IQ(21)

“Yeah, I know, but what can I do? People feel sorry for the dead. Y’all want something to drink?”

“Thank you, Cal, but we’re good,” Dodson said, smiling at Isaiah.

“All right, everybody,” Anthony said, like he was herding old people into the community room. “Let’s get seated, shall we?”

Cal stood nuzzling the cat while the fellas arranged themselves on a U-shaped sofa that curled around a Sharp ninety-inch HD smart TV. The brothers sat on one end, Isaiah and Dodson on the other, Anthony in the middle with the remote. The TV screen was divided into a grid of six smaller screens, each showing a different part of the house, the images crisp, clear, and in color.

“This is Friday night,” Anthony said.

The time code said 10:47. Cal came out of a bedroom and moved down the hall. He walked slowly with his feet close to the floor, almost gliding. In the hooded robe and aviators he looked like the Fly turned monk on his way to evening prayers. The house felt deserted, like people had escaped.

“I can speed this up,” Anthony said, “nothing happens for a while.”

“No, let it play,” Isaiah said.

Anthony toggled the remote, the screens following Cal down the sweeping staircase through the foyer and into the living room, where he stopped to stare at some paintings before moving on.

“Please don’t be offended,” Dodson said, “these questions are just routine. Charles, where were you that night?”

“Clubbin’ with Kartel and them,” Charles said.

“I see. Would Kartel and them be available for an interview?”

“Fuck no.”

Isaiah was cringing inside. Dodson was doing CSI.

“Bug was supposed to be here all night,” Anthony said, “but he left early.”

“Cal was asleep,” Bug said. “What am I supposed to do here by myself?”

“Where did you go, Bug?” Dodson said.

“To see that PAWG,” Charles said, smirking.

“What’s a PAWG?” Anthony said.

“Phat Ass White Girl.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“We might want to contact the PAWG for further questioning,” Dodson said. “Can I have her name?”

“Uh-huh,” Bug said. “Her name is bitch.”


Cal massaged the cat, feeling it purr through his fingertips. He recalled that night in some detail. Funny, because what he’d done since this morning was a blur. He remembered how glad he was when Bug left early and he was alone and how he’d dropped some pills and smoked a joint and how he’d gone through the house not believing all the shit he’d bought. What was he thinking, paying real money for a fourteenth-century Scottish battle-ax or the monogrammed platinum candlesticks or the chandeliers that looked like the spaceship from Close Encounters or the massive teak throne he’d never sat in or the seven-piece Mistral sectional that was still wrapped in plastic, and where did those paintings come from? His portrait didn’t look anything like him. Since when did he have shoulders round as cannonballs and a stomach like six bricks were stuck under his skin? And what was so important about Michael Corleone sitting in an armchair that he had to be taking up space on the living room wall? Cal recognized Malcolm X in the third painting but couldn’t remember anything about him except that Denzel played him in the movie.

Cal watched Anthony’s cousin trying to play cop and not really pulling it off. It was hard to act official when you looked like Katt Williams.

“What time did you leave the house, Bug?” Dodson said.

“Ten-thirty,” Bug said. “I locked up, turned the alarm on, checked the windows and doors, everything. I was gonna come back like I always do, two three in the morning.”

“Anthony?” Dodson said. “What about you?”

“I went to see a friend,” Anthony said, “and her name is none of your business.”

“The mystery girl,” Charles said, “if it is a girl. Where you get that sweater, man?”

Cal saw himself on the kitchen screen getting some takeout boxes out of the fridge. Strange, seeing yourself when you’re high. Moving in slow motion, so out of it you had to think hard to remember what you were doing; no clue what was coming next. The other screens showed the hallway, the game room, and the backyard. The outside cams had night vision, everything in a green haze except the pool, the glow from the underwater lights wobbling on the patio and an ivy-covered wall, the second story of the Cape Cod just above it. The lawn separated the pool from a line of trees at the back of the property. Mr. Q was watching the tape like he was sucking in every pixel through his eyeballs. Charles was smiling, f*cking with him like he did to everybody.

“What’s up, Mr. Q?” Charles said. “Y’all figure it out yet? Got all your clues and shit, ready to make the bust?”

“You ain’t gonna believe this,” Bug said. “This shit is crazy.”

“Could you be quiet, please?” Anthony said.

“Fuck you, Anthony,” Charles said.

Except for Cal in the kitchen everything was still. The brothers leaned forward, smiling, nodding. “Watch this, watch this,” Charles said.

On the backyard cam, a dog came out of the trees, its nose surfing the grass, its eyes gleaming in the green darkness. Cal shuddered under his bathrobe and felt like he had to pee.