Black Coffee

by Jaye Watson

  Reminding herself that she was a scientist, she organized her thoughts. Hypothesis: Harry is alive and in hiding. Null hypothesis: Harry is either not alive or he is not hiding.

  Whoa! Neither of those is testable. Try again.

  Hypothesis: Harry's whereabouts can be postulated by extrapolating on his past behavior.

  That could be tested. So, what did she know about his past behavior?

  Not a darned thing. At least not insofar as what he might do when in danger. But Detective Armbruster might.

  She had her phone in her hand when it occurred to her that some questions are better asked in person. No matter how desperately she wanted Harry found right now, she knew a methodical approach would be best.

  Monday I'll set up an appointment with Armbruster. And in the meantime, I have a decision to make.

  During the next couple of hours, she looked at a lot of fish, but really didn't see any of them. Instead she deliberately forced herself to review the pros and cons of staying at BioLogic, a task she'd been avoiding. There was something scary about walking away from a secure position, one she'd spent twenty years working toward. Especially since she had no idea what she'd do if she did resign. Positions like hers weren't thick upon the ground. Government, universities, and consulting were about the only places she'd find an opening worth considering. She'd never get a research position at a university without bringing funding with her. Teaching was her last choice of career paths, and independent consulting would be difficult without a lab to work from. DNA sequencers and gas chromatographs were not something one picked up at surplus sales.

  Did she even want to continue what she'd been doing for so long? Perhaps it was time for a career change.

  Maybe I could get a position with the Police Department. Detective Armbruster would put in a good word for me. So would Harry.

  Harry. He had to be alive.

  She stopped strolling, clenched her fists, and shoved all thoughts of Harry to the back of her mind. Instead she thought about the text she'd sent to Detective Armbruster. She still felt as if she'd betrayed Martha.

  There's always the possibility that I developed that hypothesis on insufficient data. She would get back to Portland and discover that there was no way her friend could have had anything to do with the death of her husband. Amy would call her and they'd laugh together about their disloyal comments. And next Friday they'd apologize and Martha would understand and forgive.

  By the time she walked out of the aquarium, she'd made up her mind about her job, stopped feeling guilty about her suspicions, and decided that if the task force hadn't found Harry by next Saturday, she'd come back to Seattle and look for him herself.

  * * * *

  She could feel the negativity when she walked in on Monday morning. Or maybe it was within her, because mentally she'd already severed her ties with BioLogic. Ignoring the twenty-three memos in her inbox, she opened the Personal folder on her computer and emailed its contents to her home. She'd always been careful to keep a minimum of personal information here, so it was a simple matter to remove the files she didn't want anyone seeing. A hacker could probably restore them, but there really wasn't anything truly private there.

  After deleting the folder, she opened the file where she'd begun writing her resignation. Last night she'd done some figuring. With the hundred-odd hours of comp time she had on the books and the twelve days of vacation she hadn't yet taken, she could give two weeks' notice and not come in tomorrow. And she'd still get a decent last paycheck.

  Her phone rang as she was running the spell-checker. "Banister."

  "Dr. Banister, would you come to my office?"

  "I'm involved in something right now. I'll see you in--" She checked the time. "Fifteen minutes." Without waiting for Fontina's reply, she hung up. And immediately dialed Martha's number.

  "I need to talk to you. Will you be home around six?"

  "Em? Oh, God, I am so glad you're back. It's been just awful. The police... And the medical examiner... We can't hold his wake--" She broke off with a wordless wail.

  "I'm at work. We can talk about this when I get there. Gotta go." She hung up, and immediately felt guilty. No matter what Martha might or might not have done, they were still friends, and friends supported each other.

  I hope I'm wrong. I really hope I'm wrong.

  She sent the letter to the printer and all but sprinted down the hall to the copy room. It would never do for someone to see that letter before she had a chance to hand it to Fontina.

  How fortuitous he'd called her on the carpet. There was no way on earth she'd believe he'd called her in to compliment her on her presentation at the symposium.

