John caught up with Patrick Crawford, Donna Greenhouse's auto mechanic ex-boyfriend, at his job at Confederate Muffler and Auto Repair. A grizzled older man with a big nose, sad eyes, and a belly that reminded John of a walrus's steered John outdoors to a corner of the building as soon as he showed his badge, whisking any scent of trouble with the law out of the lobby. A couple of bored-looking housewife types and a mustached man in jeans, riffling through newspapers to the blare of Fox News, craned their necks and stared after them anyway.
"Walrus" took John over to the garage area, waddled over to a red Pontiac, and hollered underneath it. A grubby young man, mid-twenties, with shoulder-length brown fuzz tied back in a ponytail, rolled himself out from under and stood up. As the boss talked in his ear, he wiped his grimy hands on a rag, casting glances at John.
The mechanic half-sidled his way over, as if John were a poisonous snake, and started to reach out for a handshake, then noticed how greasy his hands were and pulled his hand back. "I'm Patrick Crawford. What's this about?"
John showed his badge, wondering whether Tyler Greenhouse's assessment of him hadn't been the right one. That would be something for Petersburg PD to sort out if Crawford ever gave them an excuse. "Detective John Robin, Richmond Police," he said. "I understand you used to date Donna Greenhouse?"
The man's head dipped up and down once at the name. "Yes, sir. This about her old man?" The question ended with a hopeful uptick that made John's brain jump ahead to the probable unsaid ending: ... and not about me?
"Actually, it is. How well do you know Dr. Greenhouse?"
"Well enough to know the guy is psycho. I didn't really want to get to know him any better than that."
John grabbed his pen from his breast pocket. "Really, why's that?"
Crawford scratched the back of his neck. "What is this about? What did Tyler do?"
"I'm really not at liberty to discuss the case," said John. "But if you can tell me what made you doubt Dr. Greenhouse's mental stability, it would be very helpful."
"If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I never would have believed it," said Crawford, turning to lead John around the corner as if what he had to say might be overheard even over the whirr of pneumatic wrenches and the click and clank of tools.
He spread his hands in the age-old gesture: It's not my fault. "I didn't used to believe Donna, because when I'd come over, he'd seem like a great guy. She'd tell me stuff and I'd be like, 'What's your problem, saying stuff like that about your old man?' 'Cause I just knew there was no way he'd yell at her all the time and flip out and break dishes and stuff like she said."
He fiddled with his coverall zipper. "I mean, I got the vibe he didn't think Donna should be dating an auto mechanic. He thought she should've stayed in school for her MBA, but ..."
John glanced up from his notepad. Crawford shrugged. "I guess any dad might think that. Especially some hot-shot consultant who's traveling all over the world. But—" He put an arm up to lean on the weathered bricks. "One day I go over there, and as I'm driving in I notice Tyler out in front of the place, at those iron picnic tables. He's got his nose in some engineering book this thick." Crawford held his thumb and forefinger up three inches apart.
"I go around the side and ride up, and Donna's up there in a panic. She's been on the phone and hasn't cleared up last night's supper dishes, and she's got to get the mess cleaned up before he comes back up. Only she tells me he's lifting weights downstairs. 'I gotta get done before he comes up. I gotta get done before he comes up. Can you load the dishwasher?᾽ But I've gotta take a dump, and when he comes upstairs I'm in the bathroom and he doesn't know I'm in there.
"He just slams in the door—" Crawford illustrated with a wave of his hand "—and his first words are, 'What have you done, nothing?᾽" Crawford spit the words out in a snarl.
"And she goes, 'Well, Aunt Lilia called from California and she wanted to know what the doctor said,᾽ and he just went off on her.
"First he goes, 'I can't believe you're telling that bitch our business!᾽ and then he goes, 'Did you tell her he said I might have to retire?᾽ And she was hemming and hawing and trying to get out of having to say yes, and then he really goes off."
