Malice Times Read online

  3

  We pulled in front of a house converted into apartments on Westbrook Lane. The street was littered with them. The one in front of us was one of the nicer houses. That really wasn’t saying much. I pondered what Michael was doing living in this dump. A streetlight buzzed overhead. The apartment was painted a blue that would be better suited in Florida.

  “This is it,” Joshua said.

  I lifted my right hand pointing the gun towards the apartment building, the universal hand gesture for “after you.” My shoulder burned with pain. If Joshua registered the gun, he showed no emotion. Joshua started up the walkway. I followed closely. I felt a sudden coldness come over me. Something was very wrong. A nagging premonition of dread fell over me.

  “We should call the police,” I said as calmly as I could muster.

  “Don’t you want to take a look first? Besides, you have protection.”

  “Do you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “All right.” I didn’t need much convincing. Maybe I was being overly dramatic. Maybe there was some kind of miscommunication. Perhaps he had to work late.

  He opened the door to the apartment building. No need for a key. Not even a buzzer. Spider webs stretched from a burnt-out sconce by the door to a corner above it. A spider sat high up on the web looking down upon its prey. The number 223 hung above the door covered in webs. We walked up two flights of well-worn, uncarpeted steps to the third floor. The steps creaked loudly under each footfall. Joshua stopped at the first door on the left. The number five marked the apartment door. Joshua rapped loudly on the door. The sound echoed down the hallway as Michael’s door swung inward. Down and across the hall another door opened slightly and closed just as quickly.

  “Michael,” Joshua said through the open door.

  I pushed him out of the way and peered into the room. The poor lighting made everything shadows. I pushed the door open further with my foot. Any doubt that we should call the police left the building. Outside, a thunderclap rang in the distance. As hot as it was outside, it was even hotter in the building.

  I stepped into the apartment. A blast of cold air hit me from a large window air conditioner that whirred noisily. The place was shrouded in darkness except for the streetlight streaming through the window. My eyes took a moment to adjust. Joshua strolled in after me, his hands in his pockets.

  The apartment was in complete contrast to the building. It was an apartment that belonged in the penthouse of a Fifth Avenue apartment building. The furniture was extravagant. There was a touch of money to the place that I hadn’t seen since I left home ten years ago. Artwork adorned the walls. I never knew much about art. I knew the names of great artists, but not necessarily what they were known for. Like music, I knew what I liked, not necessarily who created it. But give me an actor’s name and a bare-bones plotline and I can tell you the movie and the year it was released. Everyone has their own encyclopedia of useless information. I walked through the apartment checking for signs of life or death and found nothing.

  It was a two-bedroom apartment. The main room consisted of a living and dining area, through the first door to the right was a kitchen. The kitchen was large, but mundane compared to the living areas. Exactly what you would expect from a bachelor who probably ate out the vast majority of his meals. Through the second door on the right was a bedroom, which had been transformed into a study. Bookshelves with no books lined the walls. There were shipping boxes on the floor. I did a quick look into the ones that were open and nudged the ones that were closed with my feet. Most were empty. Another thunderclap boomed in the distance. I could hear the sound of raindrops pounding against the window.

  Back in the living room I went through the first door on the left. It was a nice bathroom, which had a connecting door to a bedroom on the right. The bedroom was elegantly decorated much like the living room. The bed was made and didn’t appear to have been slept in recently. I walked out through the bedroom door and back to the living room.

  Another flash of lightning and then immediately a thunderclap boomed in the night sky. The rain streamed down sideways against the window in millions of big droplets the size of jellybeans. The rain washed the fog away. Joshua stood near the window watching the rain test the panes of glass. Worry lined his thin face.

  “I see no sign of him.” I walked back toward the door. A crunch came from beneath my left foot. On the hardwood floor not far from a large area rug, I noticed something. I bent down to get a closer look in the darkness. Lightening lit up the room. On the ground laid a piece of thick broken ceramic. I reached down to grab the ceramic, but stopped short of picking it up. It was in a dozen pieces now. It looked like pottery with hints of blue and yellow paint.

  I stood back up and walked back to the door. I looked at the room again. The room was very ordered, everything in a specific place, as one would expect from the fastidious Michael Marchello. Everything was in perfect symmetry save one thing. The large area rug should be about three feet to the right.

  “That rug is not in the right place,” I said.

  “How could you possibly know that?” Joshua asked. “You’ve never even been here before.”

  “No,” I answered absent-mindedly. “But I know my brother.”

  I walked over to the rug, reached down, grabbed a corner, lifted it up and dragged it back over the rest of the rug. A dark stain appeared almost immediately. I dropped the corner of the rug and hung my head.

  “There’s some good news,” I said. Fear gave way to rage quickly. It ate at my stomach like acid. “Now, we call the police.”

