Such Wicked Friends

by Rod Hoisington

  “May I come in?” She wasn’t certain she wanted him to say yes. Would she go in and be alone with this pajama-clad person of interest? She definitely should start carrying a gun.

  “I know who you are. My lawyer told me about you.” His voice was a higher pitch than she’d expected, and his precise enunciation of every syllable reminded her of her high school English teacher. “I know you found her. I don’t want to talk with you. What did she look like?”

  “I don’t think you want an honest answer to that.”

  “I really do want to know. I can’t go on enduring all these unknowns.”

  “Your wife didn’t suffer, if that’s what you mean.” What else could she say? “Her face wasn’t blasted away or anything gross like that. Normal except for the...you know. I suppose you saw her in the morgue. My guess is she died instantly.” She had no idea whether or not the woman died instantly. It seemed the right thing to say. “She was pretty wasn’t she?”

  He made a small choking sound and moved quickly away from the opening. She couldn’t see him. The door was still partially open. “May I come in?” she asked again.

  “I’m not presentable. We were planning to take a cruise, you know. I have the tickets right here.” He moved back into view. “My attorney says not to talk to anyone. Are you here to help me? I don’t know what I should be doing.”

  “I’m trying to find out who shot your wife.”

  “Well, when you find out, let me know because I’m going to choke him to death. Aren’t you a lawyer? Why are you keeping that a secret? Are you’re trying to fool me?”

  “I’m sorry. I should have said all that up front. Look, I didn’t just stumble into the courtyard that night. Your wife phoned our law office and wanted to meet with my partner.”

  “I don’t know about any call to your office. I can’t imagine why she’d contact a lawyer. The police kept asking if we were getting along. My attorney says I can expect to be arrested at any time. When you buzzed, I thought it was the police again—this time coming to take me away. Why would anyone want to kill Margaret? She didn’t have an enemy in the world. Did you come to help me?”

  “She said she had to sneak out to meet us. That you kept a close eye on her. Nothing about you being out of town.”

  “I don’t think my attorney knows about any phone call to you—doesn’t sound like Margaret. She drove me to the airport. The police took the parking and toll road receipts. I save them for income tax, you know. She was my best friend.”

  “What about her job? Any problems there? Did she ever mention someone bothering her?”

  “What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to live? We were about to celebrate our tenth anniversary. Do you think the attorney I hired is any good? You seem to know more than he does. Will you tell him everything? Is someone going to come to help me?”

  “If they arrest you and it goes to trial, the state has to divulge what they know. Also your attorney has the right to depose me, to ask me what I know.” Was he beginning to trust her? “You phoned home and left an answering machine message. Why didn’t you take your phone with you on the trip?”

  “We couldn’t find it...searched all over. We were late and had to leave for the airport. She must have found it later because the police have it now. What do I do first? She’s gone I have to accept that. What’s going to happen to me?”

  “Do you know where those photos are?”

  “What photos? You mean of the body? I know there are things I’m supposed to be doing. Am I supposed to get photos of her body? I don’t understand. So much to think about. I haven’t taken care of anything. There must be things I’m supposed to do.”

  It was now clear to her. This man sounded innocent and was on the edge. She had screwed up things with Brad Ebert; perhaps she could do better with this guy. “Mr. Frome, Robert, you need help. You shouldn’t be here alone. Has anyone been here to see you? Have you talked to anyone? Is there anyone who can come and be with you?”

  “Now you’re asking questions just the same as the police. You’re no better than they are. They just keep asking. No one answers my questions. I hope someone shoots you, and you’ll see how you like it.” He tried to close the door. She pushed against it.

  “Robert, you are very upset. Do you have any family to help you through this? Aren’t there other couples you may have socialized with who are concerned about you? This isn’t a good time to be alone. Do you know anyone in the building? Do you have a friend at work? Robert, name one name. Give me one name. Who is your best friend? Give me a name for God’s sake and I’ll go find them. They’ll sit down with you, and it will be all be taken care of. And everything will be fine, Robert. And then you’ll know what to do.”

  “They call me Bob.”

  “Good. Who calls you, Bob? Give me their name, damn it! I’m here to get a name. You give me a name and I’ll go find them. I can find anybody. Then you can sit down and visit with them. They’ll understand everything and you’ll know what to do.”

  “That’s it. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Okay, I’ll help you. Is your health okay? You’re not sick or anything, are you? Do you want me to get you a doctor?”

  Silence.

  “Bob, do you have an address book? Go get your address book. That’s the first thing you’re supposed to do.” She was losing him. She was frightening him. She needed to calm down. She took a breath. “Okay, now listen. Go find your address book and let’s look at it. We’ll look in the book. We’ll find some names. We’ll find people to help you.”

  “I’m not talking to you.” He closed the door hard.

  “Bob, open the door.”

  She waited.

  “Please, Bob!

