EQMM, August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Odd man out would have guessed his little love condo as the locale for most of his trysts, but not so. Nick once told me he always had three serious lovers: the incumbent, or the current focus of his amorous attention; the rookie, or the incumbent-in-training; and the madam, or the ex-incumbent on her way out. Age had nothing to do with incumbency. The madam could be twenty-something and the rookie forty. It was all about positioning in his rotational system. Rookies never saw the pied-à-terre; madams saw it less and less frequently until one day they saw it no more. To confound ex-madams, he changed addresses every few years.

  It had been there that he had opened the envelope. According to Jamison, the inspector in charge, the bomb had been disguised as a valentine in one of those bulky oversized sleeves. On Christmas or a birthday, the card would have been smaller, but this was a holiday to celebrate love, as if love were a quality measured by size. This one, Jamison said, was red and large enough to easily hold a strip of C4 and a detonator.

  Connie dropped me at Nick's office while she went to the mall. Sadie Massichismo, his longtime secretary, was there, though I'm not sure why. Without Nick, there was no business and, of course, no paycheck. She was one of those women who believes she'll be young forever and dresses the part: leathers, boots, tattoo, and six inches of thigh. Pouty lips, wide eyes, and a little too much blush gave her round face the baby look so loved by cartoonists. For my taste, had she dressed down a bit, she would have been attractive, yet I suspect she got first pick at the local stud farm. She'd been at the wake, not mixing, hovering near the casket, but we hadn't talked. A Waterford vase on her desk held a lone blood-red rose, still fed by the little green florist vial, booty from one of the florals.

  "Wrapping up?"

  "Yeah.” There was strain in the voice, as if she'd been sucking sand. “It a problem?"

  "Not for me.” Big companies give three days’ bereavement if you can prove you share some blood. Little operations like Nick's paid a wage with no benefits. The time off, if you could get it, was without pay. I can't recall Sadie ever not being there. Either she really needed the money or she didn't want to be out of the action. Last week, I'd have said it was the pay, but now it seemed something more.

  Nick's suite was not large, but two steps up from adequate. The anteroom, handsomely paneled in birch with cherry accents, held only chairs, Sadie's desk, and file cabinets. His office—with a cherry partner's desk, bookshelves complete with leaded-glass windows, burgundy leather couch, work table, half a dozen chairs, and a private bathroom with sink, closet, and shower—could have served as an apartment for most bachelors. The artwork was early modern, mainly Dada. A Hausmann photomontage of an angry man with a misshapen head, sword in hand, hung over the credenza. I sat in Nick's seat to see what the world looked like from his side. About the same. Still, it was better than looking at the Hausmann. Sadie fidgeted, as if she wanted to protest my boldness at taking Nick's place. At first I thought her silence was politeness but, remembering her fiery Roman blood, dismissed the notion.

  "Sit down,” I said, but she didn't.

  We talked about Nick and what a swell guy he was. All the while she kept working the office, not doing anything useful, not throwing out papers, just straightening things, moving them from here to there and back.

  "How long you worked here?"

  "Ever since we started. Never been anyone else."

  "What now?"

  "Who knows? I got a little money. Something'll turn up. I'm not worried."

  "Police been here?"

  "Took the place apart. You think a man dies, they'd leave his things alone. No, got to mess with everything. Took the Rolodex and my computer. No respect."

  "Won't do you much good."

  "Don't tell me.” Her voice pitched. “They didn't have to take his stuff like that. How am I going to call people, let them know? About him, I mean."

  Dummy that I am, I said, “You liked him a lot, huh?"

  For the first time she stopped her fidgeting and came over to the desk, fists clenched, scowl on that pouty face. “He was a shit. Couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Any skirt came by, he'd jump it. It was a job. Nothing to do with liking him. But you get used to it. Year after year, different women. You get used to it."

  "That bad. Sorry, didn't realize."

  "Look, what do you want?"

  "He ever tell you anything happens to him, you should see me?"

