The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (15 page)

I sat down at the foot of the bed while she got up.
"You mean it wasn't just a dream?"

She had just pulled on her panties. I like that word:
panties. They were hip-huggers, of some yellow, slick material that
felt good when you ran your hand along it. She leaned over and rubbed
my shoulders.

"But the reason you're so good is because I'm
good. Isn't that right?"

"Sure is. And you've got the press to prove it,
too. Didn't I tell you what I saw written over the urinal in the
bowling alley last week?"

"Let me guess: 'For a great fuck, call Mary at
three-six-nine-eight-four-six-oh.' "

"That's it! Verbatim. Done in red spray paint.
And only two misspellings. You're attracting an increasingly literate
following, my dear."

"Ahhhh. Good news travels fast." She
climbed back on the bed and reclined lazily, stroking her bare thigh
and licking her lips, yawning.

"I wish they'd hurry up and get here," she
whispered.

"Who?"

"Those bikers. She palmed her hand behind her
ear and cocked her head toward the open window. "I can almost
hear the rumble of those Harleys now . . ."

"Well, hate to break the spell, but we've got a
funeral to attend this afternoon."

She froze, lowered her eyes, and got up and put on
her bra.

Mary is a knockout. She's also a nurse, a potter, a
cook, and a wife and mother. But mainly, she's a knockout. Always
will be. That's the part I like best.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside to wait for Moe. I'll be back to take
you to lunch before we change and leave. Bye."

I kissed her and left. Ten minutes later I saw Morris
Abramson's faded 1974 lime-green Dodge pull into the parking lot.
What a car; the blow-lunch special. He hopped out, dressed in khakis
and a freshly ironed shirt. Moe can surprise me; he looked almost
legit.

"Well, Doc, here I am, ready to meet this nut
case."

"How do you know he's a nut case? You haven't
even met him yet."

"You told me he was and I believe you."

"Why?"

"Takes one to know one."

We rang the bell at Lionel Hartzell's house. No
answer. Three doors down was Jack's place. I couldn't see anybody
stirring there, and since it was almost nine, I supposed the boys
were out on the briny deep or in a lab somewhere. We rang again, then
knocked on the door. Still no answer. I knocked extra loudly.

"Who the hell is it?" said a crusty voice.

"Dr. Charles Adams," I said. And then I
added: "With the state police."

"Go away."

"Dr. Hartzell, I'm here on official business. I
have to see you about the murder of Andrew Cunningham."

"I already talked to somebody. Go away."

We heard footsteps retreating from the door.

"Now what?" said Moe.

I shrugged, looking down at the badge I'd been
waiting to flash. Not having opened the door, Hartzell hadn't even
seen it. The badge wasn't worth diddly-shit.

"Let's go wait for him in the office building.
It's called Lillie Hall."

So we hoofed it back down Water Street and found
Lillie Hall, where we located his office and waited around the
corner, sitting on the corridor floor. People walked to and fro,
scarcely giving us a glance. After almost an hour I heard quick
footsteps coming down the linoleum that stopped where we knew his
office door was. I heard a key make its beady metallic noise as it
was inserted into a lock, and when the lock clacked I was up on my
feet and around the corner, forcing my way through the open door into
Hartzell's office, right behind him.

He spun, muttering and throwing his hands up. The man
who looked up at me was short and gray-haired, with half-moon,
tortoiseshell glasses. His head was large and bulbous at the top,
tapering to a small mouth and chin. His eyes were large and dark
gray. His face looked a little like the actor Peter Lorre. It was
full of fear and rage, the eyes intense, the jaw set. Hartzell looked
past me toward the door. Moe had come in right behind me, gently
shutting the door and establishing his angular presence between us
and the way out.

"Who are you?" he said, panting. "Get
out!" For added emphasis, he shoved his attaché case into my
gut, as if trying to force me back. No such luck, you little twerp, I
thought, and deftly removed the badge from my pants pocket and held
it up in front of his face.

"We'll leave shortly. Right after you answer our
questions truthfully."

"Were you at my house earlier? I told you then—"

"I know what you told us. Now I'm telling you
something; I'm telling you we're staying here until you answer my
questions."

"I talked with the police already."

"I know you spoke with my colleague, Lieutenant
Keegan. Now you're going to talk to us."

I had used the word "colleague"
inadvertently; it just seemed to leap from my mouth. I hoped Keegan
wouldn't get wind of it.

"Who's he?" Hartzell asked, pointing to
Moe.

"I'll ask the questions for now, Dr. Hartzell.
I'm Charles Adams, Jack's father. I'm the interim medical examiner
for this region. Since Andy Cunningham died in my house and was my
son's friend, you can see my interest in this case, professional and
otherwise."

"Jack's father? You're not a cop."

"Oh yes I am," I said quietly. "Now
this won't take long, I promise. You can cooperate and we'll be out
of here fast. If not, we can only view your failure to cooperate in
the worst possible light. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I could see that he did, and he didn't like it at
all. Still glaring at both of us, he turned and walked stiff-legged
toward his desk at the far end of the room. The desk was located
behind a lab table covered with equipment, including a rack of
laboratory glassware that acted as a tall trellis, shielding his work
area from view of the doorway. Moe and I followed him into this tiny,
encapsulated area. He sat and we stood; there wasn't room for three
chairs. I set my badge down on the tabletop and leaned against a
cabinet. Hartzell immediately lowered the blinds and adjusted them so
that he could see out to the waterfront, but nobody outside could see
in. He crossed his legs tightly and crossed his arms over his chest,
staring balefully at us.

