by Ed Gorman
I took the clipboard and went over and sat down. I’d have to wait till she was off the phone to explain that I wasn’t here to have my throat examined. I was here to ask the good doctor some questions. I went through a pile of magazines. At least four of them had Khrushchev’s photo on the cover.
It was a noisy waiting room thanks to all the toddlers. They crawled, ran, fell down, bumped into things, cried, screamed, laughed, and screamed some more. Their mothers scolded, pleaded, begged, scolded and sighed. Deep, long sighs. Deep, long maternal sighs. They’d earned their sighs.
A nurse took me back to a small office that was crowded with too much office furniture of the wooden variety, too many medical tomes and too many samples of medicine. It was like one of those tiny closets Shemp, Mo, and Larry always found themselves in. Turn around and you give the guy next to you a concussion. The west wall was covered with framed photos of Evans and his family, two pig-tailed teenage girls, and an appealing out-doorsy sort of wife.
Dr. Ned Evans was as advertised by the stewardess I’d talked to earlier. A short, trim, bald man imposing not because of good looks but because in a completely modest way he exuded virility. He had to have been an athlete and a good one. A college wrestler, perhaps.
He wore the white smock over his slacks. A stethoscope sagged around his neck like a tired snake. He held up my card and smiled. “A private investigator. I sure never thought I’d ever have one of you guys in my office.” He sat down. “I can give you five minutes. Then I’ve got to get back to the grind. The flu season is starting early this year.”
“Then I’ll get right to it. Karen Hastings.”
He nodded. He put his hands on the desk. They were big hands and now they were tightening into fists. “I was sleeping with Karen Hastings for three, four months. She’d been a patient of mine. There was a lot of cancer in her family. She was something of a hypochondriac. She came in with a mole she was very worried about. Basal cell carcinoma. I had it biopsied—state law if you take anything off—and we found out it was nothing to be worried about. Most basil cell carcinomas don’t spread or metastasize. They stay pretty much where they are and never become anything to worry about. That’s how it started. Then one day I was downtown for a quick sandwich and I ran into her. We had a Coke. Three nights later I was sleeping with her. I probably would still be sleeping with her if her brother hadn’t started blackmailing me. He’d taken photos of me entering and leaving her place. Then he got a couple of shots of me taking her into a roadhouse. It was the usual bullshit. He’d mail them to my wife if I didn’t pay him.”
“How much?”
“Three grand.”
“Did you pay him?”
“Did I have any choice?”
“Did you keep on seeing her after that?”
“Are you kidding? I figured she was part of it.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
He thought a moment. “Week ago. She called to say how sorry she was about her brother. That she hadn’t had anything to do with the blackmail. She wanted me to come over and see her. She said she was in love with me.”
“Did you believe that?”
“No. Or at least I didn’t care if she was telling me the truth.”
“Why’s that?”
He made a face. “Why’s that? Well, I’m forty-four years old, I have an enviable medical practice, my peers tell me I’m damned good at what I do—and most of all I’ve got a wife and two daughters I love more than anything on this earth. And when I finally woke up and realized that I was jeopardizing it all—I just wanted out.”
“He would’ve kept blackmailing you.”
“I know.”
“That’s a pretty good reason for killing somebody.”
“I know that, too. Ever since I heard about her being killed—and then him on top of it—I can’t relax. I have to force myself to concentrate on my work. I just keep waiting for the knock on the door. The police. I’ll be a murder suspect and it’ll all come out and I’ll be ruined. Like those four stupid bastards who put up the money for her.”
“Why ‘stupid’?”
“Are you kidding? How long did they think before it’d get out?”
“You spent time with her.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t put her on the payroll.” Then: “Whether you noticed it or not, I’m scared shitless.”
It was one of those moments when somebody sort of forces you to like them against your better judgment.
“She was beautiful,” he said, “and I’d never had sex like that. Never once. Hell, I wasn’t even attractive to women until I got in my forties. I think it’s being bald. I’m not kidding you. I lose my hair, women suddenly start showing interest in me. I was always the best friend, the blind date, the guy who couldn’t get to first base when everybody else was hitting home runs. And then I lose my hair and women seem to like me.”
“Maybe it’s the ’vette.”
“I’ve thought of that, believe me. Or maybe it’s the combination.” He covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths. A relaxing technique. He took his hands away and said, “Think the police’ll find out about me?”
“I don’t know. But I’d get a lawyer right away.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Right now this thing is spinning out of control. Not everybody was playing by the rules. She was seeing you and maybe a few others besides her benefactors. So I wouldn’t be surprised if a few more names get tossed into the ring. But I’d get a lawyer. I’d prepare for the worst.”
“If I can prove I didn’t kill her will my name come out?”
“In other words, can you make a deal with the cops? Probably. As long as you’ve got a damned good alibi. I think they can arrange to keep it quiet.”
“I was at a county medical board meeting the whole night. Then we ended up at this after-hours place. Sort of a dive. And I was with another doctor the whole time. Paul Kendrick. He had the car. I rode with him. I couldn’t have slipped away even if I’d wanted to.”
“Kendrick’ll vouch for you?”
