Transposition

by Gregory Ashe

  “I didn’t kill him.” This time, Columbia swiveled towards them, her eyes hard and furious.

  To Hazard’s surprise, Somers spoke. “You hated Thomas.”

  I didn’t kill him,” she shrieked.

  “You hated him so much that you would have done anything to destroy him.”

  Columbia’s face twisted in rage, but Hazard spoke into the opening, taking advantage of Somers’s help. “No, you didn’t kill him. You were going to do something worse. You were going to ruin him.”

  The scream building in Columbia’s throat suddenly died. Whatever embers of color remained in her face died.

  “That’s right. You see, I could never really bring myself to believe that Benny was the mastermind behind that plan to ruin Thomas. Benny was a wheeler and dealer. He was cruel. He was a bully. He had the kind of cutthroat savvy that helped him stay afloat without any genuine skill of his own. But he wasn’t smart enough to come up with a long-term scheme that would bring down Strong, Matley, Gross.”

  “I won’t say anything,” Columbia said, her deep voice hoarse.

  “We haven’t asked you any questions.”

  “I won’t talk. Not to either of you.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened, and then we’ll leave, and you’ll have a lawyer. Not that it will do you any good. You knew Gene Bequette. You’d hired him before. You told me that in passing, probably because you knew it might turn up in the investigation, and so you wanted it to sound casual. What you didn’t say, though, was that you’d convinced Gene to help you deal with a mutual problem.”

  Somers spoke, and his voice was hard. Only his eyes betrayed his surprise. “You asked him to kill Batsy Ferrell.”

  “This is insane.” Columbia twisted away from them, and pain flashed across her face. “I won’t talk to you.”

  “I don’t know if you hated Gene Bequette too, or if he was simply disposable. I know how you convinced him, though. Gene was one of the shareholders in the entertainment company that owns Windsor. If Batsy Ferrell kept up her complaints, they could get shut down. Removing Mrs. Ferrell was Gene’s best bet for keeping his business.” Hazard allowed a cold smile to slip onto his lips. “You took him down to the river that first night. You showed him where to shoot. Batsy Ferrell’s house is right up against the river. When she came outside, all he had to do was take a shot. But the storm was too heavy. You agreed to try again the next day. By then, though, Thomas had been murdered, and the next day you sneaked out of the house to visit Gene. Adaline lied; that was the first time she turned on you, you know. When you told us that you’d been upstairs, Adaline decided to use that to her advantage. She told Leza you were trying to break into the study, where she had cleverly planted a tape recorder. She was setting you up. But you weren’t inside the house; you weren’t anywhere near the study. You were going to the stables to make sure that Gene didn’t do anything stupid like turn you in. You argued. He wanted to leave.”

  There was no reaction on her face, and Hazard hesitated. He felt vaguely uncertain, as though he had misstepped. Until now, every piece of the puzzle had fit clearly. Now, though, Columbia’s silence staggered him. He was wrong. He had missed something. He had made a mistake, and Hazard fumbled through his analysis, trying to find where he had gone wrong.

  “No,” Somers said into the silence, his voice firm and clear. “He didn’t want to leave. That wasn’t it at all, was it? Gene rejected you. You offered him a taste of what you’d been promising, and he didn’t want anything to do with you once he knew the truth.”

  Red grew in Columbia’s cheeks. A charge surged through Hazard, and he forced his voice to remain calm as he said, “I could have told you he wouldn’t be interested in your . . . charms. Gene was very vocal about his feelings on LGBTQ people. He wouldn’t have looked your way twice.”

  Again, to Hazard’s surprise, Somers spoke. “Certainly not when there were real women for him to consider. Meryl, for example. Or Adaline. Adaline was much cleverer than you. She’s more than happy to tell us anything she can that might put you in a cell next to hers. Or even Leza, for God’s sake. Didn’t you get tired of it? You went through all that pain of transitioning, and men wouldn’t even look at you.”

