Nobody Lives Forever

by Edna Buchanan

  Laurel and Benjie trooped into the kitchen now, sleepy-eyed and curious. She was pulling on a terrycloth robe. Rick put the telephone down. “I’m sorry it woke you,” he muttered.

  “What time is it?” She was apprehensively studying the wall clock. “Did you say you’re going back to work?”

  “Just for a little while,” he said, angrily pacing the kitchen and rubbing the back of his neck. “They lost a prisoner on us. Let her escape. Damn!”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yeah.” He saw Benjie staring wide-eyed. “Take my advice, Ben, don’t grow up to be a policeman. It’s too frustrating.”

  “I like policemens,” Benjie said, looking hopefully at a tin of fresh-baked brownies on the sideboard.

  Laurel poured two cups of coffee and a glass of milk. She wanted to tell Rick about the clothes, the magazines, all the lost hours and the inexplicable events that were frightening her, but this was not the time.

  “It’s that country club of a jail,” he was saying, “the women’s detention center. What the hell kind of operation are they running over there anyhow? We put this … woman,” he said, glancing at Benjie who sat at rapt attention, “that we’re trying to flip in there last night to chill out. Apparently they go off and leave her in an interview room with some social worker who takes off. Before they send somebody to escort our prisoner back to her—her suite—she drags the conference table over to the window, puts a chair on top of it, climbs up, opens it, kicks out the screen and out she goes. By the time those cretins noticed she was missing she was probably … having a beer in Opa-Locka.”

  “You mean she jumped out the window?” Laurel, like Benjie, was all eyes. “Did she get hurt?”

  “It’s no big deal. It was probably only ten, twelve feet, onto grass. And she was motivated. Wait till Dusty hears this. She’s gonna be PO’ed.”

  Laurel poured cereal into a bowl for Benjie, who looked disappointed, his big eyes still caressing the brownies. She watched Rick, hoping that when he calmed down, they could talk. Maybe after Benjie goes home, she thought hopefully.

  He got up from the table, paced the length of the kitchen twice more, then gulped the rest of his coffee. “I’m gonna run back out and see if I can spot her in her usual haunts before she relocates.”

  He ruffled Benjie’s hair in passing, then slammed out the door. She winced at the sound of gravel flying as he backed too fast out of the driveway.

  Two hours later he was back, empty-handed, frustrated and still raging about sloppy security at the women’s detention center.

  Thirty-Five

  Jim squinted painfully in the sunlight that streamed into the fifty-floor homicide office. He was using the WATS line before going home.

  A woman dispatcher had answered his first call to the Jericho police department. The chief was back in town but out on patrol, she said. Chief Quincy Berke returned his call forty minutes later. The first thing he asked about was Miami’s weather.

  “It’s hot, muggy, miserable and the natives are restless,” Jim said. “Business as usual.”

  “Miami must be quite a place. Never been there. Always thought I’d like to take a trip down sometime. But with all the stuff I read about in the newspapers, I’m not so sure.” The voice was jovial.

  “One of your people did a few years back. She stayed.”

  “You must mean Mary Ellen.” The chief sounded enthusiastic. “Is she working for you?”

  “You mean Detective Dustin?”

  “Detective. How do you like that? It had to be six years or so ago, I got a call and a reference form to fill out for a preemployment background investigation by Miami PD. Never got any more requests for references, so I figured she got herself the job. She is a sharp girl. Is she okay?”

  “She’s been doing a helluva job, homicide detective now.”

  “Homicide. Knew that girl’d go places. She don’t keep in touch.”

  “So, she worked out on your department?”

  “Sure. She was the first woman we ever hired. Had a few since—none as good-looking as her. She still a head turner?”

  “For sure, chief. Her folks lived out there, didn’t they?”

  “Still do, Tom and Claire farm a place about thirty miles out of town.”

  “Why’d she leave?”

  Jim heard the breath go out of the police chief in a whoosh, like a balloon deflating.