  After a quick stop in her office to sign both copies of her resignation, she made it to Fontina's office exactly fifteen minutes after she'd hung up. "Good morning."

  He wore his usual supercilious expression. "Sit down, please."

  She decided to hear what he had to say before giving him her letter.

  Picking up a pen, he tapped it on the desk several times before saying, "I understand you charged your train fare to Seattle to the company."

  "Yes, back in February, when I first made arrangements to attend."

  "I believe Dr. Allardyce informed you that the company is not responsible for your travel expenses."

  After a moment of pure shock, she said, "Dr. Burton approved that charge, long before any transfer of ownership. If you think--"

  "Dr. Banister, company policy clearly states--"

  "That's it! I've had it. You try to make me reimburse the company for that train fare and I will go to court." She leaned forward and slapped her letter of resignation on his desk. "I'll expect you to account for every cent owed me when you prepare my final paycheck. And don't try to slap me with more than two weeks' salary in lieu of notice."

  Standing, she rested both fists on the edge of his desk. "Feel free to send someone to make sure I don't steal any secrets. I'll be out of here within the hour."

  "Dr. Banister--"

  "I can't say it's been a pleasure, Fontina, because it hasn't." Suppressing her need to growl, she walked out of his office and closed the door gently behind her. She made a quick stop in the copy room to pick up a couple of boxes, glad she'd never brought many of her own reference books to the office.

  One last thing to do. Opening her email, she cleaned out the folder labeled EB. She was about to empty the trash when a message arrived. From sleaze@gmail.com. The mouse was hovering over Delete Message when the subject line caught her attention: Visit a Seattle landmark: Lou Graham's brothel.

  "What on earth..."

  Wish you were here, the message said. No signature.

  Intrigued she forwarded it to her own Gmail account, deleted the message and emptied the trash.

  Fontina walked in just then. Without a word, he took a position against the wall, where he could watch her every move as she packed up the minutiae of the past twenty years.

  Driving home a little over an hour later, Emaline came as close as she'd ever come to having a panic attack. Not only had she quit her job, she'd made enemies doing it.

  Why couldn't I have been cool and calm? Why did I have to yell at Fontina, and then tell Allardyce that I wouldn't consider working for her under any circumstances, when she came to talk me out of leaving?

  No gold watch for me.

  She hadn't even said goodbye to the people she'd worked with for so long.

  As soon as she got home, she called Detective Armbruster. He was out, not expected back until Wednesday, so she asked for an appointment. "I've got some information he requested," she said, when asked for a reason. "Any time will be fine."

  Curiosity got the best of her. The mysterious email was no more enlightening now than it had been. She Googled "Lou Graham's brothel" and was rewarded with a whole list of websites. After reading the Wikipedia entry, she clicked on a link to a photo. The attractive brick building was familiar. She'd noticed it on the way to the lawyer's off
ices. The photo's legend said it was now part of the Union Gospel Mission.

  How peculiar. Why would someone wish she was there? Could it be a novel fund-raising ploy? She bookmarked the link, intending to research further when she was in a less unsettled frame of mind.

  Next she called Roger, who was taking a couple of weeks off before beginning his new job at OHSU. They set a time for lunch on Thursday when, she promised, she'd tell him everything. When she hung up, she happened to catch a glimpse of the kitchen clock. Twelve-fifty. The afternoon stretched before her, empty.

  She called Amy. After explaining why she was at home at noon, her explanation punctuated by exclamations of surprise and approval, interspersed with laughter, she told Amy why she was calling.

  Amy said, "I agree. I'll be at your place by five-thirty. We'll go together." She huffed. "Shit. I don't want to do this."

  "Neither do I. But we need an answer."

  "And if it's yes?"

  "I don't know."

  "Neither do I."

  Emaline listened to the faint hum of an open line for a full minute before saying, "I'll be ready."

  "I won't. But I'll be there."

  After she replaced the phone in its cradle, she buried her face in her hands. I hope I'm wrong. I really, really hope I'm wrong.

