by Judith Mehl
Maddy sent her friend a conspiratorial glance. They agreed without speaking.
“My Monday night bingo is a cover. For years I’ve been going in disguise to the track. I have this knack for betting on the right horse. I’ve made a fortune and donated half of it to the university anonymously.”
The women stumbled over each other’s questions in a rush for more information. Kat asked, “What do you mean “in disguise?”
The story unfolded. “I don a red wig, leggings, and loud, short skirts. On Monday nights, I join the crowds and make my bets.”
She added, “I’ve seen a few people there from the university you’d be surprised to hear about, but I’m hardly in a position to confront them.”
She sipped daintily from her drink. “It beats my rocking chair for entertainment, gives me a thrill, and helps the university.”
Kat nodded, eyes gleaming. As an excuse for gambling it was the best she’d heard. As she glanced around the simple room she inquired, “What do you do with the rest of the money?”
“I donate the other half to the transitional housing charity which helps poor families stay together until they can get back on their feet. Working with the home feeds my soul. You two should get involved. I help out all summer teaching them to garden. You could teach them about herbs.”
Rita Mae looked Maddy up and down, the twinkle in her eye this time. “Well, you could teach them how to make weird clothes look nice.”
Maddy thanked Rita Mae for what must have been the best back-handed compliment she’d ever received.
Lonely, despite her adventures, the woman was eager to share in their investigation. Her eyes glowed with hope, apparently thinking she could join them in their search.
Maddy sighed in relief, obviously thinking Rita would be an additional person to help with their search for the killer. Kat shushed her quickly while their hostess refilled the glasses. They swore her to secrecy as they revealed their plans and theories but Kat made sure to make no promises as far as seeking her assistance.
They ran through the suspects list as Rita Mae eagerly set out cookies and chips. Kat wondered whether one ate cookies with Bailey’s Irish Cream. Then she noticed they were chocolate cookies. She sincerely believed that chocolate went well with anything and tested that theory several times throughout the evening.
Rita seriously considered each name and wrote it down as Kat ticked them off and saved her considerable comments until the end. As Kat vocalized the names she realized that none had really been deleted from her original list. Most were all still viable suspects: Matthew Hightower, Paul Ruggiero; Andrew Noble, David Nettle, Ted Wright, Lauri Carmichael, and countless tennis people. Matthew and Paul were no longer seriously considered. Though their motives were strong, so were their alibis. Mostly their handwriting gave them credence.
Rita Mae pooh-poohed the idea of Matthew Hightower and gave her no-holds-barred opinion of “that wimp, Laurie.” She figured there were at least a dozen secretaries and faculty members who might easily have done it. She promised to give thought to the list.
As they were leaving and Rita Mae gathered coats, Kat asked, “So how did you get away with lying to the police about your whereabouts Monday night?”
“I’m surprised at you! I would never lie to the police! They never asked me where I was Monday night. You were the only ones. I went to visit them to see if I could find anything out. Detective Burrows wouldn’t even see me. But now I know we can solve this with you two in charge.”
Kat winced, wondering what Pandora’s Box they had opened. As they walked to the car, she croaked, “Nick’s going to kill me!”
“He should be happy she’s not the killer. What now?”
“Are you kidding? I’m involving a 72-year-old woman in a murder investigation. He’s going to kill me!”
Chapter 19
The buckle on an uppercase ‘k’—that little bend that tips it forward, shows rebellion. Combined with other signs of strong ambition would it lead to something worthwhile? Or wrathful?
“Fast Facts Two” by Pat Peterson, C.G.
Dennis was IN. Confusing Lauri proved as easy as swallowing buttered noodles: and it took little to propel her away from her computer. He’d thrown together so many technical words in one sentence that she turned bored and out the door in less than ten minutes. Probably a new record, he surmised as he eased his way into the files on her computer. But then he’d perfected the art of obnoxiousness for just such occasions. She’d released her password without a fuss. She needed the computer functioning to finish compiling her test for the summer session.
Yesterday it had taken much longer to crack into Ambrose’s office computer. He had finally determined the manager’s password by badgering Kat and Maddy with questions about the guy while they hung around in the background. They snooped nearby, riffling through the desk trying to find the password, while Dennis sat tensely in front of the computer wondering how he got himself talked into this situation.
He nibbled on his fingernails but before he could declare lunacy and back out, they stumbled across the password. The man had juxtaposed his birth date numbers, a common form of password. Now Dennis could view past correspondence and recent files. They wanted to determine who the manager might have been communicating with, who he was e-mailing, and if he might have some incriminating files to prove he was siphoning funds or using his power to alter the outcome of the tennis tournament. If he was, it would provide a direction to look for the murderer. But Ambrose’s computer was almost empty.
And then they coaxed him into spying on Lauri’s computer. So here he sat, mentally compiling a game plan while his fingers flew over the keys. He at first thought Lauri’s delete key malfunctioned. Her stored files went back to the dark ages. She must have one of the oldest computers on campus. They found statistics, ordering information, tennis highlights, and very little else in Ambrose’s files. He was not a computer genius. Maddy had discovered more paper files—but they were a jumbled mess. The police probably took anything valuable.
