"And he lied." Rysanek put down the paperweight, picked up a ballpoint and began clicking it in and out. "False address. False references."
"Damn."
"Whatever." He started to leave, then turned back. "Oh, that dyke called for you."
"Goddammit, Keith, knock off that shit."
"Isaacs called. Okay?"
What a shithead. "So, what'd she say?"
"I don't know. Shari took it." He walked back to his desk leaving a fuming Youngquist.
"Shari..." Tessa waited for the efficient woman to finish a call then asked about Spenser. "Did you take a message for me?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. I gave it to Sgt Rysanek."
"He seems to have misplaced it. Do you remember what she said?"
Shari recited Spenser's words verbatim. Tessa clenched her teeth, thanked the secretary, and stormed over to Rysanek.
"Rysanek." His name came out of her mouth like bullets out of a twelve gauge. It got his attention. "I swear to God, if anything happens to Isaacs because of your incompetence, I'm gonna have you up on charges."
"What the fuck..."
She checked her watch. "We have twenty minutes to make a forty-minute trip." She headed for the exit. "Move it."
A really pissed Keith Rysanek followed his really pissed lieutenant out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Monday - afternoon
Spenser pulled into the defunct hamburger stand and shut off the engine. It was quarter to one, the sun was bright, the birds were singing, but she may as well have been in a cemetery for all the activity around her. The abandoned shopping center lay before her like a picked over carcass. Thank god it was broad daylight. This place at night would have sent a shiver up Edgar Allen Poe's spine.
Spenser got out of the Shadow. She scanned the weed infested parking lot. Nothing. Not a car, truck or shopping cart in sight. She walked to her car’s trunk and took out a nice, hefty tire iron. I may be stupid, but I’m not suicidal.
Spenser found a loose panel in the chain link fence that surrounded the center. Ungracefully, she slithered through. She walked the perimeter of the Boy's Market, keeping the bowling alley, some hundred feet to her right, in constant view. No movement. No Overoye. And, worst of all, no Youngquist. She checked her watch. Five 'til.
Spenser reached the bowling alley’s service door. It was wide open. Shit. Youngquist, where are you? Peering into the espresso black of the alley's storage area, she raised the tire iron and listened. What the hell is that?
She took two steps in, letting her eyes accustom to the lack of light. There it was again, this weird noise. It was almost a thump but not quite. More like the sound of a watermelon rolling up against an 18-wheeler’s tire over and over again.
To her right were the lane termini. The tail end that houses the pinsetters. Each lane had a rubber collector and metal pin holders hoisted above by pulleys. To her left was a cement wall. On that wall ahead of her, she saw a beam of light creating a search light pattern, back and forth, back and forth. When she reached the source of that light, her knees buckled and her gag reflex overwhelmed her.
The watermelon was Ival Overoye's head. His feet were crammed into the pin retrieval bin. His left arm, still holding a flashlight, was hooked into the overhead pin holder. He was swinging rhythmically, persistently, his head banging the rubber walls. Spenser saw a neat, round dot in the middle of his forehead, and a lumpy, syrupy ooze hugging the back of his neck. His left eye was swollen shut and his right glistened in the torch's eerie light.
She began vomiting. As soon as she had even minute control of her stomach she turned away from the weasel and walked, then ran toward the exit door. Temporarily blinded by the intense sunlight, she fell to her knees, all strength having left her body. She tried to concentrate on breathing. A hand touched her shoulder and nearly sent her into orbit. She raised the tire iron.
"Put that down..."
Spenser looked into the steely eyes of Sergeant Rysanek, his gun trained directly on her. The tire iron hit the macadam with a reverberating clang.
“Keith.” It was Youngquist. She reached over and lowered her sergeant’s weapon. Rysanek, reluctantly, holstered the gun thinking he’d really like to shoot someone.
Still partially blinded and not yet in full control of her body, Spenser sputtered, "In there..." She pointed. "Overoye..." That was as good as she could manage.
Youngquist and Rysanek drew their guns and walked cautiously through the delivery door, two uniformed deputies in tow. Another deputy came over to Spenser, helped her rise, and sat her down on a low concrete wall. Spenser couldn't seem to stop shaking.
An eternity later, Youngquist and Rysanek came out of the alley. The sergeant was scraping some nasty looking goop from his shoes with an old rag. He shot a look at Spenser and used some very colorful expletives to highlight his apparent displeasure.
"Call it in, Keith." The lieutenant watched her angry sergeant walk to a cruiser and call for the coroner and forensics. Then she sighed loud enough for anyone on this side of the Mississippi to hear. "You all right?" Tessa's words were soft, barely causing a ripple in the still afternoon air.
"Yes."
"Good." The lieutenant was quiet for just a moment, then all hell broke loose. "You want to tell me what the hell you were doing here?"
