Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  Had I been picking up on Cyn? Would she be attracted to an introverted loner who could no longer perform sexually? Or had she and Walt been casual acquaintances who shared a love of women’s footwear?

  Maybe if I could touch Cyn, I’d know, but that wasn’t going to happen, either.

  “Give it up!”

  Startled by this piece of advice, I glanced up to see one of the customers shaking his fist at the TV.

  “God, what a bunch of losers,” he groused.

  Give it up. Yeah, I ought to, at least for the day. The prospect of an evening with Maggie was far more appealing than beating myself over the head with circuitous arguments and half-baked theories.

  I wanted to do something nice for Maggie, something she wouldn’t expect. Flowers or candy seemed too clichéd. Something unexpected—but something that showed her a facet of my personality she might not have considered. A glance around the bar didn’t fill me with creative ideas. Then again . . .

  * * *

  At four fifty-three, I pulled into the driveway of Maggie’s rather average looking duplex in Clarence. She stood behind the screen door in a white tank top, pink shorts, and flip-flops, waiting for me. No sexy dress, no heels—looking the antithesis of tawdry.

  “You’re here,” she said with pleasure.

  “I am.”

  “Come in.” Maggie opened the screen door and immediately a dog planted its nose in my crotch. “Holly!” Maggie admonished and pulled her golden retriever back by its collar. “I’m sorry. Dogs like to—”

  “I know,” I cut her off, and offered the dog my hand as an alternative. She sniffed my fingers and I must’ve passed muster for she licked them enthusiastically.

  Maggie eyed the brown grocery bag in my other hand. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

  “It’s not much. Just an icebreaker. That is, if you’ve got ice. I need to borrow your fridge, or maybe freezer, too.”

  “Sure. Come on into the kitchen.”

  I followed her up the stairs to the second floor apartment. If I was unimpressed with the outside of her home, the inside changed my mind. Contemporary leather furniture stressed comfort. Signed lithographs lined the walls—the ambiance peaceful and laid-back with a southwestern flair. For an absurd moment I wondered if I should introduce her to Cyn.

  Maggie led me into the cozy kitchen with its butter yellow walls and frosted-glass-fronted cabinets. She leaned against the white Formica counter. “It’s all yours,” she said with a sweep of her hand.

  I set the grocery sack on the counter. “So, what do you like to drink?”

  “I’m strictly a gin-and-tonic kind of girl. At least when it’s hot out. Winters, I revert to whiskey sours.”

  I thought as much. “It’s the taste of juniper that attracts you in summer.”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Then let me make you a surprise. But first I’ve got to wash my hands. Dog saliva and a good drink don’t go together.” Maggie laughed and pointed toward the sink.

  She watched as I withdrew a bottle of Beefeaters gin, a pint of Perry’s French Vanilla ice cream, and a liter of club soda from the grocery bag. “I need ice, a tall glass, a shot glass and an ice cream scoop.”

  Maggie gave me what I needed before hauling out the remains of what was once a five-pound bag of ice. She radiated pure delight as I added ice, measured the gin, plopped in a scoop of ice cream, and topped it with club soda. I gave it a quick stir before pushing the fizzing glass toward her.

  Maggie’s expression was enigmatic as she picked up the glass and took a tentative sip. Then her eyes widened and a smile lit up her face. “Wow, you are a good bartender.”

  I wish I could’ve taken credit for the drink. “It’s called a silver stallion.”

  “Tastes like magic.” She took another sip. “Is this your way of lowering my inhibitions?”

  “Do I really need to?”

  She looked away, blushing. “I guess not. Are you having one?”

  “I’ll take a beer, if you’ve got one.”

  She crossed to the fridge and came up with a bottle of Labatt Blue. “Want a glass?”

  “It’s not necessary.” I cracked the cap and held it out for a toast. “Na Zdrowie!”

  Maggie’s glass touched the bottle. “Cheers.”

