She slipped outside into the night. The moon, although not quite full, kept her path lighted. She didn’t need to use her flashlight. Running quietly in her sneakers, Maggie hurried to the opening of the woods in front of her dining room window. She glanced up and was surprised to see her dining room illuminated clearly and distinctly from outside.
“Here, boy,” she called gently. “Where are you, puppy?” She was sure the sound was being made by a dog.
She listened for more sounds. She hesitated to go into the woods. In fact, now she wished she’d picked up her can of mace as well as the flashlight.
“Here, puppy,” she said, finding herself afraid to speak loudly. Suddenly, she heard the dog whimper directly ahead of her. Clicking on her flashlight, she moved through the trees and into the opening of the woods toward the sound. As the darkness engulfed her, she had to resist the impulse to return to the comforting glare of the street lamps of the parking lot. Her eyes followed the flashlight beam, her ears straining to hear in spite of the thundering of her heart in her head.
Then she saw it. It was tied to a small sapling. A six-foot ravine separated her from the puppy. Her emotions see-sawed between relief at having found the animal and trepidation that human hands had put him there. At the bottom of the ravine was a representative trickle of Peachtree Creek. It would go on to a bolder showing a few miles down the way, but here it trailed away to just a moving, damp creek bed.
Maggie made her way down the steep side of the slippery slope. She grabbed at branches and rocks as she slid her way to the bottom of the muddy creek bed. The puppy squirmed against its bonds and watched her approach with large, frightened eyes.
“It’s okay, puppy,” she said, trying to keep herself calm as much as the dog. “I’m coming.” Her light flashed spasmodically along the leaf-choked side of the ravine. She took a couple of steps up the other side, her fingers reaching for the little dog and his rope. She pulled at the hemp twine but it held fast. The puppy whimpered again.
Maggie knelt down on one knee near the puppy and pulled out her house keys.
“It’s all right, little guy,” she said as she used the teeth of the key to saw away at the twine. She touched the animal gently and it whined. She drew back her hand and stopped sawing. The dog was covered with blood. There were cuts along its head and haunches and Maggie could see that it was missing toenails on each paw. Maggie gave the weakened piece of twine a sharp jerk and pulled it free of the tree. Quickly, she picked up the animal, ignoring its cry, and tucked it snugly against her. It was then that she heard the other noise.
Her eyes went in the direction of the light from her dining room. It was only about forty yards away. She had heard a movement in the woods above her, a movement of something heavy treading on leaves and sticks. A blundering sound of someone stalking her.
Fighting the urge to panic, Maggie clutched the dog and moved steadily up the steep side of the ravine. The dog trembled against her chest. Her mouth was dry and she could feel the beginnings of terror start to unravel her mind. Who was out here? She reached for a hanging root and hoisted herself a few feet higher up the ravine. She neared the top, her hands trembling and clumsy with the cold, her heart fluttering in her throat.
She sensed her assailant behind her before she heard him, before she felt the heavy hands on her neck. When he attacked, she was vaguely aware that she dropped the puppy, heard it cry as if from a long distance. She was even mildly aware that Laurent would be home by now and that she had left her typewriter on. She smelled a light fragrance, like violets or lily of the valley. And then a blinding pain crept up from the back of her head and the dark, damp ravine bottom of Peachtree Creek rushed up to slam into her face.
Part III
Eliminating the Impossible
Chapter 15
1
Dave Kazmaroff pressed his fingers into the soft, yielding flesh above his hip bone. All that tennis for nothing. All those early morning jogs, a waste. He lifted the glutinous, overly-sweet pastry to his lips. It wasn’t even good pastry, he thought as he bit into it. A cop’s lifestyle and a tendency to pack on pounds obviously didn’t match up. He stared at the chorus line of Styrofoam coffee cups lined up in front of him on the metal conference table. A thin cardboard box holding a last few doughnuts and pastries sat crumpled and used amongst the cups. He shoved the whole raspberry pastry into his mouth and licked the flakes of sugar off his fingers. It tasted dry and stale. He eyed the doughnuts in the box, then leaned back in the metal folding chair. Where was Burton? How long does a shower take? He reached over and delicately extricated one more plump doughnut from the box. His eyes moved to the large simple-faced clock that hung over the only door to the room. Six a.m. They’d been here all night talking to one Douglas A. Donnell, confessed psychopath and overall despicable human being.