  Columbia flung the sheet away from her, sitting up straight in bed. “Leza? That dried-up old cunt? Adaline? That little mouse? And Meryl—she’s got ice for a puss. Gene couldn’t keep his hands off me. He would have done whatever I wanted. All I had to do was show him that he’d—” She cut off, horror darkening her features. “That cockless bastard. He . . .” A kind of dazed wonder filled Columbia’s voice, as though even the memory were unbelievable. “He laughed at me. He said it didn’t matter what the doctors did to me, he wouldn’t be stuffing me anywhere. That’s the word he used. Stuffing. Like I was—like I was a turkey.” A giggle burst from Columbia’s lips. “He was going to walk back to the house and tell everyone the game was over. I grabbed the rifle. I didn’t think about shooting. I never even thought about it. I just swung the gun as hard as I could.” She shivered; her dilated eyes roamed around the room before settling on the TV again. “And the river was right there. Right there, it was so easy to roll him down. The waters looked very still, but they tugged him away, and he was gone. I threw the gun in the water, and it was gone too. It was all so easy.” Her breaths rattled in her chest, and she clutched at the hospital gown as she stared at the TV.

  Hazard nodded at Somers. With his partner’s help, he regained his feet, and together they left the room. Foley glanced at them. His lip curled as he noticed Somers propping up Hazard, but he turned his head back to his phone without comment. Together, Somers and Hazard inched down the hallway.

  With a smile, Somers pulled out his phone and ended the recording. “That answers a few questions.”

  Hazard tried to shrug; the gunshot wound, still not healed, tugged painfully. He needed to say something, but God damn it, it wasn’t easy. “You were smart. In there, you knew what I was doing and you jumped right in. And through the whole thing at Windsor, I mean.” He paused. Christ, why was this so hard? “You—you’re a good cop. Better than I am. You solved this case, and you should—”

  “God damn, Ree,” Somers said. “You’re really awful at this, you know?”

  Hazard let out a breath. “I’m trying.”

  “You know what they say: practice makes perfect.”

  “Drop it.”

  “You could try complimenting me every day, for example. First, you could remind me of how I brilliantly solved this case and saved your life. Then you could move on to more pertinent things: how attractive I am, how charming, how distinguished—”

  “Fuck you.”

  Together they limped a few more yards.

  “Ree?”

  Hazard grunted.

  “Thanks.”

  Hazard grunted again.

  Then Somers laughed. “I’m not as smart as you think, though. You’re going to have to explain. How was killing Batsy Ferrell going to ruin Thomas?”

  “He’d been losing money for a while, right? Investments going bad, all of that.”

  “Sure. That was Ran’s bug in the program. And Benny was going to make sure that Ran didn’t get cold feet.”

  “Benny must have told Columbia; like I said, Benny wasn’t that smart. She must have come up with the plan of ruining Strong, Matley, Gross and then selling the fixed algorithm for millions. I’m not sure what happened next. Either Columbia got greedy and couldn’t wait, or something made her afraid that time was running out.”

  “Maybe she thought Thomas was close to finding the bug. He’d been spending all his time on the program; it wouldn’t have been impossible.”

  Hazard nodded. “So she needed something that would bring Thomas down hard and fast.”

  Somers nodded more slowly, and he spoke as he put the pieces together. “Batsy Ferrell’s land is valuable; whoever buys it is going to end up rich. Strong, Matley, Gross is a real estate investment firm. They come he
re for a weekend retreat. Batsy Ferrell is murdered. Thomas Strong, who has been losing money hand over fist recently, is the one who stands to profit. He would immediately be a suspect. Even if we couldn’t prove anything, we would have dragged his name through the mud. Strong, Matley, Gross was already on its last legs; that would have finished it.”

  “That’s how I see it. Columbia’s plan might have worked, too, except she got greedy.”

  “The blackmail.”

  “If Columbia had stuck to her plan, Adaline never would have murdered Thomas. If Adaline hadn’t murdered Thomas,” Hazard paused, glancing around and lowering his voice, “another party wouldn’t have gotten involved. There might have been only one death instead of four.”

  Not until they were back in Hazard’s hospital room, with the door shut behind them, did Somers say, “You really think the mayor is behind this? You think he sent that guy, Frerichs?”

