Fiction
It Never Starts With A Body Part 3
A Sunny Alexander-Johnson And Henry James Series By P.G. & Sharon Barnett
My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson, and I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
We would have liked to have said as weekends go, ours was just a routine, run of the mill couple of days. Yes, we would have loved to, but unfortunately, with our family and our line of work, there’s no such thing.
Monday morning came on us quicker than a robotic hare racing around a greyhound track, and although we each loved our specific family members, we were happy to show up earlier than usual for a brief respite.
Since, Rick McDonnell, our editor in chief, decided to have a mini-meltdown we huddled in the breakroom until the carnage was over then cautiously made our ways to the writer’s bullpen.
Regular Mondays around Dark Sides, especially for the writing staff, was putting a cap on last week’s activities and dealing with the always tedious last-minute editorial changes from the copy desk.
In our case, the tedium was just what we needed to take our minds off of what happened over the weekend.
Neither of us really paid attention to a man who stepped out of the elevators, walked past the bullpen, then stepped into Rick’s office. Minutes later, the same man walked out of Rick’s office toward us. Slightly balding, and wearing a dark blue jacket that seemed just a little too tight around the stomach and shoulders, he picked up his pace as he zeroed in on us.
His pair of wrinkled slacks and thick-soled cushioned shoes and a scowl that seemed permanently etched on his face told us his profession before he ever reached our desks.
When he stopped just beside our desks, he unbuttoned his jacket, removed his shield, then flashed it at us and tucked it back on his belt.
“Folks, the name’s detective Charlie Alvarez, Austin police department. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Sure detective. There’s a conference room right down that hallway past the breakroom. Henry and I are going to get some more coffee would like some?”
“Sure.”
We got up at the same time and headed to the break room, refreshed ours then poured detective Alvarez a cup.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Uh, no ma’am. I like it straight up.”
“Of course you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing officer. My partner Henry here drinks his the same way, that’s all. I guess you two are cut from the same bolt of cloth.”
“Oh. So about that conference room?”
Seeing as good-natured banter was going to be utterly impossible with the man, we quickly led him to a small conference room then waited until he sat and we closed the door and sat opposite him.
After clearing his throat a couple of times and sipping his coffee a few times, he placed the cup on the table, leaned forward, and withdrew a notebook and pen from inside his coat pocket.
“So I received a kind of weird call from a buddy of mine over the weekend. It seems as if Manny Hermanos and you two know each other.”
“We do. We’ve grown quite close over the years.”
“Yeah, he said that. He also said he works with your husband, Mrs. Johnson…”
“Alexander-Johnson.”
“Sorry. Is that correct? Does Manny work with Robert Johnson?”
“Correct?”
“So can you tell me Mrs. Alexander-Johnson why Manny would be placing a call around seven-thirty AM this past Saturday reporting that a body had been found in an abandoned warehouse downtown?”
“Quite a reasonable explanation, detective.”
“I’d love to hear it, ma’am, but before you continue, I should let you know. I met your husband and Manny this morning before coming over here. Something’s not making sense to me. Maybe you can help with that. Why would two people who specialize in cybersecurity and homeland security be snooping around an abandoned warehouse on a Saturday morning?”
“Detective Alvarez, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you heard of Alexander Pharmaceuticals and Alexander Investments?”
“I have, sir.”
“Well, I’m married to Cynthia Alexander, and Cynthia asked Robert, her son-in-law if he and Manny could check out the building for her. Alexander Pharmaceutical is planning an expansion, and they want to use the building where they originally started the company.”
Detective Alvarez dutifully recorded some notes and then took another sip of coffee and cleared his throat.
“Sorry, folks, my allergies are kicking my butt this morning. So, do either of you know Richard Carlson?”
“No, should we?”
“Well, the reason Manny called me was that he and your husband found Mr. Carleson dead of an apparent suicide in that abandoned warehouse Saturday morning. Of course, they immediately called the police. I would have thought you’re husband or Manny would have mentioned something about that.”
“They did, but it doesn’t change the fact. I don’t know Richard Carlson, have never met the man and wouldn’t know him if he was sitting right here in this conference room with us.”
Detective Alvarez offered us a wry grin, eased back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach. Finally, he nodded as if to say he’d heard what he expected to hear.
“Mr. James? You’ve got anything to add?”
“Nope, my partner said it all.”
The man nodded once more, pushed his chair away from the table, and stood. Wordlessly, he walked to the door and laid a set of short stubby fingers on the door handle, then he turned and faced us.
“Okay, Manny said you two were probably the best in the business about stuff like this, and if possible, I needed to give you a wide berth. I’ve known Manny since we were in the academy together, so I’m going to roll with him on this one. Come to the police station this afternoon at three, and I’ll show you what we have so far.”
“What do you mean what we have so far?”
“Ma’am, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I got to tell ya I ain’t never seen a suicide like this one.”
“Detective Alvarez, are…”
“Charlie, please.”
“Okay, Charlie, are you telling us this man was murdered?”
“According to Manny, you two are a couple of whiz kids. Let me show you what I have, and you tell me. See you at three this afternoon.”
We stared at the doorway for the longest time in silence and then gazed at one another.
“How the hell did he know that?”
“Hey, he’s a detective. It’s what he does, princess.”
“No dumb butt. How did my father, my father who’s been deceased for over thirty years, know Richard Carlson didn’t kill himself?”
“As Groucho once said, “that’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
“Who the hell is Groucho?”
“Seriously, princess. You don’t know about Groucho Marx? You know the Marx brothers?”
“They a singing group?”
“Oh, for the love of God, Johnson. Forget it, and let’s get our stuff done. I’m going to call Cynthia and let her know. I’d suggest you call your husband and keep him and Manny in the loop.”
“No, seriously. Are the Marx brothers a band or something?”
“Put a sock in it, Shaundrika. I’ll tell you later.”
Read On — It Never Starts With A Body Part 4
Let’s keep in touch: P.G. & Sharon Barnett
© P.G. Barnett, 2020. All Rights Reserved.