Spenser tried not to hyperventilate. "He called me. Overoye. Said he'd give me a signed confession, and the book, if CC gave him fifty thousand dollars." Spenser gasped for air.
"Jesus. Were you born stupid? He could have killed you."
"I wasn’t going to go inside. I was waiting for you. I called you, left a message. But then I heard this noise and it turned out to be Overoye’s head and..."
Youngquist was turning colors. "What happened? Exactly."
Spenser had never seen anyone actually talk through their teeth before. It was effectively intimidating. "He called, said he’d give me Tucker's notebook and a signed confession. He told me to bring fifty thousand to the bowling alley. So, I called you. Then I thought, well, maybe I should come here just to make sure you knew what was going on.”
Youngquist narrowed her eyes. Spenser saw darts coming directly at her. Sharp, pointy darts. “When I didn’t see a car, I thought maybe he wasn’t going to show up, so I shinnied through the fence and walked toward the door.” Spenser pointed to the tire iron. “I had that.” The darts were coming hot and furious. Spenser forged on. “I heard this weird thudding sound, so I went inside.” She felt bile rising. “It was his head.” She looked at the lieutenant. “I ran out."
"You saw no one else?"
"No."
"You heard nothing?"
"Just his head." Spenser was convinced that Youngquist was trying to figure out how to strangle her in front of the deputy. "Did you find it?"
"Find what?"
"The confession."
The detective raised both hands to her eyes, found the last of her self-control, and answered. "No."
"The notebook?"
"No."
As if things weren't bad enough, Rysanek rejoined the group. "You own a hand gun, Miss Isaacs?" He emphasized the Miss as though uncertain of its applicability.
"Of course not." Her answer spoke volumes. Actually, her answer was volumes. She hadn't realized she was shouting. But, dammit, she was hurt, confused, shocked, and downright peeved. Youngquist reined in her overzealous sergeant with a look that could wilt wrought iron.
"We'll need a statement." Youngquist was getting a headache.
"And your fingerprints," added a suspicious Rysanek.
"You will drive to the station immediately." Youngquist placed her hand on her holstered gun. "No detours."
"Fine." Spenser walked, almost steadily, to her car, tried to unlock it with her trailer's front door key, caught her mistake, tried the right key, opened it, started the car and drove the speed limit, coming to a complete stop at all stop signs, all the way to the sheriff's station.
Her t
houghts were leaping from axon to dendrite in a synaptic ballet, complete with sweat. Now how was she going to prove that Tucker didn't kill Gina Mae? No way were the cops going to believe that Ival'd confessed to her. Which he didn't really do anyway.
Was Overoye just an opportunist and a pig and a snarly snake but not the murderer? Besides which, who killed Overoye? That hole in his head didn’t look random to Spenser. And if he didn't kill Gina Mae then who did? And Pam. And Chloe. And... "Damn it to hell."
Maybe Youngquist would find some incriminating evidence among Overoye's possessions. Maybe even the confession. Yeah, right. Who the hell killed Overoye? And why?
Most distressing, why did he implicate Brianne in Pam’s and Chloe's deaths? Because he's a louse. Was a louse.
Spenser arrived at the sheriff's station and dutifully answered questions, some hostile, signed her statement, was fingerprinted then said a simple goodbye to Youngquist.
"You're going straight home.” It wasn't really a question and the lieutenant wasn't really expecting an answer. Spenser turned and exited the station house. She wanted to call CC. She desperately needed to talk to Bea. She was not looking forward to a conversation with Brianne. But mostly, she just wanted to be out of all this. She pointed Bessie toward San Oaks then changed her mind. She needed to dissect this whole mishegas. She needed to voice the random thoughts poking her brain like porcupine quills.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Monday - late afternoon
Spenser pulled into Stephen's Hollywoodland driveway. She turned off the motor and sat motionless for what seemed like hours but actually lasted all of ten seconds. With Bea dutifully at work, the only other person Spenser wanted to talk to was Stephen. Maybe he could shine some light on this morose mess. She climbed the two step porch and heard the dogs chomping madly at the front door before she'd even touched the knocker. The door opened a crack and a pleasantly surprised Stephen waved Spenser in with a grin and an air kiss. He corralled the overly exuberant canines in the kitchen then waved Spenser into the front room.
“Oh, Sweetie, you look awful.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Stephen seated himself a hare's breath away from Spenser on the divan. He grabbed her hand and squeezed companionably. "Tell me."
Words were flying around inside Spenser's head, buzzing like bumblebees frantically flailing their legs in the death throes of having lost their stingers.
"Just start at the beginning." Stephen somehow guessed the hodgepodge of thoughts that were careening behind her eyes. And so she did. She began at the beginning. She began with the funny tableau of Brianne's shelf fixing fiasco; the beautiful smile; her husband’s tragedy; the deaths; Spenser's crusade to make Overoye the bad guy; the knock on the head that nearly did her in; Overoye's pseudo-confession; his peculiar death; her own doubts about his guilt. And when she finally finished, her body limp from the effort, Stephen said not a word. He rose, walked deliberately into the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses.
