Death on the Diagonal

by Nero Blanc

  “I don’t even think she saw me sitting there till I called her name. Anyway, she seemed a little out if it. Her eyes were puffy, like she’d been crying. She’s got these really soft green gold eyes, but they were all pink and sore-looking. It really broke my heart. I asked her what was wrong, but she refused to talk. She said her problems were her own and she wasn’t about to get a stranger involved. I pushed her for information, but she refused to say anything more. We then kind of finished our lunches in silence, but I could see that she was on the verge of tears the entire time. I gave her my phone number and told her she could call me anytime she wanted, night or day.”

  “And did she?”

  “No. I didn’t hear anything from her. But about a week later I saw her again at the food court. She still seemed in pretty bad shape when she sat down. Very pale. She didn’t look healthy at all. This time I refused to let her leave until she told me what was going on. She finally broke down; she must have sobbed for five minutes before she regained enough composure to speak clearly. It seems she’d been on a kidney dialysis treatment for the last two years and was waiting for a donor kidney. The treatments had exhausted nearly all of her savings. At any rate, Newcastle Memorial had informed her that they’d found a matching donor, but that since she’d recently let her health insurance premiums lapse, and now had no way to pay for the surgery, they were going to have to move to the next person on their list. I mean, it was just a horrible situation.”

  “Did you offer to help out?”

  Gudgeon rubbed at a small vein that protruded on the left side of his forehead. “I did, but Dawn refused. Steadfastly refused. Wouldn’t even hear of such a notion. She told me the operation alone was going to cost close to $250,000. She knew there was no way she would ever be able to pay me back.”

  “What about family? Wasn’t there anyone else Ms. Davis could turn to?”

  “An ex-boyfriend was all she had, but he’d ditched her early on in the treatment process; a completely unsupportive jerk from what I could tell.” Gudgeon stopped and looked down at his hands, which were again resting in his lap. “I mean . . . I had the cash. It seemed stupid to have it sitting in the bank when this girl was in such trouble. By the end of the day . . . well, I was able to convince her that it was the right thing to do, for her to take the money. If the kidney was available . . . I mean, hell, it might’ve been a long time before another one came within reach.”

  “That was extremely generous of you, Walt,” was Rosco’s sole response. Whether the vanished Dawn Davis had pulled a fast one or not, Gudgeon had made a kind and noble gesture.

  “It’s just money,” was the shy reply. “My kids might not agree if they knew. But you can’t take it with you, can you? I mean, aren’t we supposed to help people in need if we can? Everyone just wants to get rich; and they could give a hoot about their fellow man.”

  “You’re right, the world would be a better place if other folks believed as you do, Walt,” Rosco told him. The opinion that the gullible might also be poorer, Rosco kept to himself. “How did you give her the money? Was it a check or cash?”

  “It was a wire transfer from my bank into her account.”

  “And you have that account number, I take it.”

  “No.”

  Rosco reached for his pad and pen. “Not a problem; your bank will have it on file. So I gather you haven’t seen Ms. Davis since you gave her the money?”

  Gudgeon held up his hands. “Wait, hold on there, Rosco. Dawn didn’t steal this money from me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I saw her quite a few times after the funds were transferred. She was very insistent about telling me how she was doing: what the prognosis was and so forth, how much better she was feeling knowing she was going to be cured . . . And she kept telling me how bad she felt about taking the money. She . . . she wanted to make it up to me . . . had all sorts of payment schedules she’d made up—every one of which would have outlasted me.” He stopped and smiled, and again Rosco noted the tenderness of the expression. “Anyway, the operation wasn’t scheduled until a little over three weeks ago. I drove Dawn to the hospital myself. She’d had the money in her account for almost a month by then. If I was being conned, she would have skipped town long before that.”

  “Okay,” Rosco said. “I’m just not convinced that Newcastle Memorial plays that kind of hardball in situations such as you described. Failing kidneys aren’t anything to fool around with. I don’t see them turning a patient away for lack of funds. There are agencies that can step in to help indigent patients.”