  The puzzlement crossed her face as she tried to figure the trap. “No, what's that mean? He supposed to tell me that? You supposed to do something?"

  "No, nothing, just wondered. What I came here for was to see if there were keys to his pied-á-terre."

  "And you figured I'd be here?"

  "No. Thought the place would be empty. I'd let myself in, get the keys, let myself out."

  "And how'd you get in, I'm not here?"

  I reached in my pocket, pulled out my pick set, and held it up for her to see.

  "So why not use that to get in his place?"

  She knew the questions, give her that. “Crime scene. I B&E, it's bad juju. I have a key, makes it easier to talk my way out of a rap if the cops catch me. P.I.-101 stuff."

  "Why you want in there?"

  "You know me, Sadie. This is what I do. Someone kills Nick, I got to find out who. So, how about the keys?"

  She nodded. It was a sad nod. I'm not sure if it was resignation, remorse, or a simple understanding that one way or the other I would get the keys. “Top right."

  I opened the drawer and took the small ring from the pencil caddy. “Thanks,” I said. “You keep a list of his friends? The ones he invited up?"

  Her eyes narrowed. “You're a shit, just like him, asking something like that."

  "So where is it, your home computer?"

  "I don't need a computer to remember."

  "Figures,” I said. “How about a list."

  * * * *

  She'd typed seven names, but only three had made the nest in the past two years: Charity, Desirée, and Gracie. The order of descension had Charity as the queen mum, so to speak, Desirée the madam, with Sister Gracie as reigning incumbent.

  "That narrows it,” Connie said. “And all three need a favor. You think Nick's sending a message from the grave?"

  "We burned him. But yeah, it's the kind of thing you'd expect."

  Except for the mess in the foyer, the apartment was much as it had always been: neat, clean, and impeccably furnished. Not large, but how much room did you need? Most clandestine romance took place in out-of-the-way, one-room motels. This place had a granite-topped kitchenette, chocolate suede loveseats, gas fireplace, quadraphonic sound system with a two-hundred-CD juke, wet bar, and a satin-covered king bed. We'd been here a couple of times before and after a double. Not well enough to know it, but so we could get around. Paper, diamond, and videos were on the shopping list, but if we were going to case the joint, we might as well see what else there was. I slipped on my totes and gloves. The AIDS epidemic taught us a lot about how to keep a site sanitary—one small bonus from the lover's disease. “You go light, and I'll go deep,” I said. “Anything looks interesting, tag it, put it on the counter. We'll check it later."

  Going deep meant removing the backs of pictures, scanning undersides of drawers, and checking the insides of opened cereal boxes. Most thieves were of the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am variety, quick in-and-outers who would take what they could see and leave the rest. Most people hid things from the in-and-outers. But Nick'd sent at least three lovelies my way, telling me to search the place, and that meant he expected more than an amateur job.

  It was an hour and a half before I turned up anything. Meanwhile, Connie had found the videos and diamond—both stashed in the bedroom—and was working her way through the envelopes in the desk drawer. My find was rolled up in a glass stogie holder tucked inside a round Rubbermaid spaghetti-filled dispenser. Freudian or what? I fished the paper out of the tube and spread it on the counter for a quick read. Dustin Star
r, it seemed, was not the dupe he pretended. The letter, dated a month ago, advised Nick in most graphic terms of the alterations intended for his body should he fail to terminate his affection for Desirée.

  "Take a look,” I called to Connie.

  "'Balls up your nose'? Is that possible?” she asked.

  "Depends on the size of the ball and the nose."

  "Nick's nose wasn't that big,” she said, which gave me some comfort. “You ever see anything Dusty wrote?” she asked, studying the writing. I hadn't. “No way to tell gender just by the writing, but this seems more like a woman's hand than a man's. See how neat and even it is, and the romantic, cursive style, just the way Sister Theresa taught it in third grade."

  "Little sexist, I'd say."

  "It's okay for me to be sexist, I'm a woman. But what do you think, am I right?"

