Night Game

by Alison Gordon

  “Handy for you,” Andy said.

  “No, really, listen to this.”

  I told him about Barwell’s history of violence against women, about his dishonesty as a cop, and about Lucy’s rape and his subsequent humiliation.

  “Dick Teensy,” he said. “I like that. I may use it.”

  “On who? Whom?”

  “You remember Bob Flanagan?”

  “That jerk? You mean he’s . . . ?”

  “Like a thimble.”

  I snickered.

  “Go for it,” I said. “But let’s get back to my problem. Did you happen to notice what kind of gun Barwell wore?”

  “Sure, the same one we use.”

  “I thought so. And that gun is?”

  “Smith and Wesson .38.”

  “Yes!” I said. “That’s the murder weapon.”

  “I hate to throw a wet blanket here, but was he at this party?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then your theory supposes what, a chance encounter on the beach?”

  “That’s where it’s a bit weak,” I admitted.

  “And how did he get the murder weapon? Do a B and E at the condo?”

  “No, I’ve worked that out. He planted the gun during his search after the murder was reported, took Dommy’s identical gun, and threw it in the ocean.”

  “He could have, but I think you’re a bit weak on the opportunity angle on this one. And the motive isn’t so hot.”

  “What if she was threatening to expose the rape? It would kill any chance he had for advancement. What if he has secret ambitions to be the chief someday?”

  “That wasn’t Lucy’s style, from what you tell me,” he said. “Next.”

  “All right,” I said. “Here’s a threat motive. Dirk Hoving, Lucy’s stepfather.”

  “How was she threatening him?”

  “I’m not sure she was, but she could have. He was a prominent born-again businessman who evidently indulged in some hanky-panky with Lucy a few years ago. If it got out, it could ruin him. Maybe she was blackmailing him or something.”

  “Any evidence of that?”

  “No. I just heard about it from her father, who isn’t exactly a reliable witness.”

  I told him all about my conversation with Hank.

  “Well, I still don’t like your theory yet,” he said. “It’s worth following it up to see if there is any evidence of blackmail, but opportunity is weak. Have you considered the father, by the way? He sounds pretty scuzzy.”

  “There was something a bit unhealthy about their relationship,” I admitted. “The two of them smoking dope and talking sex isn’t exactly standard father-daughter stuff. But I can’t see him being capable of thinking this whole thing out. His grief was real, Andy. He was suffering.”

  “Grief or remorse? Think about it. Anyone else?”

  “Before I get to him, let me talk about opportunity again. You keep saying there was no opportunity with these guys, but we don’t know, do we? I mean, no one admits they saw her after midnight. Anything could have happened. It could have been a chance meeting. It could have been set up. We don’t know.”

  “No, but it’s more likely that it comes back to that group at the condo,” Andy said.

  “All right,” I said. “You’re a hard sell. My next suspect has both motive and opportunity. Axel Bonder, the super at the condo. He knew about the gun, he had access to the apartments, and he had a dandy motive.”

  I ran down the history between Lucy and Bonder’s son, as well as his racism.

  “Besides, he’s a really creepy guy,” I said.

  “Okay, but why now? This all happened, what, six or seven years ago?”

  “Maybe his son has taken a turn for the worse, maybe watching her with Dommy drove him crazy. Maybe she said something to him that made him snap.”

  “That’s all worth exploring,” Andy said. “Is that all the suspects?”

  “Well, no. There’s Stinger Swain.”

  “Ah yes, your favourite ballplayer. I thought we’d be getting around to him sooner or later.”

  I told Andy about the scene between Stinger and Lucy, and about the rumours that he had slept with her last year.

  “He had the opportunity. Maybe she was making trouble with his wife. When she mentioned the kid’s birthday, he went nuts. She was giving him a little reminder that a year ago they had been together. Maybe she threatened to tell Tracy?”

  “Maybe. But I can’t imagine that would be news to her.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “Karin told me they went through a bad patch last year. Maybe Tracy told Stinger that he had one more chance, and that if he stepped out of line, she’d leave.”

  “I can’t see how that would matter to a stickman like him.”

  “I hate that term. Stickman. It’s so, I don’t know, guy, you know? Like it’s some big admirable deal to screw around with lots of women.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, yawning. “I’m just being grumpy. I’m tired. I’ll sleep on all of this. Thanks for your help.”

  “I’m not sure what help I’ve been. But keep digging. You’re going at it the right way, given the resources you’ve got at hand. But I’ve got some advice for you, if you’ll take it.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “First, put personal feelings aside. Don’t let the fact that Barwell is a creep, and I agree that he is, by the way, make you see things that aren’t there.

  “I think, too, that you should add Avila to your list of suspects. He could have done it. He’s the most obvious, remember, which is why he was arrested.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I admitted.

  “What do you really know about him? Just the word of people you like. You must have learned by now that likable people can still do horrible things. That’s what I mean about Barwell. You’re ready to think the worst of him because he’s not your type of person. Or of Stinger Swain and the janitor. Make sure the facts fit.”

