Peck met me at the door and briefed me quickly on my role. This was to be an informal interview, not a formal interrogation. (I would not have been allowed to attend the latter.) He wanted me to sit as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, listen, and observe. Afterward he would ask my opinion of what took place.
Eager to take part, no matter how passive my role, I agreed to everything. He ushered me into a small, bland room with three chairs and a desk. He took the chair behind the desk and gestured for me to take the chair to one side. The chair facing the desk remained empty for Stan.
I was barely seated before I heard two pairs of footsteps in the corridor. One solid and firm, the other lighter and less sure. A police officer ushered Stan into the room. The officer stepped back, taking a place by the door, and Stan stood blinking uncertainly. When he recognized me, he looked puzzled, but he said nothing.
“Please sit down, Mr. Huntsburger,” Peck said.
So Stan had a last name.
“I apologize for the inconvenience of bringing you down here. I just have a few questions …”
Stan forced a smile.
“I’ve asked Dr. Banks to join us primarily because she is familiar with the motel’s physical plant, the staff, and so forth, and I thought if you had any questions, she could answer them better than I.”
Stan and I stared uncomfortably at each other.
He was more dressy today than at the motel. Instead of shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers, he wore a light suit, sport shirt, and loafers. He must have come straight from work. I wondered what his work was. At the motel I had taken his flushed face for sunburn, but in the bright overhead lights, it looked more like the flush of the chronic alcoholic.
“Leave the door open, will you Mike?” Peck said to the officer who had been about to close the door. The detective folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible,” he said. “Could you tell me where you were the night Robert”Sunny” Parker died?”
So Sunny had a last name, too.
“I was at the motel,” he said. “My wife and I were staying there. I think I told you that, Mr. Peck.” He was faintly accusatory.
“You probably did. But my mind is a sieve.” Peck spoke affably.
Stan relaxed slightly.
If Peck was the good cop, then, was I the bad cop?
“What I meant was,” Peck continued, “where specifically were you—say from six o’clock to midnight? In your room, the lobby, the parking lot?”
“All three. Fran and I grabbed a bite at the Clam Shell, a little place outside of Salem. Has great seafood. Then we came back to the motel to watch TV. There was some program Fran wanted to see. But the racket outside our window was so loud, we couldn’t hear it. We shut it off and Fran picked up a mystery, but I went down to the lobby to see what was going on.”
“What was going on?” Peck asked.
“You know. Those bikers were all jazzed up—drinking and yelling. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were doing drugs. It was a riot!” He looked nervous just talking about it.
“So what did you do then, Mr. Huntsburger?”
“Nothing. I just stood around in the lobby and the parking lot watching them, trying to stay out of their way. Jack-the-Night-Clerk was on desk duty. A lot a good he did. Acted like a scared rabbit.”
“And what about you? Were you scared?”
“Of course not,” Stan huffed. “I was just annoyed that my wife couldn’t watch her TV show. You pay good money for a room, the least you expect is a little peace and quiet.”
“Why were you staying in Bayfield, of all places,” Peck asked with a smile.
I marveled at Peck’s easy-going manner. But he had said this was to be an informal interview.
“I was working on a deal for my storage company, looking for some cheap real estate to build new units. It was supposed to bring in big bucks. It’s hard to keep a lady like mine in mink, you know.” He grinned. “Why else would anyone go to such a godforsaken place? The night life?” He risked a little joke.
“Why would you bring your wife to such a ‘godforsaken place’?” Peck pursued.
“She needed a little vacation—a change of scene. She doesn’t do well cooped up in the house. Besides, I like to keep a close eye on her.” He winked at Peck. “She’s a wild one.”
“Did you see the victim, Sunny, when you were hanging out in the lobby?” Peck adopted a more businesslike tone.
“Oh, sure. He was in and out. They’d stashed some of the booze there and they all came in for refills.”
“What kind of booze?”
“Beer, mostly. But there was hard stuff too. Vodka and bourbon. Some of them hit the soda machine for mixers.”
“About how long were you there?”
He shrugged.
“Approximately?”
“About an hour. Long enough to see Sunny carry the doctor off.” He snickered, glanced at me, then blushed.
“Did you see Mr. Canby nick Sunny’s ear with an arrow?” Peck asked.
“Yeah. But I didn’t know what happened at the time. The arrow didn’t make any noise and all I saw was a lot of commotion. Then one of the bikers rushed in and called nine-one-one. He asked for an ambulance. I thought things were getting too hot, so I went back to my room.”
A dispatcher stuck his head in the doorway and asked to speak to Peck. The detective excused himself. An awkward silence stretched between Stan and me, but I’d be damned if I’d break it. Finally Stan said, “What are you doin’ in Bayfield, Doctor?”
“I live and practice here.” I said.
“I mean, what’s a highly educated woman like you doin’ at a two star motel in the boondocks?” He sent me a knowing look. “Hidin’ out?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” He backed off quickly. “I just thought you might have some malpractice problems or something …” he trailed off.
I glared at him.
“Ok, ok.” He raised his hands in mock self-defense.
We sat in strained silence until Peck returned.