  "Whether you are or not, it points to motive. Something we'll have to check, see how much Dusty knew."

  "Actually, it could have been anybody, even Sadie. All it takes is, make a bomb, drop it in the mail. How hard is it to make one of those, anyway?"

  "Not that hard. Mix up some C4, flatten it to envelope size, shove in a detonator, and rig some kind of trigger. Open the card, trigger activates the detonator. Poof. You can make C4 out of non-controlled substances, buy them anywhere. Hard part is the detonator, something to make a spark, set off the C4. But those you can get mail order on the Internet—or at least instructions on how to make them."

  "So I'm right, it could have been anybody."

  "Well, maybe not just anybody. They'd have to know this address. The way Nick segregated his women, this place is as secret as a CIA safe house."

  "But at least seven knew.” She frowned. “No, wait a minute, not even that many. I found the lease, two years, up in June. We're looking at just three people who could have done it, plus Dusty, here."

  She was close. Charity, Desirée, Gracie, and Dustin knew the address. “Five, if you count Sadie."

  Connie laughed. “You've got to be kidding. She's got no reason."

  "Yeah,” I admitted, “you're right. Hot number like her, in her short skirts, good looks, able to pick the litter, she's got no reason. Keeps top-of-the-head tabs on who's in or out because it's her job, not because she's jealous. Not a chance she could fall for Nick and feel cheated that everyone gets a turn on the bed but her."

  She gave me one of those looks that told me I was getting close to being in trouble. “Always amazes, the way you respect women. Remind me, I send you a valentine yet?"

  She had. And I'd opened it. Sweet thing, must have cost a buck and a half, and the sentiment had been just about right, not that I was going to tell her that part.

  It took about another half-hour to finish up, with a copy of Charity's note to show for the time. She'd signed it, but, as she'd said, his signature block was blank. I pocketed the paper and diamond, and dumped the tapes in a plastic grocery bag. Tonight was video time at the Sparks home theater.

  The way I worked, most of the time, was to make a list, then check off the items, one by one. Very thorough. Very anal. I still had lists from junior high, but that didn't stop me from having faith in the system.

  Faith is a wonderful thing, it gets you over the rough spots of the unknowable. Keeps you from wasting a lifetime pondering the imponderable. Like why anyone would pick Valentine's Day to do in Nick. Could be irony, I guess. Especially if you figure that the name of the day is, in itself, ironic. None of the three St. Valentines was ever particularly known for love. Two had gotten their heads chopped off for having faith in the wrong God. Maybe deep down that was the subliminal message, since it is certainly true that at times the heart takes leave of the head, allowing passion to reign. Why not, then, commemorate the notion of romantic love by pairing it with the name day of saints who had lost their heads? Pavlov and Freud, from their vantage point in hell, would have clinked glasses at the thought.

  First on my list was to talk with Jamison at Homicide, then the three lovelies. I moved Gracie to third position, which would give us time to view her on-screen talent. Charity's answering machine assured me she would call back at her earliest opportunity, but Desirée's invitation to come at once was breathless.

  "Did you find it?"

  No hello. No “Come right in.” If nothing else, Desirée was focused. She looked as good as she had the afternoon of the wake. The black sheath had been replaced by a sweater one size too small and a pair of nothing-between-me-and-my-Calvin Klein jeans. A strand of blond hair artfully escaped the rest to give her a look of practiced whimsy.

  I fished the rock from my pocket and dangled it at eye level. “I'd be delighted to come in,” I said. That flustered her a bit, but not enough to prevent her from nabbing the pendant. “I have some questions,” I said, to let her know there was a price to be paid for the bauble. “How'd you happen to have a duplicate?"

  She'd gone tense at the mention of questions—as, I guess, most people who are mixed up in a murder might—but relaxed at the mention of the necklace. “Dusty gave it to me. He had a second made so that I could wear it every day and not worry if the chain broke or something."

