Such Wicked Friends

by Rod Hoisington

  “Martin Bronner. Don’t see you around town much. You don’t come to the Sierra Club meetings anymore. We have a new motto now, ‘Save Earth, it’s the only planet with girls.’”

  It was Ted...something-or-other from the Sierra Club. A bright fellow as Martin remembered him. “Hi, Ted. So you’re a golf aficionado?”

  The man brought his drink over to the table and took a seat. He was on the short side, a round cherubic face and a head going bald. “Yeah, I’m too out of shape to play softball. How about you? I’m certain golf on TV didn’t bring you here tonight.”

  “Didn’t want to go home. It feels strange not having to be home every night with my father. We have a live-in caregiver now to watch over him. How’s your family?”

  “We’re empty-nesters now. The wife is fine. She’s already up at our Kennebunkport place. I’ll be joining her in a few days. You don’t look all that happy.”

  “At the moment, I’ve a headache from a bad situation.”

  “Oh yes, I heard you were in some sort of trouble. Hey, look buddy, if you want someone to talk to, I don’t have to be anyplace until Monday, and you couldn’t be more boring than golf on TV.”

  “My troubles were tonight. What are you talking about?”

  “That client of yours that got shot. Read it in the paper. You want to hear something? I know her. At least I’ve met her. Is her murder your problem?”

  It took a minute for Martin’s mind to switch away from a steaming-mad Priscilla and the disastrous party. “Oh, you’re talking about the courtyard shooting. No, she wasn’t my client. Perhaps she wanted to be. You say you know her?”

  “We both work at the Bichadel Corporation in Palm Point. I head up Quality Control.”

  “She was a secretary they said. I didn’t know where. Never heard of Bichadel.”

  “Secretary doesn’t even come close. She was a big deal executive secretary to the VP of Operations, no less. Executive secretaries have clerical secretaries working under them. The company is in natural gas pipelines, buying, selling and operating. No one talks to anyone up there without going through Margaret Frome.” He leaned closer to Martin. “Maybe someone was afraid she’d tell where the bodies are buried.”

  “So you have bodies buried at your company? All I know about natural gas pipelines is there’s a million miles of them buried under the United States. How did you know her?”

  “She saw my name on something about the Sierra Club I tacked up on the billboard in the company cafeteria. Get this, Martin. She wanted to know if the Sierra Club had hotshot lawyers on staff who go after offending companies. You know, like the ACLU sues everyone.”

  “What did she mean?”

  “My first thought was some environmental lawyers had the Bichadel Corporation in their sights for some violation. She took me aside, as though it was something confidential. Did you meet her?”

  “We talked on the phone. She had some domestic problem. I remember she had a southern accent.”

  “Well, I didn’t notice that. Anyway, she was very jumpy. Looking over her shoulder style jumpy. If you want my honest opinion—and this is terribly wild—I think she knew the company was up to something rotten, and she was thinking about tipping off the EPA.”

  “Turn in her own company to the Feds?”

  “Well, that’s what whistleblowers do.”

  “Sounds dangerous. And you worked with her up at that company?”

  “Not close. Bichadel Corporation is huge. I knew who she was and I guess she knew who I was. That’s all. Maybe she didn’t intend it to be a big deal. Maybe she was just trying to find a way to tip off the EPA anonymously, so they would issue a warning and the company would straighten up.”

  The old friends got lost in further conversation and Martin was surprised when the bartender came over and announced the two o’clock closing time. “I want to hear more about this whistleblower thing, Ted. Would you be willing to talk with my associate about this sometime?”

  “Why? Is she into environmental felonies?”

  “She’s an equal opportunity attacker. Any type of crime might land you on her dartboard. She's tougher than a cheap steak, as they say.”

  “Hey, this is just rumor stuff. Don’t go too far with this.” He chuckled. “I don’t want anything to happen to me.”

