Who’s the Lier?

Loud music filled the room, making it hard to hear anything else as we stepped into the Velvet Turtle. An old Survivor song, “Eye of the Tiger,” played on the jukebox. The place was dark interior, black vinyl on the booths, black walls that sucked in the faint glow of light from the neon liquor signs. Scattered throughout the room were round tables; most of them were full. To our far left I could see an outline of a pool table and heard the clackety-thump of a game in progress. I could make out about eight people seated on stools watching a football game, outlined by the fluorescent glow of the beer coolers. Big night, I thought.

A shiny mahogany bar ran along the back wall. People were clustered in front of it, seated on wooden stools. There were several, which I assumed were regulars along the bar, their hunched bodies planted like soggy mushrooms on the black bar stools. A red leatherette pad ran along the edge of the cigarette-scarred bar. Several multicolored neon beer signs flickered in the gloomy darkness. I lead my partner, Detective Garcia towards the back. As we neared the bar, I could tell the huge mahogany piece had to be a hundred years old. The mirror behind it was at least eight feet long, veined in strands of gold and aged to a tarnished silver with various liquor bottles lined up in front. Two or three people looked our way.

The only reason we’re here is to catch a killer.

A pair of long legs stalked past on stilettos. A guy at the bar rolled his eyes and whistled. A couple of heads turned. The whole establishment smelled of liquor, stale beer, and musk oil. Cocktail waitresses with lips the same color as cherries were sprinkled around the room. I noticed porno cocktail napkins featuring busty farm girls sitting on large turtles as we passed the tables.

A beefy young man with shoulders as wide as the bar top was behind the bar cleaning a glass with a cloth.

“Is Cookie here?” I shouted over the music.

“Can I tell her who’s asking?” asked the bartender.

I held out my badge.

The guy’s polite features vanished. He looked at us nervously. “She’s the one over there.” He pointed with the cloth then he blew into the glass.

Cookie Drawner, slim figure in a short skirt and long show-girl legs, sashayed around a table. She was of medium height, appeared graceful, with a cute blond haircut. It was not her natural color. As we neared her, I could see several gold and silver bracelets up each arm. Her skin was smooth, long face, long nose, and her teeth as shiny as porcelain. Her light brown eyes were like prisms of light shining with an intensity that surprised me. Her face had a mirrorlike oily sheen, especially around the nose and forehead. She was overly made-up like a cosmetic saleswoman with too much red lipstick on her thin lips.

I held out my badge a second time, saying, “I’m Detective Waller and this is my partner, Detective Garcia. We’re here because Barry Fisken has been shot.”

 Her shoulders dropped, relaxing from the charming posture. Her face itself seemed to fall an inch or two, a mask with loosened strings. Through Cupid-bow lips, she said. “It was on the news. I laid in bed last night, going through everybody, figuring out who could have done this to him. Maybe. . .?” her voice tapered off.

“What?” Garcia wanted her point of view.

“Could this be a hunting accident?” she asked. “The news said it happened out on the bike path.”

“No accident,” I told her for he had been shot twice.

Her eyes shut with pain. She turned away, using a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. When she regained her composure she said, voice breaking, “I don’t know anyone who loved life more than him. Party, party. He liked to come in here, drink a few and talk with the girls.” Her eyes looked cold.

“Were you seeing him outside of here?” Garcia waved his hand to indicate the establishment.

 She plunked down in the nearest empty chair like a grumbling teenager. She gulped heavily but she couldn’t speak.

“Cookie,” Garcia started, “You, okay?”

Her face crumpled. “Don’t say that!” She retorted, but her voice came out whiny, juvenile. Her eyes became shiny, and forehead creased. “I think you’re mistaken,” she said carefully like she was weighing every syllable.

I felt she was lying. “His son believed Barry was seeing you.” I held her gaze. “Why would a kid lie about something like that?”

She avoided eye contact, embarrassed at being caught. Tears ran slowly down her face. A look of utter powerlessness and despair came over her. She shrugged, blinked repeatedly, then opened her eyes and looked directly at me with surprising shrewdness. “Okay,” she admitted.

“Uh-huh,” Garcia managed. “Anything unusual about him lately?”

“He rarely talked about his work with me. He was friendly and good-natured as always. I swear, I can’t come up with anything.”

“When did you last see him?” I wished I could read her mind.

“I left him outside the Komfy Koffee Kup Kafe’ around midnight Friday. That was where we often met up.”

 That was the night before the murder. I realized this made her one of the last people to see Fisken alive. Now I needed to know her point of view.

“My husband doesn’t know. He’s a horse’s behind.” She gave a deep sigh. “Jordon’s the manager here.” The curve of her arm floated in graceful emphasis of her words. “The blockhead believed my story that I forgot the time while having dinner with a girlfriend.”

“We have to tell him,” said Detective Garcia.

She slowly said, “O, kay. I guess this has to be done, but I loved my husband when we first married.”

 I helped her to her feet. “Right. And I’m sure you’re very sorry for being an adulteress, but your hubby probably doesn’t understand you.” Sarcasm dripped from my words. This comment drew a hard look from Garcia, but I wanted to rattle her, get her to tell us what she knew.

“I’m not proud of what I did,” Cookie said stiffly. Then she slowly led the way. High heels clacking on the dark tiled floor, as she walked past the bar, down a short hallway, and turned right. She stopped at a door marked ‘Office’ and timidly knocked.

A manly voice called out, “What is it?”

