by John J. Lamb
Donna clearly had a motive and the technical know-how to commit the crime and I felt bad for so cavalierly dismissing Ash’s theory that the confrontation at breakfast was deliberately intended to provoke an asthma attack. Suddenly, it made perfect sense. The important thing now was to prove Donna had the opportunity to sabotage the inhaler and that meant going down to the lobby and trying to find out how many card keys had been issued for the Swifts’ room, to whom they were given, and when those cards were handed out.
Shutting the computer off, I quickly—well, as quickly as I’m able with this bum leg—changed clothes. I put on my dress slacks, a twill shirt, knotted the retina-searing Pokemon tie around my neck, and slipped my sports coat on. Studying myself in the mirror, I hoped I could still generate some of my old homicide dick persona. I switched my wallet containing my gold SFPD “retired” inspector badge from my trousers to the left inside pocket of my jacket, where I’d customarily carried it during my career as a cop and felt a little more comfortable.
However, I had a far more challenging task in recapturing some of my arrogant swagger long enough to fool the hotel staff and that was my need to abandon my cane while I was at the front desk. I had to appear as if I were fully ambulatory, otherwise the clerks might suspect I was a fraud. Theoretically, I can walk short distances without my cane, just as, theoretically, Carrot Top is a comedian. I knew it would be impossible for me to make it from the room to the elevator and then to the registration desk without my cane, so I decided to use it until the last moment and then find someplace to hide it temporarily.
Another potential problem was if the same desk clerk who’d checked us in yesterday morning was working today. Then again, what were the odds that he’d recognize me? It was a huge hotel, hundreds of new guests had registered the previous day, and it was unlikely he’d remember me…especially when he’d been paying such close attention to Ash.
I rode the elevator back down to the first floor and decided that I’d attract far more attention to myself if I wandered around trying to find the perfect place to hide my cane, so I leaned against an end table beside some chairs that were just around the corner from the registration desk. Then, taking a deep breath and steeling myself for the effort, I began walking as normally as I could. The first few steps didn’t hurt, but after that the pain started in my shin and began working its way upwards to my hip. By the time I reached the desk, I was gritting my teeth.
There were two female clerks behind the counter and I guess, what with my angry grimace and white complexion, I must have looked a little intimidating. When the older woman saw me, she gave her younger counterpart a he’s-all-yours look, snatched up a phone, and pretended she was handling a call.
The younger woman sighed and said, “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
Reaching into my jacket, I pulled the badge case and flipped it open and shut quickly, hoping she didn’t notice that I’d just shown her a seven-pointed gold star as opposed to the silver shield worn by the Baltimore detectives. “I’m Detective Callahan from Homicide. Lieutenant Mulvaney told me to come down here and get some information.”
“Yes, sir. Are you all right, sir?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You look like you’re in a lot of pain.”
“Acid-reflux. I shouldn’t eat doughnuts, but I do and I pay for it afterwards,” I said as if confiding a slightly shameful secret.
The woman nodded and I noticed the tiniest hint of a sneer. One of the most popular American myths—a belief that almost amounts to occupational bigotry—is that cops eat nothing but doughnuts and I’d proven my identity as a peace officer by mentioning my addiction to gut bombs. She said, “How can I help you, Detective?”
“I want some information about the Swifts’ room.” I panicked for a second, realizing I didn’t know the room number. There was no other recourse but to brazen it through. “Lieutenant Mulvaney wants to know how many card keys were issued for room…”
I began to flip through the pages of my steno pad and the woman said, “Room seven-forty-six.”
“Right. Seven-forty-six.”
The woman bent over the keyboard and typed some information into the keyboard. Studying the monitor screen, she said, “A total of…three.”
“Why three? There were only the two of them in the room.”
“It says that two cards were issued when they checked in yesterday—”
“Which was about ten-thirty.”
“Yes, sir, and then a third key was issued to Mrs. Swift last night at about seven-forty-five. The notation says that she lost her key and needed a replacement.”
“Is the employee that issued her the replacement key here now?”
“No, sir. He’s on the night shift, so he won’t be in until four P.M.”
“His name?”
“Terrell Slessor.”
“Fine, I’ll be back at four to interview him. Your name, please?”
“Bethany Gibbons.”
I wrote the name down in my notebook and then pointed to the TV camera on the wall behind the registration desk. “Would that incident have been captured on your security camera?”
“I suppose so. The camera is on all the time.”
I thought: Great, there’ll be incontrovertible evidence of me impersonating a peace officer. I wonder if they serve Chesapeake Bay crab cakes in the Maryland State Penitentiary? Instead, I said: “Contact your security manager and put that tape into safekeeping. We’ll want it later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And thanks for your cooperation, Bethany. I’ll be getting back up to the room now.”
Turning slowly so that I didn’t trip, my leg throbbing so badly I wondered if I could even move it, I stomped back toward the corridor leading to the elevators. The moment I was around the corner, I grabbed my cane and collapsed into one of the chairs. But the pain was worth it because I’d just obtained another piece of important information.
