by Неизвестный
I thought I'd be smart and not say a single word to that. I don't think I even breathed for at least ten seconds. I watched Cal leave the cottage, heard the soft roar of the BMW's engine.
"Well," Laura said, eyeing me, then the toast crumbs all around Cal's plate. "I guess that took care of my idea of actually questioning her."
I grinned at her, grabbed her, and jerked her into my arms. I was kissing her when Savich and Sherlock walked back into the room.
I kept kissing Laura until I saw that she was laughing. "Good," I said, and rubbed my hands down her arms. "I barely knew you, Laura. It just happened. Okay?"
"No, it's not at all okay, but I won't break you into parts about it just now."
"What sort of punishment do you have in mind?"
She laughed again and poked me in the belly.
I said to Savich, "Why didn't you guys stay out here to meet Cal?"
"You had a great dynamic going there, Mac. If we'd come out, everything would have changed."
"Thanks for the entertainment," Sherlock said. "You guys just keep enjoying your own jokes," I said as I dialed Ted Leppra, the M.E. up in Portland.
A minute later, Ted Leppra, boy wonder, told me it was indeed a blow to the head that had killed Charlie Duck. "He survived maybe ten to twenty minutes after someone hit him," Ted said in his smoker's hacking voice, "and bought it, I was told, on the floor of the local doctor's house. It was a pretty fast bleed into and around his brain. His brain was crushed by blood, if you prefer a more colorful description." "You're sure?"
"Oh, yes. Funny thing though, Mac. As you probably know, the old guy was a former cop from Chicago. One of the detectives was cruising through here during an autopsy and we got to talking about him. Do you think there's a tie-in? Someone out for revenge after he got out of the can?"
"Could be," I said, all neutral. "The local sheriff is looking into all of that, naturally." "Hey, you don't sound happy, Mac." "No, I'm not. I was hoping there was something else involved here."
Ted coughed, holding the phone away while he hacked. "Sorry," he said. "I know, I've got to stop smoking."
"You of all people have seen enough smokers' lungs," I said mildly.
"Yeah, yeah. Listen, maybe there was something else." Hot damn, I thought. "Hang on a minute, Ted. I'm going to put you on speaker. There are some other folk here who need to hear what you've got to say."
"Okay. Mac, you were right about that. We found some sort of drug in his system. It appears to be an opiate or related to an opiate. At least it tested positive on the opiate screen. I haven't been able to identify it yet. It's maybe some sort of drug we've never seen before. Weird, huh?"
"Not really," I said. "It's very possible it's a brand-new drug that isn't on the market yet. When will you be able to give me more information, Ted?" "Give me a couple more days. Call me on Friday. If I find out anything sooner I'll let you know." "Stop smoking, you moron." "What did you say? I can't hear you, Mac." I hung up the phone, turned, and looked at everybody.
"Charlie was on to them. He had some sort of drug in his system."
"He either found out about it and wanted to see what it was, or someone forced it down him," Laura said. "Remember what he said when he was dying-'a big wallop, too much, then they got me.' "
Savich was scratching Grubster's ears. "Or maybe lots of people around here want to try it and damn the side effects."
"More likely he discovered something and that's why he wanted to talk to me. But he didn't think it was all that urgent."
"He was wrong," Laura said.
"Yes, the poor old man," I said. "Now we know that they killed Charlie Duck. The drug in his system pretty well proves that. Damn, I wish I'd collared him that first day, but you know, I just thought he had some fishing stories to tell me. I was an idiot."
"He did try to tell the doctor what had happened," Laura said. "It's too bad he couldn't say more before he died."
I picked up the phone again. "Just maybe he's got some friends he still talks to in the Chicago Police Department." I identified myself to three indifferent people at the Chicago Police Department, in three different departments, including Internal Affairs, and finally ended up in Personnel, where I identified myself to yet another indifferent person. Finally, I got hold of Liz Taylor. She was a real charmer, no sarcasm, she really was.
"Nope," she said cheerfully, first thing off the bat, "I'm no relation at all, so you don't have to wonder. Now, you say you want to know about Charlie Duck?"
"Yes, please. I understand he was a detective with the CPD until about fifteen years ago?"
"Yeah, I remember Charlie well. He was a homicide detective, sharp as a tack. It's funny, you know? Usually, the bosses want the old guys to retire just as soon as they can plunk a gold watch on their wrist and push them out the door. But not Charlie. Everybody wanted him to stay. I bet he could have continued here until he croaked, but he wanted to leave. I'll never forget on his sixtieth birthday, he gave me a big kiss and said he was out of here, no more dealing with scum bags, no more weeping over plea bargains that let criminals back out on the streets faster than it took the cops to catch them. He didn't want any more winters in Chicago, either. They aged his skin, he said. He was gone by the following week. Hey, who are you anyway? I know you're FBI, but why do you want to know about Charlie?"
"Charlie's dead," I said. "He was murdered. I'm trying to find out who killed him and why."
"Oh no," Liz Taylor said. "Oh no. I got a Christmas card from him just this last December. Sweet, sweet old Charlie." I heard her sniff.
