Forget Me Not

by Lee Boschen

  "You bastard,” he snarled, bringing up his weapon.

  The sharp toe of Leslie's pump caught his wrist and the pistol flew across the room. Grimacing with pain from his wrist, blood streaming from his smashed nose, the man reached for her, “You bitch, I'm gonna—"

  By this time the two detectives were converging on him, and as Leslie stepped back, they pulled him to his feet, rushing him toward the door. At the door, Honey stopped. As Fahrquar wrestled the man on out of the room, Leslie heard him say angrily, “What the hell's the matter with you, Lieutenant? You can't do—"

  But the man wasn't done. He turned his head to shout back over his shoulder, “You killed ‘em, you bastard. All for some goddamn pictures. I'll see you fry, you—"

  The closing door shut off the rest. Leslie was shocked by what had happened. Murder. Double murder. Her premonition had been right. Richard was in trouble.

  Richard stared at her, then at detective Honey. “Damn,” he said, kneading his left fist tenderly, stretching and clenching his fingers, “what was that all about?"

  Honey watched him for a moment, then spoke stiffly. “We'll wait till Detective Fahrquar returns."

  "All right, but who was that,” Leslie asked.

  Honey picked up the pistol, then sat down with it in her lap. “Lieutenant Phearson."

  Richard's voice was filled with disbelief. “And he thinks I killed somebody? For some pictures?"

  Fahrquar came back into the interview room.

  "Pictures,” Richard said. “What was he talking about?"

  Fahrquar, breathing heavily from his bout with Phearson, sat down at the table and took some time to calm himself. “That's what the Kimberly woman said."

  "The Kimberly woman? Who is she?"

  "Come on,” Fahrquar said, “you know, the woman in the ambulance.” His lip curled. “You didn't think she'd live long enough to talk, did you?"

  Richard didn't know what the sneering expression on Fahrquar's face meant, contempt perhaps, or derision, but whatever it was, he knew he didn't like it. He leaned on his fists on the table, glaring at Fahrquar. “What did the woman in the ambulance say?"

  Fahrquar studied him thoughtfully, then looked at Leslie, finally pulling a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “She said some men wanted the pictures they'd had made for their Christmas cards."

  "What?” Richard's forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “Christmas cards?"

  Fahrquar read from his notebook. “The paramedic told us she said, ‘They said if we'd just give them the pictures. And we did, but they yelled at us that they weren't the right ones and they threw them down and the little man killed Jack. And then they yelled at me where were the others? But there weren't any others, and when I tried to tell them, the little man, he—'” Fahrquar snapped the book shut. “She died then,” he said. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “And your car was seen leaving the scene of her and her husband's murder last Friday."

  Richard gulped, staring at Fahrquar. “So that's why you were asking about my car."

  Leslie's eyes narrowed. “What time last Friday,” she asked.

  Honey evaded the question, instead asking one of her own. “When did you say he was thrown into the ditch?"

  Leslie carefully considered Honey. “About eight o'clock."

  "And you live in Boone county?"

  "Yes."

  Honey glanced at Fahrquar, frowned, then asked, “How are you so sure of the time?"

  Leslie's skin prickled at the look that passed between the two detectives. They don't like the way the time is working out, she thought. “As I told you, the car he was in hit my phone pole. It made a lot of noise. At the time I thought someone had thrown their trash in—"

  "When did you call the police?"

  Leslie sighed. “I couldn't call anyone. The line was down."

  "What were you doing at the Kimberly's house?” Fahrquar asked.

  Richard blinked. “Kimberlys?"

  "You don't remember them?” The lip curled again. “Adelaide Kimberly was the woman in the ambulance.

  "I don't remember either one of them, nor being at their house."

  "Your car was there,” Fahrquar said.

  Perhaps it was her legal training, or perhaps simply her need to protect, but whatever it was, Leslie knew what she had to do—it was time to attack.

  "Would you mind if we saw Mister Webb's car?"

  "Why?"