This time the detective went straight to the point. Looking directly at Stan, he said, “When you were in the lobby, did you ever, at any time, give Sunny something to drink?”
“What d’ya mean?” Stan sat up.
“I mean, when Sunny came into the lobby for a refill, did you ever hand him a beer?”
“No way. The bottles were sitting right there in the cooler.”
“Did you tamper with one of those beers? Twist open the bottle and introduce some toxic substance—”
“Now why would I do that?” His look of amazement seemed genuine, but bands of sweat were visible under both arms. “I didn’t even know the guy.”
“Your wife did,” I interjected.
Both Stan and Peck looked at me, and Stan’s face drained of color.
“Let’s take a break,” Peck said abruptly. “How about a Coke, Mr. Huntsburger?”
Momentarily deaf, Stan stared at his shoe tips.
“A Coke?” Peck repeated.
He glanced up. “Uh … oh, sure.”
Peck rose and gestured for me to follow him into the hall. The police officer remained behind with Stan.
When we were outside, I said, “I’m really sorry. It just came out.”
“No harm done. What did you mean by that comment?”
“Remember, I told you. His wife took a long ride with Sunny on his bike and Stan was there when they got back. Did you notice how pale he was after I spoke?”
Peck nodded, and was thoughtful. “I think I’d better take it alone from here. You can go home—”
“Do I have to?” I was disappointed. The interview was just beginning to get interesting.
“’Fraid so.” He looked at me. “We have to go carefully now, stay within legal limits. He may be on the verge of a confession and I don’t want any foul-ups. Go home and get some rest. I’ll keep you posted
.”
“But he was just about to break—”
“When I suggested a Coke, I did that because it’s time for this interview to become official. I didn’t expect things to move so fast. Your comment accelerated things. You were a big help.” He winked and headed for the Coke machine.
I lingered in the hall. I didn’t like being dismissed so unceremoniously. But it was my own fault. I should have kept my mouth shut. But I wondered about Peck. I didn’t trust him completely. He had broken his promise about bringing the law to the funeral. Maybe he didn’t want a confession? Did he still think Pi killed Sunny? I walked to my bike—Pi’s bike—head down, intent on my thoughts.
“Hi, Doc.”
“Mickey. What are you doing here?”
“A bunch of us came down to see if we could fix bail for Pi.”
“And?”
“No soap. No bail for somebody held on a murder charge.”
I knew that.
“What are you doin’ here?”
“Uh …” Better not say too much. “Peck asked me to drop by and answer a few questions.”
“You ain’t a suspect, are you?”
I laughed. “Hope not.”
“I thought I saw them bringing in that Mr. Milktoast from the motel. The one with the hot old lady.”
“Oh?” I played innocent.
“She sure was some chick. I’ll bet that wuss has trouble keepin’ her out of the sack—with other dudes, that is.” He snorted.
“Umm. Did you see Pi?”
“Naw. No visitors for twenty-four hours after an arrest. This place is a fuckin’ concentration camp!” He slapped his leather glove against his palm. “Well, as they say, I’ll see you back at the ranch.” Mickey ambled off to get his bike.
As I tried to fall asleep, a wave of nausea swept over me. I thought of Pi, alone, pacing a small brick cell, expecting me to rescue him. “Get some rest,” Peck had said. Sure, Detective. At least I didn’t have to worry about Pi skipping town tonight. He was safely incarcerated. And he didn’t have to worry about mosquitoes! As I said, even when life is the worst, there are sometimes compensations.
Stan’s words bored in on me. “What are you doin’ in Bayfield, Doctor? Hidin’ out?” Compartmentalize! That compartment is closed and locked, if you plan to get any sleep tonight.
I sat up and turned on the light. In desperation, I picked up Jack’s story and began to read. This time I finished it. Jack was a good writer, and I couldn’t wait to tell him. I threw on my old wrapper and went down to the lobby. He was asleep, his head on the desk. I shook him gently. “Hey Jack!”
He looked at me, groggy. “What’s up?”
I waved his manuscript at him. “This is good! Gotta send it out. Don’t leave it in a drawer—or some filing cabinet.”
“You mean it?” He was wide awake.
“Absolutely.”
A serene smile spread across his face.
SUNDAY
CHAPTER 39
The shrill sound of the alarm interrupted my dream. It had been a good dream, too. Tom and I were back together, having a few beers at Harry’s. The shrill sound came again. Not the alarm. The phone.
“Yes?”
“We broke him.” Peck.
“When?”
“A few minutes ago.” I looked at the clock. Two-twenty A.M. “That tip you gave us about his wife taking a ride with Sunny? We needled him about it and he finally collapsed like a bowlful of Jell-O. It was kind of pathetic, actually. Apparently this dame had been teasing him for years. Playing around with other guys, but not really—you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Something snapped inside Stan this week, and Sunny paid for a long line of suitors,” he said.
“Is Pi free?”
“Officially. But he has to wait till morning for us to complete the paperwork.”
“Can I see him?”
“’Fraid not. House rules.”
