by B K Stevens
*
I couldn’t get a warrant to search his apartment—he’d left no fingerprints at my house, and no solid evidence tied him to any other crime. Pressuring Randy Dodd for answers about what had happened at the funeral home didn’t seem decent, not when his wife had been buried just hours ago. I decided to go over all the evidence again—all the reports, all my notes. For days, I’d felt that I’d stepped off the right track, that I’d missed something crucial. Maybe tonight I could figure out what it was.
I took everything to my apartment and sat in my living room, dipping Doritos into tepid Cheese-Whiz and reading file after file. Nothing. Medical report, lab report on carpet fibers, list of items in Karen Dodd’s luggage—no hint of anything that gave anybody but Jacqui Liston or Wayne Spat a motive. Maybe I’m just being a snob, I thought. I want a clever murderer with a sensible motive, not a drunk or a fanatic. But lots of murders are committed by drunks or fanatics. Chances are, either a drunk or a fanatic committed this one.
A sharp, loud knock. Wayne Spat, I thought, and grabbed my gun and moved toward the door. “Who is it?” I asked.
“Charlene Gorshin—and I honest-to-God don’t have any questions. I just want a tiny favor.”
I opened the door cautiously, checking to make sure she was alone. Well, of course she was. Of course Wayne Spat wasn’t holding a gun to her head. He probably couldn’t even reach her head.
When she saw the gun, she raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t like reporters, do you?”
“Standard police procedure.” Blushing, I put the gun away. “What’s the favor? And how did you find out where I live?”
“Oh, reporters have sources.” She looked around the room. “You need plants. And I need to borrow your TV. See, I was driving down the street, and suddenly it hit me: ‘Oh, no! It’s almost eleven, I’ve got a story smack at the top of the news, and I’m nowhere near a TV!’ Then I thought, ‘Wait! I’m near Lieutenant Ledger’s apartment! He’s a great guy! He’ll let me invade his privacy!’” She tilted her head back, enjoying the absurdity of her story, daring me to say I didn’t believe it. “Well? Are you a great guy?”
Throwing her out would be more trouble than letting her stay. “I’m a great guy. I’ll even get you a beer. But the minute the news is over, you’re gone.”
“Absolutely.” She curled up on the couch, her eyes glowing with reflected images from the screen. “Here’s our logo—and here’s our terrible, terrible music. Shh! Here comes my story! Quiet!”
I hadn’t said anything. I opened my beer and settled back in my armchair, watching as a suitably somber Charlene Gorshin appeared on the screen. The report began with file footage of Karen Dodd—the lovely, earnest young legislator addressing a conference on gun control, her passionately direct words wringing cheers from the crowd. Yes, I thought. She was quite a speaker.
The image of Karen Dodd faded, replaced by starkly juxtaposed images of Jacqui Liston—the newly crowned Miss Ohio of ten years ago, blinking through happy tears as she accepted roses and scepter, and the grinning, staggering drunk of two days ago, blinking foolishly at the camera as she was led to jail. All the time, Charlene Gorshin’s voice commented on the transformation from beauty queen to brutal killer. She phrased it as a question, but her tone didn’t leave much room for doubt.
Gorshin sat forward, hands clasped between her knees, overcome with reverence for her own words. “Oh, that sounded good. That sounded sincere. Katie Couric couldn’t do better. Now we’ve got some great shots of the funeral. See? There’s the governor. And a bunch of state senators, and a couple of real senators, and all those guys from national gun-control organizations. And here comes the family. God! Are they perfect, or what?”
I looked over at her coldly. “It’s an attractive family,” I admitted.
“Attractive, hell. They’re perfect. I couldn’t cast a better grieving family. Randy’s so helpless-looking, with that round face and those big blue eyes—you can just see him getting seduced by a gorgeous psycho like Jacqui Liston. A tragic mistake—a tortured man. And those twins! Those pigtails! Those solemn, chubby little faces! Those adorable sailor coats! Do you know, Randy bought those coats just last week, while Karen was in Washington? It was a welcome-home surprise, and she never got to see them. Oh, there’s that angelic little boy! Isn’t it poignant, the way he’s gazing at Mommy’s casket? And wait—wait. There! Did you see? He wiped away a tear. Such a brave little man! I tell you, they’re perfect. Too bad the grandmother was too sick to come. But I hear she’s leaving the hospital soon. When she visits the cemetery, we’ll be waiting.”
