Back to Lazarus (Sydney Brennan)

by Judy K. Walker

  Despite my rapidly firing synapses, I woke from my nap feeling rested and with plenty of time to freshen up. The swelling had gone down, but one side of my face was still bruised enough that there were limits on what make-up could do. I stuck with a white tank and button-down shirt, but I did put on a long skirt in a delicate flowered pattern, hoping to soften my image for Mr. Nagroski. I’d rather look like a sweet little thing in need of assistance, in this case information, than a loser from Monday night Smackdown.

  Once I’d done all I could with my face, I headed to the motel office to wait for Richard. I knew Mrs. Waters would be there this time of day and thought I might pick up some good gossip. She was sitting behind the front desk knitting. I always think that’s an odd occupation for Floridians, even north Floridians. Perhaps it persists because of the northern transplants. I watched Mrs. Waters for a while, not wanting to startle her. When she looked up I told her I was just waiting for my ride.

  “Really? A gentleman caller? You do look nice.”

  I laughed. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Waters, but Mr. Frey from the PD’s office is picking me up for some work. I don’t think he qualifies.”

  “Frey, Frey… oh, yes. Richard Frey.” She lost her concentration and dropped her needles while searching her memory, and now one hand went unconsciously to her bottle brush gray hair.

  “He is a handsome man—such a radiant smile—and very nice besides. Too bad he’s married.” She looked at her lap for a moment and went back to knitting.

  “Yes, he’s much nicer than that last gentleman,” she said.

  “What gentleman?” I asked.

  “The one who came asking for you last night. Didn’t you see him? He didn’t leave his name. He was asking what room you were staying in this time, but of course I can’t give out that information.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t say. I was cleaning my glasses when he came in, and I couldn’t see a thing. Kind of like when you’re at a restaurant and the waitress asks you if you need anything when your mouth’s full. Customers are always doing that to me with my glasses. A few times a day I use this special spray and it takes a few minutes for me to finish with them. But I can tell you he wasn’t very nice. Didn’t stop to chat at all.”

  “Do you remember anything else about him?”

  “Well, I feel kinda funny saying this…”

  “Please, Mrs. Waters. It could be important.”

  Until that moment, she obviously didn’t have any idea that the stranger could be anything more than a bad blind date. When I said “important,” she looked at the fading bruises on my face and the splint that was to remain on my right arm for another two weeks, and the light switched on. Her eyes got big and her mouth dropped open with a gasp, as if her whole face was on a hinge. She remained that way for what should have been the space of a few breaths, except that she had forgotten to breathe. When she remembered, she also remembered her dignity, closing her mouth and trying hard to talk normally.

  “Well, I should have known he wasn’t here for a date. I know it’s tough sometimes in Florida in the summer, which of course lasts at least six months of the year, and some places still not having air conditioning, or working outside—“

  “Mrs. Waters—“

  “I’m sorry, dear. I do tend to yammer on when I get flustered. It’s just that, well, if it had been a date I’d think he would have taken a shower, and he definitely did not. I didn’t need my glasses to smell his—“

  She lowered her voice and looked around, then went on in a whisper as if she were uttering a profane word.

  “You know. His B.O.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I was able to set Mrs. Waters’ mind at ease by telling her that everything was going to be okay, that it probably wasn’t anything to worry about but that I would be checking out tonight just in case. Setting my own mind at ease was much more of a challenge. It felt like a pen full of screaming monkeys throwing feces. I was able maintain a façade of composure until Richard arrived a few minutes later. I watched the parking lot, and when I saw him pull in I waved my arms like a mad woman. In other words, like me.

  His car had barely stopped when I threw the door open and hopped in, as best as I could hop with the heavy bag I probably shouldn’t be carrying.

  “Hey, Sydney. How was the nap? Listen, I was thinking that tonight—“

  “Richard, he’s found me. He’s after me again, and he knows where I am.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know who, do I? But he was here last night, and I didn’t even know it. He was right here, Richard. Right here.”

  Richard hadn’t moved the car yet. He took my left hand in both of his, and I tried not to flinch.

  “Okay, Syd. Slow down. Take a few deep breaths for me.”

  I closed my eyes and did as he asked. Eventually the monkeys stopped throwing crap, but they were still making piles of turd balls to have at hand. Just in case. I smiled at the image.

  “Thanks. I’m all right now. Let’s just get out of here. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  I relayed what Mrs. Waters had said. We weren’t far from Rudy Nagroski’s house, so Richard pulled over in the parking lot of a boarded-up fast food joint to give me a chance to finish. I hadn’t told him much about my experience that night, and even now, to save time I only told him the significance of the body odor. We were due at Nagroski’s, and I also figured I’d have to tell the whole tale again soon enough. I may have missed something, and Richard and Mike would want to pick apart the details.

  Richard didn’t speak for a while after I finished. He kept his head turned, watching the young men loitering outside another bankrupt business across the street. It had gone through numerous incarnations, each leaving a bit of itself behind, generally architecture or advertising, like a commercial fossil. Considering the apparent age of the signage, the latest scheme had been a check cashing place.

  “Richard, we need to go. We’re going to be late.”

