Night Game

by Alison Gordon

“Right. I feel like we’re suspects, not witnesses.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Jeff said. “The cop-lover.”

  “That’s a specific, not a generic, attraction,” I explained, yawning. “Oh, God. I wish I’d brought a book.”

  “Maybe Barry will lend you his Bible.”

  “Another ten minutes and I might ask for it.”

  I was saved from sanctity by the arrival of the second sweatsuit.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Troy Barwell,” he said, crossing the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No sorrier than we are,” Jeff said.

  “We’ll do anything we can to help,” I added, sending Jeff a look. Why antagonize the guy?

  He looked to be about thirty-five, muscular under a layer of fat, like an athlete past his prime. He was wearing an old grey sweatsuit that looked worn and comfortable, and he was good-looking, in a beady-eyed sort of way.

  “I’ve seen what you had to say to Detective Sargent,” he said. “I just have a few more questions.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “Did you see or hear anyone else as you walked down the beach? Anyone at all?”

  “No,” we both said.

  “You’re sure,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “Why would I lie? Yes, I’m sure.”

  “You left the bar at two a.m., is that right?”

  “Whenever they closed.”

  “And you reported the body at two forty-seven.”

  “I guess so. I wasn’t looking at my watch.”

  “But The El Rancho is ten minutes away from here,” Barwell said. “What took you so long?”

  I blushed. Bad habit.

  “We stopped for a while,” Jeff said.

  “I wanted to rest,” I added, quickly.

  Barwell looked from me to Jeff and back again.

  “Had you been drinking?” he asked.

  “You could say that,” I agreed.

  “So there were times on the beach when you might not have been aware of everything going on around you,” he said. “Would that be fair to say?”

  “Maybe,” Jeff said.

  “We would have noticed if a man with a gun walked by,” I said. “And we didn’t.”

  Barwell glared at me. He didn’t like my attitude. That made us even.

  “Let’s get this straight,” he said. “You left The El Rancho at around two or shortly after. You walked to, and then along, the beach, and arrived at the Gulf Vistas Hotel approximately forty-five minutes later. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “Why did you go on the beach? The road is more direct.”

  “Neither one of us was driving because we knew we were going to be drinking,” Jeff explained.

  “But why the beach?” Barwell persisted.

  “Because it was pretty,” I said. ‘The moon is full.”

  Barwell looked disgusted. Obviously not a romantic.

  “Pretty,” he repeated. “Also pretty cold. Not a great night for walking.”

  “If you’re Canadian, this isn’t cold,” I said. “So we’re just doing the tourist thing. That isn’t a crime, is it?”

  He glared again.

  “While you were on the beach, you stopped, to rest,” he said, emphasizing the word, “but you heard nothing. How long were you resting?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “A few minutes, I guess. I didn’t have a stopwatch on me.”

  “And you are sure you heard or saw nothing.”

  “Yes,” Jeff said.

  “Wait, Jeff,” I said. “I just remembered. I did hear something. I thought it was a car backfiring.”

  Barwell looked at me like I was a specimen in a jar.

  “You thought it was a car backfiring,” he said.

  “I guess maybe it was a gunshot,” I said, resisting an impulse to titter.

  “And what about you, Mr. Glebe? Did you hear the same sound? And conveniently forget about it?”

  “I guess so,” Jeff said.

  “You guess so. And do either of you guess you might be able to tell me when you heard this sound?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Neither do I,” said Jeff.

  “It wasn’t too long after we began walking,” I said. “Maybe ten minutes. So it would be ten past two, depending on exactly what time they kicked us out of the bar.”

  Barwell flipped through his notebook for a moment, then sighed.

  “You two are going to be useless witnesses in court,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve never heard a gunshot before,” I said. “I thought it was a car.”

  Barwell closed his book and got up.

  “I may have more questions for you. You’ll be hearing from me. And you should come in tomorrow, or later today, to give a formal statement. Ask for me.”

  He went out the back door.

  I looked at Jeff. He looked at me. I shrugged.

  “I guess we are dismissed,” he said.

  “He could have offered us a ride home,” I said.

  “I don’t think generosity is his style.”

  Chapter 10

  It was past 5:00 when we got back to our hotel. I was both exhausted and jangling from the coffee we’d been drinking. I also felt numb. Jeff paused for a moment outside the entrance.

  “About earlier,” he began.

  “Let’s just forget about it,” I said. “It wasn’t the world’s best idea.”

  “It seemed like one at the time,” he said.

  “So it did,” I said, putting my arm around his waist. “But I think we’re lucky it didn’t go any further.”

  “Yeah.” He kissed me in a brotherly fashion, somewhere between my right eyebrow and my cheek.

  We were crossing the lobby when Julie, the night clerk, called to us.

  “Where have you guys been?” she asked. “Some man has been looking for you all night. I put him in your suite, Jeff.”

  “What?”

