Claire DeWitt And The City Of The Dead Part 3

"Uh, no," he said. "Was I supposed to?"

I picked up the chair and checked the rug underneath it. The dents were deep. This chair lived here.

I sat in the chair. If Leon looked straight ahead he saw the TV. But if I looked straight ahead I saw the bedroom.

No. Not the bedroom. The bedroom window. I looked around, changed position. There was nothing to see from this chair except the bedroom window.

I got up and went to the bedroom window. It had a little terrace that faced Bourbon Street. It was just big enough for two or three people to stand on. Next to it, coming up from the street, was a live oak tree. In the corner of the tiny terrace was a dead, potted bottle palm.

I stepped through the window to the terrace. I stood still and quiet and closed my eyes. It was cold, and at first I s.h.i.+vered, but I breathed slowly until I wasn't s.h.i.+vering anymore and I was just there.

I heard cars far away. Sirens. Three blocks from here a Dalmatian-Lab mix barked, twice. I heard children crying. Ba.s.s-heavy rap shaking a car. The pop of a gun on North Rampart Street. The everyday sounds of the city.

There was a clue here. I could feel it, like vertigo or a sunspot.

Clues are the most misunderstood part of detection. Novice detectives think it's about finding clues. But detective work is about recognizing clues.

Clues are everywhere. But only some can see.

I took a deep breath through my nose. I smelled food from the restaurant next door, smoke from a fireplace nearby, death, dirt from the potted plant-and something else. I breathed in again. Something grainy and earthy and good but musty, musky.

I opened my eyes. I went to the corner of the terrace and pushed aside the dead palm. Behind it was a wooden bird feeder. Underneath was a little pile of black earth. I took a pinch of the earth and sniffed it.

This was what I'd smelled. Decomposed sunflower seeds. The feeder had fallen off of the live oak tree next to it.

"Erk."

I looked up. In the tree, two or three feet away from me, was a small green parrot. He was about eight inches tall and a brilliant jungle green, with a creamy white beak. Under his wings two blue feathers peeked out, one on each side. His little feet gripped the branch, and he swayed slightly, as if he were drunk. But his eyes were sharp and sober.

The bird c.o.c.ked his head and looked at me.

"Erk?" he said.

We looked at each other.

"Restaurant's closed, buddy," I said. "Time to get a job."

But the bird didn't move. He only looked at me with his funny little head moving from side to side. He looked like a clown with fat little clown pants on.

Each clue you find is like a new pair of eyes. Now I looked around the street, and in the trees nearby I saw more birds: finches, pigeons, a female cardinal, a grackle on the ground by the door to the building. I hadn't seen them before. But they were there.

I went back inside.

"He fed birds," I said to Leon. Leon was still on the sofa. Love Connection had morphed into Family Feud.

Leon made a little face of disgust. People in New Orleans have a thing about birds.

"Oh. I forgot about that," he said. "Those parrots. I think they've got some program going on to get rid of them. They're an inverted species or whatever you call it."

"Invasive," I said. "So are we."

"Yeah. They eat crops," Leon said.

"Unlike us," I said.

He frowned. "They're dirty," he said. "They spread disease."

I looked at him.

"They're from-" he began, then stopped. "They live in-"

"I heard some of 'em are communists," I said. "Watch out. Do you mind if I take fingerprints?"

"Fingerprints?" Leon said, confused. "They have fingers?"

"Uh, no," I said. "Well, maybe. But not from the parrots. From the house."

"Oh," he said. "I guess not. Knock yourself out."

From my bag I found a black leatherette case about the size of a composition book. I put the case on the coffee table and took out a small gla.s.s jar of black powder, a camelhair brush, and a little book of sticky plastic pages, each page backed with stiff white paper.

First I needed a control print: Vic Willing's. I could probably find one online-in most states lawyers had to leave their prints on file with some regulating body or other-but there was no Internet service nearby and it would be a ha.s.sle in any case, so instead I found Vic's toothbrush and hairbrush. Carrying them with my fingernails, I brought them back to the coffee table and dusted them with the black powder. Prints bloomed under the powder like roses. I tore off a few sheets from the book of sticky paper. Carefully I peeled the clear sticky stuff from the white backing and pressed it to the handle of the hairbrush, and then spread it back across the white backing. There were a bunch of smudges and one perfect print. I did the same on the toothbrush. I got another perfect print.