  “You know what I think.”

  “Jesus,” Somers said, slumping into the chair while Hazard lowered himself onto the bed. “This a mess.”

  Hazard was in too much pain to respond, so he let himself sink into the bed. His eyes drifted shut, and he found himself dangerously close to sleep.

  “We can’t prove anything,” Somers said.

  “Yet.”

  “Ree, if you’re right—if Lender lied—”

  “Then we can’t trust him. Or, I guess, anybody at the station.”

  “Anybody in the damn county, Ree. We have to—” Somers cut off. “You need to rest.”

  “In a minute. Can I borrow your phone? I want to call Nico.”

  “Oh. Yeah. About that.”

  Hazard’s eyes flicked open. “What?”

  “Uh, Nico. I . . . I didn’t know his number. And your phone got wrecked at Windsor. I couldn’t call him. He doesn’t know any of what’s been going on.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “He’s been out of town, and I—”

  “You’re a goddamn police detective, and you couldn’t dig up my boyfriend’s number.” Hazard didn’t wait for a response. He snatched Somers’s phone and punched in the code.

  Then he froze.

  “You little bitch,” Somers breathed. “You knew. You knew my birthday the whole time.”

  “December 24, 1983. There. Are you happy?” Hazard gave Somers his best glare. “Now will you get out of here so I can call my boyfriend?”

  Somers left with a smirk that looked like it might break his face.

  IT DIDN'T MATTER HOW MANY TIMES HAZARD CALLED: Nico didn’t pick up the phone. Hazard settled for leaving a message, and then he tried to watch TV. The local PBS affiliate was broadcasting a regionally-produced documentary on southern Missouri watercolor painting, 1952-1954. It was riveting, but for some reason Hazard’s eyes began to droop, and he fell asleep within a few minutes of finding the program.

  When he woke, the colors in the room had shifted: the curry-colored walls looked brown, now, and the stenciled birds were nothing more than black silhouettes. Someone had lowered the blinds while Hazard slept, and the only light came from the fluorescent tubes overhead. It was night; the clock showed that it was almost seven o’clock.

  Somers had his feet up on the second chair, and he was thumbing through a ratty paperback.

  “I was asleep,” Hazard said.

  “I noticed.”

  “You turned the lights on so you could read?”

  Somers, without looking up from the book, shrugged. “You left them on. I got tired of listening to you snore, so I decided to read.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it the Bible?”

  “For God’s sake, Ree.”

  “What, then? A self-help book?”

  Somers didn’t answer. He was wearing a sweater and jeans, and as he read, he paused now and then to scribble something in the margins. Then he would pause and put the pencil between his teeth and keep reading. Hazard squirmed upright, ignoring the flash of pain in his hand and the lower, steadier aches in his body, and propped himself against the back of the bed. He watched Somers read. He had nowhere better to go, not in the whole universe.

  “Nico?” Somers finally said, pencil still between his teeth.

  “Nothing. He might be on a plane.” Hazard found the cell phone and passed it to Somers.

  “You’re welcome.” Somers took the phone without looking, squinted at his book, and bent over the page to scribble something else. The sweater shifted, and for a moment, Hazard could see the dark calligraphy transcribed onto Somers’s skin.

  “Seek justice,” Hazard said, the words popping into his head.

  Somers made a noncommittal noise.

  “That’s what the tattoo says?”

  “Can I read my book, please?”

  “Yeah, sure. What is it?”

  The pencil popped out from between Hazard’s teeth; he exhaled slowly, shoved the book into a drawstring bag, and shook his head.

  “That’s pretty childish,” Hazard said.

  “Nico didn’t call you back?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not changing the subject. You said I’m childish. There’s nothing to say to that, so I asked if your boyfriend called you.”

  “You could tell me what the damn book is.”

  “I bet you’re right. I bet he’s on the plane.”

  “It’s a damn book, Somers. A goddamn book. Unless it’s, I don’t know, some really weird porn.”

  “Or maybe he lost his phone. Maybe he threw it against a wall and broke it.”

  “You think you’re really funny.”

