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The air in the church was syrupy warm, cloying with the aromas of jasmine, plumeria, oleander, and lily that hung in baskets and covered every horizontal surface. Cheap cologne and human sweat added extra ripeness to the perfumy mix. Fans rotating high among the ceiling beams had little effect.
The preacher was a young man with a bad comb-over and round horn-rimmed glasses, all smiles and handshakes and platitudes. At one point he ambushed my emotions by playing a Judy Collins recording of “Who Knows Where the Time Goes?,” a song Gran had requested for her funeral. Otherwise, I couldn’t fault his style. He sounded sincere and kept things moving.
At the end of the service, I watched Musgrove’s sister lead the exit procession. No tears, but soul-deep grief was written on her face.
My heart ached for her. I understood. Nothing shatters lives like violent death.
As we’d agreed, I arrived at Danny Buoy’s just past five. Monck was already there, fingers wrapping a Turk’s Head lager. An empty bottle sat before him.
Upon entering, I paused to allow my eyes to adjust to the dimness. To take in Monck. A full week together and the man remained an enigma. A skeleton with a titanium hand and size thirteen suede loafers.
In the scores of hours we’d spent together, Monck had never mentioned his Irish-Jamaican heritage. His ancestor, the second Duke of Marlboro. Never shared one detail about his personal life. Was he married? Single? Divorced? Gay? Did he live in a condo? On a boat? In a shack by the sea? Did he prefer soccer or hoops? Pepsi or Coke? Did he like being tagged The Monk? I knew nothing.
Which suited me. Gutted by the heartbreak of Musgrove’s death, I’d needed a cop not a buddy. What was it Aristotle said? “My friends, there are no friends”? Perhaps the chill had come from my side.
The pub was uncrowded late on a Sunday afternoon. But customers were trickling in. I recognized the bed swing lady and a few other mourners from the church. Constable Gardiner.
I took the stool beside Monck and ordered a Perrier with lime. We’d barely spoken since the previous night’s dramatic events. I’d been totally wrung out, and he’d been busy processing Benjamin. I was keen for an update.
No need to ask. Monck launched right in. Almost too eager. I wondered if the guy was already fogged over from the beer.
“Lindstrom will autopsy the sinkhole crisper tomorrow. He checked the corpse’s mouth, has no doubt it’s Cloke. Apparently, there are some doodle-dandy dental restorations—Lindstrom’s phrasing.”
“Benjamin said he drugged Cloke to get him into the truck.”
“Lindstrom plans to run exhaustive tox screens. My money’s on Special K. We found a vial in Benjamin’s kitchen drawer.”
“Ketamine.”
“Yep.” Monck finished the dregs of his brew, signaled to the bartender for another.
“Anything else in that house?”
“Two rental cars in the garage. Three mummified hands in the shed.”
“Hot damn.”
Monck held out his bottle. I clinked its neck with the rim of my glass.
“I should be able to match that wakizashi to the cut marks on the bones,” I said. “The nick in the blade is quite distinct.”
“How did you know what those things were?”
“Strictly curiosity. The swords didn’t look Judaic, so after leaving Benjamin’s house that first time, I googled a few images. Figured he was into Samurai artifacts, thought nothing of it.”
Monck’s beer arrived. I waited as he knocked back the top third.
“Benjamin’s behind bars?” I asked.
“And willing to spill.”
“Looking for a deal?”
“Oh, yeah. Plus, he seems anxious to unburden his soul, or whatever. All the time I spent talking to him, yesterday and again this morning, I couldn’t get anything close to a clear read. I kept asking myself. What kind of psychosis prompts a guy to kill strangers just because they’re attractive young men?”
Monck downed more brew.
“We’ve got Benjamin’s computers at the station, so I had a tech take me on a stroll through his browsing history. The mope spent a lot of time in chatgroups or forums or whatever they’re called where the main theme seemed to be bitching about women.”