“Damn it, Gorshin,” I said, “back off. They’re in mourning. Give them some peace.”
“Oh, it helps them to talk.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Randy said so. And the public has a right to know. Look! He’s gonna make a statement. Quiet!”
On the screen, Randy Dodd paled and blinked. “We’re grateful for all the good wishes and prayers. Karen would’ve appreciated it. As for me, I made a terrible mistake, and I accept responsibility. I hurt the people I love; I’m deeply sorry. All I can do is to try to be a better man in the future, and carry on Karen’s work, and create a loving, nurturing home for our children. I’ll just have to try to do it—without her.”
The family headed for a limousine. “There’s Jim Bixby,” Gorshin said. “Jacqui’s other bedmate. The bastard hasn’t given me an interview yet, but he will, he will. And that woman is the receptionist, Helen Quinn. I bought her some drinks, learned lots. You wouldn’t believe how Jacqui Liston was hounding those two guys.”
“And now you’re hounding them,” I pointed out.
She shrugged. “You and me both. It’s our job, so why apologize? Oh, there I am, wrapping things up. Glad I wore the gray suit. The producer said black, but that would’ve been too much, don’t you think?”
I nodded, hardly hearing the question. She was right—we were both hounding the same people. She’d won a starring role on the 11:00 news, and I’d put Jacqui Liston in jail and driven Wayne Spat to desperation. I wasn’t sure either of us had done the public much service.
Restlessly, I picked up the medical report again. Well, yes. There was a shred of something here, a slight discrepancy I’d noticed before but dismissed as insignificant. Now I tried to think of ways to explain it.
The anchorman moved on to national news. Gorshin was no longer on the screen and therefore no longer interested. She twisted around to face me. “Y’know, I wish you weren’t so damn standoffish. My agent’s talking book deals with two publishers. And today she asked me if I thought I could write a screenplay. A screenplay! There’s another possibility, too—maybe the biggest. This thing’s a goldmine. Give me your exclusive story, and I’ll make sure you get your share. Maybe you could play yourself in a mini-series. Some cop in New York did that, and you’ve sure got the looks.”
I shook my head. “Did one beer get you drunk, Gorshin? Maybe you shouldn’t drive home. I could call a cab.” I picked up the carpet fiber analysis. Maybe this wasn’t trivia after all. Maybe it explained the medical report. “You spent time with the Dodds. Did you ever get the impression she might’ve had someone on the side?”
“Never!” Gorshin cried. “She was a devoted wife and mother. Randy was the one true love of her life. She never looked at another man.”
Probably, Gorshin was working on her book proposal; probably, I’d just heard part of the outline. “What about Randy? Was Jacqui his only extracurricular activity, or did—”
“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “Karen was the only woman he ever loved. They were high-school sweethearts—she was student body president, and he was starting quarterback. He fell in love with her when he was still a boy, and his devotion to her never faltered—never, except for a few weeks. And those tragic weeks were enough. Enough to end a brilliant political career, to rob him of the woman who gave his life meaning, to destroy his peace of mind forever.” She sighed. “God, this is so g
reat. It’s a fable for our time—or a metaphor, or something.”
She was definitely trying out phrases for a book proposal. “Sounds like you and Dodd are getting cozy. And here he is with all this love and devotion left on his hands. You could be the next recipient.”
“Not a chance,” she said promptly. “He’ll spend the rest of his life devoted to Karen’s memory, trying to atone, struggling heroically to raise their children—without her. And I’m not interested. He’s sweet, but he’s a puppy. Not my type. All I want from him is the story.” She walked over to me. “But it won’t be complete without the inside cop stuff. You know—the violent struggle at the arrest, Jacqui crying in jail. If I have to settle for that brat Carlson, I will, but I’d rather get the story from you. Much rather. We’d have to work together closely. We could start tonight.”
She sat on the arm of my chair, raising an eyebrow in frank inquiry. I laughed, embarrassed. “That’s a bit blatant, Gorshin.”