“Can’t you bend them? If I hadn’t mentioned that joy ride his wife took—
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and said in a slightly embarrassed tone, “One thing we couldn’t get out of him is how he got Sunny’s beer bottle back. Any ideas about that?”
“No problem. Those guys never throw anything in the trash—they just drop it wherever they happen to be when they’re finished with it. Stan probably hung around till Sunny dropped the bottle, then picked it up. If anyone saw him, they wouldn’t have thought anything of it.”
“Huh. And then, Einstein that he is, he stashed it in the cupboard, planning to pick it up later.”
“Yeah.” I laughed. “But he forgot.”
“Thanks.”
After he hung up, more of Jack’s words came back to me again.
“The little green man … can nibble at your insides over a period of months and years or burst on you, searing you in an instant.
Poor Stan.
The brick jail, vintage 1890, was tucked behind the courthouse. The plumbing hadn’t been updated since, I’d heard. I parked my bike and went inside.
“I’m here to pick up … Pi. They brought him in last night.”
The man at the desk looked blank.
“Big fellow. Heavyset. Long hair. Nose ring. Earring. Tattoos.”
Light dawned. “Oh, that guy. He left.”
“What?”
He glanced at his watch. “Yeah, he’s been gone over an hour.”
“But he didn’t have his bike. How could he leave?”
“I think the detective gave him a lift.”
I barreled back to the motel, breaking the speed limit in my usual coy fashion. When I burst into the lobby, I stopped short. Maggie was at the front desk.
“Hi, Mag.”
She looked gray and wan. But it was good she’d made the effort. She smiled—barely.
“Have you seen any bikers this morning?”
Frowning, she shook her head, a sign that she still disapproved of my associating with them.
I went back to the parking lot. I couldn’t understand it. Where could he be? Knowing Pi, the first thing he would want after he was sprung was his bike. I jogged around the parking lot a few times. Still no Pi. I went back in the lobby and had a cup of coffee swill. Maggie was deep in a romance novel. I flipped through the Bugle. Nick’s story was on page 3. He was awaiting his appeal. If Pi didn’t come soon, I’d have to go to the hospital on his bike. I was fuming. I had patients to see. Life didn’t stop because of one biker’s little problems.
Pi burst through the lobby door.
“Where have you been?” I demanded.
“In jail.” He grinned.
“I mean, since then. I came to get you.”
“With my bike?”
I nodded.
“Good girl.” He came and gave me a bear hug. “I hear I owe you. Peck says you helped nail that asshole.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I went to see your boyfriend.”
“Tom?”
“He’s the man of the moment, ain’t he?”
“How’d you get there?”
“Peck dropped me off and I hitched a ride back here.”
“But why—”
“I had to straighten things out. I told him what that kiss amounted to—!”
I was speechless.
“I told him I always give the chicks a friendly buss, to test them out. If they respond … it’s full speed ahead. If not … no harm done. But when I bussed you, it was like kissing the underbelly of a dead codfish …”
“Pi!”
“And believe me, I’ve bussed my share of chicks.”
“Pi, spare me!”
“What’s the matter? I fixed everything with you and your boyfriend. You should be foot-kissin’ grateful.”
I sighed.
“Hey, you hang on to that guy. He’s righteous. I can smell it. Pretty soon, thanks to me, he’ll trundle over here, hat in hand, ready to eat crow.”
“Oh,
my god.” I slumped on the sofa.
“One good turn deserves another.” He punched my shoulder as if I were one of his buddies. (I’d be black-and-blue for days.) “Now where’s my bike?”
“In the lot.” I tossed him his keys.
When he left, I glanced over at Maggie. She had laid her romance novel aside. “Your love life is more interesting,” she said, with a ghost of her former twinkle.
As I heard Pi revving his bike, I remembered my bike! I rushed out to the lot, waving frantically. “Wait! My bike’s at the shack. You’ve gotta take me.”
“Hop on.”
I hopped on the back, gripping him around the waist. The sound of a Harley allows for no conversation. We rode in silence. But once at the shack, I asked when he was leaving.
“We’ll be heading out tonight after,” he paused, “ … some unfinished business.”
“What … ?” I felt cold.
He looked at me, deciding how much to tell. Finally he said, “Jingles. He ID’d me at the funeral. Remember when he gave me that big kiss?”
I remembered.
“That was the signal for the troopers to take me.”
I let that sink in. “You mean he snitched?”
He nodded.
“But why … ?”
“Power. You were right. He wanted my job.”
“How did you find out?”
“One of the troopers let it out. He was gloating about it on the way to that quaint little jail of yours—the one that serves a free roach with every meal.”
“What are you going to do?” I had blocked on Pi’s new capacity for violence. Something acquired since his paper boy days.
He didn’t answer.
“Be careful. You’ll end up back in that quaint little jail.”
He laughed at that. “The law don’t care if a biker beats up another biker. In fact, it makes them happy, ’cause they’d like to do it themselves.”
I tried again. “Might doesn’t make right.”
His expression hardened. “Save that crap for Sunday school.” He mounted his bike.
“Pi—”
“So long. And don’t forget, I owe you. You have my cell number.” With a high sign, he kick-started his bike and twisted the throttle.
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