  We watched each other drink, then Maggie said, “Let’s go sit down.”

  She put the ice cream and ice in the freezer before leading me back to the living room. Her second-floor apartment was as hot as Hades, but a fan pointed at the couch recirculated the air. We sank into the sofa’s depths, and Holly stood before Maggie, looking expectant.

  “You had your dinner,” Maggie said, but Holly didn’t seem interested in our drinks. She maneuvered herself between the coffee table and us, sitting down so that her warm body pressed against my right leg. I petted her head and she turned her dark brown eyes on me. I didn't know dogs could smile.

  Maggie set her drink down. “Holly, it’s too hot for that. Go lie down.” The dog obediently got up, trotted across the room to a plaid cushion and settled herself on it, perching her head on her crossed front legs, letting out a loud, doggy sigh.

  I wiped my sweating beer bottle against my equally damp forehead. “Hot in here.”

  “You, or the air?” Maggie asked, her eyes glinting.

  “Both.”

  She picked up her drink again, sipped it, not meeting my gaze. “My bedroom is air-conditioned.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

  She flashed a glance my way. “I’m not usually this forward. It’s just—”

  I set my beer down, clasped her moist palm. A current passed between us. Her gasp was more surprise than pleasure—that came a few seconds later.

  “Oh wow,” she muttered, her breaths coming fast and shallow. Mine had picked up, too. We looked at one another for a moment, then I pulled her to me, kissed her. She returned it with equal vigor, the hunger I’d sensed days before building inside her.

  “First kiss,” she whispered, eyes wide with growing anticipation.

  Despite the heat, a delightful shiver of longing ran through her—through me. Dizziness and desire whirled through me—a rush like I’d never known. She leaned in to kiss me again. “It’s more comfortable in the bedroom,” she breathed.

  “I’m all for comfort.”

  She pulled me up from the couch, led me toward the back of the apartment. As she reached for the door handle, I stopped. She looked up at me, puzzled. I drew her close, nuzzled my nose against her ear. “Don’t tell Brenda everything,” I whispered. “Let’s save this for just us.”

  She kissed me again and opened the door.

  I didn’t go home that night.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 14

  I sat at Maggie’s kitchen table, the newspaper spread before me, nursing my second cup of coffee when her phone rang the next morning. “You wanna get that?” she called from the other room.

  I pushed away from the table, grabbed the kitchen extension. “Maggie’s house.”

  “Jeff?” It was Sam.

  “How the hell did you find me this time?”

  “I asked—”

  “Yeah, yeah, my brother.”

  “Maggie’s house, huh? Sounds like you got lucky. How’d you like to bat a thousand?”

  “How so?”

  “I’m going to interview a contact this morning. Thought you might want to tag along.”

  “What’s in it for you if I do?”

  “I dunno. Maybe you could play human lie detector for me. Tell me if this guy’s hosing me.”

  “You don’t trust your own instincts?”

  “Of course I do, but I figure it can’t hurt for you to tag along. You might get something he doesn’t want to share with me—if you know what I mean.”

  “Just who are we going to talk to?” I asked.

  “A cop wannabe. Jailer in the county lockup. He called and asked if someone wanted the inside scoop on
Craig Buchanan. I told him I’d meet him since I can’t get to Buchanan. You know they won’t let a reporter talk to a suspect until after a trial. Think we might sway the pool of jurors.”

  “I did know that. But shouldn’t Buchanan have been transferred to the county psych unit by now?”

  “Apparently he talked to this guy before they shipped him out.”

  “Any reason why he waited so long to contact you?”

  “No one else bit. He’s got a bit of a reputation. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”

  “Did you tell your contact you were bringing a psychic along?”

  “You’re a fellow reporter. A stringer.”

  “Gee, suddenly I feel empowered. When?”

