Hunting for Hemingway

by Diane Gilbert Madsen

  "This is where Beth was parked," I told them, pointing to a pool of liquid on the dark asphalt.

  "I saw that puddle there when Beth backed her Saturn out. I'm positive it's not water," I insisted and knelt, dipping a finger into the wet substance that was clear and had a smooth, soapy feel, like hand lotion. I sniffed it. It smelled like solvent. I didn't have to do a taste-test.

  "It's brake fluid," I announced. "See for yourselves."

  The lead cop followed suit. He did the taste-test and spit. His eyes narrowed as he said, "Maybe I agree, but we can't be sure it came from her car."

  "Yeah, well when you guys winch that Saturn up from the pond, check the brake line first thing. My guess is it was slashed. And whoever did it, did it right here." I pointed to the stain on the asphalt. "That ain't no little leak. It's an ocean." And, I thought but didn't say out loud, as Sherlock Holmes said, "one true inference invariably suggests others" This was no accident.

  When they escorted me to a squad car, I spotted Martin Sweeney, Big Bill, Dorothy Jeffers, and Bette Abramawitz huddled together at the edge of the crowd that had gathered to watch.

  The cops drove away rapidly, chattering about a recent swat team incident. I wasn't listening. Instead, I was trying to figure out what else had been done to Beth's car to make it stay in reverse and rev the engine so high. I had no doubt Beth had been murdered, and her murder and David's were connected. And I had no doubt the police would theorize that I could supply the missing link.

  TWENTY

  THE NAMEPLATE OF THE officer on duty behind the bulletproof glass at the desk read Sergeant More. His sunken eyes focused on me, and I had the distinct feeling he was memorizing my features to try to match me up with a face from the Most Wanted posters tacked on the wall above his desk.

  "Before she gives a formal statement, More, have her fill out a 357. Then Lieutenant Lytle wants to see her, okay?" said the officer who'd driven me over.

  "Ten four," Sergeant More said, triple-clicking his ballpoint pen as he gave me a deadpan stare. He took a form from the top righthand drawer and slid it under the window.

  "Fill this out."

  After returning the 357 form to him, I waited. I'd had a bellyful of being a good citizen and wondered if I should call Karl Patrick. I was just considering sneaking out past Sergeant More when a door marked "Police Personnel Only" opened.

  "Miss McGil? I'm Lieutenant Lytle. This way."

  I followed him, marveling at his tiny feet in highly polished black shoes. We snaked through a maze of offices, entering one with his name on the door. He indicated the chair next to his desk, and that was the only preliminary nicety I was accorded.

  "Miss McGil, we've got more than a dozen statements from bystanders telling us you had an argument with the victim, and you followed her out to her car."

  He paused, letting the facts settle like chickens come home to roost.

  "As if that's not enough to hold you as a suspect, I just got off the phone with Detective Brewer over to the eighteenth precinct. He says you came across another dead body only yesterday. A Mr..." He put on a pair of glasses and pawed through some papers. "Barnes. David Barnes. Right?"

  "Yes, I did find David's body."

  "Two days, two bodies. That's quite a record, Miss McGil." "

  I had nothing to do with David's death or with Beth's."

  "But you were talking to Beth about David's murder, is that right?"

  The cops had ferreted that out right away, and even to me, I reeked of prime suspect. I definitely needed to call Karl Patrick. He told me not to talk to the cops under any circumstances about anything because their agenda was going to be different from mine-and maybe different from the truth. But maybe I could talk myself out of this.

  "Then why would I have jumped in and tried to save Beth?" I blurted out. "I almost got killed myself."

  "How do we know exactly what you were doing down there? Maybe you were trying to keep her under, not bring her up. Let's see here." He fingered the form I'd filled out then pulled out another form. "We gotta go through channels. I also got a report in just now that says you possibly broke into this David Barnes' office at the college and ransacked it." He peered over his half-glasses. "True?"

  "Somebody trashed it before I ever got there," I offered dispiritedly, wondering how Karl was going to get me out of this.