Crawford leaned forward. "I'm standing there on the other side of the door with my mouth hanging open. He's trying to guess what she told her aunt—'She said if I hadn't bought the Bentley and cracked it up and then bought this place I wouldn't have to worry about it, right?᾽ And Donna's going, 'Dad, please calm down,᾽ and he's yelling, 'Yeah, you don't want to tell me what you said, right?᾽
"And then he goes, 'I can't trust you at all!᾽ and he starts yelling at her about all kinds of stuff. Stuff she told her mother about him when they got the divorce, stuff from when she was in high school—he's even yelling at her about breaking the dryer when she was four!
"I flushed the toilet and washed my hands hoping he'd hear it and stop 'cause somebody was over. Instead he's out there screaming at her about quitting her job and about her weight, and about how her and her dog were just mooching off him—"
John interrupted him. "Donna Greenhouse has a dog? I've been up there a couple of times. I didn't see any dog."
Crawford's mouth twisted and he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's because he's my dog, now! I couldn't believe it. All of a sudden Donna starts screaming, and I walk out there, and he's got Webster under the elbows like this—" Crawford demonstrated, holding his hands out in front of him as if he were dangling a baby or a small doll. "Out on the balcony, over a six story drop!"
John blinked. Crawford continued, making twisting motions as if he were driving a racecar on a winding speedway. "And Webster's wriggling, trying to get loose, and Donna's crying, 'Daddy, please don't drop my dog!'
"I ran out there and grabbed the dog out of his hands—" Crawford demonstrated with a double-fisted swipe "—and I'm not sorry to say I punched him one. And then me and him got into it after that. Tyler, you could tell he was embarrassed. He got all red in the face. I'm like, 'What the fuck's the matter with you? No wonder she's always walking on eggshells around you, worrying about what the fuck you're gonna do! And taking it out on a little dog? I could call the police on you, man!' And he's all puffed up—" Crawford pulled himself up to his full height, working his shoulders back and forth as if he were wearing football pads.
"He goes, 'This is between my daughter and me. Get out of my house!᾽ So she grabbed Webster and we left. We had to stop at K Mart for some cheap clothes. Donna didn't even take any clothes with her. She didn't go back for two days. I didn't want her to go back at all, but she was worried about him. Said he'd do things like turn the oven on and forget about it, or shave with a plug-in electric razor in the bathtub, and she was afraid he'd hurt himself."
John zeroed in on the target. "Let me ask you about firearms. You shoot, right?"
Crawford nodded. "Practical pistol matches. Some friends and I hunt deer in season."
"Did Dr. Greenhouse ever shoot with you?" John asked, pen at the ready.
"No."
"Did Donna?"
"She went with me a couple of times. I don't know why, 'cause she didn't seem to really want to shoot that much." Crawford scuffed the toe of his work boot on the blacktop. "I got her to shoot a couple of times, but she acted like she was afraid of the gun. Mostly she'd just watch me shoot and sweep up the brass and dispose of the targets."
John gave him a smile, pretending to just make conversation now. "So, what do you shoot?"
"I've got an old model ninety-four my grandpa bought me for my twelfth birthday."
"Good brush gun," said John with a nod. "How about for your practical pistol matches?"
"Forty-four," said Crawford with a toothy grin.
John whistled like a bomb falling. "What brand of ammo do you load in that cannon?"
"Winchester western jacketed semi-wadcutters. I load my own. Donna used to help me."
Bingo. John jotted notes. "Really?" he said, trying to sound casual. "She loaded your ammo for you?"
"Yeah, I showed her how to load it. One at a time and with a speed loader." Crawford's eyes widened. "What, is Donna in some kind of trouble? What'd she do?"
John slapped on his Joe Friday face. "Thank you, Mr. Crawford." He snapped his notebook shut. "I appreciate the help."
John held out his hand and Crawford put his out; then, seeing the grease still smudging his fingers, Crawford pulled his hand back. "Eh, maybe not, man. Unless you got GoJo in your glove compartment."
John laughed and turned away. Then, on a whim, he turned back. "Say, why did you and Donna break up, anyway?"