  “Wanted to see the big city, I guess.” The words were flat, did not ring true.

  “There was another reason…”

  He was fishing. The chief bit.

  “Is Mary Ellen in some kinda trouble?”

  “Did she have trouble there?”

  “There was a ruckus.”

  “You never mentioned it in the background investigation.”

  “It didn’t seem proper—or fair. It was a personal thing, didn’t directly relate to the job she did out here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, now, Detective, that’s all water under the dam. No sense dredging up the past. She’s a nice girl, got a whole new life down there. I’m shore she wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “Guess it was her love life, huh?”

  “You got it. The scandal’s died down. People don’t hardly mention it anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “The man was my lieutenant, a good man, but married too young—shotgun wedding. She had the baby five months later. Was always high-strung, a jealous type. They had their problems. Next thing you know, they was separated. Well, he and Mary Ellen were working together, and you know how that is.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” Jim muttered.

  “The next thing you know, they had something going, hot and heavy. It just drove the wife wild. I don’t blame Mary Ellen, she was young and he was separated, living by hisself in a trailer. He kept saying he was getting a divorce but never really started the paperwork. He’d go by to see the baby, guess it would get his wife’s hopes up. She was always pestering him at work, I guess it was the one place she knew to find him. Even slashed the tires on his patrol car once right outside a the station.” The chief chuckled at the recollection.

  “She was always threatening suicide to get his attention. She called the station one night, and he went by there. To stop her from doing anything, I guess. Looked like she got him into the bedroom, and they was getting real friendly again. Hell, they were married. Looked like when he was all relaxed and dozing, off guard, she picked up his gun and shot him right in the temple. Then she killed the baby and took her own life. Found her lying across his body, the gun right there.”

  Jim winced. “No question it was murder-suicide?”

  The chief hesitated. “Not to my mind. There was some talk, malicious gossip.”

  “That Dusty was involved?”

  “Yep. The wife was as crazy as hell. Before she pulled the trigger on herself, she called the station and said Mary Ellen had threatened her and her family. But hell, Mary Ellen was working that night, helping the troopers handle a bad wreck up on the interstate. Wasn’t ever near the place. Forensics confirmed the murder-suicide.

  “The other police wives had been giving Mary Ellen the cold shoulder all along. You can imagine what they were like after the bodies were found. There was no living here for her anymore.

  “Mary Ellen loved the job, but this is a small town and the women here just didn’t want her working with their husbands, plain and simple. They gave her all kinds of grief. So did some of the church people. Her parents had never approved of her seeing a married man. They were hard on her too.”

  “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  “Hell, ain’t it enough? It was king-sized scandal in this here town. I guess that’s why she decided to lose herself in the big city. Jericho ain’t no Miami, and I’m glad for that.”

  “Me too,” Jim said.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Terrific,” Jim
said. “She’s just great.”

  “Married?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if you should mention that we talked, tell her I was asking for her and wish her all the best.”

  “Sure will, Chief.” Jim sat at his desk and smiled. The truth about the deep dark secret in the past of Mary Ellen Dustin was tragic, but nothing for Rick to panic about. The rest of Rick’s suspicions could probably be laid to rest as easily. Struck by a sudden hunch, he reached for the telephone again.

  Prescott Williams strolled into homicide five minutes later with the loose-limbed undulating saunter native to his Overtown neighborhood. His shoulders tilted and his hips swayed as though keeping time to a rap beat that only he heard. This was a subdued version of his usual shuffle. He tried to maintain a low profile at the station so as not to offend high-ranking nonblacks who might take exception to his image. A street-grown boy who had somehow stayed out of trouble, he had become a blue-shirted public service aide at eighteen and hoped to attend the police academy when he was twenty-one. He smiled happily at Jim, who groaned inwardly and hoped fervently to be long retired before anybody ever gave Prescott Williams a badge and a gun.

  Jim waved him toward a chair. “Sit down, Prescott.”