  Joshua stared down at the spot on the floor, lightening lit the room again. The stain on the floor was the dark crimson of blood. Someone had tried to clean it up as much as they could, but blood, especially a lot of blood, doesn’t clean up easily.

  “Well, I think maybe we shouldn’t be here when the police arrive,” he said.

  “Huh?” I asked still staring at the spot on the floor.

  “I’m just saying it looks funny me being here and you being here and us being here together. You come into town and suddenly there’s a bloodstain on your brother’s floor. I’m just sayin’ that the police are going to make connections we may not want them to make.”

  He was right and I knew it. Stephen Archer, who was the district attorney, and my father were very close friends. As the district attorney in Malice Grove, he also ran the police department. So, the police would make whatever connections my father told them to make and I didn’t want them making any connections that would keep me in a Malice Grove cell with no way of escape until my father was satisfied. I covered the stain back up with the rug and joined Joshua at the door.

  “I’ll make an anonymous call,” I said. “Wait, I can’t do that. The bartender at The Grove knows we were coming here.”

  “I’ll take care of him.” That sent an appropriate chill up my spine.

  After we left, we parted. I drove back to Main Street and made a phone call to the police and reported a possible murder with the location of the blood stain. Then, I drove to the outskirts of town and checked into a cheap motel. I thought about driving home and catching that movie, but I wanted to know what happened to my brother.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long. As soon as I woke the next morning, I turned on the television and it was on the news. The body of Michael Marchello, prominent businessman, owner of the Malice Times, washed up on the beach earlier that morning.

  4

  The pain in my shoulder blazed that morning as I packed my bags to head back home. I sat down on the bed and stared at the wall. I couldn’t go back home. My brother had asked me for help. I flopped over backwards on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I fingered the scar in my right shoulder. My brother’s voice echoed in my head, “My brother, the hero. I need you to be my hero now, Joe, just as you were when I was growing up. Someone is trying to kill me.” Me, a hero. My brother needing me to be a hero. He had hit all the ri
ght chords. I knew I had to stay, just as I knew that I had to come. Heroes don’t run away from their daddies.

  The only pieces of information I got from the television broadcast were that Michael had been stabbed to death, his body was found on the beach and that he owned the Malice Times. I couldn’t envision my brother as the editor-in-chief of a newspaper. I drove to the Malice Times. I wasn’t all too eager to run into old acquaintances, but I had to see if I could piece together some of my brother’s movements prior to him ending up on a beach like a dead whale.

  I entered the Malice Times, a big warehouse looking building, through a steel door. A sign pointed to the right, “Printing Room.” Another sign pointed up steel steps, “Offices.” My feet rang out my impending arrival with each step. I entered through another steel door at the top of the steps and into a massive open room. There were a number of empty desks. Two were occupied. One along the wall to my right sat a man. One on the far left sitting in front of a closed door was a woman. I didn’t recognize either. I approached the man sitting by himself working at a typewriter.

  “Typewriter? No computer?” I asked.

  He stopped typing and looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Who are you?”

  “The name is Samuel Marlowe, selling computers is my game. I heard about this mythical newspaper that still uses typewriters. I told myself, Sam, my boy, you have to go and see this medieval town for yourself. And I walk through the front door and lo and behold, the myth is true.”

  “I’m not the one you should be selling to,” he said staring down at his typewriter waving me away with his hand.

  “Well, I like to get the opinion of the employees to get a feel for the place. What’s your name?”

  “Daniel Miles.”

  “You a reporter?” I asked sitting down on the edge of his desk. He looked up from his typewriter like I had just sat on his mother’s lap. I stood back up.

  “That’s what they tell me,” he said.

  “What are you working on right now?” I asked.

  “A story.”

  “What kind of story?”

  Irritation lined his face. It softened and he said, “It isn’t ready yet. I don’t have all the details, but it’s a big one. It’ll go national. Make me a lot of money and get me out of this place.”

  “You like the typewriter.”

  “I’ve been using one since I was fifteen.”

  “I used a Commodore 64 when I was sixteen. They’re not practical anymore either. Have you ever used a computer?”

  “I have one at home.” He looked back down at his typewriter and pounded out a few sentences.

  “So the town isn’t medieval after all.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he said distractedly.

  “Rough place?”

  “It’s a place. Not a particularly nice place, but a place.”

  “So who is it I would talk to about computers?’ I asked.

  “You’ve sort of come at a bad time. A transitioning phase, so to speak. The guy that owns the place up and got himself killed.”

  “Killed? How?”

  “He was stabbed multiple times in the back.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “It probably wasn’t. He had been bashed on the head beforehand. He was probably unconscious when it happened. I hope so. He wasn’t a bad guy. Very supportive of what I was doing. Didn’t really meddle all that much. Every now and then he’d ask us to write something up a certain way, but that comes with the territory.”

  “That what your story is about?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not sure what your story is about?”

