Ready. Set. Psycho.

Chapter Thirteen: Clive

           

"So what was so important?" Sol asked. Clive was pacing in his kitchen as Sol sat at the table.

"I don't think Justin is working alone," Clive said. "He just can't be."

"What makes you think that?" Sol asked, taking a swig of rum from Clive's now nearly empty bottle.

"Look," Clive said, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. "He doesn't work alone. He's not alone. He doesn't run his own plane or boat, and he would need those to get back and forth from Europe."

"I'll give you that, but this is a little different than transit. Few people run their own planes or boats," Sol said, taking the last of the rum and shaking the empty bottle.

Clive replaced it with whisky. "No, I get that. But there's this line. And on one side," he gestured with his left hand, "Justin is working perfectly alone killing people, getting away with it, running from the country. And on the other," he gestured with his right hand, "he has an accomplice or two who know what he is doing and are actively helping him. I don't think we are there," he shook his right hand, "but we absolutely are not here." He shook his left.

"So that leaves us somewhere in the middle. This isn't new information."

"No, fuck, Sol, I'm helping. Stop." Clive ran his hands through his hair, lit cigarette and all, and then took another drag before continuing. "We are looking for Justin. Everyone would know who he was. And he knows it. So no, it was not him who put the note in Vera's throat. It was someone after Schweinsteiger, the first pathologist who examined her. That I can be sure of."

"Unless it was Schweinsteiger himself," Sol said.

"Not likely," Clive responded. "So I'm sure, yes, it was after him. And the most probable would be the ambulance drivers — the people taking the bodies from one place to the other. Access to the bodies, no cameras. Plenty of time. Morbid senses of humor and probably not above this sort of thing for shits and giggles. They're the type who put makeup on dead bodies and laugh when we open up the bag. Fuck, Sol, I laugh, too. Inserting the note would be a bridge too far for a prank, but if they were paid?"

"I'll bite. Got names?" Sol asked.

"Carl Jones and Paulie Cassavetes," Clive said, pulling out a piece of paper with names and phone numbers on them.

"I'll talk to them," Sol said.

"I thought that might be a little awkward."

"I'm less concerned than they should be," Sol said.

"Still," Clive said, "I went ahead and spoke with them already."

"What did you find out?" Sol asked.

"Carl is sixty-six years old and is scheduled to retire at the end of this year."

"And Paulie?"

"Paulie is in Atlantic City staying at the Taj."

"Now that's a solid fucking lead," Sol said.