Next I took prints from some spots around the house a visitor was likely to touch, labeling them as I went. The doork.n.o.bs. The refrigerator. The safe. The television-you'd be surprised how many murderers put the TV on before or after they kill someone. And the bird feeder. I put all my little papers in an envelope and stuck them in my purse.

I had a feeling there was more to the apartment than I'd seen. Vic had held secrets here. People bury things in their houses, things they can't get rid of but can't take with them. They aren't physical but they exist all the same. All houses are haunted. Some by the past or the future, some by the present.

I went to the bedroom and turned off the lights and lay down in Vic's bed. The sheets were crisp and possibly ironed and not very comfortable. I let my breathing slow down and my mind drain until I was almost asleep.

Almost immediately I sat up and got out of bed. What I'd felt wasn't rest or peace. It was struggle.

Vic was at war with himself. But so are most of us. It was ugly. But it wasn't much of a clue.

I asked Leon if I could hold on to the keys so I could come back and look for more clues if I needed to.

He said no.

"It's just that I only have one set," he said, shuffling in place a little. "It's not that I don't trust you," he clarified.

"It's just that you don't trust me," I said.

He hemmed and hawed a little before I let him off the hook.

"It's okay," I lied. "You will."

"I'm sure," he said. "I will."

He was lying too.

7.

CONSTANCE DARLING WAS an unconventional teacher. She would drive me out to the swamps on a moonless night and leave me there to find my way home by the wind and the stars. She'd toss a newspaper clipping about a murder that took place in Manhattan in 1973 on my desk and tell me to solve it. She taught me to read fingerprints like tea leaves and eyes like maps. She taught me how to smell trouble literally and figuratively. She sent me to lamas and tulkus, to swamis and psychics. Like most detectives, she kept a police scanner in the kitchen, and if we weren't busy we'd go to crime scenes and solve the crimes before the NOPD even showed up. Not that they wanted our help. Most of the time they ignored us. But Constance was always right.

"There are two kinds of detectives," Constance told me a long time ago. We were in her library in her home in the Garden District. "The first are those that decide to be a detective. The second are those that have no choice at all."

We all get the call a little differently, she explained. For some of us it's a dream, sometimes an omen, sometimes one of those big famous life-changing moments-near-death experience, heart attack, loss of a loved one. When it's over you know you've got to do what's been in your heart all along and hang up your s.h.i.+ngle as a PI. Whether you're fifteen or fifty, once the call comes to solve mysteries, eventually you'll have to give in.

Constance was a detective since the day she was born. I like to think I was too, even though I had a long, b.u.mpy road between my first bottle of fingerprint dust and my PI union card. But then again, so have most of us.

I was eleven or twelve when someone gave my best friend Tracy the Official Cynthia Silverton Girl Detective Fingerprinting Kit. Something happened to us when we saw that kit; a deja vu, a thrill of recognition even though we'd never felt it before. With our other best friend, Kelly, we spent weeks fingerprinting every surface of my parents' big, crumbling mansion in Brooklyn, even the south wing, which was supposed to be sealed shut because of the hole in the roof. Kelly lived with her parents in a cramped apartment nearby; Tracy lived in the projects across the street with her father. My house was much better for exploring.

Breaking in to the south wing was our first taste of crime, detection's twin sister.

Tracy, a born criminal, somehow broke open the lock that had been rusted shut for years. We each took a sharp breath when we got the door open and saw the sun streaming in on the broken wood floor, the rotting furniture still in place. Pigeons had moved in, and when I jimmied open the door the birds didn't fly away but looked at us: What are you doing in our house? My parents had given us the same look minutes before as we raced through the parlor, where they read a ouija board with their "adviser," Dr. Oliver. Money coming soon, Dr. Oliver promised, as always. I see a windfall any day now.

But in the south wing my parents, and the whole rest of the world, were miles away. We trod carefully and kept quiet. We didn't know the words for it, but we each felt it-a drop in pressure, a smell, a shudder in the nadis, the opening of an inner door.

There was a mystery here.