  “They had another match for that kidney,” Gudgeon argued, raising his voice. “They didn’t need her. They had Dawn on the ropes. They were going to go with the person who could pay. Health care’s changed; it’s big business now. They don’t care about the little guy.”

  “Did you visit Ms. Davis in the hospital?”

  “No. She didn’t want any visitors.”

  “Phone her?”

  “No. She had no phone in her room.”

  “And when exactly did she disappear?”

  “That was it. I dropped her off at Newcastle Memorial, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

  “Did you call the hospital and ask about her status?”

  “Yes. They said she checked out the next day.”

  Rosco shook his head slowly. “I don’t know much about this kind of major surgery, but leaving the hospital after twenty-four hours seems like an unlikely scenario for what you’re describing.”

  “It seemed odd to me, too; I admit that. I tried to get more information, but they won’t release details except to next of kin. I didn’t want to push them any further. I didn’t want to go on record as asking.”

  Rosco rolled his chair closer to the desk, leaned on his forearms, and leveled his gaze on Walt’s. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to the police with this?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t want my children to hear a word of this.”

  “If, and I’m not saying you have, but if you have been conned out of this money, there is virtually no way you will be able to reclaim a nickel if you refuse to pursue it through the legal system; I have to tell you that, Walt.”

  “I haven’t been cheated. I’m an old man who’s fallen for a young girl who needed my help. Maybe I was a fool, okay, but I only want to know that Dawn’s safe and well.”

  “Had you been intimate with her?”

  “That’s nobody’s damn business.” Gudgeon bristled, then added an abrupt, “What’s this going to cost me?”

  Rosco closed his notebook and said, “Let me first see what I can find out. I’ll work up a fee schedule later.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Friday lunchtime at Lawson’s Coffee Shop was without a doubt its busiest two hours of the week. It was payday for Newcastle’s city employees, and the restaurant sat dead square in the center of the action. With the municipal courthouse a block away, the DA’s office behind that, and the police department another block and a half distant, Lawson’s was packed to the rafters at every week’s end; and depending on what had “gone down” during that particular seven-day period, the atmosphere among the town’s legal guardians could swing from jovial and partylike to outright glum.

  The eatery was one of the few remaining single-story structures in the downtown area. Caught in a kind of fifties time warp, its decor was classic diner: lots of plate glass windows facing the street, lots of chrome dotting the long pink Formica countertop with its matching swiveling stools, and a linoleum floor that had carried so many feet in identical directions it could have doubled as the Yellow Brick Road—except that Lawson’s tiles were gray and pink. Pink was the coffee shop’s theme color—bubble gum, cherry, flamingo, cotton candy: Somehow they all blended together in the vinyl-upholstered banquettes and booths, in the waitresses’ uniforms, and in the walls themselves.

  What was remarkable was that no one questioned the choice—and hadn’t for half a century. Just as none of the r
egular patrons would have dreamed of asking why the jukebox stations in every booth still operated on nickels, or why only artists like Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, and Patsy Cline were represented. Lawson’s was pre-rock-and-roll, pre-Elvis; and just forget about rap, hip-hop, or ska. Besides, the volume was turned down so low it was impossible to hear the songs over the din of clattering glasses, dishes, and silverware, and the boisterous banter between customers, waitresses, fry cooks, and dishwashers.

  Rosco stepped through Lawson’s etched-glass doors at twelve-thirty and couldn’t help but smile. The clamor inside was actually louder than outside. Street noise had nothing on the restaurant. He was immediately greeted by Martha Leonetti, senior waitress, self-styled top dog, and wiseacre supreme. She and the eatery were more or less the same age, proof of which was the blond beehive hairdo Martha had sported for the thirty-plus years she’d been employed there.

  As was her wont, she slapped Rosco on the butt and said, “Hiya, cute buns, where’s that little wife of yours? You two are like those black-and-white magnetic Scottie dogs; can’t pry ’em apart with a spatula or dynamite. Makes me worry when I don’t see you and Belle together.”

  Rosco glanced at his watch. “She’s meeting me at . . . well . . . twelve-thirty. I gather she’s not here yet.”