  For a moment, I thought I heard his teeth grinding. That seemed a fanciful idea until he turned to face me. The anger in his features hid his vitality and made him ugly.

  “We’re getting you out of here.”

  “I told Mrs. Waters I was checking out tonight.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He started the car, catching a little tire rubber as we left the parking lot, and I heard the teenagers across the street whoop. Hooligans, Mrs. Waters would say. I should be so lucky.

  We arrived at Rudy Nagroski’s home less than 10 minutes later. We had the trial attorney’s file in the trunk, but I preferred to travel light whenever possible. I had a binder in my bag with all of the police reports and the ME report, as well as the envelope of crime scene and autopsy photos. Besides, I was afraid lightning might strike me dead if I took a trial attorney’s file into the home of a law enforcement officer. At the very least, the ACLU would revoke my membership.

  According to Richard, Rudy’s wife had died a few years back, which was one reason he spent so much time at Rosalia’s. It’s true that a bachelor couldn’t get better food, but he was also rumored to have a thing for Rosalia. When he opened the door, my first impression was that Rosalia could do worse. He was a handsome man.

  “Hey Rudy,” Richard said when the door opened. “Good to see you. This is Sydney Brennan, the investigator I was telling you about.”

  “Well, come on in.”

  Rudy stepped aside and informally motioned us inside so he could close the door. It could be that he wasn’t a hand-shaker as a rule, but I didn’t think so. Rudy hadn’t actually stared, but when he looked at me I could feel his quick assessment. I felt certain that he’d decided against shaking hands because of my condition, whatever he perceived that to be. Bruised. Tender to the touch. Fragile and afraid. Strong and angry.

  And then he surprised me.

  Rudy took my right hand gent
ly in both of his and raised it to his lips. His eyes flicked to mine for my reaction. I don’t know what he saw. For him it was an effortless gesture, over before my brain could engage. My whole hand tingled, and I wasn’t sure if he’d kissed the fingers, the back of my hand, or both. I’d never had a man kiss my hand before—not seriously anyway—and I found the sensation both thrilling and repulsive. Not trusting myself to speak, I settled for a meager smile and nod of acknowledgement. Then I let him see the assessment in my own eyes.

  Rudy was taller than Richard, and broader, a little heavy but with the extra pounds spread out uniformly across his body rather than bulging in any one place. His closely cropped hair seemed the color and consistency of chrome. Eyebrows of the same shade seemed incongruous over hazel-green eyes, and his face was softened by a cleft in his chin and a little extra padding on his strong jaw. He wore a white button-down shirt with navy blue slacks, and his white socks seemed to blaze on his otherwise bare feet. I wondered whether I should take off my own shoes.

  I continued to wonder when we entered the heart of his home, an unremarkable one-story brick house, ubiquitous to suburbs across the country. For an old bachelor, Rudy was pretty civilized. He led us into a study that was not immaculate, but much cleaner than any room in my house, while he went to get us some fresh iced tea. (We had declined his offer of beer.)

  There were no torso-less animals or ancient firearms mounted on the walls, nor was the furniture heavy brown leather. Sage green chairs were grouped around a coffee table laden with magazines, Scientific American and an unfamiliar birding magazine on top. Matching green curtains were open to view a backyard maybe two or three times the footprint of the house in width, but extending about a hundred yards. Binoculars and a field guide sat on a small table at the center of the window. There was no chair, so presumably Rudy stood while watching.

  The far wall of the study was a bookshelf that contained nothing but books—no chachka, no photos. The book spines didn’t match, but they were all muted tones, and the books seemed to be arranged by size, making smooth, even rows of uniform height on each shelf. Before I could examine any of the titles, Rudy returned with a tray of three glasses. He served us first, and I noticed the liquid in his own glass was of a slightly different color. I didn’t doubt that it contained iced tea, but iced tea of the “improved” variety. I couldn’t be sure of how improved, unable to smell it from where I was sitting. Perhaps the smell of improvement permeated the study on a molecular level. Something certainly gave the room an undeniable if subconscious feel of masculinity, and it wasn’t the furnishings.

  “Rudy, I saw your boat there along the side. She’s a pretty little thing. You been spending much time on the water lately?”

  “Oh, she’s a pretty little thing all right. Pretty to look at and not good for much else. You better believe I’d be out on the water if I could ever get the goddamned motor to work.”

  He looked over at me. “Beg your pardon, miss. ‘Course, I’m sure in your line of work you’ve probably heard much worse.”

  For a northern transplant, he sounded the part of a local admirably. Such affectation had probably been essential to his job. I realized that he was playing a game with me. That’s okay. I knew my part too.

  “Yes, sir, I’d have to admit that I have heard worse. In fact, I’m ashamed to admit that on occasion I may have even said worse. In a fit of pique, of course.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, Rudy flirting gallantly and me parrying with a hint of over-the-top, demure southern wit. Richard seemed to be enjoying the show. When I decided I’d amused them both long enough, I got down to business.

  “Rudy, what do you remember about Isaac Thomas?”