At the time, Dennis attempted to instill Kat with guilt for lock-picking her way in, just not guilty enough to quit when they couldn’t find access any other way. Neither Maddy nor Kat could connect with a key to his office, so Kat had yielded to her new lock-picking skills thanks to marrying a PI. The fact that it was just six in the morning at the time made them feel relatively safe, but Dennis wasn’t used to this level of subterfuge. Kat had hastily snatched some tennis magazines she wanted to study further as they slid out unobserved.
Dennis felt safer, today, invading Lauri’s domain in front of her. She’d given permission after all. She’d welcomed him at the door. He had mumbled enough in the beginning to convince her he would be a while. She just asked him to lock the door when he left. Now he was in his element. He could make a computer talk. And this one was already telling tales. He checked her bookmarks for the Internet. What a find! So much lurked he couldn’t record it all. He sent all the addresses as he found them to his e-mail to check out later. Kat would be in ecstasy!
Lauri’d searched for supply houses for chemicals. A dead give-away. Literally? He wondered. The Sigma Aldrich Fine Chemical’s site was bookmarked at grayanotoxin III, a substance that Kat mentioned when she was pondering the laurel poisoning. Dennis couldn’t find any record of an order, though he searched extensively. The product was still available even though it was discontinued for the future. Maybe she couldn’t get what she needed. This would have been evidence for the police, once he figured out how to reveal it to them without implicating himself.
One site even provided grams needed for a lethal dose for mice. They could do the math later for a man. It looked expensive though. Murder could be costly. He couldn’t find an order form. Maybe she’d called it in. Dennis clicked his way in and out of sites as rapidly as possible, conjecturing all the way.
He searched elsewhere. Found a story about soldiers being defeated because of gorging on contaminated honey, some
research on infusions and decoctions, and more on extractions. He sent it all to his e-mail address. No time for review now, and he certainly didn’t want to get caught printing it.
While zipping through these technicalities, his mind reviewed the conversation the night before with Kat about the spy software she wanted installed. He knew spy software had been available for years, but until recently it was complex and expensive.
He admitted she’d researched well. She said Spector was the equivalent of a VCR that secretly records everything seen on the computer screen. The program runs on an operating system of distrust and secrecy, functioning by recording a screen shot every thirty seconds or whatever preference was set.
He’d chosen the e-Blaster, which works remotely, sending a report every fifteen minutes that the computer user is on the Internet. It doesn’t leave an e-mail trail and does not automatically dial the Internet, which would alert the user that something was amiss. A skilled hacker would be able to send the program to someone else’s computer as an e-mail attachment.
He’d installed the e-Blaster software from home before he visited Lauri’s office, still debating its legality, or at least its morality. He’d argued that the easy availability and low cost created profound implications on privacy. It wouldn’t help on past computer use but might in the future. Maybe he wouldn’t need it.
However, as long as he was prying he wanted access to old files on Lauri’s computer that might not be revealed through current activity. Those he’d acquired today.
He knew how to snoop. He just hated doing it. Without Kat’s perfect track record in finding the criminals she’d pursued, he wouldn’t ever consider invading the privacy of fellow workers. His research usually took other proportions and motives.
For now though, he was finished. He was anxious to check out his home computer and see how much e-Blaster recorded of his activities. Thank heavens no one had access to his home computer. He locked it up tighter than a prison. Turning the key to secure Lauri’s office, he left—talk about closing the barn door after the horse is gone.
Too bad Kat was off campus. But the impact would be better once he accessed the information and printed it out for her. He knew there was nothing legally incriminating, but it sure gave one cause to consider Lauri as a strong suspect.
KAT WAS INTERVIEWING Andrew Noble, though in the end it proved a waste of time. The man was phenomenal. His company’s annual report, just released, showed such strong gains that the money he’d loaned Ambrose for the center was a microbial afterthought on a giant’s scale.
Noble could have killed Ambrose for revenge, she told herself as she sunk into one of his lavish guest chairs. She was unwilling to let loose this thread of his guilt quite so easily.
She pictured him with a no-one-cons-me attitude, as she graciously accepted coffee in a sinfully thin china cup, but after seeing him in his vast office in a multibillion building that he owned, she was almost certain he felt no such need. His mind ran a circuitous orbit around numerous simultaneous projects, his body racing behind opening folders, reviewing reports and responding to countless phone calls in a concise, deliberate manner, all the while exhibiting a gentlemanly calm while entertaining Kat, and having his secretary provide her with any requested reports. Kat left, after purloining a copy of his handwriting from the trash when he wasn’t looking.
She examined it as she was sitting in the car, noticing nothing noteworthy other than a buckle on his ‘k’s signaling a strong sense of rebellion, something he needed to forge his company so successfully. Other signs revealed extreme ambition.
No duh, she’d already seen that in person. She pressed her knuckles to her upper lip as she frowned over the paper, as if the added pressure aided concentration. Finally, she set it aside and drove home in frustration.
