Barbara D'Amato - [Cat Marsala 09]

by Hard Road (html)

  As I said this, I watched his face to see if he showed any guilt. If he'd chased Jeremy and me in the tunnels, he ought to react. But I could see no distress or change of expression.

  He said, "Well, Grant Park Underground, for sure." He typed in a couple of commands and a dotted line appeared, showing the outline of the underground. "Tunnels— mm— I don't think even the City of Chicago knows where all the tunnels are," he said. "Some of the drainage tunnels ought to be in here. And maybe power cabling."

  Another set of lines showed up on the map. The display was getting crowded and confusing, since at my request he had just superimposed one thing on top of another. But even so, seeing those tunnels gave me a chill. There were a lot of tunnels. One of them ran practically under the Flying Monkeys merry-go-round, or at least its planned location in this early sketch. It was disconcerting to realize that the park was so honeycombed underneath, and even more upsetting to understand that you could be down there underground, right under the feet of potential rescuers, but without any way to get their attention or to escape.

  Taubman said, "Okay, let me show you how we use this software. Do you live in a house or apartment?"

  "Apartment."

  "Describe it. How big is it and what shape?"

  "Well, it's about twenty feet long and about fifteen wide, not counting the bathroom and an eight-by-ten kitchen."

  "That isn't very big."

  I've often described it as being about the size of an average Chicago bus. It's a little wider but not as long, so it really does have about the same square footage. I said, "Freelance reporting is not a way to get rich."

  "Okay," he said. By now the shape of my apartment had appeared on his screen with size markings along the sides. "Look at the bulb in the track fixture above you."

  "I see it." It was a tiny bulb, half naked, held only by its power points and a clamp. My mother would hate it. She just loves lampshades, the bigger the better and some still in their store wrapping.

  "That's a halogen bulb with a twenty-five-degree beam. I use that because I want to bathe this desk area in task lighting so I can read papers. The degrees just mean that part of an arc. If I wanted more of a narrow spotlight, I'd pick a fifteen-degree bulb. If I wanted a wider wash of light, I might pick a forty-degree light beam. You understand? Now what in your apartment would you like to spotlight?"

  "Well, I have a parrot who's extremely fine. Long John's perch is right about here."

  "Okay." Taubman clicked and a symbol representing a bulb appeared above Long John Silver's perch. Then an area of concentric circles grew around it.

  "The center," Taubman said, "is where the light is strongest. The others just show you where the scatter goes and how intense it is. Now tell me where you have your furniture."

  I did. A big pool from a wide-angle beam appeared over a reasonable simulacrum of my thrift-shop sofa and a medium twenty-five-degree pool of reading light over the really comfy chair that I had found discarded on the street and had slip-covered. He threw in a medium-beam light near the front door, which would be nice to have.

  "Now you say you have a parrot?"

  "Yes."

  "Would he like this?" A boxlike shape representing just my living room appeared, then rotated, so that instead of looking down at the place from the ceiling, we were now looking at the back wall. He punched some buttons, muttered "macros" and "cyan" and some other incomprehensible stuff, and suddenly on the wall appeared a jungle! It was a projection, of course, and beautiful! But not beautiful enough for Taubman. He muttered some more, scrolling through menus on his left-hand screen. "Most of the furniture and whatever is canned," he said. "I don't have to build much from scratch anymore. This is actually one of the jungles they used in The Phantom Menace." As I watched, magenta-and-pink butterflies popped into existence on several leaves. Then yellow highlights flickered along the edges of the vines.

  "My goodness. That's great!"

  He played around with colors for a while, turning some of the larger leaves bluer, augmenting the leaf veins, just doing riffs to impress me. Which was fine. But still, I was here for a reason.

  I had a suspicion about one thing he mentioned. "I hate to change the subject, but you said earlier that 'somebody' thought everybody loves castles. Who was it?"

  He shrugged his sharp shoulders, but I kept looking at him and finally he said, "Well, it was Jennifer. Oh, lord. Poor Jennifer."

  "Yes. That was a terrible thing to happen."

  He nodded. He looked genuinely sad. I said, "Mr. Taubman, do you know who killed her?"

  "Of course not. I would have told the police if I did."

  "Or who killed Tom Plumly?"

  "No."

  His bony face was not very expressive. But he shifted uneasily in his chair. All I could do was press him more. "Plumly was right there with you and Pottle and Mazzanovich. And then he ran away. Why?"

  "I guess he wanted to see Barry." Taubman looked away from me.

  "What had you been talking about?"

  "Oh, the festival. What else? One of the food stands was doing something dangerous with its cooking fuel. And one had something inappropriate on its sign. Naked ladies. Pottle was all upset about it. As if kids are gonna care that you've got nude dancing girls on a banner! Probably love it."

  Well, I had asked, but I also got the feeling he was trying to distract me.

  "Did you stab Plumly?"

