Do or Die

by Barbara Fradkin

  “And what are we doing?” “We’re going to start with the woman who discovered the crime.”

  * * *

  Carrie MacDonald had been given the day off to recover from the shock, but it didn’t seem to Green that she needed it. She had just washed her hair, and it was piled high on her head in a pink towel when she greeted the two detectives at her door. Her blue terry cloth robe gaped slightly over her breasts, and her cheeks were pink from the shower. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Sullivan.

  “Hi, Sergeant! Are you on duty again?”

  “Still,” he muttered.

  “You’ll need some coffee, then.” She stepped back to allow them to squeeze past her into the narrow hall. “I sure need it. Boy, what a night we had!”

  Green bristled. Carrie MacDonald seemed to have overlooked him completely as she turned to lead them down the dimly lit hall. Sullivan was five inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than he was. He looked like a cop, and people responded instinctively to his authority. His ruggedness appealed to women, evoking some primal suppliant need in them, but all this was wasted on him. Sullivan had loved his wife since he was sixteen and seemed impervious to the fire in other women’s eyes.

  Green, on the other hand, drifted through a crowd unobserved. His boyish freckled face evoked nothing except the occasional urge to mother him. At times it was an advantage, when he wanted to be unnoticed or underestimated, but there were times when it was a curse.

  “I’m Inspector Green,” he said sharply at her retreating back. “I’m in charge of the investigation.”

  “Oh!” She turned her blue eyes on him in surprise. “Sorry, I thought you were...” She let her dismissal of him go unvoiced and gestured him into her kitchen. Standing on tiptoe, she rummaged in her cupboard for two mismatched mugs, one with the university crest and the other featuring the slogan “World’s Greatest Mom”. She poured two coffees, then pulled her robe over her breasts self-consciously.

  “Do you guys mind if I get some clothes on? I’ll be two minutes.”

  True to her word, she emerged two minutes later, barefoot but clad in blue jeans and black t-shirt. Her hair tumbled damp and honeyed down her back, swinging as she prepared her own cup.

  Joining them at the table she smiled. “How can I help you guys today?”

  Her frank smile and the honey hair falling over one eye unnerved him. Control was essential during an interview, and this one was starting off all wrong. To regroup, he dropped his gaze to his notebook and riffled the pages officiously. Normally, he would have let Sullivan take the notes, but this time he sensed he was going to need the prop. “I’d like to review the information you gave Sergeant Sullivan last night, and see if there’s anything else you’ve remembered since.”

  Dutifully, she related the events leading up to her discovery of the body. By the time she had finished, Green felt back in full control.

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Hear anything? Any voices? Signs of a struggle? Any items on the floor— money, a wallet?”

  Her eyes were grave as she searched her recollections. She’s no fool, Green thought. Sexy, but sharp. She knows what she saw, and she’ll be good on the witness stand.

  “It’s strange, actually,” she said, “that I didn’t notice anything. I mean, how does a guy get stabbed only a hundred feet away in a deserted room and you don’t hear a thing? Of course, my cart squeaked—I was meaning to fix it—so I only heard the guy groaning once I stopped my cart to get this book.”

  “How long was it from the time you left the elevators till you found the victim?”

  “Only two or three minutes. I had only returned half a dozen books.”

  Green studied the diagram he had constructed. The bank of elevators in the centre was the only exit route from the fourth floor except for the fire stairs at each far corner. It would have been impossible to get into an elevator without being seen by Carrie MacDonald as she sorted books. The paramedics and other medical personnel estimated from the nature of the wound and the amount of blood lost that Blair was stabbed no more than half an hour before the paramedics arrived. If the information in the logs could be trusted, the paramedics arrived on the scene twelve minutes after the 911 call. Allowing a few minutes for university security to relay the call, that meant Blair was stabbed less than fifteen minutes before she found him. Probably a lot less.