Her anger was evident to Nick in the slamming drawers, the purposeful walking around, the mumbling while fixing supper. She was definitely venting; and made a partial effort to keep him out of the steam. Nonetheless, he caught some of it. She nagged him over the can opener. She had cause, but that was beside the point. He always put it away whenever he used it, just not in the same place.
The kitchen, even as she worked, would pass muster for surgical procedures. When Nick cooked it resembled a bomb site. Of course some guys never made dinner, so he was still ahead of the game—barely, if you listened to Kat.
She finally revealed she was angry with herself for not finding the murderer and for running out of leads. Once Nick knew the problem he acted as a sounding board, bouncing back the right responses until she calmed.
“Kat, you’re a very intuitive person. Give yourself time on this one. It’s not like the police are any further ahead than you."
That set her off again. “That Burrows! After everything I’ve done for him. You’d think he’d share more information with me!”
“Have you asked lately?”
The frown she presented him could have fried eggs. But then she realized maybe that was her next avenue. She could pester Burrows into providing more information. She’d call, proffering information about Andrew Noble. Maybe now he would be more willing to provide some details about the thermos, which she was sure contained poisoned tea. If he confirmed some details she could research further.
Once she’d staked out a game plan she was fine. She and Nick enjoyed the delicate rice and chicken concoction, miraculously tasty despite her anger. Their lives together were like a robust jambalaya, an exquisite blend of flavors, not unlike their cooking and their jobs.
Nick regaled her with the hair-turn escapades of the day’s car surveillance, though he revealed no information on the client or the suspect in the car. Often the most secret of his cases were the most interesting, and unfortunately, were for the government and very hush-hush. This time he grabbed a pencil to clarify and she whisked a piece of paper underneath it.
She’d put aside the linen napkins long ago for special occasions when she discovered Nick was an inveterate napkin writer. When he had an idea to explain, the napkin became the conduit for visual clarity. As Nick sketched it, she immediately grasped the complexity of this vehicle surveillance system used to follow the suspect without revealing their presence. His agency had used all available personnel for what they called the floating box. Once the suspect left his residence the stakeout box moved in tandem.
She quickly swept another 11 x 17 inch piece of paper onto the table, knowing that the tablecloth was in danger. She never dreamt so many cars were used to follow one person.
“This is a version of the FBI system that results from six decades of experience. We don’t use as many vehicles and certainly don’t need the system as often as they do, but it has come in handy,” Nick said as he drew.
She saw the value of the plan as he placed target vehicles, command vehicles, and outrider patrols in strategic locations.
Kat noted how the surveillance control passed from one team to another at key intersections. “Pretty cunning,” she willingly praised. “Does it work?”
Nick scoffed. “Every time! It’s powerful, but more importantly, it’s flexible.”
Since all his vehicles looked like X’s, he clarified. “We use a shorter list of vehicles than the FBI. They’ve been known to even use 18-wheelers. We use coupes, sedans, mini-vans, commercial trucks, and motorcycles.”
Kat marveled at the ingenuity of the scheme and tucked the idea away in case she needed a smaller version.
Once they cleared the dishes, Kat decided to tackle Detective Burrows. She was hoping that he would be spending the evening at home, relaxed and in an agreeable mood. Making some notes, she planned what she would share in hopes of a return of confidence on his part. She’d mention her supposition on Andrew Noble. That would lose her nothing and might soften Burrows up a little.
She debated whether to bring up her information on laurel poisoning, and discussed it with Nick before adding it to her list. He suggested it might be a good lead to prompt the detective to
reveal what did kill Ambrose.
Armed with confidence, a little bravado, and her notes, Kat dialed Burrows and began her assault with a pleasant opening and treacle words.
Chief Richard Burrows served as a detective for many years. He knew when he was being buttered up, and knew why. As he toyed with her she played in return. She understood his frustration clearly. He debated how much of the investigation he could share with her. She waited without a word for his decision. She hoped that he was remembering that in past cases she always proved helpful, despite the thorn pricks accompanying her assistance.
Burrows admitted that evidence proved Ambrose died from a form of poison—or concoction that caused his system to shut down and his heart to fail. Not easy to prove.
They hadn’t ruled out suicide, though nothing in his nature led to that conclusion. Kat agreed, relaying that it had never crossed her mind. Ambrose was too egotistical, and barring any medical reports to skew that thinking, like a certain death to come by agonizing means, she would continue to give it little worth. Detective Burrows seemed inclined the same way.
Kat referred back to his statement about health, willing to share some tidbits that might help. “You know that laurel in the right decoction can be quite poisonous, especially if someone is not in good health when it enters his system.”
Burrows revealed that Ambrose’s doctor had decreed him in poor health, that he’d been fighting low blood pressure for weeks. The doctor also expressed surprise that despite several measures to correct the problem, Ambrose remained on the low side.
The herbalist in Kat frowned at that, but knew that seeing citrus fruits in Ambrose’s office was not enough to convict the giver. She restrained herself, hoping that Dennis would find more information to help her make a case against the provider to Burrows, if she ever pinpointed the culprit.