by Dorien Grey
He looked at me strangely and said: “That would wrap it all up neatly, wouldn’t it? But, no, I don’t. And neither do you.”
“You’re right. But we’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report. What odds would you give that it…isn’t a broken neck?”
“Less than zero.”
We stood there in silence as the ambulance drove away and the wrecker secured Oaks’ car to the tow bar and it, too, drove off.
“Oh,” Richman said, “and I got that information on Whitaker for you, for what it’s worth.”
“What did you find out?”
“The three people killed in the crash were a mother, father, and their twelve year old daughter.”
“What was their last name?” I asked, hoping against hope to find the missing piece to the puzzle.
“Hogan,” Richman said.
*
Well, one thing was for damned sure: I wasn’t about to go flying off to St. Louis until I knew for sure how Oaks had died. It was still remotely possible that it was suicide. But why would he go to all the trouble of packing up his clothes if he intended to drive into the river less than two blocks away? And if he were intending to kill himself, why bother burying his lover at all? Just leave him in the house.
When I left Richman, I drove to a pay phone and called Glen O’Banyon’s office. He of course was not in, but I asked Donna, his secretary, to tell him that I had to postpone my departure, and asking him to call me at home when he had a chance. I didn’t feel quite as badly about not going as I might have had he not told me the trial had been shoved back a couple weeks anyway.
It was nearing 3:30, so I called Jonathan’s work and asked them to tell him I’d had a change of plans and would pick him up when he got off.
I had about half an hour before I had to go get Jonathan, so I drove back to the park and walked down the now-empty boat ramp to the water’s edge, where I just stood, listening to the river and the wind exchanging whispered secrets, and staring out to the spot where the rear end of Oaks’ car had broken the surface of the water.
*
Jonathan came out to the car, which I’d parked directly in front of the office, looking both happy and puzzled.
“What happened? Why didn’t you go to St. Louis? I mean, I’m really glad you didn’t, but…”
I told him everything as we drove off toward home. He didn’t say a word, just shook his head slowly back and forth.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, affirming what was clearly written on his face. “I feel terrible! God! And imagine how Nowell is going to feel when he finds out!”
“Did you see him today?”
“Oh, yeah. He came over to talk to me for a few minutes on his break. I think he likes me…” he shot me a quick look, realizing what he’d said. “I mean, not that way. At least I hope not! He’s never said anything, and you know I’d never…”
I reached out and patted him on the leg. “I know.”
“I told him about my wrecking the car, and…”
“Jonathan, you did not wreck the car. Just dented it a little,” I hastened to correct him.
“Well, to me that’s wrecking it.”
Did I just hear the faint sound of sirens? my mind asked, and I was immediately alert.
“Did you tell him how it happened?”
“I just told him that I really shouldn’t try to drink and drive at the same time, and that I could have killed somebody.”
Whoa!
“You told him what?” I saw his head jerk back in surprise.
“I told him I really shouldn’t try to drink and drive at the same…” he stopped, realizing what his words implied. “Oh! You think maybe he thought I was drinking…? It was a Coke! I was drinking a Coke.”
The sirens in my head were much louder, now.
“And how did he react? Did he say anything?”
Jonathan thought, then shook his head. “No. He just looked at his watch and said he had to get back to work. That was it.”
Driving! Drinking and driving! That was the key! And why the hell didn’t I catch it before?
Andy Phillips had violated his drunk driving license suspension by driving to the meeting before he disappeared. I knew at least several of the other missing had lost their licenses for driving while drunk; it might well be that all of them had. Drunk drivers kill people. The only one I knew of who actually had been in a fatal accident was Charles Whitaker. But he was the first to go missing. Maybe somebody was just making sure it wouldn’t happen again. Thank God Jonathan hadn’t said what he said to Nowell in the front of the whole group.
But he had said it to Nowell.
Thoughts kept pounding on the doors of my mind like the townsfolk storming Frankenstein’s castle, but I refused to open those doors. I forced myself to concentrate on getting us home safely.
Jonathan sensed my mood and remained silent for the rest of the drive. When I turned the corner leading to the alley behind our apartment, I noted the alley entrance was blocked off while they poured a new ramp and sidewalk. Mildly pissed, I drove around the block and came in from the other direction.
Where were the bodies? my mind asked.
Where in the hell did that come from? I wondered. But then I knew.
“Jonathan, when did Andy Phillips disappear?” I asked, half rhetorically, as we walked into the building.
“I think John said the seventeenth?”
I nodded, looking for the apartment door key. “And when did they pour that slab between the Family Care building and that new building next door?”
I opened the door and we went in.
“It was about that time, I guess. Same week, I think. Why?”
“Just wondered,” I lied.
I would call Richman first thing in the morning and ask him to check with the construction company for the exact date. All the little bits and pieces of thought and conjecture and ideas and possibilities that had been circling around in my mind like an asteroid belt all this time were beginning to come together, forming a bigger and bigger certainty. Still a lot of speculation in there, but…
First, I’d call Tim. If Oaks had gotten to the coroner before Tim left work, maybe he might have had time to find out what I was almost positive I already knew. He probably wasn’t home yet, but I was too impatient to wait. While Jonathan was in the kitchen making my Manhattan—I’d told him I could make it myself, but he knew I was preoccupied with other things—I dialed Tim and Phil’s.
