Breaking Point (14 page)

             
As I was turning to head back to the truck, I saw a glimmer of something sticking out of the snow near the road. Its yellow color reflected what little sunlight was slanting through the cover of trees. Crossing the path, I knelt and pried it loose from its icy bed. Before climbing up into the truck, I shoved the cold plastic fragment down into the side pocket of my jeans. I managed to get the truck turned around and headed back down the road. The ground was so frozen I doubted that we'd even left a mark on it. I planned to come back later, alone, and follow the ruts up to Frank Goodwin's cabin.

             
At the gas station, after saying goodbye to Melanie and promising to give her a call sometime, I retrieved my Grand Am and filled the gas tank for the return trip. I was glad to be out of that truck. The gears were rough to shift and besides, the ashtray was overflowing with old cigarette butts.

Chapter 15

             
By eight thirty Tuesday morning, I was at The West Side Barber Shop, awaiting my turn for a trim. Maxine was right about my needing a haircut. Besides, I was meeting Caroline for lunch in a few hours and there was no point in looking sloppy.

             
I'd walked the three blocks into the wind on Pine Street and another block and a half south on Church Street. I figured that maybe the fitness gremlins would give me credit for a thirty minute walk, taking into account the wind resistance and the chill I endured. The West Side Shop sat alone on a small triangle of land near the railroad tracks. There was another fellow ahead of me, so I took a seat and eavesdropped on their conversation. The barber, Joe, according to the stitching on his white jacket, was a crusty old guy whose lingering accent made me think he'd left Brooklyn as a young man. He always seemed pissed off about something, which added to my impression that he was from back east. Today it was the government and how they were robbing him blind to give money to scientists so they could study the "size of rat turds." It was always interesting to get a haircut at Joe's.

             
When it was my turn. I managed to change the subject to sports and the Hawkeye Basketball season, which was starting off well this year. Joe wasn't much for basketball, but he was sure that the games were sometimes fixed to make certain players look good. He was nothing if not opinionated. Unfortunately, he was from the old school of barbering and always used a straight razor to trim around the ears of his captive customer. That made it difficult to take exception to any of his comments. No one wanted to leave there with less than a full set of ears.

             
By the time I walked back home and had some breakfast, it was past ten o'clock and time to pick up my photographs. There were no other cars in front of Cliff's Photography and the store looked dark inside. I'd been sure they opened at nine. A light snow had begun to fall as I was driving to Coralville and it was already starting to cover the surface of Cliff's lot. Mine were the first tire tracks to break the surface. There was a handwritten sign on the door, taped to the inside of the glass. "CLOSED TODAY. NEW DAUGHTER ARRIVING EARLY. WILL OPEN WEDNESDAY AT 9 AM. It was signed "Papa Cliff." I wasn't sure that the arrival of a new soul in this random world was cause for celebration. Ordinarily, though, I'd have at least understood Cliff's happiness. Today I was just mad. Damn. I needed that picture and now it would be another day before I could get it. Thoughts of breaking into the back of the building and finding my photograph in the darkroom flashed though my head. Then I had a vision of my sister and her annoying husband having to make my bail if I got caught, and the plan dissolved from view.

             
Returning to my car, I made stomping footprints on the snow covered asphalt, sending sprays of the fluffy stuff into the air. Shit.

             
With time to kill before meeting Caroline, I went back home. I still needed to go through the pile of stuff I'd picked up after the break-in and find the little note that had Charlie Wilson's parents' phone number on it. When I finally had the photograph in my hands, I'd surely want to talk to them and see what they could tell me about the images I'd be looking at.

             
An hour later, I'd sifted through all the piles of papers and had looked under all the furniture and through the wastebaskets. The little square of paper was gone. Either the burglar had taken it or it had blown off somewhere into some other part of the house. It would be simpler to call Iris and get the information again. She wasn't at home, but I left a message and asked her to call me back.

