Impulse

by Frederick Ramsay

  Guests started arriving shortly before six. Alumni, alumnae, wives, and husbands dressed in blazers and slacks or cocktail dresses flowed out of parking lots and along the Academy’s brick walkways like bright flower petals bobbing downstream. A large green and white striped tent, set up with tables, two bars, and the aroma from an extensive buffet, drew them inexorably with its promise of refreshment and fellowship.

  Frank calculated the time the round trip back to Baltimore would take—too long and not worth the trouble. Instead, he’d brought a fresh shirt and electric razor, and, borrowing one of the school’s soap-scented washrooms, freshened up and changed. The marquee was nearly empty when he entered; no waiting at the bar and a free run at the buffet, two activities that would become increasingly difficult as the evening progressed and more guests crowded under its green and white stripes. Newcomers, for the most part, clustered together by class year. Occasionally they would shift and merge only to separate again like a human lava lamp. Frank nibbled finger food and sipped tonic water. He had learned that to avoid a zealous host’s insistence on his having a “real drink,” he needed a look-alike drink in his hand. So he sipped his ersatz gin and tonic and studied the crowd.

  Rosemary made a splash of color as she entered. Heads turned. No mean feat for a sixty-six-year-old woman. Frank waved. She saw him and beamed. It took her a full five minutes to make her way through the crowd. She had friends and acquaintances to greet and one or two approaches from recently widowered men to fend off.

  “I need a drink,” she said when she’d finally run the gauntlet.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “What you’re drinking will do.”

  “I doubt it. This is a virgin gin and tonic.”

  “Really? No, get me the real thing. It’s way too late in the game for some of us to have thoughts about virginity, liquid or otherwise. Get me a Jack and Ginger.”

  “That’s not a drink, that’s a dance team.”

  “Trust me, it’s a drink, but you’re right. It does sound like one.”

  “Okay, come with me,” he said and took her elbow. “The bar is crowded and this could take some time. I could lose you in the interim.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Indulge me.”

  They plunged into the crowd around the bar, greeting the people they knew, nodding to others. Five minutes later they emerged, only slightly disheveled but with drinks in both hands.

  “This ought to hold us for a while,” he said.

  “Yes, but how do I eat with a drink in each hand?”

  “We’ll grab some space at a table—that one,” he said, pointing at the table marked with a large 50th.

  ***

  Dexter Light stood behind the woman in the bright Hawaiian dress and the old man with her and smiled when he saw them push out of the scrum at the bar, each with a drink in both hands. He guessed they’d be loopy by seven-thirty and in need of medical attention by eight. He enjoyed watching the characters that annually descended on the school, the old ones in particular. They spent hours getting tight and retelling stories about teachers now long dead and escapades that grew more and more exotic with each passing year as details were invented and the stories expanded. He vowed that he would not become one of the old geezers. When his mind went, he decided, so would the rest of him.

  He wandered over to the tables marked 25th. A few of his classmates had arrived. The rest would come later. They had important jobs and families. Twenty-fifth year reunion or not, reunions received a low priority on their to-do lists. He recognized most of the men at the table. The women with them, he supposed, were wives or girlfriends. Women did not enroll at Scott until two years after his class graduated.

  “Dex,” Marc Antonio called out, “our peerless leader.”

  “Hello, Marc. Who’s the babe?”

  Antonio’s face flushed.

  “You must have hit the bar early, Light.”

  “Like voting in Chicago…early and often, Marc,” he said and turned to the woman with him. “Hi, I’m Dexter Light and I’m a little drunk, but not too drunk to see you are young enough to be this guy’s daughter. Tell me you’re not.”

  “I’m his wife. And you are drunk. Is that why you’re so rude or are you always this way?”

  “Can’t say, darling, I’m never sober long enough to find out.”

  She gave him a pitying look and turned away. The others at the table averted their eyes. Conversations around him resumed. None included him.

