Dying Embers

by Robert E. Bailey

  “Tell me who killed Annie,” he said. He didn’t look back.

  Lorna racked the hammer on the Walther. “Wasn’t Art,” she said.

  Leonard didn’t react, if you count not cutting my throat while I pulled up my trousers.

  “Right now the case against Scott Lambert looks pretty good,” I said.

  “Little anchors?” said Lorna.

  “Smiley faces are in the wash.”

  The front door swept open.

  “Detective Shephart!” Marg said, like he was deaf. “Art has a visitor.”

  I picked up my trash can and held it out to Leonard. “Hi Shep,” I said, and locked eyes with Leonard. “Leonard Jones, Anne Frampton’s brother, stopped by.”

  Leonard dropped the knife in the can and I arranged the trash to cover it. Lorna turned, concealing the Walther, and walked to the investigators’ room.

  Shephart walked in cinching up his tie under a day-old five o’clock shadow. “You still look like shit,” he said.

  “Leonard, this is Detective Shephart,” I said.

  “We talked on the telephone,” said Shephart. Shephart offered his hand and Leonard took it.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” said Leonard. He took his hand back.

  I took the paper bag off the chair, limped back to my side of the desk, and started my belt through the loops of my trousers.

  “What brings you to town?” said Shephart.

  Leonard deflated into the wingback chair, his shoulders round and his face distraught. “Annie was released. The Frampton woman refused to take custody or make any arrangements. I have been seeing to things. Mom won’t …”

  Shephart took the chair across the desk from me, blinked, and took a long breath.

  “There doesn’t appear to be a will or any insurance,” said Leonard. “The Frampton woman doesn’t return my calls. I had to hire an attorney.” Leonard’s chin sunk to his chest and his hand went to his eyes.

  “Can we get some coffee in here,” I yelled, and threaded my holster onto my belt.

  “I’ve got a client,” said Marg.

  “I got it,” Lorna announced from the investigators’ room.

  “My mother …” said Leonard. He paused, squared his shoulders, and sat at attention—both spit-shined black loafers flat on the floor. He rubbed his hands together. “My mother won’t allow Annie to be buried next to Dad. The couple that owns the plot next to ours lives here, in Kentwood. I’ve been talking to them.”

  Lorna stepped into the office with a cup of coffee in each hand. She parked them, one apiece, in front of Leonard and Shephart. “Drink it black, right?” she said.

  “Just right,” I said.

  She looked at me and said, “Brewing another pot.”

  “Black’s fine,” said Leonard. He palmed the cup to feel the heat and sat back on the chair, leaving the cup on the desk.

  “Certainly Anne left enough of her work to cover her expenses,” said Lorna.

  Leonard shook his head. “Frampton woman is holding a public art auction and estate sale Saturday. She says that Anne owed her a lot of money. My attorney says we’ll have to sue.”

  Shephart sipped his coffee gingerly and set it down. “You were discussing the case when I walked in.”

  “Seems like the case against Scott Lambert is pretty solid,” I said.

  “I need to remind you both—Mr. Lambert may have been charged, but he has not been tried. The man is out on bail and presumed to be innocent.”

  “Except you thought he was guilty enough to arrest and charge,” said Lorna.

  Shephart wagged his head, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and shook out a smoke, unfiltered. He tamped it on the desk and I pushed the ash tray over to him.

  “Mr. Jones, may I call you Leonard?” said Shephart.

  “Sure.” Leonard folded his hands and stared at Shephart.

  Shephart let the cigarette dangle from his lips while he searched his pockets. I showed him my lighter. He nodded his head. I smiled and beckoned with my fingers. He made a snort and slid the pack across the table to me.

  “Three days,” I said, and lit up.

  “Good time to quit,” said Shephart. “You could be a problem smoker.”

  I put the lighter on the pack and slid it back to him.

  Shephart picked up the lighter but took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Leonard,” he said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Your sister was a respected artist. She was a great loss to the community.”

