Fiction
Bottom Of The Glass
Crime Fiction by Thomas G. Madsen
Ashe Wycliff climbed the stone passages, keeping to the shade. He had to escape the stifling grind of his dead-end job. But he had been saying that for years. Right now, he just needed distance. And a drink.
He’d spent nine years in Tangier with little to show for it. World events had passed him by like indifferent cab drivers. Too old to enlist in 1942, adrift in his career, and too young to retire. Deserving G.I.s flooded the job market at war’s end, squeezing him out.
Family said the expatriate life might suit him. With nothing keeping him in the States, he took a chance on Morocco. By 1957, he’d been married and divorced and reached mid-level management in an import firm. He spent more time looking in the rearview mirror than through the windshield.
Pausing in the shade of a two-level house, he shed his sports coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He extracted a handkerchief from the coat pocket, mopped his forehead, and tucked the sports coat in the crook of his arm. Fifty-five; getting too old for this climb. No others in sight. In two hours, housekeepers and nannies would corpuscle down these passages.
He walked on, navigating the branched passageways like a salmon seeking its home stream. Squinting in the sun, fanning himself in the shade, past houses fifty years old, others two hundred, sensing eyes but never seeing their owners.
At a gap in the maze, he peered out over the old Medina. Fifty meters above it, one could imagine that the chatter and bustle of the street markets and food vendors was the buzz of a beehive. The murmur-buzz was broken only by the occasional staccato rasp of a distant motor scooter. Ashe pictured a fatigued Vespa snaking through the alleys, a shoulder-high produce rack behind its rider, dodging vendor stalls and the oblivious foreign shoppers fanning blue exhaust smoke from their faces.
The sun was relentless. He climbed.
He came to the familiar stone stairway, shaded by an ancient apartment over a white stucco half-arch. Halfway up, a landing interrupted the curve of the stairway, giving access to a weathered wood door with black iron hinges. A tourist would not know this place.
It was Hakim’s, the preferred café in Tangier. It served the best tajine. And it drew an elite clientele: artists, reporters, diplomats, starters of trends, and movers of movements. A table in the corner window offered a view of the Kasbah’s wall. Glass hookahs on the tables overlooking the Medina refracted sunlight into diamond-shaped rainbows on the opposite walls. The spot attracted business with aromas of spicy tajine, hot mint tea, and the scent of hashish. Hash was illegal, but ‘illegal’ was negotiable. Some whispered that the kitchen cooked more than food.
The namesake owner wore a red fez, which appeared to squeeze the upper part of his head into his cheeks and jaw. An oily black mustache perched like a leech on his top lip. He wore a white shirt, yellowed at the banded collar and under the arms. His blue vest stayed open, the gold buttons having long ago lost hope of reaching the buttonholes. The wooden stool at Hakim’s cash register was overmatched by its occupant; customers wagered on when it would fail.
The Tangier Register featured a regular column titled “Seen at Hakim’s.”
Despite ten solo visits to the cafe, Ashe did not have even a glancing acquaintance with Hakim.
He studied the stone steps and climbed on.
The passage opened onto the Cercle de la Sommet — the Summit Circle — which hung like a necklace around the top of the hill. At the outside of the curve nestled a bungalow at number Seventeen. Ashe knew that it opened up at the back, at the brow of the hill, with an east-facing view over the harbor.
He walked under date palms shading the brick pathway and opened the front door without knocking.
Inside, a shadow froze at his entrance. He recognized the silhouette as Cruz, backlit by the sunlight streaming in from the window. The shape flashed a grin that pierced the backlit shadow. Paired with the sha-sha-sha sound of the copper cocktail shaker, it was a better greeting than words.
Ashe gaped. “But how did you know….?”
The shadow nodded at the Art Deco clock on the opposite wall. “Four-thirty.”
“That predictable, am I?”
