Stephen Harlowe was innocent. I was back to square one without a primary suspect. Just like the cops who took on the case before me. My mind wandered toward thoughts of a drink, and I had to snap it back into focus. I needed a different angle on all this and one man was going to provide it.
EIGHT
We all have our demons.
After some checking and double-checking, I was able to find the name of the bus driver. Billy Bennett, now out of work and taking up a lot of time and real estate in the seedier pubs of Whitechapel.
I found him easily enough, as he had something of a reputation for staking his claim at one pub in particular on Thursday afternoons after he collected his disability money. When I stepped into the place through the low doorway, it felt like I was returning home. I’d been in several places like this over the last few months, and they started to feel familiar. Cheap drinks, sticky floors, and darkened shadows that made you feel lost and safe at the same time.
My target was big. No other way to describe him. He sat hunched at the bar, stabbing at a mobile phone and mumbling in frustration. His large frame, squashed face, and bald head giving him a hostile air. He looked like you’d expect a bus driver to look after a few too many road accidents. He was overweight, fidgety, and always looked at people as if he was wondering how much cash they had in their pockets or what they might look like naked.
“Billy Bennett?” I asked, slowly taking up the seat next to him. As I did, I signaled the bartender down, indicating that I wanted a drink. It was a slip-up, plain and simple. It was like muscle reflex. I was in a bar. I should drink. It was basic.
“I am,” Billy said, not bothering to turn all the way around. He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Who wants to know?” His voice was slow and stumbling. I wondered if it was from the booze or some prior head trauma. Looking at the guy, I decided both were likely.
“A concerned citizen,” I said sarcastically. The bartender sat my drink down in front of me, and I sipped from it automatically. God, it tasted great.
“Concerned about what?” Billy asked, finally looking away from his phone and turning his attention to me. As he faced me, a sense of familiarity struck me hard. Suddenly I was sure that I had met this man before. I knew him from somewhere…
His eyes seemed distant and unfocused though; if we had met before, he certainly didn’t remember, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. I continued talking to him as I tried to place where I knew him from. “You once drove a bus for the city schools, is that correct?” I asked.
Billy cut his eyes at me and took a gulp of his beer. I did the same. It went down smooth. The smoke inside was both desperate and yearning all at once as I tried to ignore the familiar buzz.
“Why do you ask?” he said after a small belch. His breath told me that he had been drinking for at least a few hours. He wasn’t being belligerent, just cautious. I didn’t fault him for that. So I tried to ease into things as easily as I could with the next comment.
“I also understand that you retired from your job less than one year after Jack Ellington went missing. Can you —”
“Stop.” he said. And for a moment, I thought he was going to wobble right off of the stool in the rage that suddenly overcame him. He jabbed a chubby finger towards my face. “I don’t care who you are. Police. Reporter. Pope. God Almighty. I’m done hearing and talking about Jack Ellington!”
“Yes, but I —”
“Not another word. You a cop?”
“No.”
“Then leave me the fuck alone, or I’ll call the pigs on you. Not another word. Now piss off.”
His face was stone, and it hit me then and there that the last thing I needed was to get into a bar brawl with this surly bastard. Besides, if the cops found out I was digging into this, it might mean trouble. Sure, Atkinson knew, but he was retired. Even so, in the back of my mind, I wondered if he would turn me in. Either way, I couldn’t risk pushing Bennett.
“Fine,” I said. I lifted my beer and nearly chugged the remainder of it. I tossed my money on the bar and slid it to the edge. “Thanks for your time.”
I walked back outside. Surprise, surprise, the sky was darkening to a raincloud pitch that seemed to weigh down on everything. I looked up and down the street, distraught.
All my meeting with Billy Bennett had accomplished was making me want to hit the next bar. I considered going to another pub and getting wasted. I was pretty close to home and would be able to walk.
But then something clicked in the back of my head. I stood there, motionless, as an idea started to form. I liked the way the old instincts came back — how when one idea bloomed, others started growing until everything started to seem related.
I pushed my need for a drink aside for a while, knowing full well that I’d probably give in before the day was over. Evening was winding down, and the night, as far as I was concerned, was made for drinking.
But that was later. For now, I had other things I wanted to check on.
***
Amir didn’t work on Thursday nights, and he seemed both pleased and surprised to see me on his doorstep a few blocks from the restaurant. He welcomed me into his home where he and his family had just finished eating dinner. I saw that he was sipping on a glass of wine. There was some momentary tension in the air as he wondered whether or not offer me a glass. In the end, he decided not to.
His wife and three children were cleaning up from dinner. There was much hustle and bustle in the house, the family getting along with one another and having loud and boisterous conversations. It made me miss family life, especially the winding down of evening after dinner and the nights spent with loved ones. It felt like a forgotten memory.
“What can I do for you?” Amir asked as we stepped away from the kitchen.
“I sort of need your help with this Ellington case.”
“How so?”
I spent the next fifteen minutes filling him in on everything I had discovered. This included how I had been embarrassed and sidetracked by having my theory about Harlowe being dead wrong.
“So how can I help?” Amir asked. He suddenly seemed very uneasy.
“I remember you telling me that your oldest son got into a bit of trouble a few months back when he started fraternizing with one of those online groups that hack into other peoples’ websites.”
“And?” Amir asked, a hard look on his face.
“I have a hunch I want to check on, but I can’t get it from the public records. Not that I can find, anyway. I was wondering if…”
“No,” Amir said. “Absolutely not.” He wasn’t offended, but caught off guard that I would even suggest such a thing.
“It won’t be long. Just a few minutes. Come on, you’re the one that pushed me to do this in the first place. Think of it as making up for ambushing me with that newspaper ad.”
Amir’s eyes widened at the mention of the ad and I could see the comment had almost worked. Then his brow furrowed and he shook his head. “I’m sorry about that, but I can’t allow what you’re suggesting.”
I shrugged. “I thought I’d at least give it a try. Thanks, anyway.”
I started for the door and made it no more than five steps before Amir called out, “Stop. Wait.”
I turned to him, hoping his mind was going where I hadn’t dared take it myself. His sister was still alive because of me—because of something that happened in that far-off world of New York City many years ago. Amir had told me once that he owed me more than he could ever give. It’s why he’d hooked me up with the cheap apartment and all the free food. It’s why he had posted the ad. Why he was always kind to me.