Suggestion of Death

by Susan P. Baker

  She stood with crossed arms, her head tilted to one side. “You got something against cops, mister?”

  “No, ma’am, just trying to get under your skin. Some of my best information has come from cops.” He closed one eye as he surveyed her. “I’m really glad you showed up. I just meant that your getting here so quickly was a good thing. Well, anyway, when I get my foot out of my mouth maybe I’ll be able to apologize better.”

  She finally smiled. A small wrinkle appeared on each side of her mouth. “Maybe you want to tell me what happened?”

  “Lost my brakes.”

  “Hey, that’s not good. We’re all hills and valleys. You could have been killed.”

  “I’m aware of that, ma’am, yes I am.

  “Pratka,” she said, pointing at her badge. “Esther Pratka. What’s your name, sir?”

  “James Dorman.”

  She swiped at her hair. “Why is your name familiar?”

  “I assure you I’m not wanted. Used to be a reporter for the evening paper. Maybe you read those stories I wrote about the judge who was removed from office a few years ago.”

  Pratka chewed on the inside of her lip. “Right. That’s why you made that comment about information. Yeah, I’ve read some of your stuff. It was pretty good. What happened to you?”

  “After the paper went out of business I couldn’t get on with the other paper and haven’t been able to find another job until now.”

  “So where are you working?” She got down on her haunches, looking him in the eye, her hand resting on her billy club like Bitsy’s rested on her sidearm.

  “Well, as soon as I can get out of town I’ve got a job lined up in Dallas.”

  “For a paper?”

  “A magazine. Dallas Downtown Magazine.”

  ‘Never heard of it.” She stood up and stretched. “Can’t do that very long, weak knees.”

  “I’m going to give it another shot. Want to spot me?”

  “You want to see if you can make it to one of the benches?”

  “Okay.” Jim took a deep breath and put his weight solidly on one foot. “I should be all right.” He flexed his muscles as he stood.

  “Let me know if you need my help.”

  Jim clutched the top of the car door. “I think I’ll be okay if we go slowly. Which one are we headed for?”

  “If you can make it to the one nearest the clearing—that way the ambulance can just pull in there next to the table.”

  “I’m sure I’m going to be okay.” He began putting one foot in front of the other, taking baby steps. By the time he got to the picnic table, he felt better, like he could breathe.

  When the ambulance showed up a few moments later, Jim was embarrassed they’d had to come out. The two attendants had him lie down on a stretcher inside their vehicle while they checked him over. “You’re going to be all right,” the male EMT said. “Can’t say the same for your car.”

  The front end of the Mustang had distinct problems; he’d seen that. “Sorry for all your trouble, but thanks for coming out.”

  “Hey, you shouldn’t even have moved out of your car ‘till we got here,” the young, red-haired female scolded. She assisted him in sitting up.

  “I’m sorry. I felt all right though.” His mind whipped in circles like a whirlpool. He needed to get away by himself and think things through.

  “Next time, stay put. You could do injury to yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you.” He inched toward the edge of the stretcher.

  “And if your neck is stiff tomorrow, see your family physician, but I think it’s probably just going to be temporary. Take a hot bath as soon as you get home. Soak. Apply moist heat to your neck and shoulders.”

  “I will. Thanks.” He maneuvered his way out, sat back down on the picnic bench, and watched the fiery paramedic as she backed the ambulance out of the clearing.

  Jim glanced at his car and back at Pratka. “Would you call a wrecker for me?”

  “Did already.”

  She slid onto the bench across from him and picked up her pen. “Now, when are you supposed to go to Dallas?”

  Jim eyeballed the cop. Why did she want to know? She was a beat cop as far as he could tell, not a detective. He swallowed from the large bottle of water the paramedics left with him and could feel the cool water sliding down his gullet. The table sat under an oak tree and blocked the sun. Sweat poured from his pits. “Whenever I can get there, but no later than August first. I just landed the job today, in fact.”