“Punctuality,” Cruz said. “Seldom practiced anymore.” Ashe’s eyes adjusted to the glare, and he gradually made out Cruz’s face, nodding at the terrace. “Leave your sandals. Comfortable in the shade.” He uncapped the shaker with a metallic swaack and poured. Ashe salivated at the playful tinks of ice and slosh of liquor cascading into glasses.
It was the best time of the day.
Ashe hung his coat on the hook by the front door. He kicked off his sandals and stepped barefoot through the open white plantation shutter doors to the terrace, shaded by the bungalow.
He sat in the wicker chair with the faded blue cushion next to the glass-topped cocktail table. The tabletop was freshly polished and set with a purple orchid in a terra cotta pot, accompanied by two round cloth coasters. No detail overlooked. He had the best view of the harbor, with commercial ships and sailboats knifing through the white froth, navigating their way to and from the Atlantic and the Mediterranean.
Cruz joined him and set a drink on each coaster. He sat in the opposite chair, the pink cushioned one, sun-bleached from its original red.
Cruz offered the toast. “Health!”
“Cheers!” Ashe raised his glass but paused to sniff. His nostrils flared at the licorice fragrance from the absinthe rinse. He sipped, eying Cruz over the rim of his glass.
“Best old-fashioned in the hemisphere,” he said.
Cruz had refined the classic old-fashioned recipe into the Picasso of cocktails. He rinsed the glass with absinthe before pouring the cocktail and ice from the shaker. Absinthe, the aromatic herb-infused spirit favored by artists and aristocrats, thought to have hallucinogenic properties, banned in most of Europe and the United States but available in Morocco if one knew where to look. Cruz had found a fine Spanish brand in some secret quarter of the Medina.
Ashe played in his mind once again the short film of Cruz’s imagined absinthe pilgrimage.
Cruz glides through the Medina and up a tucked-away passage. The passageway narrows, climbing around a curve the sun never reached. He approaches an unmarked shop, checks up and down the passage, and enters. The shop owner Mahmud fetches the absinthe unasked as Cruz steps to the counter. Mahmud returns, nods, and says, “Monsieur Blanchemont.” He keeps stock in the Absenta Montanabrand because Monsieur Blanchemont visits on the first of the month and he pays a sweet price. Mahmud places the box in a plain bag, folds and creases the top. Cruz extracts a wad of francs from his billfold (‘the extra is for you, Mahmud’), lays it on the counter, and, fingering the brim of his Panama hat with a nod, picks up the bag and leaves. Mahmud marks his calendar. Cruz descends the stonework to the bustle of the main street through the Medina, past the rug vendors and spice merchants in their street stalls, hawking their wares in stilted French.
Cruz acknowledged Ashe’s compliment on the drink. “Thank you, squire.” He gazed out over the harbor. “But speaking of hemispheres, why do you limit yourself to this one, Ashe? You should travel. Nothing is keeping you here.”
Ashe raised an eyebrow. “Would you go with me? Europe? Asia?”
“Ah, Ashe. You know what people would say.”
“I’m sure they would. But when has that ever mattered to you?”
“I’m serious, Ashe. You should leave. Or take an extended holiday. It would do you good to breathe different air.”
“Ah, you know me, Cruz. Creature of habit. I’m a fixture in Tangier now.
“Any family back in the States? Friends?” Cruz asked.
“Some extended family, yes. But we’re estranged. As to friends, my link to our social circle here in Tangier was Margie. I didn’t row crew for Yale, so I was an accessory.”
Cruz absorbed that. “I never see you at the club anymore.”
Ashe shrugged. “I still go, although not as often. I don’t want to be gossip fodder, pitied by the cliques.
“Gossip fodder? I think you flatter yourself, my friend. I think the brokers of that commodity have moved on. Plus, the ex-pat community turns over constantly. There’s probably no one there who knows you anymore. Ashe, it’s been — what — four years now? Do you still pay dues?”