"Tell me about him," I said. "I heard he wasn't exactly the trusting type."
"That was Charlie," Liz said, sniffing some more. "Some people didn't like him, called him a snoop and a son of a bitch, and I guess he was. But he'd never hurt you if you hadn't done anything wrong. He had the highest homicide clearance rate of any detective in the department. In fact, he still holds the record. Poor Charlie. I'll tell you, nothing could stop him if he smelled something rotten."
Not only had he been a detective, he'd been in homicide. He was smart and relentless. It had been a deadly mix for the old man.
"I need the names of friends he's still close to in Chicago. Some other cops. Can you give me some names?"
"Wait. Is that what happened? He smelled something rotten? And that's why someone killed him?"
"Probably," I said. "Do you know of any family or friends he still kept up with? Maybe confided in?"
"No family left," she said. "His wife died before he left the force. Breast cancer, poor woman. He went out west somewhere when he retired, to live with his parents, somewhere on the West Coast. In Oregon, right?"
"That's right," I said, my jaw nearly locked with impatience. "Liz, any friends?"
"Just a couple of older guys still on the force. But I don't think they've spoken to him in years. I can ask around, see if any of the old guys have spoken to him recently."
"Yeah," I said, "I'd really appreciate that." I thanked her profusely, gave her my phone number at the cottage, and hung up.
"Interesting," Laura said. "Too bad she couldn't give you anything."
"She's got to come up with something pretty quick," Savich said, "or it'll be too late."
"Amen to that," Sherlock said, turning to Savich.
I walked to Laura, lightly lifted her chin in my palm, and said, "Forget Cal Tardier. Forget all those hundreds of other women."
She laughed so hard I had to squeeze it out of her. She still thought I was funny.
At two o'clock, Laura and I were seated next to Savich and Sherlock in the League's Christian Church on Greenwich Street, just off Fifth Avenue. There was a small park opposite the white brick church, and lots of parking space. The building itself looked strangely unchurchlike, I supposed because it was used by so many different religions.
I'd introduced Laura to everyone as a DBA agent I was currently working with, Savich and Sherlock as FBI agents who were here to help us l
ook into things. What things? Who had tried to kill Laura? I'd been as vague as possible as I'd smiled into Alyssum Tarcher's face with that news. It was an I'11-get-you-later smile and I'd swear he knew exactly what I was thinking.
Charlie Duck held the place of honor in the nave of the church, his beautifully carved silver urn set in the center of a circular piece of glass balanced on top of a hand-carved rosewood pyramid at least five feet tall. I couldn't tell how that round piece of smoky glass balanced on that pyramid point.
While we sat waiting for the service to begin, I gave them all a running commentary on the people I'd met.
Paul came in, but he didn't sit down beside me. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge me or Laura. He looked tired, his face gray, harsh shadows scored deeply beneath his eyes. More than that, he looked scared.
I looked around to see that every pew was filled. There were at least a hundred folk, a good two dozen more lining the back of the church. Everyone had left work and come here. All of a sudden conversation stopped.
Alyssum Tarcher, dressed in a black suit that quietly announced English bespoke, strode to the pulpit, which really wasn't a pulpit, but rather a long, thick mahogany board set atop marble pillars. The interior of the church was all like that-a mixture of styles and materials, announcing all sorts of possibilities but nothing specific, like an onion dome or a menorah.
Alyssum Tarcher cleared his throat and raised his head. Sunlight poured through the high windows and flooded over him. The air was perfectly still. There wasn't a sound. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. Bagpipes sounded, low and raw and savagely beautiful. No one seemed surprised, evidently used to this. The pipes played a wrenchingly sad set of chords, then grew more distant, softer, leaving only echoes.
"Charles Edward Duck," Alyssum Tarcher said in a rolling, powerful voice, "was a man who lived a full and rich life." I tuned him out, studying Paul's face in profile. What was going on?
"He was a police detective in Chicago until he retired to Edgerton to live with his aging parents, now deceased, some sixteen years ago. We will miss him. He was one of us." I heard the scrape of bagpipes again, minor chords sliding into one another, then nothing. Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch, returned to sit in the first row.
Elaine Tarcher rose next. She looked slim and well groomed and rich. Her dark suit was elegant, somber. She wore pearls. When she spoke, her voice was full and deep with emotion. "I first met Charlie Duck at our annual New Year's Eve party back in the late-eighties. We were having the party that year at The Edwardian. Charlie played his guitar for all of us. Good-bye, Charlie."
A dozen townsfolk followed, the first representing the Anglican Church. It was Rob Morrison. He spoke briefly of Charlie's good nature, his acceptance of others, his tolerance.
Miss Geraldine, the leader of the town League, mayor of Edgerton, represented the Jewish religion. She spoke of Charlie's lack of anger toward anyone, his gentleness.
It appeared that everyone had seen Charlie Duck differently.
