by Theo Cage
NR.
I MEAN I NEED THE MONEY NOW.
I'VE LEARNED ABOUT A CLEVER TRICK WITH A GUITAR STRING.
DOES JOANNIE LIKE THE GUITAR?
THE TERMINATOR.
Joannie was Rosenblatt's wife. GUITAR STRING? Something about that casual reference to a weapon they had once talked about made his flesh prickle. He was dealing with a complete psychotic. And he had helped design him. Rosenblatt stared at the screen dumbly. Saving these files could only incriminate him. He had to erase them - insure they were gone permanently. He looked at the words on the computer screen - they glowed like deadly radioactive bits of unburied madness.
I'M NOT YOUR ENEMY!
NR.
Rosenblatt punched the virtual keys far harder than necessary. Seconds passed without any reply. Rosenblatt rubbed his eyes, heard a distant voice down the hallway. Madness. He was plugged into someone’s madness. He pounded the screen with his fist hoping the glass would shatter. Then the letters on the screen jumped.
PROVE IT. WIRE THE MONEY TO MY ACCOUNT
BY TUESDAY NOON. DON'T BE LATE!
Norman thought that was the whole message. Then...
THIS IS GETTING TO BE A LOT OF FUN.
AND JUST THINK, I LEARNED IT ALL FROM YOU...
THANKS TEACH.
His heart was tripping away in his soft barrel chest like an old diesel engine. He wiped the perspiration away from his forehead and tried to steady his hands.
How had this started? How did I get involved?
The idea had come to Rosenblatt just like all of his other fantasies. And he simply didn't push them away like others might. He learned that letting insistent thoughts in, inviting them to sit down at the next barstool and buying them a cool one, could be appropriate and valuable.
For example, Rosenblatt didn't believe that thinking about adultery was anywhere even close to actually DOING IT. And he didn't believe that dwelling on the idea of harshly pushing his curvy secretary to the floor of the sales office, tearing her clothes away and giving her a tongue bath was improper - or would lead to the act itself. The ideas came. He entertained them. They were gone. No harm done.
In the same way, last year, Rosenblatt began to see Ludd's death as a possibility, his murder as a justified act - only in his thoughts, of course. The concept, rough-hewn as it was, gave him certain contentment. He saw other benefits unfold. His staff would be happier. They liked him better than Ludd; he didn't drive them incessantly. He usually went home at 5 o'clock. Ludd was usually the last to leave. Ludd often pulled all-nighters. With Ludd gone GeneFab could be sold, likely at its peak value. After all, how long would it be before a dozen clones of their products, hastily assembled in Taiwan or Sri Lanka, blew a hole through their market share? Ludd refused to see this. He was ignoring history.
They talked about selling. Actually, Rosenblatt talked about selling, Ludd just nodded abstractly. The time wasn't right. When The Splicer is functional. When hell gets astro-turf.
How do people do it? thought Rosenblatt. With his salary and dividends he made over a million last year. How did the average Joe survive on fifty thou? What did he do with his money? He bought some land, a couple of mutual funds, went on a couple of trips to the Keys, paid a fortune in taxes. He needed real money. If he was going to be able to set up his wife and kids and then play house in Florida with a harem of nubile gold diggers, he needed serious cash. Ten million, maybe more. Then he began to no longer dream of having Ludd killed - he started to see it as a gnawing imperative.
And now that it was done, how did he stop the machinery?
CHAPTER 13
Walter Dimbrowsky was built like an old Frigidaire - thick, solid, rounded shoulders, which he topped off with a neat farm-boy haircut. He stood about three cubits off the ground, as he used to say, a little over six-two. He wore the most sensible shoes in the courthouse - thick-soled brogues that were custom-ordered from Romania and looked it.
In his big roast beef hands he carried the court docket over to Jayne as they moved into one of the small interview rooms off the courthouse’s main corridor, which connected the various trial rooms. They sat down in the cramped room at opposite ends of a small round table. The table seemed almost too small to accommodate either the growing files or Dimbrowsky's big rough hands.