  To escape, the killer had three options. He could have taken the stairs, in which case he would have escaped unnoticed. He could have walked directly past Carrie and got on the elevator, which meant that he had to wait for it in plain view of her, covered in blood from his shirt sleeves to his shoes. Or he could have hidden in one of the side aisles until she set off with her cart and then slipped to the elevator. It was a mere two or three minutes before Carrie discovered the victim and returned to make the call.

  “Did you see anyone around when you called security?”

  “Just one student waiting at the elevator. I yelled at him to go meet the ambulance, but he was so freaked, he pulled the fire alarm instead.”

  Green’s antennae quivered. “Can you give me a description of this student?”

  She searched her thoughts, chewing her lip. “It happened so fast, and…I was so shaken up. Things are just a blur. All I remember is thick dark hair and a red top. Plaid, I think.”

  “You said ‘he’. What makes you sure it was a male?” “He was kind of tall. And there was something about his face...” She shut her eyes, remembering. “I think he had a mustache. Yes, a big, dark mustache.”

  Green leaned forward, willing her to focus. “Did you notice anything unusual about him? Was he breathing hard? Seem scared? Did you see anything on him that could have been blood?”

  She was shaking her head firmly. “He looked more…bewildered than anything else.”

  “Did you actually see him pull the fire alarm?”

  “No, but it’s right by the elevator.”

  Green turned to Sullivan. “Did you get a lead on him, Brian? Did the rescue guys get a name?”

  “I haven’t checked with them yet. I ran out of time.”

  Green tossed his notebook down. “What? Call over there and tell them to find him right away!”

  “Watts and Charbonneau will be—”

  “They’ll think you did it! Who the hell wouldn’t follow up a potential suspect and one of the two witnesses in the case?”

  Sullivan flushed red. Pushing away his cup, he glanced at Carrie. “Is there a phone I can use?”

  Her eyes were sympathetic as she smiled at him. “In the bedroom. Just ignore the mess.”

  With a twinge of guilt, Green watched Sullivan stalk across the room and bang the door shut behind him. When he turned his attention back to Carrie MacDonald, he found her eyes on him appraisingly. There was no sympathy in them now, and he felt his annoyance return.

  “Hard taskmaster, aren’t you, Inspector?”

  “I expect competence from my men,” he said. “Especially him.”

  “He was very competent last night, I assure you. But by now I’d say he’s been without sleep for quite a while.”

  “He should be used to that,” he replied, his eyes on his notes. Her level tone, and his own resentment, unsettled him.

  “Most of us are a long way from perfect, Inspector.”

  “A man has died, and we not only have to find out who did it, but we have to prove it in court, so mistakes are not an option. Now, can we get on with this?”

  Chastened, she got up to pour herself another cup of coffee, which gave him time to chastise himself. Jealousy, professional or personal, had no place in police work. By the time she returned to the table, eyes averted, he felt he was back on track.

  “Okay, let’s go back to the few minutes when you were sorting books by the elevator, just before you left with the cart. Can you remember who came to the elevator?”

  She searched her memory for a long moment, shaking her head. Just as he was about to intervene,
she held up her hand. “Give me a minute.” She sat back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap and shut her eyes. She remained immobile, breathing deeply. Without her gaze to unsettle him, he allowed himself to study her. There was a peace and control in her expression that surprised him. An unusual woman, he thought, full of unexpected twists. He found himself looking at her chest as she breathed, watching it swell as she inhaled, stretching the black T-shirt. He felt himself stir in response and hastened to return to his notes. Not that he was upset by his response, which was familiar and harmless, only by the scattering of his thoughts, which he could not afford yet again. He was still trying to collect them when she resumed.

  “Only one man stands out in my mind. He was the last one to take the elevator before I began shelving.” She remained with her eyes shut, scanning.

  Green hoped his voice was neutral. “Describe him.”

