Exercise Is Murder

by Bruce Hammack

  “Before I tell you, I noticed you failed to pronounce your deductions concerning me. I’d be most interested to hear them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That sounds ominous, but yes. Don’t hold anything back.”

  “Very well. Your placement in the room intrigued me. You sat on the front row but against the far wall. This told me you were intent on getting the most out of the training but you wanted to remain inconspicuous, under the radar, so to speak. Next, I detected a slight accent in your voice. I had my suspicions when you gave only your name, but these were confirmed when you spoke later in complete sentences. Boston, I believe. You’ve done a good job in hiding your accent by purposefully slowing your speech and drawing out certain vowels, but that particular dialect is a tough one to shed.”

  “So far, so good,” she said.

  “A slight scent of perfume came to me. I can’t remember the name, but I once splurged and bought Maggie a small bottle for her birthday. You, Miss McBlythe, have expensive taste.”

  “Keep going,” she said.

  “Based on the sound of your voice in relation to my ears, I’d say you’re five foot six. I didn’t detect any odor of makeup. Based on Troy Franks’ interest in you, I’d say you’re a naturally attractive woman of approximately thirty years of age.”

  “How did you come by my age?” asked Heather.

  “Your skills in observation and deduction are too advanced for someone younger than that.”

  “I’m twenty-nine.”

  Steve acknowledged the one-year mistake with a slight bow.

  “What else?”

  “You’re starting over. You’ve already been a detective somewhere. The cadence of your speech and the specificity of your words have ‘detective’ written all over them. No raw recruit ever comes up with over thirty-five observations, nor do any but a few regular cops.”

  “Any final deductions?”

  “You’re very well-educated and poised. I’m guessing Ivy League. For some reason things didn’t end well for you when you were a detective. You have something to hide. Why else would you be starting over?”

  She purposefully kept her voice flat and emotionless. “Most interesting. May I finish my observations and deductions concerning you?”

  “By all means.”

  “You believe the death of Ned Logan will be ruled a homicide and you’re trying to find a way to solve the case.”

  “Ned was on the university swim team and he stayed in good shape. The pool he drowned in is only about four-feet deep.” He paused. “Sorry I interrupted. You were saying?”

  Heather had to regather her thoughts. Her words came out slow but soon gained speed. “You were a superb detective and you’re completely adrift without the job you loved. You believe these infrequent training classes are a form of charity from the department and you don’t like that feeling. You also lost the only woman you ever loved.”

  Steve issued a tight-lipped smile. “If things don’t work out for you here, look me up.”

  Heather lowered her voice and leaned in. “I might have to do that. Where do you live?”

  “If you can’t find me, Detective McBlythe, I can’t use you.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Steve Smiley swung open the door to his townhome and said, “That didn’t take long. I went to the Academy on Friday and here you are on Tuesday. Were you followed?”

  “No.” Heather brushed past him and said, “It took a brisk walk, a ride on a bus, and an Uber driver with dreams of a NASCAR career, but I lost him. How did you know?”

  “I guessed, but it was an educated guess. You being out of breath and the six insistent bangs on the door led me to believe—”

  With hands tented on her hips, she interrupted. “Let’s get something straight right now. Can you see, or are you really blind?”

  “I can tell day from night, but that’s all.” He continued to speak as he ambled back to his recliner. “Dark, rainy days are a real pain. I’m not crazy about winter, either.”

  Steve settled himself in a recliner covered with a garish tartan plaid fabric and raised his feet with the pull of a wooden handle. She asked, “Do you know your recliner clashes with the okra-colored couch?”

  “Looks fine to me,” he replied. “Why don’t you go ahead and make a lap around the place? I know you want to check it out to see if it meets your need. It’ll save you from making up an excuse to use the bathroom.” He paused. “Correction: you also want to check me out, and you plan on doing that by giving the place a once-over. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks. But the need of a bathroom is no ruse. The tall mocha latte I drank on the bus was a mistake.”

  Steve pointed toward the hall. “First door on the right. Both bedrooms have full baths. Take your time looking around. If you’re considering moving in you might as well know all there is to know.”

  “The shopping bags were too obvious. You must have heard the paper crinkle when I set them down.”

  “Bags instead of a suitcase. Smart, considering someone is tailing you. Of course, there’s much more we need to discuss and clarify before we each reach a decision.”

  “Agreed.”

  Heather made her way through each room. She took in all she could and considered what it would be like living with a blind man who had a better idea of what surrounded him than most sighted people. The townhome appeared new, as did the beds, dressers, washer and dryer, furniture, everything. Blank walls. Only one photo adorned a nightstand in Smiley’s bedroom. She picked it up and studied the face of a middle-age woman with kind eyes that held a dash of mischief. Her smile looked genuine, the kind that didn’t have to be manufactured for a photo. She wore a skewed baseball cap over blond hair brushing her shoulders. In the photo the joy of Steve Smiley’s life stood before an easel, one eye squinted, as if searching for the right perspective or blend of colors.

  “So you’re Maggie,” said Heather in a whisper. “I think I would have liked you.”