Crawford glanced down at the blacktop. "Well, like I said, her old man's a real head case. Plus—" Crawford looked up, and his gaze focused somewhere over John's right shoulder. "My old girlfriend, you know, she dumped me for some prick, and then he dumped her, so ..." He shrugged. "Me and Donna, we were just hanging out. Kicking it."
"Yeah," said John.
"That's Denise right there, just coming in to work." Crawford pointed over John's shoulder. "She works here part time, up front."
John turned just in time to peer around the corner and see a perfect behind in a pair of painted-on jeans disappear through the front door into the lobby. Beachy blonde waves almost touched the girl's belt.
"Yeah," said John. "Whatever."
***
On the way back to the squad John stopped at the State Corporation Commission on East Main to look up anything he could on Forever Summer, LLC—the corporation that owned Clay's beach house. In addition to several tanning parlors around Hampton—a favorite front for money launderers, since who knew how many customers a tanning parlor actually served—John discovered another house owned by the corporation, one with a Richmond address: 5888 C Mansewood Road. He decided to drive over and have a look.
He took a stop-and-go trip back past Vistas On The James, down 14th and over the Mayo Bridge. Boarded-up storefronts lined the redundantly named Hull Street Road, along with the occasional makeshift church or homegrown business. Handmade signs read "Muffler Shop" or "African Hair Braiding." African-American youths in baggy jeans and do-rags hung around the bus stops.
A left on Route 1—where a nightly prostitution sting was set up for the next week or so—took him past the mammoth Model Tobacco complex, long empty and filled with junk. 5888 Mansewood Road lay just outside Sector 213, technically outside the city limits but close enough for a Richmond address, up a winding tree-lined road.
The address turned out to be an old apartment complex gone co-op and marketing itself as "Evergreen." The place was aptly named. Dogwoods and azaleas burst out in full bloom under a canopy of pine. Falling Creek bubbled under a bridge at the foot of the complex. The road wound on toward the exclusive Meadowbrook Country Club just a few blocks up; on the opposite hill the two-story homes looked solidly middle-class. Evergreen straddled a fine line between respectable and Hooker Alley; it could fall to either side at any time.
John drove up the hill into the complex and checked out the buildings—brick, three-story. Huge numbers on new blue awnings made Clay's building easy to find. The parking spaces also sported condo numbers. 5888 C's stood empty.
A man in gray denim pants and a tan work shirt, probably the super, picked trash into a tall white bucket. He turned around and stared at John: a man who knew an unmarked police unit when he saw one.
John parked in front of the office, down a steep hill from Clay's building. He killed the engine and got out. The building super headed down the hill toward him. John filled the time by jotting down the office phone numbers posted on the door.
The super walked up—a fit, fiftyish guy, sort of balding on top. John showed his badge.
"Detective John Robin, Richmond PD."
"I'm William Farnham. I'm in charge of maintenance here." The man spoke in a slow Southern drawl. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, can we go inside a minute?" John jerked a thumb at the door.
"Sure." Farnham palmed a key and unlocked the door.
"Just wanted to ask you a few questions about the person in 5888 C. You know the guy?"
Farnham held the door, then followed John in. "I can't say I'm really acquainted with him. I know him when I see him."
"George Evan Clay, right? Young guy, tall, curly blond hair?"
"Yeah, that's him. Evan Clay—I don't know about the 'George.᾽"
John exchanged his badge for his notebook. "He lived here long?" Interesting that this address didn't show up on any of Pride's paperwork that John knew of.
"He's owned 5888 for a couple of years. He's very seldom home. He doesn't rent it out, though. I think he must travel a lot. Pays his association fees on time. Sometimes I'll see him out at the pool in the summer."
John jotted notes. "You seen him around here lately?"
"Not in the past ..." Farnham squinted. "Month or six weeks, I think. His space is always empty."
"What's this guy drive, usually?"
"A white Ford 250. I've seen a black '69 Mustang over there from time to time, too. Nice car."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing with our parking permits on it. We've got an ongoing problem, though, with visitors parking in assigned spaces. Anybody without a yellow tag, usually it's one of them."