"Hurry up then. You know, your son is a nice
kid. It's a shame I could never say the same about Andy."

"It's well known that the two of you did not get
along," I said, staring at him levelly. I wanted to try and
unnerve him a bit, to catch him off guard. All I got from him was a
shoulder shrug. "Andy Cunningham was a kid who charmed people,
Dr. Adams. But underneath he was spoiled and greedy. I happen to know
he stole a major portion of my research notes."

Hartzell pointed to a series of shelves along the
near wall. All of them except one were full. He pointed at the empty
shelf.

"
There! Right there was my folder of rough notes
from two-and-a-half years of experimentation. It's now gone; it
disappeared two weeks ago. I don't know if you've heard about the
nature of my project—"

"Andy mentioned something about extracting
precious metals from the ocean by means of a little organism."

He nodded shortly, looking down at his stomach with a
frown. "Yes. Most people here know the general nature of the
research," he said. He pointed to a marine tank on the counter
whose bottom was covered with small brown bulbous shapes resembling
Milk Duds, the caramel candy.

"These are the tunicates called sea squirts,"
said Hartzell, rapping the glass softly for emphasis. "They have
the ability to extract and concentrate various elements from sea
water. But exactly how they're going to do this for a selected metal
is extremely complex . . . and . . . very secret."

"Why are you so certain that Andy took your
notes?" I asked.

"Why? Because only he had access to the folder.
As for me, I can get along fine without it; I had the raw data
transcribed, and it's safe in my possession. That is, I think it's
safe. I hope it's safe."

"And so Andy's access to the data makes him
automatically guilty," I continued. 'just as, supposedly, Jack's
proximity to Andy when he died makes him a suspect." I paused to
wag my finger right in front of Hartzell's nose. "I don't like
that kind of thinking, Hartzell. I don't care for it at all. Now Andy
might have had some character flaws, but he wasn't stupid. Even you
would have to admit that. He would certainly realize he would be
suspected of the theft immediately. Therefore, one could argue that
he didn't take it. Someone else probably took it knowing Andy would
take the heat."

"Your reverse logic insults my intelligence, Dr.
Adams. I knew the boy well enough to know that underneath he was
venal, greedy, and ruthless. Also, he was rude and disrespectful to
me."

"It appears, then," I said after a silence,
"that you had the strongest possible motives for killing him."
 
For a second or two, he seemed about to
explode. But then he let out his breath in a low hiss and fiddled
with the blinds, prying apart the metal slats and peering outside at
the people in the street.

"Don't think that I don't know what's really
going on," he said. His tone was hushed and menacing. "I
know what you're all after."

He sat there looking smug, clasping and unclasping
his thick hands.

"What?"

"You know. You all want the fruits of my labor.
The results of my research, which will be worth not millions but
billions. Don't think for an instant I don't know this. The proof of
its value is that kid's stealing my rough notes, the crude beginnings
of this project, which I was going to discard. It's a shame I didn't.
I was careless . . . so careless."

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Professor Hartzell, I want you to know a few
things, if you don't already. First, it was I who figured out exactly
how Andy was murdered. He was cleverly killed by someone with an
intimate knowledge of drugs. He was killed on a day chosen by the
murderer, who is somebody in this town. He was killed, you might say,
by remote control. The police didn't know this until I told them. I
know some more things, too. That's why I'm going to be watching you,
Dr. Hartzell, watching you every—"

"
Stop it!" he shouted, jumping to his feet.
"I won't put up with this anymore. I'm sick to death of having
everyone against me. Why should brilliance be hounded, eh? This is
supposedly the best laboratory of its kind in the world. So why am I
hounded just because everyone wants to get rich off my efforts, eh?
Answer me that!"

"Nobody's trying to get rich off you, or steal
your research either."

"Don't say that. Don't you ever say that! What
do you know about what goes on here? Believe me, I know. I have ways
of knowing about the people here, and I won't put up with it. I'm
sick to death of this eavesdropping—"

He poked at the blinds again, peering outside,
sweeping his eyes back and forth at the people on the sidewalk and
the lawn.

"Dr. Hartzell, I've got one more question to ask
you," I said, leaning against a counter.

"I may answer it; I may not. And I don't care
what you try to do to me. I'm tough, in case you haven't noticed."

"Before he died, Andy mentioned something
curious that's just come back to me. He said that last Friday you
insisted that he stay in the lab and finish up a project, despite the
storm warnings and the fact that he and Jack were going to drive up
to Eastham. You recall that?"

"No," he said shortly, with a half-smile on
his face, obviously wishing to terminate the interview.

"Let me refresh your memory. You insisted he
stay in the lab, but you left for an hour on what you called a
'personal errand.' What was that errand, and where did you go?"

"The boy lied; I didn't leave the lab."

I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest.

"You stick with that statement? Under oath?"

"I'll do what I damn well please. Now leave."

"Because I have a witness who saw you driving
around during the hour in question. You were seen driving toward
Andy's house."

"I was not! I was going home!"

"So you were on an errand."

"
Get out. Get out!"

Sensing the interview was at an end, Moe and I
departed. As we left, the door slammed behind us and we heard the
bolt slide into place.

"Whew!" said Moe as we descended the stairs
and went outside into the fresh air. We walked down to the little
beach right in front of Lillie Hall and watched a big black Lab
frolicking in the shallows. He ran up to us with a stick of driftwood
in his mouth, wagging his tail and flipping water everywhere.

"You big dummy," I said. He sat down and
pawed at my leg, his tail carving a shallow crescent in the sand as
it wagged. I threw the stick out as far as I could and he dove in
after it. I turned to Moe, who was picking up shells.