I was certain Jennifer Swift couldn’t have requested a duplicate card key at 7:45 P.M., because she was present at the reception until at least 8 P.M., when we left. Therefore, another woman had pretended to be Jennifer and bluffed the desk clerk into giving her a spare key. Add those circumstances to the fact that Donna Jordan had left the reception before 7:45 P.M., after telling us about how much she hated the Swifts, and I began to see the outline of a brilliant plan: murder the woman that betrayed you and frame your victim’s repugnant spouse for the killing. Donna could have easily slipped back into the banquet room during the confusion while we were doing CPR, grabbed the inhaler, and planted it in the Swifts’ room. Furthermore, her behavior after the murder was consistent with someone tortured by guilt.
Maybe I should have called Sergeant Delcambre then, but—sore leg notwithstanding—I was enjoying myself too much. So, I decided I’d talk to Donna myself.
Ten
After changing out of my homicide detective costume and tossing the ugly tie into the wastebasket, I went over to study the fire escape map on the inside of the room door. I couldn’t run the risk of being recognized as I passed the registration desk on my way back to the exhibit hall, which meant finding another way. I was confident there had to be a stairwell on the opposite side of the hotel and if there wasn’t, when I was finished investigating this murder I’d be calling the Baltimore Fire Marshal to report a major building code violation. Luckily, there was another stairway, and I hobbled down the length of the building and started downstairs, one step at a time.
The first floor stairwell opened onto the corridor near the exhibit hall and as I headed inside I saw some further evidence that Jennifer’s death was no longer a secret. A woman television reporter and her camera operator had just come through the main doors and they were shaking rainwater from themselves and their equipment like a pair of soggy golden retrievers fresh from a pond. I suspected they were merely the vanguard of a local media invasion and I wondered how they’d learned of the murder so quickly. Call me suspicious, but I fi
gured Mulvaney had made a discreet phone call to the newsroom—after all, you can’t be the star if there are no cameras.
Going into the exhibit hall, I brought Ash up-to-date on what I’d learned.
“You really think it was Donna?” She didn’t sound convinced.
“I’m just saying that the pieces and time line seem to match up. Furthermore, she fits the profile, because women, being smarter and more cunning, have always been far more prone to use poison than men.”
“Always?”
“At least as far back as fifty-four A.D.”
“Should I remember that date?”
“Not unless you’re a student of the history of murder. That was the year Agrippina murdered her husband, the Roman emperor Claudius. She fed him poisoned mushrooms and if you ask me, it served him right for marrying his niece.”
“Eww.” Ash looked nauseated.
“Yep. Talk about a close family—you needed a crowbar to separate them.”
“Can we please change the subject to something just a little less disgusting?”
“Such as premeditated murder. So, you were about to tell me why you don’t think Donna’s good for the murder.”
“It’s because of the way she behaved last night when we talked to her at the reception.”
“Go on.”
“If we follow your theory that she’s the killer, Donna was only minutes away from tricking the hotel clerk into giving her a key to the Swifts’ room so that she could fill the inhaler with superglue. So, why would she do anything to draw attention to herself?”
“By behaving like a drunken banshee. That’s a good point. Of course, there’s always the chance she was trying to generate some liquid courage to go through with her plan and over imbibed.”
“Maybe, but even so, would she have acted that way in front of us? She had to know that you’re a retired cop.”
“I see what you mean.” I grimaced as an ugly thought struck me. “Jesus, if you’re right, I might have been able to prevent the murder.”
“What are you talking about?”
We suddenly had to hit the “pause” button on the conversation because standing in front of our table was one of the rarest things you see at a teddy bear show: A wife with her middle-aged husband in tow who wasn’t checking his watch every four seconds and sighing, rolling his eyes, or shaking his head in scornful amusement at all the people in ecstasy over stuffed animals. In fact, he looked like he was having a pretty good time. We chatted with them and he insisted on buying Suzy Cinnamon Streusel because his wife had fallen in love with the bear. They were holding hands as they walked away and their obvious love for each other restored a little of my faith in the human race.
Once the couple was out of earshot, Ash said, “Okay, what were you going to say about feeling a little responsible for the murder?”
“Here’s a hell of a what if: What if that scene last night was a huge cry for help? Maybe you’re right and she knew I was a former homicide detective and she hoped I’d say something to make her see that murdering Jennifer wasn’t the answer. At least you tried to comfort her. All I did was stand there, caring guy that I am, and hope she was going to dish out some embarrassing and entertaining dirt about the Swifts.”
Ash peered at my event name tag. “Sorry, the name says Bradley Lyon, not God. Honey, there’s no way either of us could have known what she was intending…if she actually killed Jennifer.”
“But before we eliminate her as a suspect, there’s something else to consider: When I went to check out her booth, Donna was just coming back from somewhere. She was a total basket case and acted as if she was certain that Jennifer was dead.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“That lunacy with Mulvaney made me forget.”
“And she knew Jennifer was dead?”
