No Hope for Gomez! (8 page)

18.

Blog entry: A serious looking guy came into the store the next day. Long overcoat (grey-brown), sizable stomach, scruffy hair (grey-brown). He came up to the counter and showed me a badge. “Detective Moran,” he said. “You Gomez?”

I nodded.

“Gomez Porter?”

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

Detective Moran put his badge away and took a small black notebook from his coat. “Do you know a Dietrich Norton?”

The name didn’t immediately hit home, but it had a familiar ring to it. I shrugged. “I don’t think so. Sorry.”

Moran flipped through the notebook, searching for an entry. “Says here he had an appointment with you.”

I had no idea how to respond to that.

“Right here,” Moran tapped one of the pages, “4:30 p.m., call Gomez Porter. That’s you, isn’t it?”

“Well,” I said tentatively, “I’m
a
Gomez Porter, yes.”

“You think there are more?” He shook his head. “I checked, there aren’t, not in a thousand mile radius. You’re it. You’re him.”

“Ah.” That sounded about right. “But,” I said, “what you have there is hardly evidence of an appointment. I mean, ‘call Gomez’? That’s sounds more like a note-to-self.” I tried to peer over the edge of the notebook to get a look at the entry. Detective Moran didn’t move in any way to help or hinder me. “Anybody could write that,” I said, “that doesn’t mean I’d know about it.”

He gave me a look.

“I could write, ‘call Buddha’ in that notebook right now,” I said, “doesn’t mean I know the guy. Doesn’t mean he knows all about me.”

Moran frowned ominously. I was messing up his bad-cop routine, the one where he tried to get me on the defensive in order to get more information. “So,” he said, trying a different approach, “you’re saying you’ve never heard of Detective Norton?”

“Detective Norton?” I could kick myself for not making the connection. Norton’s odd first name had thrown me. “I’m sorry, I have heard of
Detective Norton
. He’s working on the Joseph Miller case. I gave him a tip about a strange entry I found on Miller’s blog a few days ago.”

“Right.” Detective Moran put the notebook away, took out another, presumably his own, and wrote something down. “What exactly was wrong with this blog?” he asked.

I explained how I’d found an entry that appeared after Joseph Miller passed out. “Norton was going to follow up on that,” I said. “Check some IP addresses, that kind of thing.” I decided not to tell Moran about the calls I’d made. If he didn’t know already, there was no reason to tip him off that I’d been looking to get classified information.

“So you only know Detective Norton through the Miller case, then?”

I nodded. “What’s going on, detective? Have there been any new developments?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.” He noted something else down. “So, whatever Norton wanted to talk to you about, it had something to do with the Miller case?”

“I’d assume so, yes.”

“Any idea what that might’ve been?”

“Sorry, no.” I offered him another solid shrug. “Maybe he discovered something about the blog entry, wanted to tell me about it. Why don’t you ask him?”

Detective Moran fixed me with a hard look. “I would,” he said, “if it weren’t for the fact that he’s gone missing.”

“Missing?” I let this sink in. “Hold on,” I said, “I certainly didn’t
make
him go missing, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Detective Moran arched an eyebrow, then wrote something down. “I’m not implying anything,” he said without looking up. “I’m merely gathering facts.”

Blog entry: Moran explained that Detective Norton hadn’t shown up for work two days running. They’d gone by his place, contacted his friends and parents, nobody knew where he’d disappeared to. He lived alone, no wife, no children, no girlfriend, and the only viable tip came from his neighbors. They thought he might’ve gone on holiday. They weren’t sure where to or for how long.

Moran’s colleagues were happy enough to let Norton blow off some steam for a couple of days, especially so close to the weekend, but Moran didn’t like the look of things. He knew Norton to be punctual and responsible, and didn’t think he’d disappear without letting the department know, even for a few days.

Blog entry: “Here’s my card,” Detective Moran said. He handed a card with his name, some phone numbers, and an email address. “If you could email me the link to that blog, that would be great,” he said. “Also, if anything else comes to mind, let me know.”

“No problem.” I stored the card in my laptop bag. “I’m glad to help. And you let me know if Detective Norton turns up.”

Moran allowed a quick smile to play across his features. “If he does, he’ll call you, I’m sure.”

Moran was about to go when I called him back. “So, do you think his disappearance might have something to do with the Miller case?”

Moran made a noncommittal gesture. “Off the record? It’s possible. It’s the only case he was working alone. The department was leaning on him to close it but he didn’t want to let it go. It’s the only case he was involved in on which we don’t have a full update.” He shrugged. “I’m not ruling it out.”

Blog entry: Spent the remainder of the day worrying about Detective Norton. More precisely, worrying about how his disappearance might connect up to the Miller case, and how the Miller case might connect up to me.

If it
was
all linked together, not only could I still be in danger, I could also be responsible for Norton’s disappearance, however indirectly. After all, I’d sent him on that wild-blog chase.

