“Less a coach than a kind of glorified consultant—whose attentions were directed not toward the team as a whole, but only to certain members of the team.”
“What certain members?”
“The better-looking ones. There’s an undercurrent of resentment among the kids who didn’t make the cut.”
“You mean the not-so-good-looking ones.”
“So it would appear.”
“Proof?”
“Not yet. I first heard the term play party from one of the swim team kids who hadn’t been invited to any of them. He said he had no actual knowledge of what took place at one, but whatever went on was ultra hush hush. Then he became frightened and ended our interview.”
“So, what’s next?”
“Further investigation.”
“This could get nasty.”
“I think it already is. Someone killed Hank Carson. Someone who knew him. Someone who was likely wounded by him. I’m going to find that person.”
We both sat silently. I finished my sandwich and watched as my father wrestled with his. He took tiny bites and chewed carefully. He was earnest about it and it was difficult to watch. At some point, he put the sandwich down and sat back in his chair. “You also mentioned something about graffiti.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“Are you up for a little ride?”
“With you?”
“Why not?”
“I wish I thought more highly of your driving.”
“Ditto,” I said.
We toured Freedom and the neighboring townships. I showed him the places that I knew had been defaced. And we discovered a couple of new ones along the way. He shook his head. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“The prevailing wisdom in the universe of the graffiti artist seems to be, ‘If I want to paint something, I’ll damn well do it. Anywhere I choose. Public property, private property. It’s all the same to me.’”
“Talk about disrespect.”
“There have been half-hearted attempts to stop them, but although the defacement of both public and private property is clearly an act of vandalism, these self-righteous, sanctimonious assholes somehow manage to get away with it.”
“How do they do that?”
“They regard themselves as groundbreakers of a new art form. Street art. The wave of the future. Surpassing modern art, postmodern art, and contemporary art.
“They believe an empty wall belongs to whomever sees it first, regardless of whose property it might be on. They think of themselves as superstars. They even sign their so-called work.
“The worst of it is that this tagging, as it’s called, has become a worldwide scourge. It’s everywhere. Removing it is no longer possible because as soon as they clean up one piece of graffiti, it’s soon replaced by another. As a result, more and more cities are rife with this crap and local governments seem no longer able to combat it.”
“Because?”
“It costs a fortune to remove. And even if they spent that fortune, it would be to no avail. These rats live in the shadows. They perform their defacements in the dead of night. They’re like stealth bombers who travel around freely, never identifying themselves beyond their signature tags. Cops can’t identify them, never mind apprehend them.
“And not only that, if anyone did find them, the penalties for what they’ve done are meaningless. Not even the equivalent of a slap on the wrist.”
“So what can we do about it?”
“You mean here in Freedom?”
“Yes.”
“We find them and take them down.”
“If no one else can find them, how can you?”
I pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the Sheriff’s house. I turned off the engine and lowered the windows. We stayed seated in the car.
“The Town Council has agreed to heighten the penalties. Large fines and jail time.”
“How did you convince them to do that?”
“Helena Madison. She gets it.”
The Sheriff chortled. “I still don’t see how you can find any of these clowns when no one else can.”
“Because I’m obsessed. I’ll find them, all right, and when I do, I’m going to make their lives miserable.”
“Good luck with that, Buddy.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“The widow on line five,” Wilma Hansen announced.
“The widow?”
“Yeah. You know. The runner. Kimber Carson. Would you like me to monitor the call?”
“That won’t be necessary.”’
“She’s a suspect, right?”
“That’s questionable.”
“What if she were to say something incriminating?”
“That’s not likely, Wilma.”
She soldiered on, her intention being to rile me, an ongoing effort which never failed to please her. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, and if she weren’t happily married, I’d think she had a crush on me. Maybe she does have a crush on me. Who knows? But I nonetheless enjoy her jibes. Even when they’re at my expense. Taking shots at the boss works wonders for morale. And every so often, they’re hilarious.
“But what if she did say something incriminating? Be better to have another pair of ears on the line.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You could live to regret this decision, Buddy.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay. It’s your call. But when push comes to shove, don’t say I didn’t offer,” she said and clicked off.
“Kimber?”
“Buddy?”
“Yes.”
“Is this out of line?”
“Is what out of line?”
“My calling you like this.”
“Not at all.”
“Would my asking you to dinner be out of line?”
“Are you asking me to dinner?”
“Yes. A home-cooked dinner.”
“You want to cook dinner for me?”
“Are you always this obtuse?”
“Obtuse?”
“Listen, Buddy. I’m inviting you to dinner. At my house. I’m prepared to whip up my world-class pot roast along with roasted potatoes and mixed veggies. I thought it would be better if we met in private. Nobody around to spy on us.”