Garcia opened the door and the three of us stepped inside.

There was an awkward moment while he looked from one to the other, in bafflement. His broad shoulders stretched the confines of the shirt fabric with every move.

Cookie used a sweet buttery voice, “Can we talk?”

“I’m watching the game.” he snapped. A football game was playing on the TV across the small room. He looked at us and shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave my office.” He had a strong square face, huge brown eyes, and long sharp jawbone. He pulled a vaping pen from his shirt pocket and lit up. He sat on the chair’s edge. His spine straight. Holding himself erect, his tall figure moving with the unstressed, unhurried confidence of habitual authority.

“You can’t smoke in a restaurant or bar in Illinois,” said Garcia.

He stared into Garcia’s face. “While it’s true that the good state of Illinois has seen fit to deprive its citizens of the right to smoke in an establishment like this, even though the health department, which enforces said law, has no real enforcement powers and lots of places still light up to their heart’s content.” Arrogantly he continued, “This is my personal space, and it has a special ventilation system, so I can smoke myself into late-stage lung cancer if I choose.”

“No,” I said firmly as I yanked the vaping pen from his fingers and dropped it on his desk. I stood with my feet, hip-distance apart, in a sturdy pose and twisted my lips into a reluctant smile. I wanted to upset him, so he’d tell us what he’s thinking.

Cookie looked at a chair in front of his desk. “Won’t take but a minute Jordon.”

“Don’t even think about sitting down,” were the words he snarled as he raised his bulky frame and stood solid. His eyes blazing. The six-foot-four man was wide at the top in a thin crumpled jacket and a white shirt with the collar spread wide open. Blue-white skin showing at his throat.

“Honey.” She looked up to him with a modest smile and waving a handful of crimson talons in his general direction. “Dear, a friend of ours.” She started again, “A friend of mine has died.” She took a few gulps but went on. “I was seeing him.”

Jordan’s eyes shot bullets. “What?” He rushed at her with swift movements. His palm connected with her left cheek. The slap went off like an explosion and sent her flying backwards, into a cabinet behind her. He leaned in just inches from her face and yelled, “You bitch!” He was a burly man who at fifty still had the build of a college linebacker.

I’ve been hearing this language my whole life without giving it much thought, but now it rankled.

Garcia pulled the cuffs off his belt, grabbed the groping left hand and cuffed it. I grabbed the right, behind his back. Garcia clicked the cuffs in place.

Now I could see a slight thinning spot through his brown hair on the back on his head.

A blue vein throbbed down the middle of his forehead. “All you got to do is look cute and carry drinks, but no, you got to flirt with them.” Jordon’s words spat out like an accusation, paralyzing Cookie. He yelled at his wife, “You tramp. You banged this jerk, ya whore. Well, who is it?” The questions tumbled out dripping with sarcasm and disdain. “Why? When?”

Even though he was asking who it was, I felt he already knew the answer.

She opened her mouth to answer but no sound came out. Her penciled eyebrows arched in surprise over her deep, purply red cheek. Dark mascara was bleeding from her eyes.  

They faced each other, him towering over her. His gaze was steady beneath the unruly black ledge of his eyebrows.

O wanted to know what they were each thinking. Inside my head, I was screaming, but I managed to sarcastically say, “Was. He died.”

“Like in dead?” the manager asked.

“He was shot,” she said softly. Then a revelation hit her. Her tone changed to disgust as she shouted, “You could have done it.”

           Was she really accusing her husband of killing her lover? I asked the obvious question, “Sir, where were you yesterday morning at five?”

Every word dripped with disdain as he said, “Home with my wife at that time of the morning ‘cause I work nights.” 

I tensed my shoulders. “In the state of Illinois, we have to arrest him for domestic abuse.” I told her.

“You people are unbelievable,” he growled at me.

“No, no this is all my fault,” Cookie chimed in a hysterical edge to her tone.

 “Oh Hell, she doesn’t stay home.” His furious gaze jumped from somewhere above my shoulder to her. “And now you got me in trouble with the cops,” he accused her.

“We need to talk about Barry Fisken.” I told them both.

 “Talk about what?” There was a superior tone to his voice.

I glared back at Drawner. “He was a regular here at the Velvet Turtle, so you knew him.”

His voice was a sneer. “Yeah, he was in here, but you saying I know more, makes you a goddamn liar.”

Garcia turned towards Cookie to ask, “Was Fisken worried about anything?”

Her voice cracked, hoarse and ugly. “No, but could it have been about drugs?”

Why would she think his murder was drug related? We knew from past dealings there’s a fair bit of coke and designer drugs at the Velvet Turtle but there wasn’t a trace of anything in Fisken’s blood tests. At any rate, he wasn’t on the serious stuff. It was possible he smoked a joint or two in the past, but there were no needle marks on his dead body. It was apparent from the look of concern in Garcia’s eyes, he too had a sense of foreboding due to Cookie’s theory.

She was beginning to look suspicious to me, so I asked, “Are you sure he used or sold the stuff?”

 “Hell no, I’m not sure,” Cookie snapped. “How could I be? I’ve never been in this situation before.” She looked at Jordon and said, “I’m sorry, but I resent being tied down.” Her apology was meant to diminish her husband’s anger. But her words rang hollow to me. We needed to question her further to understand her point of view.

“We’re taking you both in for questioning.” I looked into her face. “You want to come peacefully, or do we put cuffs on you too?”