  He squinted, studying me carefully. "I'm gonna ask you one more time, how well did you know Miss Moyers?"

  "I already told you, I never met her before today. But like I told the cops at the scene, I'm sure it wasn't suicide or an accident. I think somebody cut her brake lines and rigged the car to stay in reverse, but it wasn't me. I want my lawyer."

  TWENTY-ONE

  KARL PATRICK ESCORTED ME out of the police station. He wasn't happy.

  "I told you a hundred times DD-never talk to the cops. I had a hell of a time convincing them not to arraign you. They were talking charges ranging from murder to breaking and entering."

  "Thanks, Karl."

  "Know what I think? What they were really mad about was you ordering them to check the brake line. One cop said you were the lippiest broad they'd ever dragged into the station. The only way I got you sprung was to agree with him."

  "Don't worry. I won't leave town." I thanked him again, waved good-bye, and grabbed a cab back to the college to retrieve my car. I was very grateful to be away from the smells and sounds of American Justice.

  As soon as I paid the taxi driver, I ducked into the college and found the nearest rest room. A few cops still roamed the building, canvassing and taking photos. I wanted to snoop around on my own, but with the cops still around, now wasn't the time. Anyway, I had to install that surveillance equipment in Barry's office tonight.

  The mood I was in when I reached Barry's wasn't chatty. I clenched my teeth and went right to work installing the microvideo camera.

  "I still don't like what you're doing," Barry protested.

  I didn't like it either. "I know, Barry," I agreed, but kept on with the installation.

  The camera finally became operational just after eleven. When Barry hit the john, I hurriedly installed watchdog trackers between the keyboards and the computers in all his PCs. This handy monitor would log all the keystrokes on each computer, track Internet sites, outgoing e-mail, chat rooms, and Web sites, and the memory would remain intact, even if the computer got unplugged or zapped during a power loss. I didn't have to use any system resources, and since the hardware was only two inches long, I was praying Barry wouldn't notice this tiny addition to all his other paraphernalia. If he knew I was doing this, Barry would kill me for invading his privacy instead of thanking me for providing a key to potentially vital information.

  When I finally left at eleven-forty, Barry was still working.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Grace under pressure.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  CAVALIER IS NEVER A happy-camper after being left alone all day, so I didn't expect a hearty welcome. But my trouble sensor went off loud and clear when I saw him on the first-floor landing, roaming the halls. I scooped him up, then saw the reason for his loud meows. My apartment door was ajar.

  I kicked it wide open and peered in. Over-turned furniture, papers, and junk were everywhere. Cavvy surveyed the damage with me, keeping his tail high and meowing his eyewitness version of what had happened.

  By the end of my tour, I was absolutely furious. I pulled my red cell phone from my purse and called Lieutenant Lytle.

  "Just who do you cops think you are?" I asked. "I demand to see the search warrant. And what right do you guys have to terrorize my cat? My place is a shambles. I demand restitution. I'm going to sue the department. I'm going to call the Mayor. I'm going to..."

  "Wait a minute, Miss McGil," he interrupted. "We didn't search your place. We haven't issued any warrant. Are you telling me you've been burglarized?"

  "No warrant? Are you sure your guys didn't do this?"

  "I'm sending out
a squad to take a report."

  So now I was an urban crime statistic, one of the apartments that gets robbed every eighteen seconds. My anger at the cops cooled a little as I realized my vandalized apartment might work in my favor and take me off the top of their suspect list. Then I got scared. This was no random break-in. First David's house, then his office, now this. The connection was obvious. Somebody thought I had the Hemingway manuscripts.

  I was afraid, and I didn't like the feeling. I gathered up Cavalier, stroking him, hoping it would generate enough of those good alpha vibes for both of us.

  Waiting for the cops, I searched the debris for a bottle of aspirin or Advil or Pamperin, anything to kill the headache. I didn't think the cops would mind if I rummaged through the crime scene. The odds were against them getting whoever did this. They never hold out much hope when you get burgled.