“Three-and-a-half years. But she still goes there with what’s his name. Yes, I still pay dues.”
“Singles dues? Or couples?” asked Cruz.
“Couples.”
“Jesus, Ashe. Why? After all this time?”
“Ah. Denial. Procrastination. Maybe shame.”
Cruz pressed, “Well, which is it?”
Ashe thought. “Maybe all of the above. I haven’t picked it apart.”
“Damn it, Ashe. Sell the membership. It would fetch at least a few thousand francs. You don’t go there enough to justify the dues.”
“I go, some. Charity galas. Cocktail socials for commerce executives.”
“The events to which she and what’s his name never go,” murmured Cruz.
“Anyway, the club is part of my identity,” said Ashe, “I love Tangier. I’ll die here.”
“What do you love about it? I would think it’s grown rather small for you.”
“Ah, what’s not to love? The history. The food. The climate.”
“The people?” ventured Cruz.
“Yes, of course, the people. I bundled them into the other categories.”
“Mm,” murmured Cruz. “Speak any French?”
Ashe turned to him. “You know I don’t.”
“Arabic?”
“Now you’re just needling me, Cruz. Too late for me to learn a new language.”
“So, you run only in English-speaking ex-pat circles,” said Cruz.
“When I run, yes.”
Cruz allowed an intermission. “Tide’s coming in. Folks on the beach seeking the afternoon breeze coming off the Atlantic.”
Ashe followed his gaze. “Cruz, how long have we known each other?”
“About five years now. You were in a bad way, then.”
“That’s right,” said Ashe. “And how many cocktail hours since then?”
“Hundreds, easily.”
“Yes, and you showed up and consoled me through the breakup and the divorce. You appeared in the hospital when I had pneumonia.”
Cruz eyed him.
“What I’m saying, Cruz, is that I consider you my best friend.”
“Well, that’s kind of you, Ashe.” He raised his glass again.
Ashe scowled but touched glasses and sipped.
“But I know next to nothing about you,” he persisted. “I have respected your privacy, but you never say anything about yourself. I’m burning with curiosity.”
“Why now?” said Cruz.
“Not sure. I’m older. Perhaps it’s a growing sense of mortality.” He smirked at his weak humor, but Cruz deadpanned. Ashe went on. “I feel an … imbalance in our relationship. I’ve shared my vulnerabilities, but you haven’t. Hell, you could blackmail me easily.”
Cruz stroked his five o’clock shadow.
“Cruz, would you consider me your best friend?”
Cruz sat back and the wicker squeaked. “Ashe, to the extent that the concept exists for me, no one would compete with you.”
“Hmm. Heartwarming.”
“Sorry if that came across as aloof.”
“Cruz, I’m going to ask you some questions. You can answer or not. I will respect your boundaries.”
Cruz frowned. “All right then, Ashe. Carry on.”
“‘Blanchemont’ is French, isn’t it?”
“Belgian,” said Cruz. “The French-speaking side in the south.”
“And why ‘Cruz’ with ‘Blanchemont?’ ‘Cruz’ is a woman’s name in Spain and Latin America, no?”
“It goes either way, like Francis or Taylor.”
“But it means ‘cross’ in Spanish. Does that speak to your heritage?”
“Are you sure you want to pursue this, Ashe?”
“Cruz, either kill my curiosity or kill me,” Ashe said. “What do you do on your travels? Is your wealth inherited? Stolen? I don’t even know your age. I know you speak French and English. Ever been married? Family? Are you a businessman? A fugitive? A spy? Hell, are you a vampire?” Then, more measured, “Yes, Cruz, I really want to know.”
Cruz sighed and stood. “Well, then. If you’re going to press this, we’ll need to refresh our drinks.” He picked up the glasses and went inside.
Ashe stood and leaned on the wrought-iron railing, still warm from its earlier baking in the sun. Below, shadows slanted. The Atlantic breeze kicked up whitecaps in the cobalt-blue bay beyond the breakwater. Across the Strait of Gibraltar, thirty kilometers away, the low blue mountains of Bolonia and Valdevaqueros peered over the horizon from Spain.
