The Color-blind Detective

When I reached Bob Denver, cell phone to cell phone, he was parked across the street from Duva’s, an upscale bar and restaurant in the Northwest, seven blocks from my office. The Martins had been at the bar for about an hour, had one drink, then were seated at a street-side window for dinner. He could see them from his car. I stopped behind Bob’s beater, a seventy-seven Chevy Nova and put on my signal. The car in front of me thought he’d take the spot and put on his signal as he tried to back up. I stepped out of the car and he got the idea I was serious and left. Bob pulled out; I pulled in. The cell phone rang; Bob said Mona was the one with the bright blond hair, “white to you, CB,” and John was behind a post, out of view, but I could see his hands. They were thin and artistic, and his wristwatch cost at least five grand. I decided on a closer look. There was a stool at the far end of the dark wood bar facing their table, but far enough away they shouldn’t notice me. I ordered an IPA and grabbed a paper left on the foot rail; I might be seeing a lot of these two, so I don’t need to get in their vision any more than necessary. John Martin had dark hair, a little longish with a pompadour sloping down into what was called a duck-tail in the fifties. I don’t know what they call it now, but it was popular again. He was rail thin, and sat with his back erect. I lowered my eyes to a studioesque snapshot of Jack Wye below the fold. Lola May was right; Martin was a dead ringer, right down to the hair. They were talking, using their hands, looking like people on a date, lovers even. She would reach over and touch his wrist; he would move the hair from her eyes back to her ears; their knees bumped under the table. They looked happy in an anticipatory way, but that was probably more based on what I suspected than what I saw. It’s not easy separating the two. John laughed suddenly and reached a hand between her breasts and squeezed something beneath her blouse. She shook his head at him, and cupped her breasts provocatively; she formed an O with her lips, then blew him a kiss. They weren’t private people; it wasn’t a sisterly thing to do either. There was a resemblance, a male and female version of the same basic building block, but you’d have to know it first to really see it, and even then it was iffy. Where her face was pretty, his was truly handsome. She was a well shaped healthy looking five-eight; he an anemic looking five-ten. Even if Lola May hadn’t said he swung both ways, I would have guessed he was gay, despite the obvious interplay between the two. Yes, he and Jack Wye were dead ringers, but Jack Wye resembled a lifeguard, while John Martin a male model. Martin dressed to that image. In fact, the two Martins were the best dressed people in the place, as if they’d gotten a baby sitter and it was a big night on the town. They looked pretty natural though, like this was their normal selves, and dropping a hundred bucks for dinner was no big deal. If I could only read lips; I made a mental note to look for a deaf operative. I finished my beer, put a five and a one under the glass, and returned to the car. I put on Frank Sinatra and kept my eyes on Mona’s dark gray moving lips. I wrote ‘lip reader’ on the ‘to do’ list I keep in the car. I should learn to read lips myself; it was dark in the restaurant, but I saw their lips as clear as day; it’s a real talent. There’s a psychiatrist in Buffalo, where I went to college, who wanted to know why I wasn’t overly sensitive to light like most profoundly color-blind people are, and whether the night sight was connected. He thought it wasn’t in the eyes at all, but in my head like a programming error. I have a note plasticised to my license so the he gets my eyes when I die; it was important to him. So I’m a combination of cat and eagle; add visual hearing, and I’d be super snoop. I said, “Phone,” followed by the number for Mary’s sister, Marsha Andrus; I left a message. Bob Brandle was home. He was abrupt, “Brandle.” “Mr. Brandle, my name’s CB Green. I’m a private investigator. I was hoping you could set aside some time tomorrow, at your place, say about noon.” He got mean, for no reason at all, filling my car with his abrasive voice. “Why would I want to see you, peeper?” He didn’t know me and didn’t have a reason to hate me yet; he was mean because that’s the way he was. His bad first impression made my job easier. “Well, Mr. Brandle, I’ve got this picture. No, make that four pictures, all in a row.” I left it there. Doubt knocked the sharp edges from his voice. “Yeah, so what’s it to me?” “Hey, it’s four guys and a dog with a beanie. Four shots, nice and clear. You might want to see them before I show them around. You might want a copy for yourself, if you catch my drift.” There was heavy breathing on the other end of the line. I added, “For your friends; you could all chip in.” The words came out reluctantly. “Noon, you said?” “Yes, noon.” He muttered something under his breath. “What was that, Mr. Brandle?” Anger thickened his voice. “Nothing. I’ll see you at noon. How can I reach you?” “Don’t worry, Brandle, I’ll find you if I need you.” He started to say something as I pushed the end button. I returned my attention to the Martins, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Jeff Jacobs and death; how it impacts the living; how it kicks us in the stomach. An image of Mary Jacobs’ silent sobs filled my brain. I felt her pain anew and wiped away an unintended tear. Then the shot rang out . . . Everything on the street stopped, as if a playful God had pressed the pause button on the VCR of life. Not me; I pulled the .38 special from my shoulder holster and held it down at my side as my feet hit the pavement. I was moving towards the alley behind Duva’s when the second shot rang out; the echo off the buildings made it seem long and drawn out. I ran with my gun held in front of me. As I passed people, they saw my gun and backed away, putting space between themselves and me; it was a good reflex action. I rounded the corner with my gun in my right hand at eye level. There was one person in the alley; she was splayed back against the wall, her body akimbo, her legs going one way, her torso folded back against it at a strange angle. I did a three-sixty looking for the shooter; the alley exited at the other end onto one of the hospital’s parking lots. The girl groaned and I moved to her. A thin trickle of blood ran black down the front of her white blouse, over her hip; the bullet had torn a big piece from her back; another shot had grazed her in the neck, but it wasn’t killing her. I bent down to her, my knees in her blood. I reached an arm under her to straighten her body and rested her head against my chest. There was nothing I could do for her as she bled black onto my shirt; you don’t stop that kind of wound. She had a pretty face, still had some baby fat. Age would have been kind to her. She wasn’t more than seventeen; she should have been at the prom, or summer camp; she shouldn’t have been dying in my arms. She opened her mouth and blood bubbled at her lips. She whispered, “Help me.” I lied, and it hurt me. “You’ll be all right, baby.” I cupped my right hand to her cheek. She stopped breathing and her face became a doughy version of its pretty self. I heard the bodily fluids release, a final indignity. I peered into the gathering crowd, searched the faces, committed them to memory. Was the murderer there? It was that kind of killing; he’d want to see her die. The pretty white-haired patrol cop pushed her way through the crowd. I knew her; Diane Simpson. We dated a couple of times, but at the time she was twenty-four, way too young for me; still is. We had a nice time, and we’ve become pretty good friends; flyfish together two or three times a year, and once in a while I set her up with a friend.