Page 89 of Cold, Cold Bones
The place was silent as a tomb.
Call it intuition. Something felt off.
Wishing I had company, maybe a pit bull or a Doberman, I began looking around. The living and dining rooms were as I remembered, done in browns and creams, with artwork a mix of modern and old. An Indonesian mask. An African carving. A George Rodrigue blue dog print.
I moved to the kitchen, all stainless steel, granite, and natural wood. Saw no dishes on the table or in the sink. No garbage overdue for disposal.
It was clear Charlie’s desire for cleanliness hadn’t diminished. The place was spotless and smelled of wood polish and some sort of potpourri diffuser. And something else?
The refrigerator was bare of photos, Post-its, reminders, or lists.I opened the door and checked a few labels. Not a single product was past its expiration date. How was that even possible?
I circled back and began climbing the stairs, noting the photo array as I ascended. Family gatherings. A ski trip. A beach outing. A sailing excursion. In most of the shots, Charlie sat or stood beside a willowy woman with long black hair and nutmeg skin. His wife, a victim of 9/11.
I looked away, saddened. For her. For him. For all the dreams that died that day.
Thinking Charlie might be on the terrace and unable to hear me, I continued up to the roof. No Charlie. He was also not in any of the bedrooms or baths on the third floor.
Was he below in his office, perhaps listening to music through earphones?
Opening the basement-level door released an unpleasant odor. The noxious mix of hydrocarbons was the faint undercurrent I’d been too preoccupied to identify upstairs.
Far from subtle down here, the nauseating scent was strong and coming from the garage. I recognized it immediately as fumes from the combustion of fossil fuels.
Using my scarf to cover my nose and mouth, I entered. The stench was almost overwhelming.
Charlie was at the wheel of his Porsche Panamera. Corrugated tubing ran from the tail pipe into the car’s interior through the right rear window, the only one not tightly shut.
Charlie’s eyes were closed, his head lying sideways on one shoulder. Nasal mucus and saliva crusted one cheek.
Get out!my reptilian brain screamed.
Touch nothing!my higher centers ordered.
Charlie!my limbic system bellowed.
I had to check.
Holding my breath, I used the scarf to open the driver’s-side door. No pulse throbbed in Charlie’s carotid.
My eyes grabbed a few more details. The engine was off, the starter in the “on” position, the gas tank empty.
That was it. Out of breath, tears streaming my cheeks, I fled the garage.
I waited in my car, feeling as dreary as the sky. The day was cold and damp, yet I hadn’t the energy to turn on the heater.
A CMPD cruiser was the first to arrive, bubble lights flashing like fireworks on the Fourth of July. While one uniform positioned himself at the front door, the other hurried inside.
I tucked my fingers under my arms for warmth. Listlessly watched Charlie’s home and its guardian pulse blue-blue-blue.
Next came a CSU truck. Then Hawkins and a tech named Sandford in the van, followed by Nguyen in her Mercedes.
Not far behind the MCME team were the first members of the press. I knew as word spread others would appear, eager to film and report on yet another human tragedy. Maybe get lucky and capture a shot of the corpse.
Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages… I thought bitterly. How many times had I been a player in the grim circus? How many death scenes had I worked?
But this was Charlie. We were to have coffee yesterday.
A tremor built in my chest.