Closer in, one structure stood out. The tower of the Grand Mosque loomed over its neighborhood, casting its shadow across three houses. It was built on the bones of a church, once Portuguese but later Spanish. Everything was something else below the surface. He looked at his watch — four forty p.m. At five thirty, the call to the Asr late afternoon prayer would come from that tower.
Ashe could no longer live with the enigma of his friend. He had probed at it for years. He related details about his life, hoping Cruz would open up about his. He had shared the traumas and fears from his childhood, the pain from the breakup of his marriage, the grief and humiliation of the divorce, and the giddy triumphs and gutting craters of his career. He had baited Cruz with criticisms of politics, movies, and sports. Cruz never took the bait.
And when he lost patience with the subtle approach and asked Cruz direct questions, Cruz dodged and begged off. He “wanted to forget that part of his life,” or “it was too painful to share,” or he “was trying to put it behind him,” or, with that Chesire Cat smile of his, “I could tell you, but then I couldn’t guarantee your safety.” It was maddening.
The sha-sha-sha sound of the cocktail shaker reached him. The tastebuds at the sides of his tongue perked up. In a few moments, he would raise his glass and look at the bay through the clear caramel prism, with a scented invitation from the bourbon and absinthe. The silky liquid would coat his mouth. His nostrils would flare at the sweet citrus sting from the orange twist with which Cruz creased the rim of the glass, soon followed by the soothing warmth of the bourbon spreading through his chest.
He anticipated the drink and the company every day on his way up those stone passages.
The shaking stopped, followed by the sound of the shaker uncapping and the pouring of cocktails into fresh glasses, and then the muffled footfalls of Cruz’s bare feet on the polished cedar floor of the sitting room. He appeared with an amber cylinder in each hand. The cloth coasters were almost dry after their first drinks. He set the fresh ones down.
Cruz raised his glass. “To best friends, then.”
Ashe frowned. “Best friends,” he said, transactionally. They clinked glasses.
“I’m sorry, Ashe. That toast came across as patronizing. I’m not very good at this stuff.” He sat back. They fell into a comfortable silence. Ashe finally broke it.
“What do you do, Cruz? What’s the source of your wealth?”
“I wouldn’t say that I’m wealthy.”
Ashe swung his gaze around the property. “Well, wealthier than your humble, honest tradesman.”
“Don’t diminish yourself, Ashe. Honest merchants are the pumping blood of Tangier. Where would we be without them? We would implode from corruption.”
Ashe went on. “Anyway, you’re certainly comfortable. What’s your secret? Many would like to know.”
“Ashe, you know that I’m a government contractor.”
“Cruz, that tells me nothing, and you know it. What do you do for them, and which government?”
Cruz sighed. “It’s various governments. Sometimes, they need services their ministries can’t or won’t handle. That’s when they call me.”
Ashe drummed his fingers on the table. Cruz rolled his eyes.
“Okay. Let me paint a picture. “I came to Tangier in 1952. It was still in French hands, but the forces of Muslim independence were growing. The French wanted to prevent independence or at least stall it. As you know, Tangier is a busy port. The French were getting rich off it, whether legally or not.
Those players were motivated,” he rubbed his thumb and index finger together, “very motivated, to keep control of the port as long as possible.”
Ashe sipped with his left hand and rotated his right, signaling Cruz to continue.
“So, the French put me to work to forestall the Muslim takeover. We agreed on ‘projects,’ each with its own contract.”
Ashe pressed. “But what were the services you provided, Cruz?”
“Loosely, I would call it ‘political influence.’ But the terms of those contracts prohibit me from saying more. What I’ve just told you might already violate those agreements.
Ashe weighed this. “Well, can you say what happened before the Muslims took control?”
