"Did you try the storage locker?" Spinoza's voice sounded tinny from the other end of the line.
"There was no storage locker attached to the building."
"But you were by the loading docks? The place where literally tons of goods are loaded, unloaded, and..." Pause. "... stored every day?" Spinoza had framed his response as a question, though it was rhetorical to its very heart.
"Yes, but that doesn't mean every rented business on the waterfront receives free storage." Tannehill was beginning to regret recounting the day's events to his friend.
"No, you're right, but a few extra minutes of detective work is probably worth the effort, isn't it?"
"Yes." Tannehill was growing peevish at the journalist's less-than-subtle recommendations about his chosen profession. The interaction began to dredge up painful experiences the two of them faced in the still not-too-distant past.
Spinoza may have sensed this as well by the curtness of Tannehill's reply. "Look," his tone was more reconciled now, "my workload isn't as cumbersome as I originally expected it to be yesterday. I can meet you later this afternoon. We'll go back to the bakery and see if..." - he paused looking for a less accusatory phrase than "there's something you missed" - "... see if there's another clue or two."
Tannehill tried to curtail some of the relief in his voice for fear of sounding desperate. "Thanks. I'll wait for you at The Happy Hour." He hung up.
Tannehill surveyed his office. The smell of bleach had faded significantly in the last few days adding a strange sense of normalcy to the underlying one of recent tragedy. The silence of the room wasn't out of the ordinary, since Snell seldom visited the office in life. Tannehill snorted in response half-bemused that, in an ironic twist, this was where Snell died.
The sharp ring of the phone broke the silence. Something about its shrill sense of urgency signaled more bad news. "Hello?" Tannehill spoke warily.
"Can you come down to the precinct today?" Lt. Murphy's voice was measured, but there was a sense of purpose behind it.
"I'm not under arrest am I?"
Murphy sighed in response to Tannehill's standard sarcastic retort, "No Tannehill, you're not under arrest. There have been some...developments in the case."
"Some...developments" was never a positive sign. No one ever indicated that "some...developments" occurred before announcing the case had been cracked. "Yes," the resignation in Tannehill's voice was apparent, "I can make it. When?"
"1 PM."
"OK." The two men hung up simultaneously.
---
"I need to make a brief call, Shorty." Another day another interaction with the desk sergeant.
"Is it local?"
"Yes it's local. I need to let someone know I won't be able to make an appointment since I'm, well, here.."
"It's not long-distance?"
"Unless local and long-distance can coexist peacefully in space and time, no."
Shorty pushed the phone reluctantly toward Tannehill. Tannehill rang through to Spinoza's extension at the paper. Ring. Ring. No answer.
"Shit." Tannehill muttered quietly, silenced the receiver, and paused briefly with his finger on the lever. He then placed a call to the Happy Hour. Shorty stared at him, eyes bulging.
"Hello," the voice was tired, thick, and confused on the other end.
"Hello. I'd like to leave a message for Vera."
"Vera ain't here. She works a split shift and gets in at two." Tannehill recognized the other conversant by the voice and the proclivity to give out slightly too much information. It was Flo, the waitress he'd encountered when Vera was off the other day.
"Yes, I know. I'd like to leave a message for her." Shorty tapped his wrist with his right index finger. Tannehill turned away from him.
"OK." Prolonged, unintelligible pseudo-silence punctuated by the occasional rasp of drawn breath followed on the other end of the line.
"Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"To take a message." There was an interminable wait for the discovery of a writing instrument on the other end of the line. Tannehill had turned back toward Shorty, whose eyes continued to bulge in impatience. Tannehill turned away again.
"OK," Flo coughed, "ready."
"Please tell Vera that Tannehill won't be able to make it. If she sees a tall, thin man with dark hair who looks a little like William Powell and answers to Spinoza, then she should accompany him to the bakery."
"OK, but there's no one here who looks like William Powell."
Dealing with this woman would infinitely expand the bounds of anyone's patience. "I understand." Each word was measured. "But he'll show up soon. I just need her to get the message."
"OK." The scribbling that persisted seemed to last for ten minutes, "which bakery?"
"It doesn't matter" - words still measured - "she'll know which bakery."
"Right," pause and more writing, "got it." Tannehill very much doubted that fact but had no other options.
"Thank you." They hung up.
"You said one phone call."
"I did," Lt. Murphy emerged from the door to the precinct's back office to retrieve Tannehill, "but I realized I needed to make an emergency call to Hong Kong."
Tannehill disappeared behind the door catch a glimpse of Shorty's mouth framed in a perfect 'O' of shock before collapsing into a line of annoyance.
Murphy led Tannehill back to his office and motioned for him to sit. The office fern drooped solemnly in Tannehill's direction acknowledging his arrival.
Murphy rounded his desk and descended in his chair, cheeks placed squarely between his hands. His eyes fixed on Tannehill. "How are things, CH?"
"Find," Tannehill drawled, "considering the present-day circumstances."
"Good to hear," Murphy placed one hand on the desk, and absent-mindedly began drumming with his fingertips, "good to hear."
"Is there something you wanted to tell me Murph?"
"Yeah," the drumming stopped briefly before resuming at a more rapid pace. "Remember the suspect we brought in for Snell's murder? Beederman?" The drumming stopped again in anticipation.
Tannehill's response crawled at a snail's pace. "What about him?"
Murphy flattened his palm on the desk, looked briefly at the fern for reassurance, and then back down at his palm. "We found him this morning in his cell."
Tannehill stared at Murphy waiting for the next sentence, though he had a good idea about what was coming.
Murphy exhaled sharply. "He strangled himself overnight. He's dead."
[Author's Note: The first edition of May is a respectable 1047 words. With any luck, even though there are only a few days left, it won't be the last edition of May. The running total for the novel is 29414 words.]
