The Violence Beat

by JoAnna Carl

  Mike had just told me he loved me. We hadn’t talked about the future. We hadn’t declared more feeling for each other than sexual attraction. The one time he’d acted as if he might say something serious—on the first night we’d spent together—I’d cut him off in midsentence. Two days after that, I’d yelled at him and called him a manipulative creep. And here he’d just told me he loved me.

  Mike might be tricky and manipulative, but I couldn’t see any advantage he gained by telling me that.

  I wasn’t sure I loved him. And if I loved him, I wasn’t sure I could get along with him, day to day. But he still dared to say he loved me. He hadn’t made tentative moves to see how I’d respond. He just said it.

  To a person like me—one who had always been afraid to be serious about anybody, afraid to admit I cared—well, it’s no wonder I had to fight back tears. Courage is always touching.

  After I’d blinked a dozen times, I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Guess I’d better get out of here,” I said.

  When I’d signed the releases the nurse had handed me earlier, she’d said I was checked out through the business office, thanks to the Gazette insurance. Now, despite the objections of the floor nurse, I walked out of the hospital. The nurse kept saying an aide would be there with a wheelchair, and I kept saying I couldn’t wait and walking toward the hospital’s front entrance.

  I did agree to wait at the door which opened onto the official passengers-pickup area while Mike went to get his truck. So I was hovering near the automatic door when I saw a thin, dark-haired guy with a skinny-lipped mouth that went all around his head. He got out of a big black car and walked toward me. My stomach had a conniption, and I looked around for a potted plant to hide behind. No potted plant was available. When I looked back, the electric eye was opening the door, and I was face to face with the new arrival. It was Guy Unitas.

  “Hi, Guy,” I said.

  Guy gaped like a carp in a poolful of algae. “Nell! The paper made it sound as if you were badly hurt!”

  “I’m too mean to hurt, Guy. What are you doing here?”

  He smiled a fishy smile. “I came to see you, of course.”

  “Nice, but not necessary,” I said. My stomach jumped around again, and a shiver crept up my spine. The words “Guy Unitas” printed in neat bookkeeper’s handwriting popped up on my mental computer screen, scanned from the notebook where Lee had written them. And where she had written “San Simeon Beach.” And a string of numbers. Had the note Lee put in the notebook really meant that Guy Unitas had an offshore bank account?

  Notebook! Where was that notebook? Had I lost it? I grabbed at my purse.

  Guy was talking. “Nell, I need to talk to you. Can I take you around to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee?”

  I ignored the invitation and kept looking for the notebook. It wasn’t in the outside pocket of the leather satchel I call my purse. I unzipped the top and dug around inside.

  “Nell?” Guy was waiting for an answer.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. The notebook was there. Some Good Samaritan had gathered my belongings up in the Gazette parking garage and had stuffed everything inside my purse. I clutched the notebook. Luckily, I calmed down before I pulled it out and waved it under Guy’s nose.

  Guy was squinting at me. “Coffee?” he said again.

  I was relieved to see a black pickup pulling up outside.

  “Sorry, Guy. I’ve got to leave,” I said. “By the way, I’m asking them to take me off the violence beat, so you may want to talk to J.B. instead of to me. He’ll be covering your office.”

  I moved as quickly as my sore ribs would allow. Mike opened the door of the truck for me. He waved at Guy. Casually. Then he went around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

  “What’s Guy doing here?” he asked.

  “He said he wanted to talk to me,” I said. “Offered me a cup of hospital coffee. Should I go back and find out what he wants?”

  “Not when there’s the chance cyanide may be floating around the circles he’s moving in.”

  As we moved off, I looked back and saw that Guy was staring after us. I couldn’t read his expression, but it wasn’t friendly. He began to walk back toward the car he’d gotten out of.

  Car? It was no car. It was a limousine.

  “Golly!” I said. “What’s Guy doing traveling by limo?”