“Well, by 1954, the scales were tipping toward independence. The French began to see independence as inevitable and no longer saw value in political influence. My business almost dried up.
“Then an interesting thing happened. The Muslims were motivated to speed up the independence process. So, I started picking up business from them.”
“The Muslims weren’t concerned about engaging you after you served the French? They must have known, no? No conflict of interest there?”
“They did know, yes. And they weren’t … concerned, that is.”
Ashe hiked an eyebrow. Cruz continued.
“The Muslims knew that my services were not tied to any country or political allegiances. They were services-for-hire. I didn’t have much competition. Neither the French nor the Muslims had resources that could do what I do, what I did. With little competition, I commanded high prices for my work.”
“And the French? How did they feel about your switch to the other side?”
“I masked my services and changed my modus operandi so they never knew it was me. Took some doing. I adopted my merchant profession façade as a cover. They believed it or just ignored it. Maybe they were too caught up in all the changes. But that cover is part of my toolkit now.”
Ashe went on. “So, no loyalties to any country? Not to Belgium? France? Anyone else?”
“None,” said Cruz. “I carry a Belgian passport. But I serve no country’s agenda.”
“The arrangements with the Muslims were similar to the ones you had with the French? Contracts and all?”
“Yes, I saw no reason to change it. Lends an air of professionalism.”
“These contracts were in writing?” Ashe said.
“I’m afraid that question is off-limits.”
“Jesus, Cruz. We’re just scratching the surface, but it sounds very cloak-and-dagger.”
“It’s just a business, Ashe. Supply. Demand. Customer service.”
Ashe continued. “You mentioned that these services were ‘what you did.’ Sounded past tense. Are you retired?”
“Pretty much. I take an occasional project. But mostly, I’ve passed the baton to the next generation.”
“How about family?”
“Lost two brothers in the war, in the Ardennes. Parents passed.”
“So, no family ties, no allegiances to any country or political philosophy.”
“That’s right,” said Cruz. “Man without a country.”
Ashe went silent. He scoured his mind for other lines of inquiry.
He flashed on his first memory of Cruz as if through the fuzz of a dream. It was at the American Club. Despite the ‘American’ in its name, it served ex-pats from all over the world, but Arabs were not welcome. The buzz of half a dozen languages filled the smoking lounge most days.
Cruz saunters past the fountain in the courtyard and into the shade of the open-air lounge with the slow-rotating ceiling fans. He tamps a pack of Rothmans against his left palm, extracts one, and fires it with a gold lighter. Razor-cut arc of short brown hair at the back of his neck, just above the crisp white collar of his Egyptian cotton shirt, open at the throat. Perfectly creased white linen trousers. Blue paisley silk scarf at his neck, stylishly knotted. Italian leather loafers, no socks. Bronzed as if he spent afternoons on the tennis court. His white clothing enhances his rich color. Even his ankles are tanned. The teeth look plugged in when he can be bothered to show them.
He glides into the club, and all chatter pauses; heads of both sexes turn. The bartender intercepts him at the corner of the mahogany bar. They exchange a few words. The barman nods, turns, and reaches for a bottle of Beefeater gin on the top shelf. Cruz leans his back on the bar, takes a drag from his cigarette, and checks his watch. The barman returns with the gin and tonic in a highball glass with ice and a slice of Persian lime. Cruz nods, toasts him with a tilt of the glass, and fishes some francs from his pocket. The barman nods and knocks twice on the bar. Cruz turns, spots someone in the lounge, offers a nod of recognition, and heads over. The nearby club members try to recall where their conversations left off.
“Another?” Cruz held up his empty glass.
“Usually, two is my limit,” said Ashe. “But, oh hell. Why not?” And he knocked back the remains of his drink, ice cubes trying to maneuver around his upper lip. He handed the glass over.
“Right back,” said Cruz.