“I’ll call him right now if you want me to.”
“I’ll take your word for it. The cops won’t.” Then: “One final thing. You ever see her upset—afraid, angry, anything like that—and couldn’t figure out why?”
He leaned back and gave it some thought. “Once, I guess. She kept looking out the window. She seemed agitated about something. I had the sense somebody was out there.”
“In a car, you mean?”
“I’m not sure. It’s just—she kept looking out the window and then she’d be very uptight for a while. Chewing her lip. Not paying attention to what I was saying. Chain smoking. I’d never seen her act that way.”
“Did you have any sense of her life outside of you?”
“That was the funny thing. No, I didn’t. She never mentioned another person or a job or even what she liked to do. And she was more worried about people seeing us out and about than I was. I’d ask her about it of course but she’d just laugh and say ‘I’m a mystery woman.’ And she wasn’t kidding.” A glance at the wrist watch. “I really should call a lawyer?”
I said, “You really should call a lawyer.”
I sat in my car with a Pepsi and some smokes listening to Ross Murdoch’s press conference. He made a brief statement announcing his resignation for “personal reasons” and said that he was very sorry for what this would do to his political party. He said he would take no questions and he meant it. He had already put a prominent criminal defense lawyer named Richard Spellman on the payroll. He was from Chicago and he was good. Spellman took the questions. I’d just heard the national news a few minutes earlier. Still no word from Russia. But their ships had yet to turn back. They were still churning toward the distant blockade.
I’d come out to the now-closed park for a long walk. The Murdoch story was so lurid that it had become more interesting to locals than the possibility of nuclear war.
I shut off the radio and got out of the car for my walk. I took my pocket-sized spiral notebook along, flipping back through my notes as I went. I still hadn’t interviewed Peter Carlson, which I wasn’t looking forward to. I wasn’t sure I could even get to him. He would have hired a smart lawyer by now.
I walked ’till dusk. The cornfields were a dirty golden color now that the crop had been picked, the stalks like fallen soldiers.
On the drive back to town I thought about Mary and Pamela. My folks’ generation was the last to be dutiful mates. My generation was already setting records for divorces. Innumerable sociologists had already written innumerable tomes on the subject. I suppose it had something to do with how a lot of us had been raised. Virtually everything in our lives was disposable. Very little lasted very long—certainly not our cars, our appliances, our homes. So we got new ones. Why should spouses be any different? There were plenty of those around, too.
On the way home, because of a commercial on the radio, I figured out how Karen Hastings’ body might have been carried into Ross Murdoch’s house.
“You like?” Stu said.
He wore an apron that said Master Chef on it. It had a silly suburban face right below the script. You throw everything in a suitcase as you make a desperate trip to find your gone-fled wife and you make sure to pack your Master Chef apron?
“Doesn’t Stu sound Chinese when he says that?” Pamela laughed.
“Oh, yes, very Chinese,” I said.
“‘You like?’” she said. “He’s so cute.”
“Downright adorable,” I said.
“So you haven’t told me, Sam,” Stu said, seating himself. “How’s the steak?”
“Great.” And it was. Stu truly was a Master Chef.
We were eating steaks on my wobbly dining room table. Stu was playing a Pat Boone album—my God, he must’ve packed that, too—and Pamela was wearing some kind of Kabuki robe. Stu spoke Chinese and she wore Kabuki. An international couple.
“We’re really starting to like your little apartment,” Stu said. “I haven’t lived in a place like this since college. I had a little more room and it was a little nicer but this is growing on me.”
“Growing,” I said.
“Stu is even getting used to the kitty litter box.”
“It’s pretty darned unsanitary,” he said, “when you come right down to it. But I want to keep my pumpkin happy. She loves cats. I’m a dog man, myself. They go outside when they want to go number two. Well, or number one for that matter.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Pamela said, “we’ve decided to stay married.”
“Gee,” I said, “there’s good news.”
“We’re going to buy a new house when we get back to Chicago.”
“And a new car.”
“We owe you a lot, Sam,” Stu said, “you know, letting us stay in your little apartment like this.”
Pamela smiled. “Even with the kitty litter, hon?” She had pieces of steak in her teeth.
Stu was one of those guys—like Red Skelton—who always signaled when he was about to tell a joke. He laughed right before delivering it. “You know what I told Pumpkin here—I’m just glad I don’t have to use a kitty litter box when I want to go to the bathroom.”
Pamela covered her mouth with a napkin, she was laughing so hard. “God, what a picture that would make. Stu and a kitty litter box.”
“I really do enjoy it here in your little apartment,” Stu said. “It really is just like being back in college again.”
“Same with me, Sam. I took a bubble bath this afternoon. I stayed in there for two hours. Nobody knows we’re here. It’s sort of like hiding out.”
“Yes,” Stu said, “that’s it exactly, honey. It’s like that Bogie movie we love. ‘High Sahara.’”
I said, “I think that’s ‘Sierra.’”
“Pardon?” said Stu the Master Chef.
“I think it’s ‘High Sierra.’ Not ‘High Sahara.’ It’s set in the Sierra mountains.”
