Corruption of Power

by Brenda English

  Our coffee arrived. We both fell into silent thought while we sipped it.

  “My problem is that I can’t figure out a way to put the screws to Lloyd without giving away Maggie Padgett,” I said finally. “He’s one cool customer. If he killed Peter Morris, it was completely cold and calculated. But if all this is connected, maybe the way in is Hub Taylor. If he killed his wife because she found out somehow, maybe we’re talking about a man who’s already coming apart at the seams. Ed Lloyd seduced him into something that got completely out of hand, but Taylor was still safe as long as no one knew. Then his wife was killed, and he’s under suspicion. So now he’s facing the prospect of his whole life going down the drain. And he’s got a reporter running around asking him questions not only about how his wife died, but also about another dead woman named Ann Kane.”

  “You could be right,” Ken said, finishing his coffee. “He can’t be sleeping at night if he’s really carrying all this around. I’d even be willing to bet he hasn’t told Lloyd you asked him about Ann Kane. If not, he’s got you after him, he’s got the police after him, and now he’s afraid he’s going to have Ed Lloyd after him, too. Maybe he is the weak link in all this.”

  We each thought some more while the waitress brought the check and I gave her my American Express card. By the time she brought it back with the credit slip for me to sign, I could tell Ken had an idea.

  “How about this?” he said, picking up where we had left off. “You’ll never get near Taylor again. But I can. I cover the board of supervisors, so I have access. Unless Taylor has completely lost his mind, he’s got to keep up his normal routine just to keep the police from becoming even more suspicious. That means he has to get on with his job as supervisor. So if he shows up for Monday morning’s board meeting, how about if I add one more straw to the pile? I’ll ask him point-blank if he killed his wife because she found out about Ann Kane. If he thinks there’s still another person after him, maybe it will push him into doing something stupid, into giving himself away somehow.”

  What did we have to lose at this point? The police suspected him in his wife’s death, but they had no proof. Even Maggie Padgett couldn’t make a connection between Taylor and Ann Kane, because, as far as I knew, Lloyd’s disastrous evening with Maggie had been solo.

  “Do it.” I said, putting the check receipt on the table and standing up. “Go ahead and push all his buttons.”

  On the way out of the restaurant, we stopped for a minute to tell Anna how much we had enjoyed dinner, and then walked out to the parking lot. Ken was parked a couple of cars beyond mine. He stopped with me beside the Beetle.

  “Thanks for dinner, Sutton. And thanks for filling me in,” he said. “I know you didn’t have to tell me all of it.”

  “I’m glad I did. My gut knows it’s all connected somehow. And I know you won’t screw me on it.”

  “Damn, I love this job,” Ken said, grinning broadly. He grabbed me in a bear hug and gave me a big kiss. Then he held me at arm’s length, looking me in the eye. “You’re good, Sutton.” It was one of those pivotal moments, a moment that could go any number of ways. I could have kissed him back. I could have taken him home with me. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time two reporters working together on a good story had gotten the excitement of the story entangled somehow with sex—not even the first time for me. Instead I put my key in the lock of my car door.

  “Thanks.” I laughed. “So are you. I’ll talk to you on Monday, when you get in from the board meeting. Good night, Ken.”

  “Good night, Sutton,” he answered, knowing the moment had passed. “See you Monday.”

  I liked Ken. I really did. Tonight wasn’t the first time I had entertained ideas about him. But somehow I never had gotten around to acting on them, and on the drive home tonight it wasn’t Ken’s face I kept seeing. It was Noah Lansing.

  Damn his blue eyes, I thought as I finally pulled into a parking space at the dark far corner of the lot outside my building. Why do I have to keep seeing them? Even worse, my imagination had them looking at me in a way they probably never would.

  But you sure would like for them to, wouldn’t you? my little voice asked as I got out and locked the car door behind me.

  I was about to say something choice to it when an arm went tightly around my throat, cutting off my air.

  Oh, God, I thought as I struggled to get free, to get the crushing weight off my larynx, not me. Not this.

  The arm jerked me even more tightly against the body it belonged to, and I felt a face and hot breath against my ear.

  “This is a warning,” a voiced hissed. “Keep your nose out of where it doesn’t belong, or I’ll come back!” Desperately trying to remember anything from the self-defense course I had taken two years ago after I was almost shot while investigating Cara’s murder, I raised my right foot, hoping to kick backward and crush a shinbone or a knee. Instead the side of my head exploded in pain and lights and I was gone.

  Twenty

  I don’t know how long I was out—a few minutes. Long enough for the person who attacked me to run away, long enough for someone else driving through the parking lot to find me and call for help, long enough for a crowd to gather and for the ambulance, its siren loud and nearby, to be on its way from the fire station just up the street.

  I came to, trying to sit up, not really knowing then what had happened to me, but my instinct for self-preservation having taken over and telling me I had to get up and run. Instead soothing hands and comforting voices forced me back down onto the pavement and told me the ambulance would be there any minute. I groaned, not only because my head felt like a semi was running back and forth over it, but because I was mortified. Losing control is not something I do well. The thought of lying here, completely without dignity and at the mercy of strangers, was too humiliating.

