Angel Food and Devil Dogs (19 page)

"No, nothing so far." Max Bouchet continued with genuine concern, "Maggie, the police told me Skylar's killer shot at you today."

"Wild shot. Just to scare me. I don't think the killer is much of a marksman."

"Nevertheless, be careful," he rumbled sincerely.

∞ ∞ ∞

All the Irwin dorms are in the same part of the campus, so I stopped first at an undergrad dorm to speak to Mike Jacobsen, the student who'd been using the recording studio the day Carl was killed.

Mike Jacobsen's dorm door was open. His computer screen had just frozen on a music writing program and he was clicking the mouse repeatedly in frustration. "Shit," he said resignedly poking the escape key and pushing long brown hair out of his eyes at the same time.

"Mike? I'm investigating the death of Carl Rasmus. May I speak with you for a minute?"

Jacobsen turned in his desk chair, "Investigating Dr. Rasmus? Like for insurance or something," he asked focusing on my investigator license, I'd held out for him to read.

"Something like that... I just need to know one thing. Jack Leavitt said he thought you might have heard a phone ringing over the mic when you were recording on the day Dr. Rasmus died. Did you?"

"I don't remember much, it was a bad day. Um... yeah, I heard ringing, I guess it was a phone. Probably Dr. Rasmus's because it wasn't from the phone in the booth or any of our cells. It didn't ring for long."

"How many rings?"

"One or two times. Kinda hard to tell, but the sound was there and it ruined that part of the take. It sucked because Caitlyn had sung awesome."

"What time were the rings? Do you know?"

Mike thought for a minute. "Well, we had to stop the recording. I think I clocked the redub at 12:58 PM. It was just before 1:00 PM," he replied with certainty.

On my way out of the undergrad dorm, my cell phone rang. It was Lt. Ed O'Brien. He tried to be polite, but basically he said, "Get your ass down here, now!" So instead of going to Carl's Apartment, I drove downtown and gave Ed my statement. On my way to the police station, I called the hospital and got through to Amanda Knightbridge on the particulars about the guard for Georgia.

When Ed let me go it was 10:00 PM. I went to Carl's apartment to see if maybe he kept clues in an old Spaghetti-Os can.

Carl's place in Married Student Housing was on the ground floor near the front door. I let myself in with one of the passkeys. Up until that point, all the Irwin buildings I'd visited had been works of architectural art, but Married Student Housing was just as grim and depressing as I'd remembered it. I'd been there a few years before to see a beautiful poetry professor, with whom I'd had a brief fling.

Carl's apartment in MSH had cement block walls painted institutional green, green indoor-outdoor carpeting, three particle board kitchen cabinets, a counter the size of a door mat, harsh overhead fluorescent lighting and low end industrially made furniture in dull colors that showed extensive wear. And these were its
best
features. This dorm was the ugliest building at Irwin with the ugliest interior decoration. It was an abomination. It was as though the college was punishing students for being in long-term relationships.

Carl's apartment had even less furniture than most. Probably to make it easier for him to get around. There was no art on the walls, no mirrors, no floor lamps and no printed books, although I found some Braille ones by his bed. I looked in every drawer and cabinet, and the one closet. I even turned up the mattress. I pulled out drawers and checked their undersides. I checked the undersurfaces of the chairs and the tiny kitchen table. Nothing.

In the food cabinet there were two boxes of cereal, a can of tomato soup, and some condiments. There was a box of saltines that were stale and a box of Devil Dogs three-packs that weren't. Hey, I hadn't had dinner, OK? I didn't think Carl would mind if I ate some more of his Devil Dogs. In fact, since I seemed to be the only one trying to find out who killed him, I figured Carl would have welcomed me a nosh.

The small refrigerator offered a big bottle of diet Pepsi, some American cheese squares individually wrapped, a bag of brown slimy lettuce, some mushy apples, and cartons of milk and orange juice. The milk was bad; the OJ was on the edge. There were jars of mayonnaise and mustard, a squeeze bottle of ketchup and a six-pack of Sam Adams. I contemplated opening a bottle of ale but decided against it, it was unprofessional enough that I was eating a dead guy's Devil Dogs. Taking up most of the space was a half eaten angel food cake that was covered with green mold. I stared at it for a long time. Moldy cake equals sad lonely feeling.