He poured the cognac then sat back down next to Spenser. "Drink," he said.
She drank. She charted the liquid as it rolled gently off her tongue, down her throat and into her stomach where it lit a fire and roasted marshmallows. She felt the nudge from nerve endings suddenly waking up.
"Okay." Stephen watched the bronze liqueur lap gaily against his glass. "So, this weasel character implicates a sweet, dedicated doctor in the deaths of some of her patients. Right?"
"Right."
"And you want to know if he's doing this out of a sick hatred for the doctor or if there is a grain of truth in his maliciousness."
Spenser sighed a yes.
"Right."
"And you want to know if he's doing this out of a sick hatred for the doctor or if there is a grain of truth in his maliciousness."
Spenser sighed a yes.
"Spenser, sweetie, you already know the answer. You wouldn't be here tearing yourself up if you weren't having a crisis of conscience right now. Somewhere, deep inside, you know that the caring Doctor Saunders is capable of these acts."
Spenser wanted to cry. She could feel emotions long suppressed crowding to escape the neat little barrier she'd constructed. "But why?" She sucked air into her lungs. "What would make her want to kill?"
Stephen set the cognac on the coffee table and faced Spenser squarely. "Maybe it wasn't murder. I mean, not in the technical sense of the word. Maybe you're looking at these deaths from the wrong angle."
"What do you mean?"
He tried to choose his words carefully. "These people were seriously ill. Right?"
"Yes."
He took her hand and whispered. "Maybe she thought she was saving them."
Spenser tried to imagine what that meant. "Saving them by murdering them?" Spenser was horrified.
“There are so many rationalizations for people to commit murder... war, revenge, greed, jealousy... euthanasia.”
Realization flooded her thoughts. "Mercy killings."
"Exactly. If she is as compassionate as you say then the sight of these people slowly, torturously dying may have been just too much for her. Especially after what happened to her husband."
"Jesus, do you think she..."
"Anything is possible."
"Shit." Spenser felt drained. If Brianne had indeed ‘ended’ Pam’s and Chloe’s pain, she could not condone it, but she could understand it. "I should talk to Youngquist."
"I think you need to rest, Sweetie."
"After. After all of this." Spenser and Stephen rose. He put his straw arms around her and hugged her with more strength than she thought possible. She kissed him affectionately then turned toward the door. "Thank you."
"If you need anything..."
Spenser waved a grateful, sad good-bye, slipped into the Shadow, pulled out of the driveway, and headed back. Back to unhappy revelations. Back to the truth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Monday - evening
Spenser watched the gaudy neons of lotus-land fade in her rearview mirror. City lights gave way to muted house lights as the Shadow gained on suburbia. Spenser saw the off ramp to Bonita come and go. Maybe she should tell Youngquist what Overoye had said about asking Brianne about Chloe's and Pam’s death. All right, but first, she would tell the good detective that Ival Overoye was a shit and that anything that came out of his mouth was a bald-faced lie; that he was incapable of any emotion save antipathy.
Then she would repeat the sick, depraved insinuations that Overoye had expressed toward the kind, dedicated Brianne. Then Youngquist would hit Spenser upside the head and tell her to go away because they had just found evidence that implicated Overoye and what the hell was wrong with her anyway.
Abruptly, Spenser found herself in front of the Sunflower without even realizing this was her destination all along. She shut off the engine. There was a light on in Brianne’s office. Spenser stared at the window for a couple of hours, or maybe it was just a few seconds. Something that Stephen had said kept repeating in her head. “There are so many rationalizations for people to commit murder... war, revenge, greed, jealousy... euthanasia.” Mercy killings.
Finally making up her mind, she slid out of the Shadow and walked into the lobby. With no one around to stop her progress, not even the chipper Chip, Spenser walked deliberately to Brianne’s door.
Her knock received no acknowledgement, but she could hear music from within. Opera. Tosca? Spenser was not a fan of opera. She opened the door and entered. Brianne seemed not even aware of her presence. "Brianne."
Spenser stepped farther into the room. Brianne was seated at her desk, a half empty glass of wine in one hand and her head in the other. She slowly moved her focus from some inner conflict to Spenser's face. She smiled wanly. "Spenser," she whispered.
Spenser sat opposite the doctor, a sick feeling beginning to grow in her stomach.
"Do you like opera?"
"Sometimes," lied Spenser.
"Brianne. Are you all right?"
"I will be." She was so pale it frightened Spenser.
Spenser wrestled with the ugly thoughts in her head then finally decided to just say it. “Brianne, I need to tell you something.”
The director focused on Spenser. “Yes.”
Spenser took a deep breath. “Overoye is dead.”
Brianne nodded. “Yes.”
Death on Planet Pizza Page 19