             
I'd decided to change from jeans and a flannel shirt to a clean pair of chinos and a denim shirt for my luncheon date with Caroline. I pulled on a fairly new pair of high top leather boots and checked myself out in the mirror on my dresser. Pushing the front of my hair over into place, I smiled at my image. This was about as good as I was going to look. I noticed the pile of items I'd laid on top of the dresser when I'd emptied my pockets last night. Under the pile of loose change and car keys, I saw the piece of yellow plastic I'd found up in the woods yesterday and now picked it up to examine it more closely.

             
It was almost a half-circle of thick plastic, like a lens cover from a car, only smaller. The size was right to be a turn signal cover for a bicycle or maybe a motorcycle. A clump of dried dirt obliterated most of one side of the fragment and I reached for my pocket knife to scrape it clean. The side pocket of the chinos was empty. Moving to my bed, where I'd dropped the jeans, I checked all the pockets of those also. No knife. Now where could I have left it? I went through the pile on the dresser again. Next I opened the drawer where I'd put my gun and the extra cartridges, in case I'd dropped it in with them. It wasn't there, either. I always left it in my pocket or put it with my keys. This time, though, I seemed to have lost it.

             
My first feeling was of one of remorse. The knife had been my dad's. I remembered seeing him use it to scrape a battery terminal on his old Pontiac when I was just four years old. It was one of my earliest memories. His name was engraved on a piece of scrolled brass that was riveted onto the side. The knife had been a gift to him from my mother, and was one of my most prized possessions.

             
The second thing that occurred to me made me feel even worse. I might have dropped it in the truck yesterday. I hesitated to think what it would mean if Frank Goodwin found the knife with 'Murdock' engraved on it, somewhere in his truck. Melanie would surely tell him about our excursion then and the pot would be stirred up before I could slam a lid on it. After being in Goodwin's truck, I'd been fairly certain that he'd been the guy who had none too gently warned me off my investigation. Given his hostile attitude, the rough shifting truck, and the overflowing ashtray, I was beginning to put two and two together, without a calculator. The aroma of cat piss that had lingered on his clothing when he was hollering into my face, touched off another trigger in my mind and I was already forming a plan to nail the final fact into place. I thought I knew why he wanted me to stop digging into Charlie's life, but until I was sure, I didn't want him on my ass.

             
Dashing back into my office, I dialed the number of Frank's Outdoor Outlet, hoping he wouldn't answer the phone. The line was busy. God, didn't these people know about call waiting? A glance at my watch told me it was after twelve thirty. I'd have to try later. Caroline awaited.

             
The light but steady snow lent a festive air to the streets in Iowa City. I parked on Washington Street and walked across the bricked surface of the pedestrian mall, passing the storefronts and plentiful benches that comprised the popular shopping spot. The four square block area had been closed to vehicles and styled to invite both shoppers and those who just wanted to rest and enjoy the sights.

             
I saw two college kids playing chess on the pavement, with fifteen inch plastic chessman that they carried along the board. The board was comprised of pavement squares which were of two shades and were set into the floor of the mall, replacing the usual brick. It was an interesting perspective on the game. A couple of older guys were watching the game from one of the benches, unbothered by the snow falling around and on them.

             
I emerged from the pedestrian mall on Clinton Street and walked south to the Bread Garden Bakery and Cafe. They baked a lot of great breads here, the crusty kinds that I loved. It wasn't fancy, but the sandwiches and deli choices were to my liking. I thought Caroline would enjoy them, too. I went in to get a table and look for her. It wasn't too crowded today and I quickly saw that I'd gotten here before she had. I got myself a coffee and sat at one of the tables near the window to watch for her.

             
By one-ten, I was beginning to wonder if she would show up. Then I saw her emerging from the parking garage across the street. The dark blue hat and a long dark coat were easily visible through the light snow. When she looked up as she crossed the street, I waved at her from the window and she smiled and waved back.

             
I offered to go up and order our lunches and she readily agreed. I chose one of my favorites, the chicken walnut salad sandwich for each of us, as well as an order of red skin potato salad. I mentioned to Caroline that fresh carrot juice was available, but she opted for iced tea and I had a second cup of coffee. I carried the tray back to our table and set out the food and napkins. She looked amazed.

