The door opened into a supply closet. It was crammed with broken furniture, old wastebaskets, electric typewriters, file boxes, manila folders that appeared to go back to the nineteenth century, and other bits of junk quietly moldering away until they reached the age where they could officially be considered antiques. The disturbed dust floated into the air, sending me into a fit of sneezing. Trying to stifle the sneezes made my sinuses back up like clogged drains.
Being a fugitive sucked.
Time dragged by. It was dark in the closet, illuminated only by the light through the half-open door. To keep myself occupied, I began picking up random files and skimming them. Compulsive reading is one of my worst habits. If I don’t have something to read before bedtime I can’t sleep. At times I’m reduced to reading my toothpaste tube.
But what was this? Beneath a rack of outdated files and a stack of burned-out fluorescent light tubes was a cardboard box labeled in black marker: Save—Mr. Vonnerjohn’s Personal Possessions. Freda must have cleaned out Kip’s office when he died, boxing up all his possessions and hauling them down here. I dragged the box from the shelf and flipped off the lid. Keeping one ear alert for approaching footsteps, I pawed through the box’s contents, wondering whether Freda occasionally fondled through this stuff, hoping for a faint whiff of Kip’s cologne. It was mostly junk: a stray golf glove, pens, gum, Post-its, coffee mugs, outdated calendars, and a slinky-type letter holder crammed with receipts, invoices, unpaid traffic tickets, and a copy of the rear end of some female staffer who’d sat bare-assed on the Xerox machine.
There was an entire collection of female tushes here, I discovered. They were autographed: Darci. Brittani, Traci, Staci, the i’s dotted with little hearts.
Could this be my first actual clue? Maybe some female employee with exfoliation needs was the dark-haired woman who’d worn my nightgown in the nanny cam video. I set aside the tushes and began flipping through the receipts, not really expecting anything more cluelike than an Office Max sales slip. A number caught my eye and I blinked, certain it was a case of a misplaced decimal point. I examined it more closely, squinting in the dust-speckled light. Davidoff Automotive Imports, River Hills, Wisconsin. One Maserati Quattroporte Sport DST, with customized options, sold to K. Vonnerjohn, $143,000, paid in full with cashier’s check. Estimated delivery date: 11/18.
I rubbed my eyes. Kip could barely afford a glue-it-yourself car from Hobby Lobby, let alone pay for the world’s priciest sports car. Where had Mr. Garnisheed Salary gotten the money for a Maserati? It had to be a joke.
Hastily I thumbed through the other receipts. All were for expensive items—tailored suits, titanium golf clubs, a lease on a luxury box at the basketball arena, a new Jet Ski. All were paid by cashier’s check and purchased in the two or three weeks prior to Kip’s murder.
There was a noise behind me and I whirled around.
“M-Mazie!”
Freda Schermerhorn stood framed in the doorway, her face white and terrified. The office supplies she’d been clutching exploded out of her arms. For a horrible moment I thought I’d shocked her into a heart attack.
She looked unwell. When she’d been Kip’s secretary, she’d worn tons of makeup and dressed in expensive suits. Now her hair was thin and dry, her makeup was a bare scrimp of lipstick, and her eyes were pouchy behind unflattering glasses. I’d lost touch with fashion, but even I could see that Freda’s sweater and pants were off the clearance sale rack. Probably her salary had taken a hit when she’d been downgraded to this department.
Forcing a smile, I spoke in a soothing, nonthreatening manner. “Hello, Freda. It’s good to see you ag—”
“You shouldn’t be here!” Freda’s voice trembled and her caramel-colored eyes watered. “I could get in a l-lot of trouble.”
She bent to pick up the stuff she’d dropped and I quickly stooped to help her, handing her stacks of folders, an office stapler, markers, and printer cartridges.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble, Freda. I just want to ask a couple of questions.”
She looked up at me, obviously terrified, her voice edging into a panic-stricken squeak. “You have to go now! I’m calling the police.”
“Come on, Freda—we’re friends, right? You know I didn’t kill Kip.”
“I don’t know what I think anymore,” she whimpered.
