Good King Sauerkraut

by Barbara Paul

  “I’m not qualified to judge obsession,” he replied primly, and then slipped in the zinger he’d been saving. “You know she’s senior partner of SmartSoft now?”

  Marian’s eyebrows raised. “No, I didn’t. I knew she wasn’t the sole owner, but I just assumed they were all equal partners. We slipped up there. Well, well.”

  King said no more, satisfied for the moment with the climate of doubt he’d contributed to.

  Abruptly Marian changed the subject and asked to be shown the rest of the apartment. She’d already seen the games room, with its poker and billiards tables, so King took her into the media room. King liked the media room. He waved an arm expansively and said, “What do you think?”

  One wall of the room had four TV screens, a fifty-one-inch projection set at the center and three seventeen-inch screens on top. Shelves containing video equipment were attached to another wall; King pointed out four VCRs, two laser disc players, a satellite receiver. The opposite wall held audio equipment—three each of tuners, integrated amplifiers, audiocassette decks, CD players. And one turntable.

  “Overkill?” Marian suggested.

  King ignored that and said, “This room has five pairs of speakers built into the walls. And it has a digital sound field processor—you know what that does?”

  “No, what?”

  “It imitates the acoustics of concert halls and opera houses and the like.” He put a disc into the player. “Balcony or orchestra?”

  Marian shrugged. “Balcony.” An overture to an opera started playing, and the music did sound as if it were coming from an orchestra pit on a building level lower than theirs.

  “Now let’s move you downstairs.” The music was suddenly coming from the same level, and it sounded closer. “Isn’t that great?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “And look here.” King stopped the CD and opened the door of a walk-in closet that had been converted to a video tape library. “Suction fans to eliminate dust. Low-level humidity, constant temperature.” He ran his eye over the titles of some of the tapes stored there. “Do you like Aliens?”

  There was a pause. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met any,” Marian replied politely.

  King was actually starting to explain when he realized she must have known he meant the movie. She was pulling his leg, needling him? Why? Her face gave nothing away. King didn’t like being kidded, especially by this cop who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to play such a big role in his life, and who now sat listening placidly while he babbled on about mechanized puppets. “They even have articulated lips,” he finished lamely.

  “Articulated lips, huh?” Marian said absently and waved a hand toward the television screens. “So you can watch Aliens and three other movies at the same time here? Or four TV channels?”

  “Oh, better than that.” He plopped down on a leather chair next to a control unit. “Would you believe thirty-six?”

  She perched on the arm of his chair. “Right now, I think I would. What’s that thing? Don’t you use remote control units?”

  King was pressing buttons. “Each of these screens can show nine different PIP freeze-frames, and switching from one signal to another on four separate monitors can get hairy. Even a unified remote can handle only so much. This ‘thing’ here is a teletext system with a touch screen. Watch.” The control unit’s screen showed an image of all four monitors; King touched the first one and the screen immediately changed to a numeric keypad. King started entering channel numbers, and after a while thirty-six different pictures were displayed on the four monitors, nine to a screen. “There you have it. Couch potato heaven.”

  Marian laughed at the sight, enjoying the absurdity of it. She studied the various pictures, counting. “Twelve of those thirty-six channels are broadcasting a show or a movie about crime. Do you think that’s a fair sample—one-third of our entertainment is about crime?”

  “Did you count the news?”

  “No.”

  “Then make it thirteen out of thirty-six—there’s always something about crime on the news.”

  “Speaking of which, did you notice that you haven’t been hounded by news reporters?”

  He hadn’t, but thought it politic not to say so. “I was wondering about that.”

  “It’s because you and Mimi stayed in this apartment the whole time you were hot news. I suggest you give the security men downstairs a big tip—they did a hell of a job turning away reporters for you.”

  King hadn’t even thought of that. “Does that mean we’re no longer, er, hot news?”

  “Did anyone accost you today when you went out?”

  “Only you.”

  “The murder of Dennis Cox and Gregory Dillard is last week’s news. The reporters probably won’t bother you at all now—unless something more happens.”

  “Something more? What else could happen?”

  Marian eased off the chair arm where she’d been perched and stepped around to face King. That placed her squarely in front of the big screen, with its plethora of action going on around her: Victoria Barkley drove a team of horses directly over the sergeant’s head. “What else could happen? Mimi could confess. You could confess.”

  “Me! You still think I … that’s crazy!”

  “You’re sure Mimi did it?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “But you think she did?” Captain Kirk scowled at King over Marian’s right shoulder.

  “Well, if you’re convinced it was one of the two of us and I—”

  “Yet you don’t mind sharing an apartment with someone who might have wanted to kill you?”

  “But you said she wouldn’t dare try anything now! You said I was safe!”

  “And if I said the moon was Roquefort, you’d buy that too? Why aren’t you afraid, King?”

  He swallowed hard. “I … I guess that on some level I’m just not convinced that Mimi is a killer.” It was the best answer he could come up with.

  Marshal Dillon pointed a gun at Marian’s left ear. She sighed and said, “That leaves you. Are you a killer, King?”