“My name’s Charlene.” She ran a finger down my cheek, lightly. “And I don’t have time to be subtle. Big-name writers will be jumping all over this. They’ll crowd me out if I don’t get Randy sewn up first.” She smiled broadly. “I’d better get you sewn up, too. Now, that’s a process I’d enjoy.”
I stood up. I’d expected some flirtation—I’d looked forward to it—but she’d moved straight to seduction, and I was out of practice. “You’re not shy, Gorshin. I’ll give you that.”
“Charlene. No, I’m not shy.” She stood, too, and put her arms around my neck. “I want to go to bed with you, Dan Ledger. You don’t even have to promise me the story. Just say you’ll think about it. Look, I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t like you. You think I’d sleep with Carlson, even if he could tell me who shot JFK? But I’ve always liked you. Remember when I said Randy isn’t my type? Guess who is.”
She drew closer and kissed me on the lips. Taken by surprise, I put my arms around her waist. Beneath the softness of her sweater, her body felt hard and lean. A warmth surged through me, and when she moved away, I pulled her back and kissed her again.
But it was completely, absurdly wrong. Jesus, I thought. I don’t even like her. I kissed her one more time and stepped away.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” I said. “I’m tempted. But it’d be a mistake. I don’t know if I’ll get back with my wife—I’m not sure I want to—but until I figure that out, I can’t get involved with anyone else.”
“Good grief,” she said. “I’m not talking about some big involvement—just a pleasant physical relationship, with an optional professional partnership. How long does it take to figure that out?”
“Longer than this.” To break the awkwardness, I walked back to the kitchen for another beer. “And the professional partnership is definitely out. Whenever my captain directs, I’ll release statements to the press. Beyond that, I’m not saying one word about the Dodd murder to any reporter. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Wouldn’t be proper?” she echoed. “It’s been years since I’ve even heard that word. What century are you living in? Here you sit in this cruddy apartment, sorting out your ‘involvements,’ worrying about what’s ‘proper,’ while the biggest opportunity of your life passes you by. Well, it sure as hell won’t pass me by.”
I leaned against the sink. “You’re thinking this is your ticket to New York?”
“Or Washington. Or Hollywood.” She shrugged. “Why not? I’m a damned good reporter. I should be covering real stories. Terrorism! Brad and Angie! Global warming! Not new methods of hog confinement or low-speed collisions where nobody even gets killed. This is my one shot at something bigger.” She looked at me wistfully. “I wish you’d help. You’re old-fashioned and sort of strange, and you don’t do wonders for a girl’s ego, but I like you. I sure don’t feel like going home to my cold, lonely word processor. Maybe I could make you forget about your involvements, and you could blurt out a little something about the Dodd murder.”
I hardly heard the last sentence. Something she’d said started my mind working; I needed to get back to the files. I looked at her, too preoccupied to worry much about either honesty or gallantry. “Not tonight. I need time. I have to think things through.”
“Well, sure.” Her eyes brightened. “You just split up with your wife—you’re hurting, maybe your confidence is down. Naturally, you need time. And personal crap aside, you have serious thinking to do about your professional and financial future. Tell you what.” She dug through her purse for her BlackBerry. “I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow, and—no, can’t. Randy asked me to come over, help him eat through the casseroles his neighbors gave him. Jim Bixby’s coming, too—it’s a planning session for Randy’s memorial foundation, and Bixby and I are his board of directors. How about lunch?”
“Not tomorrow.” I steered her toward the door. “But you’ll hear from me soon, Gorshin—Charlene.”
As soon as I got her out, I raced back to my papers. I started with the list of items in Karen Dodd’s luggage, then worked through the reports again. I didn’t have a case, or even a complete theory. But I was moving toward one. I grabbed my phone.
“Carlson?” I said. “You weren’t asleep, were you? Oh. Sorry. Well, I’ve got a job for you tomorrow. First you’re going to dig up some photographs. Then you’ll go to some restaurants. Maybe a lot of restaurants.”
*
I went to a restaurant, too. I took Helen Quinn to The Winery again and supplied her with Scotch. After the plates were cleared, I leaned forward.
“Tell me, Helen,” I said. “When I asked you about Karen Dodd the other day, you described her as ‘generous.’ Why did that word come to mind?”