  “Marc,” he interrupted, “do you know the old coot with the woman in the red sarong over at the 50 table?”

  “Why would I know them?”

  “I thought you knew everyone. You’re our alumni representative, aren’t you?”

  “I think that’s Meredith Smith, the writer,” a big blonde in a blue and yellow sack dress warbled.

  “That’s Meredith Smith? I thought Meredith Smith was a woman.” This from a short guy that Dexter couldn’t place.

  “What’s he write?”

  “Mysteries, and he had that TV show for a while.”

  “I guess that’s why Darnell is talking to him. Trying to pick his pocket.”

  “If he’s a mystery story writer, someone ought to ask him to figure out what happened to the campus kids.”

  “What happened to who?” Marc’s wife had rejoined the group.

  “Dexter, you ask him.”

  “No,” Dexter snapped.

  “Aw, come on, Dex. You’re our leader. You’re the class golden boy, Most Likely to Succeed, Corps Commander, Mr. Big, et cetera, et cetera. You can do it,” Antonio said.

  The sarcasm was not lost on the group or Dexter. Where they had arrived fresh and neatly pressed, he looked like he’d been dragged backward through a keyhole. Where they were conspicuously successful, he stood before them a rumpled, yellow-eyed failure.

  “No,” he repeated, this time softly, and added, “Let it go.”

  Harvey Byrd looked up from his scotch on the rocks. “Don’t you want to know?”

  “No, I don’t.” But he did. He hadn’t been able to run away from, drown, or forget that afternoon. Maybe, it would be better to get it over with. “Okay,” he said, finally. “I’ll do it. Antonio, you have to come with me to be my witness, and you too, sweetheart. What’s your name anyway?”

  “Denise, and if you call me darling or sweetheart again, I’ll kick you where what’s left of your gene pool resides.”

  “Right. Good thought.”

  The three of them started toward the 50s table. Dexter made them wait while he secured another drink from the bar.

  ***

  “Who’s the dishy old babe in the gorgeous scarlet dress?” Judith Stark pointed across the expanse of the marquee. “At the Fiftieth Year table.” Her husband turned and stared.

  “That’s Rosemary Mitchell with Meredith Smith.”

  “Oh, so that’s the mark you and Darnell are working on.”

  “Judith, please, someone will hear you. He’s not a mark, he’s a potential donor. An important one, I hope.” He didn’t sound too sure. The conversation he’d overheard at luncheon raised some doubts about that. But Darnell assured him that rich people always talked that way, were always poor-mouthing. He, that is, Brad, just needed to check out Smith’s financials and make the pitch.

  “Well, if he is, and you don’t want to lose him, you’d better hustle over there before Dexter Light drives him off the plantation.”

  Brad’s heart sank. Light and other members of the twenty-fives were heading straight for Smith. Dexter, as usual, unsteady on his feet.

  “Be right back.”

  “No hurry.” His wife turned and sidled up to the bar. “I’ll be right here.”

  He scowled, started to say something, and then turned and left. She had on her heels.

  ***

  Antonio introduced himself, his wife, and Light to Frank. He, in turn, introduced Rosemary. In the awkward pause that followed, Bra
d Stark arrived.

  “Ah, Stark,” Light said, “you’re just in time—”

  “I hope so.”

  “We were just going to proposition Mr. Smith, our imminent author and expert on crime.”

  “Look, Mr. Light—” Brad began.

  “Since you were planning to do the same thing, only for a different cause, you will appreciate what we have in mind.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Smith is up for any of your—”

  “It’s all right,” Antonio said and looked at the group for support. “We just want his expert help to solve the mystery.”

  “What mystery is that?” Frank asked. He searched the faces of the people in front of him for a clue. All he saw were youngish forty-somethings who seemed a little too pleased with themselves.

  “The missing boys. You must have heard about that.”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “Well,” Antonio said, “when we were seniors, four…is that right, four?”