Phil answered.
“Hello?”
“Phil, hi. Is Tim by any chance home yet?”
“Why, I’m fine, Dick, and how are you?” I could tell he was teasing, but I still felt a little embarrassed.
“Sorry, Phil,” I said. “There’s a lot going on, and…”
“That’s okay. I understand. But aren’t you supposed to be in St. Louis?”
“A long, long story.”
“I look forward to hearing it when you get the chance. We were going to call Jonathan and ask him over for dinner if Tim hadn’t called to say they’d brought somebody in a little before his shift’s end. He said he wouldn’t have to stick around for the entire autopsy, though, so he’ll be home soon, I hope.” There was a pause.
“I’m guessing that ‘somebody’ is what you want to talk to him about.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, I’ll have him call you the minute he comes in the door.”
“I’d appreciate that, Phil. Thanks. Talk with you later.”
*
I was about halfway through my Manhattan, talking with Jonathan about calling out for pizza instead of cooking, when the phone rang. I nearly spilled my drink in my haste to get to it.
“Hi, Dick…” Tim’s voice began.
“Broken neck.”
“Broken neck. Somebody definitely knows what he’s doing, though. Necks aren’t that easy to break. I’d imagine offhand that the blood you found on the carpet and the cut on his head were caused after he was k
illed: probably he fell forward after his neck broke and whoever did it didn’t catch him in time. They haven’t done the complete autopsy yet, but I don’t think they’ll find much else wrong with him. And they sure won’t find any water in his lungs from the car going into the river.”
There was a pause, then: “I assume you have some idea of what’s going on, here.”
I sighed.
“Yeah, I’m getting there. Fast. I’ll fill you in as soon as I’m sure, okay?”
“We’re looking forward to it.”
We hung up shortly thereafter, and Jonathan called Momma Rosa’s for pizza.
The kid who delivered it was not Jeff Barber, but cute in his own right.
They’re all cute, my mind said. It’s in their contract.
I was in the kitchen getting us a couple more Cokes when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Jonathan said, and had just picked it up as I came back into the room.
“Oh, hi, Nowell,” he said, looking at me with a surprised expression.
I immediately mouthed “I’m in St. Louis” and he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said in response to something I could not hear. “Uh, well…yeah…No, he’s in St. Louis—I thought I told you that…. No, I won’t say anything. He already called me tonight…. Sure, I guess I can.” Long pause. “Well, that’s kind of late. I have to work tomorrow…. Well, okay. I’ll see you there, then.”
He hung up and looked at me, his initial surprised expression replaced by puzzlement.
“Nowell wants me to meet him at Qualicare.”
“When?” I felt my stomach sinking toward my toes.
“Tonight. He said he wants to talk to me about Brian.”
“You can’t go,” I said. In that instant it all came together. Everything. I knew.
“Why?”
And I told him.
The words gushed out like water from the spillway of a dam. Whether it all made sense to Jonathan I couldn’t tell, but once I’d started talking I couldn’t stop, and he just listened, his eyes as big as saucers.
I had very nearly gotten him killed once before when he’d volunteered to help me on a case, and I was not about to risk putting him in danger again.
But there are times, as I’ve mentioned, when Jonathan truly amazes me. As one of my friends once said, with greater accuracy than I acknowledged at the time, when we were talking about my self-image of being the big, strong one of the pair, “Yep, you’ve got Jonathan right where he wants you.”
After I’d finished telling him why I couldn’t put him in danger again, he said simply: “If I don’t go, how will we ever know for sure?”
I suspected that Andy Phillips’ body was under the concrete slab between the Family Care building and the building next door, and that the other bodies were similarly encased in concrete all over the sprawling Qualicare complex. If Andy wasn’t under that specific slab, I was positive he was under another, but finding which one—or where all the others were buried—would be next to impossible.
But I also knew that Nowell was going to try to kill Jonathan because Jonathan had led him to believe he’d been drinking and driving.
It all went back to Charles Whitaker, and that part of it wasn’t quite clear yet. If any of the three people who had died in the accident had been named Cramer—Nowell’s last name—that would have cinched it. But they were a family named Hogan. Relatives, perhaps? Or…?
Yeah, you’re right: it was all confusing as hell.
“Will you at least call Lieutenant Richman and ask him?” Jonathan said. “I can wear a microphone again, and I’ll sign that paper that releases the police from responsibility, and…”
“But Jonathan, Nowell is going to try to kill you!”
Jonathan shook his head. “You don’t know that for sure. And if you’re right, do you think that my not showing up tonight will make him just forget it? Can’t we just get it over with tonight?”
Damn! He did have a point.
I dug out Mark Richman’s number and called him at home. Luckily, he was there, and I told him everything. Once again, I realized as I talked that I had not one shred of solid evidence. It made an airtight case in logic, but logic isn’t evidence. Nowell had a black belt in Karate; Oaks and Bleeth had their necks broken (and, if the other bodies were ever found, chances were it would show they’d died the same way); the “murder weapon” is obvious, but could never be positively identified because Nowell was walking around with it.