"I've got the coroner’s report and some of the forensics. I've had Julie send copies over to your office. You should get them today. By the way, there are a few surprises."
"I love surprises," commented Jayne, looking bored. This was the pre-trial session where the prosecution needs to share evidence with the defense. And unlike the movies, there was no point in hiding anything. That would only lead to an appeal or a re-trial.
"I don't have a lot of time. There are a lot of fingerprints ... "
"Who’s?"
He showed her photocopies and printouts. "Ludd's. Employees at the rental company."
"That's it?" asked Jayne, folding her arms.
"On the fingerprints."
"So he was killed by an employee at the car rental firm?"
Dimbrowsky ignored her and continued. "We won't be entering them into evidence. Therefore, you won't be receiving any fingerprint docs." Jayne wanted to ask how the killer got into Ludd's vehicle without leaving prints. Gloves? In June? Or maybe the murderer cleaned everything off before leaving the scene? A neat freak.
Dimbrowsky continued. "We did a fabric make-over. No fabric samples were found that were inconsistent with Ludd's."
"Isn't that a little strange?"
"I don't know what you mean by that."
"Well - are you saying the murderer or murderers were naked? They did Ludd in the buff?"
"The pathologist explained that the perpetrator either wore worn clothing like old jeans or something, or clothes that don't shed fibers."
"Like a wet suit maybe," she asked with a straight face.
Dimbrowsky reacted like a teacher to an errant student, shaking his head with a scowl. But he didn't persist. Jayne knew this was his standard reaction to her. It probably frustrated him and made him angry that he couldn't just reach over and let her have the back of his hand.
"We're still waiting for the fingerprint survey off the body,” he said. “Serology tests - the blood and serum sampling came up with only Ludd's blood type - which is consistent with the method of murder. We haven't got anything yet on the driver’s window."
"Are you talking about fingerprints again?"
"No. There was ... expectorant.”
"You mean spit," she said.
"There was expectorant on the window mixed with blood. We don't know yet if it was Ludd's or someone else's. The expectorant I mean."
Jayne listened to the hum of the air-conditioning above her for a moment, making Dimbrowsky uncomfortable in the silence. "That's your key evidence? Spit?" Dimbrowsky narrowed his eyes. "How many murder cases have you been involved with Walter that involved 'garroting'."
He looked at her with his big blank brown eyes. "This is my first."
"Mine too. So tell me something - why would a murderer use that method?"
He thought for a moment, but he looked like he believed the question was frivolous. "Saw it in a TV show or a movie? Read it in a book. How should I know?"
"Now I'm just thinking out loud, but I would never consider using a garrote to kill someone. It would seem to me you would need an awful lot of strength. It would be messy as hell, noisy probably. And it would take a while, which could be a real problem if you were sitting in a public parking lot."
The prosecutor seemed to consider that. "On the other hand, you could make the weapon yourself. No permits. No records. And I don't necessarily think you would have to be that strong."
"That's easy for you to say. You're a big strapping farm boy. Look, you're a court prosecutor and you've got calluses."
Dimbrowsky couldn't help himself. He looked at his beefsteak paws. "I farm on the weekends - you know that."
"My boy is a s
alesman. The hardest thing he pushes are computer keys and cocktail glasses. I don't get a match. I think he'd use something more ... technical. More sophisticated! Less strenuous."
"That's not much to build a case on. The lazy defense?" It was his turn to smirk. Jayne didn't like it on him. "Maybe that's the idea. That's what he wants us to think. Anyway, we do have something else." With that he pulled a photocopy out of a neat manila envelope and slid it across to Jayne. "It was found under the front seat on the drivers side. A business card." He read it. "Angus Redfield - Account Representative. Great Barrier Software Inc."
Jayne took the photocopy and turned it in her hands. The card was uncrumpled, clear, in stark contrast to a black foggy background. "Walter. You actually expect me and the court to believe that you think this is a serious piece of evidence? This is childish and smells of setup!"
