Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  "Mumm," Z said.

  Not that Z had really been listening to Susan. Not when he could look at her, Susan wearing what Z always thought of as her "date" dress, because of the collar-to-hem zipper down the front. Body-hugging, cut off at mid-thigh, the dark blue dress was of stone-washed denim.

  Silver earrings dangled from her delicate ears.

  Susan. Gorgeous as usual.

  And that, essentially, was dinner.

  After supper, back at her apartment, Susan had wanted to keep talking -- now about the seance -- the apartment reminding her of the "gathering."

  Z had wanted to go to bed.

  So, they'd compromised.

  They'd gone to bed -- where Susan talked about the seance.

  Not the best bargain Z had ever struck. Though sex should be satisfying each and every time, it really wasn't. One thing women seemed to be right about was that "frame of mind" did make a difference. It occurred to Z -- afterward -- that what women were always calling love was what men called "setting the mood"; like most man/woman insights, a revelation that did him precious little good.

  Sunday.

  Sex taking more out of Z's already-exhausted body than usual, they'd gotten out of bed in the late afternoon, Z driving home to try to get some sleep, Z dragging up to the door of his lonely apartment ... to find the door-hair missing! Taking only a moment to remember he had trapped the hair when he'd locked up yesterday, Z unlocked the door and entered cautiously, becoming even more careful when, just inside, he picked up a foreign odor. A smell he "filed away" for later identification.

  A quick look around telling him he was alone, Z turned on the lights to begin examining the apartment for traces of a "foreign" presence.

  Found nothing that was obviously out of place. Which only meant that Mr. Jaguar had been careful. Knowing the place had been searched -- no doubt in a hunt for Johnny Dosso's spore -- gave Z an advantage, Z finding that little things were ... wrong.

  What nailed down "breaking and entering," though, was that smell.

  Z had always admired Sherlock Holmes's ability to "sniff out" clues, Z priding himself on doing the same, meaning it was "put up or shut up" time.

  Back to ... the smell.

  Too "light" to be pipe tobacco. Ditto for cigars. Equaled ....

  Cigarette smoke.

  Not from just any brand. Something ... exotic. Foreign. The kind of perfumed smoke that matched the expensive tastes of the owner of a Jag.

  One more thing. The only reason anyone would smoke a cigarette while tossing an apartment was that he was really hooked, smoking adding complications to a thorough toss. (On second thought, Z had to throw out his theory about tobacco being addictive. He'd just remembered that, on oath before a government committee, executives of tobacco companies had solemnly declared smoking to be non-habit forming.)

  Undertaking an even more careful search of his own, Z found short "tubes" of gray-white cigarette ash in his fireplace.

  No butts ... because the man had been careful to toss the filterless stubs in the fireplace, knowing they'd burn up completely.

  Z's conclusion about his adversary? He knew locks. Was a careful searcher. Chain-smoker. Liked exotic cigarettes without filters -- deductions that weren't getting Z anywhere, though he thought Holmes would have been proud of him, nonetheless.

  The end result of search and counter-search? Z feeling more ... alive! A sensation he'd been missing lately.

  But not alive enough to skip the nap he so desperately needed, Z under no threat at the moment.

  The second thing to change Z's focus was an unexpected call from Susan, Z dragging himself out of bed to find his nap had taken him past sundown.

  "Z, it's Susan," Z knowing instantly something was wrong. He'd heard this tone before. Too high. Too thin. Susan's little girl voice. Her scared little girl voice.

  "Tell me."

  "It's probably nothing. But I just went to QuikTrip to get a couple of things."

  "Yeah."

  "When I was driving there, I just happened to look in my rear view mirror and saw this expensive car behind me. When I came out of QuikTrip, there it was again, but parked around back. In the shadows where employees park. I got in my car and drove down Oak, only to look back and see the same car."

  "Blue?"

  "Yes, blue." Susan was so upset it didn't occur to her to ask how Z knew the car's color. "Anyway, I pulled off Oak, down the Bircane road. When I turned in to the park, I looked back in time to get a quick flash of what had to be the same car going past. Except -- and this is the scary part -- this time, the car was driving without lights!"