“You’re really serious about this?”
“Totally.”
“Okay. When?”
“Tonight?”
“Okay.”
“Drinks at seven.”
“Okay.”
“Dinner to follow.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Okay. What can I bring?”
“Your appetite. Seven o’clock.” She ended the call.
After I placed the receiver onto its cradle, I leaned back in my chair and quietly chastised myself. “Buddy,” I muttered, “you may be nuttier than a fruitcake.”
Chapter Twenty-four
I left the cruiser at home and drove my own car, an ancient Jeep Wrangler, and parked it a couple of blocks from her house. It wouldn’t do for the Deputy Sheriff’s car to be seen in front of it.
I hoofed it to the house and she had the door open before I even rang the bell. “I was watching for you.”
I handed her the bottle of Argentinian Malbec I had brought. She smiled and led me inside.
An air of uncertainty permeated the small bungalow. The residue of death lingered in the unsettled atmosphere. Kimber seemed freighted with insecurity, a person who had been unexpectedly derailed and forced to reconsider her premises. Alone with me, she seemed uncertain as to how she should behave.
I took the Malbec from
her and opened it. I poured her a glass and when I handed it to her, she immediately took a large gulp before I poured my own glass and had the chance to toast her.
“Oops,” she said, realizing her mistake.
She smiled sheepishly and raised her glass to me.
“To better times,” I toasted.
She led me to the living room’s twin upholstered armchairs and motioned for me to sit across from her. The room was sparsely furnished, devoid of any noticeable attempts at interior design. No paintings hung on the walls. Very few books were on the bookcase. I spied no photos of her and her late husband. A three-seater sofa was in front of a wall-mounted, fifty-two-inch Samsung wide-screen TV, along with a low-lying coffee table and a pair of side tables.
She watched me as I took note of the surroundings. She seemed tired, although in her pale blue sheath, with her streaked hair askew, and her large hazel eyes ablaze, she was a genuine temptation. She shrugged. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“I’m glad you suggested it.”
“You are?”
“For what it’s worth, I believe you were blindsided by what happened to your husband. Forced to adopt an entirely different set of life protocols. Not at all easy. I’m impressed at how well you’re handling it.”
“You are?”
I nodded.
“How could you, of all people, say such a thing? I skipped town. You had to come arrest me. I must be a colossal pain in the ass for you.”
“Not true. Besides, it’s my fault you left in the first place.”
She drank a large swallow of wine, more intent on quantity than quality. “I’m lost, Buddy,” she blurted. “I have no friends. No real job anymore. I mean, who would buy a house from me now? Nobody even takes my call. I’m a pariah. And I’m stuck in this house with the ghost of my dead husband haunting me. And what’s worse is I’ll have to stay until his murder is solved and I’m no longer a suspect. I’m totally pathetic.”
She shielded her face from me when the tears began to fall. “You’re the only person I can talk to. The only person who’s been kind to me.”
I stood and pulled her to her feet. I took her in my arms and held her. She wept.
After a while the sobs subsided and she stopped trembling. She stepped back sought out my eyes. “Can you forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive.”
She looked away and gulped down another swallow of wine. “Are you hungry?” she asked, tentatively.
“Famished.”
She managed a smile. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”
She took my hand and led me into the kitchen.
We pushed back the chairs, having eaten our fill. She hadn’t been kidding when she referred to it as world-class pot roast. I can’t remember having eaten better.
I helped her clear the table and then she waved me off as she set about loading the dishwasher. “There’s brandy,” she said. “Why don’t you pour us a couple while I finish up in here?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I wandered into the living room where I found a bottle of Hennessy and a pair of snifters. I happily tested its scent and then poured us each a healthy serving. I placed Kimber’s on the table next to her chair. I grabbed mine and sat. The brandy took immediate hold of me and my thoughts began to drift.
Primarily I was concerned with what exactly I was doing in this house with this woman. She was a key figure in a murder investigation I was conducting, and as such, was taboo. But when she entered the living room, wearing the low-cut, pale blue sheath dress that inadvertently called attention to her every curve, my breath caught.
She picked up her glass and raised it in my direction. “Again to better times.” We both drank. Then she sat with her legs curled beneath her. “What should we talk about?”
“Have you ever heard of play parties?”
She sat quietly for a few moments. “Why do you ask?”
“One of the swim team boys mentioned there were play parties at Freedom High. Well, not exactly at Freedom High, but connected to it.”
“He mentioned them in relation to my husband?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I was interviewing him about the murder when he brought them up.”
“So it was in relation to Henry?”
