Page 9 of Jealous of the Clouds
Chapter 4
There was Josh across the table, eating his cucumber, tomato, and feta pita sandwich. I couldn’t deny it—he was the handsomest man I’d ever dated, with his mass of thick black hair streaked through the gray, the jade-green eyes that contrasted wonderfully with the hair and the olive skin. The wisdom of the lines around his eyes, his mouth—he’d lived some. He wasn’t a gym rat, but he was lean and fit. Many thirty-seven-year-olds, I thought, would give a lot to look like him. His mostly gray beard gave him sort of a romantic hero vibe—a Heathcliff for our times.
When he looked back at me and smiled, I melted.
This guy simply couldn’t be a killer. He was too pretty. When I realized how superficial my thought was, in a nanosecond, I revised it.This guy simply couldn’t be a killer. He’s too kind, too generous, too gentle. Besides, crafty murderers aren’t gonna show up in my life. That’s for books, movies, and television. So far, my life has been humdrum, not bad, just unremarkable. For a killer to show up, and as my boyfriend, no less, is simply out of the question.
“A penny for your thoughts.” He set down his retsina wine. “I mean, man, you’ve been somewhere else for, like, the past five minutes.”
I debated.Should I tell him and perhaps ruin what’s been a perfectly pleasant outing? Or should I simply shrug and lie? Maybe flirt a little? Joke that I was undressing him with my eyes?In the end, I decided I should be truthful. The revelation that he not only once had a boyfriend who was brutally stabbed to death in an alley weighed on me, but so did the fact that he was once a suspect—excuse me—a person of interest.
It boggled the mind. The realization that this was his truth, however innocent he was of the horrible crime, had the air of the surreal about it.
So, I slowly finished up the Greek salad I’d ordered, took a sip of retsina, and put my hand on his. I pondered for a moment how to phrase what I was about to say. I opted for consideration—of him. “I’m still having trouble with what you told me—about Reggie’s death. I can’t help it. It bugs me. It scares me. Not that you might have done it—please don’t ever think that—but that you could be accused. You’re not the type.”
He interrupted me. “Whatisthe type, Ted?”
Is there a type? Is there something, perhaps, crazy in the eyes? Or an unknown quality that causes the hackles on someone’s neck to stand up? It all seems so silly when I think of it. “I don’t know. Bundy? Gacy? Manson?” I shook my head, a nervous giggle escaping my lips. “You don’t have any of the qualities they had.” I thought of the photographs I’d seen of the notorious men I’d just mentioned. In them, they all seemed to have crazy eyes.
“Bundy was pretty usual, good-looking, even. At least that’s what most people say. But okay, I don’t have the qualities. So you’re safe, right?” He wiggled his eyes at me.
“Don’t tease. Not about this.”
He squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m an ass. But is there something in particular that worries you? Honey, I was cleared of this ten years ago. I’ve dated a few other men in those years, hooked up with several more, and I left them all alive and intact.” He grinned. “Heartbroken, sure, but breathing.”
And no one was ever convicted or even arrested, far as I know, in connection with the crime. I pushed the thought away, back to dark recesses of my mind where I could deny such things.
I changed tack. “Why do you think it’s coming up now?” I took another sip of my wine. “I mean, such an old case. Isn’t there something more recent that people would be more interested in?” I decided not to tell him I’d listened to a couple episodes ofMeat Locker. It would just make him more defensive and I didn’t want to do that to him.
He shrugged. For the first time—did I detect a hint of nervousness, a little caginess?
“Reggie had a brother. Karl. I didn’t know this back then, but he hated me right from the start, before he even knew me well enough to have a logical reason.” He smiled, but his eyes were sad. “Therearereasons to dislike me, of course. We can all make that claim, can’t we? But usually there’s a basis for it. In his case, he decided, after our first meeting, I was bad for Reggie.” He paused again, toyed with the crumbs on his plate. The waitress came over and he ordered a slice of baklava for us to share. Two cups of espresso.
I wished I could stop my mind from going places where I didn’t want it to go. But when he mentioned Reggie’s brother, I couldn’t help but think,is he lying?Again, I swept the thought away.
Josh said, “I suspect he’s behind it. Karl never believed me. I wouldn’t be shocked if the next episode might feature him. Bailey Anderson can’t let it go.”
I wanted to counter,well, if my sibling had been murdered, I’d want answers too.But I couldn’t say that, not out loud. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like, losing a family member in such a shocking and tragic way, and never having at least the comfort and closure of knowing who the culprit was, that, perhaps, a kind of justice had been meted out.
“He’s here, you know.”
“Karl?” I looked around the restaurant.
“Don’t be stupid. By here, I mean he’s local. I’ve lost track of him over the years—thank god—but I’m pretty sure he’s over in the Ravenswood neighborhood. He used to live on the top floor of a two-flat off of Lincoln Avenue, up by Lawrence. Either that, or I’d bet he’s moved out to the ‘burbs, like so many of us end up doing, especially after we get married and have kids.”
“He’s married?”
“I don’t know,” Josh answered, too quickly. “I don’t know anything about him, really. I just think he’s keeping an eye on me.”
I nodded. I wanted to ask why he thought Karl was ‘keeping an eye’ on him, but couldn’t get the question out. I mean, if he had that suspicion, it didn’t jibe with “I don’t know anything about him.” Instead, I finished my wine.
“And that podcast?” He went on, his voice getting a little louder. I could see he was getting upset now, and I wished I’d gone with my first inclination and not brought this up at all. “He’s here too.”
This time I didn’t look around for Bailey Anderson, theMeat Lockerhost. “Whereabouts?” I asked.
“Edgewater. He works out of his apartment. He’s small-time.” He mumbled something under his breath that sounded an awful lot likeasshole.
I recalled how he’d told me earlier thatMeat Lockerwas distributed nationally on all the major platforms, which kind of flew in the face of his ‘small-time’ assertion.
