by Thomas Ross
“Congratulations,” Oxley said to me. “I think you’re wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
“Now tell me again why you threw the bottle.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea. At the time.”
“You didn’t think that, well, maybe these two guys with the guns might get just a little offended? You know, a little pissed off at you and maybe even get it into their heads that they oughta plunk a few shots your way?”
“Mr. Longmire was obviously willing to risk his life in order to save that of another,” Inch said and sounded as if he almost believed it.
“Mr. Inch,” Oxley said. “I know you’re here to represent your client and all of us really appreciate your efforts. We really do. Honestly. But when I ask Mr. Longmire here a question I’d appreciate it if you’d just let him answer it and then, if you don’t like his answers, well, you can sort of patch them up afterwards and tell me what it was that he really meant to say. Okay?”
Inch smiled. It was a cool, smooth smile that exuded the kind of confidence that comes from having an ego that’s in tip-top shape. “We’ll see how it works out,” he said, committing himself to nothing.
Detective Oxley sighed again. “Okay, Mr. Longmire, tell me what you really thought about when you picked up that bottle and threw it.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“If I’d thought about anything, I wouldn’t have thrown it. If I’d thought that I might get shot, I certainly wouldn’t have thrown it.”
“Why didn’t you think you’d get shot?” Oxley said, springing his trap if, indeed, that’s what it was.
“I didn’t think that I would or I wouldn’t. I didn’t think about anything. I just threw it and when the man in the blue mask pointed his gun at me, I wished that I hadn’t.”
Oxley leaned back in his chair staring at me with his icy blue eyes that looked as if they had been lied to a lot, but were finally getting used to it. He and Inch were about the same age, in their early thirties. Oxley wasn’t too tall and carried enough weight around to make him seem almost dumpy. Inch, on the other hand, was well over six feet tall, lean, carefully barbered, or more accurately, coiffed, and had the smooth, fluid movements of a trained athlete, perhaps a tennis pro, which was a profession that he had once given serious consideration.
We sat there in silence for a while, Oxley glum and almost brooding, Inch serene and apparently delighted, although with what, I couldn’t tell. Oxley ran a hand through his longish thin hair that was the nothing color of old chewing gum, gave his holstered .38 a tug to make it ride more comfortably on his hip, and then took a sheaf of notes from his desk drawer, placed them carefully in front of him, and gave them a significant tap with his forefinger.
“That’s quite a story you told us, Mr. Longmire, about how you got yourself involved in the Arch Mix disappearance and your sister and everything.”
“I think I’ve told you all I know,” I said.
“Yeah, we got that all down on tape,” he said. “These here are some notes that another officer took down from what Mr. Murfin had to tell us. You happen to know what Mr. Murfin used to do before he went with the Vullo Foundation?”
“He was involved in a number of political campaigns.”
“And before that?”
“He worked for a couple of labor unions.”
“And before that.”
“I think he was in the entertainment business.”
“He never was a cop, huh?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Tell me again how you’d describe the two men in the ski masks.”
“Well, they were a little over average height, about average weight, and they moved as if they were in pretty good shape so I’d say that they weren’t too old.”
“What were they wearing?”
“Ski masks. A blue one and a red one.”
“Besides that?”
I shook my head. “I really don’t remember.”
“Let me read you how Mr. Murfin remembers them,” Oxley said. He started reading from the notes in front of him. “‘Witness said that perpetrator in red ski mask was a male Caucasian, five feet ten or ten and a half, weighing approximately a hundred and sixty-five or a hundred and seventy pounds, wearing long-sleeved blue sport shirt buttoned to throat. Witness further states that person in red ski mask wore prefaded blue jeans with flared bottoms. Shoes, according to witness, were white Converse sneakers with three red slanting stripes. Witness not positive whether socks were black or dark blue. Thinks black. Weapon employed by person in red ski mask, according to witness, was thirty-eight caliber revolver with six-inch barrel. Witness is of opinion that revolver was S and W.’” Oxley looked up at me. “S and W,” he said. “That’s Smith and Wesson.”
“I see,” I said.
“It gets better,” Oxley said and went back to his reading. “‘Witness states that perpetrator in blue ski mask was also male Caucasian, six feet tall, possibly six feet and one-half inch, weighing approximately a hundred and fifty or a hundred and fifty-five pounds, wiry build. Person in blue ski mask, according to witness, wore dark green, long-sleeved sport shirt, buttoned to throat, light tan corduroy slacks, flared bottoms, Levi brand.’”
Oxley looked up at me. “You wanta know the reason why he says he knew they were Levi’s?”
“Why?”
“Because when the guy turned around Murfin saw that little red tab on the back that all Levi’s have.”
Oxley shook his head as if able to appreciate a true marvel when he ran across it and went back to his reading. “‘Shoes, according to witness, were crepe-soled desert boots, probably Clark brand. High tops made it impossible for witness to specify color of perpetrator’s socks.’”
Oxley stopped reading and looked up at Inch and me.
“It goes on for a little while more but you get the idea,” he said.