  “Some guy from Toronto,” Julie said. “He said he was a friend of yours, Kate. He waited in the bar for you until it closed. Then he asked me to let him in your suite, but I wouldn’t. When he said he knew you, too, Jeff, I figured it would be safer to put him there.”

  “Does this guy have a name?” Jeff asked.

  Julie looked through some papers on the desk.

  “Yeah, wait,” she said, “I’ve got it here somewhere.”

  “It wouldn’t be Andy Munro, would it?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” she said, surprised.

  Jeff and I looked at each other and began to laugh, a tad hysterically.

  “Surprise!” I said.

  “Let’s go wake him up,” said Jeff.

  “No, give me your key. I’ll handle this one alone.”

  “You sure?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “But there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

  “I’ll wait down here, then,” he said.

  “I won’t be long.”

  Jeff’s place was exactly the same as mine, if messier, on the floor above. I let myself into the room and turned on the entrance-hall light. Andy was on the bed, fully clothed, snoring. He looked so sweet that tears came to my eyes.

  I tiptoed across the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and kissed his cheek. He opened his eyes immediately, looking confused, and made “where am I?” kinds of noises until his eyes focused. Then he smiled.

  “This is a nice surprise,” I whispered into his neck.

  He sat up and hugged me. He smelled stale, slightly sweaty, with an overlay of Scotch. But mainly he smelled like Andy, a welcome and arousing scent.

  “Happy birthday,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

&nb
sp; “I think it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” he asked. Letting go of me, he turned on the bedside lamp, and squinted at his watch. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “It’s a long story” I said. “Let’s go to my room.”

  I held off explanations until we were there, and I’d called down to the front desk to let Jeff know he could have his room back.

  “I’ve got to get some sleep,” I said, stripping off my clothes.

  “What about my explanation?” Andy asked, helping me.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I said. “Let me tell you about it in the morning.”

  “Considering the circumstances,” he said, climbing into bed, “I guess I can wait.”

  “I can’t,” I said, putting my arms around him.

  I closed my eyes and felt the familiar textures of his body, the silk of his belly, the sandpaper of his beard, so well-known to me, and so exciting after being apart. But it wasn’t quite right. We were just out of synch, and I couldn’t erase the residue of horror and guilt from the night’s various events. Afterwards, Andy began to apologize. I stopped him.

  “Tomorrow,” I whispered. A moment later, I was dead asleep.

  I woke up at around noon, with a jolt. I had been dreaming about blood. Andy was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper. I opened the curtains on a miserable day, stumbled to the stove, and poured myself a cup. Normally I drink tea to start the day, but this morning I needed the caffeine blast.

  “About time,” Andy grumbled, but his eyes were smiling. “I’ve read everything in all three papers, including the Sun Coast Deaths. Average age, eighty-seven.”

  “With the weather today, probably a few will drown,” I said, crossing to the table for a hug.

  The rain streamed down the window panes, and the wind whipped palm branches against the glass.

  “Some Florida vacation,” Andy said.

  “How long have you got?”

  “Just the long weekend. I’m going back Monday afternoon.”

  “That only gives us three days,” I said.

  “And you’ve already wasted half of one,” Andy replied.

  “I’ll call the office. Maybe they’ll give me some time off. No, I’ll call Jeff first, see if he’ll cover for me. No, maybe I should let him sleep a little more.”

  “Stop dithering, Kate. Call. Invite him up for a coffee. Then you two can explain exactly what you were doing all night long together.”

  “Hanging out with cops, what else?”

  Andy looked mildly astonished.

  “Hey, I haven’t seen you for ten days. I have to get my fix somehow,” I said, picking up the phone.

  “If I woke you up, I’m sorry,” I said, when Jeff answered. “You are ordered to present yourself at suite 413 for a cross-examination about our whereabouts last night. Staff Sergeant Munro presiding. Coffee’s on.”

  I hung up and went back to the table.

  “Here’s the sports section,” Andy said. He never reads it unless I point out a story I’m particularly proud of. It’s another reason we get along.

  “Actually, I want the front,” I said. “Crime news.”

  I went through the news sections quickly. There was nothing about Lucy’s murder, which didn’t surprise me once I thought about it. It happened too late for the morning deadlines. I was picking up the sports section when there was a knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Andy said.

  “What’s the matter, are you afraid we’ll whisper in the hall to get our stories straight?”

  “Something like that,” he smiled.

  Jeff looked a little bleary and awkward, with his long pale legs hanging out of a tattered pair of navy blue jogging shorts. His T-shirt was faded and frayed. He did look cute.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, Jeff,” I said. “I trust you slept well.”

  “As well as could be expected,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  Andy handed Jeff a cup of coffee and motioned towards the sugar bowl and milk carton on the table.

  “This court is called to order,” I said, in a deep voice. “His Honour Judge Andy presiding.”

  “All I want to know is where you were last night, while I was enjoying the pink and grey hospitality of the Flamingo’s Nest Lounge,” Andy said.

  “I’ll confess,” I said. “The evidence is all over the place. It’s a fair cop.”