“It could’ve been a lucky guess or maybe even wishful thinking, but she was in full Lady-Macbeth-after-the-murder mode.”
“So, what are we going to do now?”
“I’m going to go talk to her.”
“You mean, we’re going to go talk to her. I don’t want to miss any of this.”
“I don’t see how you can go.”
“Why?”
“Aside from the fact that there’s something a little disturbing about your fascination with murder, there’s the tiny issue of someone having to stay here at the table.”
“We’ll only be gone for a few minutes.”
“And what if somebody wants to buy a bear or, worse, decides to steal our stuff?” I gestured toward our array of stuffed animals. “One of us has to watch the store.”
“Nobody’s going to steal our bears.”
“Sweetheart, I hate to remind you of this, but there’s already been a murder here today, so I wouldn’t be too quick to rule out grand theft as the next unique feature of this show.”
“But if I put up a note saying that we’d be back in a few minutes and asked one of our neighbors to watch our table while we’re gone…” She grabbed a sheet of paper and a red marking pen from the satchel.
“I’m not going to win this debate, am I?”
“No.”
“Okay, we’ll go together. And thank you for resisting the urge to point out that I’ve never won a debate with you.”
Ash dimpled. “You’re welcome.”
She quickly finished the note, asked the nice lady at the adjoining booth to watch our table for a few minutes, and covered our bears with an old bed sheet. A minute later, we were standing in front of the spot where, just over an hour earlier, Donna’s Ivanhoe teddy bear display had stood. Now it was as empty as a professional baseball player’s solemn promise to a congressional committee that he’d never used anabolic steroids.
“She’s gone,” said Ash.
“Yep and this is what we used to call ‘suspicious’ in the homicide investigation trade.”
“Oh, my God. Maybe she did kill Jennifer.”
“Could be, but if you’re on the run from a murder rap, you don’t come back to disassemble your booth and carefully pack up your teddy bears. You just make tracks.”
“That’s true.”
“Hey, are you guys looking for Donna?” Dolores called from the adjoining booth.
“Yeah, we needed to talk to her for a second,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“You just missed her. She said she wasn’t feeling well and was heading back home.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Just a minute or two ago. Like I said, you just missed her.”
“Thanks.” I turned to Ash and quietly continued, “Head for the parking structure and I’ll catch up with you as fast as I can.”
“What do you want me to do if I find her?”
“Try to stall her. Tell her that we know what really happened and that we’ll call the cops if she runs.”
Ash took two quick strides toward the exit, then stopped and pivoted. “Now that you mention it, shouldn’t we be calling Lieutenant Mulvaney?”
“Not yet. We don’t have anything even close to probable cause to arrest Donna. If we called now, the only thing Mulvaney would do is send some cops over to arrest us for interfering with her investigation.”
“If you say so. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll hurry and please be careful.” I reached out to squeeze her hand.
“That’s my line. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Ash headed for the door, but as she neared the end of the aisle, Lisa rounded the corner from the opposite direction and the two women almost walked headlong into each other. Talk about a showdown-at-the-O.K.-Corral moment. Ash paused for just a second to give the other woman a glare cold enough to cause frostbite and continued toward the exhibition hall exit. Lisa watched her go, wearing a realistic look of puzzled innocence. Then she turned and saw me hobbling along in apparent pursuit of my wife. I realized that it must have looked as if Ash and I had just had an argument and it made me angry wh
en I saw the nascent glee in Lisa’s eyes.
“Gee, is everything all right between you and your wife?” she asked solicitously as she moved directly into my path and stopped.
“We’re fine. I don’t have time to talk with you right now.”
“Then later, I hope. I’m a very good listener.”
“I don’t need a good listener; I’m happily married to one already,” I said, pushing past her.
She touched my wrist. “Of course you are. Bye.”
Even if they had no intention of actually straying, most men would take pleasure in Lisa’s amorous overtures since being considered sexually desirable by an attractive woman inflates the male ego to the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. However, I wasn’t enjoying it and not just because I utterly love my wife. The nasty delight I’d seen in Lisa’s eyes told me that Ash had been right about one thing. Lisa wasn’t interested in me because I was a candidate to become her second—or maybe third—husband. She couldn’t care less about me personally. I was merely the pawn in her most current game of subverting other women’s husbands merely to see if it could be done. That knowledge made me want to stop in a restroom and wash where she’d touched me, but there wasn’t any time.
Out in the corridor, two TV news cameras were videotaping a cop in a baggy blue jumpsuit, kneeling on the floor and putting a fresh trace evidence filter container into a forensic vacuum cleaner. I limped around the group and was almost clear when I heard the subdued buzz of conversation. One of the cameras swiveled in my direction and I cursed under my breath. During my years as a homicide inspector, I’d met many television reporters and the overwhelming majority were decent enough people. But they serve in an industry that exploits tragedy for ratings points, which, in my opinion, makes prostitution seem a squeaky clean profession in comparison. Suddenly a microphone was thrust under my nose as the camera operator shifted to a position in front of me.