  “I’m still working out the details.”

  “I guess I’m a day late. So how many of you are there?”

  “There’s eight of us total.”

  “Eight reporters? Small town for that many, isn’t it?

  “Not really. A lot goes on in a small town like this.”

  “Like this?”

  “Stick around and you’ll find out, but if I were you, I’d peddle your computers elsewhere.”

  “So, who is it transitioning to?”

  “Well, right now, the dragon lady is running it like she owns it. I guess we’ll find out after they read the will.”

  “Will? He had a will?”

  “You seem surprised,” he said suddenly more interested in me than made me comfortable. “I wonder why.”

  “So, who is this dragon lady? Maybe I can sell to her before all of that goes down, if, of course, she does have some control over the place.”

  “Her name is Lynda Cranston.” He pointed across the room all too eager to rid himself of me. “Her office is over there. The girl outside is Regina. I doubt you’ll be able to get in to see her.”

  I walked across the newsroom to where Regina sat at her desk reading a magazine. She looked up at me as I approached. She was a very attractive woman about my age. She had auburn hair and green whimsical eyes.

  “Welcome to the Malice Times. How can I help you?”

  “Hello. The name is Samuel Marlowe. I sell computers. I was wondering if I could have an audience with Ms. Cranston.”

  “I doubt you have an appointment with Ms. Cranston.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I’ll buzz her and ask, but I can tell you the answer is going to be no.”

  “Why? She in mourning?” I asked.

  Regina laughed and then picked up her phone and pushed a couple buttons.

  “Ms. Cranston, there’s a Mr. Marlowe here to see you,” she said smirking up at me. I sat down on her desk. She didn’t seem to mind. “No, he doesn’t have an appointment.” I picked up a photograph of a white-haired older lady that bore a striking resemblance to the red-headed beauty on the phone. I could hear the sound of a raised voice emitting from the telephone. Regina snatched the picture out of my hand and put it back on her desk. “Of course, Ms. Cranston. I will tell him.”

  She hung up the phone. The smirk on her face remained.

  “No dice?” I asked.

  “She wanted me to tell you that now is not a good time.”

  “What did she really say?”

  “That I was not to bother her ever and to tell you to get lost, in so many words.”

  “So many words?”

  “I niced it up some,” she said. “Do you really sell computers?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “I don’t even know you. Not even your name.”

  “I guess have I ever lied to you won’t work either.”

  She laughed. “Who are you really?”

  “Samuel Marlowe.”

  She shook her head and made a clucking noise with her tongue. “Cute name. I like Humphrey Bogart, too. You a reporter?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a friend.”

  “Whose friend?

  “Would you believe Michael’s?”

  “Michael didn’t have friends,” she said.

  “He had at least one,” I said. “What time do you work til?”

  “I’m not interested. Thank you.”

  “Not what I had in mind. Just curious.”

  “I work until 5:00,” she said.

  “Was Michael still here when you left yesterday at 5:00?”

  “Yes, he was. And why isn’t that what you had in mind? You give up too easily.”

  “I’ll be seeing you,” I said as I stood.

  “I’m sure of it,” she said and went back to reading her magazine.

  5

  Idrove down to where the body had come ashore. If he had still been at the Malice Times at 5:00 yesterday, he hadn’t been in the water for very long. So there had either been minimal effort put into dumping the body or someone had done a poor job. The body had washed ashore near where the docks sat on the edge of town. The private boat dock was part dock, part boat house. A steel roof ran the entire length of the dock. There was a chain link gate that was opera
ted by a man in a small shack inside. You either needed a code to open the door or the man in the shack had to open it for you. I parked my car outside and walked through an open door to the left of the gate. The private dock is where the prominent members of Malice Grove kept their boats. Others could dock their boats while they did whatever business they had in town as well. I walked over to the docks and found the same guy who ran them ten years ago sitting in his office.

  “Hello,” I said poking my head in.

  He looked up at me and remembered me right away. He didn’t hide the fact, although he seemed a little disinterested in the development. His name was Jimbo, or at least that’s what everyone called him. He was a big, fat man with grease stains on his shirt and crusted food at the corner of his mouth. The fluorescent light reflected off of his pale balding head.

  “I heard you ran off,” he said.

  “I just left home.”

  “That’s not how I heard it. You want to know about your brother?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, I don’t know a thing. So amscray,” he said.

  “You’ve seen a lot over the years.”

  “I haven’t seen anything over the years.”

  “Wait. Amscray? Did you just say amscray?”

  “You got a problem with it, bub?”

  “Bub and amscray. I have finally entered an old movie. Not sure I like it as much as I thought I would,” I said. “So, I’m not amscraying. Did you not see anything last night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “I’m already nowhere. Have been for nearly thirty years.” he said as he picked up a pocket knife and started cleaning underneath his nails. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I wasn’t here last night.”