“Perhaps indirectly. Did your husband ever mention play parties to you?”
She took another sip of brandy. “My husband pretty much stopped talking to me after we moved to Freedom.”
“Why?”
“I wish I knew. Prior to Freedom, when we were still in New Jersey, we talked endlessly. We made love frequently. We were close. But when we moved here, he became distant, obsessed with his work. Uncommunicative. And we stopped having sex.
“When I tried to discuss it with him, it made him angry. He withdrew even further. When I suggested family therapy, he laughed me off.”
“What did you do?”
“I went on a hunt for a proper psychiatrist and began seeing her regularly. Twice a week.”
“And?”
“I realized how emotionally wounded I was. How little I understood myself. So I went on a mission.”
“A mission?”
“My shrink told me that learning about myself was as important as any other kind of education. I set out to learn as much as I could about me. About how best to handle the situation I was confronting. To stop seeking ways to ameliorate the circumstance and focus instead on how best to handle my own emotions. In time I came to realize I couldn’t be with a man who no longer wanted to be with me. I asked him for a divorce.”
“Did anyone know that?”
“My parents. We discussed my moving back home for a while. Until I could regain my footing. They agreed it was a good idea.”
“And?”
“Somebody killed him.”
“Have you any thoughts about who it was or why?”
“None. We were living in separate worlds. Aside from briefly meeting the Principal, Julia Peterson, I had no dealings with any of his associates.”
She finished her brandy and she held out the glass for more. I poured. She briefly sniffed, then sipped. “This stuff goes straight to my head.”
Her eyes had developed a slight glaze, a softening of sharpness, a faint absence of focus. Noticing this, I commented, “I think I should be leaving.”
“Would I be out of line if I asked you to stay?”
A brief glimpse of sensuality flashed in her eyes, a look filled with promise and expectation. She took another sip of brandy, stood somewhat unsteadily and whispered, “Don’t leave.”
I scrambled to my feet. “I can’t stay with you, Kimber. You’re very desirable. More than you know. But it would be a mistake. For both of us.”
I shook my head and made for the door. She took a few steps as if to follow.
I turned back to her. “Thank you for the wonderful dinner.”
I let myself out.
Once in the Wrangler, I turned on the engine and sat back in the driver’s seat. I commended myself on having avoided what I innately knew was a pathway to heartache.
But it was a close call. In different times I would have stayed. I’d have thought I could change things for her. Ease her pain. Make things better.
But she wore her hurt like a badge and although she was surely tempting, the choice to be with her was exactly the type of psychological misstep I had made in the past.
I took a deep breath.
Instead of having leapt into an emotional abyss, I had actually made the healthy choice. And although once I got home I would be alone, it was an alone I could handle.
“Maybe there’s hope for me yet,” I chided myself.
Chapter Twenty-five
The banner headline on the pol
ice flier screamed:
WANTED: GRAFFITI ARTIST KNOWN AS ROBBER XMAS
REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS ARREST
Three photos of his spray-painted graffiti appeared on the flier, which had been posted and e-mailed throughout the state. The fliers were impossible to miss. They were everywhere.
Johnny Kennerly burst into my office. “Listen to this,” he said excitedly. “Once the fliers hit L.A., I got this call from the LAPD liaison in charge of the graffiti task force there. Guy called Chuck Voight.”
“I know Chuck Voight. We were rookies together.”
“That’s what he said. He also said he had some great Buddy Steel stories.”
I knew Chuck Voight to be an inveterate kibbitzer who’d stop at nothing to get a laugh.
“Pay no attention to his stories, okay? He makes stuff up.”
“That’s what he told me you’d say.”
“He pioneered the ‘alternative facts’ phenomenon.”
“He mentioned you’d say that too. In any event, this Voight guy knows about Robber Xmas. L.A. cops have been trying to locate him since the Mayor got serious about putting an end to the graffiti scourge.”
“And?”
“No luck. But they’re still searching. And he claims LAPD will do whatever it can to help find him. Says he wants to talk with you about how we can interface. Particularly since Mr. Xmas is operating in both of our territories.”
“I’ll call him.”
“My talk with him gave me an idea,” Johnny said.
“Okay.”
“This Robber Xmas guy. He showed up in Freedom out of the blue. Just after Labor Day. And he’s been tagging here ever since.”
“So what’s the idea?”
“He’s got to live somewhere. I want to canvas the town in search of new arrivals. Rentals. Resident hotels. New home sales. Boardinghouses. It’s probably a shot in the dark, but you never know.”
“Go for it.”
“You think?”
“Why not? It’s as good as anything we’re doing now.”
“I’ll let Detective Voight know.”
“Good idea.”
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