Devine's Providence: A Novel Page 6

  I could feel some slight irritation toward my old friend creeping in. “C’mon, Jake. It’s not like that. She’s actually done an awful lot of good all over the country. She’s making a real difference. Sure it’ll never be enough, but I think her motives are more pure than you give her credit for.”

  Zachetti was getting just as irritated with me.

  “Look, Harry, I get it. She’s smart, she’s famous, and turns out she’s a hot piece of tail…”

  My irritation moved from annoyance to full-fledged ire.

  “…but people like her don’t give a single shit about ‘making a difference’ or ‘pure motives.’ As long as she’s getting hits on her blog and subscribers and advertisers, I guarantee she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the fucking mess she leaves behind. And profits off of! She just moves on to the next locale and leaves taxpayers to pick up the pieces. And in the end, nothing changes anyway. It’s all one big P.R. show. And the force is stretched so thin as it is, we don’t have time for shows. We got jobs to do. Like dealing with assholes jumping out of hotel windows.”

  Zachetti continued walking down the hallway. I followed close behind. It was clear I wasn’t going to get anywhere right now by defending Chelsea. And like him, I had a job to do, even though I didn’t know exactly what it was yet. I swallowed whatever diatribe I had lined up for him and changed the subject.

  “So this Marc Winters,” I said, “what’s his story?”

  Zachetti seemed relieved to change the subject off of Chelsea and back to the easier topic of tragic deaths.

  “Guess he just couldn’t fight his demons anymore. Smashed the window and jumped out. Seems like he had his fair share of secrets. He apparently had the hots for his boss.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “And you’re sure it was suicide?”

  Zachetti stopped outside of room 416. The door was open and a man with a forensics kit and a large camera squeezed between us and headed into the room.

  “Jeez, Harry,” said Zachetti, “I said it was suicide, didn’t I? Look, door was deadbolted from the inside, we had to break it in.”

  The door and its jamb were indeed splintered and torn open where the lock was.

  “CCTV footage in the hallway shows no one else in or out of the room. No signs of any other entry or struggle. And he left a fuckin’ note. So yes, Philip Marlowe, I know I’m just a bumbling police detective, but I’m pretty sure I know a fuckin’ suicide when I see one. Fuck off.”

  I held up my hands defensively. “Hey, sorry, big guy,” I said. “It was just a question. I still don’t know anything about what’s going on, remember?”

  “Right. Sorry,” he said. He ran a hand over his slick black hair, even though it held enough pomade to keep it smooth during a hurricane. “It’s just that’s all we’ve been hearing from that Woodstern chick, how it can’t be suicide, it has to be murder. She won’t let up with it. You remember how some people take this kinda news, don’t you? People deal with shock in different ways. Hers is denial, I guess.”

  “What makes her think it’s murder?”

  Zachetti pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes, obviously not happy to be back on the subject of Chelsea so soon.

  “That’s the thing,” he said. “She won’t fucking say. We got nothing else to go on. There’s no evidence—not one goddamned shred—that says this is anything other than suicide. So unless she starts talking, it’s all pretty open-and-shut. Maybe she’ll be more open with you, though. She really has it out for law enforcement.”

  “Only the bad ones,” I said, not as under-my-breath as I had wanted to. Zachetti’s normally jovial face turned to stone.

  “She doesn’t seem to see the difference.”

  “She hasn’t exactly been given good enough reason to.” My knee-jerk reaction was to defend Chelsea, but I regretted saying it as soon as it left my mouth.

  Zachetti’s eyes glossed over and he looked at me as if I were a stranger.

  “You, above all people?” he said. “I was hoping we could help each other out on this one. Maybe like old times. But I can see how your loyalties have shifted.”

  His icy tone stabbed me like a dagger. The big guy was one of my favorite people in a world where I didn’t have many people close to me anymore. I couldn’t blame him at all for feeling like he did. The brotherhood of police is a tight-knit fraternity that look out for one another. If one is attacked, they all feel it. And they all respond. Them against the world.

