by Randy Alcorn
“Wasn’t a total loss,” Noel said. “We found out Chris was on the chess team.”
After I’d spent an hour being ragged on one at a time by a half dozen of the detectives about my stupid little meeting about family and schools, Lieutenant Taylor Nicks called me in. My favorite part of his office is the sign saying, “Complaints? Take a number.” The number’s attached to the pin of a hand grenade.
“I’ll get right to it,” Nicks said. “You need to back off from your—” he looked down at a piece of paper—“wild accusations.”
“Are you saying this on your own?”
“You’ve …” he looked at the paper again, “gotten completely out of hand. You’re a bull in a China shop. You’re not a team player. You need to toe the line or you’ll.” he looked down again, “be sent packing.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Lieutenant. But it does sound familiar.”
“It’s my job to tell you this. I’m following orders.”
“Like I’m following the evidence.”
“I understand,” he said. “But if you keep it up, you may be asked to resign. If you don’t resign, you may be dismissed.”
“Fired? You’d do that?”
“I wouldn’t. But I don’t know how I could stop it. Anything you want me to tell someone who thinks the department would be better off without you?”
“Only that I think the killer would agree.”
“Anything else?”
“Remember when you came by my house when Sharon was sick? You met my bullmastiff, Mike Hammer.”
“Sure. Nice dog.”
“Mike Hammer likes to sink his teeth into tennis balls, sticks, stuffed animals, you name it. Now when he’s ready to, he’ll drop those things at your feet. But try to take them away, and he’ll latch on to them with the teeth-clamp of death.”
Long pause.
“You’re like your dog. That what you’re saying?”
“We both like red meat—and we don’t like it when somebody tries to take it away.”
“That all?”
“No. If I were fired, I think Clarence Abernathy would just tell the world why, without regard for our precinct’s image. You know how journalists can be. Everybody’d know I was fired because I was going after a guilty cop.”
“I can say that to … whoever might be interested?” Nicks asked. He jotted a note.
“And you can say I won’t go down easily. You can tell him he’s bit off more than he can chew. And I smell a rat. And no snake in the grass is going to keep me from doing my job.”
“Good. You’re dismissed.”
I stood. “And something’s rotten in Denmark. You can say that too.”
He nodded.
“And all’s fair in love and war.”
“Get out of here.” He seemed to be biting his lip. “And shut the door.”
I did.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
The Chief, even when he has somebody else do his dirty work, makes you feel like a rat being shaken by a Rottweiler.
Truth is, I don’t want to lose my job. It’s a little late to start over as a professional hockey player or home decorating consultant or Cinnabon employee, though the fringe benefits are tempting. Nobody hires guys to wear capes and come to their parties as Green Lantern.
I retreated to my cave, the old brownstone, guarded by my trusty sentinel. I sat on the couch because I still smell Sharon there. She didn’t wear much perfume. It’s actually her I smell.
I went to the closet and pulled out a Seahawks blanket I got her for our anniversary, on April 3. You may think it was a lousy gift, but she loved it. She was that kind of woman—a football-loving woman, a pizza-loving woman. A Hall of Fame woman. She bundled up in that Seahawks blanket all the time and still thanked me for it five years later. I’ll never wash it because her scent’s stronger there than anywhere else.
I can’t smell Sharon as much as I used to. I’m afraid one of these days I won’t smell her at all. And then the last living trace of her will be gone forever.
I have thousands of pictures of dead bodies and less than a dozen of my own wife. If I were a contortionist, I’d kick my rear end for this.
Will she just disappear as my memories fade? When I’m gone, will Saint Sharon be no longer?
“Open his eyes, Lord,” she said. “Help him see the unseen—to behold Your kindnesses to him.”
“I grant him hundreds of graces each day, from the air he breathes to the food he eats to the roof over his head. He sees none of them, so it’s no surprise that he doesn’t see the greatest gift I offer him. I’ve been patient, not wishing him to perish.”
