Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,8
view of Bragg at sunset, the whole city lit up and glowing in pastels, with the light making it impossible to see the chipped brick and broken stucco and the rust trails left by the cast iron. I climbed the stairs to Ray’s apartment and knocked. No answer.
I waited, knocked again, a little harder this time. The door slipped out of its frame a quarter inch. The stairwell smelled like dust and the boozy, body-odor funk of Moulinbas, but now something else crept into the mix: shit.
“Ray?”
No answer.
I pressed on the door, and it swung open another quarter inch before the chain caught. Through the opening, I could make out the cramped living space of Ray’s apartment: the patched floral wingbacks, the knock-off Tiffany lamp, the plastic skull he’d rescued from the dumpster behind a pop-up Halloween store.
“Ray, are you ok?”
I waited a full minute. Then I got out my phone and called 911. I explained the situation, by which I mean I lied. I told the dispatcher I’d been trying to get in touch with Ray for days, I’d tried the landlord, I’d talked to anybody who might know where he was, and nobody could tell me anything. I asked for a wellness check, and the dispatcher told me to sit tight. When I disconnected, I went downstairs and stepped inside the low-end jewelry boutique that occupied the ground floor. In contrast to the exterior, with its Old-World aesthetic, the interior was gratingly modern: steel and glass and slate. A middle-aged woman, trim, her hair neatly gray, was arranging things in one of the display cases; I barely gave the pieces a glance. Lots of synthetic stones, lots of silver that would probably turn your skin green, maybe a few diamonds that were too yellow to be sold for a premium. My first boyfriend had bought me a bracelet from a place like this, although that had been in New Orleans. It was a pretty piece with a lot of flashy stones that had all fallen out by the time we got home. I asked the woman about Ray, but she couldn’t give me any answers; she didn’t even know who Ray was, and she talked like a Yankee. She also talked a lot.
By the time I got back outside, a blue-and-white SUV with DuPage Sheriff’s Department on the side was pulling up to the curb. The passenger door opened, and Mason got out. I’d never seen him in uniform before; khaki looked good on him. He stared at me for a moment and then looked across the SUV’s hood. The driver looked familiar. I was pretty sure he was the guy I’d seen dropping off and picking up Mason at the support group. His hair was buzzed short and almost totally gray, and although he was wearing the same khaki shirt and brown pants as Mason, he somehow managed to look rumpled in them, as though he’d slept in them. His badge was askew, and I wanted to know why Mason hadn’t pointed that out.
“Mr. Martel?” the driver said.
“Yeah, yes. That’s me.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Mason said.
“I’m visiting Ray,” I said. “Trying to. He’s not answering the door.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mason had his fists on his hips. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Why would it be a joke? I’m worried. Something’s not right, so I just wanted somebody to do a wellness check.”
“This is fucking typical,” Mason said, rounding on the other deputy. “Let’s go. This is a bullshit call.”
“Why don’t you check the jewelry store?” the other deputy said to Mason. His name tag said LeBlanc. “I’ll go upstairs with Mr. Martel, and he can explain what’s wrong.”
“I already checked with the woman in there,” I said.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Mason said, dragging LeBlanc to the street side of the SUV. They conversed in low voices. Mason was expressive with his hands as he talked, the movements growing choppier, until finally he yanked on the brim of his campaign cover and said, “The little prick is up to something, ok? That’s what I’m trying to get through your thick fucking head.”
LeBlanc’s eyes shot toward me before cutting back. He said something very quietly, and Mason stomped toward the jewelry store.
“Why don’t we go upstairs,” LeBlanc said as he came around the SUV, “and we’ll see what’s going on.”
“What’s his problem?” I asked as we took the stairs.
“No problem.”
“Oh, great. All that shouting and swearing and stomping like he’s a toddler