  No use. He’d gone away from the door. “Good luck, Bob,” she shouted through the door. Obvious depression. She was concerned about his survival, but the guy didn’t seem guilty. Was he unbalanced or merely upset? Or could anyone tell at this stage of grief. A psychotic could easily shoot his wife, blame it on someone else and seek blessed refuge in denial.

  She left the building and stopped outside the entrance at the courtyard gate, which was now definitely latched and locked. She could easily see across to where she’d found the body. The scene appeared quite different in the late afternoon sunlight. No visible evidence of her murder remained. None whatsoever. A little scrubbing away of blood, perhaps a little dab of paint, some minor rearrangement of some tables and chairs and everything was once again normal. As if Margaret Frome never existed. She gave the locked gate a hard kick for Margaret.

  Then she kicked it once again for herself. Her situation was not good. She had hoped the husband was guilty. In that case, the police would put together the necessary evidence and close the case. Her unfortunate touching of the envelope would not matter. Now she had no doubt that the husband was innocent, and meeting with him had yielded no information that might lead to another suspect. Moran could stop looking for the actual murderer if he wanted, but she could not.

  The day that began with Brad Ebert walking into her office had not been pleasant. She wished she could start it over. She walked back across the roadway to her car. Instead of getting in she took her shoes off and walked on over to the water.

  She stood there on the beach with one foot in the water, one foot on the sand. The thought came to her that she was standing at the intersection of serenity and upset. From where she stood, she could turn her head east to the blue-green ocean that reached out to where it mingled with a cloudless blue sky. In contrast, she could look back west to the noisy land populated by problems and afflictions.

  The day had been lousy, but standing there straddling the ocean’s edge, she began to feel better. The populated land wasn’t all that bad. There was turmoil but there was also relief. And she had many blessings. And she would catch the killer.

  She headed home. She parked in her usual spot at the back of the apartment house, went up the stairs and unlocked her door cautio
usly remembering she’d suspected someone was nosing around a few days earlier. She kicked off her shoes, put the kettle on the burner and while waiting looked out her back window down at her car.

  The headlights were on. It was barely dusk and she hadn’t used them. She had just parked.

  She put her shoes back on quickly and started for the door. Remembering the kettle, she ran back and shut off the burner. She hurried down the stairs. As she approached, she could see the top fabric over the driver’s window on the convertible top was ripped. Torn back enough to reach in and unlock the door. She opened the car door and clicked off the headlights. She closed the door and heard a loud bang at the same time.

  The force of the bullet spun her around. Her head slammed into the car door. The searing pain in her arm forced her to the ground. Her head was against the car door and blood dripped down her chin. She tried to push herself up and found she couldn’t move her left arm. The real pain was coming from that arm, and it was becoming soaked with surging blood.

  She rolled on her side away from the car door and using her good arm, tried to swing it open. It was jammed half-latched somehow. She had to lower her arm and close her eyes to get her breath. She reached up again for the door handle and pulled. She hadn’t enough strength to move it. She was sprawled on her back with her left arm now completely covered in blood and hanging limp. She stretched her right arm up and tried to pull the door handle out. The pain in her arm took away her breath. She tried again. It clicked, and she was able to swing the door out enough to reach up and grip the horn ring tightly. She pulled and the blessed horn blew.

  The horn on the little sports car gave out a high-pitched squeak like a bleating lamb. Damn all those ever-present car alarms that everyone ignores. At least it was something. She couldn’t think of anything else. Gradually, she felt a strong wave of heat rising up through her body, and then everything was black and quiet and nothing hurt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sandy didn’t remember the landlady running out screaming for someone to call 911. She didn’t remember the sirens, the police cars or the ambulance. The last thing she remembered was looking out her back window and seeing the headlights of her car on.

  She awoke in one of the small units off the main hospital emergency room. A curtain was pulled across the wide opening into the hallway. Chip welcomed her back to the world with a forehead kiss. He was telling her she was safe.

  “My head hurts.”

  “You’re all right. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “Okay, I’m hooked up to all this paraphernalia, but if it’s serious, why aren’t I wearing a backless gown instead of lying here in my street clothes?”

  “I didn’t say your injury was serious. I said you had a serious loss of blood. They gave you a transfusion. By the way, I’m not your type.”

  “Don’t bet on that.” She motioned for him to raise the bed. “The attack on me was serious, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Someone wanted you dead. The shooter was aiming at your heart. Came very close too. Off only a few inches hitting your upper left arm. Even so, you almost died from the loss of blood. You had a death grip on that horn ring. The medic said the horn was still sounding when they arrived.”

  “Okay, enough of the crap. What’s the bad news?” She tried to lift her left arm and grimaced.

  “The doctor is happy with your arm.”

  “Happy he doesn’t have to cut it off? I’d be happy if I could feel it.”

  “You’ll feel it again. The bullet grazed your bicep, it’ll be sore for a while. He wants to observe you for a couple more hours to be sure your head is working then you’ll be out of here. He doesn’t want you overnight.”

  “I don’t remember what happened after I went down to turn off my headlights. At that time I was already living the worst day of my life.” She was thinking of her encounters with Brad and Robert Frome. “Are the investigators considering this a random shooting?”