  Martha winked. “Would I have patted your tush if your missus were sitting at table number two? I don’t think so. But your ex-partner is down at the corner booth with Dr. J . . . Big barn fire out at Collins’s last night, but I guess you heard all about it. The whole thing sounds fishy, if you ask me. When the rich can’t get richer legally, they can always rake their insurance companies over the coals . . . or get into politics. That’s where the real money is.”

  Rosco chortled. “Everything sounds fishy to you, Martha. But who knows? You’ve been right before. I’ll join Al and Abe. If Belle shows up, send her over, will you?”

  “You betcha, buttercup.”

  Rosco worked his way down the restaurant’s center aisle, dodging waitresses and greeting former coworkers: plain-clothes and uniformed officers alike. There wasn’t an empty table. At the far booth sat his former partner, Lieutenant Al Lever. With Al was the police department’s chief forensic investigator, Abe Jones. The two men couldn’t have been more dissimilar. While Al was decidedly middle-aged, balding, and overweight, with a smoker’s cough that followed him everywhere, Jones had the appearance of a movie star in his youthful prime. He was African-American, the son of an Episcopal priest who’d named him Absalom, after Absalom Jones, in the hopes that Abe would follow in his vocation. But Abe had gone the science route, and his father had had the good sense not to push the issue. Besides, Abe was well known as having a keen eye for a pretty lady, something that doesn’t always play out well in the priesthood.

  “Heya, Poly-crates, what’s shakin’?” Al said as Rosco slid into the booth. The butchering of his ex-partner’s last name was something Lever had been doing since the day they’d met. Rosco had realized long ago that it wasn’t likely to stop any time soon.

  “Not much,” was Rosco’s offhanded reply. Despite the fact that he and Al were as close as two friends could be and that they often continued to collaborate, Rosco wasn’t disposed to discuss his recent conversation with Walter Gudgeon.

  The denial brought on a hearty laugh from Jones. “Oh, right, how many times have we heard ‘Not much’ from this guy, only to find out he’s been hired by some high-profile, bigwig muckity-muck to look into the nefarious shenanigans of a capricious consort.”

  Rosco chuckled and held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “No. Really. It’s been a slow day over at the Polycrates Agency. As a matter of fact it’s been a slow week. It seems nobody’s cheating on anybody lately. What’s the world coming to?”

  Abe shook his head, grinning with the perfect smile that melted his women friends’ hearts. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Can we keep this conversation on a more elevated plane, you two?” Lever said before he was attacked by a sudden coughing fit. “Dang allergies,” he added as he caught his breath.

  “A downright shame you’re being bothered like that, Big Al,” was Jone’s laconic reply. “I would have thought they’d leave you alone by October. Pollen count being down and all.”

  “The Camels must be kicking it up,” Rosco tossed in.

  “Yuk . . . yuk . . .” Al wheezed.

  “I guess it’s a year-round kind of affliction,” Rosco added.

  “Just keep it up, guys,” Al told them. “You get to be my age and show up with mysterious maladies, you’ll be laughing out of the other side of your mouths.”

  “Mysterious maladies—is that a nickname for filter tips?” Rosco asked.

  “Har har.” But Lever laughed in spite of himself while Rosco changed the subject.

  “I gather the department’s had a busy morning out at King Wenstarin Farms.”

  “A nonstory on that one,” Al offered. “It’s all cooled off, no pun intended. The fire marshal has ruled a ‘nonsuspicious blaze.’ The way he pieced it together—with help from old man Collins—is that the barn manager, one Orlando Polk, must have accidentally knocked over a countertop space heater, which in turn tipped over an open bottle of booze, and the combination caused the tack room to light up like a bonfire at a Boy Scout jamboree. Seems like Collins had been after the guy to clean up his act.”

  “Have either one of you been out there for a look-see?” Rosco asked.