I performed the only investigative task I could think of: I looked Dietrich Norton up on the internet. There wasn’t much to find. Some references to graduations and one or two low profile police cases, that was it. He didn’t have any blogs, homepages, or books for his face – at least, not under his own name. My leads quickly turned cold.

Blog entry: It would be another long night of worry and little sleep.

19.

Blog entry: My day off.

Started it with some intense worrying about Detective Norton. Wondering whether he’d been kidnapped, had lost his way somewhere, or had merely wandered off for a little break. Feared I’d spend my entire day stuck in fruitless pondering so I decided to try my hand at painting.

Not the change-the-color-of-the-walls kind of painting, but the dazzle-the-world-with-my-sensitivity-through-the-medium-of-canvas kind of painting.

It should take my mind off Norton’s disappearance and might even turn out to be my special skill, my knack. Having a knack like painting would come in handy when it was time to reel Dr. Hargrove in. Chicks love artists. And it’d be nothing less than a crime
not
to find out if I was a brilliant artist. Who was I to deprive the world of my might-be genius? What if Michelangelo had never taken up a brush but instead had slept in and tried to run an antiques store? Or da Vinci? Our entire history would’ve turned out differently. Wouldn’t compare myself to the masters of course, small chance I’d turn out to be that great, but, who knew?

Blog entry: Went out and bought brushes (no. 00 through 10), an easel (Winsor & Newton), cloths, a palette, seven canvasses, a glass jar, some paint thinner, an apron (cotton, not plastic), more cloth, and two tubes of oil paint (colors: black and maroon – would be my first stab at painting and in all likelihood I would neither be good at it nor enjoy it, so I didn’t want to waste money on colors I’d never use).

Set up the easel on the balcony. Filled one of the glass jars with paint thinner. Donned the apron. Then got cold feet. Decided I was probably the kind of artist who could only paint at 00:32 a.m. Felt this would be my
thing
.

Spent the rest of the day browsing the net.

Blog entry: Checked the online auction sites for antiques. Stuff that looked expensive but wasn’t. Stuff for sale in my local area that wasn’t too big or too heavy.

Put in a bid on some ancient looking chairs on eBay.

Put in a bid on a wax seal.

Put in a bid on some war time coins.

The trick’s all in the keywords. Don’t search for anything with the word ‘antique’ associated with it. If the word antique is associated with an object, it either means the owner knows exactly what he’s selling, or he doesn’t but he’s trying to trick you. When you know absolutely nothing about antiques (like me), it’s best to keep clear from either type of seller.

I looked for the keywords: ‘slightly’, ‘damaged’, ‘old’, and ‘some kind of wood’.

Blog entry: Got a huge sandwich for lunch. Was only able to finish half of it. Left the rest out on the kitchen table.

Blog entry: Decided to put some crap from the store up for auction. Opened up my seller account on eBay and made the appropriate entries. Didn’t have any pictures so I sent myself an email to remind me to put them up later.

Blog entry: Checked the time, middle of the day, still nowhere near time to start painting; decided to do some overdue toenail clipping instead.

Five minutes later: nothing left to do. Set the alarm for 00:25 a.m., read one page of Warren’s manuscript, passed out.

Blog entry: Woken by alarm: 00:25 a.m. Got up. Realized I still had my apron on so went straight to work.

After some promising initial brush strokes (no. 5 brush with a touch of maroon), I accidentally got some paint between my fingers. I rubbed at it with a cloth but the affected area remained annoyingly sticky.

A few strokes later (no. 3 brush with maroon and a dab of black), I got some more paint on me, this time between two different fingers.

Managed to get some more lines down. Started enjoying myself. Could actually see my vision slowly coming to life. It was amazing, very gratifying. Then I dropped some paint on my palm (black with a smidgen of maroon), and although I tried to ignore it, a few strokes later there was a whole sticky area between my hand and the brush. It spread even after I switched to a no. 2 brush and rubbed my hand with a clean cloth.

Couldn’t concentrate. My whole hand was sticking to itself and to the brushes and to the cloths. Took some paint thinner and cleaned everything. Tried to get back to work but the evaporating paint thinner gave me a headache.

Two more strokes. Got some paint between my fingers. Kicked the easel and hurled the palette off the balcony.

Blog entry: I decided I no longer cared about depriving the world of my might-be genius. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether I was the next van Gogh, Magritte, or Cousteau. Even if painting turned out to be my own personal gateway to everlasting bliss and fulfillment, even if it’d make me tons of money, I just couldn’t tolerate that sticky feeling for a second longer.

Good thing I only invested in two colors!

Dumped the brushes (no. 00 through 10), easel (Winsor & Newton), cloths, canvasses, glass jars, paint thinner, apron (cotton, not plastic), more cloths, and the two tubes of oil paint (colors: black and maroon) in the garbage.