  “No, the police in Park Beach are well aware of your ability to incite complete strangers to acts of violence. They’re treating it as attempted murder. The crew is still over there looking for the slug that passed through your arm. The shooter had to walk around to the back of the house, so there might be shoeprints. They’ll talk to neighbors, of course. They towed your car in. Might be prints since the top was cut to turn on your headlights.”

  “The top of my baby convertible was cut? Okay, that does it! Now it’s personal.” She tried to sit up but the pain in her arm stopped her short. “That ruins my whole day.”

  “I believe the crime lab has already released your car. Now be honest with me. I want to know about all the criminal cases that for some unknown reason you feel compelled to stick your cute little nose into?”

  “Nothing just the courtyard shooting. I talked to Robert Frome through his door earlier today. He was already mad at the police, and now he’s mad at me.”

  “I thought we decided that since the envelope was planted, the husband probably didn’t shoot his wife.”

  “He still might have taken a shot at me, not because he’s guilty of murdering his wife, but because the whole world is coming down on him. He’s trying to strike back somehow. The police are bugging him, and he puts me in the same category as the police. He just wants everyone to leave him alone, so he can decide how he is supposed to grieve for his wife. He became upset and actually did more or less threaten me, although at the time I didn’t take it seriously. He and Moran are the only people I can think of that I’ve pissed off lately, although there are probably a few more. They’re both crazy enough to do it.”

  At that moment, Martin peeked through the curtain and then stepped in. “Hello Chip. Sandy, how are you? What happened?”

  She related as much as she remembered. “I’ll be discharged in a little bit. Only a flesh wound.”

  “And all this time I thought bullets bounced off you,” Martin said.

  Chip turned his back on them to answer his phone. In a minute, he turned back and announced. “They found the bullet at the scene. We don’t have a full ballistics report yet, but the bullet that killed Margaret Frome, and the bullet fired at you both came from a .38 automatic.”

  “Very interesting.” She shifted in the bed trying to get comfortable. “The clean shot between her eyes shouted out professional killer. However, a pro would have gotten rid of the murder weapon immediately, and apparently he didn’t. Unless someone else is running around shooting a .38, it was the killer who used the same gun on me today. Now I’m thinking we’re dealing with an amateur.”

  “Have you changed your mind about the husband?” Martin asked.

  “Yeah, I spoke with him. Hard to believe the guy I met held a gun to his wife’s head and pulled the trigger.”

  “Let’s say he is innocent,” Chip said. “That means the real killer is out there and maybe thinking you’re getting too close.”

  “Too close? I haven’t done a darn thing yet. Let him take shots at Jaworski. He’s closer than I am.”

  “I think she should stay away from her apartment,” Martin said.

  Chip said, “Definitely. And I’m thinking you should avoid the office as well. Have you considered spending a few weeks up in Philly?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Oh, maybe to stay alive.”

  “No way am I hiding out. I can’t live like that.”

  “Let me think about this. Maybe we can post a police car outside the office. The Chief might not go for it. Jaworski was just here and looked in on you. Not his case, but he said he heard about the shooting and just dropped by.”

  “That’s sweet. Whose case is it?”

  “Detective Moore. You know him?”

  She exchanged a glance with Martin. “Tall, skinny guy, blond buzz cut? No, don’t think I know him.” She tried to shift her position again and winced from the pain in her arm. “Chip, what’s the story on Shapiro?”

  “How did he get in the conversation?”


  “I ran into him in the Windward Bar at lunch today. He bought me a beer.”

  “Mel’s always been straight with me. Divorced. Uses any excuse to show off a photo of his daughter. She’s going to some college up in the Carolinas.

  Martin said, “He’s a gifted trial lawyer. You don’t want to go up against him in court.”

  “Chip, I’m going to ask you something, and I know you’re going to say no. Do you think I should be carrying a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes? I thought cops always discouraged folks from doing such things.”

  “You’re pretty close to being a professional around crime. I’m not worried about you. What you lack is formal training. If you’ll take a firearms course, then I’ll give you some additional training and help you get your concealed weapon permit.”

  “In Florida anyone with a pulse can get a permit,” Martin said. “What do you expect in a state where you can buy beer in gas stations?”

  “Geez, I never thought you’d go along with this.”

  “You have to make me a promise. When someone is threatening you and coming at you, you have to promise me you’ll pull the trigger.” His face was grim and unsmiling.

  “You’re dead serious and now I’m nervous.”

  “Before I forget it, here’s your new key. Your landlady brought it over. She said the locksmith was over today installing a double-lock on your apartment door and putting a chain inside. After her 911 call, the medic said she was ordering them around and threatening them with bodily harm if she couldn’t ride with you to the hospital. She was in here a few minutes ago and wanted to know how you are doing.”

  “Well, that’s nice. Okay, so she’s not a mean old landlady.” She forced a smile. “Would you put the bed back down? I’m getting sleepy. Must be the pills.”