  Light nodded. “Four.”

  “Four campus kids went into Old Oak Woods and disappeared. Not a trace. You know what we mean by campus kids, Mr. Smith?”

  “Oh my, yes, Mrs. Mitchell and I know all about campus kids.”

  “Well, we thought that since you deal in mysteries all the time, and with the wisdom that comes with age, you should give solving it a shot.”

  “I see.” Frank waited. There had to be more to it than that.

  “You have a reputation. The question is, is it wisdom or senility that comes with age—sorry, no offense intended. But can you do it?” Light started to leave.

  “Wait, don’t go,” Antonio said.

  “You don’t look so good, Light,” Denise added.

  “Cheap booze.”

  “I think you’ve bothered Mr. Smith enough already,” Brad said. Frank thought Stark didn’t look perky either.

  “Everybody sit down and tell me what happened.” Frank gestured for the others to join his table.

  Antonio started. Light interrupted. And finally Rosemary told the story.

  “One spring afternoon, late May, about this time of year, twenty-five years ago, a Saturday afternoon, four kids, four campus kids, that is, were seen going into Old Oak Woods. I don’t remember the time exactly, it’s probably not important—”

  “Two o’clock.” Light said. Stark nodded.

  “Well, then, two o’clock they were seen going into the woods and they disappeared. Gone. Not a trace, not a clue, just vanished into thin air. The police and hundreds of volunteers searched the woods. They brought in dogs and even a psychic—nothing.”

  Frank listened and frowned. Why were these shiny-brights after him to solve a twenty-five-year-old mystery?

  “Well, I’ll tell you. The people police least want messing around in an investigation, even an old one, are mystery story writers. The truth of the matter? We are poorly equipped to solve a case, any case. The only crime we know anything about is the made-up kind. We write mysteries, but we know the solution before we start. The clues are ours, the crime is ours. Now, someone else’s…not that this is a crime exactly…but that’s another story entirely.”

  “Well, that settles it,” Stark said and looked relieved.

  “You’re sure?” Light asked, and smirked. Frank studied him—saw the rumpled clothes, the bloodshot eyes, and the failure. “Probably not up to it. Keep you all up past nine. Age slows you down. Like, I read somewhere that old people have a higher rate of alcoholism because they don’t realize they can’t handle the three martinis they were used to having before dinner when they were active and forget—”

  “I expect you know a good deal about alcoholism,” Frank snapped. What was with this jerk? Stark looked angrily at Light and started to speak.

  “Light doesn’t mean—”

  “I think you should do it, Frank,” Rosemary said.

  He turned and studied her face. Her eyes flickered—with excitement or anger? He couldn’t be sure. He turned back to Stark.

  “Would the school support me in this?”

  “Umm…I’d have to check into that.”

  Rosemary smiled at Stark. “I imagine the school would have the same interest in his work as it does his potential as a donor.”

  “Touché,” Light said, but he wasn’t smiling. Stark swallowed and nodded.

  “You’ll help?” he asked Rosemary, hoping he’d correctly read her excitement.

  “Just call me Miss Marple.”

  “Effie Perine is who I had in mind.” Her eyes were brown and playful in a shiny boyish face…Hammett, of course. And she could pass for Spade’s secretary, plus forty years.

  “Not good enough. She just answered the phone. How about Nora Charles?”

  “We’re dating ourselves.”

  “Some things are obvious, Frank.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sergeant Manuel Ledezma started his career in the Los Angeles Police Department. He grew weary of urban warfare and the department’s top-heavy bureaucracy. Each day seemed like a week and the possibility of promotion farther away. When the scandals seemed to have no high water mark, he joined the growing number of officers and detectives who bailed out—left the Department. He moved his family to Arizona and signed on with the McMicken Police Department. He never regretted the choice—until now. He sat across the desk from a lieutenant newly promoted to head up his division. A stack of folders sat in the exact center of the desk. Ledezma recognized them as his open cases.