  "We'd like to see if it's damaged. There was red paint on the phone pole. If it's from Mister Webb's car, he couldn't possibly have driven it into the post and then got rid of it in the short time it took me to learn he was in the ditch. Especially not in the condition he was in."

  "Someone else could have done it for him, to set up—"

  Leslie stared at Fahrquar. “Wrecked his car on purpose? Then left it somewhere for you to find? Get real, detective. Someone else did it, all right, but it wasn't for him, it was to him. That someone else is who we'd like to find."

  Fahrquar said, “If they exist."

  "Look, when did that car leave the murder scene? When your witness saw the car, was it damaged? What have you got that puts Webb the man, not his car, at the scene of the murders? It looks to me like nobody here stopped to think. Somebody found out that the owner of a car alleged to have been at the scene of a murder was here in police headquarters, and that somebody pushed the panic button. Who was it?” she demanded. “Was it Phearson?"

  "Look, Mister Webb is just here for questioning, Ms—"

  "Wrong,” Leslie shouted angrily. “He's here to tell you what's happened to him since Friday when he was hit on the head. He walked in here of his own free will. It wasn't clever police work that brought him here. He wants you to check out his house to see if his assailants are still in there waiting for him to come home. That's why he's here. Now, are you going to do that or not?"

  Honey and Fahrquar exchanged a glance, then Honey got up and started to leave the room. Richard called after her, “Be sure to warn them what they may run into. If those guys are waiting in there—"

  Honey returned in a moment. “Okay, we'll find out soon enough. And you two will stay here until we get a report, right?"

  "Right,” Leslie said.

  * * * *

  The little fat man picked up the telephone after the agreed code—one ring, then three, then two. The caller's voice was low, intense, little more than a harsh whisper into the telephone mouthpiece. “You know who this is?"

  "Yeah."

  "Get out of there now."

  "Now? I can't leave now. I'm just finishing up the—"

  "Get out. Now. They're on their way. Drop whatever you're doing and get out. Now!"

  "What do you mean, they? Who's on their way? And what the hell's the matter with you, anyway? I've been waiting all this time for him, and now all of a sudden you want me to—"

  "Leave now, damn you. Get out of there. Now!"

  The little man flinched at the click as the telephone was slammed down. He glared at the instrument. “Yeah, asshole, as soon as I finish up here."

  Chapter Twelve

  "The connection.” Richard slammed his fist into his hand. “I know what the connection was,” he blurted. “Pictures! That's why they were after me. That's the connection between me, and that couple, and the guys who threw me into that ditch know it. It's pictures."

  Leslie leaned toward him. “What do you remember about the couple, or the pictures?"

  Richard tensed, staring into space. Finally, he slumped. “Nothing."

  "I don't get it,” Honey said. “What connection are you talking about?"

  "My company processes film and prints pictures."

  "We know that. So? Where do you come into this?"

  "Wait a minute,” Leslie said. “How do you know that?"

  "Basic police work,” Fahrquar replied. “When his car was seen leaving the scene of a double homicide, we went looking for him. We staked out each of his stores, his house, waiting for him to sh
ow up.” He gazed coolly at Richard. “I guess you know that you had an arson fire at your Lafayette Square store last Friday night?"

  "Fire? No, I didn't even know I had a Lafayette—"

  "Hold on a minute,” Leslie said. “He's right about the connection. The Kimberlys are killed for pictures. The woman in the ambulance said that in so many words. Richard Webb, owner of a chain of stores that sells photo equipment and processes film, is nearly killed. One of his stores is burned. Don't you see where that's going?"

  The room was quiet for a moment. “There are some pictures around somewhere that somebody doesn't want anyone to see,” Honey said. “You don't take pictures too, do you?” she asked Richard.

  Richard's mind offered a flash—a smiling middle-aged couple, a brick wall. Then the image was gone. “You mean the company? Or me personally?” He paused. “Never mind, it doesn't matter. I don't know. I don't even know that we have a Lafayette Square store. Or where Lafayette Square is.” He leaned toward Fahrquar. “I don't suppose you'd mind telling me the name of my business."