Richman listened carefully, then said: “I agree. Jonathan’s getting involved is out of the question. We’ll just have to take our chances that your hunch about Phillips being under that slab pays off. If it doesn’t, we’ll just have to try something else. Tell Jonathan I really appreciate his willingness to help, but that is just too dangerous.”
I had called Jonathan up to the phone and tilted the receiver so we could both hear what Richman was saying.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said, vastly relieved. “I’ll tell him.”
“Okay. I’ll give you a call tomorrow when I see what we can do about that slab.”
We hung up. Jonathan remained largely unconvinced.
“I should go. What will he do if I don’t?”
“Well, we’re going to have to take this one step at a time. If you see him at work, just apologize and tell him you fell asleep in front of the TV. Whatever you do, don’t go anywhere with him under any circumstances! Don’t even go to the bathroom unless you see someone go in first. Make sure there are other people nearby and that you are in plain sight of them. I feel this is all coming to a head really fast, and it should be over soon.”
Jonathan heaved a deep sigh.
“I sure hope so.”
*
Once more, I suddenly felt very tired, as though a plug had been pulled somewhere inside me and drained all the energy out. I’d been having the sniffles for the past few days, so assumed that was part of it. The larger part was, I knew, simply the stress of this case.
We watched TV until a few minutes after 11:00, when I woke up and realized I’d fallen asleep on the couch. I looked quickly around for Jonathan, who was doing something with the hanging plants in and on either side of the window. One trailing philodendron had grown such long…whatever you call them…vines?…tendrils? Aerial roots. Anyway, he was draping them over the traverse rod for the curtains, which we never closed.
“Ready for bed, Tiger?”
He looked at me and grinned. “I’ll be in in a second. I want to get Gus here comfortable.”
I got up and wandered into the bedroom, removing my clothes as I went. When I was naked, I crawled under the covers and went out like a light.
I have no idea how much time had passed, but Jonathan was shaking me.
“Dick! Dick!” he whispered loudly. “Wake up! Nowell’s here!”
It was as though he’d stuck my finger into a light socket. I was instantly awake, and sitting up.
“Here?” I said, not sure I’d understood him.
“He’s outside, and he’s coming in. I was working on Gus, and I looked out the window down to the sidewalk, and he was coming up the walk to the front door!”
I felt a moment of mild panic. “Don’t worry. He can’t get in without ringing the buzzer.”
My immediate reaction was to call the police.
And tell them what? my mind asked, a lot calmer than I was. Someone’s walking up your sidewalk?
Shit! It was right. And then I remembered the gun that Lisa, my friend Tom’s wife had given me as a keepsake after Tom died. Where had I put it? The closet.
I got out of bed and went to the closet, opening the doors and trying to remember where it was. Top shelf, I think.
Jonathan went out into the living room to look out the window to see if he could see Nowell. The buzzer hadn’t sounded, so…
“Nowell!” I heard Jonathan say, and I froze solid.
“You didn’t show up,” Nowell said. “I thought maybe somethin
g was wrong.”
I came back to reality to run my hand over the top shelf, around the boxes and…found it! The small wooden case.
“I’m sorry. I fell asleep in front of the TV and just woke up a few minutes ago. How did you get in?”
“I work for a locksmith, remember?”
Trying to make no noise, I turned and placed the wooden gun case on the bed, opening it. I don’t like guns, which is why I never carry one in my work. Regardless of what that gun group claims, guns do kill people.
“What…what did you want to see me about?” Jonathan asked. His voice was calm, but I could sense the tension under the surface.
“I really liked you.” The use of the past tense made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I opened the case and took the gun—a short-barreled .357 magnum—out of the case. By looking through the open bedroom door, I could see a good section of the living room, including Jonathan and Nowell, reflected in the glass of a large picture on the far wall of the hallway. Jonathan was in the middle of the room, Nowell close to the door. He took a step forward. I moved closer to the doorway, never taking my eyes off the reflection.
“I’m really sorry you’re a drunk.” Nowell said. “Drunks kill people, did you know that?”
“Of course I know that,” Jonathan said, a little more boldly.
“Did you know a drunk killed my mom and stepdad and little sister?”
I could see Jonathan’s face reflect his shock. “No, Nowell…I didn’t know that. I’m really sorry.”
I could see a small smile on Nowell’s face. “So was the drunk who killed them.”
“But I…” Jonathan started to say, but Nowell took another step forward and interrupted him.
“You shouldn’t drive drunk. You might kill somebody.”
Nowell was moving slowly forward, and Jonathan was edging sideways. It was a very slow, circular dance. I realized Jonathan was trying to get Nowell’s back turned toward me.
“But I wasn’t drinking. It was a Coke.”
“Sure it was, baby, sure it was,” Nowell said. “I really liked you, did you know that?”
“I’m glad,” Jonathan said, who now had his back to the door. “I like you too.”
Nowell moved forward and Jonathan’s face was beginning to show fear.