I felt like a schoolyard bully bracing kids for their lunch money. I reached out to give her a reassuring pat, but she jerked away.
“Don’t touch me, you—you convict!”
I should have been used to it by now, but it still hurt. “All right, fine, I’ll leave. Just one tiny question.” I held up the wad of receipts. “These were in with Kip’s things. Do you know anything about—”
“Those are company documents,” she hissed, snatching them out of my hand.
Shame on me! I’d let a sixty-year-old woman get the drop on me; I was losing my prison reflexes. “No, they’re Kip’s personal stuff. Look at them. They’re receipts.” I moved closer, trying to point out the proof, but Freda backed away.
“Don’t come a step closer!”
I wanted to grab the receipts back, but hesitated, worried that an aggressive move on my part might send the poor old dear reeling over the edge. Which just goes to show what happens when you try to do the decent thing: Fate jumps on you with steel-toed boots.
Freda’s arm suddenly shot out and she rammed a staple into my cheek. I shrieked in pain, my hand flying to my face. It stung like red-hot needles! She came at me again, jabbing, vicious as a hornet. Furious at myself for being suckered twice, I pivoted around Freda, sidestepped out of the closet, and slammed the door in her face, then turned the key in the lock.
“Help! Police!” Freda started pounding on the door, screaming. But the solid old door muffled sound. No one looked up as I hurried out of Freda’s office. It was the hour when employees are sneaking in a round or two of computer games or checking their fantasy football teams before they start shutting down for the day. Eventually someone would notice Freda’s pounding and go check it out, I thought, tossing the closet key onto a desk as I passed. Didn’t want Freda’s death by suffocation on my conscience.
Keeping my head bent over my clipboard as I returned to the lobby, I scurried past the nosy security guard at a brisk, man-on-mission pace, hoping he wouldn’t notice my stapled face, and heaved myself back out through the revolving doors. Outside, I retrieved my toolbox from beneath the bushes. Muffin scooted up to me, tail wagging and tongue lolling, his mouth rimmed with slimy orange gunk.
“Didn’t go well,” I told him, yanking the staple out of my cheek. Jesus, that hurt!
Muffin in my wake, I skulked away, expecting to hear police sirens any second. A delayed reaction body twitch set in, and I couldn’t get my arms and legs to work together. If I had, I would have strangled myself for my stupidity. Had I actually believed that Freda Schermerhorn would be eager to help me? Yes, as a matter of fact, I had believed it. I was way too good at making myself believe what I wanted to believe. This would be a lesson to me. No more ridiculous risks.
I needed time to think. I needed a place where I could sit down and sort out everything I’d learned so far. I needed a shoulder to cry on. There was only one person in the world who could provide all those things, and he’d never failed me yet.
I just had to find him before the police found me.
Escape tip #16:
The clipboard is mightier
than the metal detector.
A brisk ten-minute walk brought us to Wisconsin Avenue, the main artery through downtown Milwaukee. I halted in front of a chunky skyscraper surfaced in bright blue tiles the exact shade of the Phillips’ laxative bottle. Its official name is the Henry C. Reuss Federal Building, but locals call it the Milk of Magnesia Building. It houses the IRS, the immigration service, and a host of other bureaucratic nightmare agencies. To even get to the elevators you have to pass through metal detectors, security guards, and body cavity sear
ches. Okay, maybe not the cavity thing, but bored guards can do some nasty stuff with electronic wands. The home office of Stanford T. Brenner, United States Senator, was here on the tenth story. I stood across the street, clipboard clutched to my chest, staring up at his offices. How was I supposed to get to him—throw pebbles at his window?
Enter through the front and I’d be nabbed by a sharp-eyed security guard faster than you could say dangerous escaped fugitive. Instead, I sidled around to the rear. Bingo! Security here was as porous as Swiss cheese. Construction trucks were blocking the alley and workmen were trundling ladders, tools, and other equipment in and out of the propped-open service doors. My all-purpose navy blue uniform was my magic ticket. Checking off nonexistent violations on my clipboard, I tagged along behind a muscular guy in denim coveralls hauling rolls of insulation on his shoulder. Scampering through the door with me, Muffin was instantly obliterated by the cloud of dust being kicked up by a metal grinder.