  She continued through the townhome, opening every drawer, medicine cabinet, and closet. She even looked in the washer and dryer, searching everywhere she could to gather clues as to the character of this man named Steve Smiley. Experience had taught her people’s possessions, especially what was hidden, give you a window into their lives.

  Everything had a new smell to it. No trace of cigarettes, pipe, or, thank the Lord, her grandfather’s cigars and the accompanying plumes of smoke forming a cloud around his gray head. A single, lonely bottle of beer stood in a near-empty refrigerator. The search revealed no hard liquor or wine and no collection of empty bottles in the trash. She repeated her floor-to-ceiling search of the kitchen, ending at a pitifully stocked pantry.

  He spoke from the comfort of his chair. “Did it meet your approval?”

  Heather settled herself on the couch. “Quite satisfactory, except for the pantry. You don’t cook much, do you?”

  “I’m big on calling Grub Hub.” Smiley cleared his throat. “I’ll go first. Then it will be your turn to bare your soul. Two years ago this past Saturday, Maggie…I take it you had a good look at Maggie’s picture?”

  “I did. Beautiful, with adventure in her eyes. You were a lucky man to have her.”

  Steve nodded an affirmation. “Anyway, Maggie and I were leaving an art exhibit at a small gallery near downtown Houston. We had to park some distance away. I was armed and didn’t think anything about walking into a dimly-lit parking lot at night. Two homeless women and a man approached, seeking a hand-out. They were high as a kite, aggressive, and demanding. I never saw the second man. He took me out with the fat end of a broken pool cue. He then used it on Maggie. I lost my sight. Maggie died.”

  Steve leaned forward as if he were conducting an interrogation. “The cop in you wants to know if I’m seeking revenge.”

  “You read my mind.”

  “The answer is ‘no.’” He settled back in his chair. “All four were caught and punished, if you can call it punishment. It’
s a story you’ve heard a thousand times. No reliable witness to identify them. That’s one of the many disadvantages of being blind. I couldn’t point at them and say, ‘Yes, I recognize that one.’ If they hadn’t been caught with my gun and our cell phones they would have walked. As it was, all the D.A. could prove was possession of stolen property. They pled out to three years. Probated sentences, of course.”

  Indignation that comes from gross injustice rose up in Heather. It didn’t happen often, but when it did her Scottish temper boiled like a cauldron. “Why don’t you want real justice?”

  Steve took in a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose. “Two reasons. The first is I’m getting it–slowly. A couple of years in the dark gives you plenty of time to think. Sure, I could arrange a hit on them, but would that bring Maggie back? Besides, like I said, justice is being doled out slowly. One of the women is already dead from an overdose. The guy who killed Maggie didn’t last long on the streets. He’s serving a sixty-year sentence for murder with a deadly weapon. His chances of being buried in the prison cemetery are good.”

  “What about the other two?”

  Steve shrugged. “Remains to be seen. They sowed some bad seeds. I’m sure they’ll reap a harvest sooner or later.”

  “And the second reason?” asked Heather.

  “Simple. Maggie wouldn’t want me to.”

  “If that’s not why you want me, it must be because of Ned Logan.”

  For the first time since she’d arrived, Steve stiffened, his chin set as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Ned was murdered. I can feel it and see it. He was found at the bottom of his exercise pool.”

  “Do you mean an infinity pool?”

  “No, an exercise pool. It’s much smaller than a regular swimming pool. A steady stream of water pushes against the swimmer and they swim against the current. It’s the same principle as walking on a treadmill. You can even adjust the current just like you can adjust the speed of a treadmill.”

  “What did you mean when you said you can see it?”

  “Say the name ‘Ned Logan.’”

  She hesitated, but complied. “Ned Logan.”

  “I see pale red.” He paused. “I don’t really see it, but my mind gives me the impression I’m seeing through a red lens.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s called associative chromesthesia. Certain sounds evoke colors. I had it before I lost my sight. It’s most common in highly creative people–artists, composers and the like. I’m none of those, but I’m pretty good at crime. Seeing red came in handy when we couldn’t determine if a death was suicide or homicide. Leo and I would go to a crime scene and he’d say the name of the victim. I’d either see a shade of red or nothing.”

  “How do other people react when you tell them about this?”

  “Most don’t believe it. That’s why Leo and I kept it quiet.”

  “Are you sure about Ned’s death?”

  “Pretty sure. I’ll know for certain when we go to Ned’s house. It helps for me to be in the place where the murder was committed.”

  “Any other superpowers?”

  Once again, he morphed into a relaxed, rather dowdy widower. “That’s it.”

  She shifted on the sofa. Was this guy for real? She’d have to check out this associative chromesthesia thing. He seemed to be waiting on her to continue so she asked, “Why is solving his murder so important to you?”

  Even though they both knew he couldn’t see her, he turned to face her all the same. “To begin with, Ned was a straight arrow, as fine a man as I’ve ever met. He was more than a friend, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. I think I do.” She paused. “What else?”