  And who could blame them? It was tough work, trying to protect a population that doesn’t respect you. Especially in a city with such a storied history as Providence. I had seen it myself, policing certain neighborhoods. The residents would rather turn to their own justice than to come to you for help. They’ve seen too many harassments, too much profiling, too many shakedowns and payoffs.

  Their distrust was deeply rooted. The “broken windows” and “stop and frisk” policies of past administrations were good for making the streets look cleaner, but did terrible damage to community outreach. Damage they were still recovering from. So it was an understatement to say that the negative press that followed a Chelsea Woodstern story was a sensitive topic for the police, even the good ones.

  Maybe I had been out on my own for too long. Even though I wasn’t on the force anymore, I always considered myself and my job as a kind of a neutral go-between of the two worlds; not exactly law enforcement, but not a civilian either. Zachetti was clearly feeling I was choosing one side over the other. I didn’t think that was the case, but I also didn’t know how to explain that. That was a socio-political discussion that would take far more time than we had.

  “Jake, I didn’t mean—”

  “Harry, this is an active crime scene,” Zachetti interrupted. “We’re actually working here, if you don’t mind. Your client is down in 413. Good luck.” He turned and left me standing in the hallway.

  I was used to feeling small around Zachetti, but now I felt positively dwarfish.

  I shuffled down the hall to room 413. I hadn’t intended on drawing a line, but it sure felt like I had chosen a side. I just didn’t know if it was the right one. Frankly, I didn’t think there was a right one.

  I knocked on the door, and it was answered relatively quickly by a bleary-eyed Chelsea, or at least someone who kind of resembled her. She was a far-cry different than the composed, put-together woman who showed up in my office the day before.

  She was wearing no makeup; her distinct bright red lips were toned down to a subdued pale pink. Her raven hair was tied up away from her face in a haphazard bun, and she was wearing sweatpants and an oversized Lakers t-shirt.

  She had clearly been crying, and seeing someone so strong in such a vulnerable state gave me a sharp pain in my gut.

  “Mr. Devine—Harry,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Come in please.”

  These were not the circumstances in which I had ever dreamed of being asked into Chelsea Woodstern’s hotel room, but I didn’t really care. After my exchange with Zachetti, my schoolboy excitement was no more.

  Chelsea’s room was neat and orderly. The only signs of occupancy were a suitcase at the foot of the queen-sized bed and a closed MacBook on the desk. I was honestly impressed; whenever I stayed in a hotel room it immediately exploded into a blast radius of food wrappers, empty bottles, socks, and paperwork. I was a bit of a Felix Unger at home and in my office, but for some reason cars and hotels brought out the Oscar Madison in me. Odd, I know.

  “Did you have any trouble getting in?” Chelsea asked. “I gave the cops downstairs your name to let you through.”

  It would’ve been nice to have known that.

  A perfectly-executed clipboard routine wasted. Ah, well.

  “No trouble at all,” I said, not exactly lying. I sat down on the desk chair and leaned forward. “I’m very sorry to hear of this whole situation. Te
ll me what’s going on and how I can help.”

  Chelsea sat cross-legged on the bed.

  “I don’t know what happened. I haven’t seen Marc since we saw him yesterday. We texted a few times about work stuff, but I was stupidly kind of mad at him for tailing me to your office. I didn’t know anything had happened until I heard the police in the hallway.”

  “What about the rest of your team?” I asked. “Anyone else see him this morning?”

  She let out a deep sigh.

  “Marc Winters was actually my entire research team. Apart from a social-media director and a podcast editor back in L.A., we’re the entirety of the Smooth Criminals operation.”

  “Really?” I asked. I had always pictured a whole big team of people behind Chelsea, helping her with investigations, writing blogs, chasing down leads. Chelsea Woodstern was famously the only name that ever made it to any credits or bylines, everyone else was referred to as “The Smooth Criminals Investigative Team.” She had said the anonymity was to protect ongoing cases and the team’s safety, but apparently it was also to cover up how few resources she actually had. Kind of brilliant, really.