  “Limo?” Mike looked into his outside mirror. “Did Guy get into that limo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn! I’ve got to call Hammond!” He swung the pickup a direction I hadn’t expected, and the seat belt caught my ribs. I gasped.

  “I’ll head back to the hospital,” Mike said. “Aren’t there pay phones right inside?”

  “Yes. But why are you so excited about the limousine?”

  “Airport,” Mike said. His voice was urgent. “Airport pickup service. I recognize the vehicle. They pick you up at your house and deliver you to the right gate at the airport.”

  “Hell’s bells!” Now I was the excited one. “If Guy’s headed for the airport, he may be leaving the country.”

  As we went back down the drive, Guy’s limo passed us. I couldn’t see through the tinted windows that shrouded the backseat, and I tried to look away, to pretend I wasn’t interested in the limo at all. Mike pulled up once more in the passenger-pickup area of the hospital. “You’d better come in with me,” he said. “I’m not leaving you alone for a minute.”

  I moaned and groaned and clutched my ribs as I climbed out of the truck The older guy who was guarding the hospital’s entrance acted as if he were going to object to Mike’s truck, but Mike flashed his badge, and we went inside.

  Mike dialed the extension for Jim Hammond’s office, but Jim’s clerk—the fabled Peaches Atkinson, a well-known character around the Grantham PD—wouldn’t let him talk to her boss. I could hear her piercing voice broadcasting from his receiver.

  “He’s not taking calls,” she said. “You’re supposed to see him at eleven. That’s only forty-five minutes from now.”

  Peaches is authority personified, either in person or over the phone. Even Mike had trouble standing up to her.

  “Peaches, this is an emergency,” he said.

  Peaches sniffed. “Well, you can’t talk to him.”

  “Listen, Peaches, I just found out something about the matter we were planning to discuss at eleven. And it’s vital for Jim to know about it. Immediately!”

  Peaches was adamant. Jim Hammond had told her to hold his calls, so the dam might be crumbling and the water might be rushing down at us, but the calls were not getting through.

  “Peaches, this is a matter of life and death,” Mike said finally. “Will you at least take a message to him? Now!”

  Peaches ungraciously agreed.

  “Tell them the person Nell and I think was behind the attack on us last night may be leaving the country. He’s on his way to the airport. And so am I!” Mike slammed the phone down.

  Then he began pawing through the tattered phone book that came with the phone booth.

  “Who are you trying to call?” I asked.

  “Mickey. O’Sullivan Security has the contract for the airport parking lots.”

  Mickey wasn’t in his office, but his switchboard connected us to a radio in his car.

  Mike told Mickey our problem. He described Guy, told them the license number of the limo he was in, and gave a brief fashion commentary on what Guy was wearing. “Blue blazer and gray pants,” he said. “Kind of shapeless.”

  “Mike! Am I impressed!” I said. “I didn’t notice what Guy was wearing.”

  Mike grinned and kept talking. “Just get your people to keep an eye on him,” he said. “The Grantham PD is likely to want to know where he’s going. But there’s no warrant, I’m sure of that.”

  He scanned the sidewalk before w
e went back outside the hospital. “Now, to get you home.”

  “You haven’t got time! We’ve got to get to the airport.”

  “I’m not taking you into a dangerous situation.”

  “Guy Unitas isn’t dangerous. He’s a wimp.” I thought about that one. He might be a cornered wimp, and anything that’s cornered can be dangerous. “Besides, we don’t want to interfere with him. Don’t we just want to make sure somebody knows what plane he’s on? Where he’s headed?”

  Mike didn’t say anything, but he headed for the airport. I think he couldn’t stand not to be where the action was. Plus, there was no reason that Jim Hammond would do anything about Mike’s request to send aid to the airport. We might well be on our own, the only people who cared where Guy was going. Besides, there was no warrant out for Guy. And no one—Mike, me, or Jim Hammond—had any authority to keep him from going anywhere in the world he wanted to go.

  Grantham International has only one terminal building. Mike pulled into a NO PARKING zone and waved at a woman wearing an airport security uniform. She strolled over and spoke to him. “Mike Svenson? Your man is in line at the United desk.”