No one questioned me; I was just another guy with a clipboard, making everyone’s life miserable by turning off the water or crashing the computers. I found a freight elevator and got in, Muffin squeaking in by a tail hair just as the doors closed. He was flagging; the long walk had worn him out and he had construction grit in his fur. I scooped him up and set him in my toolbox, where he immediately curled up for a nap.
I got out on the tenth floor. Since I’d been up here once before, I knew the layout. The senator’s office was on the east side of the building, with a crow’s nest view of Lake Michigan. Toolbox in hand, I hustled down the hall. Just as I approached the receptionist’s desk, a security guard strutted around a corner, shoulder epaulets flashing, gun holstered at hip. I dived into the womens’ restroom. Force of habit. A female employee emerged from a stall and shot me the look women reserve for guys who pee in city parks.
“Checking for radon,” I said in a gruff voice, swiftly backing out. The guard and the receptionist were now carrying on a conversation. I ducked into the mens’ john adjoining the ladies’ room. Bladder close to bursting, I locked myself in a stall and peed in nervous spurts, checking out the graffiti on the stall wall. Mens’-room graffiti is always way more entertaining than womens’. Never mind how I know that.
Do not throw cigarette butts in toilet, a sign sternly warned. Below that someone had scrawled It makes them soggy and hard to light. As I was pulling up my Jockey shorts, someone entered the bathroom, strode to the urinal and noisily did his business. I peeked out through the crack in the door.
Stanford “Bear” Brenner, United States Senator, stood five feet away, zipping his Act of Congress back into his trousers.
“Bear,” I whispered.
He jerked as though I were a terrorist about to lob a grenade at his private parts.
I opened the door and stepped out.
“Mazie?” His voice cracked in disbelief. “How did you—I don’t believe it!” His face split into a grin. He was a big guy, two hundred pounds on a six-two frame. He had hazel eyes, short brown hair touched with senatorial silver, a golf-course tan, and a spattering of precancerous bumps across his nose. He was wearing a light blue shirt, a tie slung around his neck like a noose, and the most wonderful smile I’d ever seen.
“Come to Papa, baby girl!”
His hug felt wonderful. For the first time in ages I felt warm and safe. Bear smelled like cinnamon soap and guy sweat. This man had been my rampart, my staunchest defender, my best friend throughout the whole ordeal of my arrest and trial. He’d never believed for a single instant that I’d murdered Kip. He’d paid for my lawyer, protected me from the worst media abuses, and even after I was sentenced to prison had never abandoned me. He phoned whenever he could take time out of his frantically busy schedule and always remembered Christmases and birthdays. He was my big brother, taking the place of the pathetic excuses for siblings who shared my DNA but who rarely bothered to visit or phone.
“How come you’re not wearing a bra?” he whispered in my ear.
“Long story.” Tears squirted from my eyes. Being held felt fabulous.
“I want to hear every word of it. My God, Mazie—you’re a folk hero, you’re Bonnie Parker and Bambi Bembenek rolled into one.”
“Bear—listen! That video, the nanny cam thing—”
“Aunt Van phoned me, Maze. She was insane, she was babbling about you
kidnapping her dogs, holding a gun on her—”
“She is insane, Bear! She tried to electrocute me, no shit!”
“What were you doing there? You know Vanessa is—”
“Missing a few buttons on her remote control? Yeah, but I wanted the nanny cam tape. The tape is weird, Bear. I think it’s a guy wearing my nightgown, it’s three days earlier and—”
“Whoa! Mazie, baby, you know I love ya, but you’re sounding a little—”
“Wacko. I know.” I laughed. “But with this video I can get a new trial—”
He held me a little away from him, hands on my shoulders so he could look directly at me. “Sweetie, the first thing you need to do is turn yourself in. I’ll arrange everything. We can call from right here, my office.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe I should give myself up. With Bear behind me, it wouldn’t be too bad.
Girl, are you on crack? Suddenly I was channeling Liza Loonsfoot, Taycheedah’s most outspoken jailhouse lawyer. A Ho-Chunk Indian serving fifteen years for killing her abusive stepfather, Liza had earned a mail-order law degree from Marquette University and knew more about the legal system than most Supreme Court justices.