  "Yeah." Z had gotten so used to seeing a spot of blue behind him, he'd become dulled to possible danger to himself or to anyone else. (Similar to the way bright, quick birds can be crept up on by slowly crawling tree snakes.)

  "And I remembered the other time, when that man you were chasing slipped into my apartment, and ...."

  "I know about this." But it's nothing to be worried about.

  "Didn't think you'd be involved. No reason you should be. It won't come to anything. But just in case, I think I better put you somewhere."

  "Not at the Whore House Inn!" Susan could get testy about the Happy Hollow, Z hiding her there, once.

  "OK. You got a girlfriend you can stay with?"

  "I think ...."

  "Call her. Meanwhile, keep your door locked. I'm on my way."

  "Do you think that's necessary, Z?"

  "No."

  "Then ...?"

  "I'm on my way."

  It was while driving to Susan's house that Z began to feel the glow of anger. When he was young, he'd had a bad temper; the kind that flared up unexpectedly; a blind anger that had made Z dangerous to anyone around him. But he'd conquered that. He almost never lost his temper anymore. And ... wasn't about to do so now. A temper like his, interfered with thought. With planning. It was just that he could feel a familiar heat begin to build, somewhere behind his eyes.

  With the punk now bothering Susan, it was clear Z had to do something; what that "something" might be, to be delayed until Susan was safely tucked away.

  From Z's house to Susan's parking lot, he'd seen no sign of a blue car.

  So far so good.

  Leaving the Cavalier, darting through the breeze way and around the building, Z rapped on Susan's way-too-thin plywood door. Said, "Z."

  Obviously poised right behind it, Susan snatched open the door, Susan -- changed into "traveling" jeans and t-shirt -- doing an unsuccessful job of looking calm.

  A detective's girl had its drawbacks; he'd never tried to fool Susan about that.

  "Glad you're here."

  "Ready?"

  "Ready."

  Susan had packed a bag, a big enough case to sustain a man on African safari. Packed with enough "stuff" to last a woman for a day or two -- long enough to ensure Susan's safety.

  Straining up the suitcase, Z led Susan to his car. Packed her inside. Levered the over-sized case in the trunk.

  "Where?" Z asked, sliding into the driver's seat.

  "On North Main. At forty-second. Twelve twenty."

  Starting the car, employing safe driving techniques by carefully looking both ways before pulling out of the lot, Z turned left, then cranked right on Oak -- Oak, one of the Northland's brightly lighted arterials. No way the Jag could hide on Oak in diminished, early evening traffic.

  After that, they drove in silence, Susan worried enough to be unaware Z was making unnecessary turns, even doubling back to be certain they were in the clear.

  "Tell me," she finally said.

  "Nothing much."

  "That's what you always say."

  "Got a guy following me."

  "Why?"

  "To find Johnny Dosso."

  "Your mob friend? Why would he ...?"

  "I got Johnny stashed. He ran into a problem."

  "I knew he was going to get you into trouble one day!" When frightened, Susan could get hyper. "On
e of your major faults is loyalty to your friends!" Susan sighed. "But, I guess, I have to admit that your loyalty is one of the things I love about you."

  Thinking about just how loyal he'd been to Susan, Z winced. "I do love you," she continued softly, "even though you're such a dope."

  Because of Susan's fear, Z was hearing the truth: THE TRUTH, deserving to be on the "endangered species list" as much as any cuddly animal.

  Could be a dope, OK. But not all the time. For what the "threat" to Susan had done was convince Z of something he'd begun to doubt; that he truly did love Susan. He might get irritated at her now and then. He didn't pretend to understand her. But he loved her -- and this was a surprise -- loved her with something more than passion.

  "Yeah," Z said.

  Arriving at the address Susan gave him, Z let Susan out; lugged her suitcase to the porch of a moldering white duplex; retreated to the curb and stayed there until Susan was safely inside the house -- the sober seance friend answering the door, thank God!

