129
Aligned Design
Ch 23
"I don't see anything that indicates that this man ran off." Eames had looked through Joe Navicky's small flat. Nothing seemed out of place – this is the home of a man who lives alone, she thought. Clothes remained in the closet and in drawers, on the floor and on some furniture. Unpaid bills sat on the table with dirty dishes.
Eames wished Bobby were here. He would see things. Where does he look? she asked herself. She checked the area by the phone – no scraps of paper with mysterious phone numbers. She hit star sixty-nine and got a pizza place. Navicky had no answering machine, address book, nothing with any names, addresses or phone numbers.
The calendar still showed last month, every date block was empty. The front of his fridge was bare. She found no photos, no correspondence. He didn't even have a stash of dirty magazines, no porn of any kind. She looked in the medicine chest. Navicky's blood pressure medication remained on the shelf. His toothbrush looked like he'd been using it since 1968.
"Check his mail box, see if he picked up yesterday's mail," Eames said to one of the uniforms. It didn't appear Navicky had a paper delivered. "This guy did not just take off. He is, or was, planning on coming back here," she said aloud to no one in particular.
"So where is he?" asked one of the officers who had gone to pick up Navicky at the shipping lot.
"Good question," Eames answered. "Let's put an unmarked outside and see if he comes back later – he may be just staying away." Eames was being thorough; she knew he wouldn't show.
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Bobby ran a search on Dominic Jenese. Another busy bad boy, he said to himself. Jenese had served time for insurance fraud, twice. Don't these insurance companies check out their policy holders, he wondered.
Then Bobby ran a search on just 'Canvettelli' as he didn't know the gallery owner's given name. Up popped seventeen reports – one hundred-seventeen separate individuals with that surname had passed through the criminal justice system. He was perusing each report, looking for a familiar mug when Eames returned.
"Here, I brought you pastrami on rye with lots of yellow mustard and two bags of salt and vinegar chips. Hope this is ok," she said, setting the bag on his desk.
"Thanks," he replied. "What did you find at Navicky's place?"
"Nothing. If he ran, he took nothing with him. His pills are still in the bathroom cabinet. Nothing has been touched. It looks like he hasn't been home since leaving for work. I don't get it. He had no reason to suspect anything."
"Did you check the phone?"
"Yes, and I star-sixty-nined it. The last call was to a pizza joint. And, no, there were no written-on tablets or notebooks. I even bagged the wastebaskets. Not much there, either."
"You're sure Jackson didn't tip off Navicky? How about the office clerk? What about her?"
"Bobby, I'm telling you. Neither one gave us up. However, yesterday's mail was still in his box. I have bad feeling about this."
"Well, here's what I've got."
Bobby proceeded to bring Eames up to date on his findings.
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Gleason ate her salad with gusto. She was surprisingly hungry. She had finished the roll and was thinking of another when her cell phone rang. Her first thought was Bobby. She pulled the cell from her bag, checked the number and didn't recognize it. The area code was certainly none of the New York numbers.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Wintermantle? This is Milton Manlowe."
"Dr. Manlowe. It's good to hear from you."
"I'm happy to reach you. I would like to talk with you about the interview tomorrow. . . Is this a good time to speak with you?"
"Aye, this is a good time, indeed."
"Good, my dear. I just wanted to make sure we were all set for tomorrow morning."
"I'm looking forward to it."
Gleason learned that the interview would include representatives from various departments, each eager to have her expertise. She would be meeting with heads and chairs of the linguistics, history, classics and anthropology departments. This is a very big deal, she realized. Her excitement grew.
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Jenese drove through the night with only one stop for coffee and a fill up – in more ways than one. He found himself making eyes with a guy at the counter, across from the booth where Jenese sat. The guy was young, really young. He looked tasty. And sweet. He and the kid made eye contact more than several times. Jenese waited to see what the kid wanted – to give or to get. He was hoping the kid wanted to give. God, that would feel good right now.
Ah, there it was, just what he was hoping for, a lick of the lips and eyes sliding to the men's room. Jenese lowered his head and raised it so subtly, that only one expecting a 'yes' would have seen it. The kid set bills on the counter and headed for the restroom. Two minutes later, Jenese did the same.
Jenese reached Tillman at a cheap hotel in southwest Baltimore at six-thirty Thursday morning. He followed Tillman's directions and arrived at the hotel tired, hungry and horny as hell. The kid at the truck stop had no clue what he was doing. Damn good thing the chump wasn't looking to get paid. Jenese had to talk him through it practically.
"First things first," he said to Tilley. "Come here and fuck me."
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Flies entered every orifice. A fat, blue one strutted up Navicky's right nostril and began to drink the drying mucus. A second entered right behind the first. Another fly, more green than blue, fought its way under, got in, and then wiggled beneath the lens of his right eye, lifting it from the orb, sucking up the optic fluid. Two flies fought their way into the same hole in his forehead. The bigger one, a magical turquoise color, wallowed in the pooled blood just inside the dermis. The other took refuge in the other hole.
