by Ron Goulart
* * * *
Thursday, 11:29 P.M.
Pictures of the scene showed Leslie Galt. She looked asleep, except for the bruising around her mouth and the stiffness of her posture. According to the medical examiner’s report, someone had sat on her chest and pinned her arms. Bruising snaked down both arms where the perpetrator had knelt. No indication she’d been unconscious before the pillow was applied. Not a quick way to die. And Galt was no small woman. She’d have put up a fight. She had to outweigh Sandra Montebella by fifty pounds.
The ME’s evaluation said broken capillaries in the eyes showed the characteristic petechial hemorrhaging consistent with death by smothering. Fibers found in the victim’s mouth and throat matched the pillow lying next to the body. The homicide occurred somewhere between 10 P.M. and midnight.
Poring over photocopied pictures, I studied Galt’s place for any connections the police might have missed. Galt lived in Georgetown, and Sandra had worn a Georgetown University sweatshirt. No sign from the pictures that Galt was a Hoyas fan.
I squinted over and over at the grainy police photos, finally focusing on a close-up of a shelf of photographs. I used a magnifying glass to get a better view. Most were typical family and friend shots, but one picture stood out. Galt crossing the finish line of some kind of walk, her arms around a man. Though I couldn’t see all of her T-shirt, the Leukemia Society’s logo—a drop of blood inside a large circle—was clearly visible. So, she’d walked for a cure. Could Montebella have met Galt during one of these events? Did I even think either of the Montebellas had anything to do with Galt’s murder?
* * * *
Friday, 7:22 A.M.
“Cripes, Michael, why can’t you let this go? At this rate, you’ll be covering my shifts for a month.” Slick Danny stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You knock.”
I did. After a moment, a large, red-faced man yanked open the door, a bowl of cereal in one hand. Brian Freedmont, Leslie Galt’s fiancé, frowned. “Can I help you?”
I nudged Slick Danny, who sighed and pulled his hands from his pockets. “Sorry to bother you at such an ungodly hour, Mr. Freedmont, but we’re investigatin’ the death of your fiancée and we’d like to ask you some questions if you have time.” He gave his most officious smile, handed Freedmont a card.
“You’re not with the police?” Freedmont ran his fingers through thinning hair. “I’ve already told them everything I know.”
“May we come in, sir?” Slick Danny looked over Freedmont’s shoulder into the condo. “We’re helping the police. Followin’ up.”
Sometimes I think my partner lied just to lie. But he gets a lot of information, and he’d told me to keep quiet.
Freedmont’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, sure. Don’t see how I can help, though. Man, I don’t know why that woman hurt Leslie.”
Inside, we took seats on a creaky, blue leather couch. Freedmont sunk into a matching armchair, set his cereal bowl on a side table. He looked at my partner.
“Got a cigarette?”
Slick Danny pulled out his pack and monogrammed lighter and slid a cigarette in Freedmont’s direction. Took one for himself, too.
“Don’t smoke?” Freedmont lit up, turning his attention to me. “Thought all PIs smoked.”
“He doesn’t drink neither. Gives us all a bad name,” Slick Danny said.
“Smoking’s bad for you,” I said.
Freedmont laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “Lots of things are bad for you.” He took a long draw from his cigarette. “Gave cancer sticks up years ago. Things change.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke in my direction. “What is it you want to know?”
“Did Ms. Galt know the Montebellas?” Slick Danny drew his attention back.
“As I told the police, not to my knowledge. She’d never mentioned either of them.” Freedmont looked down at his shoes.
“No ideas why someone would kill her?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.” He stubbed out the cigarette in his cereal.
“You were gonna get married?” Slick Danny leaned forward, making eye contact with Freedmont and letting his mouth droop. What he calls his compassionate face. Makes him look like a basset hound, but it usually works, and it did this time, too.