  I got out of the truck before Mike could help me, but he didn’t let me get away from him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’m in charge this time. You go slow.”

  We walked into the terminal building. It was fairly crowded. The Grantham airport gets its International status by virtue of three flights a day to Mexico City. It isn’t DFW, LAX, or JFK. It’s simply a moderate-sized airport with around a hundred departures a day.

  Guy was no longer at the United ticket counter, so we went through airport security, out to the United arm of the terminal. United has eight or ten gates, each with a small waiting area. Guy could have been in any of them, and he would be able to see us more easily that we could spot him. We spent ten minutes looking without a glimpse of him. We might never have found him, if he hadn’t been paged.

  “Guy Unitas, go to the red phone for an emergency call,” the loudspeaker boomed. “Guy Unitas. Go to the red telephone.”

  Mike and I jumped behind an 1890s-style popcorn wagon and peered over the giant heap of popped corn in its glass tank. From our hidey-hole we had a clear view of the red telephones that served the United gates. And here came Guy, answering his page. He spoke briefly on the telephone, then turned and scanned the area.

  I turned my back to him and pretended to look for something in my purse. Mike ducked down as if he were working on the popcorn cart’s wheel and peeked around its corner. “He’s heading for the men’s room,” he said.

  I relaxed. He couldn’t leave the terminal without coming back out the door he’d gone in.

  Mike and I stood there, waiting. We could see the door to the men’s room clearly. It didn’t seem to be getting too much business. Three businessmen in suits and a cowboy type in boots and hat went in. A man in a maroon blazer and plaid pants came out, and in a few minutes, two of the suits exited. A bushy-haired man in blue coveralls shuffled out, carrying a tool box. Guy Unitas did not come out.

  I kept looking down the walkway toward the ticket desks, and after about ten minutes, I saw Jim Hammond come toward us. Mike waved, and Jim joined us. He held his portable phone in his hand.

  He scowled. “Just what’s going on?”

  Mike began a condensed version of the tale he’d meant to tell Hammond in his office. I produced the notebook as evidence. Our story was long and complicated, and it didn’t seem to convince Jim.

  “Anyway, I know we can’t hold him,” Mike said. “No warrant. No proof at this point. But I thought I could find out where he’s headed.”

  “Maybe he’s sick,” I said. “He’s sure been in that men’s room long enough.” More men had gone in and come out, but Guy hadn’t been one of them.

  “You’re right,” Mike said. He swung left, hard and suddenly, and almost ran across the passageway and into the men’s room. Jim Hammond followed him.

  Within seconds, Hammond came back out, frowning. He looked up and down the corridor.

  “Wasn’t Guy in there?” I said.

  Hammond shook his head.

  “He sure didn’t come out,” I said. “I’ve been watching.”

  Then Mike appeared in the door and beckoned to Hammond. They both went back in.

  A minute later things began to happen. Security guards ran down the hall toward the men’s room. The cowboy type and a computer nerd—plaid shirt, jeans, running shoes, and laptop case—came out and stood beside the door, with a security guard beside them. He’d obviously been told to keep them there. The computer nerd looked at his watch and talked nervously to the guard. A man in a good gray suit came out talking on a cell phone and joined the group.

  Mike strode out and walked directly over to me. He looked grim.

  “Guy’s dead,” he said. “It looks like cyanide again.”

  I’d had thirty seconds to expect the worst, but for a second my inner ear felt as if the United gates had taken off into the wild blue, leaving the planes on the ground. Then my ribs stabbed me with pain, objecting to a deep breath I had taken, and I grabbed them and returned to earth and to reality. Guy was dead. Cyanide.

  I grabbed Mike’s arm. “What happened?”

  “He’s in the back stall with an empty pint whiskey bottle beside him. He could have had it with him.”

  “You found him?”