  “An hour. Meet you at your brother’s house?”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  Maggie had made other plans for later in the morning, so we said a quick good-bye, sealed it with a kiss and a vague agreement to meet again sometime soon.

  She’d radiated happiness when I left her.

  So did I.

  I lay low when I returned home. Snuck in the back—went straight to my own room, showered, shaved, changed and was standing in the driveway when Sam’s SUV pulled in. Never saw Richard, never saw Brenda, and I heaved a sigh of relief at not having to explain why I hadn’t called to let them know I wouldn’t be home the night before.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Sam when I jumped into his car and buckled my seatbelt.

  “To Starbucks. I hope you like coffee.”

  As Sam backed the car down the drive, a big black motorcycle blasted down the street, heading south. “Hey, catch up with that guy, will you?”

  “What for?”

  “Just do it.”

  Sam tromped on it, tires spinning, his Lincoln Navigator earning its reputation as a kick-ass vehicle. “What’s going on?” he asked again as we roared down the quiet street.

  “I got a hunch about that bike.”

  By the time we reached the Y where LeBrun Road runs into Saratoga, there was no sign of the biker. “Now what?” Sam asked.

  I shook my head, exasperated. “We head out for Starbucks.”

  Sam took the right fork; that would take us back to Main Street. “What was that all about?”

  “Somebody on a big black bike tried to run me down the other day. I guess I’m just paranoid.”

  “Or smart to be careful.”

  We turned right on Main and I explained what had happened, making light of it. I was glad when Sam went into his grand inquisitor act, asking me about Maggie in as many ways as he could possibly phrase one question. I resisted his attempts to wheedle information from me until we ended up on Transit Road and ordered our preferences. Sam paid—no doubt on an expense account—and we sat down at one of the tables. Some kind of new age music played in the background. Nice. Mellow. Very Saturday morningish.

  “How are we supposed to know this guy?” I asked.

  “He said he’d be wearing a Bills cap.”

  I looked around the joint. Two of the other four male patrons were Buffalo Bills fans. “Should we raise a flag or something?”

  Sam scowled. “Shut up and drink your coffee.”

  I sipped my coffee.

  “Oh, and when he gets here, make sure you shake his hand.”

  Sam hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d wanted a human lie detector. He’d be damned disappointed if I couldn’t sense a thing about the guy.

  I drank my coffee. In fact, I’d drained my cup and was about to start twiddling my thumbs when an acne-scarred bozo in a Bills cap, T-shirt, and team red-and-blue striped sweatpants entered the front door. I swear Sam actually cringed.

  “My crap-o-meter just flew into the red zone,” I muttered to Sam.

  “Don’t rub it in.” He stood, braved a smile and waved the guy over. “His name’s Mike,” Sam said under his breath.

  Mike swaggered over with the confidence of a high school jock who’d just made the big game’s winning touchdown. But high school had been at least two decades ago, as evidenced by the beer gut expanding his sweats. Mike’s confidence wavered as he saw me at the table. “Who’s this guy?” he demanded. “I can’t afford to lose my job because of this, you know.”

  “You won’t lose your job,” Sam assured him. “I keep my sources confidential. This is my colleague, Ernie Pyle.”

  I rose from my seat, offered my hand. Mike shook it and I was immediately toasted with a blast of what I can only describe as nonexistent hot air. At least fifty percent of what he was about to say was sure to be pure horseshit—just what I was sure Sam already suspected.

  We all sat down.

  “So what’ve you got to tell me?” Sam asked.

  “You wanted to know about Craig Buchanan, the guy they got for murder in Williamsville.”

  Sam nodded.

  Mike crossed his arms over his puffed out chest. “He’s certifiable. Gonna plead insanity.”

  Sam gave me the fish eye, struggled for composure and asked, “How does Buchanan feel about that?”

  Mike shrugged. “Aren’t you gonna buy me coffee or something? I at least deserve a coffee for what I’m about to reveal.”

  Who did this guy think he was, David Copperfield?

