by John Chabot
"That's quite an imagination you've got."
"What's wrong with it?"
Harry said, "Nothing. See what happens when you think?"
CHAPTER 21
GETTING NOWHERE
During the next two days, the investigation pretty much came to a halt. Information came in, details were checked, and reports were completed. Even Harry found time to get his paperwork up to date. Tina Siegert's autopsy report and reports from various departments of the SBI lab only confirmed what they already knew or assumed. Yes, Tina had died from a blow to the base of the skull. No, she had not been sexually molested.
But nothing advanced. No new possibilities opened.
The bullet taken from Tina's body had passed between two ribs and struck another in the rear, effectively removing any identifying marks. The one found on Mickie's porch had plowed into a brick pillar after glancing off her rib. The most that could be said was that they were both .22 caliber shorts. Mostly they were just two tiny chunks of lead.
An air of edginess settled in.
A priority effort had been put into examining Kurt's car. Discounting the slivers of glass and chunks of concrete, and the sand tracked in by the kids, the interior was remarkably clean. The plastic of the seats and dash had recently been treated with some kind of preservative. No trash or debris was found, even in the trunk. A clean towel and some rags, all neatly folded, were found under the driver's seat. Receipts in the glove compartment showed the car had been maintained on a regular basis. Under the concrete dust and rain spots, the exterior had a good coat of wax. It made Harry think that, despite Mickie's opinion of him Kurt Brodbeck couldn't have been all bad.
Mickie found herself staying away from the station, finding excuses to be somewhere else.
Remarkably, they lifted a few samples of Kurt's fingerprints among those of Ryan and Darryl. Mickie had watched as those two culprits had been marched in to have their prints taken. Ryan had seemed to find the floor utterly fascinating, never lifting his eyes even to answer questions. Darryl, the smaller of the two, had come in defiantly, determined to tough it out. He had done very well with it until the actual printing began. Then he turned into a nine-year-old who'd been busted by the cops. Tears leaked silently down his cheeks, and he had to hold his mouth very stiffly.
The parents were very erect, very serious, faces stern. Little was said, but the whole atmosphere was of two couples enrolling their children in Attica for twenty to life. Parents don't get a chance like that every day, and they played it for all it was worth.
When Mickie did come in, she slipped in and out as quietly as she could, doing her best to avoid seeing Ross. She knew he was under increasing pressure to do something, even if that something made no sense. His pressure became hers.
One of the investigators noticed that, although Kurt was an even six feet, the driver's seat had been shifted forward as far as it would go. Only smudges of prints could be raised from the lever that released the seat. The boys were asked about it, but by that time they considered every question an accusation. Each said the other had done it.
The assistant Medical Examiner called to tell them that Kurt had indeed been shot before being skewered. The bullet, a .22 caliber short, had nicked the heart, causing massive bleeding and death. A call to the SBI lab confirmed that a hole in Kurt's bloodied shirt was consistent with such a wound. Powder flecks around the hole indicated that he had been shot at close range, probably within a foot or so.
Mickie tried to remember what Harry had said about not taking it out on her friends. Easier said. She didn't see Morris at all, which was probably just as well. He seemed to be off on business of his own.
The police in Erie reported that Edna Hall had died two months previously, after a long fight with a brain tumor. Her niece, Sarah Brodbeck, had died of an overdose of barbiturates several years earlier. Whether it had been accident or suicide was undetermined. The whereabouts of a nephew, Kurt, was unknown.
Although only Frank and Tina's fingerprints were found in the Siegert house, an odd print, not belonging to any of the suspects, had been found on the little window in the garage door. This had caused a stir of interest—Mickie was ready to grab at anything—until it was finally found to be her own.
She felt frustrated, feeling the lack of progress must somehow be her fault. She should be doing something, but couldn't see what it was.