  I looked at Lorna. She made an astonished face back at me. Three complete sentences bereft of any allusion to carnal gymnastics—a whole new facet to a very rough jewel, this Detective Shephart.

  “It would be a terrible disappointment to her memory,” said Shephart, “if you made a terrible mistake—did something to put yourself in the courthouse instead of the man charged with this terrible crime.” He lit his cigarette.

  Leonard stood. “Detective, when we spoke on the telephone, you promised to keep me informed.” He offered his hand.

  Shephart dropped his cigarette in the ashtray, stood, and took Leonard’s hand. “Absolutely, I have your number.”

  “Good,” said Leonard, “I have my sister’s estate to see to, but when I’m done, I trust you will save me making my own inquiries.” He gave Shephart’s hand a last pump and let it go.

  Shephart smiled, “Yes sir, I have your number.”

  When he got his hand back he plumbed a business card out of his wallet and gave it to Leonard. “If you have any questions, call any time. If I’m not in, I’ll get the message.”

  Leonard saluted him with the card and walked out. Shephart sat and took a long pull on his cigarette.

  “Shep—”

  Shephart showed me an index finger and turned his head to listen for the front door to close. The door opened and fell shut. Shephart leaned back in his chair to look around the corner of the door and then turned back. “Bastard’s strong as an ox. What is it with you old military types?”

  “Has to do with knowing what your job is, and risking your life to do it for people who give you no respect and basically haven’t got a clue.”

  Shephart shrugged, nodded, and took a drag on his cigarette. The telephone rang. In a stream of smoke Shephart exhaled, “For you I got a clue.”

  “Pete Finney on line one,” Marg announced from her desk.

  I picked up the phone. “Pete, I thought I was persona non grata.” I stubbed the cigarette out and straightened the burned end—still had half a smoke left.

  “You were, until this morning,” said Pete. “I got a revised witness list. You’re not on it. They’re calling Detective Van Huis to introduce the physical evidence.”

  “Play hell laying the ground work,” I said and snagged the cup of coffee that Leonard Jones had left untouched. Lorna gave me a wave and headed back to the investigator’s room.

  “They’ll use Detective Shephart,” Finney said.

  “Sitting right here. Want to talk to him?” I took a gulp of coffee and swallowed.

  “Not on your life. What I want is for you to take the case as the defense investigator.”

  “Can’t,” I said.

  “Client insists.”

  “Some state dick from the Attorney General’s office”—I opened my top desk drawer and took the card out—”Archer Flynt, came in here this morning and took my license off the wall.”

  “Not from the licensing agency?”

  “Nope, that’s why I called,” I said.

  “I’ll look into it,” said Pete. “And along that line, Wendy and I were in Lansing today for a hearing on her license.”

  “My son told me.”

  “We have a ’show cause’ hearing on the search warrant for her files in two weeks. The licensing bureau agreed to postpone their hearing until then, but you need to talk to Wendy.”

  “Talked to Carl Norton,” I said.

  “Well. Arthur. You understand?”

  “Damn good man,” I said.
“Has some insights concerning the merits of the search warrant you mentioned.”

  “Not that you can mention, just now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I want to talk to you before I telephone him,” said Pete.

  Shephart started to rise, a question on his face. I shrugged and shook my head. He settled back into his chair and worked on his coffee and cigarette.

  “Carl says the prosecutor will charge me after the Lambert trial.”

  “Only if Lambert is found guilty,” Pete said. “In any case, that wouldn’t be for some time. I do think that I would be able to represent you by then—barring something unforeseeable.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “Carl mentioned mortgaging my soul and selling my children into slavery.”

  “All the more reason to work on a win in the Lambert case.”

  “Not much I can do without a license. And I’d have to overcome my lack of faith in Lambert’s innocence.”

  “I have to assume that was for the detective’s consumption.”

  “You could always hire me as your in-house investigator.”

  “I don’t think my partners would go along,” said Finney. He laughed. “They see you as a dependable source of income.”