“Mr. Murfin seems to have a true eye for detail,” Inch said.
Oxley shook his head again, a little tiredly this time. “I’ve been in this business twelve years now and I never heard of any witness who apologized for not being able to tell you the color of the socks of some guy who’s pointing a gun at him.”
“You should see him count a hall full of people,” I said.
“Good?”
“Better than good,” I said. “He’s perfect.”
This time there was a kind of weary disbelief in the shake that Oxley gave his head. “And you’re sure he’s never been a cop?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Well, he certainly was helpful.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“He even came up with a clue. At least that’s what he said it was, so maybe it is.”
“An important one?”
“How the fuck should I know if it’s important? But just in case we might miss something, Murfin went up to the room that the Raines woman had rented and sort of poked around before we got there. You know, just to make sure that we wouldn’t overlook anything. Well, he comes up with this clue of his.” Oxley looked at me. “What does Chad mean to you besides being a country in west central Africa and a man’s first name?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing at all?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
They let both Murfin and me go after I told them one more time about the man with the caterpillar eyebrows who I had seen coming down the stairs from Max Quane’s apartment just as I was going up. It had happened the day before, but as I told it again it seemed as though it had happened last year. Early last year.
Afterwards, Murfin, Inch and I had a drink in a small bar not too far from police headquarters. I let Inch buy because he probably was still charging me $100 an hour for the privilege of drinking in his company. While we waited for the drinks I excused myself and went back to the rear of the bar where the pay phone was.
The phone rang three t
imes before Slick answered. After he said hello I said, “Sally Raines was shot to death this afternoon. I saw it happen.”
There was a pause and then Slick said, “I see.” Then he said, “I’m sorry,” but that was only a mechanical response because Slick had known Sally Raines only slightly. “Is Audrey all right?” he said and this time there was real concern in his voice.
“She and the kids have gone out to the farm.”
“Good. Can you tell me about the Raines woman—how it happened?”
I told him and when I was finished I said, “Slick?”
“Yes?”
“This whole thing is getting too close to home—to family. I’m worried about Audrey. She apparently told Sally something that Arch Mix had told her. Sally told Max Quane. Max is dead and so is Sally.”
“But Audrey doesn’t know what it is that she told Sally?”
“Not yet. But she might remember. Sally wasn’t supposed to know what Max was up to either, but she must have put it together. Sally was smart. Very smart. Well, Audrey’s not exactly dumb either so whoever killed Max and Sally just might decide to make it a clean sweep.”
“Yes,” Slick said, “I follow your reasoning. It’s quite logical.”
“Let’s take my logic a step further,” I said. “You told me there’s a chance, a tiny one, I think you said, that Arch Mix is still alive.”
“Yes.”
“If Mix shows up, he can clear up this whole mess, can’t he?”
“So I should think.”
“All right, Slick, when?”
I could hear him sigh over the phone. “I really shouldn’t have told you, dear boy.”
“But you did.”
“Yes, I did.” There was another silence and then he said, “Forty-eight hours, Harvey. We should know within forty-eight hours whether he’s alive. But I must caution you—no, I’m going to warn you—that if you mention this to anyone, you’ll probably put Mix’s life in grave jeopardy.”
“You mean if he’s alive, he’s in real bad trouble? Or as you say, grave jeopardy, which sounds even more ominous.”
“That’s really all I can tell you.”
“Okay, Slick. Forty-eight hours. If nothing happens by then, I’m going down to police headquarters and tell one Detective Aaron Oxley of homicide that you have certain information about Arch Mix that might lead to the solution of the murders of Max Quane and Sally Raines. You’ll like Detective Oxley.”
“If nothing happens in forty-eight hours, dear boy, I’ll go calling on Detective Oxley myself.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MAX QUANE’S HOUSE out in the Bannockburn section of Bethesda, Maryland, was a block and a half off Wilson Boulevard. It was a medium-sized, wide-eaved, one-story house built of dark red used brick with a shake shingle roof. Its front lawn was green and neatly mowed and there were four or five tall elms that helped give the place a permanent, steady look—as if it were occupied by a family whose breadwinner was predestined to get his GS 14 by Christmas.
The overhead door of the two-car garage was up and the garage itself was partly filled by a large Ford station wagon that was two or three years old. The rest of the space was taken up with the junk that people put in garages because they can’t think of anywhere else to put it.
Max Quane’s car, a green Datsun 280-Z with a D.C. license plate that read LEASED, was parked in the driveway. Max had always liked to compose his own license plates and usually he came up with ones that were rather witty—or cynical—like Max himself.
I parked the pickup in the street and walked up to the front door, making my way around two boy’s bicycles. One of the bikes was supported by its kick stand. The other was lying on its side in the middle of the walk so that you’d be sure to trip over it. I picked it up and put it on its stand. Then I went up to the door and rang the bell.
Dorothy Quane opened the door. She had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and circles under her eyes. She looked at me for a moment and then said, “Well, it’s you. His other friend. You were his friend, weren’t you, Harvey?”