“Next year. We’d been together four years. It was time, you know? She didn’t want to live together until we got hitched. I respected that. If I’d only been there that night…”
Slick Danny questioned the fiancé for a while longer. Twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds to be exact. As we stood to leave, I elbowed Slick Danny. He rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Freedmont, was Ms. Galt a Hoyas fan?”
Freedmont’s eyes narrowed and he paused before answering. “No, why?”
“Just wondered, what with her living in Georgetown and all.” He rocked back on his heels. “Was she much of an athlete?”
“Athlete?”
“Yessir, an athlete. We noticed one of the photographs on her shelf showed her at the finish line of a race. Thought maybe—”
“Oh, that. No, it was a walk for the Leukemia Society. We’re both leukemia survivors. Were, I mean.” He looked down at his hands.
Slick Danny offered him another cigarette.
Freedmont pocketed it. “Hers was already in remission when we met, but at the time mine looked bad. Been cancer-free for three years now. Reason I don’t normally smoke.” He shrugged. “She went through it all with me. Don’t think I would have lived if she hadn’t been there.” Clearing his throat, Freedmont led us to the door.
* * * *
Friday, 9:00 A.M.
Back at work, I pulled the Montebella file. I dug out Sandra’s datebook and scanned the entries.
Slick Danny looked up from a Sudoku he’d been working for a while. “Michael, what are you doin’ now? We have that new case to work on.” He grimaced.
“Yeah, I know.” Another infidelity investigation. We get a lot of ’em.
I flipped more pages.
“You do anything on it yet?”
“Huh? Oh yeah.” I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk, pulled out a thick folder. “I’ve done the background check. I’m still looking at Hillard’s phone and credit card statements. Got some billable calls to a financial consulting firm. They’re not in the phonebook, though.”
Slick Danny grabbed the folder off my desk, thumbed through the file. “Man, Michael, you got this much info on the guy already?”
I looked up from Sandra’s datebook. “Not that hard between the Internet and cross-referencing some databases—”
“No need to tell me the details. You just keep doin’ what you do best.” He slipped the Hillard folder into his desk drawer.
I went back to the datebook.
“So, why’d you have me ask Freedmont if his fiancée was athletic?” Slick Danny leaned back in his chair.
“Fishing for facts.” It didn’t take me long to find several entries marked “E. Peterson—LS.” I dialed the Leukemia Society. Hung up. “Uh, Slick Danny, will you call the Leukemia Society for me, ask for an E. Peterson?”
“What for?” He held up his hand. “I know, I know, fishin’ for facts. Can’t you call?”
I felt my tic start, but picked up the phone anyway. I could do this.
“Wait. I’ll do it. You’ll just make a mess of it.”
While he dialed, I pulled a chair to his desk and looked over the Sudoku.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said to a receptionist, his accent growing several shades thicker. “I’m looking for a person named Peterson. A friend passed along the number, but I done lost it. First name begins with an “E.” Can you help me? Mhmm. So it’s Ms. Peterson?” He scribbled some notes on a pad of paper. “Well, I surely do thank you, ma’am. You’ve made my day a whole lot brighter.”
He hung up the phone and passed Ms. Peterson’s number to me.
“Piece of cake.” He snapped his fingers.
“Yeah.” I handed him the finished puzzle.
“Hey, how’d you…”
I smiled. “Want to make one more call for me?”
* * * *
Monday, 10:29 A.M.
Slick Danny had set up an appointment for me with Ms. Peterson. She turned out to be the Leukemia Society’s assistant volunteer coordinator. We recognized each other instantly. She stood between me and the door, her tiny office suddenly feeling unbearably cramped.
“Well, well,” she said, “looky here. If it isn’t the Digital Delights guy,” her voice even huskier than I remembered. “Thought your name sounded familiar.”
She closed the office door with a click.
“Just so you don’t duck out again,” she said.
I flushed, the heat burning like fire and making my cheek jump.
“I-I won’t, I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—”
“And tell me again who you are, Mr. Blontine.” She looked me up and down, but didn’t move from in front of the door. “I’m guessing you don’t really work at Digital Delights.”
