he said, “Look, this friend of yours, Carlisle.”
“Yeah.”
“Either he flew into outer space and someone made a mistake letting him come back here, or he never existed. We don’t have him.”
“What?”
He nodded.
I handed him the cigars. “Nowhere?”
“Nowhere.”
As we passed the alley I noticed one of the smokers I’d seen standing around, the tall one with the dark hair and mustache, coming out of the alley. He looked suspicious, or embarrassed. I took a few steps then turned to look into the window of a bagel shop. Glancing back, I saw no tall guys. Probably nothing.
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“Nothing. He’s not there.”
“I have proof that he died.”
“Forgery. We have no official records of his existence, so the law says he ain’t, and he never was.”
I said, “That tall fellow who was standing outside your building. Dark hair. Mustache.”
“Len Boscombe. Weirdo.”
“This from a guy who wears shades indoors. When it’s raining.”
“Freaks out the straights. People leave me alone that way. But this guy is really an eightball.”
“He a computer programmer?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I’m a detective. Did you notice him in the alley as we passed?”
“No. But he wouldn’t be out of place. Seriously, he’s the kind of guy who gets picked up by aliens. He’ll shoot up a McDonald’s someday.”
I said, “Okay. Let’s pretend Aaron Markham Carlisle really was born, and then really died. Could the record be erased?”
“I guess so. But why would anybody want to do that? The records are full of names. Dead, born, still around. Millions of names.”
“That’s what intrigues me.”
“Might be worth a couple more Churchills.”
“Maybe.” We’d gotten to the corner, where he would be going back to his building. “Call me if he shows back up.”
“Sure. One day you’re dead, next day you were never born, next day you’re back being dead again.”
We parted company quickly, to get back to work. I, for one, was eager. I suddenly had a case. As far as Aaron Markham Carlisle was concerned, somebody had slipped up.
Coffee Time
I went back to my office, phoned Loralee, talked to Clarissa, said I was on a trail and needed to talk to Loralee as soon as possible. Then I picked up the folder Clarissa had given me, took it a couple blocks to Kinko’s Copy Shop where I made copies of everything. I walked another four or five blocks to the Capitol Post Office. I mailed the copies, return receipt, to myself. Was I being too careful? I wasn’t used to dealing with dead people who suddenly never had existed. I walked two more blocks back to my office. So far I was getting paid for getting some exercise.
The mail had arrived: a catalog of fun police-type toys. My answering machine had two messages, first from a Shara Verche, distributor of Vita Green. Second, from Loralee Carlisle. I called back, told Clarissa to tell Loralee 'tag, you're it.' I called Shara Verche back and left a message on her answering machine. I reheated a cup of coffee in the microwave and sat down to wait.
Waiting and watching is hard. Waiting without something to watch courts madness. Attention Deficit Disorder has a free-for-all up in the head that way. To give myself a focus I doodle, read, stare out the window, take naps. I did them all. When the phone rang I noticed that only a half hour had passed.
The pleasant, ethereal alto of Shara Verche said she was glad to finally be speaking to the real me.
“Yeah,” I replied. “The great thing about modern technology is you don’t ever have to talk to anybody if you don’t want to.”
“Umm, heheh. What can I do for you?”
“I’m doing some investigating into the affairs of the late Aaron Carlisle—specifically, details about the Vita Green corporate structure.”
“Now, or then?”
“Both. Who did Loralee Carlisle sell the company to?”
“David Zaroff.”
“When?”
“Last October.”
“A month after Aaron Carlisle’s death.”
“Yes. Loralee told us at the funeral she was putting the company on the market.”
“Were you and the Carlisles close?”
“Like family. Of course, in the alternative health field we’re all like family.”
“Are you still close to Loralee?”
“We’re good friends.”
“Did she ever mention being uneasy about the circumstances of Aaron’s sudden death?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Definitely not.”
“Just curious.”
“Shara,” I said, probably a little too thin-skinned. “I’ll be glad to meet you later where I can show you my license.”
“Not necessary,” she laughed. She had a low, sensual laugh. “My intuition tells me you’re okay. You learn to trust your instincts, usually. But the truth is, that in addition to dispensing Vita Green products, I’m a certified massage therapist. Well, the law assumes we’re all prostitutes, so….”
“I get it. Sorry.”
“No problem. But since you ask, Loralee was never quite right about Aaron’s death. Not just the suddenness of it. Well, there goes intuition again.”
“Anything she said?”
There was a slight pause. “Let’s see. Let me think.”
“Take your time.”
“We talked business, we talked personally, we talked about other things, and everything was interwoven. Aaron was a marvelous promoter, a hard realist, but also a starry-eyed dreamer. Loralee is a dreamer without peer, but she has an edge of hard realism to her, too. It made a nice, complementary marriage, and it was a good business setup. We all made money, and they were constantly hinting that there were bigger things to come. I believed them.”
“Any