Harry, from long experience, had a more philosophical outlook. He knew as well as anyone the validity of the forty-eight hour rule, which says that if a killer isn't caught within that time, the odds on catching him at all get thin very rapidly. It's why the SBI should have been given the case from the start, he thought. They have the manpower to get a lot done very quickly. But then, you play with what you're dealt, and part of his hand consisted of a Chief who was territorial, to say the least. Ross had showed faith in his people, but Harry had to wonder how much was faith and how much was plain damned stubbornness.
* * *
On Friday evening, Mickie went back to the gym. She changed into her gi in the locker room, knotted the belt around her waist, and padded barefoot into the gym. A beginner class was in progress, so she went to an unused corner. She didn't think her rib was well enough for a real workout, so decided she'd just run through the exercises. After all, what she really needed was to do something physical, to work off the tension and frustration.
Within five minutes, she knew it was no good. Everything she tried sent pain flashing from her side. Ordinary walking around was no problem. Anything involved with twisting or pulling or pushing, anything strenuous, was out. She sat on the canvas mat, telling herself she could do it, knowing it was a lie. She felt like a wheel-chaired invalid again.
She stalked back past the class in session, muttering to herself, back into the locker room. The Sensei saw her face as she passed. He frowned, shaking his head. He would have a talk with her.
She left the building more frustrated than when she entered.
* * *
Someone had parked in her assigned space again. She swore with feeling, remembering the last time that had happened. She found an empty space further down and pulled in. To hell with it. Let someone else use the visitor's parking.
Locking her car, she noticed Paul leaning against the wall next to her apartment door. As she came up, she said, "Hi. What are you doing here?"
"Thought you could use some company."
"Oh." Did it sound as unenthusiastic to him as it did to her? She hoped not. She unlocked the door and they went inside. "I thought you'd be busy. Isn't your big 'do' tomorrow?"
"I'll set it up tomorrow afternoon. There's not much to it. How's your rib?"
"Just great."
"You hungry? I thought we could order a pizza. Or maybe Chinese."
"I'm not hungry. You do what you want."
It was true—she wasn't hungry. She was too full of ... what? Frustration? Yes, that was part of it. Everything she tried seemed to lead nowhere. But be honest—there was fear. Fear of defeat, fear of failure. Harry had given her the chance to do something big or to fall on her face, and all she could see was the sidewalk coming up fast. Frustration and fear and a vague discontent were filling her up.
She was aware that Paul was watching her. "What?" she snapped.
"Bad day, huh?"
She ignored that. "Look, I know why you're here. Poor little Mickie got hurt, and now all the big brave men have to protect her. Well, I'm sorry, but that's a lot of bullshit."
"Is it?" She could hear a sharpness in his tone now. "Someone tried to kill you. How do you think I feel about that?"
"Well, it doesn't thrill me all that much, either. But it's past. It's over."
"You don't know that."
"Oh, for God's sake Paul, what do you want—guarantees?"
"A reasonable assurance would be nice."
"This is part of my job. It's what I do."
"Getting shot at?"
"I'm a big girl now. I can tie my own shoes, and I’
m allowed to cross the street without someone holding my hand. Not you, or Harry, or anyone else."
He turned and took a step toward the door. "Yeah, I guess so. It's just that I have a hard time dealing with this. And I care about you.” He waited a few seconds, then added sarcastically, “Sorry about that."
She wanted to go to him, to hold him, to be held, but didn't move. She just stood there. She said nothing, and he left.
For a long time she didn't move, not knowing where to go or what to do. Finally she went into the kitchen and sat at the table, her face in her hands. What was the matter with her? Why didn't she just tell him? But tell him what? What the hell was the matter with her?
She knew she should eat, but couldn't face it. Maybe a cup of coffee. Maybe not. Kathryn Meadows, she decided, was right. Sometimes it's just a bitch.
* * *
The voice had become louder, more insistent, could hardly be distinguished from that of the listener. “You missed.”
"I know that, but it couldn't be helped."
"Still —"
"I know. It won't happen again. This time, I'll be sure."
"It's not wrong."
"No."
"Really, it isn't."