The final speaker was Mother Marco, ninety-three, who owned the Union 76 station. She was small and frail, and her pink scalp showed through soft, sparse white hair. "I don't represent any religion," she said in a surprisingly strong voice. "Well, maybe you could say I represent old age and the brink of death. I feel older than the rocks on the shore below Edgerton." The old lady grinned out at us all, showing big, very white false teeth. "And I'm proud of it. I knew Charlie Duck better than any of you. He was smart, was Charlie. He knew a bit about everything. He liked finding things out. If he didn't understand something, he dug and dug until he found his answers. Because he was a police detective in Chicago, he didn't have a high opinion of anybody. He wasn't blind about people."
Of all the speakers, I thought that old Mother Marco had hit Charlie right on.
Alyssum Tarcher walked to the wooden pyramid and picked up Charlie's silver urn and held it over his head. "To Charlie," he shouted. Everyone cheered, filed in behind Alyssum Tarcher, and marched out of the church.
"My, oh my," Sherlock said.
"Some show," Savich said.
I felt Laura's fingers close around my hand. "I don't want to go there," she said. "To the cemetery. I don't want to go."
"No, we don't have to. No one will expect us. After all, we are outsiders." I saw Rob Morrison beside Maggie Sheffield, and I thought of Detective Castanga. Margaret was my wife at one time.
"Who the hell are you?"
"This is Cotter Tarcher, guys. He's Alyssum's only son."
Cotter dismissed the two women and eyed Savich, his eyes dark and hot. Savich arched a dark eyebrow.
"Here we have the weakest link," I whispered to Laura.
"I asked you a question, buddy. What are you doing here? You don't belong here. Nobody invited you."
"Actually, I did," I said. I nodded toward both Sherlock and Savich, and showed Cotter that I was holding Laura's hand. "They're friends of mine."
Cotter said, "None of you should be here."
Savich smiled, a kick-ass smile that should have alerted Cotter but didn't. Savich knew exactly what he was doing. He'd taken Cotter's measure very quickly. "I enjoyed the performances, sport. Everyone who spoke was very talented. Why didn't you speak? No religion? No talent?"
Cotter's eyes flamed. He was quickly going beyond anger, to nearly out of control. What had happened to him? Cotter had a hair trigger and Savich had baited him well, but no one was more surprised than I was when Cotter took a swing at Savich. I didn't move; I even felt a bit sorry for Cotter. As for Sherlock, she said, "Oh, no. You idiot," but not in time.
Savich smoothly caught Cotter's wrist and squeezed it back down to his side. Cotter tried a kick but didn't make it. Savich grabbed Cotter's leg just behind his knee and flipped him into the air. He released Cotter's wrist only at the last minute before he landed on his back in a marigold bed, the move smoother than a twelve-year-old scotch.
Sherlock looked down at Cotter, her hands on her hips. "Why are you acting like an adolescent?"
"Get a grip on yourself," Savich said. "Consider growing up."
"None of you is worth a piece of shit. Big federal agents, that's a laugh. You'll never find out anything." Cotter dragged himself out of the flower bed and stomped away.
"That man has real problems," Laura said.
"He's the local sociopath," I said. "So he doesn't think we're going to find out anything, does he?" I watched him speak to Alyssum Tarcher, and the older man shook his head. "When I first met him I thought he was just an immature hothead. But after seeing him perform today, I wonder if he's involved in all of this, his daddy's right hand?"
"His father looks like an aristocrat, a sleek greyhound among a pack of mutts," Sherlock said. "As for Cotter, he looks like a little bulldog."
"I think Cal and Cotter are different," Laura said. "Cal acts weird too, but Mac's never called her a sociopath."
"Hey," I said. "I only calls 'em like I sees 'em. At the very least we know that Cal's got great taste in men."
I saw Alyssum Tarcher look back at me. His face was cold but his eyes were suddenly as hot as his son's.
Chapter Eighteen
It was just after five-thirty in the afternoon when Savich and I pulled into the driveway of 12 Liverpool Street. Paul was indeed at home. Actually, both his car and Maggie Sheffield's sheriff's car were side by side in the driveway. We heard them yelling at each other from the front porch and stopped a moment beside a hanging plant that looked a lot happier than I did. We stood quietly outside the front door, listening.
"You damned little worm," we heard Maggie scream at the top of her lungs. "Don't say or do anything like that again, Paul, or I'll take your head off. Are you nuts? How long has Jilly been gone?"
"What do you know? You don't know anything. You like to play at doing a man's job, but you don't do it well. But as a woman, Maggie, you really suck. Maybe this is the ideal job for you. What are you, a dyke?"
We heard a crash. I sighe
d, opened the door, walked into the small foyer, and looked to the right, into the living room. There I saw Maggie straddling Paul, who was lying flat on his back in his black-and-white living room.
She had him by the neck, his head pressed against the floor.
Savich calmly walked over to her, grabbed her under her arms, and pulled her straight up. She turned on him, fists raised. He held her up by her armpits and said in that deep, smooth voice of his, "Not smart. Don't do it."
"Enough, both of you," I said, and gave Paul a hand up. "Now, what's this all about? We could hear you screaming at each other from the front porch."
"He's a stupid prick," Maggie said. "Let me down, you jock. I'm the sheriff. I'll arrest you."