half-convinced she'd contract some fatal illness, that Gene the Genie had given her back only to take her away again after a few days. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he was going to have to relive the pain of losing her all over again.
She was suspicious of the money, and Tom couldn't blame her for that, but his inability to explain it hung over them like a bad cloud. He moved the piles of cash to the upstairs closet, wrapped in trash bags like bricks of cocaine in a dealer's house. Out of sight but not out of mind.
It should have been a perfect week, but instead of growing closer together, Tom felt he and Lidia were drifting apart.
It was Friday morning when things started going to hell.
Tom woke up to sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, still trying to convince himself that the past week, indeed, the past seven months, hadn't been some kind of bizarre dream. Lidia was there beside him, still sleeping. He reached out and caressed her shoulder, just to feel the warmth and smoothness of her skin.
She was bleeding. A bright red smear stained her shoulder. It was spreading, soaking into the sheer fabric of her nightgown, running down her back, dribbling onto the bed sheet.
Tom shook her awake, shouted her name. She sat up, sleepy and disoriented, blinking in the morning sun. Frantic, Tom ushered her into the bathroom.
It wasn't her blood. It was Tom's. The palm of his left hand was dripping, exactly where he'd sliced himself with the paring knife almost a week ago.
“Are you okay, Honey?” Lidia asked.
“I'm fine,” he said, though things were a long way from being fine. “Go get cleaned up.”
Tom bandaged his hand while Lidia took a shower. He went downstairs and sat on the sofa. The lamp on the coffee table still looked ugly and battered, and the longer he stared at it, the angrier he became. He picked it up and yanked the lid off.
As soon as he did, the doorbell rang.
Still wearing his pajamas, Tom answered it, fully expecting Gene the Genie, and ready to vent with some rather loud shouting.
It wasn't the Genie. It was a man wearing a grey suit and holding up a badge. A uniformed police officer stood behind him.
“Mr. Swanson?”
“Uh... Yes?”
“I'm Inspector Evans, and this is Officer Martin.” The inspector was a middle-aged man who looked like he needed to be colorized by Ted Turner. White shirt, grey suit, black tie. His hair was grey, and even his skin was pale and ashen.
The officer behind him was a fresh-faced cadet who looked like he was determined to prove himself to his elder mentor.
“I need to ask you a few questions, sir,” the inspector said.
“Regarding...” Tom stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him.
The inspector opened a file folder and slid out a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”
It was Gene the Genie, looking old and short, as he'd appeared when Tom first took the lid off the lamp. Caught off guard, Tom nodded automatically before he had a chance to think about whether or not it was a good idea.
“And what was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Aladdin?”
Tom almost laughed out loud, but neither of the cops was smiling. “Mr. Aladdin?” he asked.
“That was his legal name, yes.”
“Was?”
But the inspector wasn't giving anything away. “When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Aladdin?”
“I'm not comfortable answering these questions, Inspector, until I know what's going on.”
The fresh-faced cadet snorted through his nose. It was the kind of sound a high-society old lady might make when she's trying to say, “See? I knew it all along.”
“Gene Aladdin was murdered, Mr. Swanson,” the inspector said.
“That's not possible. He's...” Tom almost said “immortal,” but he caught it in time.
“Can you account for your whereabouts on Wednesday morning of this week, Mr. Swanson?”
“Yes. I've been home all week. Just me and my wife. Kind of a vacation.”
“Is she here now, sir? I'd like to speak with her if she's available.”
“She's in the shower,” Tom said. She was washing blood off her shoulder, but Tom wasn't about to tell that to a police inspector.
“Of course she is,” the inspector said. “Just one more question, sir. Is that your car?” He pointed at Tom's black Volkswagen, which was once again parked in the driveway. There was no sign of the Jaguar.
“Yes,” Tom admitted. “I loaned it to a friend earlier this week, but it looks like it's back now.”
The inspector put his photograph back onto the folder and motioned the uniformed cop forward. “At this time, Mr. Swanson, I have enough to place you under arrest for the murder of Gene Aladdin.”
“Me?”
“Turn around, please, and put your hands behind your head.”