  “That leaves Archer Flynt and the Attorney General’s office,” I said and swirled my half cup of coffee into a maelstrom.

  “I’ll look into it,” said Finney. “And do telephone on the other matter. The sooner the better.” He hung up.

  I set the telephone back in the cradle. “I’m impressed. You were particularly decent to Mr. Jones.” I took a slug of Leonard’s coffee.

  “I don’t want you winding him up,” said Shephart, leaning toward me. “Anything happens to Scott Lambert and I’m back on the missing persons desk until our local nutcase takes another victim.”

  “You don’t think Scott Lambert is killing hookers?”

  “I think his mother still cuts up his meat.”

  “You don’t think he killed Anne Frampton?”

  “Oh, he’s good for that one,” Shephart said. He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his lap. “He’s taking the fall. I couldn’t stop it if I stood under him with a net.”

  “Case is that solid?”

  “The DNA in the cigar butt and from the hair follicles found in the Frampton woman’s hand match Scott Lambert. He’s lucky there’s no death penalty in this state. The day he keels over dead, I’m declared a hero, the prosecutor a genius, and the guys doing the hookers can walk.”

  “Guys?” I picked up my half-a-cigarette and pulled it straight between my fingers.

  “Guys!” Shephart picked up my lighter.

  “There must be some other DNA samples,” I said.

  “Plenty. They’re hookers.” He clicked the lighter twice and a flame danced up. “Semen in every orifice—from multiple donors. Except the Frampton woman. Nothing.” He slipped his thumb off the pedal, and the flame went out. “I like a local pimp for a couple of the women. Then there’s the nutcase. And maybe a copy cat.”

  “The prosecutor is smarter than that,” I said and put the half cigarette in my lips.

  “Lambert is O positive. He matches in five cases.”

  “So am I,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Shephart. “And most of the people we’d see if we looked out the window.”

  “DNA analysis?” I beckoned for the lighter.

  “Gets complicated, time consuming, and expensive when you have to sort out multiple donors. Also subjective.” Shephart thumbed the flame adjustment on the lighter.

  “Prosecutor will let Lambert spend the money,” I said. “And take the benefit of the doubt when the experts start to argue.”

  “Lambert’s taking the fall,” Shephart said. “And your prospects don’t look good.” He slid the lighter across to me.

  “So you drove all the way out here to gloat?”

  “I’m looking for the same thing I was looking for when I met you in the parking lot.”

  “A cup of coffee?” I flicked the lighter twice but got no flame.

  “The knife. In the report—about your little donnybrook up on Michigan Avenue.”

  I stared at Shephart and his matter-of-fact face. “I’m still looking at some exposure here.”

  Shephart’s face didn’t change. “Guy came at you on the street with a knife. We have a witness.”

  “So ask him,” I said. I examined the lighter. Shephart had turned the flame all the way down.

  “Guy don’t know from a knife.”

  “So do a picture drop.”

  “Maybe you have some suggestions,” said Shephart.

  “Cheese cutter, plastic picnic knife, and, ah, maybe a commando knife.”

  “I got a cheese cutter and a plastic picnic knife at the house,” Shephart said. “What’s a commando knife?”

  “Straight bladed dirk about eight inches long.” I showed him the distance between my fingers.

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Maybe that’s because there’s a lot of them,” I said. “A guy named Brian Hemmings—the Frampton’s houseman—down in South Haven had one just like it.” I slid the flame adjustment to about halfway, flicked loose less than an inch of flame, and turned my head sideways to save my nose while I lit up. “The guy your witness mentioned was on my flight to Brandonport.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed any other cutlery laying about,” said Shephart.

  I picked up my waste can, rattled it, and parked it on the desk in front of Shephart. “Belongs to Leonard Jones. It’s a Marine survival knife. Single edge.”

  “How?” Shephart shrugged. “What?”

  “I haven’t touched it,” I said. “You want to test it or not?”