  “Okay. Is that it?”

  “No. One more thing. Promise me that you won’t be alone with any of these guys. No one-on-one confrontations or meetings in dark alleys. I’m not around to ride to the rescue this time. And I’d rather you were alive than right, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m playing it super-cautious.”

  “End of lecture. I don’t like it, but I know why you want to do it. So just be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  “And now it’s time for Elwy and me to go to bed. We both miss you.”

  “At least you’ve got each other,” I said.

  “That’s your opinion. I tolerate this beast sleeping with me, Kate. I don’t consider him fit company.”

  “Don’t let him hear you saying that.”

  “He’s dead to the world. So will I be thirty seconds after I hang up this phone. I love you and miss you.”

  “Me too.”

  “One more thing. Can you get to the medical examiner?”

  “If I can’t, maybe Esther can. Why?”

  “It would be interesting to know if she had sex before she died, for one thing.”

  “I’ll get on it first thing,” I said.

  We talked for a few more minutes, just inconsequential stuff to put off having to say goodbye.

  When I hung up, I cursed my job, put out the light, and went into a deep, exhausted, lonely sleep.

  Chapter 28

  Esther Hirsch told me she would be happy to check with Jennifer Wilson, the medical examiner.

  “She’s a friend,” she said. “I’ll be able to get it out of her. I would get it from the cops eventually anyway. Jen will just give me a sneak preview.”

  “Great. Tell me about it tonight.”

  “Seven o�
�clock.”

  “Can I bring anything?”

  “Just your appetite.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said.

  Then I called June Hoving. She agreed to meet at 11:00 and gave me directions to her house. It was in a part of town I didn’t know, on a side street parallel to Highway 19, the Gulf Coast’s main drag.

  I missed the turn the first time and had to double back through the parking lot of a strip mall, built around the A-1 Veteran’s Buy and Sell Gun Shop and Practice Range: “We Aim to Please.” The bar next door was called Shooters. Really.

  I was a bit early, so I pulled up and parked in front of the barred front door. I rang the bell and looked in. A large man came out from behind the stock shelves, looked me over, and buzzed me in from behind the counter.

  “Good morning,” he said, cheerfully. “How can we help you today?”

  Korea was his war, if indeed he was a vet. He was in late middle-age, sturdy, but fit-looking, with a grey crew-cut and quite a bit of healthy pink scalp showing through.

  “Can I show you something in a lady’s pistol?” he asked.

  I looked around at the cases and racks filled with more kinds of guns than I ever imagined existed. The cases were well-polished oak and sparkling glass. It had the reassuring look of an old-fashioned drugstore, and he the genial pharmacist, except for the instruments of death.

  “Is this your store?”

  “It is, indeedy, ma’am,” he said, sticking out his manicured hand. “Captain Harold T. Marshall, U.S. Army, retired, at your service.”

  “You have a very nice shop,” I said. “But I’m not buying today. I’m just looking for a bit of information.”

  “I surely hope I can help you,” he said.

  “You see, I’m from Canada,” I said.

  “Lovely country,” he said. “The wife and I were up there a few years ago. My goodness, it’s clean. Only they wouldn’t let me bring my guns across the border. I had to double back and leave them with my daughter in Buffalo.”

  “Where did you visit?”

  “Niagara Falls, first. We were there on our honeymoon, too, almost thirty-seven years ago now, just before I went overseas. It’s changed a lot since then, though. Not as nice, in my opinion.”

  “Few things are,” I said.

  “You’re right on the money there. Then we went to Stratford. My wife likes the plays. Next we went to a fishing camp up north aways and back down to Toronto to see our Titans play. We call ’em our Titans, too, don’t you know. We feel like they’re just hometown boys. Where are you from?”

  “Toronto,” I admitted. “In fact, that’s my job, writing about the Titans.”

  “You don’t say? You’re one of them women who go into the locker room and all?”

  “Well, yes, that’s one part of my job.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking my hand again. “I have to tell you, I didn’t think it was proper when I first heard about it, but my wife and my daughter set me straight pretty quick.”

  He laughed, and shook his head.

  “They sure did set me straight,” he said.

  “I’m glad,” I said.

  “Well, I can’t wait to tell my wife I met you,” he said.

  “Captain Marshall,” I began.

  “Oh, excuse me. I’m so sorry. You had something to ask me, didn’t you. Of course you did.”

  “Just a couple of questions.”

  “Shoot,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Get it? Shoot!”

  “That’s a good one, Captain.”

  “Always gets a laugh,” he chuckled.

  “Can anybody buy a handgun in Florida?”

  “Any Florida resident who is not a convicted felon or a person who has been institutionalized for mental illness is eligible to purchase firearms,” he recited.

  “Being from Canada, where, as you know, handguns are pretty closely controlled . . .”

  He nodded, looking sad.

  “I don’t know much about them,” I continued. “Is a .38 revolver a popular model?”

  He went to a case, unlocked it, and took out a gun.

  “This is your Smith and Wesson .38-calibre revolver,” he said. “The basic model, the Police Special.”