  Fahrquar screwed up his face in disbelief. “What are you trying to pull?"

  "Mister Webb's head injuries have left him with post-trauma amnesia,” Leslie said.

  "Amnesia? Oh, how very convenient,” Fahrquar said. He slapped a hand on the table. “You don't know this, you can't remember that. Maybe the lieutenant wasn't so far off after all."

  "Convenient?” Richard shouted. “How would you like to lose—"

  He grew quiet as Leslie put her hand on his. Leslie angrily stared at Fahrquar, then, “It's not convenient at all, Fahrquar."

  Fahrquar's mouth turned down. “Detective Fahrquar,” he said.

  "When were the pictures taken?” Leslie asked.

  "What pictures are we talking about?” Fahrquar asked.

  "Get on board, Fahrquar. You told us the woman in the ambulance said—"

  "I don't know,” Fahrquar said.

  "Where are they? They may be dated. The pictures I get back from processing are always dated on the back."

  Richard spoke up. “When you find the pictures of the Kimberlys, see if they're standing in front of a red brick wall."

  Leslie turned quickly to him. “What do you remember? What about the wall?"

  Richard shook his head. “I don't know. There's something about a red brick wall."

  The door to the interview room opened suddenly and a uniformed officer came in and bent to whisper in Fahrquar's ear. Clearly startled, Fahrquar seized the officer by the arm and led him out of the room. Mystified, the three stared at each other.

  "Now, wait a minute,” Leslie finally said to Honey. “This is too much. What have you set up? In a minute I suppose Fahrquar is going to come back in here and tell us he has a witness who saw Mister Webb skulking out of the Kimberly house at just the right time."

  Honey glanced coolly at her. “You've been watching too much TV, Ms. Carson."

  "I don't watch that kind of TV at all, Detective Honey. But I don't like the way this simple request to have Webb's house checked out has mushroomed into a murder in which you're trying to involve him."

  Fahrquar had entered the room as Leslie was speaking and now he studied them intently. “I wish I knew what the hell you're up to."

  "Damn it, Fahrquar,” Richard yelled. “We're not up to anything. You know absolutely everything I know. No secrets. Nothing hidden. There's nothing I know that you don't."

  "I wish I could be sure that's true the other way around,” Leslie said. “We're the ones at risk. If you're playing games with us, or sitting on something we should know for our safety..."

  Fahrquar's jaws clenched tight as he considered her. Abruptly he decided. “We sent a black and white around to your address. Just as they pulled up in front, someone came roaring out of your drive in a car, saw them and started shooting."

  Leslie stared at Richard, horror written on her face. She put her hands to her cheeks, her eyes huge as she considered what might have happened. It was Richard who sensed that Fahrquar hadn't finished with his bombshell. “And what happened? Did they get the guys?"

  "We have one officer dead and one in a helicopter right now on his way to the trauma center at Wishard General,” Fahrquar said. “Now I want to know how the hell you knew someone was there waiting for you."

  "Dead?” Leslie and Richard exchanged a long look. “That would have been you,” Leslie whispered.

  Shaken, Richard added, “No, both of us.” He turned to Fahrquar. “We never knew anyone would be waiting, we only had suspicions. There hasn't been anything in the paper about the attack on me, and believe me, we've looked. Nothing on TV. Now, it seemed to us that whoever tried to kill me might wonder why that was, and they might begin to wonder if I were still alive. There has to be a reason why they wanted me dead, and whatever that reason is, it's probably enough to make them want to be sure I am dead. Where better to wait, to find out if I was still alive, than in my own house? They couldn't know that they'd knocked out my memory, so that I didn't know where I lived. Then, by the time I learned who I was, we'd had enough time to grow cautious."

  He sighed deeply. “I thought the police would know how to handle something like that, especially if they were warned. I never dreamed it would turn out like this."

  "There's something else here, something about what you told us,” Leslie said to Fahrquar. “You said the car came roaring out of Webb's drive just as the police arrived. Like maybe he was trying to get away from there before they came? Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe he was warned that the police were coming?"