The horn sounded from the Grand Mosque, followed by the call to prayer over the loudspeaker. Ashe leaned over the railing again. Shadows slanted almost horizontally. Crowds thinned on the beach five kilometers away. He caught movement out of his left eye. The next-door neighbor, a wealthy Arab, watered potted plants on his terrace. They exchanged nods. The neighbor went back into his house.
Cruz returned with fresh old-fashioneds. They toasted Tangier. Then, they sat silently until Ashe picked up the conversation thread.
“Cruz, it sounds like you dealt in contraband. What was it? Arms? Opium?”
Cruz leveled a stare at Ashe for a five-count. Mouth a thin line, he said, “You want some? Opium?”
Ashe froze, drink poised, eyes wide.
Cruz’s mouth curled at the corners, then broke into a broad smirk. “Sorry, Ashe. I couldn’t resist. You should have seen your face. He slapped his knee and laughed out loud. “You have to admit, you walked into that one.”
Ashe managed a chagrined smile. “I suppose I did.” A flush went up his neck to his ears, but he did not try to push it down. Was he finally breaking through Cruz’s walls?
“But, to answer your question,” Cruz continued, “no, no contraband. Too risky. My contracts are always just political influence. I never veer from that.”
They nursed their drinks. The sun melted into the Atlantic. Lights sparked to life at the far side of the bay. Ashe squinted, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Each of the lights had a twin. Fatigue?
“So, this profession of yours,” he said. “Did you practice it before you came here? And where was that?”
“Ah, yes, mein commandant,” said Cruz. He held his drink by the bottom of the glass and turned it between thumb and forefinger, peering through it at Ashe in the diminishing light. He set it down.
“Indochina,” he finally said.
“Indochina! Well, then. That was also in service to the French, no?”
“It was. Provided good references when I came here.”
“And it was dangerous, no?”
“It was.”
“You did the same work there?”
“I did.”
Ashe squinted and scrunched his face, but the horizon wouldn’t come into focus. Damn, do I need glasses? “Same work, then? ‘Political influence’?”
“Same work.”
Ashe wavered, aroused at Cruz taking him into his confidence but chilled by the clipped answers. This must be how a tight-rope walker feels, poised high above ground, with no net below. His head pounded, and his eyes refused to focus.
“Cruz,” he said, forcing a tight squint, “does ‘political influence’ ever involve … hurting people? Blackmailing?” Should I cross the line? “Killing people?”
Cruz, elbow on the table, held his drink chest-high and narrowed his eyes.
“Cruz?” pursued Ashe. He furrowed his brow. His mouth wouldn’t obey commands. A wave of nausea wobbled him. Concentrate! Why can’t I focus? Is the third drink affecting me this much? Am I losing my tolerance for alcohol?
“Jesus, Cruz. I’m … unsteady. Maybe I should lie …” He tried to stand but stumbled over the wicker chair, elbow flailing to break his fall. “Oh, Jesus. I am ssso … sorrrry …Cruzzzz,” he slurred. His tongue went rubbery.
Cruz rushed to his side and held up his head.
“It’s all right, Ashe. It’s painless. You’ll fall asleep now. It’s all right.”
“Juussssss ….” was all Ashe could manage.
“And for what it’s worth, I did mean it, Ashe. You are my best friend.”
***
Police Inspector Fahad appraised the neighborhood. Posh place. I could never afford this, so close to the Medina and the Kasbah. He sighed and turned to the bungalow. What trouble are these infidels getting up to now?
He walked up the brick path and elbowed open the front door. Inside stood Officer Achmed, who had called him, interrupting his dinner.
“What do we have, Achmed?”
“Dead man on the terrace. Next-door neighbor said he saw him out there alone when afternoon prayer sounded. He was okay then. At six p.m., the neighbor saw him like that,” he pointed his pen out the doors to the terrace,” and called us. No sign of forced entry. The front door was unlocked when we arrived. No sign of injury or trauma on the body. His feet are bare, but the sandals are over there.” He pointed to the floor under the coat hook. “That’s all we have so far.”