A small black cloud pulsed in and out of Navicky's mouth. Some burrowed into the tongue. A few wallowed in the wetness under his tongue, making it jerk ever so slightly. Other, braver, stronger ones, ventured past the tongue, down the esophagus. What finds waited! Some flew, others trooped, into the lungs where they feasted on the tar-covered lining. Six beautiful flies found the small malignancy tucked far in the corner of the lower lobe of the right lung. They crawled and sucked on the festering mass.
A swarm took turns burrowing into the two holes in the back of Pangborn's head. The flies sucked, licked and turned the surrounding tissue to soup, which they sucked and licked. The flies grew fatter; everything they took in was shit out in small dots. Soon, they were consuming their own excrement as they burrowed toward softer, wetter tissue.
Later, the flies began to lay eggs in the gore. The sun shone down and cooked the eggs just right. The eggs grew to larva that wiggled under the skin, twitching the tissue as though the men were still alive.
Natural decomposition processes had begun. The organs began to putrefy. Sections of intestine collapsed under their own weight. The feces within the intestine dried and became stone-like. The stomach fell in upon itself. Its acids began to eat through its own tissue, creating noxious fumes that gathered in the trapped area. The urine within the kidneys pooled at the posterior side and turned thick, glue-like. The kidneys sagged onto themselves and the fronts began to adhere to the backs. Pangborn and Navicky were manna for new insectile life.
A pair of carrion birds flew above, eyeing the scene below. Big, black, strong. Hungry. The birds began to dive. They landed, hopped to the two bodies and looked at the buffet before them.
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Gleason finished talking with Dr. Manlowe. She was so excited! She wanted to call Bobby and tell him. Call him! Go on, she told herself. No, no. Do not. It will be bad enough when I tell him I'm leaving. She put him out of her mind. She returned to her salad. I need more rolls, she thought.
Gleason took her bag, walked back to Windy City, and purchased four slices of Italian bread, toasted, with butter and sprinkled with garlic powder. She was starving. Oh, it smelled so good.
She returned to her table and continued eating. She thought about how to spend the rest of her day. The cabbie and she had talked on the way from the hotel. His niece and her husband were students here. Gleason had inquired if he knew of any bookstores near campus.
"Yes," he had said, "my niece, Lisa, works at a used bookstore called George's Book."
He told her it was on Maple Street between Hamlin and Foster, near Philbrick Park. Gleason thought she could walk it from here. She decided to go there next.
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Bobby continued looking through the results of the Canvettelli search, looking for the gallery owner. "Apparently Mr. Canvettelli has no priors," he said to Eames. He sat back in his chair. "This has hit an official dead end," he told her.
She took a sip of tea; she was on a tea kick now, and replied, "So, what's left? We've exhausted all the leads. Right?"
"Well, there's still that piece of tubing I've been trying to find," he replied.
"What did you find? Anything?"
"Nothing. I need to get to a hardware store and talk to someone who knows about this kind of hose." The exasperation was obvious in his tone.
"What about the garage downstairs? Cars have hoses. Maybe one of the techs down there would have an idea about the hose." Eames suggested.
Bobby sat up. "You know, they just might." He glanced over at Deakins' office. Eames knew what he was thinking. The forensic garage was in the lower level of the parking deck. He would not be 'leaving' if he just went down to the garage. He looked back at Eames. She looked at him. "Should I?" he asked her.
"Don't involve me in your little escapade," Eames replied.
Bobby sat back and pursed his lips, considering. Suddenly, he stood up, grabbed his portfolio, and said to Eames, "You know where I'll be." He turned and headed to the lifts.
"Don't get into trouble," she said to no one.
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Gleason was beginning to regret walking to George's Book. The cab driver had said it was secluded. She crossed Sheridan and walked along Foster. And walked and walked. She crossed Orrington and Sherman, and then she crossed a set of railroad tracks. Finally, she saw Maple. The cabbie had said to turn right onto Maple and the bookstore would be on the right.
There it is, at last! She pulled open the door and was struck by how cramped the store was. This is a place to spend hours, she thought. I should have started here today. A lovely young woman came forward from between two far shelf units.
"May I help you find anything in particular?" she asked.
"Actually, do you have a chair?" Gleason responded with a weak smile.
"Oh, you walked," she returned the smile. "We are a bit far from campus. Here, come this way." The sweet girl lead Gleason through the rows of shelves and they ended at a wonderful space outfitted with arm chairs, small tables, a love seat, floor lamps and soft music. Scented candles spiced the air.
"This is wonderful," Gleason said.
"Here, let me take that raincoat." She took the heavy garment and hung it on a hook set with others on the far wall. Gleason was glad to be rid of the weight. "Can I get you a cup of coffee or tea?"
"Oh, I wish I'd found you earlier today. Tea would be so good. Thank you."
"Well, here is a basket of different kinds of tea. The water is always hot in this spigot. Creamer and sweetener or sugars are here if you like, and here is a clean mug." The young woman offered Gleason a deep blue mug.
"Thank you so much," Gleason said.
"Help yourself. My name is Lisa if you need me."
"I think I met your uncle. He suggested I come here. I'm glad to meet you. I'm Gleason."
"Good to meet you. Make yourself at home."
Gleason made a cup of chamomile tea and sat for a bit, resting. I will come here often, she said to herself.