Page 34 of Den of Iniquity

“I take it he’s something of a musician,” Hank observed.

“Right,” I said. “A drummer. I hope his playing isn’t bothering you.”

“Not at all,” Hank replied. “I used to be something of a drummer myself back in the day. Fancied I’d be the next Gene Krupa when I grew up. That didn’t happen, of course. Ended up building houses instead.”

Was there a hint of regret in his voice when he said that? Maybe.

“We all have roads not taken,” I said.

“Isn’t that the truth,” he agreed. “I still have that first drum set,though,” he added. “I gave it to a grandson, but he gave it back when he joined the military. When we moved here, Ellen wanted me to unload it, but I told her as long as she still has all her quilting stuff, I’m keeping my drums. Maybe someday a great-grandson will love them as much as I do.”

Up until that moment, I hadn’t known Hank was a drummer and his wife was a quilter. They were our next-door neighbors, yes, but there was a lot I didn’t know about them.

“Have you ever thought about taking up drumming again?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” he returned. “At my age?”

“How old will you be if you don’t?”

“There is that,” he agreed, and we both kept on walking.

Back at the house, I was sitting at the kitchen counter staring at Darius’s resurrected cell phone. It was no longer dead. One of the CSIs at Mel’s department had managed to produce the right charger. The device was on, but it was still locked.

That was when Kyle walked past, heading for the fridge to grab a soda. “What’s up?” he asked.

“This phone belongs to a guy who died of a drug overdose a couple of years ago,” I told him. “I need to unlock it, but I don’t know the password. It has six characters, but I know if I screw it up too many times, it’ll lock me out permanently.”

“What’s the password on your phone?” Kyle asked.

“My birthday,” I said. “What’s yours?”

“My birthday,” he answered. “If you know the guy’s birthday, why don’t you try that?”

After locating Darius’s birth date in my notebook, I typed in 09-18-92. Once I did that, the phone opened right up.

“Voilà!” I told Kyle. “You’re a genius.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, grinning back at me. “I’m a teenager.”

I spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon going through Darius’s list of recent calls. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The people he had spoken to in either direction were all in his contacts list—Matilda, Gina Rising, his boss, Patrice Moser. There were numerous calls and texts to and from a guy named Norm, no last name. Scanning through the collection of texts it was clear that he had been Darius’s NA sponsor. If Darius had slipped in the days leading up to his death, Norm for sure would know about it.

I tried Norm’s number, but the call went to voicemail. I left a message. “My name is J. P. Beaumont. I’m a private investigator looking into Darius Jackson’s death on behalf of his grandmother. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call back.” I left my number but I didn’t hold my breath about getting a call back.

For dinner that night, Mel brought home a bag of freshly made tamales and flour tortillas purchased from the mother of one of Bellingham’s finest, a new recruit recently graduated from the police academy. The tamales along with servings of canned refried beans topped with melted cheese made for a perfectly acceptable Mexican dinner.

“Word came down shortly before I left the office,” Mel told us as we ate. “The school shutdown will start the second week of March. Given that, Kyle, are you sure you want to stay here with us?”

Kyle favored her with an exasperated look. “Don’t you guys ever talk?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Gramps already asked me the same thing, and I told him I want to stay here.”

“Fair enough then,” she told him, “but don’t forget, Alice Patterson comes on Saturday, so your room needs to be ready. That means your dirty clothes need to be washed, dried, and put away before she gets here. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kyle said.

Good answer, I thought. It sounded to me like he was catching on pretty fast.

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