  “Ned told me something a few years ago that I didn’t pay much attention to at the time. He told me that if he died, he’d like for me to make sure his wife and kids were set up. I think I agreed to be executor of his estate. But he may have changed that because I haven’t heard from Kate yet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I went from wearing a gun and working twelve hours a day to sitting in the dark with nothing to do and nobody to do it with. If I don’t get my mind and body in motion, I won’t be around much longer. I’ve tasted the barrel of my .9 mm twice. What’s the old saying? Third time’s a charm?”

  A pall settled over the room. To move the conversation forward Heather said, “I suppose it’s my turn to tell you my deepest, darkest secrets. I’m sure you’ve concluded I come from a big pile of old Northeastern money.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  “Along with the money came certain…expectations. Chief among these was the completion of an Ivy League education–Princeton.”

  “Not Harvard?”

  Heather breathed a sigh. “I needed to get out of Boston. Not all prisons have fences and bars.”

  “I understand. Please continue.”

  “After graduating, my father expected me to take a cutting off the money tree, water it with sixteen-hour days, fertilize it with my soul, and raise an orchard of little money trees to full maturity. I was to continue the time-honored tradition of the rich getting richer.”

  She expected a quip to come, but he only nodded.

  “I was compliant in obtaining the education my father desired, but drew the line at Wall Street. Too many of my classmates became addicted to Aderall, cocaine, and greed. Some have already burned out.” She paused. “Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against being rich. In fact, I prefer it. But, the relentless pursuit of more for the sake of more would be like slicing away bits of my soul until there was nothing left.”

  “What did your father say when you told him you wanted to become a cop?”

  “He laughed. That is, he laughed at first. He thought it was a naïve girl’s flight of fancy that would soon run its course.”

  “But you found police work to be to your liking, and that put you on a collision course with him.”

  “I pacified him temporarily by pursuing a law degree while I worked as a patrol cop. Father became concerned when I passed the bar and made sergeant a week later. I dug my heels in about being a cop and it resulted in quite a row. That’s when he cut off my allowance. The transition from silver spoon to plastic fork took some doing, but I found I enjoyed the challenge of stretching a paycheck. When I received the promotion to detective, he became more determined.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Steve. “Your father turned up the heat even more by getting you fired from the Boston P.D. Now he’s pulled strings all the way down in Houston and done something to get you removed from the Academy.”

  Heather leaned back on the couch and looked at the ceiling. “I underestimated his tenacity in tracking me and planting a false story. He seems to be intent on starving me into submission. He’s gone so far as to hire people to track my movements to make sure I’ll be dismissed from any job I happen to land.” She let out a soft giggle. “It’s all so silly of him. My grandparents on my mother’s side left me an inheritance in a trust. On my thirtieth birthday I’ll be obscenely wealthy.”

  “Your state of destitution is temporary?” asked Steve.

  “Three months from now I’ll be in a position to purchase this townhome complex and dozens more like it.”

  “But for three months, you need a place to live where you aren’t known or bothered? Then you can reconcile with dear-old-Dad on your own terms. And your terms will include solving crimes.”

  Steve became silent for several long seconds. “It’s doable. There are details, of course, but nothing that can’t be overcome.”

  “Like what?”

  “You need to disappear, to drop completely off the grid. No credit or debit cards, no checking account; you know the game as well as I do. The spare bedroom of a middle-age, blind ex-cop is a place nobody would look.”

  “So, you agree hiding here is a good plan? So far, we’re on the same page.”

  Steve continued, “
Considering your desperation, I don’t think this next one will be a deal breaker.”

  Heather raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Depends on what it is.”

  “Nothing unseemly, I can assure you. Maggie was my one and only.” Steve cleared his throat. “However, we will need to change your appearance from time to time. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re much too attractive not to notice. Luckily, that’s easy to fix. You can make any gorgeous woman ugly, but doing the opposite is a lost cause.”

  “I think I can handle a little role play.” Heather sighed. “I never thought I’d have to go into a self-imposed witness protection program.”

  “Do you own a car?” asked Steve.

  “A Porsche.”

  “We’ll have to get something else.”

  Heather stood and began to pace. “So, if you’re just looking for a work partner, what are your expectations of me?”

  Steve lowered his legs and cleared his throat. “I need your eyes and a way to get around. You have exceptional powers of observation and you can drive.”

  Heather hesitated, but not for long. They might be mismatched roommates but both had needs, real needs, the other could meet. “So far I have no objections to this arrangement, but there are a couple of things on my end that might be a deal breaker.”

  “What are they?”

  She dipped her head and lowered her voice to a whisper. “The first is money.” Why was this so hard to say? She raised her chin and spoke up. “I’m down to my last hundred dollars. It took almost all I had to relocate. My father has been most effective in making sure I feel the pinch. I’ve been out of work for six months.”

  “That’s no problem,” said Steve. “I’ll cover room and board and pay you enough to get you by until your ship comes in.”

  “One more thing. Max has to come with me.”

  Steve’s head jerked back. “You didn’t tell me you had a kid.”

  Heather laughed. “He’s definitely my baby, but of the four-legged variety.”

  “A dog?”