“All right. Okay if I take a look?”
“Please.”
Fahad stepped to the terrace. The victim lay on his side, facing the railing. A wicker chair near the body was pushed back from a cocktail table. A matching chair was on the other side of the table but showed no sign that it had recently been occupied. One half-filled cocktail glass sat on the table.
Fahad leaned to peer at the front of the body, whose eyes were open. Fahad hated that. Ghastly. He was more at ease when their eyes were shut. The mouth was open, and the blue tongue protruded. Heart attack? he wondered.
He stood and sniffed the cocktail glass. As an orthodox Muslim, he didn’t drink, but he knew the scents. Hmm, whiskey, orange. But there was something else, faint. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, used it to pick up the glass by the rim, and held it up to the light coming from the bungalow. Sure enough: the fine, oily ghosts of a thumbprint, two fingerprints, and lip prints on the rim. Almost certainly belonged to the poor man at his feet. But it would need to be analyzed anyhow. Procedure, procedure. He set the glass back on the table.
He debated bending down near the victim’s face to sniff for alcohol. The prospect made him shudder. Perhaps the situation wouldn’t require it. It was a pretty safe assumption that the victim had consumed half of that cocktail. He stood. He could always come back if the case were more complicated than it appeared.
He scanned the area. Lovely spot, he thought, if you weren’t working. The lights at the far side of the harbor hinted at interesting lives. He went back inside.
Achmed scrawled in his notebook. Fahad spied something on the bar.
“Did you see the cocktail shaker?”
Achmed looked up with mild indignation. “Yes, of course, boss.”
Fahad stepped behind the bar. He found a half-bottle of bourbon, a small bottle of something he didn’t recognize with a label in Spanish, a bottle of bitters, and a small bowl with thin orange slices. Handkerchief in hand, he opened the Spanish bottle and sniffed. Ah! That’s the other scent he whiffed from the glass outside: a sharp aromatic smell that reminded him of a child’s sweet.
A small jar containing white powder sat on the bar. He picked it up with the handkerchief, untwisted its cap, and sniffed. No odor. Replacing the lid and turning to the cocktail shaker, he opened it and peered inside. Hmm, a grainy residue near the rim. He sniffed. The scent in the shaker matched the glass outside, except the shaker had no aromatic whiff.
“Let’s bag these bottles and the glass outside,” he told Achmed. “The lab should dust them for prints, and we need to dust that front doorknob. Plus, we’ll need them to analyze this powder jar. And this grainy ring inside the shaker could be undiluted sugar, could be something else.” Pause. “Anything else?”
“Nothing so far. Looks like he was alone.”
“Did the neighbor say that the guy he saw on the terrace is the owner? Do we know his name?”
“Yes, the neighbor said he is — was — the owner. Name’s … give me a second,” Achmed flipped a page back in his notebook. “Name’s Ashe Wycliff.”
“So, prints on the cocktail glass. No sign of guests or forced entry, or violence on the body. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Achmed looked up. “Yeah, I’m betting suicide. You?”
“By poison, probably. That little bottle with the white powder.”
“Likely,” said Achmed.
Fahad nodded. “Looks open and shut.”
“Probably,” said Achmed. “Sorry I called you. Maybe you didn’t need to be here.”
“No worries. It was the right thing to do,” Fahad said. “So, you can manage here without me, then, yes? I want to get back before my dinner–and my wife–get cold.”
— — —
Bio: Thomas is a retired, recovering corporate executive. He splits his time between Fort Lauderdale and coffee-growing country in Brazil. In 2020, he published the memoir ‘Relentless — From Both Sides of the Veil.’ In 2024 he co-edited ‘Helping Fathers Heal — Grief, Hope, and Our Search for Connection.’ In 2025, his short story ‘Phobias’ was published in Flash Fiction Magazine.
Cover photo created by the author
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