  "But who knew,” Fahrquar asked. “Only us."

  "Yes, only the police. You knew. Honey knew. And you both left this room and had a chance to call. Phearson knew we were here. He could have called. Your father knew we were here, and what we wanted. Four people. Who else, Detective Fahrquar?"

  Detective Honey jumped to her feet, her face dark with anger. “You're accusing us of setting up our own—"

  "I'm not accusing you of anything,” Leslie snapped. “But how can you overlook the coincidence? We come here to tell you we want Webb's house checked and the person in the house leaves hurriedly. Coincidence? Or is there another step in there that we don't know about—like maybe somebody from here made a phone call?"

  "No,” Fahrquar yelled, “you're just trying to throw dust in the air. You're trying to cover up."

  "Cover up what,” Leslie shouted. “We haven't done anything, and nobody knows that better than you. You know Webb didn't murder the Kimberlys, don't you? The timing's all wrong, isn't it? I saw it in your faces when I told you the time he ended up in my ditch. And that'll be wrong, won't it, for him to have killed the Kimberlys?” She took a deep, ragged breath. “You're the ones who are trying to cover up, and I can tell you what you're trying to hide—the fact that someone here tipped off the man in that house and got a policeman killed. And maybe another one will die. Those men won't be on our conscience, because nobody, nobody, knew we were coming here."

  She stood facing them, her nostrils flared, splotches of angry red staining her cheeks. “Okay,” she said finally, “maybe you personally didn't have anything to do with that coincidence, but let me tell you something. We're out of here, and from now on we're going to keep what we learn to ourselves. We can trust each other, but somebody here, in this building—” She stopped, shaking her head slowly, “No, not just somebody, one of only four people, is a bent cop."

  * * * *

  "You really blew your stack, Leslie,” Richard said as they walked out of the City-County building. “I thought you told me you went around scared all the time."

  Leslie's mind was on other things. “I don't think either of those two, Honey or Fahrquar, tipped off the guy in your house."

  "Oh? Why is that?"

  She shook her head. “I don't know. Gut feeling?"

  "Mm-m. What does your gut have to say about Phearson?” Richard asked.

  "Phearson?” Leslie said his
name as though it was a four-letter word. “He'd be my pick, actually."

  Richard shook his head. “Nah. Don't think so. Take the way he came after me. He didn't have to do anything. He could have stayed in his office, calling anybody he liked. But he didn't, he came out there and tried to climb my frame. It doesn't seem logical."

  "Maybe it's because I don't like him,” Leslie said. “I don't like people who call me ‘bitch.’”

  "Understandable,” Richard said. “I'll try to remember that.” They walked along in silence for a moment. “Well,” he said, “that leaves Fahrquar's father. He could have called easier than any of the others."

  "Not according to my gut,” Leslie said.

  "You really dislike Phearson, don't you?"

  "Yes.” Leslie sighed. “But we can't bet our lives on my gut feelings.” She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. “I went off half-cocked, didn't I? It needn't have been one of those four."

  He nodded, smiling and tucking her hand under his arm. “I thought I'd let you cool off before I brought that up. But you're right. Any of them could have mentioned to someone else why we were there. And that someone could have stayed in his office and made a phone call. So we don't have a clue, do we? All the more reason why we keep what we learn to ourselves.” He was quiet for a moment as they walked along. Finally, his face grim, he said, “Let's go have a look at my place. I want to see if I can find what was so important that three people have already died for it."

  * * * *

  "Where are you now?” the voice rasped over the telephone.

  "I'm calling from home, and I want to know—"

  "I can just see tomorrow morning's paper. You killed a cop, you stupid bastard, and now they'll be all—"

  "What the hell was I supposed to do, let them catch me? They were waiting when I ran for it."

  "If you'd left when I told you—"

  "Never mind that crap. What do we do now?"

  "We've got to get rid of Webb. And since you bungled it the first time, now he's got a lawyer, and there's no telling what she knows after she's had a chance to talk to him."