  She was almost positive she was right.

  * * * *

  "Emaline, I'm so glad-- Amy? Did I know you were coming too?"

  "No. But I wanted to talk to you too, so..."

  "Well, come on in. I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer you. I haven't been to the store since..." Her face crumpled and tears rolled down her cheeks. She gestured toward the living room.

  It was a mess. Newspapers and magazines littered the coffee table, and empty cups, overflowing ashtrays, and candy wrappers were scattered on every flat surface. On the table next to Martha's favorite chair stood a glass half full of amber liquid. Bourbon, was Emaline's bet. Martha's tranquilizer of choice, although she'd never been known to overdo it.

  "We're fine," she said.

  Martha huddled in her chair. Her hand, seeming to move of its own volition, reached toward the glass, but then was drawn back. "I'm so glad you came over. I've been so alone. Marcie was here, but we fought. She blames me--" Her wail was heart-rending.

  If Amy hadn't been there, Emaline might have gotten up and left. I can't do this.

  Amy caught her eye. "If you won't I will," she said, barely above a whisper.

  She took a deep breath. "Martha, did you kill Walt?"

  Martha leapt from her chair. "Get out! Right now. Both of you!" She stood in the center of the room, hands fisted at her side, body all but vibrating with the force of her anger.

  "I thought you were my friends. That you trusted me. That you loved--"

  Her knees buckled and she collapsed into a heap on the carpet. "Go. Please. Just leave me alone."

  Emaline looked helplessly at Amy.

  "Let's go. We won't get any more out of her."

  "But shouldn't we help? Do something?"

  "Anything we do might just make her worse. I've seen this sort of thing before. She's frightened and stressed and probably grieving. Even if she did...cause Walt's death... Oh, God, I can't believe I'm suspecting one of my best friends of murder." Amy climbed into Emaline's car, but instead of belting in, she buried her face in her hands.

  "I know," Emaline said, as she got behind the wheel. "I feel the same way. And I want to go back in there and comfort her. She looked so...so lost. So alone."

  "Have you told the police what you believe?" Amy dug in her purse, pulled out a small pack of tissues. She offered it to Emaline, who took one and wiped her eyes.

  "I-- I sent an email to Detective Armbruster Saturday. Just suggesting he have Walt's tissues tested for nicotine. But he was a heavy smoker, so even if they find high levels, it'll be inconclusive. I've an appointment with him on Wednesday, but whether I tell him..." Her throat tightened. "I can't. Amy, I just can't tell him what I believe."

  After a long silence, Amy said, "No, you can't. No matter what, she's our friend."

  Chapter Seven

  "I'm going to call Jerri. She'll know what to do."

  "Good idea." Emaline took her hand off the ignition key. She leaned back and closed her eyes, and wondered how her life had gotten so complicated. A year ago Grandad was still alive, she hadn't had a date in ages, and the worse thing about her job was Dr. Burton's fretting about excessive breakage in the lab. With half an ear she listened to Amy.

  "It's too complicated to explain, Jerri. But Martha needs you. I-- We upset her. Em and I. She told us to get out, and I believe it's best if we stay away. But someone ought to--" She listened for nearly a minute, making little noises of agreement. "Yes, you're right. We were-- No, she hasn't moved. I can see her head and shoulders through the window. We'll keep an eye on her until you get here." She listened a moment more before ending the call. "Jerri's leaving right away. If she doesn't get stuck in traffic, she should be here in less than thirty minutes."

  "Big if. You know what traffic is like this time of day."

  "Yes, but she's coming in, not going out. By the time she gets across the river, the worst of the rush should be over. Oh-oh!"

  Martha had finally risen and was moving out of sight. "I'll go 'round to the back, make sure she doesn't leave." About to close the car door, Emaline had a thought. "Just in case," she said, and tossed her keys onto the seat.