“But the clock’s ticking.”
“Yes, Saint Sharon,” He said with a smile, placing His arm around her. “But I am bigger than the clock.”
I left home for Rosie O’Grady’s, returning three hours later. I’d managed to sip a few beers slowly and was proud of not being drunk. I turned the corner and saw a flashlight on in my dark house.
Not again. My head instinctively ached.
I drove past the house and pulled to the curb sixty feet away. I waited two minutes before the flashlight came on again.
I called Jake’s cell. “Where are you?”
“Home,” he said.
“Can you drive to the old brownstone right now? Just pull in the driveway and sit there. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Do I bring my service revolver, Sherlock?”
“Good idea.”
“You’re serious?”
I hung up and worked my way into the backyard behind the elm tree, next to the moldy pile of bark dust.
Five minutes later I saw the front of the house light up and knew Jake had arrived. The inside flashlight went off. Within five seconds the back door opened.
Fear kicked in when I realized Mulch wasn’t barking.
I followed the guy over the fence, through the Atkins’ backyard. I was grateful for that much, since as far as I know the Atkins don’t drink Earl Grey tea. He ran to a parked car, opened the door, and as he did, I saw he wasn’t a he.
He was a she.
He was Kim Suda.
I couldn’t follow her. I decided it was in my best interest to know it was her without her knowing I knew. I was also worried about Mulch. As Suda drove away, I ran back to the house, legs sore from my bike ride.
I ran to the front yard and raised my hands until Jake lowered his Walther from its bead on the center of my chest.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Intruder. I followed him. Her.”
“Her?”
“Tell you later. I think Mulch’s down.”
My keys rattled, but still I heard nothing. Truth is, I prayed Mulch was okay. There are no atheists when your dog’s in a foxhole. Or something like that.
I opened the door, where Mulch is positioned 100 percent of the time when I enter. Nothing.
“Mulch! Mike Hammer?”
I tripped over something big and baggy on the floor. Mulch. No movement.
“No. No.”
The light flipped on and I was looking at Jake six feet behind me.
“He isn’t moving,” I said. I smelled something, then saw it. A half pound of raw hamburger six inches from his mouth.
“It’s like he’s asleep,” Jake said.
“Is there a 911 for dogs?” I asked.
“There’s a vet named Megan at our church. I’ll call her.”
I lifted Mulch onto the couch. I shook him. One eye opened just enough to show his inner eyelid.
Five minutes later Dr. Megan Wood showed up. She put her hands on Mulch’s chest and by his snout. I pointed out the hamburger.
“We hide pills in hamburger. I think someone gave him a sedative.”
“They slipped Mulch a mickey?”
“Hamburger’s the best way.”
“It’d work for me,” I said. “What should I do? Make him coffee? Coke? There’s a hangover recipe with Tabasco sauce and black pep
per.”
“Sounds like you’ve had some experience. His breathing’s normal. I don’t think it’s an overdose, just a deep sleep that he’ll come out of eventually. No sense taking him to my office. He’ll be more comfortable here.”
She wrote down her cell number and handed it to me. I told her I’d never forget her, and if she needed a homicide detective, I was her man.
Jake was checking out the whole house, pointing his father’s Walther P38, taken from a Nazi soldier, into every nook and cranny. I put Sharon’s Seahawks blanket over Mulch and sat beside him. Jake’s one of the few people I trust with a gun as much as I’d trust myself. He was a Green Beret in Nam.
Half an hour later I talked Jake into leaving. For the rest of the evening I thought about Kim Suda, trying to connect the dots. I never left Mulch for more than a few minutes, but I noticed a few things in my office that seemed out of place. The phone on my desk was positioned perfectly, at a right angle to the front edge of the desk. Too perfect.
I disconnected it from the wall. Then I opened the mouthpiece quietly. In it I found a tiny device.
Kim Suda had bugged my phone.