  “No!” He was sweating; what kind of game was she playing? Disoriented by all the images in front of him as much as by the questions Sergeant Marian Larch was hurling at him, King jumped up out of his chair and bolted from the media room. He headed toward the living room’s balcony; but the rain was still pouring down, so he stood inside and looked out, fidgeting, uncomfortable.

  Marian came up to stand next to him. “You’re now rid of a partner you didn’t really like, and you’ve got yourself a new one that you do like. Dennis wanted to head your project, and so did Gregory. And so does Mimi. I hope nothing happens to Mimi, King. I really do hope that.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to Mimi!” he growled. “Why would I want her dead? I already have control of the project!”

  Marian smiled sadly. “Killers don’t always act to get something. Sometimes people kill to protect what they’ve already got.”

  “And you think that’s what I’ve done.”

  “I think my clothes should be dry by now.” Without another word, she turned and left.

  King was startled at the way she’d broken off the accusations, as abruptly as she’d introduced them. Was that her technique, hit and run? Here he’d been rather pleased with himself for the subtle way he thought he’d been casting doubt on the matter of Mimi’s innocence … was that the problem? Had he been too subtle? Was Marian Larch the kind of cop you had to hit over the head before you could get her attention?

  When she came back in, she was dressed in her own clothes. Her shoes were still wet; King hoped they were ruined. “I left your robe in the laundry room,” she said. “Thanks for lending it to me. I’m supposed to report to the captain in half an hour, so I’ll be going now. Next time you can tell me all about articulated lips.” With a cheery wave she was gone.

  King sank down to the floor, right where he was standing. Marian Larch was making him very uneasy. The other serge
ant, Malecki, was probably working the same game on Mimi. He leaned against the glass door to the balcony, trying to get his thoughts in order; he stayed there until his back began to get cold.

  He didn’t want to think about Marian Larch and her awkward questions, so he went into the office and turned on one of the computers. He couldn’t do any real designing until he’d talked to the weapons people in Washington; but perhaps he could get a start on squeezing all those treads and legs into an impossibly small space. He fiddled around for an hour and then gave up; he couldn’t concentrate.

  Mimi still hadn’t come back. Hinting that Mimi Hargrove might not be the innocent she appeared just wasn’t going to do the trick. Something more definite, more damning, was called for. Something that would turn the police’s attention away from him once and for all.

  Yes, something was going to have to be done about Mimi.

  11

  King was waiting in Warren Osterman’s MechoTech office when the older man came in the following morning. “Hello, King—something up?” Osterman lowered himself cautiously into his leather desk chair and watched the other man pacing aimlessly about the room.

  “A couple of things,” King said, ignoring any pretense of amenities. “First, just how much patience does Defense have? If we don’t get going on this thing—”

  “We still have some time. Rae’s been trying to arrange a confab, but about half the people you’ll need to talk to aren’t in Washington right now. And everybody agrees a phone conference won’t do the trick. My advice is to let it ride until they start requesting a meeting.” Osterman took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “You know how it is with government people—everything is urgent and therefore nothing is.”

  King nodded without pausing in his pacing. “That’s just as well. Warren, every other team that’s tried an EM gun platform design failed for the same reason—because Defense kept adding refinements that took up space needed for other things, important things. A mechanism for changing wheels to treads to legs and back again, for instance. There’s no way in the world to fit one into the puny amount of space they’ve allotted for the job. And that space is going to shrink even more. They’re going to keep adding things to our design just the way they did to the others.”

  “I know, but what can you do?”

  “We can anticipate them. We can go in saying the whole gun platform has to be bigger. Then we can reserve space for whatever they throw at us later.”

  “But how much reserve space? You don’t know what the next innovation will be.”

  “I can guess. I’ll bet you next year’s tax refund that sooner or later they’re going to ask us to include launch apparatus for the new earth-penetrating missiles.”

  Osterman hooted. “Not a chance! Good god, that’s an entirely different weapons system. Besides, those missiles are huge—”

  “I don’t mean those big ones that go after underground bunkers and the like.” King stopped pacing and stood in front of Osterman’s desk. “But smaller ones, the size of rifle-launched missiles—think of the damage they could do! They could take out gas mains, underground power lines. That weapons system is different, but sooner or later it’s going to dawn on someone in Washington that small earth-penetrators are a natural auxiliary to the electromagnetic gun.”

  Osterman looked interested. “So what do you have in mind?”

  King sat down in a chair facing the desk and took a deep breath. “I say we beat ’em to the punch. We go in and suggest it ourselves. Once Defense is convinced that the EM gun and the earth-penetrators belong together, they’ll have to approve a larger platform—and that’s where we’ll get the extra space we need for changing the modes of locomotion. It’s the only way we can lick this thing.”

  Warren Osterman was silent for a long while, and then his face gradually crinkled into a big smile. “By god, that’s devious! Tell the military they need more weapons. Oh, how they’ll love that! Ha!”

  King grinned. “Thought you’d like it. It should get us off the hook quite nicely.”

  “It’s too early to start posing for statues,” the older man grinned back. “We still have to pull it off.”