"I know. It has to be finished."
CHAPTER 22
CHEZ BABINEAU
They were originally tobacco warehouses, two red brick buildings, each eighty yards long and two stories high. They ran parallel, separated by enough space for several trucks abreast to drive in, and load or unload the leaf. These were working buildings, built in an era of things meant to last. Through years of heavy usage, sun, rain and heat, the bright red brick had faded to a rough pink, the edges softly rounded. The heavy plank flooring had developed ridges and ruts. As the industry had grown, larger, more modern facilities of steel and concrete were built. The buildings of brick and wood were abandoned but, because of their massive construction, had refused to die. They sat patiently, waiting out the years for the wave of urban renewal and rising real estate costs to sweep into their part of town.
The new owners, a consortium of bank, realtors and assorted entrepreneurs, had been smart enough to realize what they had, and to leave it pretty much alone. No attempt had been made to change the antique appearance of the exterior. The second floor was held up by exposed twelve-by-twelve beams, and these had been left exposed, given only a coat of dark varnish to show them off. The floors of two-by-twelve planking were sanded, varnished, and given a coat of polyurethane for easy maintenance. Partitions had been built to divide the ground floor into shops and restaurants, the upper floor into offices.
The space between the buildings had been paved with rough tiles, except for a few fenced squares where trees had been planted. Benches had been scattered conveniently about. Prices had been jacked up as high as they'd go. It was named Waterside Centre, even though no sizable bodies of water are anywhere in sight. Chez Babineau claimed a coveted corner of the lower floor.
Mickie parked in the lot across the street. It was dark enough for streetlights, though a pale glow still lingered in the west. Light from Chez Babineau made irregular shapes on the sidewalk and by the courtyard entrance. She didn't get out right away, but sat watching the soft interior lighting silhouetting the two artfully draped outfits in the window. She knew that either one of them would put her in hock for weeks.
As she watched, a couple left the restaurant across the courtyard, crossing to the shop. The man said something that made them both laugh, then held the door for the woman as they passed inside.
Mickie crossed the street, wondering how she should play it with Paul. How would he act? He had been angry the night before, and she hadn't blamed him. Even as she was saying the stupid, hurtful things, and not saying what she really wanted to, she had known what she was doing, but somehow couldn't stop. She felt a chill, thinking about it. When they were first starting to date, there had been a wariness on both their parts. With time the uncomfortable feeling had disappeared, had been replaced by a warm easiness. Now it was back. She had heard it in Paul's voice, could feel it somewhere in herself. It had been a long time since she'd felt that way with him—unsure, tentative—and it made her sad.
Ruth Babineau, like the developers, had done very little to hide the original rough construction, letting the heavy beams and timbers act as contrast to the smart, very feminine things she sold. Here, there were no racks of identical pieces to browse through. Each item had its own space. The selection was broad, yet nothing seemed crowded.
The special displays had been set up, each in its own corner. In the far right corner was a table holding a stand of graduated steps, all of it painted a deep blue. Arranged on the steps were silver bracelets, silver rings, silver cups and bowls and brooches and pins. A belt of filigreed silver discs formed a circle in the center. From the back of the stand grew ebony branches, each with leaves of silver earrings, and drapes of silver necklace.
In the opposite corner was a similar stand, this one ivory, showing off a wide variety of colorful beadwork. More necklaces, belts and earrings, and a handbag that Mickie eyed with interest, but was afraid to ask the price.
Paul had the corner to the right of the door. He had chosen to show a variety of his work. There was the usual pottery, both useful and decorative, together with a number of ceramic pieces, from trivets to wall hangings. A picture of him, obviously taken by a professional, showed him at work at his pottery wheel. His name was printed in bold letters across the bottom. The picture showed a fierce concentration she had never seen in him before. She thought that with that and his bearded face, he did perhaps look like an artist after all. Well, an artisan anyway.