Everything had Braille labels. It made the space seem more personal and human and much more heartbreaking. This was his food. These were his things. But Carl was never coming back to finish his cake. It made me think of Mickey Murphy all alone in jail. I wondered what was rotting in Mickey's refrigerator.

I sighed as I moved to the bathroom. I checked the medicine cabinet. It was neat. No prescriptions or weird over the counter stuff. Just standard medicine cabinet fare. I checked the drawers and cabinet under the sink; extra toilet paper rolls, a new bar of soap, some shampoo,
etc.
Nothing with a secret compartment or a hidden message. The cover of the toilet tank had nothing taped to the underside. The drain had nothing stuck in it. The light fixture had a light bulb and that was all.

The only thing Carl had in the apartment of any interest was a huge sound system with hundreds and hundreds of CDs. The CD's had Braille labels too. I even found the little electronic Braille label machine. He had every kind of music and sound recording anyone could ever imagine. I figured the group in his will, Rainbow Youth Symphony, would probably get his CDs too. Maybe he'd stored things with his family. I could ask them when I went to Hadesville tomorrow.

Georgia had said, "Carl's macaroni's can," but there were no empty macaroni cans here. There were no full cans of pasta either. There were no boxes of frozen macaroni or any kind of noodles. I even looked in the garbage to see if he'd thrown any away. Nothing.

I decided to look at every CD. Maybe there was a recording that was related. I searched my brain for pasta related song titles. Yankee Doodle called his cap Macaroni, was the only thing I could come up with. I looked through the CDs for an hour. Nothing there either. I felt frustrated.

"Carl," I called softly, standing in the middle of the room, "give me a sign!"

His phone rang... I jumped two feet barking, "Holy Shit!"

I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight. Everybody knew Carl was dead. Who'd be calling now? I picked up the phone on the second ring, and said very softly, "Hello?"

There was only breathing, then a hang up.

I waited a minute, then hung up too. I star 89ed the phone and asked the operator to give me the number of the person who'd just called, but the caller had used a pay phone. That's the only way to make a truly anonymous call these days. There's no way to trace a pay phone call. You can't even call the pay phone and just hope someone answers and ask them where the phone is any more, because most incoming pay phone calls are blocked to keep drug dealers from using them to avoid tapped lines. So what the hell? Had this been for me, or Carl, or was it just a wrong number?

I realized there was an answering machine cord hooking the phone to a machine on a shelf under the phone stand. I pressed the replay button. Carl's voice said, "Carl Rasmus... please leave a message at the beep and I'll get back to you." Huh, so that was what Carl sounded like. Nice voice. The machine's mechanical voice then said there were six messages stored. I hit the play-back button.

Call #1: Beep... "Carl, this is Kathryn Anthony, I have the rest of the information you need for your grant proposal. I'll be back from Seattle tomorrow. I could give it to you then, or fax it to you now if you need it today. You can reach me on my cell. OK? Bye."

Call #2: Beep... "Carl? It's Jim Harmon... we have to talk... um, soon, OK?..."

Call #3: Beep... "Carl Rasmus?" a staccato voice said. "This is Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann. I dislike machines. I must speak with you. I must clear up this misunderstanding. I am concerned you have the wrong idea."

Call #4: Beep... "Dr. Rasmus, this is Miranda Juarez. I have several pieces of information of which the President would like you to become aware immediately. I also wish to confer with you about the matter we began to discuss yesterday regarding the grant money. Please call me at your earliest convenience. Thank you."

Call #5 Beep... "Hello... Dr. Rasmus? This is Connie Robinson," said Connie in a nervous voice. "They told me at church I have to talk to you? OK? I'll try you at your office."

Call #6: Beep... "Hey Carl, it's Leo. Leo Getty. Hey, son, I need to talk to you about before, the grant stuff, OK... I'll try you later, or maybe we can talk tomorrow?"

I rewound the machine and listened to all the messages again. I'd just asked Carl for a sign. He'd sent me the answering machine full of cryptic messages from the group of people who'd had the best chance to kill him. Not to mention the odd little
wrong number
. Creepy. Carl's machine was not set to indicate the time and date that calls came in. The people calling him all seemed to want to speak with him urgently. Except Kathryn. And they were calling him at home, which means they couldn't get him in his office. Maybe he was ducking people.