Kazmaroff finished off the doughnut. Sprinkles escaped down his shirtfront. The bastard had recounted the murder easily, and with a degree of pleasure as though he was looking to them for applause or approval or, at the very least, some sort of reluctant respect. Amazing.
Donnell had rattled off details that only the cops, the coroner, the murderer and the general newspaper-reading public could have known. When asked why he’d killed her, he had merely shrugged and smiled. Were they supposed to think this low-life was mysterious or something? Dave wondered, finishing off the last of the doughnut. The man had spilled it all, without apparent reservation, and without apparent truth. He worked as a bank teller at a Fulton County Bank branch in Buckhead, where he had been a teller for nearly twelve years. Preliminary questioning of his fellow workers had revealed the usual: he was thoughtful, considerate, a little stand-offish, but generally well-liked. He had no girlfriend and had never been married. He had a cat, and no friends or acquaintances outside of work. Most of his co-workers expressed surprise at that.
Wearily, Dave picked up his notepad. Burton wasn’t going to like this new bit very much. He wasn’t sure what he felt about it himself. His glance fell on a jelly doughnut that had served all night as the sticky landing strip for two flies. His lips twitched slightly. What was taking him so long?
Suddenly, the door swung open and Burton was there. He strode into the room, his thinning hair plastered against his head from the recent shower, looking revived, even cheerful. Kazmaroff felt a perverse pleasure in being the one to change all that.
“The Newberry woman was attacked last night,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “Her boyfriend called the downstairs desk about three a.m.”
Burton stopped and stared at him.
Dave felt an irrational impulse to laugh. Man, I must be tired, he thought.
“What?” Burton backed two steps away from him as if Kazmaroff and the news could somehow be avoided.
“Attacked, you know, as in assaulted and done ugly things to.”
“But, we...” Burton trailed off, his eyes bouncing around the interrogation room.
Kazmaroff knew what he was thinking. He’d gone through the same mental maneuvers himself. Yeah, but we caught the son of a bitch.
“Come on, man, let’s go talk to her.” Kazmaroff led the way past their offices, down to the receiving desk and through the hall that led to the underground parking garage. He stopped briefly to pick up their messages at the front desk. The new shift was just coming on duty.
“Gotta handful for ya, Kaz,” the scrawny-looking sergeant at the front desk said as he handed over a small stack of messages. “Jack, your wife called. She didn’t sound happy.”
Burton looked up slowly. He felt like he had entered a fog. Just moments before, life had seemed so tidy and ordered. Locked up, buttoned up, nailed down.
“Jack?”
Burton nodded at the sergeant. He knew he must look drunk or half-asleep.
“Rough night, huh?”
Kazmaroff answered for him, taking charge, leading the way, sorting through their messages as if Burton’ were of concern to him too.
�
�Long one,” Kazmaroff said, sifting through the white note slips. “We’ve been at it since...when was it, Jack? Yesterday afternoon, I guess.”
Burton looked at Kazmaroff briefly.
I hate your slimy guts, you Russian bastard.
“You guys better get going.” The scrawny little sergeant turned towards his typewriter and began to insert a processing form.
“Come on, Jack,” Kazmaroff said turning away. “You can read these in the car.”
Holding his temper in a frail grasp, Burton followed down the hall after his partner.