  “Quiet man. Devoted to his daughter. I wouldn’t have fingered him for murdering his wife if we’d had any other suspects.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. I could say he didn’t seem the type, but we both know that doesn’t mean anything, especially in a domestic. It just didn’t feel right.”

  Rudy sipped his “iced tea” slowly. “Thomas never said he did it, but more importantly he never said he didn’t do it. He didn’t say much of anything. How many clients have you had, guilty and innocent, who swore up and down they didn’t do it? At least to the cops, if not to you.”

  Richard smiled. “Most of them.”

  “Exactly. Now I don’t know what he said to you in confidence, and I don’t want to know, but Sammy used to talk a bit. A bit more than was good for him and his clients, if you want the truth of it, especially toward the end. I was having a beer with him one night. I’m sure he thought he was picking my brain about the case, but at that point he wasn’t picking anything but his next drink. Sammy was frustrated. Frustrated hell, he was pissed. He said Thomas wouldn’t tell him a thing, not a goddamned thing. He wouldn’t say where he was that night, he wouldn’t say what happened, and he wouldn’t talk about his relationship with his wife.”

  Rudy paused for another sip. “I’m a cop. It sure as hell wasn’t my case, but I said maybe he ought to have a head shrinker look at the guy. But you know how Sammy was. Said there wasn’t anything wrong with his client a good smack upside the head wouldn’t fix.”

  “Did he invoke Miranda when you spoke with him?” I asked.

  “No, he didn’t refuse to speak to us. He just didn’t speak. I mean, he wasn’t rude about it. He kept asking if his daughter was okay, and what would happen to her, but that was it. He wouldn’t talk about his wife or the crime.”

  I appreciated that Richard sat silently while I continued to question Rudy. “What happened when you picked him up?”

  “Well, really, that was the strongest thing we had against him. We showed up at the house not long after he killed her. I think we had an anonymous tip.”

  “What kind of tip?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever was working the switchboard would have taken the call, and I don’t have a clue who that would have been. I guess it was the usual—some neighbor heard the altercation and got worried.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “I don’t know. Anyway, I can’t remember why, but I was in the area, along with the Sarge. Richard, you remember Sergeant Wiggins?”

  Richard nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Asshole moved to south Florida a few years back, and I haven’t heard from him since. So me and Sarge drop by the house and see someone leaving out the front door. It was Thomas, and when he saw us he panicked and took off running. We didn’t know his wife was dead, but when a man runs from the cops, it tends to make you suspicious. I was no spring chick even then, but I chased him down. Not that it took much chasing. When I got close enough, I told him to stop and he did. He never put up a fight. By that time Sarge had gone in and found—what was her name? Wanda?”

  “Vanda.”

  Rudy ran a hand over the back of his skull, as if stimulating brain cells, and nodded in agreement. “That’s right. Vanda. He found her dead.”

  “Was the daughter there, in the house?”

  “No. I couldn’t tell you where she was. With family or friends, I guess.”

  “Were you there when they processed the crime scene?”

  “Oh yeah.” He shook his head and gave a cringing smile at the memory.

  “That was a late night. We were short-handed, and we had to wait for the crime scene techs and the ME. Seems to me like there’d been a fire somewhere. Nothing serious, nobody died, but I think that’s where everybody was.”

  We took some time to go through his reports, but there really wasn’t much there. I hadn’t seen much about Vanda in particular, so I asked him about her.

  “Well, we never got far on her. There was a neighbor that said the wife used to mess around a lot—prostitute herself, really—but she admitted she’d never seen her bring a man home with her. The prostitution thing could be true, but we never got more than rumors, and those rumors usually came from women.”

  “Jealous women,” I sai
d.

  “That’s what we suspected. The victim was a very beautiful woman. And you have to remember, once we picked up the husband running away from the scene, nobody was pushing us to find things that would make the victim less sympathetic to a jury. Like it or not, that’s just the way it is.”

  I pulled out the envelope of crime scene photos and selected one that I had tagged. It was a shot of Vanda lying on the bed, from far enough away to get the whole bed in the picture, but close enough to clearly make out the way her head had fallen to one side.

  “Can you tell me if this picture shows exactly the way she looked when you found her?”

  “Well, if you want to be technical about it, Sarge found the body, but I’m pretty sure this is what she looked like when I walked in.”

  “Was there any indication she’d had sex recently?”

  Rudy sipped at his drink and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, considering.

  “We definitely didn’t have DNA, but I don’t know if we were doing that whaddaya-call-it, acid phosphatase test back then. Even if most places were, our ME wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, so I wouldn’t count on it. Sheets were rumpled, but they could have just been bad housekeepers. I don’t remember seeing a condom but I do remember—I don’t know how—that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Maybe her dress was hiked up when we got there, or maybe it was later when the ME got there. Sorry, I just can’t say.”

  “What was your impression of her physical condition?”

  “It didn’t take a medical degree to see she’d been strangled, face bulging and dark. Petechial hemorrhaging. She’d been struck, but not more than a couple of times. I wouldn’t say she was beaten. I think all the marks were on the same side of her face. Let me see, that would have been the left side, because her face was turned away to the left and you couldn’t see the marks right away. Not until she was moved.”