in the direction of Angus heaven. “Patience girl,” Joe said, walking into the kitchen. He placed the bag on the counter.
The answer machine was blinking. Joe hit the play button. Call one: “It’s Elaine. I hope you remember to go to your appointment.” He hit the delete button. Call two: “Jozef, Harry is away for next three days. Call me, pleeze.” Joe laughed as he hit delete. The sultry voice, requiring no introduction, belonged to Alenia from down the block. The ex-pole dancer found her mark at a strip joint near the Elizabeth exit of the New Jersey Turnpike. She massaged the ego and other worldly parts of a man thirty years her senior, liberated his wallet and found a very comfortable life a world away from the dingy apartment in a suburb of Moscow. He’d let her wait. Call three: “Christian Murphy.” Joe turned up the volume. “Preston Swedge had a heart the size of a basketball with advanced coronary artery disease. I’m listing the cause of death as heart failure. That’s one for me. The other is for you. There wasn’t any lettuce in his gut.”
Joe opened the refrigerator door of the Maytag side-by-side, grabbed a can of Bud, and held it to his forehead. He limped into the den off the dining room. Joe scoffed at the description of the seven by ten room when they bought the house. A den in his mind was large enough to hold a pool table, an oversized leather recliner, and a monster projection television. The converted sewing room barely held a six-foot couch and a screw-it-together computer desk purchased at a bigbox wholesale club out on the highway. A thirteen-inch Sony rested on the corner of the desk.
Joe raised the blinds on the two windows behind the desk and sat on a Banker’s chair his father polished for thirty years as a N.Y.P.D. detective. A photo of Joe, his father, and grandfather in their N.Y.P.D. blues taken at Joe’s graduation from the police academy teetered on the edge of the desk. He booted up his notebook computer, clicking on the bookmarked site for Rutgers University.
“Hey Joe, where are you?” Dan Fredericks yelled.
Roxy bolted through her doggie door, running full tilt into Fredericks as he neared the kitchen. “Good to see you girl.”
“Grab a beer in the ‘fridge,” Joe yelled. “I’m in the den.”
Fredericks entered the den sans jacket and tie. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. Popping the tab on a beer, he collapsed on the couch. “The air-conditioning feels great.”
“I sorta like the smell of rotting flesh,” Joe said, holding his nose. “I should’ve saved some of the maggots for bait.”
Roxy pawed at Fredericks’ pant pocket where M&Ms were always in supply. He reached into the bag, giving her one. “I didn’t know you fished.”
“I’m thinking about taking it up.” Joe got a kick from goofing on Fredericks. “Murphy’s cousin doesn’t waste anytime. Who called him?”
Fredericks shifted on the couch. “Swedge must have known he was short on time. On the refrigerator were instructions to follow in the event of his death. I contacted his attorney and told him the facts. He asked if I knew someone who could clean up the mess.”
“Who’s the asshole?” Joe asked as he pounded the keyboard.
“Lester Hargrove.”
Joe stopped typing. “Never heard of him.”
Fredericks got off the couch to look over Joe’s shoulder. “Going back to school?”
Joe returned to typing. “I took an aptitude test and you know what I’m good for?” he asked as he filled out an online registration.
“Beer taster?” Fredericks guessed.
“Close. Customer service.”
“In a maximum security prison?” Fredericks laughed.
“Precisely. I told my shrink that I’ve been thinking about finishing my requirements for a master’s degree in history. He said go for it, but take it slow. He’s afraid I might crack under the pressure.” Joe said, waiting for the next information screen. “Did you check out the emergency alert?”
“It doesn’t work. I called the service. They don’t get a signal when it’s activated.”
“Preston oughta sue them posthumously. I’m sure Hargrove would take the case for thirty percent,” Joe quipped.
Fredericks nervously played with the tab on the can until it broke free. “I checked the wax paper for prints.” He walked over to what Joe’s daughter tabbed, The Wall of Honor: A 10 x 10 of Joe shaking hands with John Walsh, the host of America’s Most Wanted; Joe’s honorable discharge from the Marine Corps with his Purple Heart; and a plastic case with two crushed, quarter-size metal pieces, remains of the