  They said, “Nope,” in unison, but it was Lever who continued. “What for? Nonsuspicious means exactly what it says. If Todd Collins is insisting the fire was an accident, who are we to argue? It’s up to him or his insurer to get the ball rolling on any investigation. Apparently, Collins also told the marshal that this Polk guy was a hard drinker, which was another big problem. Kind of ironic; a guy makes millions on booze, then his barn burns up because the same stuff fans the flames. But it seems Polk was sober enough last night to help his boss get the horses out of danger, then he went back into the building, where a falling timber or something whacked him in the back of the head and knocked him out cold. It was Collins who risked his hide to save Polk—who was then rushed off to Newcastle Memorial. But who knows? When the poor shlub regains consciousness, he may have a different story.”

  “What if he doesn’t make it?”

  It was Abe who answered. “The doctors are giving him an eighty percent shot at pulling through.”

  “Hey, Poly-Crates, don’t start giving me more work than I already have. I don’t need no more dead people right now.” Lever coughed again and reached for his cigarettes. Both Rosco and Abe shook their heads, while Abe picked up the No Smoking sign on the table and perched it atop Al’s coffee cup.

  “Oh, you guys are cute. Anybody ever tell you that?” Lever coughed for a third time, but left his cigarettes in his pocket. “Anyway, until the fire marshal sends up a red flag, or someone dies, neither me or the good doctor here are going anywhere near King Wenstarin Farms. Which is fine by me.”

  Martha arrived with two cholesterol-laden platters of cheeseburgers and French fries, then plopped a cup of coffee in front of Rosco. “What’ll it be, doll face?” she asked.

  “I’ll wait for Belle.” Rosco reached over and snagged one of Lever’s fries. The lieutenant tried to slap his hand away, but Rosco proved too quick for him.

  “I’ll bring a couple of extra orders of fries,” Martha said, “I wouldn’t want to see anyone get hurt, or have one of you boys starve to death on me.” She glanced down at Al’s well-endowed stomach, gave her eyebrows a sarcastic twitch, and walked off.

  Lever groaned. “She’s worse that my wife. I don’t know why I come in here.”

  “Any idea who insured the Collins farm?” Rosco asked.

  Lever laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like an ambulance chaser, Poly-crates. Things must be slow over at the agency. Maybe you’d like to come back onto the force? Have yourself a steady paycheck, and all the other th
rilling benefits that come from working for our beloved city.”

  “The Dartmouth Group covers Wenstarin,” Abe said. “You’ve worked for them, haven’t you?”

  “Yep. They’re a tight bunch. Clint Mize is their chief adjuster now. Left his job with Shore Line about a year ago. Dartmouth doesn’t pay out their claims lightly—or willingly. They’re going to need something a lot more specific than a maybe accident involving a heater and a bottle of fire-water before they get out their checkbook.”

  Abe smiled and looked past Al and Rosco. “Here comes the Belle of the Ball now.” The other two turned and watched as Belle walked the length of the restaurant and slid into the booth next to Abe. Two young police officers ogled her as she passed, but when they realized she was joining Lever, Jones, and Rosco, they made feeble attempts to make it appear as if they’d been looking for a waitress.

  After Belle kissed Rosco and all exchanged greetings, Al said, “You’re early.”

  Belle looked at her watch. “Actually I’m ten minutes late. Sorry. Friday traffic.”

  “No, no, no, I judge these things by using my wife, Helen, as a barometer. Any woman who’s less than half an hour late is early in my book.”

  Belle laughed and looked at Rosco. “How’d things go with the potential client this morning?”

  “Ah-ha!” Abe said, “Mister ‘Not Much’ has something shakin’ and refuses to share it with his trusted friends.”

  “Hey, you know how it is, Abe,” Lever added. “These PIs squeeze us for the inside dope right and left, but share and share alike isn’t in their playbook.”

  “Sorry guys, client privileges,” Rosco responded. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t have information you can’t divulge.”

  “You can tell us though, Rosco,” Belle complained. “It’s not like we’re going to blab it all over town.”

  “What’re we blabbing all over town?” Martha set a cup of coffee in front of Belle and two extra orders of fries in the center of the table. “Is there something I don’t know? Customers count on me to keep them informed about the city’s darkest and dirtiest tales—those items that don’t appear on the evening news.”