  “Do you know what happened to you?” I realized a persistent male voice was asking. I tried to focus and saw that it was Pauli, the night manager for the building, a balding, short, rabbity little man who probably liked working at nights because he didn’t actually have to deal with people very often. I had been thinking frantically, ever since my first hint of consciousness, trying to remember what had happened, and it was beginning to come back to me—the arm choking me, the threatening voice in my ear, the blow to my head. As my brain began to work better the ambulance wheeled into the parking lot, its sirens blaring in time to the pounding in my head. I knew I wasn’t going to tell anyone here what had really happened. It would mean the police and a report, and a lot of people asking even more pointed questions that I had no intention of answering. Not reporting the attack wasn’t putting anyone else in the building in danger. It was very clearly a threat meant solely for me.

  “I fell,” I told Pauli. “I think I hit my head on the pavement.”

  The ambulance pulled up to the end of the row of cars where I was laid out and then did a two-point turn to back up to us. Its piercingly bright, flashing lights made me grimace, which sent another wave of pain around my head. From either door of the cab jumped an emergency medical technician in a dark blue uniform, and the one from the passenger’s side ran over with his bag of first-aid goodies while the second one opened the back doors of the ambulance and wrestled a stretcher out onto the pavement. He wheeled it over to join his friend, who was gingerly checking me over for broken limbs while Pauli answered his questions about what had happened.

  “I’m perfectly okay,” I told the first guy, who was still prodding me. I was irritated that he hadn’t addressed his question to me. He looked at me sharply.

  Number-two hero addressed the crowd. “Okay, folks,” he said, “if you don’t mind giving us some room, we’re going to get this lady onto the stretcher and up into the ambulance so we can check her out better. Everything will be fine. Thanks for your help, but we can take it from here.”

  I went to sit up again, but my torturer forced me back down.

  “Please lie still,” he said.
“We just want to make sure you haven’t done anything serious to yourself.” His companion was back beside me, a long orange board with straps in his hands. The one who had been groping me reached into the bag and pulled out a thick white cervical collar to go around my neck. “If you’ll just bear with us, we’re going to put this on to hold your head and neck still while we use the backboard to get you up into the bay.”

  I could see protesting would do no good. They had a job to do and they were implacable. I sighed pointedly and put my head back down. They went to it with a vengeance, putting the collar on me, which felt almost as restricting as the forearm across my throat had, and rolled me up on first one side and then the other to slide the backboard under me. Next, they proceeded to strap me to it, lift me onto the stretcher, strap me to that, and lift me up into the back of the ambulance. They were trying to be gentle, but every movement made my head throb. From my new vantage point I could see, just before the attendants closed the doors for the sake of modesty, that the onlookers had retreated a ways, but few of them had gone back inside. Pauli was still hovering around the ambulance, no doubt worrying about lawsuits.

  Inside the ambulance, I started to protest once again that I was okay.

  “I just tripped and fell and hit my head,” I said, looking from one EMT to the other. “Can’t you just let me go home?”

  “Lady, look,” the driver finally said. “We have to make sure you don’t need to go to the hospital or it’s our butts on the line. Just let us finish checking you over, and then we can fight about what you’re going to do. Okay?”

  “Fine,” I said huffily. I lay back ill-naturedly and let them shine lights into my eyes and ears and down my throat. They poked up and down my arms and legs and across my ribs. They listened to my heart. They felt my pulse. They took my blood pressure and temperature. They felt around my neck and head, and I winced noticeably when fingers touched what I guessed was a large lump just over my right ear.

  “Would you please at least unstrap me and get this collar off?” I asked finally. I wasn’t about to tell them my throat was sore where I had been grabbed. “I already sat up once and moved my head around before you got here. There’s nothing wrong with my neck.”

  They looked at each other over my head, silent messages flying back and forth, and came to some sort of agreement about me. Fortunately, not being psychic, I didn’t have to hear what it was they agreed to.

  “If we told you we thought you ought to go to the emergency room and get this lump on your head checked out, would you go?” the driver asked.

  “No, it’s just a bump. It’s nothing.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he answered. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take all this off and let you try sitting up. If you handle that okay, we’ll let you go home, but you’re doing this against our advice. You’re also going to get a lecture on what to watch for in case you have a concussion. And we strongly recommend that you go to the emergency department and have a doctor check you over.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be just fine. I realize you have to say all this, but really, I’ll be okay.”

  They looked at each other again, resigned, and proceeded to free me from my bonds.

  “Now sit up slowly,” one said as they each took an arm and helped me up. To myself, I could admit that I was feeling a little woozy and light-headed, but I wasn’t going to tell them that. They let me sit for a few minutes, until I was feeling steadier. One of them got out his light and made me let him check my pupils one more time. Finally, he picked up his clipboard and did a lot of writing before asking me to confirm my name and address, and to get my telephone number and other vitals. They gave me a detailed discourse on symptoms of concussions and skull fractures, which probably would have frightened some sense into me if it hadn’t all been knocked out of me already, and then they helped me out of the ambulance and into the lobby, the curious who were still hanging around parting before us like the Red Sea and Pauli bringing up the rear.