  Prescott sat, expression placid.

  “Remember the day last week that you brought the lady witness in here from Bal Harbour?”

  “Yeah, the old lady with her own little K-9 dawg,” he grinned.

  “You met Pookie.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what she say his name was, I think. He come right at me, all tooth, until she called him off my ass.”

  “Yeah, this life is full of peril, Prescott. Now what happened when you brought her to the station?”

  “Nothin’.” Prescott looked apprehensive. “What she say? I brought her up here, just like you said.” He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “She didn’t say anything. You did everything right. No problem, Prescott. Listen to me, it’s important. I want to test your skills as an investigator, as an observer. Tell me everything that happened after you pulled into the parking garage.”

  Prescott studied Jim from under heavy lids at half-mast. Crossing one long leg over the other, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the challenge, his lips tight together. Then he leaned forward, both feet on the floor.

  “We pulls into the parking lot, see, and I drop the old lady by the elevator ’cause there was no spaces close by. Those guys from SWAT always grab all the visitor parking,” he said, his expression indignant. “They know they not supposed to park there, but they do it anyways ’cause it by the elevator.” Prescott stared again at the ceiling, brow furrowed, for a good twenty seconds. “I park the car, then I go meet the lady by the elevator which we jump to go to the lobby.” He looked for approval to Jim, who nodded pleasantly.

  “Den we git to the lobby, and me and the lady signs in. The old lady had to give the sergeant a piece of ID, and he give her a pass to clip it on her dress. I call upstairs to the sergeant, you know, who sent me to git the lady—to announce our arrival.”

  “What then? Remember now, every detail, who you saw, who you talked to, what happened.”

  “Well, den we had a little problem.” Prescott looked sheepish. “Nothin’ serious. I temporarily mislaid my key card for the lobby elevator to homicide. Lef it back in the car. But we already called upstairs to say we coming up, and I know the sergeant, he don’t like to wait. So I look around the lobby for anybody with a key card. The elevator opens and out come the big blond lady detective, you know. The bad one with the big…” he gestured. “She in a big hurry, she looked pissed off at somethin’, stomping acrost the lobby. But I ast her if she would just let us use her key card to jog the elevator into taking us upstairs. So she look at me and the old lady, turn around, and we go back to the elevator, you know, she put in her key card, I punch the button and we go, me and the old lady.”

  “Did they talk?”

  Prescott looked blank.

  “The old lady and the blond detective, did they talk to each other?”

  “No,” Prescott shrugged. “I think the old lady say Thank you, or some such, she was polite, but the detective, Dustin, that’s her name, that’s it, just say ‘Welcome,’ and take off. She looked put out about somethin’, in a big hurry.”

  “You sure it was Detective Dustin?”

  “Sure man, I know her. She drop me off to home one night when I first started, didn’t have a ride. Nice lady. Nice legs.”

  “You’re gonna make a great cop someday, Prescott.” Jim even pumped his hand. Prescott strolled out of the office doing an exaggerated version of his Overtown shuffle.

  But not while I’m alive, I hope, Jim told himself. He leaned back in his chair. “Suspect eliminated,” he said aloud.

  The killer was still unidentified and at large, but at least Rick had not made a fool of himself by running to IA half-cocked. He checked his watch. Rick had gone home after one more fruitless search of the Boulevard for Little Bit. Jim dialed his number.

  “He’s asleep already,” Laurel said. “Should I wake him?”

  “No, no emergency. I’ll see him tonight.”

  Thirty-Six

  Edgy and full of nervous energy, Dusty was unable to sleep. The only way to impress Rick now, she decided, pacing back and forth, is with strictly professional conduct. If nothing else, it would restore her dignity. If she could not have his love—and that prospect was painful—she would damn well have his respect. She would show him she was one helluva detective. She still had some pride. She got dressed, drove to the fitness center and took Tawny Marie’s grueling ninety-minute aerobics class with hand weights. Tawny Marie seemed to lack her usual luster. She looked positively hollow-eyed. Dusty learned why after class.