  “He was gross. Huge and fat. He wheezed as he waited. At least 275 and six-foot-two. He reminded me of John Candy— you know, the movie star?—but his hair was lighter brown, and he had a silly little mustache. He was into leather, but if he was hoping to score points with it, no woman in her right mind— Oh!” Her eyes flew open, intensely blue. “There was a woman too! Dashed in at the last second. She seemed kind of worried, like she was looking for someone.”

  “Any physical details?”

  “Kind of hard looking. Blonde, but out of a bottle and with one too many perms. Bony face. Full of angles. It’s hard to describe people in words.” For the first time, she smiled at him, her eyes crinkling and two dimples framing her cheeks. His lustful thoughts took wing again. “I could draw them if you like.”

  “You draw?”

  “One of my many talents, Inspector. I’ve always doodled, and sometimes the hours at the library are long and boring. I draw sketches of the people I see, just for fun. In fact, I drew a picture of Jonathan Blair last week.”

  He stared at her. “You’re kidding!”

  She jumped to her feet. “I’ll show it to you. I look for special faces, unique expressions...”

  She skipped out of the room, and Green found himself looking around for clues to her many facets. The apartment was small and crammed with cheap furniture. In the corner of the room stood a ten-speed and a child’s bike. Bunched into the cushions of the sagging sofa was a young girl’s jacket, and a pair of children’s rain boots stood by the door. Stacks of notes, books and old newspapers covered most of the surfaces. A busy woman, he thought, full of curiosity and ideas, but not enough hours in the day for them all.

  She emerged from the other room holding up a sketchpad in triumph. He was struck by how vividly blue her eyes were. It was an effort to force his down onto the paper she held. Then he received a second surprise. Jonathan Blair gazed out at him from the sketch, sad and contemplative. His face, partly cast in shadow, was breathtakingly handsome. The drawing was brilliant.

  “Was he really this handsome?”

  Reverence glinted in her eyes as she studied the picture. “Yes, he was. Thick dark hair and blue eyes you could die in. That’s why I noticed him. He was reading this journal article and taking notes, just like any other student on the floor. But then he set down his pen, rested his chin on his hand and stared into space. There was such profound despair on his face! Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He stayed that way for the entire fifteen minutes it took me to draw him.”

  “Had you seen him before or since?”

  “I had, in fact. He was a regular, and once you see that face you never forget it.”

  “Ever talk to him?”

  She smiled and shook her head, suddenly sheepish. “No, I keep my fantasies to myself. The last thing I need is a man in my life.”

  I don’t know about that, he found himself thinking and pulled himself firmly back on track. “Ever see anyone with him?”

  “A few times he had a girl with him. Hung all over him. She was gorgeous, too.”

  Green’s pulse quickened. “Describe her.”

  “Mediterranean-looking. Maybe Arab or even a light-skinned Indian. Thick, wavy black hair that framed her face like a halo. Large black eyes, long-lashed. That satiny milk chocolate skin that doesn’t have a flaw in it.”

  “I can tell you hardly gave her a second glance.”

  She laughed. “You’re much nicer when you’re human, Inspector. I can draw her for you too.”

  He felt himself flush. “Could you? I’m serious. These are important witnesses. Could you draw all four? The guy who pulled the fire alarm too?”

  “No problem. I’ve got the day off and my daughter’s not back from school till three-thirty. I can have them ready for you by tonight.”

  He knew there was no further reason to stay. Not with a dozen leads to follow up and his report to Weiss already two hours overdue. He was reluctantly closing his notebook when the bedroom door yanked open and Sullivan emerged, tight-lipped and grim.

  “Mike, you’re not going to believe this. Another problem. No one in the rescue crew remembers even seeing a kid in a red plaid shirt!”

  Three

  “I talked to the paramedics, the firemen and the rookie patrolman who took the call,” Sullivan reported. “No one remembers a student coming to meet them.”

  Green leaned against the wall outside Carrie MacDonald’s apartment, shaking his head. The warm flush of a moment ago had vanished. “I don’t believe this is happening. A potential eyewitness, maybe even a suspect, and he slips through our fingers. Didn’t you seal off the building?”