             
"Wow. Those look great.  What kind of sandwiches are they?"

             
"I told her and she bit into hers with enthusiasm. We were silent for a few minutes as we chewed. She was the first to break the silence.

             
"You know, Rudy, you really look almost the same as I remember you. Maybe a little older, but it's amazing how you still look like that boy I knew so many years ago."

             
"I guess I was just a boy, but I never think of it that way."

             
She laughed, that same tinkling laugh that I remembered and still heard in my dreams. "Oh, you were a boy, all right. And I was so young, too. And here we are meeting again after all this time. What have you been doing back in Pittsburgh? And what brings you out here? Are you visiting your sister?"

             
I'd finished the first half of my sandwich and most of the potato salad. I sipped some of the coffee before I answered. "No, actually I've moved to Oak Grove." I told Caroline about my sister's bout with breast cancer and my decision to spend more time with her and her family. I was now rethinking my position on one tall, slimy member of her family, but I saw no reason to explain all that to Caroline. She wanted to know more about what I had done after we'd parted.

             
"After you left, I said, "I stayed at the garage, mostly. Woody helped me out and we kept it afloat financially. I managed to take some business courses at Pitt and between that and running the garage, I was pretty busy for the next couple of years. Then, we got an offer to sell the place. The location was a good one and the offer was really high. Maxine was already living in Iowa City and was expecting Madeline about that time, so she had lots of uses for the money. We agreed to sell the garage and I've never regretted it. How about you?" I asked. "What have you been doing since you left?" That sounded too dumb and I tried to spruce it up a little. "You know, I mean what is your average day like as a nun?" That was somewhat better, but not by much. I couldn't seem to shut up and kept babbling like a demented brook. "I was, um, expecting you to be wearing a regular habit." I didn't mention that my surprise had originally taken place when I first spied on her at the convent. Instead I placed the blame on my sister. "Max didn't say how you were dressed at that, uh, retreat last Christmas, but I just assumed...you know?"

             
"Well, I am a Dominican Sister, of course, but each of us can decide whether she will wear a full habit, a modified version of some type or regular secular clothes. I usually dress moderately, in a monochromatic color scheme. It fits my style, I guess."

             
"So what do you do every day, now? Do you work at the convent?"

             
"Oh, we all have our responsibilities at the house. I have my Master's in Psychology, though, and I work as a counselor at a clinic on the eastern edge of Iowa City. Our order works with the poor also, and the sick and sometimes we teach. At Saint Anne's, eleven of us are in residence and most of us work at medical clinics or hospitals in the area. Three are teachers in one or another of the Catholic schools. I was a counselor, sort of a social worker, at Mercy Hospital for a while and now I deal with troubled families. I've lived here for almost five years now and so far, I'm very happy." Apparently that was the condensed version. She turned the subject back to me and my life after we'd parted.

             
"What did you do, Rudy? Did you go back and finish college after you sold the garage?" She held my gaze as she asked. It made me feel unsettled but, as insane as it seemed, hopeful. It felt like there was a chance, that if I could just 'connect' with her eyes somehow, on some deeper level, we would erase the years and go back to being the 'us' that I remembered.

             
"No," I said. "I had that Associate Degree in Communications and that was enough college for me. I didn't want to go to school any more. I'd always wanted to be a private investigator. Do you remember me reading all those detective novels and how I badgered poor Ira when he was tracking down those two hoods? I was always spinning my big plans and dreams about being a private investigator."               "A private investigator. Oh, do I remember those dreams, Rudy!" Caroline smiled broadly. "And all the books that Ira gave you and how you pored over them. You were going to be like Travis Magee, only without the houseboat." She laughed out loud and covered her mouth with one hand. "And you actually became one?" she asked.

             
"I did," I said with a nod, "eventually. Ira was my inspiration. He'd always told me I could do it. When he gave me his manuals, he said he'd already read them several times and wanted to pass them on to an apt pupil." I paused. "That was me," I grinned. "So I learned a lot of useful things from Ira and the rest from books, his and others that I've acquired along the way. I'm still learning," I added, "about human nature as well as about investigative work."