  After that, Z moved the car down the street, parallel-parking it between a station wagon and a long bed truck, squeezing the Cavalier into what proved to be the perfect hunkering place.

  Killing his lights, he waited for more than an hour; just in case a blue car happened by.

  Then, drove home -- where one more thing happened, this time, something that made him feel better about Susan's safety.

  Hiking up the back walk, Z caught a glimpse of the distinctive rear end of the Jag, parked down the front street.

  With the Jag shadowing Z's house again, Susan was in the clear. At least for tonight.

  Every dog said to have its day, it was now Z's turns to make certain Susan was safe on every night!

  And he knew how.

  The time had come for Mr. Cavalier to have a "talk" with Mr. Jaguar.

  Z continuing to his door, keying himself inside, snapping on the lights as usual, he "worked" the fireplace to get his case from its hiding place.

  Snapping off the living room light, going to the bedroom, flipping on the back light, he put on his black outfit.

  Leaving the bedroom light on -- Z wanting the possibility of activity in his apartment to keep the punk where he was for the moment -- Z eased open his darkened front door and, satchel in hand, slipped outside, Z just another shape among the many shifting shadows of the night.

  Backtracking, Z entered the garage to toss his valise on the passenger's seat and slip into his car. Holding the car's door open, releasing the emergency brake, putting the shift lever in neutral, he stuck his leg out of the car; with considerable strain on his bad knee, back-peddled the little machine out of the garage and into the alley, after that, turning the wheel to line it up with the alley's ruts.

  Straightening the wheel, climbing out to push on the doorframe, his other hand inside on the steering wheel, Z kept the car moving until it was stopped by a cross-rut in the eroded gravel alley, two houses down.

  There, still with the lights off, he got in and cranked up the little engine; used just enough revs to move the car the rest of the way down the coal black alley to the side street.

  Far enough away by this time to be beyond even the accidental sight line of the parked Jag, Z circled the block, building speed on the back side so he could turn off the engine and coast along the dark street flanking the front of his apartment house, Z drifting to a quiet stop behind a parked car half a block behind the lurking Jag.

  It was only a question of time, now, before Z would be shadowing the shadower.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 16

  His windows rolled down to take advantage of the night's seventy-five degrees, it took Z another four hours of Cavalier-sitting in the slumbering neighborhood before the man in the Jag decided to give it up for the night. (Maybe he figured Z had gone to sleep, leaving the bedroom light on.) Whatever the reason, Z's first signal that the man was taking off was the full-throated rumble of the Jag's big engine, the sound reverberating before gradually fading into the night.

  A cautious man, the Jaguar's driver. Edging off without his headlights, Z playing the same game by starting the Cavalier to do his lights-off best to follow the fleeing shadow of the powerful sports car.

  One block.

  Two blocks, before the Jag's lights came on.

  Good lights. Low. Focused.

  It wasn't until the sleek blue car had turned on Antioch -- the second of the Northland's two brightly lighted North-South streets -- that Z risked turning on his own lights.

  After that, their roles reversed, it was Z's turn to stay as far behind the Jag as possible without losing it.

  The absence of traffic -- which had been in Z's favor earlier -- was now against him, hardly any vehicles on the road around midnight but delivery trucks. Plus a few cars driven by the kind of insomniacs who did their shopping in all-night groceries. And lovers, looking for or returning from a place to "park."

  Adding difficulty to the game of "cat and mouse" was the certainty that the Jag's driver would recognize Z's Cavalier if he should notice it. Z could only hope the man was tired. Or that, as the "hunter," he'd overlook the fact that he, himself, could be the hunted.

  Going north, they passed through blacked-out residential sections, an elastic string seeming to join the two cars.

  Sixty-ninth. Sixty-ninth Terrace.

  Finally to the brightly lighted, but doing little business, Hy-Vee.

  Almost caught napping when a change of light at 72nd pulled the Jag up, Z ducked into the Hy-Vee lot, swinging out again when the light changed and the Jag accelerated.