  We sat in the luxurious living room, far enough into the house to be polite, but not so far as to be intimate. No kitchen table for me, the dick who'd saved her stone, perhaps more. “There's the matter of my fee,” I said, and her lower lip drooped a bit; it was the look of a girl who has stolen a kiss and now finds her virginity at risk.

  "Yes.” She fumbled the words. “Of course. How much?"

  "Not much. A few questions, that's all. How are you with computers? Use them much?"

  The brows merged, signaling her confusion. “No,” she said. “I don't know anything about them. Why?"

  "How about Dusty?"

  Again bewilderment. “Yes, I suppose; he has one in his office."

  "He do the Internet? Surfing and all that?"

  "Yes, I guess so, he's mentioned it. Why, what are you after?"

  "Nothing, just curious.” I pulled out the envelope that held Dusty's letter to Nick, addressed by cursive hand. “Recognize the writing?"

  She studied it. “No,” she said.

  "Not yours?"

  "No. What is this? What's in the envelope?"

  "Not Dusty's?"

  "No. I don't recognize it. Does this have to do with Nick's death?"

  I slid the envelope back into my pocket. “Maybe. But forget it. Let's talk about the rock. You were wearing it, the real one, at Nick's.” Her confusion seemed to pass but the tenseness returned and with it a sparkle of dew at the corner of one eye. “Special occasion?"

  She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “No,” she said softly, “I, well, I just wanted to look pretty, and when I wear this I feel genuine, not like I'm in costume for some play."

  Tender. “You and him,” I asked. “Love?"

  The head came up and I could see the dew had ripened to a tender stream meandering down her snowy cheek. “Yes,” she said. “I adored him. He was everything a man should be, kind, considerate, attentive.” An inner light seemed to shine and the radiance warmed her until she seemed to glow. “You know what he did once? It was so ... sweet. It was spring; we were walking together, down by the river, you know, in the park, by the bend?” I didn't, but she wasn't expecting an answer anyway. From the glaze I could tell she was there, not here. “You know how the park is when it's warm, all the homeless, they seem to be everywhere.” There was a little shudder, nice touch, something they would teach in acting school. “I've always avoided them, thought they were just dirty old drunks, but not Nick. He spoke to every one he met, as if they were old friends; he treated them with respect, and as he said a kind word to this one or that, they seemed to take on a dignity. He asked me if it was okay. Asked me if I minded his talking to them, and said if I did, he'd stop, but by then I was beginning to be fascinated. All of them, it seemed, had a story. Most of the time it was so sad, I wanted to cry. It was beautiful what he did. I c
ouldn't have done it, but for him, it seemed natural, like all the flotsam of life were part of his family. That's how he was. And he would have given them, his family, up, if I asked. Do you know how that made me feel? That's all a woman ever wants, just to know that the man she loves would give up all for her."

  To me it seemed a high price, but then, I wasn't here to debate the tricks Nick used to snare his prey. She'd answered the question, and that's all I'd asked.

  Socrates aside, questioning is a cruel skill, for, in large part, it is the sequence or timing of the query that flushes truth from its warren. For those of us who make a living probing shadowy pits, causing unintended pain is an occupational hazard. “You knew there were others?” I asked.

  Her face went blank and her lids batted as if she'd been punched. “Others?"

  "Women."

  "Other women?"

  Knowing the turmoil churning within her, I tried to look sorrowful and nodded solemnly. While her behavior seemed an answer, the question still begged. “Did you know?"

  Now the tears came as her spring overflowed. “No,” she said, daubing the flood.

  Of all emotion, passion is the most difficult to gauge. Hatred, envy, desire, all seem to focus. But passion has a duality that allows it both an inward and outward focal point. While the tears came, I was uncertain if they were for the realization of her own betrayal or because there was no longer an opportunity for her to address, and perhaps reverse, Nick's infidelity. “Did Dusty know about you and Nick?” I asked.

  "No,” she groaned.

  I pulled the envelope from my pocket again and this time showed her its innards.

  Silently, slowly, revulsion creeping onto her face, she read it. “Where did you get this?"