  “Yes, you seemed nervous just talking about it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sandy slipped out of bed at an hour any sensible person would consider too early for a Sunday morning. At least it was finally daylight. She hadn’t slept all that well considering her bandaged left arm was still sore to the touch. Impossible to sleep on that side. She looked back at Chip sprawled across the middle of the king-size bed on his stomach. His arms and legs outstretched as if to capture the maximum territory. She didn’t mind being inside his territory; if she wanted her own territory she could have stayed home. She moved the covers over his long legs and bare butt. How can a police detective sleep so peacefully? Didn’t he realize that on his next shift his entire world could explode? In any case, this morning he’s still here. Last night he’d told her because of her arm they had to make love like porcupines. “Okay, I’ll bite,” she had said. “How do porcupines make love?” He started laughing even before he answered, “Very carefully.”

  The guy deserved a special breakfast, she thought. She found her short white terrycloth robe and after a side trip to the bathroom, went to the kitchen. A rewarding breakfast was her thought as she opened the refrigerator door and stared, hoping an idea more clever than eggs would grab her. Back in the nether confines of the bachelor’s fridge, where only the brave dare to go, she saw an opened box of Bisquick. Perfect. If she could scramble eggs, she could handle pancakes out of a box. Couldn’t she? He would stagger out of bed and into the kitchen wondering where that delicious aroma was coming from and be amazed to see a golden stack with butter melting on top exactly as pictured on the front of the box.

  What possible use has this bachelor with Bisquick anyway? The answer came to her quickly; she wasn’t the first woman to share that marvelous bed in there. She was aware that a legal secretary who still worked in the County Clerk’s office had once moved in with him for a couple of years. As a lawyer, she had frequent business in the Clerk’s office and had spotted a tall redhead immediately. She hoped the pretty redhead wasn’t the old girlfriend. But she was. They exchanged the knowing smile of two women who had shared the same experiences. She’d heard the woman was married now, happily she hoped. What are the chances, Sandy wondered, of a woman with a great shape like that making anything decent with Bisquick?

  So, that meant the box of mix had to be over a year old. It still looked pretty much like Bisquick, so how bad could it be? In time, she got it mixed. She finished flipping the first experimental stack and stood back in admiration. Perfection. Then she heard him answering his phone. When she heard the shower running, she got the coffee ready, just in time to receive a glancing kiss as he headed for the door with the coffee. So much for playing little Miss Homemaker. Just as well, no former lovers had left any syrup behind.

  “You’re going to miss the world’s greatest pancakes. I guess you’re off to chase some bad guy.”

  He stopped and turned back to her. “Not an emergency but they want me there. Dead person, male, out on the barrier island. Residence of one Bradford Ebert.” He clicked on the police radio on his belt. “Name sounds familiar. Isn’t that Martin’s friend.”

  “Geez. What do you mean dead person? Heart attack? What?”

  He listened to the radio chatter for a moment. “They’ve ID’d the body—it is Bradford Ebert. Not a natural death or they wouldn’t call me in. I’ll phone you when I find out the details.”

  “Brad, good grief. I just met him...saw him.” She had to sit. “It’s not a secret is it? Call I tell Martin? Christ, what do I tell him?’

  “Tell him they found Brad Ebert dead. Tell him I’m very sorry about his friend. I’ll phone you as soon as I
find out more.”

  As he closed the door he heard her say, “Martin was at Brad’s house last night.”

  The door popped back open. “What did you say?”

  “The Ebert’s threw a big party last night. Martin and Priscilla were there, probably with dozens of others.”

  “What time did the party break up?”

  “I know nothing, Detective. You know I haven’t talked with Martin this morning. But I’m certain I soon will. Phone me as soon as you can.”

  It was still early and Martin likely had come home late from the party. She’d wait about calling. She sank down into the sofa when she realized she was pacing about the room. This was not going to be a good day. Even if Chip came back early, this would not be a day for reading the Sunday paper in bed.

  She stuffed pieces of cold pancake in her mouth while dressing. She called Chip for the latest and received the worst possible reply as far as she was concerned. An apparent suicide.