"It's his business card – at the scene of the crime. Look, there’s even blood splatter on it."
"Whose blood?"
Dimbrowsky sighed, a rumbling expiration. "Ludd's. Don't get cute."
"I thought that was my greatest asset." This made Dimbrowsky redden slightly although Jayne couldn't even guess why, although she did enjoy seeing him uncomfortable. "What's the other surprise? You said there were more surprises."
Dimbrowsky put the evidence sheets back into his files, each carefully labeled in his thick block-letter script. "Rosenblatt! Ludd's partner - told me today that he recalls Ludd mentioning a call from Redfield on Tuesday afternoon."
"He didn't say anything about that before?"
"He says he was stressed out by the whole situation and it didn't come to him until later."
"From my experience with him on the stand before, that doesn't surprise me. I think it just took him a while to dream it up. Does he think he gets points or something for being creative? Do you remember what you said about Redfield last time you were going for a conviction?"
"That was then - this is now. Maybe we were too easy on him last time."
"Or maybe it's just the same game plan - only this is the remake. Frame up Part II. Same bullshit."
"Jayne - the first case I tried when I was a criminal lawyer was a seventeen year old girl who was charged with the hit and run of her father. He beat her and abused her. She was a real mess. Those are the external facts. She did run him over. He probably deserved it. And that's what she was charged with."
"Aren't you the soul of logic? So what's your point?"
"She was young and attractive - not anything like the usual scum we get in here. So I felt sorry for her and made the mistake of taking the whole case personally. My advice to you is not to do the same." She clamped her jaw and just stared. She started to answer, but he walked over it. "I've heard that you're going to turn this over. I think that's wise. Give it to one of your juniors. This is open and shut."
Jayne picked herself up, gathered her brief, and turned to Dimbrowsky with her trademark smirk. "So what you're saying is, I should try to avoid running over my relatives with my R8?"
Dimbrowsky looked confused. "And since we’re being so helpful here today, I've got some advice for you too, Walter. Those shoes you wear? They went out with the Nixon administration. See you in court."
:
Jayne left without closing the door behind her. Dimbrowsky sat and listened to the click of her heels on the well-worn marble of the courthouse hall floor echo up against the high ceiling. He had her this time he thought. She just doesn't know it yet. Doesn't know that this isn't just a simple homicide. Couldn't even imagine the forces rallying against her and her slick-jack client.
CHAPTER 14
It was the kind of house that Otter had often fantasized about - tall, angular, acres of glass, winter-white against the trimmed shrubs and trees, and a sweeping stone drive. Like part of a space-age landscape. He had a sense of déjà vu, almost a feeling that he had been here before only under better circumstances.
Walking from his unmarked sedan, Otter felt the sky press down on him. It was trying to rain again. Fourth day in a row. The omnipresent mist made what hair he had curl up over his ears and wrinkle his collar. He thought of Kozak, his skinny frame lying on an x-ray table, harassing the nurses with obscene jokes. He was away today for some kind of follow-up. Otter missed his stooped-over walk, the mean glint he got in his eye when he was on to somebody.
Otter looked around the yard and found the grass a little longer than he liked, the flowerbeds in need of weeding. Surely she had a gardener or a company that tended to the yard once a week. Is this what happens when you go into mourning? You neglect the landscaping? He lifted his hand to rap on the front door, hesitated, and then rang the bell. The house was huge. There was every chance she wouldn't hear his knock. Then he was startled by a voice.
"Can I help you?" The question came from a speaker panel mounted just above the doorbell buzzer. Otter squinted. Was that a camera lens?
"Detective Otter, Mrs. Ludd? We spoke last week? I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a few more questions."
"Just give me a moment, Detective."
A few heartbeats later the door opened and Avril Ludd greeted him with a slight smile that faded almost instantly. She led him into the front foyer. He noticed first that the house smelled of fresh paint and new wood, and that his host looked considerably better than she had the last time they met. And she had impressed him even then. Short dark hair, a sculptured nose, bulky cable knit sweater and tight-fitting blue jeans with embroidered pockets; everything clean, fresh-smelling, like new. When you have that much money do you wear anything twice?