He’d already spent a good part of the preceding night having his joy at a walk-in confession marred by the thought that he had been mere moments from destroying his career by arresting a retarded delivery boy for the crimes. Throughout the night, as he questioned Donnell, he couldn’t help but imagine what would have happened if he had brought Alfie in—and then Donnell had given himself up. He’d have been the laughing stock of the entire department. Hell, entire department nothing—this kind of news wouldn’t have stayed put. He’d have been a joke throughout the entire southeast. His reputation and his career would have been in shambles. He’d have been taken off the case, probably off the damn force. And the worst of it...the worst of it was when he imagined the look on Dave Kazmaroff’s face. Burton shuddered to think how close he had come to doing time in a federal prison. Because he would’ve killed the bastard. He would’ve pulled out his regulation-issue Colt-45 and emptied every round into the bastard’s teal blue Polo shirt.
2
Maggie hung up the phone in the living room and, even in the pressing heat of the late morning, rewrapped the wool afghan rug tighter around her. She sat back down on the couch and nestled into the pillows, her eyes open but unseeing.
Perhaps, on some subconscious level, she had believed that Burton’s suspect in custody really had killed Elise. What other explanation could there be for the fact that she had felt surprisingly little concern about entering the woods last night? She had somehow felt that since the bad guy was locked up, there was nothing to fear in the night anymore. And she had nearly died last night. Would have died too, if it hadn’t been for Laurent.
He had returned to the apartment and found her gone. A quick search of the apartment and the parking lot had revealed that she had not taken her car. Laurent had begun a search of the apartment building grounds. He had begun a very noisy search of the apartment building grounds. In the process, he’d awakened Mr. Danford, the night watchman, as well as a good number of residents at the Parthenon, and had, it seemed, succeeded in scaring off Maggie’s assailant.
Maggie picked up the ice pack and held it to the back of her head. Laurent had found her lying crumpled at the bottom of the ravine, a large, swelling knot on the back of her head, the wounded terrier cowering at her side. Laurent had insisted they spend the rest of their early morning hours in the emergency room at Piedmont Hospital to confirm that Maggie would not lose her memory or begin reciting chants in Urdu at some point in the future. She was released with the assurance that, although nasty and painful, her wound was a relatively mild concussion. It felt anything but mild now as she sat in her living room—her head banging like a rusty kettle drum being attacked by a shovel—and remembered her terror in the dark last night.
Laurent entered the room, his eyes clouded with concern. He held a steaming mug of tea and a small flask of amber-colored liqueur. Wordlessly, he placed the tea in front of her and handed her the brandy.
“Never had spirits before noon,” she said, wincing as she drank the brandy. It hurt to tip her head back and the fluid burned in her throat.
“You have called Gerry?” he asked, sitting down opposite her.
She nodded carefully and deposited the ice bag in a bowl on the coffee table.
“He doesn’t expect me in.”
“Bon. And the police?”
“Laurent, what do you want me to tell you?” She winced in pain again and lowered her voice. “I gave Detective Burton another call. He hasn’t called me back.”
“C’est incredible!”
“Well, I’m not really surprised. On the other hand, cops swarming all over the place isn’t going to get me any closer to figuring this thing out. It’ll just ensure that my neighbors permanently refuse to talk to me. And I’ve got a few more questions to ask them now.”
“And the note?” Laurent gestured to the folded piece of paper on the coffee table in front of them. When they had returned from the hospital, they had found it jammed in the slot of Maggie’s mailbox.
Maggie picked up the note and reread it. The handwriting was a tight, almost European style with elongated, loopy “l’s” and “t’s”.
“Stay away. Stop doing what you are doing. I’m watching you. If you don’t back off, I will kill you.”
She dropped the note back onto the coffee table.
“Well, maybe the police can get something off it.” She sighed and eased back into the couch pillows. “Besides our fingerprints, I mean. But we still don’t need a whole S.W.A.T. team of cops here to check one lousy note for prints.”
Laurent shrugged.
“Drink your tea, please, cherie,” he said wearily.
She felt a sudden urge to tell him not to worry. That she’d stop asking questions and stop trying to find out what happened to Elise. She knew their lives would settle down if she did. And surely her love for Laurent was big enough that she could give him that much? She watched him with guilt and caring and said nothing.