  I got up and went to the wastebasket.

  “Exhibit A,” I said, holding up the empty half-bottle. “Champagne. Bought in honour of my birthday, and consumed on these premises.

  “Exhibit B,” I said, holding up the other empty champagne bottle. “More champagne. Bought in honour of my birthday by my co-accused, Jeff Glebe. Consumed on these premises by my co-accused and myself, while I opened my birthday presents.”

  “Exhibit C,” I said, crossing the room and posing with the leopard-skin nightie. “Birthday present, sent from Toronto by one Sally Parkes. I forgot to wear it last night.”

  “It’s an improvement over that flannelette job with the pink flowers,” Andy said, approvingly. Jeff laughed.

  “I only wear that when I have a cold,” I said, indignantly.

  “Or when you have your period, or when we’ve had a fight, or when you’ve had a bad day at the office, or . . .”

  “Enough, enough,” I said. “You don’t have to trot out all our intimate secrets. Jeff will be embarrassed.”

  “Don’t mind me,” he said, smiling smugly. “I’m enjoying this.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Let’s get on with our tale of last night.”

  I poured myself another coffee and sat down.

  “After champagne and presents, Jeff was kind enough to take me out to dinner at an intimate French bistro . . .”

  “Which I’ll charge to the Planet,” Jeff said. “I’ll call her Stinger Swain.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said. “Then, after our duck á l’orange, we went to a not quite so elegant roadhouse, where we drank long-neck Lone Stars and tequila by the shot and danced the Texas two-step, because there are some men in this world who actually enjoy dancing,” I said, getting in a small shot at Andy, who is terpsichoreally impaired.

  “Finally, after they closed the bar on us, we strolled home along the moonlit beach telling each other tall tales.”

  “Everything she has told you is the truth,” Jeff said, putting his hand on his heart.

  “Wait a minute,” Andy said. “You strolled on the beach for four hours?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, “I forgot one thing. When we got to the hotel around the corner, we found a corpse on the beach.”

  Andy didn’t quite spit out his coffee.

  “And, of course, the cops kept us hanging around while they did all their police stuff,” I continued. “So that’s the story. Are you satisfied?”

  I got up again and went to the phone.

  “Jeff, I’m going to call Jake. Can I beg you to cover for me for the next couple of days? Andy’s here until Monday night. They probably won’t want that much.”

  “No problem,” Jeff said.

  “I’ll owe you one.”

  “Don’t think I won’t collect.”

  Jake grumbled about it, but gave me the time off. The pages were full of hockey playoffs, and another columnist was in Arizona looking at the Cactus League baseball camps, so Jeff would only have to file one column a day on the Titans. He left to see what he could scare up at the training camp in the rain. I put on the leopard-skin nightie.

  Chapter 11

  It rained all day, giving us a good excuse to stay in. We called room service for club sandwiches and beer for lunch at 4:00, and played for the gin rummy championship of Western Florida. I won. Andy sulked. I ma
de him feel better.

  At 6:00, the phone rang. Detective Sergeant Barwell, sounding quite miffed, wanted to know why I hadn’t been in to sign my statement. I explained about my unexpected visitor, which he didn’t seem to think was much of an excuse.

  “How soon can you get here?” he asked.

  “Just a minute.” I put my hand over the receiver and explained the situation to Andy. He grimaced.

  “I’m not standing in the way of a police investigation,” he said. “You’d better get it over with.”

  “You come with me, and we’ll go out to dinner after,” I said, then turned back to the phone.

  “We’ll be right down. Has Jeff Glebe been in yet?”

  “He just left,” Barwell said. “Do you know where the police station is?”

  I didn’t, so he gave me directions. Half an hour later we parked in front of the small stucco building, a wing of the municipal offices, modern and totally lacking in character. The door set off a beeper when we entered, which got the attention of a fat, bored-looking policeman sitting at one of half a dozen desks that crowded a room too small for the furniture.

  He closed the dog-eared thriller he was reading and, marking his place with one pudgy finger, ambled over to the reception wicket. We told him our business. He glared and punched a button on the intercom.

  “She’s here,” he said. “And she’s got a guy with her.”

  Detective Sergeant Barwell’s disembodied voice told us to hold on a minute. The fat one didn’t move.

  “You her lawyer?” he asked Andy.

  “Do I need one?” I replied. “Is tardiness an indictable offence in Sunland?”

  Andy looked pained. My inability to resist cop-baiting is not one of the things that endears me to him. I was saved from further transgression by Barwell’s arrival. He was dressed a bit better than the last time I saw him, in a shiny lightweight suit. His tie, which was an ugly swirling mess of blues and green, was firmly done up. He looked very anal-retentive.

  “Asked him if he was her lawyer,” Fat Cop explained. “He didn’t answer.”

  “I didn’t have a chance,” Andy said, smiling and putting his hand out to his counterpart. “Andy Munro. Not a lawyer.”

  “No,” I interrupted. “He’s one of you.”