She was surprised at the number of people in the shop. It wasn't really crowded, but smartly dressed women were browsing the displays, most holding flutes of white wine, admiring, comparing, laughing quietly from time to time, socializing. There were even several couples, though most of the husbands had the air of captives. They stood close to the table of hors d'oeuvres, eating, drinking, trying to make small talk, and now and then casting covetous glances toward the door.
Mickie saw Paul talking to a stout, no-nonsense looking woman standing by the display of beadwork. A picture similar to Paul's identified her as Kasimir Eldridge.
Mickie came up behind him and said, "Hi."
He turned, saying, "Hey, there you are. I was afraid you might not make it." He slipped an arm possessively about her waist, turned back to the other woman. "Kaz, this is Mickie. Mickie, Kaz."
Mickie said the usual things, but her thoughts were still on the memory of his face when he had turned and seen her. First, relief, then his eyes opening just a hair wider, his face lighting up, just as it had when he had seen her that night as she walked into Sailors. His arm around her waist felt very good.
The other woman said, "It's about time. I've wondered if you actually existed, or if he just made you up."
"Ah," said Mickie, "I see you know him."
"For my sins, yes. It seems like I've known him forever." She glanced at Paul teasingly, then back to Mickie. "I hope you're not serious about this guy."
Mickie looked him over as if she were trying to decide. "I'm considering it."
"But why? I mean, look at him. He's past thirty, he's scruffy, and he makes his living baking mud pies."
"Oh, come on," said Paul. "This from a professional bead stringer. I mean, most of us got over that in kindergarten."
Mickie had the feeling she was listening to a long-standing argument. She asked, "Where do I get a glass of that wine?"
Paul walked with her to the hors d'oeuvre table. He handed her a glass of wine, saying, "Try the food. That stuff on the square crackers isn't bad."
She looked at him, smiling, trying to put into it all the things she couldn't find ways to say. Their eyes held. He said, "We had our first fight."
She nodded, taking a sip of wine. "Oh, this is good. What is it?"
He checked the label. "A Riesling. German, probab
ly expensive."
"It's different from the wine you brought the other night."
There it was again. The feeling. Something. Something she was missing.
"Yeah," he said, "that was a Chardonnay. This has a crisper taste." He noticed her expression, asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She shook it off. "Shouldn't you be circulating, or answering questions about pottery, or something?"
A female voice just behind her said, "Exactly what I was thinking."
Mickie turned to see a woman whose age would be hard to guess. It showed itself in the small web of creases by her large blue eyes and around her mouth, but the skin across her high cheekbones was firm. She wore little makeup, but it was expertly applied. The powder blue suit she wore was cut in a way that would enhance any figure. Still, she didn't seem to need a lot of help in that way. On another case, Harry had once questioned this woman over lunch at the restaurant across the courtyard. She had told him then that she worked very hard at keeping whatever she had.
"Ms. Babineau, this is Mickie Wilder. I may have mentioned her."
"Yes, repeatedly." To Mickie, she said, "Ruth, please. I'm glad to see someone knows what we're here for. He really must learn to market himself better."
Paul frowned. "I thought the idea was to sell pottery, not me."
"And that shows exactly how much you know about marketing. I've sent out invitations to all our regular customers, so be nice to them. Besides, I have a few new things of my own on display. Now, you see that woman over there? The one with the brown pants suit and the hideous scarf? Go over and stand by your picture, and she'll talk to you."
Paul seemed doubtful. "And that's good?"
"Yes, dear, she has a great deal of money, and she spends it."
As Paul edged reluctantly away, Mickie said, "It's very nice of you to do this."
"Do what?"
"Having Paul and the others here. This could get their work noticed in the right places."
"Oh, that. Well, it's not exactly one-sided. I've thought of doing this for some time. It widens the range of possible sales. Someone may come in to look at a dress, and end up getting the accessories to go with it. Or she may just want to look for a different kind of casserole, and see a jacket she can't do without. One feeds off the other. If I didn't think it was potentially profitable, believe me, I wouldn't be doing it."