  “Or maybe he’s just tired. Maybe he went straight home and he’ll come visit you tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want to start this.”

  “Not me,” Somers said, leaning back in the chair, his legs stretched out on the other seat. “I’ve been here for days. Just to make sure my partner is ok.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  The playfulness dropped from Somers’s voice, and he turned in his seat, planting both feet on the ground. “He’s a baby, Ree. He’s, what, twenty? Twenty-two?”

  “You know goddamn well how old he is.”

  “He’s twenty-two, and he went off and had fun with some friends over the break. You two got in a fight—” Somers held up his hands in surrender. “I know, it was my fault. But think about it: he hasn’t called, he hasn’t checked in. He could have called me. He could have called Cravens, for Christ’s sake. But he’s sulking.”

  “Nico doesn’t sulk.”

  “Look, he’s pretty. No, scratch that: he’s hot. And adorable. And he’s into you. I get it. But Ree, at the end of the day, you’re basically dating an ultrasound, and I—”

  Whatever else Somers might have said, he never had the chance. The door to Hazard’s room burst open so hard that it struck the rubber door stop and jittered backward. Before it could close again, Nico had stormed into the room. He stood there a moment. He was, as Somers had said, hot and adorable: skin the color of toasted wheat, thick, wavy black hair, and the slender musculature that lent him a distinctly boyish look, in spite of the six-pack abs that showed through a hole in his shirt.

  Nico’s eyes locked onto Hazard for what felt like a full minute: almost painfully long. He said nothing, but there was pain and frustration in that gaze. Then his attention shifted to Somers, and his face twisted into a snarl.

  “You mother fucker.”

  That was all the warning Somers had. Nico launched himself at the other man, grabbing Somers by the sweater and hauling him towards the door. Somers, taken by surprise, twisted and fell, but that didn’t stop Nico. Nico hurled Somers into the hallway, and Somers slid across the vinyl flooring.

  “What the hell—” Somers said, picking himself up from the floor.

  Before he could finish the sentence, Nico had reached him. His fist cracked against Somers’s face. Somers’s nose made a wet, crackling
noise, and his head snapped to the side.

  “You stupid, selfish, son of a bitch.”

  Nico threw himself on top of Somers. He landed one more punch, this one high on the side of Somers’s head. Then Hazard finally managed to process what was happening. His normal cool calculation had vanished, and in its place, a hot whirlwind spun inside him. This didn’t make any sense. Hazard managed to get his feet on the floor, but he’d forgotten about the IV, and the needles yanked painfully on his hand. Swearing, he jerked at the rolling IV pole, but the wheels caught on one of the chairs.

  In the meanwhile, Somers had gotten the upper hand. Somehow he had bucked Nico off of him, and now Somers was pinning him to the ground. Blood ran freely from Somers’s nose, and it darkened his mouth and chin. Drops of it spattered Nico’s face, but Nico didn’t even seem to notice; he was thrashing and swearing—not nickel and dime stuff, but the kind of swears that could make a biker blush.

  Hazard staggered into the hallway. A crowd had formed: doctors and nurses and care techs and patients circling Nico and Somers. Shoving his way through, Hazard reached the two men.

  “What the hell is going on?” Hazard said. He managed to get to his knees.

  Nico stopped swearing long enough to say, “Get this fucker off of me.”

  “Let him go, Somers. Get the fuck off him.”

  Somers released Nico and sprang backward. Nico lunged, but Hazard hooked an arm around him and dragged him backward. For one more moment, Nico struggled, and then he sagged against Hazard.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Somers said. He kept saying it, and he was running a hand under his nose, smearing the blood across his cheeks. He was smiling. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was there: a self-satisfied smirk. And then it was gone, and Hazard wondered if he was seeing things.

  “Just go,” Hazard ordered. “All of you get the hell out of here.”

  “Ree—”

  “Fuck off, Somers.”

  Somers allowed a pair of nurses to lead him away; he was pinching his nose as he went, and the nurses were already crooning at him and doing a lot more touching of his arms and shoulders than seemed necessary. He threw one last look back at Hazard, and once again Hazard thought he saw that smirk dart across Somers’s face.