He had a mouthful of steak. He jabbed his fork in my direction, “You know what, honey? You never told me that this guy knows movie titles the way he does. He’s great.”
The phone rang. I damned near leaped over the couch to get it. Whoever it was, I was visiting them. Or at least saying I was.
Deirdre said, “Could you come out to the house, Sam? Dad’s lawyer would like to talk with you. He’s pretty sure Cliffie’s getting ready to arrest Dad. God, I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Are you sure I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Nothing I’d care to talk about.”
I went back to the table. “I need to get out of here. I’ll throw some stuff in my gym bag. Take my clothes along for tomorrow. You folks have any idea when you might be leaving?”
“Well, as I said, Sam,” the Master Chef said, “we’re really starting to relax finally. We thought we’d talk to our respective parents tomorrow and then see how a few of our respective old friends felt about getting together for a few drinks. You know, sort of ease ourselves back into society, if you will.”
“So we’re talking what here?”
They looked at each other and then at me.
The master chefette said, “Well, we’ll try to find a place to stay but if we can’t—I don’t think we’re talking more than four or five days to stay here. I mean, even after we see everybody, we can still hide out. Nobody would ever expect us to be in a place like this.”
Nuclear holocaust was sounding better all the time.
FIFTEEN
HE WAS FLESHY BUT imposing, a hint of revered Roman senator in the stark outsize features and coiled white hair. The extra weight added some years to him but the added years helped. Spellman, his name was. Richard Spellman. He had one brother who was a senator and another brother who was a Catholic bishop. Not to be confused with the cardinal.
He perched on the edge of Ross Murdoch’s desk. He wore a black crewneck sweater, blue jeans, white socks, shiny black loafers with tassels. Tassels on men’s shoes have always irritated me. This is one of the possible reasons they keep me up here on the violent ward. Ritz crackers have been known to send me into seizures. Then there was the day I jumped up on the table and denounced waxed paper. Other than that I can keep myself under control. Pretty much.
He had a cigarette in one hand, a social glass of sherry in the other. I’d declined the sherry. I’d spent twenty minutes bringing him up to date. “You going to be threatened when I bring in my own detective?”
“Not at all,” I said. Which was what I was supposed to say. Nobody likes to be second-guessed. But everybody has to pretend they don’t mind it. Your man exposing me as a complete bumbling incompetent fool? Now why would I mind that, Mr. Spellman?
“As I see it,” he went on, “we have two problems. One, we need to find out how she was brought in here. A body isn’t all that easy to disguise. And two, we need to find out who had the strongest motive to kill her. Of the four men involved, I mean.”
“So you’re assuming that it was one of the four who were paying her rent?” I said.
“I don’t eliminate anything, McCain. But I’ll tell you, to me this is like a husband finding a wife dead. The automatic suspect to the coppers is the husband. Big city or small town doesn’t make any difference. That’s who the coppers look at initially and you have a hell of a time moving away from that position.”
“Have you eliminated me, Dick?” Murdoch said, trying to sound droll.
“Of course not, Ross. Don’t take it personally. But I’ve only been working with you for the past five hours. I haven’t had time to form any opinions about anything yet except that your chief-of-police
is a baboon.”
“You talked to Cliffie?” I said.
“Courtesy call,” Spellman said, draining his sherry glass and setting it down. “Sonofabitch is sitting in his office reading a comic book. Donald Duck. I still read Batman once in a while, you know, kind’ve for old times sake. But Donald Duck? At our age? Anyway, so I introduce myself, being very courteous and all, knowing I’ll have to work with this dipshit for the foreseeable future, and you know what? He won’t shake my hand. I put my hand out there. And he won’t shake it. You know what he says to me? ‘I don’t shake hands with men who work for killers.’ I’m still polite, of course, and I say, ‘If you mean Ross Murdoch, do you have any solid evidence?’ And he says what I expect him to say, ‘lady is found in his bomb shelter, what more evidence do you want?’ And so on. Then he tells me he’s busy and he needs get back to work. And then you know what? I’m walking down the hall away from his office, heading for the front door, right? And I hear him laughing. And he says ‘Oh, that Gyro Gearloose.’ Gyro Gearloose? And this chief of yours is supposed to be a grown-up?”
“I still like Gyro Gearloose,” I said. “Carl Barks is the great guy who writes and draws him.”
He gave me an odd look. “I wouldn’t spread that around if I were you.” He wasn’t kidding. Then: “You’ll be happy to know, Ross, that I’m actually going on the assumption that you didn’t kill her.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But your man McCain here has given me some pretty good motives to work with, I mean.”
Your Man McCain? A possible TV series?—
“I haven’t seen those,” Murdoch said, nodding at the notebook in Spellman’s hand.
“This Carlson—he was jealous of her? Having to share her?”
“Yes.”
“This Mike Hardin—he loses all his money. He could have been forced into killing her because he was broke and didn’t want you people to know.”
“How about Gavin Wheeler?”
“He doesn’t have anything written down here.”
I sat up straighter in my chair. The way you do when the nun calls on you for the answer to the question she just asked that you in your daydreaming didn’t hear.