  “Ledezma,” the new guy, Phelps, said, “you have twenty cases pending, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Yes, sir.” Not by LA standards, it’s not, he thought.

  “They call you Manny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, Manny, here’s what I need you to do. I want half of these babies closed by the end of the month. If there’re perps out there, you find ’em or forget ’em.”

  “Sir? You want me to just shut them down?”

  “Yep…I know, I know. Some bad guys are going to get away with murder, but you know what? They are anyway. I’ve read over most of these. They’re dead in the water. No leads, no suspects, nothing we can wait out—nothing. It’s time to turn them over to Cold Case.”

  “But some will break in time. I’m only keeping the ones I’m sure will pop.”

  “Like which?”

  “Like Frank Smith.”

  “The writer guy? Why do you think that one will, as you say, pop?”

  Ledezma paused, wondering if he would have to justify the whole stack. “He did it. I know he did it, and he knows I know. Sooner or later he’s going to make a mistake and then we’ll have him.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s the guy who clipped his wife?”

  “Classic case. He had a motive—life insurance in seven figures on the wife, recently in force, and he’s the sole beneficiary. Opportunity—he and his wife lived quietly, no close friends, no kids at home. No alibi—he can’t account for his time for the day his wife disappeared. And there is one other thing. He had a gun registered in his name and it’s missing.”

  “What’d he say happened to the gun?”

  “He said he got rid of it, tossed it in the lake, he said.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Did you cross check the wife’s disappearance with any other activity in the area that might turn up a lead—besides Smith?”

  “We canvassed the neighborhood, asked the helicopters to keep an eye peeled when they flew the desert, yes, we did.”

  “You’re committed to Smith being the guy?”

  “Yes, Sir. He’s the guy.”

  “I’ll make you a deal, Manny. You nail this guy by the end of the month and you keep your files. If you don’t, the case goes cold, along with the rest of these turkeys, savvy?”

  “But—”

  “That’s it. I need manpower on hot cases and I can’
t allow the division to get any thinner by tying you up on these old ones. The population in this sector has doubled in the last five years and we have the same staffing. I can’t afford to have you off the street. That’s it.”

  Ledezma left the office, and when he cleared the corner where he couldn’t be seen, he removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar. Ledezma knew the expression “hot under the collar” intimately. He wondered if it was too late to take up LA’s new chief’s offer to go back. Many of his friends had. He said no the first time. There’d been no second invitation. He returned to his desk and slammed the files on it. Dominic Pastorella jumped.

  “What’s up with that?”

  Ledezma explained what happened.

  “I’m getting to like this new guy less and less,” Pastorella said.

  “I have fourteen days to get Smith or he and all the rest in the stack walk.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Start over. From the very beginning. Somewhere in the file I’ve missed something—something that didn’t seem important at the time.” Ledezma opened the file and leafed through its pages. “How come nobody ever talked to the insurance company? You could start there. And I want to know what happened to his gun. Threw it in the lake my ass.”

  “Hey, it’s quitting time. How about grabbing a beer and a burger?”

  “Not tonight, Dom. I only got two weeks and no time to waste if I’m going to fry this guy.”

  ***

  “Where do we start?” Rosemary asked. For the second night in a row, she’d ditched her ride to go home with Frank. They were heading south toward the beltway and to Ruxton. She guessed there might be some talk this time.

  Who cares?

  “Who cares, indeed? Let them talk.”

  “What?” Frank said. “Who cares about where we start—talk about what?”

  “No, sorry, I…never mind—senior moment,” she said, embarrassed.

  “You know,” he said, “I hate that expression. People our age use it all the time when we can’t remember a name or a movie title or something. We grin sheepishly and say, ‘senior moment.’ Young people smile back and think we’re going dotty. And all the while we’re scared to death that someday the police will find us wandering down some street in our pajamas in the middle of the afternoon and we won’t know how we got there or who we are.