  Chelsea nodded. “We’ve been partners since the beginning. We make it a point never to self-aggrandize, but Marc is truly responsible for most of our success.”

  “And your relationship with him…anything more than professional?”

  “Yes. We are very good…were very good friends.”

  “Just friends?”

  She wrinkled her nose in a way that made me have to physically hold back a smile.

  “He was gay, if that’s what you’re implying. So no, there was never anything romantic.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Marc had told me too, but the detective said there was a note—”

  Chelsea interrupted. “You spoke to a detective?”

  “I ran into him in the hallway. My old partner.”

  “Was it that loudmouth lieutenant? Zucchini or something-or-other? What exactly did you tell him? About me?”

  I sighed. Two of the people I admired and respected most in the world were so distrustful of each other, there was no way I could even attempt to look impartial.

  “Easy now,” I said. “I didn’t tell him anything because you haven’t told me anything, right? I couldn’t not talk to my old partner…he’s my friend. Or at least he was, until…well I don’t know what. Look, he’s a good cop and a great person.”

  Chelsea scoffed. “Then he should be doing a better job.”

  “Look, I know where you’re coming from...”

  “No, Mr. Devine, I’m afraid you do not.”

  “Just listen to me. I’m telling you, Zachetti’s good people. If there’s anyone you’d want on this case, it’s him. But you have to help him to help you.”

  “He was an asshole.”

  “Well good, at least I know we’re talking about the same person. He can be gruff, but he’s nothing but a big teddy bear on the inside, I promise.”

  “He was so insistent that it’s suicide, and I’m telling you it’s not. It can’t be. I think something bigger’s going on here, and I think he’s been compromised.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment.

  “Chelsea, that’s a heavy accusation. Especially if you’re not offering up anything to prove your point. Tell Zachetti what you know. Or at least, tell me what you know.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s clear I can’t trust anyone with a badge on this.”

  I was tired of having to defend every side. “They’re doing the best they can. What more do you want from them? When will it ever be enough?”

  Chelsea’s glossy green eyes narrowed behind her cat’s-eye glasses.

  “Well I can see your loyalties now. I guess I was wrong about you. Forgive me, I didn’t know you were still so close to the police force. I had thought I could trust you. A rare mistake on my point, but clearly a mistake nonetheless. Maybe you can’t help me after all.”

  Good grief.

  I’d had enough. It seemed every word I said to everyone was wrong, no matter what. I stood up, throwing my hands up in the air.

  “You know what? Maybe I can’t. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since you first darkened my doorstep. You came to me, remember? You’ve thrown me the middle of something and won’t even tell me what it is, and still I’ve defended you. I was perfectly fine until you showed up, dredging up my past and making me as cuckoo as a clock factory. I don’t need this. I should be on the beach right now drinking something out of a coconut.”

  I turned to leave, but paused with my hand on the door handle as the thought popped into my head that coconuts were not in fact indigenous to Block Island.

  Chelsea burst into tears behind me, and my pause turned into a full stop.

  She didn’t know the tense conversation I had just had with Zachetti. Or how I felt torn between two distinct worlds. Or my constant battle to stave off the clouds of depression. She just knew she had lost someone close to her—again—and had come to me for help, and all I could manage to do was throw a petulant outburst.

  I sullenly plopped myself next to her on the bed, though she turned her back to me. I glanced at the box of tissues on the nightstand, but it was already empty.

  I pulled a white handkerchief out of my jacket pocket and handed it to her over her shoulder. She looked at it for a beat before taking it gingerly with the tips of her fingers.

  “It’s clean, I promise,” I said.