“Sure,” I said. “I was his friend.”
“So he had two after all,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder.”
“You want me to come in or leave?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m thinking about it. I guess I want you to come in.”
I went in and followed her into the living room. She turned and gestured with the cigarette for me to sit anywhere. I chose the couch. She stood for a moment, looking at me. She wore blue jeans and one of Max’s white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the tails out. I could tell it was Max’s shirt because of the tab collar.
“You want a drink?” she said.
“If it’s no trouble.”
“It’s not if you get it. It’s in the kitchen. It’s bourbon. Wild Turkey. Ten dollars a fifth. Max had expensive tastes.”
“I know,” I said and went back to the kitchen, found a glass and fixed a drink. There were no dirty dishes in the kitchen. No smeared glasses or plastic sacks of unemptied garbage. Everything was as neat and as tidy as it was in the living room. I remembered that Dorothy had always insisted on having things neat. It was one of her minor obsessions.
I went back into the living room and sat down on the couch again. “Where’re the boys?” I said.
She gestured vaguely with her glass. “Out,” she said. Then she looked at her watch. “It’s nearly six so they should be home soon. They’re out somewhere, with their friends, I guess. Kids always have friends, don’t they?”
“Almost always,” I said. “What happened to yours? You used to have a lot of friends, Dorothy.”
She sat down in a green wing-backed chair that was one of a matched set that flanked the fireplace. She looked at me, almost staring. At thirty-five Dorothy Quane was still a striking woman with one of those finely boned faces that help keep the years away. She wore no lipstick, not even a touch, but then she had never worn any. Her dark grey eyes were clear and I wouldn’t have known that she had been crying if it hadn’t been for her nose. It was red and shiny at the tip and I remembered that it always got like that when she cried, which I also remembered was often on Sunday afternoons. Especially on wet, rainy Sunday afternoons.
The circles under her eyes didn’t tell me anything because Dorothy Quane had always had circles under her eyes. They were one of the things that made her appear so striking. The circles almost looked as if they had been artfully painted there for effect and the effect that they had, at first glance, was hauntingly memorable.
Finally she quit staring at me, took a swallow of her drink, a drag on her cigarette, and blew the smoke out as she said, “You’re right, I did have some friends once, didn’t I?”
“A lot of them.”
“They couldn’t take Max. I had the kind of friends who couldn’t take Max so they sort of drifted away. You and Murfin are about the only people who could take Max, but then you and Murfin aren’t like my other friends, are you?”
“I try not to be,” I said. Those friends of Dorothy’s that I remembered had been rather high-minded people who seldom approved of Max or wanted anything to do with him. I think they thought he was wicked.
She took another swallow of her drink, another drag on her cigarette, and looked into the fireplace. “I’m going to kill myself, you know.”
“Oh,” I said. “When?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Sure I do. I was just curious about your timing.”
“I’m not sure yet. I guess after the funeral. It’s not going to be much of a funeral. Murfin can’t find any pallbearers. That’s pretty fucking funny, isn’t it? A thirty-eight-year-old man dies and he hasn’t got six friends or even acquaintances who’ll be his pallbearers. I think that’s pretty fucking funny.”
“After the funeral,” I said, “and before you kill yourself, why don’t you come out to the farm and bring the boys and stay a while. Ruth’ll be glad to se
e you. You always liked Ruth.”
She looked at me curiously. “You’re serious, aren’t your?”
“Sure.”
“Did Ruth put you up to this?”
“No.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “How long could we stay?”
“As long as you like,” I said, hoping that it would be three days, a week at the most. “I put up a new swing that goes out over the pond. The boys will get a kick out of it.”
Dorothy Quane ground her cigarette out in an ashtray. She kept on grinding it and smashing it even after it was out. “I don’t know,” she said. “Let me think about it.”
“You don’t have to think about it. Just come on out Saturday after the funeral.”
“Could I kill myself out there?” She made herself smile. It was a very tiny one.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
She rose and came over and picked up my glass. “I’ll get you a fresh drink,” she said. “Water, isn’t it?”
“Water.”
When she returned with the drinks, she handed me mine, and sat back down in the green wing-backed chair. Again she turned her head to look into the cold, empty fireplace that looked as if it had been freshly scrubbed. It probably had. “Did you know her?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play fucking dumb, Harvey. You know who I mean. The girl that Max was fucking. The nigger.”
“She was a nice, bright girl, if that’s any help, which it probably isn’t.”
She caught the tense that I had used and turned her head to stare at me. “Was,” she said. “You said was.”
“She’s dead,” I said. “She was shot to death this afternoon. Murfin and I were there. We saw it happen.”
Dorothy Quane didn’t say anything for quite some time. Then she said, “I’m sorry. I was trying to sort out how I feel about it and I think I’m really very sorry. I called her nigger, too, didn’t I? That’s not like me, is it? Not like little Dorothy Quane, the raving radical of Bannockburn who marched with Martin at Selma.”
“Forget it.”
“Did her getting shot have something to do with Max and what he was messed up in?”