  I refilled Cavvy's unbreakable water bowl, which had been tipped over. Then I replaced the shards of his broken food dish with a beautiful gold-tipped Staffordshire plate I unearthed, part of the exquisite set Auntie Elizabeth had given me a couple of years ago on a generous whim. I was glad it had escaped damage, but it didn't bear thinking what she'd say if she saw the cat eat from it.

  While Cavalier lapped his water, I cut up a piece of flank steak left untouched in the refrigerator. He sniffed it suspiciously at first, then devoured every morsel. Guarding the house must have expended lots of cat calories.

  My nerves were so jangled, I jumped when the pair of uniforms rang my doorbell less than ten minutes later. One was a tall, handsome black cop with a trim mustache and sharp eyes. His name tag read Officer Baylor. The other was an American Indian with a name so long, I couldn't pronounce it. They were both preoccupied checking out my front door.

  "No signs of forced entry here," the American Indian, Parmonicotte, said, running his hand along the door.

  "All these locks are good. Real good," the black cop, Baylor, said approvingly. "They didn't get in through here."

  "I think they came through the window off my back porch," I informed them. They followed me into the kitchen.

  "Yep," Parmonicotte agreed, pointing. "Broken glass. Evidence."

  "We hear you've been having your troubles lately with crime of all sorts," Baylor said.

  "Wait a minute," I interrupted. "You guys are here to investigate a burglary, not to accuse me of anything. I would never do this to myself. And my cat was wandering the halls. I'd never do that to him."

  They laughed. "Nothing personal," Baylor said, then addressed the other cop. "Hey Chief, let's get this formally recorded."

  "Chief? You're the police chief?" I asked, suddenly scared they'd come to arrest me.

  "He's the Chief of the Menominee tribe," Baylor said, still laughing at his own wit. "But don't worry. I won't let him send any smoke signals from your apartment."

  "If you're through making jokes now, Shaft," Parmonicotte deadpanned, "let's get on with it and see if we can help this little lady and her cat."

  "We're not supposed to help this lady or her cat," Baylor said, punching Parmonicotte in the shoulder. "We're supposed to help the department." He then produced a pen clipped to a small spiral notebook. "Is this exactly how you found things, Miss, or did you touch stuff?" he asked, flipping a page.

  I told them about looking for the aspirin and about the plate to feed Cavalier. The cat, showing perfect timing, chimed in with a meow that startled both the cops and me. Who knows, maybe he did understand English.

  "Give us the tour," Parmonicotte ordered.

  "Any jewelry gone?" asked Baylor, scribbling notes.

  "I don't own much," I told them. "And what I have seems to be here, although it's all over the place."

  "Coins or stamps?"

  "No."

  "'Lectronics?"

  "Just TV and a stereo. One VCR. One computer. One Kindle. Nothing seems to have been taken. I don't have anything hotshot."

  "What's this?" Parmonicotte knelt and picked up a three by two by one inch silver box that had been smashed.

  I looked over his shoulder as he and Baylor examined it. Stamped on a piece of silver casing was, "Emotion Reader TNF- 100A" Glancing down, I saw a lithium cell battery that had been crushed too. Damn. Whoever did this had smashed my expensive hand-held lie detector.

  When they finished their tour, Officer Baylor cleared a place, then they flipped the sofa right side up and sat down.

  "Seems we have accumulated a bunch of pertinent facts here," Baylor said, tapping his spiral notebook. "But when we lump 'em all together, we got squat. Not one clue except the broken glass telling us how somebody entered."

  "And the fact that nothing seems to be missing and the fact that it don't look like a pro job," Parmonicotte observed wryly.

  "What else you got they might be looking for?" Baylor eyed me like I was a frog ready for dissection. "Drugs maybe?"

  "The only drugs I have are the aspirin, Advil, and Pamprin I told you about already."

  "You sure you didn't do this to yourself?" Parmonicotte and Baylor both eyed me with naked interest. "The way we hear it, you're in a lot of trouble with a lot of people. Maybe something like this could help you out."

  I could have told them that the mess in my apartment was exactly like the mess in David's office and his apartment, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn't need another visit to a police station.

  "Think it's worth lifting for prints, Chief?" Baylor asked.