  Sullivan inspected a spot on the far wall, and for a moment Green thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he did, his voice was tight. “Of course we sealed off the building. But the student would have been long gone before that, in the madhouse created by the fire alarm.”

  “Which is why he pulled it in the first place, Dummkopf! This is probably our guy!”

  On the way back to the police station, Green suffered through ten minutes of stony silence and screeching tires before he finally sighed.

  “Brian, I’m sorry I called you a Dummkopf. We can’t let this case get to us. We’ve got to pull together.”

  “You also humiliated me in front of a witness.”

  “I know. I was wrong.”

  Sullivan stopped at a red light, and Green saw him gradually deflate. “Yeah, but you were also right. I should have followed up on that student right away.”

  “You should have. But then you would have just had one more failure to report to me.” They exchanged glances and laughed. “It’s good we can joke about it. Let’s hope the other guys are luckier.”

  Back at the station they dodged cameramen and crime reporters as they made their way to the second floor. The death of Jonathan Blair was no longer a secret; it had become front page news. Shutting the door to his little alcove office, Green seized his radio even before he sat down.

  “Now to get the reports from the troops,” he muttered as he called. Two minutes later, Detective Jackson responded to his page. Traffic roared in the background.

  “Have you come across a guy with thick black hair and a big mustache?” Green asked.

  “Mustache? No.”

  “Keep looking, it’s important. How about a gorgeous dark-haired woman?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll be glad to start looking for her.”

  “Ask Blair’s friends if they know her. Arab-looking, wavy hair, big eyes. If you find her, call me.”

  “Will do.”

  “Got anything useful yet?”

  In the background, Green heard a car engine roar, and Jackson raised his voice over it. “Lots of background, no leads. Everybody’s in shock, can’t believe somebody would do that to such a nice kid, that sort of stuff. Nobody knows any enemies.”

  “Seen the ex-girlfriend?” “Vanessa Weeks? She wasn’t at her office. Do you want us to go out to her home?”

  “No,” Green said impulsively. “Give the address to me.”

  When he
hung up, he swung on Sullivan. “Passion—that’s what I’m betting on. A handsome guy and too many women. I’ve got to check this one out myself.”

  Sullivan was halfway out of his seat. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay put so you can field the calls. Get a media plea out on the dark-haired student in the red shirt. Then man the radio and get progress reports from everyone. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  * * *

  The young woman who answered the door after almost three minutes was neither dark-haired nor gorgeous, at least in her present state. Vanessa Weeks’ face was puffed and blotchy, her eyes webbed in red. Oily blonde hair straggled across her forehead and down her neck. She clutched a cotton dressing gown around her with one hand and pressed a kleenex to her eyes with the other.

  Oh God, Green thought. Tears.

  He followed her into a small studio apartment strewn with papers, dirty dishes and cast-off clothing. The building was not air-conditioned, and the steamy air smelled faintly of sweat. Beyond the mess, the room was sparse, with no pictures or other personal mementos to warm it up. No portraits of doting parents or goofy siblings. A girl without a past, or at least without one she cared about.

  “I thought you’d probably come,” she managed as she folded her tall, willowy frame amid the sofa cushions with a sob. “None of his friends has even called me. It’s as if I don’t exist any more. As if, just because we broke up, I don’t have feelings any more.”

  Green debated how to proceed. The woman clearly needed to talk, and he had no idea what might be important. Experience had taught him that letting witnesses ramble often yielded unexpected dividends. He set his tape recorder on the table and eased back casually into an armchair opposite her.

  “Tell me about you and him.”

  Her eyes filled again. With a grimace, she leaned over and made a half-hearted attempt to pick some papers from the floor. “I wish I could. I don’t know what happened to Jonathan and me. I thought he loved me—he said he did—but then he started giving all these excuses about working late and being busy. Usually I helped him with his work, but this time he wouldn’t tell me what he was working on. Then a couple of times when he’d said he was working, I saw him with another woman.”