  She jotted something on a note pad. “When do you plan to leave?”

  “I’ve got to tie up a few loose ends.”

  “Like?” She twirled the pen in her fingers.

  “There’s my wife and kids.” His throat constricted. His wife. Was the deal off with Pat? Did he even want it not to be off?

  “Your wife work? I mean does she have to give notice?”

  Jim realized what he’d said. Not that it mattered one iota to this officer. She didn’t know the difference. Now, Denholt, the one who was investigating Noel’s murder, he’d be on him like a flea on a rat. “My ex-wife and I were discussing getting back together.” Why he was telling Pratka that, he didn’t know. Or why she was asking either.

  “When did you discuss this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And you aren’t sure yet?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, no, ma’am. I haven’t even had time to explain the offer from Dallas, but I thought I might get the job when I asked her to go with me.”

  Her eyes flitted across his face, her brows wavering as she scrutinized him. She licked her lips. “Why do you think your brakes went out, Mr. Dorman?”

  Jim reared back at the abrupt change of topic. He hadn’t had a chance to think the thing out. “The car is old. My parking brake hasn’t been working for a while.” He wondered if she’d called a detective to investigate or whether that kind of accident even warranted investigation by a detective.

  “Your parking brake has nothing to do with your other brakes. You think someone tampered with your regular brakes?”

  He put his head in his hands while he contemplated his answer. He’d like to trust her. He had a burning desire to spill the whole story, but she was a woman even if she was a cop. Bitsy was a cop, too. “I’d need a mechanic to look under the hood to answer that.”

  “Mr. Dorman, I didn’t just come in on the hay truck. Are you involved in something you want to tell me about?”

  “My big aim in life is to reconcile with my wife and move. Hey, and I sold my novel too, Officer. You’re the first to know.”

  “Why is that? Why haven’t you told your ex-wife?”

  Was she goading him? “What do you mean?”

  Pratka’s blank expression was hard to read. “I would just assume that selling a book would be a big deal to a writer.”

  “It is.” Jim smiled in spite of the seriousness of the moment.

  “So why haven’t you told your ex-wife or your mother or someone like that?”

  “I just found out a little while ago.”

  “So, Mr. Dorman, is something going on I need to know about?”

  Her sunglasses lay on the table between them. Her oddly colored blue eyes roamed Jim’s face through her regular glasses as she waited for an explanation. She held her pen poised to make notes. When he didn’t answer, she sighed like someone running out of patience.

  Officer Esther Pratka could already know what he was involved in. She could know because she was also involved. She could be questioning him because she was sent to find out what he knew. He stared into her eyes, wishing they were really the windows of the soul. He wiped the corners of his mouth.

  “I'm not getting any younger.” Her voice had risen an octave.

  “All right.” He studied Pratka's heart-shaped face. Her eyebrows were plucked into a thin line and colored in with brown pencil. Her tanned skin was leathery like the turtles in Town Creek that sunned themselves on the
rocks. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes fixed on his.

  The dry wind blew through the trees. The air had a dusty smell from vehicles stirring up dirt in the parking lot. There hadn't been much rain that summer. By the evening it would be cooler if the breeze kept up and a good time to take the kids to the park, to walk down to the river's edge, dip their feet in, listen to the small rapids downstream. A bird twittered. He looked up. A little bird was chasing a larger one and giving it what-for.

  Pratka continued to stare at Jim. Fear nibbled at him like a fish on a worm. She seemed nice enough, but she could be as deadly as the conspirators. Hell, she could be one of the conspirators. If he went down to the station, he was only talking to a male officer. But he didn’t plan to go at all.

  He finally answered. “I don't know where to begin.”

  “Okay, sir. I'll make it easy. Do you think your brakes going out was an accident?”

  Jim peeled the wrapper from the water bottle. “I hate to say until a mechanic looks at them, but no, I don’t think it was an accident. I think someone did something to them.” He’d crawl under the car and look himself if he wasn’t hurting so much. After it was towed, he’d ask the impound to have someone take a look and see if someone had tampered—had cut—a brake line or whatever it took to make his brakes not work.