Once they toss you back in the can they’ll let you rot! Liza yelled at me. It’ll be months before the State Court of Appeals gets around to considering the paperwork you filed. Even then you got no guarantee they’ll believe that hairy toes and some computer shit is spooky enough to give you an evidentiary hearing. They’ll say you monkeyed with the film. They’ll ask who besides yourself had a motive to kill Kip and you’ll be forced to answer you don’t know.
“I’m not turning myself in,” I said.
I took a deep breath. Then I said the words out loud for the first time, the words I’d been thinking but hadn’t dared utter until now. “I’m going to find who really killed Kip.”
Bear smiled. “The real killer. Like OJ, right?”
“Actually, I was thinking Doctor Richard Kimble.”
He gave me a blank look.
“You know, The Fugitive—the guy who hunts down the one-armed killer?”
“Baby, it’s been four years. You aren’t going to find a one-armed killer, a two-armed killer, or a guy with three balls after all this time.”
“Listen, Bear—all kinds of weird stuff is popping up. I’ve found the loose end of a ball of yarn and I just need to give it a yank and everything will start to unravel. Like the snapshot. I found a snapshot hidden in Kip’s old bedroom, an Instamatic—”
“Instamatic?”
“You know—those cheap little cameras people used before cellphones were invented. Here, I’ll show you.” I patted through my pockets, trying to remember where I’d stuck the snapshot.
“Not here,” Bear said hastily. “Someone could barge in any second. Did anyone spot you entering the building?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”
Bear grinned. “Mazie, you’re the biggest celebrity this state has produced since the Fonz. I only hope half your popularity rubs off on me.”
“The Fonz wasn’t actually from Milwaukee.”
He chuckled. His big hands made soothing circles on my back. “Where did you get this ridiculous outfit? Who’s been helping you?”
“I stole them out of a janitor’s closet.”
I don’t know why I fibbed. After all, Bear would have to know about Labeck sooner or later. I was about to launch into an explanation when Muffin suddenly woke with a snort, shot out of the toolbox, and lunged for Bear, snapping ferociously at his calf.
“Goddamit!” Bear, who’d been
a college football star, still had great reflexes; he sidestepped quickly and I snatched up Muffin before he could do any damage. He gave one sharp yip before I managed to clamp a hand over his muzzle.
“He ought to be on a leash,” Bear growled, examining his pants leg and discovering it was ripped. “Listen, baby, against my better judgment, I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“I knew you’d come through.”
He rubbed his forehead. His hair had receded a lot since I’d last seen him—were those implants on his scalp? “All right then. We’ve got to do this fast. Your clock is ticking away here. I want you to drive out to my summer place. You remember where it is?”
I nodded. The westernmost suburb of the city, out near Moon Lake.
“The cottage is closed down now—Charlene’s in California, and I’ve been staying at our condo downtown, so the place will be empty. You’ll be safe there. I’d drive you there myself, but—”
“No, forget it—you’re sticking your neck out as it is.” I started getting teary. I couldn’t help it; I was a big, brimming bag of hormones. I didn’t deserve this guy.
Bear flashed his smile, each shining tooth worth twenty thousand votes. “It’s been a long time since I had to do anything riskier than miss a roll call vote. I forgot how much fun it can be flouting the law.” He handed me a set of keys with an attached card. “Take my car. And stick to the speed limit. Every trigger-happy cop in the state will be gunning for you. I’ll get out there as soon as I can.”
Escape tip #17:
Get connected.
When he was in DC, Bear drove a Mercedes, but in Wisconsin he was careful to be seen driving an American-made vehicle. I had no trouble finding his car in the parking garage: a large, black, testosterone-injected Chrysler with a sheen like lights on dark water. Power steering, power brakes, power shifting, power everything—it practically drove itself. All I had to do was vaguely aim it in the right direction. Exiting the garage, I didn’t even have to worry about a ticket taker; just slide Bear’s parking card into a reader slot and wait for the gate to go up before floating out onto the street.
The Escape Diaries: Life and Love on the Lam Page 14