I heard a gurgle eight feet away. I rushed back to see two tired eyes peering at me. I stretched out my hand, and he licked it. I hugged him and fried him some bacon, unleashing its magical healing properties. He ate it slowly but gratefully.
Mike Hammer was back.
And I vowed to make the dog drugger pay.
31
“Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 9:00 A.M.
MULCH SLEPT NEXT TO ME. For breakfast, I made him waffles and threw an extra egg into the mix. He likes them fluffy. I usually toss him waffle portions, and he jumps to catch them. Never misses. But this time I hand-fed him, in bed. He seemed to appreciate the extra butter.
When Ray arrived two hours later, we stood on my front lawn, Mulch on his leash, breathing deeply. Some places you want to close your mouth and keep the air out. Not Oregon. The air’s so incredibly good, you want to keep breathing just to remind yourself.
“Suda’s toast,” I said. “She invaded my home, planted a bug, and drugged my dog. That’s as low as it gets. Kim Suda. Even her name sounds dark and slippery. Just try it on your tongue—Kim Suda. Close your eyes. Whisper it in the dark a few times. It’ll give you the willies.”
Ray closed his eyes and whispered, which is more than I could’ve gotten Abernathy to do.
Then he pulled out his bug detector, a TD-53, to sweep my house. He told me he’d test it on the phone I already knew was bugged. He said I should just do what I usually did, talk to Mulch but not to him. He suggested I turn on music too. Johnny Cash, the only country singer I ever liked, sang in the background to cover for us.
When we got two feet into my office, three feet from the phone, the audible tone on the TD-53 clicked faster and faster, like a Geiger counter. Ray turned it low enough not to be heard by whoever was listening in. The signal was strong.
Ray found two other bugging devices, one by the kitchen phone, perfectly hidden in the seam of a pen holder. The other was inside the lamp shade by my recliner.
We stepped outside to discuss it. I wanted the two we’d just found deactivated, but we’d leave active the one in my office phone.
We went to the front of the house, and he turned on the bug sweeper to check my car. Nothing. Still, he beckoned to his car and we got in to talk.
“A phone bug and two others?” Ray said. “Wow. I’m pretty sure I found everything, but some bugs can be turned on and off remotely, and when they’re off they can be missed.”
“They’re department issue, aren’t they?” I asked.
“Technically a private party can get them, but given these brands and considering the cheaper equipment you can buy publicly, I’m sure it’s police department hardware. Which means she’s in big trouble.”
“Can you access e-mail without someone knowing?” I asked.
“Private? On a secure system?”
“Her computer’s thirty feet from my desk, but she’s usually carting around her laptop.”
“Wireless?”
“I guess. Is that good?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Ray called me at 11:00 a.m.
“Suda’s home and her computer’s running, but she’s not on it. I’m parked curbside at her neighbor’s, inside her wireless range. She’s got a good firewall. Can’t get in without an alphanumeric password. You’re going to have to check her desktop. Computer stays on at the precinct, right?”
“Unless there’s a power outage.”
“That means some people will leave their e-mail open,” he said. “It’s Saturday, so she probably won’t be in, right? If Outlook’s open, just watch the screen and make sure there’s no movement. Otherwise if she’s accessing remotely you’ll bump her off.”
I went to detective detail and moseyed over to Kim Suda’s desk. Outlook was open. I did an MSN desktop search for “Ollie” and “Chandler.” It turned up some old e-mails to and from me, as well as a few recent derogatory comments about me exchanged by my fellow detectives, referring to me by a variety of anatomical terms. I opened her sent file and looked at the last ten e-mails.
Found an e-mail sent at 11:45 last night. It was the shortest I’d come across. All it said was, “Job done. Everything set.”
She’d done a job on me and Mulch, and I wondered if that’s what she meant. The e-mail went to an address without a name: [email protected].
I Googled “wearp” at my desk and tried searching for listed e-mail addresses. I found only forty-six people in America with the last name Wearp. Glad it wasn’t Jones. Finally I called Ray Eagle and briefed him.
