you that we shared our lives. I thought it was our house, our dreams. I've never expected you to give up anything. Maybe it would be better if you just stayed in
your
house.” He started backing slowly away.

     “Maybe it would,” Adam snapped. He yanked open the car door and jumped inside. Steve turned and started back for the restaurant.

     “Where are you going?” I asked him.

     “I'm calling a cab,” he muttered darkly.

     I watched him walk inside and then ran across the parking lot and got into the car, which Adam had idling. He pulled away without a word. The drive home was silent and tense. When we pulled into our driveway Adam was out of the car almost before it stopped moving. He banged into the house and disappeared into the den. I didn't follow him, deciding that it would be safer for all involved (namely me) if I stayed out of his way for now.

     Steve must have stayed at a hotel or a friend's, because he didn't come home that night. I thought about their fight long into the night, wondering if they were going to break up or if they would somehow pull through this. I also thought about Asher and I, and wondered if we had done all we could to salvage our relationship. Had we given up too easily?

     I finally drifted off somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. I definitely wasn't ready to get up when the alarm went off a few hours later, but I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. I was moody all morning at work; snapping at telephone solicitors and generally taking my frustrations out on the office equipment.

     Finally, Novak had enough. “Ok, let's go,” he said as he breezed out of his office after I'd kicked the jammed copier for the third time that day.

     “Where are we going?” I asked in confusion.

     “We're getting you out of here before you destroy the office,” he joked.

     “Are we going anywhere in particular?”

     “Does the Ease Inn ring any bells?”

     “That where Ira Cohen worked.”

     “Bingo. We're going to pay a little visit to Mr.
Zaranski
.”

     The Ease Inn was not what you would call a quality establishment. Once upon a time, perhaps, it might have been a respectable motel, but these days it was simply a run-down, rather seedy affair that catered to druggies, hookers and those unfortunate souls who find themselves fallen on hard times. It was the type of place your mama warns you about.

     The motel itself is shaped like a horseshoe with the office occupying a separate cottage-like building in the center. Everything was squat and dingy, built of cinderblock and once painted a light blue that had faded to gray and peeled in places to reveal the white base-coat underneath. As we pulled into the parking lot Novak laid out the game-plan.

     “Ok, when we get in you stay quiet. We want him to notice you as little as possible. In fact, I won't even introduce you. I'll get him talking, get him to give us permission to look around,
then
I'll distract him. I want you to nose around.”

     “What am I looking for?”

     “Anything and everything; specifically anything that looks interesting, anything you think looks out of place or stirs your curiosity. You're a smart kid; you'll know it when you see it. You've got a knack for this stuff.”

     I glowed at the praise but wished I was as confident in my abilities as he was.

     A loud, annoying buzzer sounded when we opened the office door. A moment later, an inner door swung open behind the counter and a disheveled man appeared. He was not quite old enough to be called middle-aged but he looked like he'd passed his half-way point a long time ago. He was painfully thin with a receding hairline, a pasty pallor, and bloodshot eyes. He looked like he'd forgotten to shave that morning and maybe every morning for the last week. He eyed us suspiciously but didn't say anything. I guess we weren't his usual caliber of customer. Or maybe he thought I was turning a trick and Novak was my john. Then again, maybe he wasn't thinking anything. The last one seems the most likely now that I think about it.

     “We're looking for Phillip
Zaranski
,” Novak said.

     “What for?” the man asked nervously. I suppose one didn't get asked for by name very often in his line of business.

     “Are you Mr.
Zaranski
?” Novak countered.

     “Maybe, who're you?”

     “We're looking into the murder of Ira Cohen.” Novak was the master of evasion.

     “I thought you boys had the killer. The papers said his kid did it.”

     “We're tying up some loose ends. We understand Mr. Cohen worked here, is that correct?” I was impressed at the way Novak allowed him to think we were cops without actually saying so.

     “Yeah, you could say that. He worked the night-desk a few nights a week; so I could have off.”

     “Do you own the motel?”

     “Me? Ha! Not hardly. It's owned by some outfit out of
Baltimore
. I just manage the place.”

     “Would you mind if we took a quick look around?”

     He frowned, “What for? Do you have, like, a warrant or something?”

     Novak laughed, “You've watched too much TV, Mr.
Zaranski
. We were hoping you'd be cooperative and we wouldn't need anything like a warrant. After all, if you've got nothing to hide what harm could it do?”

     “Yeah, ok, I guess you're right,” he conceded reluctantly. He raised a section of the counter and stepped back to allow us back.

     Novak gave me a slight signal towards the backroom with his eyes before he turned to
Zaranski
. “Why don't you take me step by step through the sign-in process and then show me the logs for the last week Mr. Cohen worked,” he said.

     I slipped into the backroom practically unnoticed. It was as shabby and pathetic as the rest of the place. An unmade bed sat in one corner. The opposite corner held a small, unsanitary looking kitchenette, barely more than a hotplate, microwave and a dorm-style refrigerator. A beat-up recliner was parked in front of a
newish
-looking television set next to the bed and a desk took up the rest of the space. I headed straight for the desk.

     It was a large metal institutional-style desk with three drawers down each side. On its scarred top sat three security monitors. One showed a view of the front room, with Novak and
Zaranski
still bent over the counter. One was trained on the back parking lot and the last was pointed right down at what I assumed was the back door of the office.