  “How do you take it?” Sam asked, sounding bored.

  Mike ordered the most expensive brew on the menu board, taking great delight in his first sip. Then he settled back in his chair, ready to regale us with his tale. He didn’t seem to notice our lack of real interest.

  “Buchanan,” Sam prompted.

  “They dragged him in on a Saturday night. Poor creep stank to high heaven. We hosed him off and threw him in a cell ’til they could get a psychiatric evaluation.”

  “And after that?”

  “The shrinks were gonna put him on meds to calm him down.”

  This could take all day. “What did Buchanan say about the murder?” I asked.

  “He don’t know if he did it or not. Says he found the knife in a Dumpster. Pretty thing. Silver sparkles in the handle.”

  I took in a sharp breath as an image flashed in my mind. A smooth, manicured hand—firecracker red nail-polished fingers—holding the stiletto knife. Gently waving it in front of a sparkling silver high-heeled foot. Lightly tracing the blade along the ankle and up the shapely calf.

  Was this the same person who’d worn the red stiletto heels or someone else?

  I wasn’t sure.

  Tuning back to the present, I found two pairs of eyes staring at me.

  “Go on,” Sam said, diverting attention back to Mike.

  “Buchanan said he used the knife to kill rats. He’d build a fire in the parking lot behind the Burger King and roast ’em then eat ’em.”

  The horseshit had now begun. I tuned out and pondered the significance of the new vision. I’d seen the murder weapon. Big deal. It didn’t bring me any clearer understanding of what had happened to Walt. My certainty about a number of things wavered; was I seeing the knife and the shoes from perhaps the killer’s perspective, not Walt’s, Cyn’s or somebody else’s?

  I needed to thin out my list of possible suspects. To do that, I needed to touch Cyn, or if not her, something of hers, something personal, to see if I could home in on the same aura—perspective—whatever. The only handy thing that came to mind was her car. She left it parked outside the mill seven days a week, so I would have access to the body, but I wasn’t sure that would be good enough. I’d need to touch the seats or the steering wheel.

  Damn, I should’ve checked out her house. If she parked outside, I’d have a better shot of breaking into the car under cover of darkness than in broad daylight in a commercial area where people came and went all day.

  “Hey, Ernie. Ern,” Sam called.

  My head jerked up. I’d forgotten my pseudonym. “Yeah?”

  “You got any more questions for Mike?”

  “No.”

  Sam stood and offered Mike his hand. �
��Give me a call when you have another hot tip.”

  “You bet. And thanks for the coffee.”

  Mike swaggered away from the table and Sam reclaimed his seat. “Well that wasn’t worth the price of admission.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But you got something. You always zone out like that when it happens?”

  I ignored the question. “I saw the knife. Whether it was used to kill rats, I can’t say.” I wasn’t ready to tell him about the other visions. “I need to break into a car without destroying anything. You know where I can lay my hands on one of those plastic things cops and tow truck guys use to open locked doors?”

  “Breaking and entering. What do you hope to gain?”

  “Knowledge.”

  Sam looked thoughtful. “I might be able to get my hands on one. But they don’t work in every car, you know. If it doesn’t, are you willing to smash a window and commit a misdemeanor?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not that desperate yet.”

  “Okay. I’ll look into it. What’s your next move?”

  I didn’t want to tell him, and that was unfair because he’d included me on what was for him a waste-of-time interview. “You want to come with me when I look into that car?”

  “Not if you’re going be destroying private property. But I’ll bail you out if you get caught. That is, if you’re willing to share what you learn.”

  “I’m willing—but on my terms.”

  He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “I’m giving you a lot more rope than I’d give any other source.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You have your hunches, I have mine. And one day we’re going to break a big story. Much bigger than this Kaplan murder. I’m willing to be patient.”

  For someone used to getting weird vibes and insight out of nowhere, his words sent an unexpected and frightening chill through me.