  I accepted it gingerly. I’d seen one like it before, on the shelf in the hall closet where Andy leaves his when he gets home, but I had never touched it. It weighed a couple of pounds, and was an ugly, menacing, blue-black colour, with a wooden handgrip. It gave me the creeps.

  “This is the gun used by the Sunland Police Department and other law enforcement agencies throughout North America,” Marshall said. “I do believe the Toronto police force uses this gun.”

  “Right again. Why is that?”

  “It’s reliable,” he said. “Its effectiveness lies in that your Smith and Wesson .38 can really stop a human being.”

  I put the gun down.

  “What about for other people? Is it a popular gun with civilians?”

  “It depends. Other guns are a bit flashier and fancier, they go in and out of fashion like clothes. Those would be your automatics, Berettas and such. Every time a new spy movie comes out, we get a run on whatever guns are in it. But the Police Special sells well year-in and year-out. It’s timeless.”

  Like a good tweed suit, I thought, or the basic black cocktail dress.

  “Now, that’s the standard gun, with the four-inch barrel. There are more deluxe models, of course. There, in the case, it’s the same gun, but it has the chrome finish and the eight-inch barrel. It’s accurate, but a bit showy, and definitely too much gun for a woman, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Looks like something I had with caps in it when I was a kid,” I said. “How do you tell the standard guns apart? Where is the serial number?”

  He picked the gun up and turned it over to show me the letters and numbers stamped into the bottom of the butt.

  “And if you don’t want it to be traced, you file that off, right?”

  “That’s what you see on most of your illegal guns, yes.”

  “What about those? Illegal guns?” I asked. “Are they hard to come by around here?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said, all business, the sparkle gone.

  “What if someone who wasn’t a resident needed a pistol?”

  “He couldn’t buy it here.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “Well, he could buy it privately, I suppose. There’s nothing illegal about that. He might pick one up at a swap meet.”

  “A swap meet?”

  “Sure, or a garage sale. No problem there. Are you sure you’re not interested?”

  “No, guns scare me,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t be scared of guns,” he said. “It’s not the guns, it’s the people using them you got to worry about.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I really appreciate your help, Captain. It has been very interesting talking to you.”

  “Any time, little lady,” he said. “And you take care of those Titans, you hear? You know, some of them are personal friends of mine.”

  “Really?”

  “Why, sure. They come in here, and I’m able to help them out a bit, give them a little break on the price.”

  He gestured to a wall of photos I hadn’t noticed before. I went closer to inspect them. There he was, Captain Harold T. Marshall, retired, shaking hands with Red O’Brien, the former manager; riding a golf-cart with Stinger Swain; posing at the ballpark with Joe Kelsey and Tiny Washington; deep-sea fishing with Archie Griffin and Flakey Patterson; even the late Steve Thorson was there, photographed with the captain at the target range. There were other ballplayers I recognized from other teams that train along the coast, and shots of Marshall posed with any numb
er of dead animals to round off the hall of fame.

  “Not that I’ve sold guns to all those fellows, mind you,” he said.

  “What about Stinger Swain?” I asked, pointing to his picture.

  “He’s been a customer,” he said. “Of course, he’s from Georgia, out-of-state, so I haven’t been able to sell him a gun. But he has bought ammunition, and uses the range sometimes, him and the missus. He’s quite the hunter, you know.”

  “I’d heard that,” I said. “A lot of them seem to be.”

  “Well, it’s relaxing,” he said. “And peaceful. These ballplayers need that after the season is over, getting away from the stress and all.”

  “I guess so,” I said, dubious. “I always wonder why they don’t just go back to their families. I would think they would miss that.”

  “Well, family life can take some getting used to after the season, too, I guess,” he said. “In some cases it’s probably better that the husband goes away for a week or two.”

  “You could be right, Captain,” I said. “Thanks again for all your help.”

  “My pleasure, miss,” he said. “Call in any time.”

  Fat chance of that, I thought, sweet as he was.

  Chapter 29

  June Hoving’s street was small and cramped. There were no sidewalks, and the lawns, such as they were, were a far cry from the putting greens in more affluent parts of town. The cars in the driveways were junkers, not Cadillacs, some of them up on blocks. But it was livelier, and more friendly. You could tell people really lived there. A bunch of kids were horsing around with their bicycles on a lawn. At another house, a woman was working in the garden, which had one of those wooden standup cut-outs of a bending-over bum in a polka-dot dress. It was tacky, maybe, but full of life.

  I found the Hoving house without too much trouble. It looked tidy but in need of paint. There was a small garden, and some flowering bushes, growing out of control. Back by the garage I saw a vintage Corvette, gleaming red and white. A pair of legs, wearing jeans and cowboy boots, stuck out from underneath the open passenger door. Ringo, the mechanic, I assumed.

  June was at the door when I got there. She looked more comfortable than the last two times I had seen her, dressed in jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. Her hair was loose and freshly washed, thick and curly like Lucy’s, but with quite a bit of grey. She looked younger and more attractive in casual clothes.