  • • •

  Lorna stepped in the door, dropped her work on my blotter, and said, “Marg and I are going out to a late lunch. Can we bring you anything?”

  “You said something about meeting Matty Svenson.”

  “Marg’s in kind of a hurry,” said Lorna. “We can talk when I get back.”

  Marg loomed in the door behind Lorna. She closed her eyes and made one negative wag of her head.

  “Sure,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “Kentwood Station for the buffet,” said Marg. “It’s dark and quiet. I’ve had all the excitement I can handle today.”

  “If they do a burger, bring me one of those. Or surprise me.” I locked eyes with Lorna. “No unsweetened iced tea, thank you.”

  Mischief wafted across Lorna’s face. “Exercise would be good for you.”

  They left.

  Lorna had totaled out her time sheet. Thirty-seven hours by Thursday—Marg would be thrilled she had saved us the overtime. Lorna had also totaled out her expense record.

  Investigation is communication. Lorna’s a good investigator and has excellent language skills. Mostly, I just reviewed her work, wrote a summary, and attached billing memos. The job took less than an hour.

  I leaned on the cane and made the trek to the restroom. When I got back, I found a foil-wrapped ham and cheese grinder waiting on my desk next to lemonade in a plastic cup. Nurse Gretta could wait for the good news.

  Lorna walked in and took the straight-backed chair across the desk from me. “Matty told me to get the hell away from you if I wanted to start my job with the DEA in the fall,” she said.

  “Life goes on,” I said. “We agreed at the beginning that you were just filling in until fall.”

  “If I walked away now—”

  “It’s not a question of loyalty,” I said. “I don’t have a license.”

  “Someone carved ’die bitch’ in my windshield,” said Lorna. She leaned toward me and put her hands on the desktop. “I’m not going to walk away from this one, or the next one. If I do, I may as well go and drop my application at Burger Shack.”

  “I think you can do better than that,” I said, and unwrapped my sandwich. “What do I owe you for this? All I have is a check from the She
riff’s Department.”

  “You owe me a chance to be there when we kick sand in their faces.”

  “You’re young,” I said, “and life is long. This may not be what you want to do.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before. I took the right decision for the wrong reason. But—”

  I showed her my hand. “You’re an adult.” I waved the hand once and put it away. “We need background work on the crew from South Haven. Brian Hemmings for one.”

  “And Shelly Frampton,” she said.

  “And Leonard Jones,” I said, “but Detective Shephart is on that trail.”

  “I don’t believe for a minute that he would have hurt his sister,” she said and leaned back in her chair.

  “Leonard Jones is an operator,” I said. “I need to know if we can trust him. He’s an ace at sand-kicking.”

  “Like you spoke to my roommates?”

  I nodded.

  “Cool,” said Lorna. She sprung from the chair. “I’m on it in the morning.”

  “I’ll ask Wendy to put you on her payroll. She can bill Lambert for your time. You need to be working for a licensed agency to keep your concealed carry permit valid. Until then, you want to keep a low profile—maybe keep the pistol in your trunk.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “No. I mean really.” I stripped the paper off the straw and stabbed it through the lid. Lorna walked out. I took a drink of what turned out to be unsweetened lemonade. I had to hold it in my mouth with my hand to keep from doing a spit take on my desk. I labored through a swallow and said, “Auk, Jesus.”

  From the front office I heard Lorna say, “I like it tart.” The closing of the front door cut off the sound of her laughter.

  • • •

  I called the house a couple of times. No answer. I left a message. It seemed like Wendy had to be back since I’d talked to Pete Finney in the early afternoon. I filled in time—changed the bandage on my foot—until the light outside my office window had faded.

  The front door opened and I looked up to the monitor. Wendy struggled in carrying two suitcases. I stood, set the cane aside, and walked around the desk. “God, am I glad to see you.”

  Wendy set the luggage in the doorway between us. She wore tan sweats and had her hair wrapped in a knot on the top of her head. Her eyes were puffy and hot with rage.