I sat there thinking about dinner for me and Mulch. It was Saturday night, so my thoughts went to one place. One of the greatest natural resources of the Pacific Northwest—found nowhere else—is Burgerville USA, where hot beef under Tillamook cheddar cheese with the works can be bought alongside an unforgettable blackberry shake.
Sharon worked in a Burgerville on Eighty-second and Glisan, before we had kids. She’d give me extra fries and sometimes another slice of cheddar. In our last ten years together, besides Lou’s and Dea’s, it was my next favorite place to take her for special occasions. We used to kick up our heels and go there on Saturday nights. Sharon would call me a romantic fool.
Hugh Mulhaney, a cynical cop who’s been divorced three times, told me, “Being single’s really great. You make up the rules. You don’t call anyone to say you’ll be late. Don’t have to justify yourself to anyone. No one pokes you when you snore. No one suggests you clean out the rain gutters when the Cowboys are playing the Giants.”
Sharon would never make me miss a game over gutters, but if she were here, I’d do it for her in a heartbeat.
Ray called. “Name’s not Wearp. It’s W. Earp, as in Wyatt Earp.”
“Shootout at the OK Corral?”
“Got a billing address for the account.”
“So who’s Wyatt Earp?”
“Would you believe … Edward Lennox?”
Two things I’ve learned. First, never stand between Mulch and a bush he’s sniffing. Second, never trust Chief Lennox.
Ray, Clarence, Manny, and I sat in Ray’s living room. Manny, moving stiffly due to his broken rib, eyed Abernathy repeatedly, despite the big guy’s continual apologies and offers to help. Manny didn’t want to be there with us, but then Manny doesn’t want to be anywhere. He went on and on about the miserable failure it had been when I quizzed the detectives about their backgrounds.
Finally I stopped him. “We’ve got to know motives, and to do it we’ve got to find out people’s backgrounds, families, interests, habits. Their secrets. Since it didn’t work in our group setting—”
“Disaster,” Manny muttered.
“I asked Ray to do his
own checking.” I looked at him. “You’re on.”
He glanced at an old brown clipboard, like a coach would use. “Truth is, I started on this a week ago. It represents lots of phone calls, Internet research, and beating the bushes.”
“We supposed to be impressed?” Manny asked, bringing Christmas cheer. “You haven’t told us anything.”
“Tommi Elam first,” Ray said. “Her father was a writer. He grew up in England—like Chris Doyle’s mother. Her dad met her mom while she was vacationing in England. He moved here to marry her. He’s successful enough to pay the bills. And he was involved in the kids’ education. Taught them to read and write.”
“No kidding?” I asked. “Never heard her say that.”
“He was a collector. Music, coins, stamps, baseball cards, pens, rare books, even a dozen typewriters from various eras.”
“How’d you find this out?”
“Somebody who admired his work made a website about him. Tommi’s divorced. Her first husband was a radical activist. Environmental stuff—chained himself to a tree. And animal rights. She got a restraining order against him. Said he was abusive and that he cheated on her.”
“She ever get violent with him?”
“No record of it. There were custody disputes. Two kids by that marriage. Now they’re in high school.”
“Where’s the ex-husband?”
“Passed away at age forty-four, two years ago, five years after their divorce. Surprise heart attack while jogging. No prior condition. Here’s something. Tommi went to Grant, same high school as Palatine. But he was older so they weren’t there at the same time.”
“She have brothers or sisters?” I asked. “One of them might have known him.”
Ray jotted a note, then continued. “Bryce Cimmatoni grew up in Pittsburgh. He’s a congenital Steelers fan, but we can’t blame him for that. His father worked in a steel mill. Most people of that profile resent those above and below them on the social ladder.”
“You’re a psychologist, too?” I asked.
“Does it describe Cimmatoni?”
“Yeah, except he also resents those who are level with him on the social ladder. I don’t think he’s ever met anyone, on or off a ladder, he doesn’t resent. Except his wife.”