I unplugged the answering machine, wrapped the cord around it, and tucked it under my arm. It seemed too important to leave behind. I turned out the lights and locked up the apartment. I hadn't found a macaroni can stuffed with clues, but I did find out that a bunch of people from the college wanted to talk to Carl not long before he died. Furthermore, whatever it was they wanted to talk about, they didn't want to leave a message on the phone machine.

∞ ∞ ∞

It was late; nearly midnight and very dark. The hallway of Married Student Housing, with its unattractive glaring lights and prison-like cement walls, was very reminiscent of 1960s housing projects. Most of those 60s projects have been torn down or rebuilt.

Max needs to bulldoze this building, I thought.

Five minutes on the street in my van and I realized someone was following me. It was a compact sedan; American made, probably. I couldn't see the model clearly. I certainly couldn't see the plate number. Was it the person who'd just called Carl's apartment? Hmmm, this was becoming interesting.

In Fenchester, there's a traffic light or stop sign at nearly every intersection. I stopped at a sign. The tail car stayed back in the shadows, allowing a SUV to get in between us. I turned right on 14th and sped up to Hamilton, turned left and went 4 blocks, then hung a quick left at 10th. I sped half way down the block, then squealed a left into an alley next to the Stonewall bar. Needless to say, it's a gay bar. I sped behind the bar and came around the other side heading toward 10th. The little sedan hadn't seen me turn.

I switched off my lights and idled next to a gaggle of garbage cans. The sedan came slowly along 10th Street. I edged out, still with my lights off. To the left, I could see the sedan waiting for the light to change at 10th and Linden Street.

Linden is one way going uptown, so the sedan could either go straight ahead on 10th, or go to the left. I figured the sedan would go to the left because it couldn't see me straight ahead. I was correct. The sedan turned onto Linden, I followed. I was chasing my tail. It was fun. No wonder dogs do it.

Just in case, I reached in my shoulder bag and took out my gun, placing it within reach on the passenger seat. The sedan picked up speed. As it passed under a bright streetlight, I got a better look. Maybe a Dodge Neon? Dark color; blue, gray or black. I couldn't get close enough to read the plates without giving myself away and losing my chance to tail the tail.

The Neon was about two blocks ahead, it made a quick right on 12th. I hung back and watched. In two more blocks the Neon would be in the Mews. It drove along the west end of the Mews on 12th all the way to Liberty, then made a right turn and traced the Mews to 10th street again turning right. It stopped next to a fire hydrant, close to the southeast corner of the square. It idled with lights out, like an animal waiting for prey. Exhaust steam rose from its butt.

I peered into the dark. No one got out. I was stopped with my lights out a block back on 10th, behind a full sized van. Weird. It idled there for a full ten minutes but this wasn't where I lived. So what was it doing here after following me? I glanced at the rowhouse facades, they were dark. Even the Hampshire Apartment building had no lighted windows. Everyone in the Mews had called it a night.

The Neon started up again and turned right onto Washington Street. I followed it several blocks, back toward Irwin College, past the Administration Building toward the Student Union. Then it turned right onto College Street. College Street is the mid street between 15th and 16th. I followed on College but there were no other cars, so I had to drive with my lights out. The Neon drove slowly past a few buildings that were very dark, and then sped up. I turned on my lights and sped after it.

The Neon cornered onto Liberty and ripped up the street running a red light at 16th. Opposing traffic screeched to a twisting halt. It cornered right and zoomed toward Fen Street. I couldn't see where it went next. I was stuck behind traffic. The Neon was gone.
Damn.

I drove back to my building taking arbitrary turns now and then to be sure nobody was dogging me. I parked in my garage. It's a huge loading dock area in the back of the first floor. The ten horsepower motor shrieks and groans when it raises the huge garage door. Sorry neighbors, but I felt safer with my minivan inside tonight.

I came into the building through the garage and up the three flights to my loft. I was tired but I forced myself to exercise. I have an extensive workout space on the top floor above my living area. I lifted weights and used the elliptical for an hour. I've read fiction where the woman detective runs on the beach or goes to the gym and then extols the joys of exercise. The character insists it makes her feel happy and exhilarated. Well, I'm here to tell you, that's crap. I hate exercise. I hate it when I'm planning to do it. I hate it when I'm doing it. It never makes me feel exhilarated. It rarely lessens my stress. It never makes me feel happy with the world. That's a lot of hooey.