I put the fingerprinting kit down and carefully, gingerly testing each floor board before we put our weight on it, we crept around the room. The pigeons watched and cooed as we peeked under sheets draped over old furniture, carefully opened doors to closets full of chipped china and disintegrating linens. As far as I could tell it was like the rest of my parents' house, full of old things and dust.

But it was Tracy who knew better. It was Tracy who had the courage to creep around the edges, avoiding the rotted middle of the floor. It was Tracy who found the old dumbwaiter at the far side of the room. Tracy who somehow opened the rusted latch, Tracy who pulled up the old rope, unused for decades. And Tracy who found the mystery.

A copy of Silette's Detection, sitting on the tray of the dumbwaiter, waiting for us.

Three years later Tracy disappeared. Kelly and I were the last people we knew of to see her, alive or dead. No one saw Tracy or heard from her again.

Wherever she went, whatever happened to her, she took our copy of Detection with her.

8.

BACK IN MY HOTEL I put on all the lights in the bathroom, the brightest spot in the place. Then I lay a cleanish pillowcase over a piece of wood I'd found on the street and put the wood over the sink, making a table. On the left side of the table I put a clean sample of Vic's fingerprints, nearly complete, from his house. Next to it, on the right, I put a random print I'd taken from the house. I looked at them both under my magnifying gla.s.s. It was a match. I changed the second print and looked again. Another match. Again-a match. Again-this time not a match. But I was pretty sure it was Vic's left hand-it was the same size and had the same low Whirl of Esteem. I made a note on it and put it aside. Another print-a match. Another-a match.

After fifteen prints I came across one that wasn't a match to either hand. It was big and probably male. UNKNOWN MAN, I labeled it.

I went through the rest of the prints. I found a few more, but most were smeared and degraded. Those people had, likely, visited Vic's house, but not for long and not lately. They'd touched the front door and that was about it. Unknown Man had been in the refrigerator. He'd been in all the kitchen cabinets. He'd been in the bathroom and the bedrooms. Unknown Man had put his hand on the bookshelf. His index finger touched the spine of Nana.

Unknown Man had fed the birds.

There was a knock on my door. It was the clerk from the front desk.

When I'd checked in to my hotel on Frenchman Street I'd opened the door and stepped inside and tripped over the bed. From the bed I found a light switch and flicked it on. I was also in reaching distance of the TV, the closet door, the bathroom door, and the dresser.

I'd gone to see the clerk at the desk again. He was a young man, white, in his twenties, and looked like a college student or dropout. He wore a rag wool sweater and shorts and socks and sandals. I guessed, from the looks of him, that Dude, he liked to party.

"Hey," I said. "Hi. My room's a little small."

The clerk looked at me blankly.

"Your room?"

"Yeah. Yeah. My room. I checked in yesterday. Room-" I looked at my key. "108."

The clerk shook his head slowly. He looked at me like he was worried about what might happen if he made me angry. "Uh, I don't know, ma'am. I think that room is taken."

"Yeah," I explained. "It is taken. It's taken by me. I was wondering if maybe you have a bigger room available?"

He looked at me long and hard and finally a spark of recognition lit in his eyes and spread through his face.

"Riiight," he said, with a little smile. "I remember you. Room 108, right?"

"Right," I said. I gave up on the room and moved on to my next query. "Do you like to party?"

I opened the door and let him in. He looked around. "Dude. This room is small."

"Yeah," I said. "Someone should do something about that. You got it?"

He handed me a large white envelope with the hotel's logo printed on the corner. I shut the door. I'd paid him up front. I sat on the bed and opened the envelope and smelled the weed. It was shake, probably Mexican, but not half bad. Although if there's any weed that's more than half bad, I haven't met it yet. I put it aside for later and went back to the fingerprints. The next step was scanning them to see who they belonged to.

There was a phone book in my room. It was from 2005.

I asked the clerk at the desk for a phone book. He gave me the same one.

I looked at him.

"That's it," he said. "They haven't made a new one."

We looked at each other.

"It might be kind of out of date," he said.

In the phone book I found a list of copy places. I stuck the mystery prints in my purse and drove over to the closest spot, on Elysian Fields. I'd scan the prints into the computer, fake some credentials for myself, unlock some pa.s.swords, and compare the prints to the databases.