  “Listen,” I said to the EMTs in the lobby as they turned to leave. “I’m sorry for being so uncooperative. I’m just not much good as a patient. I know you’re doing what you’re supposed to, and I’m really glad you’re around, since it could have been much worse. But I’ll be okay.”

  “It’s your call and your head, Ms. McPhee,” the driver said.

  “Thank you again,” I said lamely, deciding belatedly that maybe they weren’t so bad after all.

  The driver saluted. The other waved, and they went back out to the ambulance. Pauli rushed over solicitously.

  “Do you mind if I just escort you upstairs?” he asked, and it occurred to me that he might be genuinely concerned about me, in addition to whatever trepidation he had about the building’s possible liability. “I just want to make sure you get there okay.”

  “Thanks, Pauli, I’d appreciate that.” Now that I could go home and not to the hospital, I was able to be magnanimous.

  He took my arm delicately, walked me to the elevator, and pushed the button. Upstairs, he handed me my purse, which I only now realized he had been carrying around all this time (maybe I should have agreed to the hospital visit if I was that out of it), and I dug around inside for my keys. I opened the door, thanked Pauli again, closed the door behind me, and headed for the medicine chest and the ibuprofen I kept there. My head felt like hell.

  In the bathroom, I turned on the lights, exclaimed at how much they hurt my eyes, grabbed the ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, and quickly turned the lights back off. I could see well enough from the light that filtered in from the hall and through the bedroom to get two pills from the bottle and fill up a glass of water. I also had seen just enough in the bathroom light to know that not only did I feel like hell, but I also looked like it. I swallowed the pills, went back out to the kitchen to make myself an ice pack for my lump, and returned to the bedroom to ease myself onto the bed, clothes and all.

  On the way down to the pillow, I saw the red message light blinking on my answering machine. I lay back, put the ice pack against my skull, and reached over to press the play button. It was Noah Lansing. Even over the tinny machine, I recognized his voice instantly.

  “McPhee,” he said. “It’s Noah Lansing. I was calling to make sure you’re okay after Friday night. And to apologize. After thinking about it, I decided I was out of line. I know finding Dr. Morris dead probably wasn’t very pleasant. We just always seem to be at cross-purposes. Anyway, the other thing is, I need to talk to you again about him. There are some… ah… discrepancies that have turned up. If you get back tonight before eleven, call me.” He read off a phone number.

  I raised my head—through the pain—and looked at the clock: 11:30.

  “If not,” Lansing’s voice continued, “well, I’ll be up and out pretty early tomorrow. I’ve got some work to do on my boat. Is there any chance you could come by and we can talk there? It’s down at the Fort Washington Marina in Maryland. You take the Indian Head Road exit off the Beltway, just over the Wilson Bridge. Go about four miles to Fort Washington Road and take a right. Follow that for just over three miles, to Warburton, and turn left. Stay on Warburton. At the stop sign, it becomes King Charles Terrace, and it goes down to the marina. It’s important that we talk. Please call me or come by the boat.” Quickly I reached up to press the save button: I would need to listen to the directions again if I decided to go see what he wanted.

  For now, however, I wasn’t going to think about that. My head hurt too much, and I needed desperately to go to sleep. I lay there, calming my breathing, letting the ice pack and the pills begin to work, and eventually I drifted off. It wasn’t a restful sleep, however. I woke repeatedly to dreams of a heavy arm pressing on my throat and to the fear that had come with it.

  Sunday

  Twenty-one

  In the morning, things were better. The ice pack had helped the swelling above my ear, and the throbbing pain had mostly receded. My head
was still sore to the touch, as was my throat, but I decided I was going to live.

  A hot shower added considerably to my improved condition, but I skipped a heavy breakfast and had half a grapefruit instead, eating while pondering whether to answer Noah Lansing’s summons. Eventually, I decided that in the interest of future peace, I probably should at least go find out what he wanted to talk about. I went back to my bedroom to dress—jeans and a short-sleeved cotton blouse—and replayed his message in order to write down the phone number and directions he had left.

  He did sound somewhat contrite, I thought as I listened again to his apology. Too bad he was right, that we always seemed to be getting on each other’s nerves. I wondered how we might have gotten along if we had met under other circumstances, if I did something else for a living. But I didn’t and wouldn’t.

  So deal with it, my voice said.

  I was hoping you were dead, I responded, or at least that the blow on the head had rendered you mute.

  Not a chance. It laughed. I’m here for the long haul.

  I changed the subject and dialed Lansing’s number, thinking I might still catch him at home. It was only eight o’clock.

  Apparently, when he said early, he meant early. The phone rang until his answering machine clicked in. I hung up without leaving a message, figuring I would see him long before he got it.

  I put on my Keds and grabbed a sweater, in case it was still chilly outside. Halfway out the door I realized I had forgotten to bring the directions, so I ducked back in to get them, then headed downstairs to my car.

  Walking across the parking lot, I started flashing back to the attack the night before. The arm across my throat, the way my arms were pinned against me, my struggle to breathe and to get loose. Without warning, it was all there again, almost as real as when it happened. By the time I got into the Beetle, I was sweating and hyperventilating.