  “Barry has not shown up for two days—doesn’t even answer his telephone—so I’m handling his classes, and some sicko is calling me all night,” Tawny Marie told her.

  “Obscene calls?”

  “Yeah, weird ones. First it was just hangups, like somebody had a wrong number, but now it’s whispers, scary, dirty stuff.”

  “I seem to be the only one ignored around here.” Dusty faked a pout, “I should feel slighted.”

  “It’s not funny.” Tawny Marie looked close to tears. “I hate leaving the phone off the hook, but I’ve got to get some sleep. It’s spooky at four A.M., when you’re alone and you have no idea who this weirdo is. I heard voices on my patio late the other night. When I put on the light, somebody ran.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it, Tawny. Defensive mechanism, I guess.”

  “You think it could be connected to the center? Maybe the same person who sent Rick’s girl that ugly note?”

  “Dunno. Tawny”—Dusty looked thoughtful, as though groping for something elusive—“did you ever date Rick?”

  “Yeah, sure, a long time ago. He was real sweet. You too?”

  “Yeah. He gets around. I guess we’re just pushovers for a pretty face. Think Laurel knows it?”

  “I don’t know why she would, unless Rick told her.”

  “Yeah, unlikely.”

  “You think there’s some connection?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Did you try the phone company? Maybe they can zero in on your caller.”

  “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I just want it to stop.”

  “I think I’ll go in early today. I have some work to catch up on. I’ll talk to the department’s contact at the phone company and find out what can be done. Where do you think Barry is?”

  “Not a clue. It’s not like him to just not show up. Nobody’s heard from him. He better have a good excuse.”

  The station was Saturday afternoon quiet. Dusty intended to finish the paper work in the Vandermay case and review the files on Rob Thorne and the convenience-store clerk. A notice on her desk called for volunteers to work s
ecurity at two big Labor Day political rallies. The chief wanted minorities to be well represented because of the expected news coverage.

  Unenthusiastic about the prospect, she wondered if Rick and Jim were also being recruited to take part. If they did it, she would. She checked Rick’s desk to see if there was a notice in his basket. Riffling through a sheaf of papers, her own name, typewritten, jumped out at her. She slid it from the stack. The yellow carbon of an official memo to internal affairs, re Detective M. E. Dustin. She felt her heart beat in her throat. Her knees went weak as she read and reread it in disbelief. Words and phrases sprang off the page: “a possibility that this detective is a suspect in two homicide cases as well as armed robbery and attempted murder … witness … photo lineup.”

  How crazy, insane. That explained Rick’s behavior. But how could he suspect her? He knew her, she loved him, they shared so much. She wanted to scream and pound the walls with her fists. He actually thought she was capable … of all this. She wanted to trash his desk and fling reports and papers everywhere. Trembling, she sat down in Rick’s chair and read it again more carefully. This was no joke. Why hadn’t Jim told her? They’ve been busy investigating me, she thought.

  She had to talk to Rick. She reached for the phone, then hesitated, mind racing, panic rising. She had to get out of here, she thought, glancing around the big room to see who was there. Internal affairs would suspend her, pending the results of their investigation. That was routine procedure. The department had weathered the recent trauma of cocaine-linked cops suspended and arrested, fired and indicted for crimes ranging from narcotics trafficking to robbery to murder. Suspension was official action and therefore public record. Somebody always leaked it to the press. There would be a story, a picture, a pointed finger that would haunt her career and reputation. You never live it down, she thought, even if you’re cleared. She could not walk away and start over somewhere else. She could not begin again. Where would she go? What would she do? With this suspicion, this taint, she would never be able to work as a police officer. Anywhere. She looked around fearfully. She had to get out of there. Automatically, without thinking, she rolled a form into the typewriter. Her hands trembled on the keyboard as she filled in an official request for several days’ leave due to a family emergency.