  “Who do you think it was? Your wife?”

  Jim jerked his head and a muscle in his neck snapped. He rubbed the burning sensation right below his skull and wished the ibuprofen the paramedics had given him to would hurry up and take effect.

  “I don't think my wife did it. What made you say that?” His eye twitched, and he blinked rapidly to stop it.

  “The way you were talking about her in the past tense.”

  “Listen, I really haven't had time to think about the brake thing. It just happened. I was in Wendy's with Patty—that's my wife. We had a fight. She couldn't have done it. She was inside with me.”

  “She could have fixed them while you were waiting for her inside.”

  “True. But she didn't have time. Or, I guess, while I was at the library, but she didn't know I was there either.”

  “You were there today?”

  “All morning.”

  Pratka grunted. “And went straight to Wendy's?”

  “I called her from the library, and she told me to meet her there. So I guess she couldn't have done it if she was at home when I called her. Besides, she knows nada about cars. I don't know much more.”

  “Okay. But she did name the place for you to meet. She could have had someone else fix your brakes while you were either at the library or at Wendy's.”

  Nausea rose in his throat at the thought that Patty told Bitsy where to find his car. He couldn’t concede that point to Pratka. “Yeah, but if she knew someone had already tampered with my brakes at the library, why would she agree to meet with me so close—you see what I mean?”

  “Wendy's is not far enough away for you to have to use your brakes much.”

  “Right. Besides, I really don't think Patty would do this to me. We were talking about getting back together.” He left out that they’d slept together. First, it wasn't any of Pratka's business. Second, he didn't want Pratka to think ill of Patty or to think himself lecherous, as old-fashioned as that sounded even to him.

  “So who wants to harm you?”

  He stared at her, his forehead crinkled up, his eyes burning from the bright sunlight. He wasn’t inclined to answer, but didn’t know how to get out of giving her something. “Okay. Okay, Officer. The deal is that...I think it could be a group of people.” He winced. He’d just told her he knew about the conspiracy. If she was involved, he was dead meat. On the other hand, if she didn't know diddly about it, how stupid was he going to look?

  Pratka poised her pen over her pad and peered at him, waiting. “Like how many?”

  “I'm not sure.” He figured each lady whose ex-husband had been killed was involved and possibly some whose ex-husbands were targeted for the future. “Maybe five or six.” And then he thought about Mrs. Peterson. “Maybe seven.” And possibly Judge Lopez. “Or eight. I don't really know.”

  “A conspiracy against you.”

  “Me and some other people.” He knew it sounded sketchy.

  “And why would a group of people want to kill you?”

  “See, it is hard to believe, isn't it?”

  “Just answer my question.” She ran her tongue around her lips.

  “Because I'm onto them. I could expose them. They could all go to jail for life or perhaps they could get the death penalty.”

  Pratka’s right eyebrow arched toward the sky. “I see. And what could you expose them for?”

  He wasn't about to tell her. She wasn’t even a detective and might not even have the right to ask him any questions. “I'm not sure that I want to get into that just yet.”

  Her other eyebrow shot up. “So how am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me what this thing is all about?”

  “Look, Officer, I don't have enough evidence yet. If I told you anything more, you'd just laugh, and I'd look like an idiot.”

  “I hate to tell you—”

  “I already look like an idiot?”

  “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” Her nostrils flared. “So you have no hard evidence?”

  “No. Circumstantial, yes.”

  “What have you got?”

  Jim shook his head. “Can't do it.”

  “Look, Dorman, if somebody's trying to kill you, don't you think it's time you leveled with me? Come on.”

  “Just as soon as I have something concrete, I swear.” He really didn’t like the tone of her questions.

  “Am I going to have to take you downtown?”

  “Let’s not get melodramatic, Officer. Why don't you give me a ride home and as soon as I have one solid iota of proof, I'll call the detectives and let them look into it.”