  For the while she stood in the misty rain and watched through a kitchen window as Martha replenished her bourbon and water, dug in a cupboard for something in a box, and stood against a counter while she munched and sipped. When Martha turned her head toward the front of the house, and then set her glass down and disappeared through the door to the dining room, she hoped it was because Jerri had arrived. A few minutes later Amy came around the corner of the house and gestured.

  "You look like a drowned rat," Amy said, when they were in the car.

  "Yes, well, the drips from that darned pine I was standing under were worse than the rain. It never occurred to me to bring an umbrella."

  "Jerri said she'll let us know how Martha is in the morning. Good thing tomorrow's her day off."

  "I feel so darn bad."

  "I know. Maybe we should have let the police--"

  "No, because once they get involved, it'll be all over the news. We don't know she did anything wrong. But when I listened to Dr. Rathdrum talking about the symptoms of nicotine poisoning, it reminded me--"

  "Yes, but you've been really focused on poisons, after that situation at Christmas, and then the dogs."

  "Dogs! Right now I don't care if I never see another dog. If Perky hadn't died..."

  "Walt might not have. Yes, and that's why I still think we did the right thing, even if how we did it was less than tactful."

  Amy refused soup and sandwiches and left. Once alone, Emaline realized she was exhausted. She ate a chunk of cheddar and a couple of crackers, drank a glass of orange juice, and headed for bed.

  At 3:07 in the morning she woke, remembering the cryptic email. And knew what it was saying.

  * * * *

  "Your text was a bit mysterious." Richard Armbruster steepled his fingers and stared at Emaline across his desk. "Care to elaborate?"

  She had given much thought to how to wriggle out of this. "I had just come from an excellent presentation on the effects of certain common toxins--everyday substances that when administered wrongly or by accident, can cause severe reactions, or even death. The symptoms of nicotine poisoning were so much like what my friend, Martha Kaczynski, described her husband suffering." She gave a small chuckle. "I'd forgotten what a heavy smoker he was. Sorry for the false alarm."

  Armbruster's eyebrow went up. "As a matter of fact, there were unusually high levels of nicotine residue and by-products on his skin and in his tissues and blood, but given his condition and his three-pack a day habit..." A shrug. "Unfortunately, by the time we received y
our text, the body had been released, and cremated."

  "So you no longer question the cause of death?"

  "Let's just say that we don't have enough evidence to take to the Grand Jury." He stared across the desk long enough to make her want to fidget in her chair. "Was that why you wanted to see me? To tell me you'd cried wolf?"

  "No." Now she did fidget. "I met a man in Seattle. He was working with Harry--"

  He came out of his chair, towered over her. "How the hell--"

  "Actually, I saved his life. He'd been terribly beaten and tossed into an alcove between buildings. It was pure luck I found him when I stepped aside to make a phone call. One thing led to another, and..."

  Giving a resigned sigh, he settled back into his chair. "I trust someone impressed on you how important it is to keep this all confidential."

  "Of course. As if I'd do anything to endanger Harry." A couple of deep breaths and she felt prepared to lay out her plan. "I came to you because I wanted someone to know where I'll be. And to ask you to be my contact. If you could set up an email address and phone number where I can reach you without linking it to the police, I think--"

  "Dr. Banister, what the devil are you talking about? What kind of hare-brained scheme--"

  "Oh, sit down, Detective. It's obvious the people Harry was working for can't find him. Neither have the bad guys."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because I got an email from him. Day before yesterday." A little niggle of doubt surfaced, but she swatted it down. "I believe it was from him. I know where he is. Or at least where to look for him."

  "Then tell me and I'll pass it on to the taskforce."

  "No. It's safer if I don't. What if someone on the taskforce has sold out?"

  "Unlikely."

  "Perhaps. But I'm not willing to take that risk with Harry's life. Are you?"

  He sat back and covered his eyes with one hand. After a while he said, "At least let me send someone in your place. Someone from here. I know I can trust--"

  "But can I? No, Detective, you aren't going to talk me out of this. I'm going to look for Harry, and I believe I'll find him. I have a plan--"