“This is crazy. I've been home all week. Ask my wife! She's upstairs!” Tom turned for the door and threw it opened, shouting Lidia's name into the house.
The eager cadet stepped forward and grabbed Tom's shoulder. In a move that cops must practice in their sleep, he spun Tom around, forced him to his knees, and handcuffed him. Like so much of the magic he'd seen lately, Tom wasn't quite sure how it had been done, it was that fast and effective.
Tom screamed, shouting through the half-opened door. “Lidia! Lidia! She's in there! In the shower! She came back!”
“This way, sir.” Officer Martin pulled Tom to his feet and half dragged, half carried him toward the curb where two police cars and an unmarked Ford sedan sat idling.
They were halfway across the lawn before Tom realized he was still in his pajama bottoms and his old Star Wars T-shirt. Dew-covered grass stuck to his bare feet.
As he went into the back seat of a black and white, Tom saw two more police officers coming around from behind his house. Just like an old Western on TV, they'd had the place surrounded, probably in case Tom decided to shoot it out with them.
Tom laughed at that. He couldn't help it. Officer Martin looked at him in the rearview mirror and probably decided Tom was insane. Neither of them said a word as they pulled away.
The trip to the station was mercifully brief, and Tom got the deluxe treatment when they got there. Officer Martin held Tom's elbow as another cop searched Tom's clothes. Tom posed for mugshots, put his fingerprints onto little cards, and opened his mouth for a female cop wearing surgical gloves to run a cotton swab along the inside of his cheek. The female cop also examined Tom's injured hand, took a photograph of that, and re-wrapped it with sterile gauze.
While Tom was using a wet-nap to clean the ink off his fingers, Officer Martin led him to a brightly-lit room where the only furniture was a table with a single chair behind it. Both were bolted to the floor.
Officer Martin left Tom there, handcuffed by one hand to a ring on the edge of the table. With a cheap clock ticking off seconds behind his head and a video camera staring down at him, recording his every fidget, Tom sat in silence for over two hours.
It was almost a welcome break to the boredom when Inspector Evans came in with his file folder.
“Mr. Swanson. Do you need anything before we get started? Coffee? Some lunch? A bathroom?”
Tom declined all three.
“Very well. Just so you're aware, this conversation is being recorded. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can be used against you in court. You also have the right to an attorney. If you don't have one, or can't afford one, a public defender will be appointed. Do you understand?”
It was like watching CSI.
The inspector started pulling photographs out of his file folder, one at a time, and placing them on the table in front of Tom.
“You've already admitted knowing this man. He was born James Robbins in 1937, but had his name legally changed about twenty years ago to Gene Aladdin. Owner of an internet business, Alad
din's House of Mystery, based out of Big Sky, Montana. Tell me, please, how you knew him.”
Tom looked at the picture, the same photo he'd seen on his doorstep a few hours ago of the short and skinny old man.
“I ordered an oil lamp from the shop. It was an internet purchase, I never actually met anyone in person.”
“And yet you said you knew this man; recognized him when I asked you earlier. How is that, Mr. Swanson?”
“I think I was tricked. Another man who looked like this person came to my house on Saturday. It was the first, and last time I saw him.”
The inspector looked up from his folder. “Another man? Who looked like Mr. Aladdin? Can you tell me who he was?”
“He... uh... He said his name was Gene.”
“Let me make sure I have this straight, just so I understand. Last Saturday, a man who looked just like this man, but wasn't this man, who was also named Gene, visited your home. For what purpose, Mr. Swanson?”
“Well... That's... complicated.”
“I see. Okay, then. Let's move on.”
Another sheet of paper found its way to the table. Not a photo, but a copy of an invoice.
“This is from the Shop of Mystery, Mr. Swanson. You purchased eBay item 427658, described as 'a genuine magic lamp' for eighty-seven dollars and sixteen cents. It shipped out on Wednesday of the week before last, and you signed for it on Saturday.”
“That's right.”
“This proves to me that you were in your home on Saturday, Mr. Swanson. Gene Aladdin's body was found the following Wednesday. According to my computer, the drive from Redding, California to Big Sky, Montana is about sixteen and a half