  "No, but we better do it anyway. Orders is orders." Parmonicotte stood up.

  "We might find a print somewhere," Baylor said with a wink in my direction as he snapped shut his notebook.

  "If this was a burglar, you're really lucky," Baylor continued, unpacking equipment.

  "You mean because they didn't find anything worth taking?"

  "No. Because they didn't take the food out of your refrig, have a picnic, then piss and crap over everything," Parmonicotte ex plained, using a big soft brush to dust surfaces with the silk-gray latent print powder.

  "With real B & E's, we see it more and more," Baylor added, applying transparent fingerprint hinge lifters when he saw possibles. "They're animals."

  Parmonicotte swept the big brush over the back porch window. "It's like these guys have to mark their territory. It keeps gettin' weirder and weirder out there."

  "Jeez, it's hot in here. You need central air." Baylor complained.

  "Yeah," Parmonicotte agreed. "This humidity makes it hard to lift for prints."

  The heat was the least of my worries. The fact that this was no random act scared me, and the enormity of the mess suddenly hit home.

  Baylor put away the lifters while Parmonicotte reached down to pet Cavalier, who'd shown a keen interest in their machinations.

  "We're done for now. We're leaving," Parmonicotte said, heading for the door.

  "The police report'll be available in two days," Baylor informed me. "If you find anything else missing, call us," he added, winking again.

  "Maybe you should stay off the streets and clean this place up. Everybody'd be better off," Parmonicotte advised as I closed the door.

  Overwhelmed by the mess, I located my oversize wooden breadboard and inserted it across the broken window, wedging it in with my recycling bin.

  I was still queasy from that mouthful of gasoline. On top of that my arms, hands, and face had a lot of minor cuts and my neck and back ached from tension and stress. I was a walking ad for a medical disaster. Cavvy too was restless, still upset about witnessing the destruction of his domain, and neither one of us liked the sour smell that was building in the heat from all the food spilled in the kitchen.

  When I finally unearthed the answering machine, I was amazed to find its battery backup had worked. Eight messages were waiting. Six were from reporters, one was from Matt, asking me to call him as soon as possible, and the other was my mother, telling me to call my Aunt Elizabeth at once. She'd had one of her premonitions that I was in some kind of danger. "You know somet
hing awful happens when she has these feelings, so you better be careful," my mother added. "Oh, and, if you're dating anyone, bring him along for Sunday's dinner."

  I couldn't face a conversation with ma tante Elizabeth tonight or for that matter with Matt. Both could wait until tomorrow. Instead, I cleared the messages and hunted in the messy bedroom for a pair of shorts and a tee top. I'd have liked a drink, but couldn't find any unbroken liquor bottles. Anyway, I didn't want another hangover on top of everything else. I found some usable sheets, threw them on the bed and crawled in, exhausted and demoralized.

  TWENTY-THREE

  DAY 4: WEDNESDAY

  FOR THE SECOND DAY in a row, I awoke with a sore head, a tired mind, and the certain feeling that bad luck or worse was dogging me. The sweltering heat was another replay of the past few days. Even standing directly in front of the air conditioner didn't offer much relief.

  I picked up broken glass and other debris that could hurt the cat and cleaned up the smelly garbage. Then I rummaged through the mess for something to wear. The navy skirt and white top I unearthed looked like they'd been sat on by an elephant. Too bad. Any straightening up would have to wait. I was going to be too busy today to do anything except get the glass fixed on the porch window.

  I riffled through the Yellow Pages and chose the number for Bob the Glazier. He agreed to come right over, but it would cost a premium. It was an emergency, so I was stuck.

  There wasn't anything more to do on Barry's case except wait. That was good, because I needed to investigate two deaths and two break-ins. If I could find out anything solid about any one of them, I might discover who was behind all this. It was the only way to defend myself.

  My bell rang. Thinking Bob the Glazier had made record time, I opened the door without checking the peephole.

  It was the twins.

  "We saw the cops and heard what happened to your apartment yesterday, so here we are to help out;" Glendy announced, entering with a steaming glass coffeepot.