  Mike nodded. “Yeah. I saw his feet, realized their position—it wasn’t right. I looked under. That’s when I called Jim in.” He shook his head. “After I crawled under and got close to him—I could smell the almonds on his breath. So it had just happened.”

  “Do you think it was suicide?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Mike, I swear he never saw us! When he got the page, we got out of sight. There’s no way he could have seen us. No way we could have spooked him.”

  Mike spoke slowly. “I don’t think we spooked him,” he said. “I think someone else did.”

  He sat me down in one of the plastic waiting-room armchairs and asked me to make a list of the men who had gone in and out of the rest room while we were watching. I had plenty of time to do it while I waited for Hammond to talk to us. He was standing in the hall talking on his cell phone. More technicians and detectives kept arriving.

  When he came over to us, he spoke to Mike. “Looks like this solves your case,” he said.

  Mike frowned. “Maybe.”

  Jim nodded and turned to me. “You two should have come to me sooner, of course, but—I understand why Mike didn’t want to do that. But if what this Lee person told you is right, Guy fits all the requirements for the bad guy she described.”

  I was still confused. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah! Of course, we won’t have any proof until we get an audit of the A.P.B. accounts. And find out about that offshore account.”

  “It’s all just speculation so far,” Mike said.

  “Maybe so, but the theory’s good. It works this way. Guy’s been stealing from the union. This Lee finds out about it and tells Irish, but she’s afraid, so she doesn’t tell Irish everything. Then, after Irish dies, she’s afraid Guy killed him, and she skedaddles. But somehow she knows, or at least suspects, that Guy called on Bo to help him—either to cause the accident to Irish’s car or to cover up afterward. So, when Bo Jenkins is killed, she’s convinced Guy killed both Irish and Bo. She’s afraid to keep quiet any longer. But her story’s kind of crazy, and she’s afraid some of the cops will blow the deal to Guy. After all, we all know Guy, and lots of people in the department consider him a friend.

  “So she goes to you, Nell. But Guy finds out that she’s come forward.”

  “But how?” Mike said. “How could he find that out?”

  “That I don’t know,” Hammond answered. “We’ve got a lot of unanswered questions at this
point. Such as why he attacked the two of you last night. But we’ll figure it out. Anyway, after his attack fails, Guy decides it’s time to collect his offshore account and go on permanent vacation.”

  Mike was still frowning. “We have no proof of any of this, Jim.”

  “With Guy dead, we’re not going to have to prove anything in court,” Hammond said. “And we’ve got evidence for some of it.” He held up a plastic sack, and I saw that it held a passport. “Passport for one Gerald U. Smith,” he said. “And Gerald U. Smith just happens to look a lot like Guy Unitas. Okay?”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “Okay!”

  Hammond held up a second sack. “Letter certifying that Gerald U. Smith is president of the Grantham A.P.B. Okay?”

  “Looks good!”

  Hammond grinned. “But—before Guy can get out of the country, you and Nell figure out that he’s leaving. You alert me through Peaches. I put it on the radio. ‘Bad guy headed to airport.’ Which was stupid, it turns out, because some cop who was on Guy’s pipeline must have known Guy was taking a trip today, heard the traffic and called the airport to tip him off. Guy panicked and used another dose of the cyanide he’d stolen from the evidence room.”

  Mike frowned, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I know, I know!” Jim said. “We don’t know how Guy could get into the evidence room. We’ve got a lotta gaps in there. But now that we know Guy was involved, we’ll close ’em up.”

  Mike and I were there another hour. We had to ID the other men who’d gone in and out of the restroom. The only one who didn’t turn up was the maintenance man.

  “A skinny guy with long hair,” Mike said. “Bushy hair.”

  Jim’s frown deepened to a scowl after he heard that. The airport manager was on the scene by then—dealing with three television channels and Bear Bennington—and he didn’t like that description either. Jim Hammond was too busy to talk to him, so the manager muttered at me.

  The Grantham International Airport has a strict dress code for its maintenance staff, the manager said stiffly. Long hair was permitted, but it had to be neat. Ponytails. Queues. Buns.