She picked up her glass, scrutinizing the much-diminished ice. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I think you do. You also said that after Karen Dodd called you last Friday, you felt queasy and went home. Did you go straight home?”
“Oh, dear.” She set down her glass. “I could get in trouble at work.”
“You could also get in trouble for withholding evidence about a homicide.” I made my voice friendly, not threatening. “Come on, Helen. A woman’s freedom is at stake. You know it’s not right to hold back.”
“I would’ve told you sooner,” she said, “but I didn’t actually see much. And I didn’t tell Mrs. Dodd about Randy’s affair—she already knew. She just wanted me to keep track of his calls and such.”
“Was she gathering evidence for a divorce?”
“She said she hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she was worried about custody—and I’m sure about the election, too. She wanted some warning if things started heating up again, if That Woman seemed about to make a scene. I offered to help. I never asked for money. She insisted—just as a thank-you, she said, not as a bribe or anything nasty.”
A skilled politician, I thought. “Tell me about Friday, Helen,” I said.
“There’s not much to tell. When she called, she sounded tense, and of course I didn’t for one minute believe Randy had car trouble. I drove to Jacqui Liston’s house and parked across the street. I didn’t see Randy’s car; I thought it must be in the garage. I waited, hoping to see him leave. But he must have left just before I got there. I saw her once, around 2:30. A neighbor came over, probably to complain about the noise—‘Edelweiss’ was just blaring—and she came to the door and made a very rude gesture.” Helen drained the watery remnants of her drink. “Then I gave up and went home. You don’t know how much I’ve wished I’d stayed longer. Then I would’ve seen her drive off to kill Mrs. Dodd.”
“I wish you’d stayed longer, too,” I said. Then Jacqui Liston would have more than a partial alibi. But this was better than nothing. And Helen had given me new insights into Karen Dodd’s actual opinion of the one true love of her life.
*
After lunch, I wasted several hours scrounging for evidence that would give me probable cause, then grabbed Carlson and went to see Wayne Spat’s landlady. She served us tea
and pretzels and listened intently as I confided in her about my failure to get a warrant, about how concerned I was that poor Wayne might hurt himself or others. Of course, she sympathized. She was over seventy; no woman over seventy can resist me. As I told my story, I could feel her straining to find a way to help. Well, she said, come to think of it, when she’d walked past Wayne’s apartment earlier, she’d smelled something. Maybe it was a gas leak. Maybe she should check it out. Maybe we should come along to protect her.
Yes, I said solemnly, maybe we should. She unlocked his door, sniffed, shrugged, said she’d better get dinner started, and ambled off, leaving the door open. Nice lady, I thought, and waited until she was out of sight.
Carlson looked at me skeptically. “Even if we find the murder weapon, it’s not evidence. The search isn’t kosher.”
“I don’t expect to find the murder weapon.” I spotted an empty rifle rack on the kitchen wall. “I’d guess he’s cleared out and taken anything that shoots with him. I’m just hoping to find some indication of what he’s up to, or something that tells us where he’s gone. If we find anything important, we’ll post a guard outside until we get a warrant and can come back and find things officially.”
It didn’t look like the search would take long. There wasn’t much furniture in the living room—just an old-fashioned swivel chair, a standing lamp, and a large wooden bookcase. No sofa, no tables, no television. There were, however, animals—six bucks’ heads mounted on mahogany plaques; four stuffed geese suspended from the ceiling; gigantic black bears on either side of the bookcase. There was a stuffed dog, too, a beagle, curled up on a braided rug next to the swivel chair, eyes closed, chin resting on his front paws. Only one shelf in the bookcase held books. The other shelves were taken up with trophies and framed certificates.
“He must’ve spent more on taxidermy than on rent,” I said, and had a sudden, sharp image of Wayne Spat spending long evenings alone in this dimly-lit room, brooding on the harshness of his life, turning slowly in his swivel chair, taking what pleasure he could in these reminders of the only things that had ever given him any control, any triumph. Perhaps, from time to time, he’d reached down to stroke his dog’s fur. He doesn’t belong in the city, I thought. He’s an alien here, incompetent at everything the city demands. They should have found him a foster home on a farm.