  Continuing north, they drove into darkness, winding along the new, four-lane road recently cut through a thick forested patch of mostly Maples.

  All the way to Barry Road.

  After another stop sign had protected them from the completely phantom traffic of the twelve o'clock night, they turned left, going uphill, topping the rise to drive past a semi-circle of new, two-and-three-story buildings of brown brick and green tinted glass. Maple Woods College; the name derived from the "Maple Woods" they'd just been driving through.

  After the college, slowed by speed signs outriggering increasingly developed land -- houses, apartment complexes -- they passed strip malls and gas stations on the approach to North Oak.

  Right-turned again, they drove through land that was increasingly rural: farms-soon-to-be-eaten-by-the-city. And, finally, another right, took them into the most expensive of "far north" developments: New Haven.

  Passing a Doric-columned marble gateway, they wound through pretentious, three-story houses built too close together atop too little ground; skirted an artificial lake, eventually turning right to drive across the lake's small dam. (Big money could make a housing addition a very private kind of place.)

  Z still trailing as far as he dared, lights off when he could see by other means, Z braked sharply as the lead car took a left hook into the semi-circular concrete drive of a pricey three-story.

  As Z switched off his engine to drift to the curb a house away, he saw a light as a huge garage door lifted, the car purring inside the far left "hangar." At a second electronic command from the sport's car, saw the three-car garage door grinding down again.

  The Jaguar was in its den.

  And something else. Z had seen another, even smaller car, engulfed by the right stall. Could be one of the new Neons. Or a Miata. Z hadn't seen it long enough to tell.

  Parked a short way down the street -- the Cavalier a shabby addition to that neighborhood -- Z's first reaction was surprise that the flashy mansion lacked any "old world" touch. Was "American" all the way. New. Lavish. Expensive. And (except for the inflated price) completely ordinary.

  Maybe what you heard was true. Forsaking "family values," the younger mafia types had evolved into hard-eyed businessmen -- CPA's, MBA's -- the "organization" itself in the process of forsaking poor-paying blue collar crime for more lucrative white. Johnny Dosso had said as much.

  Z wondered i
f this upper-class tough lived alone, a second car not necessarily indicating a second occupant. (Enough room in the "cave" for a troop of gypsies to set up camp!) The size of most modern houses representing wealth and status rather than family need. So, what else was new?

  The sensible course for Z, was to back off, at least for the night. What he should do was take his time following the man, as the man had scouted Z; learn the thug's habits, see if anyone else was living in the house.

  And Z would have done that ... except for Susan. Susan needed a normal life; a life lived without threat. And she needed it now.

  Sitting there in the post-midnight dark, Z delayed thought by ... concentrating on the weather, the night air thick with moisture, the blackness as silent as a grave. Even the insects had gone to sleep. (Or, perhaps, were forbidden to take up residence in this rich man's paradise.)

  Z also realized that clouds had canceled the moon and stars, crafting a night as dark as the worst men's souls.

  Good. For what Z had to do, the darker the better.

  Rousing himself, Z got down to mental business. First, he needed to check the house for security: far from an easy task these days, in particular, since the hood had the money to purchase the latest and the best. Not that the gangster's alarm system would be patched into the police. Certainly not, would be Z's guess.

  Since Z also installed security, he knew something about electronic devices. "Interrupter" beams, pressure-sensitive ...

  Z didn't get to finish his review because of a suddenly motor noise, at the same time Z seeing a line of light at the bottom of the garage door.

  What he'd heard was the now familiar whine of the electric garage opener, the door continuing to come up, followed closely by a car starting, the door now fully up to show the second, smaller car, beginning to back out.

  Classic MGB. British-racing green.

  Prompting the quick question: had the man switched cars for some reason?

  The answer, a quick no.

  The person driving the MG was much smaller than the man in the Jag.

  As the car thumped into the street to make its turn (fortunately backing Z's direction,) the reflection of the access light gave Z a glimpse of the driver's head before the garage door closed all the way.