The phone rang. Maggie pulled back onto the couch. She wasn’t in the mood for phone conversations.
Laurent picked it up and spoke into the receiver:
“Allo?” His face softened and he smiled slightly. “Une moment,” he said, covering the receiver. “It is Brownie. I can tell him you—“
Maggie shook her head and held out her hand for the receiver.
“Hey, Brownie,” she said.
Laurent took the empty brandy glass into the kitchen.
After she hung up the phone she padded barefooted to the bedroom door. She wore a faded pair of navy sweat pants and a light cotton sweatshirt. Laurent was peering into the refrigerator, his back to her, rigid and expectant.
“He wants to meet me for lunch tomorrow,” she said.
“Ahh, yes?” Laurent turned his head slightly over his shoulder.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“I don’t mind, cherie. We French are secure!” He smiled and turned to face her. She moved forward and slipped easily into his arms.
“Good thing,” she said. “Makes up for my wobbly American ways.”
He tilted her chin up with his fingers and kissed her lightly on the mouth.
“Perhaps a little food would help?”
“No food,” she said firmly, kissing him back. “Oh! What happened to the little dog? The one that was with me last night?”
“Oh, it is a bad dog. He is the reason you are walking into the woods in the middle of the night.”
“He’s not a bad dog. Laurent, what did you do with him? I thought you liked him.”
“I am teasing you.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel draped over his shoulder and she moved back to the kitchen doorjamb to watch him. “He is with the animale docteur. Yes? Monsieur Danford has taken him there.”
“Oh, Laurent, do you trust that guy? He’ll probably chop him up for a stew to cook on his hot plate or something down there.”
“I am telling him I will be very disappointed if the little dog is not getting well. He is taking him to the docteur. Pas de danger!”
“Okay, but check on him, okay? Did you see how cut up he was? His little feet? God, it was awful.” Maggie wandered over to the dining room table. Her typewriter was still sitting there, her notes still stacked beside it.
The outdoor buzzer sounded. Maggie looked questioningly at Laurent, who shrugged. She depressed the button. “Yes?” she said into the intercom.
“Miss Newberry? Detective
s Burton and Kazmaroff. We’d like to come in if we could.”
3
Gerry hung up the phone and tapped the base of it with a mechanical pencil. Mugged! In her own parking lot. Wait until Darla heard about this. She’ll be calling Qantas Airlines herself.
He stood up and raked up the Venetian blinds on his window with a jerk on the dangling cord. The full blaze of the morning sun shot through the window. Mean temperature in Auckland in summer is 78 degrees with less than ten percent humidity. He turned away from the sight of cars and trucks moving at a slug’s pace down the street below. Situated on an isthmus, the views of harbor and beach are enjoyable from every vantage point of the city.
Gerry leaned over his desk and engaged the public address system, clearing his throat loudly at the same time. “Attention, all hands,” he said into the speaker. “This is your captain speaking. There’ll be a short meeting in the conference room in ten minutes. That is all.” He felt a rush of adrenaline push through his veins. He’d been waiting for this, the point of no return. The crossed-over line.
He straightened his tie and patted down the pockets on his double breasted suit. He knew what he would say, no further preparation was necessary. It was annoying that Maggie wasn’t here but he’d describe it all to her later.
He jumped at the knock on his door. It pushed open and Patti’s blonde head popped through.
Gerry coughed. “Er...yes, Patti?”
“I can’t make the meeting, Gerry.” She entered the room, her clothing making its entrance first. A loud complaint of a hair bow was knotted in her hair, something ruffly and pink. Wasn’t there an age limit on women wearing bows in their hair, Gerry wondered? The rest of her outfit was reminiscent of the psychedelic sixties. Dramatic swirls of red and yellow were captured in a glimmering polyester pleated skirt with matching overblouse. As usual, Gerry thought, she looks like she’s trying to offend before she even opens her mouth.
“Can’t make it?” He knew he sounded formal. It was just the right tone. After his announcement at this morning’s meeting, he’d have very little to worry about from this place. Or from Patti.
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