"Detective Otter. I was just hoping for some company." She held up a blue ceramic mug. "Cappuccino?"
"Thank you, no," he answered, unsure of whether he really wanted it or not. He'd never had one before and was certain he couldn't spell it. She led him into a large sunroom off the main kitchen. He sat on the love seat across from her on the sofa. He commented on her home; she nodded her head, thanked him. She seemed distracted.
"I have a few more questions, Mrs. Ludd."
"Not as many as I do, detective," she said softly.
"Last Wednesday, did your husband call you to say he would be late?"
She shook her head. "Late?" she asked. "Jeff was a workaholic. Sometimes we would come home at 9:00 or 10:00 in the evening. Lately there were a lot of all nighters. And we did that seven days a week. That's the biotech business. But that was how we met. I worked as a programmer for GeneFab for three years before we were even introduced."
"Why weren't you working that night?”
"Wednesdays I play squash. We talked about that."
“So you never knew... "
"I knew he wouldn't be home before nine. If he was going to be especially late, he would usually text, unless he got distracted. Which was often. We got into the habit of having a late meal. Then he would watch the news, exercise for an hour...”She stared off into the dripping dogwood beyond the sloping glass of the south wall. "The kind of schedule your wife is probably used to," she added.
"I was going to say, sounds like cops hours. Did you talk to him on Wednesday at all?"
She was still staring off into the yard. Otter was sure she hadn't been crying that morning but her eyes had that rheumy look he had seen before. She was on the verge. All it would take would be the wrong word, a certain look.
"He called me after lunch. He had a question about his trip." Why won't she look at me Otter thought?
"Where was your husband going?"
"Vegas," said Avril. "The twice-yearly International bio-tech conference." She turned to him. "He was leaving on Friday. GOING to leave. He had a question about his ticket. Wanted to make sure I had made all the arrangements. He also wanted to know if anyone from Las Vegas had called." Her emphasis on the words Las Vegas troubled Otter. He made a mental note of it.
"And had they? Someone called I mean?"
"No,” she said slowly. "Is that important?" she turned to him again, her eyes heavier,
more doe-like.
"I don't know,” answered Otter. "His partner said he seemed concerned about the show. Said that Redfield usually made the arrangements."
"That's not true. Jeff always handled the shows. He wouldn't trust that kind of thing to anyone."
"Are you saying that Mr. Rosenblatt lied?"
She jumped up and began to pace in front of the glass wall. "Norman? The truth only confuses him." Otter had a sense of what she meant. Her distant look turned to a focused anger. "You only wonder why someone who lies so often wouldn't get better at it."
"Did you ever speak to anyone from Las Vegas? An organizer? A representative?" he asked.
This time she openly turned to him and riveted him with her dark eyes. She was searching for something, scanning him. He was willing to offer her what he could, but sensed that she knew more than she was telling. There was so much more to this case than he first surmised, than Koz believed.
"Have you found anything?" she leaned forward, her arms crossed to hide the shake in her hands.
"I came here today to ask you if your husband talked to you about his dinner meeting, that's all."
She looked disappointed, even a little confused, then closed her eyes and held her coffee mug to her forehead. "He was a member of the President’s Club. He liked to go there for lunch. I can't remember him ever having dinner there, but I couldn't swear to it. He certainly never said anything about it on Wednesday."
Otter thought for a moment. "Is there anything else you talked about?"
"Detective, I've gone over that conversation a thousand times. It was the last time I spoke to Jeff. Did you ever wonder what you might say to someone if you knew it was your last?"
Otter nibbled on his mustache but said nothing.
"You know, there are so many things you could say. You could say you were sorry. You could say thanks. You could express a regret. It makes you realize how empty and stupid most of our conversations are! I think back on our last chance to... say something... and I come up with... with a shopping list." Her voice broke and she covered her eyes with one hand. "A bloody shopping list, for God's sake,” she cried.