  "Listen, Ms. Marsala. I realize your brother is in trouble. I sympathize with what you're going through. I understand that you're willing to be rude in order to get the job done. But I didn't kill Plumly or attack him or stab him or anything, and that's the last I'm going to say about it."

  "Could he have stabbed himself?"

  "Could he? I suppose anybody could. But I can't see why he would."

  Nor could I. "What kind of a person was he?"

  "Reasonably pleasant, I guess. Rather intelligent, really. Seemed to be interested in the festival's artistic elements, which was surprising. After all, he was an ex-cop. And he ran a security service." I reflected briefly on what choice words McCoo might utter if somebody told him a cop is not supposed to be interested in artistic elements. Then in a fit of shame I remembered that I, too, had been surprised that Plumly was an avid reader.

  Taubman said, "He actually had a sense of what fun the festival could be." Rather grimly, he added, "Not everybody involved cared about that."

  "Like who?"

  "I don't want to bad-mouth anybody. There's been enough unpleasantness already."

  Jeez, you could say that again.

  11

  I AM OZ, THE GREAT AND POWERFUL

  It is just so great to be able to go home for lunch. Working freelance I don't make much money, but there are other benefits, like this. When I was working at That Big Important Newspaper, I routinely ate at my desk so that my supervisor could see I was working.

  My shoulder ached worse. Time for aspirin and a sandwich.

  Not time to call my mother.

  As I mentioned, my apartment is not any bigger than a Chicago bus. No dining room. No office. The word processor lives on the kitchen table. And my roommate, the African grey parrot who is called Long John Silver— this is the parrot's name, and despite a recent problem, we're sticking with it— lives all over the apartment. Because the bird flies loose while I'm out, there are a few little cleanup chores. Also for reasons of sanitation, I leave the kitchen door closed when I'm out.

  As a young bird, Long John had been owned by the captain of a Louisiana shrimp trawler. When the captain retired, he moved to Chicago, thinking there was no water here. Imagine his surprise when he discovered you can't see across Lake Michigan. When the captain died, he left Long John to an English professor who taught at Northwestern University and who lived in my building. Long John lived with the professor for twenty years, learning to speak Shakespearean phrases almost exclusively. When the professor left town, the result of a bit of a misunderstanding with the dean
about the dean's wife, he left me the bird.

  African greys are not beautiful. They're a gunmetal gray color with splotches of what looks rather like dried blood on the tail. But they are absolutely the best talkers in the bird world. LJ knows more Shakespeare than I do.

  I settled down now on my thrift-shop sofa and LJ flew down and sat on my shoulder. My good right shoulder, fortunately.

  "Here, LJ. Banana. Your favorite."

  Long John took it gently as always. Standing on my shoulder on one foot, the bird rotated the other foot as if it were a hand, so as to eat delicately.

  "LJ, I'm in big trouble. I may have landed my brother in prison. Do you remember my brother Barry, LJ?"

  Long John Silver said, " 'I have shot mine arrow o'er the house, And hurt my brother.' "

  Oh dear, very apt. I inadvertently hurt my brother. But not truly inadvertently. I had known my evidence would make things look bad for him. This was terrible. Was there any way out?

  Was Plumly a suicide? I thought back. As he ran past us, could he have been concealing a knife? I pictured as well as I could what he had been wearing. There was the OZ staff shirt, nothing much more than a T-shirt. It was probably big enough and loose enough so that a knife could have been slipped into his belt underneath. But why would he do that? Why would he run away from Taubman, Pottle, and Mazzanovich with a knife stuck in his belt, pull it out, and stab himself while running or just when he reached Barry?

  The idea was ludicrous. Why would he or anybody do such a thing? Even if the knife had been short enough to keep hidden in his pocket, the explanation didn't work. While the four of them had been in a tight little group, I hadn't seen him well. He'd had his back to me. But I had observed him from the time he left the three men, and he hadn't stopped to take anything out of his belt. Nor had I seen him stab himself while running.

  And if he had run up to Barry, pulled out a knife, and then stabbed himself, wouldn't Barry have tried to stop him? And wouldn't I have seen it? Maybe not. They were so close together as they struggled.

  Or had Barry tried? Was that why he and Plumly were struggling? Was Barry trying to stop him from hurting himself?

  But then why on earth wouldn't Barry just say so?

  What had Plumly been doing with his hands while he ran? Come on, Marsala, think back.

  Picture it. Night has come on. I see Plumly standing with the other three men, around the side of the popcorn stand. I think he was gesturing, or they were, or both, but they were in their tight little grouping and I only glanced at them, then chatted with Jennifer, then Plumly ran away.

  Ran away. They must have stabbed him. But then why didn't he bleed until he got to Barry?

  Don't get distracted. What was he doing with his hands when he was running?

  Focus, dammit. All right. The shirt was flapping a little bit as he ran. He tried to hold it with his hand. Was that right? Yes, I was sure I saw him put his hand to it.

  Stabbing himself? No, I don't think so.

  Pulling a knife out of a wound?