  She was too devastated to phone Martin. She didn’t want to be the one to mention suicide.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the news of Brad’s death spread on that late Sunday afternoon, everyone assumed he’d suffered some sort of accident. Early on, the details didn’t seem that important; he was dead that was the thing. Soon after however, the rumors of suicide began to spread.

  She remembered the man in her office three days earlier. Brad, if you’re not willing to seek medical care, I don’t know how I can help you. Obviously, he’d been in distress. Any chance to help him had now passed. Whatever chance that some action on her part might have made a difference had died with him. She questioned herself again on what he’d said and how she had responded. What more should she have done to intervene?

  Mid-morning, Martin phoned her when he heard the rumors of suicide. She admitted she heard the news from Chip and was waiting to phone him. They talked in between other phone calls for the next hour. He had lost a long-time friend. She had possibly lost an opportunity to save him.

  Martin now felt compelled to discuss every detail of the party with her plus his relationship with Brad dating back to their school days. She listened as best she could while being preoccupied with the thought that his friend had come to her for help. Go peddle a car, buddy. She was relieved when he finally hung up.

  She couldn’t tell anyone what she’d done and how she felt. Not only because of guilt, but because she’d promised Brad—he’d spoken to her in confidence. However, if she never told, then no one could ever soothe her by saying: it’s all right, you did the right thing and you did all that could be expected.

  She was sitting on the edge of the couch watching the TV news when Chip came home. His evening was free; he told her Jaworski had been assigned the case. He asked if she was okay, kissed the top of her head and went in to change clothes. The channel was running a bulletin crawler across the bottom of the screen advising viewers to standby for Breaking News. He came back in and sat beside her.

  He had obtained the preliminary police report. As they started to talk about the report, the “Breaking TV Bulletin” interrupted them. The newsperson explained station policy was not to comment on suicides. However, due to the “special nature” of this particular case they were making an exception. They never explained what the “special nature” of this case was. They began showing parked police vehicles, TV crews and news personnel reporting from the scene at the Ebert residence. They repeated annoyingly the scant information they did have. After the news report, she buried her face in the couch cushion. Chip put his hand on her shoulder to console her.

  “I’m sorry this has upset you so. I don’t understand. I thought he was Martin’s friend not yours.”

  Although Chip would understand and take her side immediately, she didn’t want to tell him. Maybe later, she told herself. She’d need to be careful. He was an excellent student of human emotions—especially the emotional signs of lying and guilt. Plus he possessed an uncanny knack for reading body language. “I didn’t actually know him. I met him just once at the office. He was in Martin’s group of friends going back to grade school. Martin went on and on about him for an hour. I kept my composure until now. So sad. It just struck me.”

  “I guess so. You were shaking badly there for a minute. Is something else upsetting you?”

  Thankfully, the TV continued with the “Breaking Story” and she didn’t have to answer. Between the TV news and the preliminary police report, she was able to piece together the horrible circumstances.

  His wife had discovered him Sunday morning after a big party, according to the TV news. Upon responding, the Park Beach police found his body in the driver’s seat of his Lexus sedan in the closed garage. The car windows were down. Air conditioning off. The engine still running. The TV news reported the assumed cause of death was asphyxiation from inhalation of carbon monoxide.

  She picked up the police report. The entry in the space after Cause of Death was: To be determined.

  “To be determined,” she repeated. “If it wasn’t suicide then it was homicide. Wouldn’t be a natural cause sitting in a car like that.”

  “Right. Any such death in a garage is suspicious. Carbon monoxide poisoning from vehicle exhaust isn’t that common anymore. Cars now have catalytic converters to eliminate most of it. Of course, in a closed garage and given enough time....”

  “He was smashed at the party.”

  “That’d do it.”

  “Was the radio on?”

  “The air was off, the windows down, the radio? Off, I think. Why?”

  “If I was killing myself in that manner, I’d turn on the radio, lay my head back and listen to music while I drifted off. I wouldn’t want to hear the engine spewing out poisonous gas. I don’t think a murderer would stop and turn on the radio.”