Blog entry: Headed back to bed. Passed the kitchen and noticed the sandwich. It still had huge chunks of moist, tender chicken breast in it. Didn’t want to waste it. Wasn’t hungry either so I booted my laptop and put the remainder of the sandwich up for auction on eBay.

Next morning I woke up slumped over the table.

20.

Blog entry: Next day the phone rang just as I was about to close up the store. This annoyed me. It was basically dinner time. This better not be a phone salesman!

“Gomez here.”

“Hi, hello. Eh, I’m sorry to call this late but I was just wondering how you were doing.”

“Is this Dr. Hargrove?”

“Yes, sorry. Didn’t I say? Yes, it’s me. Hi!”

“Hi. I’m fine, actually. Why? Shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, no. God, no!”

I was confused. “I shouldn’t be fine?”

“No! I mean, yes! Yes of course you should be fine. You
are
fine. I just meant that you shouldn’t
not
be fine. Sorry for the confusion. There’s no particular reason I know of why you shouldn’t be fine. I’m rambling, actually. Sorry about that. Everything’s fine.”

“Good. You almost had me worried there.” I sent a little comforting chuckle down the line. “So, this is just a social call then?”

“Yes. I mean, no. That would be a bad idea, I guess. No, I was just checking the charts, which is routine. I probably shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry, think nothing of it, Gomez. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“It’s really no problem, Dr. Hargrove. You can call me any-”

Blog entry: Put down my cell, wondered what was going on. When it rang again, I picked up quickly and breathlessly, which was bad because it wasn’t Dr. Hargrove, it was a phone-sex salesman. Disturbing. Didn’t know such a thing existed. Not even sure how that would work, what a phone-sex salesman would be selling me exactly. Wasn’t curious enough to find out, so I hung up.

Blog entry: Called Dr. Hargrove back and let it ring once, then hung up. It wouldn’t work, it’d just be awkward. Instead I decided to spend the evening thinking of something clever to say on Wednesday. Something that referred back to her call (our first bit of intimate history) without making her feel self-conscious about it. If anything, it should be conducive to her exploring our phone-relationship further.

Blog entry: Nothing came to mind as I closed up the store.

Blog entry: Nothing came to mind as I headed home, had dinner, donned a new disguise, and headed over to her place for a stakeout.

It occurred to me that I’d better make some progress with my stalker-stalker activities so I’d have something to report. The only things I’d found so far were a few dog walkers and late night joggers (none of whom seemed interested in Dr. Hargrove’s place in the least). I
was
beginning to feel a little watched. The more I sat out in Dr. Hargrove’s bushes, the more I could relate to her experience. At times you could sense invisible eyes running all over your body.

Might be coming down with whatever delusion she was suffering from.

Blog entry: Watched Dr. Hargrove go through her evening routine of closing the blinds and peeking out through little holes from time to time.

I’d developed this little habit of waving to her every time she did that. She’d never know, of course, but
I’d
know, and that was at least half the equation. Waving made me feel closer to her, as if we were on this mission to conquer her together. As if part of her had already approved of my plan for our future.

Sat out in the bushes and grew cold in the dark. My worry increased. It looked like I would have nothing to report yet again. It wasn’t going well. It was as if I’d scared the stalker off. As if he’d known I was coming.

A painful thought occurred to me; what if Dr. Hargrove had tipped him off? What if she was some kind of masochist and actually enjoyed being watched, being victimized? What if she shared a secret bond with the guy who used to sit out in her bushes waving to her?

Maybe it had merely been a little role-playing game. One which Dr. Hargrove liked to talk about simply because that made it more real to her. Then, unexpectedly, that bothersome Gomez stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.

‘Don’t worry, my beloved stalker,’ Dr. Hargrove would’ve told her stalker. ‘Just lay low for a while, Gomez will get bored soon enough.’

I knew I should’ve started stalking her first!

Damn my not-so-devious brain.

When would I learn that women don’t go for nice guys?

Dr. Hargrove peeked through the blinds again and I waved. Before she disappeared, she made a small, delicate hand movement. I was left to decipher it as the light died out. Had I seen that correctly? Had she waved back at me?

A warm glow washed over me. We’d both waved without knowing if the other could see us. Two separated halves to the same equation. That was even more beautiful than a whole equation!

Blog entry: Some of my fears made sense, though. I hadn’t actually been observing proper stalker-stalker protocol. I was stuck at common stalker level. If Dr. Hargrove
did
have a stalker, he’d have been sitting right here in this very spot; it was the best place to observe Dr. Hargrove from. But
I
wasn’t trying to observe her (not officially). I was trying to observe her stalker, so I should be somewhere else.

Decided to go home to make some sketches, run some numbers.

Blog entry: Returned the following night. This time I doubled my distance to the house, then added another 10 meters. I actually had a complicated formula worked out to help me determine the optimal stalker-stalker distance, but when the outcome appeared to be minus 3, I decided I was better off using bad judgment.