“I’m a friend,” I said. Slick Danny told me not to let on about being a PI. Couldn’t let it get back to Montebella I was here. Not until I had the facts. “I can’t tell you more than that.”
“You sounded different on the phone. Where’s your southern accent?”
“Oh no, that was my partner. He calls for me.”
Her eyes widened. “Didn’t realize you were gay. You don’t seem like it. Although that would make sense—”
“G-Gay? We’re not g-g-gay,” I said. “We’re…friends.” Was she trying to trick me?
Evania smiled, her teeth bright white. “You a stalker, Mike? You like thin, married blondes?”
“N-n-no. I don’t go out with married women. Blondes are okay. Not too crazy about skinny, but if she’s nice—”
Evania snapped her fingers. “Hey, Mike, focus here. What’s your interest in Sandra?”
“Huh?” I scratched my head. “I just want to help Sandra, uh, Mrs. Montebella, that’s all.” Why couldn’t Slick Danny have come? He knew I was no good with people.
“You can help her?” She moved so close our bodies practically touched. Evania’s spicy perfume tickled my nose, and I took a step back.
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Why would you do that,” she asked, arms crossed over her chest. “Why do you care?”
“I know she’s innocent.” What else could I say?
She looked at me for a long time. “I must be crazy,” she muttered. “Lord, save me from tall, handsome men.” She moved behind her desk, pointed me to a chair.
I sat.
“So what do you want to know about her?” she asked.
I glanced at my notebook, reading the questions Slick Danny had scribbled.
“What did she do for you? She seemed to spend a lot of time here.”
“Sure did. One of our best volunteers. I wanted her to join our board.”
“Know why she was interested in the Leukemia Society?”
“Brother died from it. Broke her heart. She wanted to be his marrow donor, but she wasn’t a match. Tragic, really. That woman could have been bitter, but instead she volunteers here. Even became a marrow donor couple years ago. Know how painful that procedure is?”
“Uh, no.” I looked at my notebook. Stick to the questions Slick Danny said. Don’t get distracted. “Was organizing walks one of her duties?”
“Yeah, she helped with some of that. Raised money for us by throwing big dinner parties. Visited patients waiting for transfusions. Did office work on occasion. Why? How’s that relate to murder?”
“Not sure it does.” I checked my notes again. “I heard she was arrested for trespassing and assault. Makes some people think she could be capable of murder.”
“Oh, puleez.” Evania shot to her feet. “Mr. Blontine, there was no assault. The police came to break up a march she was involved in. They started pushing the protestors around. Sandra stood up for them. Mouthed off a little. Got herself arrested. She didn’t do anything. That’s why the charges were dropped.” She sat back down, smoothed some papers on her desk. “I don’t know what your interest is in Sandra, but if you can help her, I’d be grateful.”
I nodded. “Do you think her husband could have something to do with it?”
She frowned. “Richard is capable of anything. She should have left him a long time ago. But, you know, they’ve got children together. Took me a long time to leave my bum of an ex for the same reason. A woman doesn’t want to break up her family, you understand?”
“Sure.” I didn’t, but I’d take her word for it. Women’s motivations are not my strong point.
“You married? Got kids?”
“N-no.” I couldn’t help stammering around her. Something about her husky voice.
“Not surprised, Mike. Just a tip—women do not like being run out on.”
I stared at my shoes. Man, I was a jerk.
“I’m no good with women,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
Silence hung between us for more than a minute.
Evania sighed.
I looked up.
She flashed that big-toothed smile again. “Well, Mr. Blontine, today is your lucky day.”
* * * *
Tuesday, 1:48 A.M.
It was way past midnight, but I didn’t leave the office. I’d been at my computer since my meeting with Evania, looking up facts on leukemia. I’d had an idea how certain pieces fit, but I needed more information to be sure. “Come on, Mike,” I said to myself, “think.”
Pushing back from my desk, I grabbed a Coke from the vending machine in the hall. I’d already downed several, but one more wouldn’t hurt.