  Well, that was possible. But he wasn't bleeding. Maybe wounds don't always bleed right away. No, wait. If the wound was serious enough to kill him in two or three minutes, he must have bled a whole lot. His shirt was soaked with blood when I reached him.

  If the wound bled a whole lot, he could not have been stabbed before he got to Barry or I would have seen the blood. If Barry didn't stab him, he must have stabbed himself. Damn. Why on earth would he run away from Pottle, Mazzanovich, and Taubman and then stab himself when he got to Barry?

  To make some sort of point? Had the three men threatened him with exposure for some crime? Or did Plumly want to make a point to Barry? Had Barry discovered that Plumly had committed a crime? Had Barry threatened him with exposure and so Plumly stabbed himself right in front of Barry as if to say, "See what you drove me to do."

  Barry hadn't claimed any such thing. But if Barry had driven Plumly to kill himself, maybe he wouldn't want to say so. Barry could be a little bit self-righteous at times. He might have been ashamed of himself for being judgmental.

  But even if he reproached himself for accusing Plumly of a crime, would Barry keep silent about it in the face of an accusation of murder?

  Could Barry have accused Plumly of a crime, then found out he was wrong, that Plumly was innocent? Then if Plumly killed himself before Barry could set the record straight, Barry might be steeped in feelings of guilt.

  And then, I suppose, he might be so ashamed that he didn't want to talk about it. Conceivably, he might be so utterly ashamed that he was willing to submit to a suspicion of murder.

  And if so, I would just have to make him talk.

  The doorbell rang. Rather than walk down to the lobby, I went to my front window and leaned out. "Who's there?"

  "I am," said a very firm, but snotty voice. Oh, jeez. Lieutenant Hightower.

  I buzzed him in.

  * * *

  "You are interfering in a police investigation," he said.

  "No, I'm not."

  "And you're going to have to stop it."

  Hightower is the most impossible, rigid, unsympathetic detective I've ever met. He's unimaginative, too, which makes him a poor administrator. Most of the detectives in Chicago are pretty savvy people, and experience teaches them they have to be flexible. Very few of them care more about their appearance than about solving the case. Hightower is ramrod straight, haughty, and slender, and dresses to emphasize that. I have never seen his pants without a razor-sharp crease. Really, he looks like a tin soldier. The CPD ought to issue him one of those red coats and a saber.

  "Gee, Lieutenant, I was almost going to say thanks for coming over, but you haven't exactly gotten off on a good foot."

  "I'm going to tell you this just one more time. You may not go around interviewing my witnesses."

  "Good. That's certainly the last time I want to hear it. You can't do anything about it. Courts can impose gag orders when there's a case under judicial consideration. But you're not a court and there's no case yet. My understanding is that I could get in real trouble if I told a witness to change his or her story. Or if I gave away a fact you were trying to withhold. But I'm not doing that. And possibly I'd be in trouble if I withheld important facts from you. But actually I'd like to give you any facts I come up with, and you'd probably run from them as if they were poison ivy. Is it possible that you didn't want to chat about this at the station because it's so foolish you don't want anybody else to overhear?"

  He looked apoplectic.

  "Maybe you'd better sit down," I said.

  Hightower remained standing as straight as a flagpole. Just then, LJ dive-bombed, grazing his cheek with one wing. Hightower jumped back and made a grab for his gun. Then he saw his attacker was just a pet parrot and tried to cover up his alarmed overreaction.

  "Think you're duck hunting with a handgun, Hightower?"

  "That's an ugly bird."

  "You—" I was about to say "strutting popinjay" because it fit Hightower so perfectly. But nobody says popinjay anymore, if they ever did. What was a popinjay, anyhow? Whatever— Hightower couldn't walk normally. He was always on the parade ground.

  LJ said, " 'Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.' "

  With a condescending smile, Hightower said, "That's a cute trick you taught him."

  I didn't bother to respond to his calling LJ "cute." "I didn't teach LJ anything. A former owner did."

  Researchers say that African grey parrots are very intelligent, probably as intelligent as three-year-old children. Still, LJ doesn't know the meaning of these quotations, really. Or so I've always told myself. LJ hears a word and associates it with some line from the professor's vast well of Shakespearean lines.

  Sure. Then what was this? Let's deconstruct it. Here was Hightower, the world's most pompous man. One I'd just thought of as a strutting popinjay. And what was the next line, the one LJ didn't get to?

  " 'A poor player that struts and frets
his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.' "

  Apt, LJ. Eerily apt.

  "You ought to clean up after him," Hightower said. Yes, there were a couple of bird droppings on the wood floor.

  "I'll get to it," I said.

  "Birds are dirty."

  "People are dirty. You ever catch the flu from a parrot?"

  LJ squawked, "Braaak! Aawk!"

  "Good bird," I said. LJ flew up and sat on the curtain rod. Why didn't the silly bird dive-bomb Hightower's hair and pull out a nice clump? Maybe with little bits of scalp attached.

  Although, why don't I try harder to start a dialogue with Hightower?