  “You’re right. If it were on, it would be a suggestion of suicide. But, I think it was off, and therefore it doesn’t mean anything definitive one way or the other. Remember, he was drunk.”

  “Drunk and everyone went off and left the poor man.”

  “Of course, they left him. He was home. He wasn’t lying in the middle of the highway.”

  “He was helpless. He was sick. I know he was crying out for help.”

  “How do you know he was crying out for help?”

  She could tell no one. “I meant maybe he was crying out for help.”

  “The TV didn’t say so, yet according to the police report his wife said that earlier he was passed out drunk for chrissake. Who are you trying to blame for his death?”

  “I meant the man wasn’t in his right mind. Doesn’t a suicide always mean a cry for help?”

  “Oh, okay I see what you mean. The word at the station is they’re still looking for the suicide note.”

  “Do they usually leave a note?”

  “Almost always. Invariably there is a note or other clear evidence of intent to do away with oneself.”

  Evidence of intent she repeated to herself. Evidence such as a discussion with a friend of a friend and a note at the bottom of a list of final affairs. She felt faint and put her head back down on the couch.

  “You know, the police haven’t tagged it as a suicide yet.”

  “They haven’t?” She sat upright. “That’s marvelous. Geez, I hope it’s not.” Of course, there was the possibility someone had murdered Brad before he was able to kill himself. She thought that theory required a long stretch of logic. She had his note. She should run with it to the authorities. It would help them. She didn’t want to do that. It wouldn’t hurt to wait, would it?

  “You hope it’s a homicide?”

  “Chip, you’ll never know how fervently I hope it’s a murder. It has to be a murder.” Chip was frowning so she added, “Ending one’s own life is so sad.” She tried to convince herself it was murder, so she could absolve herself of blame. As agonizing as her private thoughts were, it was also horrible to consider that someone had murdered him. Either way, it was too late for Brad
and that gave her a chill.

  Was his problem personal or business? Brad had alluded to both possibilities when he was in her office. He expressed shame over his own behavior toward his wife and Martin. Infidelity, of course, popped into her mind. His wronged wife or an irate husband might have done him in. Hard to imagine how Martin fits into any of that. He had mentioned gambling debts, so he might have crossed the wrong bookie or gambling outfit. Staging a murder to look like suicide would never occur to a crime mob; they’d just shoot him in the back of the head and walk away. And, he said he’d already spent all that money to settle his gambling debts. If it was murder, she’d bet on something personal not business.

  She moved closer, resting her head against Chip’s shoulder and wrapping her hands tightly around his arm. He placed his hand on her leg and softly squeezed reassuringly. “Every time I see a dead body, I think it's a murder,” he said. “Can't imagine anyone doing themselves in. I'd like to see everyone die of old age.”

  “It’s suicide that I can't stand.”

  “What’s going on with you? You’re trembling again.” He pulled her close and put both arms around her. He gently kissed her hair and brushed it back. She closed her eyes and felt grateful for the growing feeling of security. She was glad she belonged there. She relaxed against him and began to feel warm. But she wasn’t comfortable. Everything was all messed up.

  Chapter Twenty

  “The late Bradford Ebert’s home,” Martin said aloud to no one, as he drove up to the front of the beautiful riverside house. Two patrol vehicles and one unmarked police car were in the driveway. He stopped along the edge of the front lawn on the easement where he’d parked the night before, when the cars of the party guests had crowded the driveway.

  A uniformed officer opened the front door when Martin rang. No, he couldn’t come in just yet, however someone would give his name to Mrs. Ebert. Looking beyond the open door, he recognized Detective Jaworski talking to an officer at the foot of the stairway. He knew Jaworski from previous cases and had been interrogated by him mere days before regarding the Margaret Frome courtyard murder. The officer closed the door and Martin waited on the front porch. He looked over at the yellow police tape across the closed garage door. He thought about Brad sitting alone in there with the motor running until his life ran out.