  It was something I had picked up from Zachetti, actually, to always keep a couple of clean handkerchiefs on you for just such an occasion. He also carried a lighter on him at all times, even though he never smoked a day in his life. That was the thoughtful, caring Zachetti that Chelsea hadn’t had the opportunity to meet yet.

  She dabbed her eyes and spun around to face me, though she wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said. “I want to help, really. I just…I just get wrapped up in my own head sometimes. I’m very sorry.”

  Our eyes finally met, but she said nothing.

  “But the bottom line is, if I am going to help, I really need you to trust me.”

  Her tears had stopped, and her jaw was set in fierce determination. What she was determining, I didn’t know.

  Finally, she spoke, softly.

  “Marc was very dear to me. I owe it to him to find out what happened. I don’t know who I can trust on this. But now I think it’s best if I go it alone.”

  “At least clue me in on why you think it’s murder,” I said. “If all signs point to suicide, you must have a list of pretty good reasons to think otherwise.”

  “I do,” she said. “But I really have some work to do before I can prove it.”

  “So let me help with that,” I insisted. “You’re down a researcher as it is. Two heads are better than one.”

  She exhaled through her nose and finally visibly softened up a bit.

  “You can be very sweet, Mr. Devine,” she said in a tone I unfortunately recognized as break-up voice, “but you’re right. I was wrong to lure you into this. From what I can tell, you were a great cop. It would be too much to ask for you to stay unbiased.”

  I started to object, but she cut me off. “Not to mention,” she continued. “I already feel responsible for Marc’s death, even though he was fully aware of the risks. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  “Well,” I said. “That’s…foreboding.”

  Chelsea looked down at the floor and whispered, as if to herself.

  “Indeed.”

  Her voice was full of sadness, and I thought a little bit of fear, but that thought soon vanished as she gave me quick pat on the arm and stood up. She began re-doing her hair in the mirror, and spoke without looking at me.

  “I’ll be heading back to Calif
ornia soon. I want to help Marc’s family with the…arrangements. Of course, I’ll send you a check for your time,” she said. “And a five-star Yelp review, naturally.” She flashed her wry smile at me in the mirror. The determined, in-control Chelsea Woodstern I had first met had returned. It was as if she was an actress that had slipped out of character for a bit, but now she was back in the role. I didn’t like it, knowing an act was being put on for me. I had the overwhelming feeling she was just trying to get rid of me.

  “You should go now,” she said.

  Well, now I’m almost certain she’s trying to get rid of me.

  I didn’t have any words. I felt like I had set out on an adventure that was over before it even started. Like I had landed a spot as a contestant on some lurid reality TV show and was the first to be eliminated. The tribe has spoken, pack up your knives and sashay away, you’re fired. The concept of going on vacation seemed so boring now.

  I stood and went to leave. Chelsea turned around and held out her hand. I shook it weakly. It felt weird. The situation, not her hand; her hand felt soft and lovely. But this goodbye felt staged. I wanted to talk to behind-the-scenes Chelsea again.

  “Thank you for everything, Mr. Devine,” she said professionally. “It was a pleasure to meet such an enigmatic fan. Best of luck to you.”

  I didn’t have enough gas in me to start up any of the Ol’ Devine Charm, so instead I said nothing, and just left.

  I felt completely alone, and badly in need of a drink.

  Finally. Some feelings I’m used to.

  Chapter 5

  SHADOW OF A DOUBT

  The next week or so went swimming by in a pool of scotch, cigar-smoke and sleepless nights. I never made it to Block Island, but I didn’t return to my office, either. Maybe subconsciously I was afraid the scent of Chelsea’s perfume would still be lingering there. Maybe I just didn’t want to face normal, boring life again. But either way, I figured the city of Providence could get by without the assistance of Harry Devine, P.I. for a couple of weeks.

  The voicemails were already starting to pile up on my new phone though; messages from jilted spouses and car accident victims and corporate clients. None of them interested me in the slightest. I should have gone back to work, I just couldn’t bring myself to climb the old wooden steps back to reality.