  They talked details for a while and agreed to go ahead with the plan. Then Osterman said, “You know, King, you’ve changed. I used to wonder who tied your shoelaces for you, but no more. You never would have thought up a move like this before. Dennis Cox might have, but not you.”

  “Maybe that was the problem. I depended too much on Dennis.”

  Osterman agreed. “He depended on you to develop the innovative technology, and you depended on him to take care of the business end for you. You complemented each other, but each of you reinforced the other’s weak spots. When was the last time Dennis came up with a truly original design?”

  King smiled ruefully. “I can’t remember.”

  Osterman hesitated. “This new partner of yours. Is she …”

  “Original. And quick. And willing to clean up after me only to a point, I suspect. She’s no Dennis, that’s certain.”

  The older man nodded, reassured. “It’s a horrible thing to think, but you’re probably better off without Dennis. If the police ever decide to arrest Mimi, that is.”

  King got up and started pacing again. “That’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. Warren—why did you tell the police the other three all wanted my job?”

  Osterman’s face took on a pained look. “They were looking for a motive. Once the police told me the killer had to be you or Mimi … well. I knew it couldn’t be you—you’re just not mean-spirited enough to go out and kill someone. So it has to be Mimi, and she probably is capable of killing. I thought if I told them about the competition for your job, I’d help head them in the right direction.”

  King managed a smile; the old man had been trying to protect him. “Thanks, Warren. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. Sergeant Larch made a point of telling me that sometimes people kill to protect what they have, not just to gain something more. I’m still a suspect.”

  Osterman groaned.

  “And there’s something else. If Mimi did kill Dennis and Gregory, are we supposed to go on working with her as if nothing has happened? How do you think I feel, right there in the apartment with her?”

  “Things were rough this morning?”

  “She was still asleep when I left. She didn’t get in until late.”

  “Do you want to move back to the other apartment? Or into a hotel?”

  King made a show of considering the suggestion. “That might not be a bad idea. Let me think about it.”

  They had nothing more to talk about, so King left. Without knowing it, Warren Osterman had put his finger on a problem that King could find no immediate solution for. It would be a good move toward convincing the police of his innocence if he left the apartment for a hotel; it would look as if he were afraid to stay alone with Mimi. But at the same time, he didn’t want to separate himself from the police’s only other suspect. If he were going to come up with a plan for directing suspicion toward her, he wanted her where he could get at her. What worried him was the possibility that Mimi might move to a hotel. He’d been trying to think of a way to persuade her to stay but so far had come up empty.

  King stopped in Rae Borchard’s office and invited her to have lunch with him.

  Warren Osterman had been right about one thing, King thought; he had changed, a little. He was noticing more, paying better attention. He’d had to watch various people carefully to see how his story was going over; he thought he knew every facial expression in Marian Larch’s repertoire, for instance. And even though circumstances had narrowed the police’s suspects down to two, he was sure he’d done nothing to point the finger of guilt at himself. He was handling it.

  Earlier he would have hesitated to ask a woman like Rae Borchard out to lunch; now he wasn’t even surprised when she said yes. Rae suggested a Japanese restaurant on First Avenue and said she’d meet him there at twelve-thirty. King
killed time until the hour approached; he didn’t want to go back to the apartment and face Mimi just yet. The thought struck him that it was one week to the day since Dennis and Gregory had died. He’d survived seven days.

  Rae was waiting at the restaurant when he got there. Warren Osterman had filled her in on King’s suggestion that they sell the Defense Department on the idea of a bigger gun platform, and she was all for it. Rae had mastered the art of talking and reading a menu at the same time, but King still had to jump back and forth between the two.

  The food was good and the talk pleasant, touching as it did on any subject except the police investigation. Rae did drop a hint that the next time he had an idea such as the one for the expanded platform, he should come to her with it. But she did it so gracefully that King wasn’t at all sure he’d been reprimanded.

  She seemed to be waiting for him to bring up the subject on both their minds, so he did. When a lull appeared in the conversation, he asked, “Aren’t you afraid to be having lunch with me? The police think I might be a murderer.”

  Rae gave him the ghost of a smile. “Warren’s convinced it’s Mimi.”

  “Warren was also convinced a rival company was out to kill off our entire design team, and he was wrong about that. But I’m asking what you think.”

  She patted her mouth with a napkin before she answered. “I don’t think you’re a murderer, King. You’re not a hunter. It doesn’t seem to be your nature to pick out a prey and stalk it. The trouble is, I can’t see Mimi killing those two men either. Dirty her hands murdering somebody? No. I have to think the police are on the wrong track.”

  King only half believed her. She wasn’t really risking anything, meeting him in a public place like this. They’d been alone together only once, the time she drove him home from the hospital; but he wasn’t a suspect then. “Rae,” he said quietly, “I want you to tell me how much Mimi has been campaigning for my job. Since Dennis and Gregory died, I mean. Exactly what has she been doing?”

  “She hasn’t approached me at all. Warren mentioned she’d been after him about it, but he didn’t go into detail.”