I paged through the Montebella file, re-examined the crime scene folder, and replayed the conversations with Evania and Freedmont.
I kept thinking, DNA doesn’t lie.
DNA DOESN’T LIE.
I sat up straight. But what if it did?
* * * *
Tuesday, 6:57 A.M. to 9:17 A.M.
I woke slumped over my desk, my clothes looking like an unmade bed. I checked the clock. Still too early for Slick Danny to come in. I needed to bounce my thoughts off him. See if he read it the same way. In the meantime, I went back over my notes and wrote down some questions.
At 9:17, Slick Danny still hadn’t come in. Couldn’t wait any longer. I’d make a phone call. If my ideas turned out to be facts, I’d be making another call real soon. Reaching for the phone, my palms began to sweat. I dialed Evania Peterson’s number, let it ring.
* * * *
Tuesday, 3:11 P.M.
Late that afternoon, I zipped across town in my uncle’s SUV. I pulled to a curb outside Freedmont’s condo, waiting for Jules and the other officers to arrive. Before I could turn off the engine, Freedmont came out the door with two big suitcases in hand. He lugged them to his car, opened the trunk.
Where was he going?
Throwing the car in gear, I barreled into his driveway, then rolled down my window.
“Hi, Mr. Freedmont. Going somewhere?”
He spun toward me. “You startled me.” He set his suitcases down. “Yeah, yeah, want to get away for a few days. Just need to get out of the city. Clear my head.”
I nodded. “I’ve, uh, got a few more questions for you.”
“Hey man, I’d love to help, but I’m running late.” He glanced at his watch, ran a hand through his thinning hair.
“I…I have a couple questions, that’s all.” I hunched over the wheel. As I said, I’m a terrible liar.
“Can’t it wait?” He waved toward his car. “Why don’t you come by next week.”
“I have questions.” I bobbed my head like a dash ornament.
“Look man, I’m late. What do you want?”
“Um, I have questions about the case. About Ms. Galt. Did she,” my mind drew a blank, “Did she, uh.”
“What?” Freedmont’s voice rose.
“Did she ever spend time at the
Leukemia Society?” It was the best I could do.
“How the hell would I know? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get going.” He turned back toward his car.
I stayed put, letting the SUV idle.
Freedmont loaded one suitcase into the trunk, then turned around. “What?” he shouted. “You’re not the police. I don’t have to answer anything. Move your car.”
I idled in his drive. What else could I do?
“Hey, move your damn car.” He slammed his palm against the hood of the Lexus, then moved to the driver’s side window. “Now.”
I nodded, locked the doors, then rolled up the window.
I slid the SUV into gear, pulled forward, running over the remaining suitcase, and pushed the Lexus up against his bumper. Then I threw it in park.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”
Freedmont yanked at my door, releasing a slew of swear words. He called me stuff I’d never even heard of. I switched the radio on to drown him out. I looked at the SUV’s clock and counted the seconds out loud. Where was Jules?
Freedmont stormed into the garage and returned with a crowbar.
I fumbled around in the front seat looking for anything to defend myself with. My aunt’s mini umbrella was the best I could find.
He swung the crowbar at the hood, left a huge dent. My uncle was gonna be pissed.
Approaching the windshield, Freedmont raised his arms to swing again. That’s when I heard the sirens and screeching tires. Red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.
“Put the crowbar down, Mr. Freedmont,” Jules voice carried loud and strong through the squad car speaker.
He did. Right on my uncle’s windshield.
* * * *
Tuesday, 3:58 P.M.
I stood next to my uncle’s SUV, panic seeping from my pores. My tic remained quiet. Too scared, I guess.
“Uncle Frank’s gonna kill me, Jules.”
“Nah, Mikey, you’re a hero. You stopped a murderer. Besides, Frank’s got insurance.” She smiled, but it didn’t look right, the corners of her mouth turning down.
“Then why’re you picking at your fingers?” I asked.
Jules stuffed her hands behind her back.
“Oh man, he’s really gonna kill me,” I said.