  His limbs felt weary to the bone. It took a lot of energy to spar with the cops. He’d used all his energy on the ride down the hill. He just wanted to go home, lie down, rest, take a hot bath, and lie down again.

  “Let me ask you this, Mr. Dorman, is there any history of mental illness in your family?”

  He shook his head. “No, and I’m not surprised you asked that question.” Pratka was pretty sharp. If she was involved, she had just given him the suggestion that he was imagining everything. Shrewd. “So, no, ma'am. And I'm not free at this time to discuss the matter any further.”

  She looked at him like she wanted to stretch his legs between two chairs and bounce up and down on them. Her frown was so deep it looked like it had fallen into a crevice. After staring at Jim silently for a few moments, she appeared to reconcile herself to the fact that she was getting nowhere. “You'll report it as soon as you've confirmed your suspicions.”

  Jim saluted her. “Absolutely.”

  “Come on, then. I’ve got other duties besides attending to you.” She pulled her legs out from under the picnic table and stood, flexing her shoulders and stretching her legs before she headed toward her police unit.

  Relieved, Jim started to follow and then remembered his notebook and the newspaper copies he'd left on the front seat of his own vehicle. “Let me get my things from my car.”

  He wished he could tell Esther Pratka everything and get it off his chest. He was sure she’d laugh at him right now, if she weren’t involved. As an alternative, he could call Denholt, but, again, he would probably laugh at what Jim had so far. Unless he really was investigating it himself. It was a pretty preposterous story. He would love to turn the whole mess over to the police and get out of town. If he could get them to give him an exclusive when there was enough evidence to make an arrest, he could get safely away without having to investigate any further. Just as soon as he could, he was leaving town.

  But not yet.

  He didn't really think his life was at stake yet. They were only trying to scare him. They just wanted him to lay off. He didn't figure they
were really trying to kill him—but he could be mistaken. There was Noel, for example. Assuming Noel Wannamaker was one of their victims and not involved in something entirely unrelated. After all, he didn't know Noel. He could have been involved in any number of shenanigans.

  His notepad wasn’t on the car seat or the floorboards. He leaned way inside. Got in. Groped under the seats. Got out and opened the rear door. Got back in and searched under the seats. His notepad was gone. So were the newspaper copies. Now he really had nothing to show Pratka or Denholt. His anger grew.

  They, whoever they were, must have stolen everything while he was inside Wendy's. There was no other time. Unless Pratka had removed it from the car while he wasn't looking. Had she left the table when he was inside the ambulance being checked over? He didn't think so, but he wasn't sure. Hell, he couldn’t even remember seeing it when he went chasing after Patty.

  He bit his lip as he walked back toward the police car. It wasn't like he couldn't duplicate everything. Everything was on the Internet and could be copied again. It would just slow him down. He could reconstruct the list of names from memory. Worst was the loss of his notebook. He shook his head in disgust. It was pointless for whomever to take his notes.

  “You all right?” Pratka asked as Jim returned to the cruiser. “You look like you're feeling sick again.”

  Not again. Still. “I'll make it.”

  “Find what you need in your car?”

  “My notes aren't there.”

  “You sure you had some notes?”

  Jim didn't answer. The only person who had faith in him was him.

  He climbed into the front seat. If she had taken them, they weren't in plain view. On the way to his place, he couldn't find it in himself to engage in small talk. He wanted to trust Pratka. He wanted to tell her the whole story. And he would go to the police as soon as he got reorganized. Just not now. Even if he was wrong, he couldn't be too careful. The best thing he could do at this point was play the rest of his cards close to his chest. He'd reconstruct his notes. He'd do some more investigation and immediately report his findings to the police.

  In the meantime, he had to worry about where he’d get the money to redeem his car from the wrecker service. And for car repairs. And what would he do for transportation until then? The advance for his novel wouldn’t be forthcoming in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, that was a sure bet.