Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2013 (11 page)

"Let's have a kiss."

She turned her face up to him, saw the roses and burst into tears.

"See if I do that again!" He laid the flowers, beer and wine on the counter. "Okay— I still want that kiss."

He got that, and a head buried in his shoulder. The tears stopped after a moment, but not before wetting his shirt.

"Whatever it is, it's not going to ruin our night. Let's hear it, deal with it, and get it out of the way."

"It's that stupid Jenny Cartwright."

"I've taken her phone messages. She's your new client, right?"

"Was. She told me she needed a personal trainer who can run with her."

Tim twisted the cap off a Carlsberg Elefant, took a pull and handed it to Marilee.

"Insensitive bitch. Goddamit, you can wheel faster than she can run!"

"That's what I told her, then she started some bullshit about having to make eye contact and not wanting to look down on her trainer—
down on,
for Christ's sake!— while running, and I told her to stick it where she couldn't see it from any angle."

Tim sputtered and laughed through his second pull at the beer.

"You said that? I'd say you gave better than you got."

"Maybe so." Marilee gave him the first smile he'd seen that evening, followed by her own laugh. "But I'd rather not have had the set up line."

"Granted. And now let's address that fine dinner you're making, and I'll open this wine for the table. Not that we can't have a Carlsberg or two while we're waiting."

"We'll get sloshed."

Tim nodded.

A dinner to be savored. They ate slowly, with appreciation of the food and the cabernet. Tim told her about the resurrection of the Dennison case and his new Danish colleagues—his introduction to Carlsberg Elefant at the Buena Vista with Chris Juul, and his impressions of the marathon running Bente Flindt. Marilee took it in and got caught up in his narrative.

"I'd like to meet them," she said.

"I was thinking of asking them to dinner. Maybe on a day I can knock off early and cook."

"Oh?—this not up to continental standards?"

"Better," he said, looking into eyes that were mischievous and no longer teary.

After dinner Tim stacked the dishes while Marilee took over the bedroom and its bath. She clearly needed to be held and cuddled, possibly made love to. He'd give her enough time to catheterize and void herself, then set the mood and attire for however she wanted to present herself. He looked out the kitchen window to their walnut trees, the moon up and silvering leaves that had been springtime green two hours ago. He imaged Marilee's hair splayed out on the floral pattern of their summer linen.

He walked the hallway toward the bedroom, grudging the necessary detour to his office. He turned on the computer, and while it booted up he called Conerly's home and again got kicked over to voicemail. This time Tim stated who he was and asked Conerly to call him at his office number in the morning hours.

Then a quick check of incoming email. First up was the latest fusillade from the Death Penalty Advocacy Union. It was for Marilee, of course, a plea for her testimony during the penalty phase of her assailant's trial. This one referenced and attached some psychologist's study of the subject's early life—the abuse, the dysfunctional family that had made him what he became, poor fellow. Not his fault at all. And then the usual DPAU plea to grant the defendant's wishes for execution and not condemn him to years of soul-numbing incarceration. They backed this up with something new—a study, or speculation rather, by some academic theologian that such cruel and inhuman incarceration might engender a karmic carryover to future rebirth which on the subconscious level might trigger sociopathic behavior down the line.

In other words, an all but overt statement that Marilee would share the guilt for future crimes were she to twist a psyche so cruelly.

Tim found himself hyperventilating, sensed the quickened pulse in his arteries, noted the iron tang of adrenaline in his nostrils. It was a rage he couldn't control. It needed a target. The legal system, the societal matrix of the day—too big and impervious. He ran an internet phone number search and knew he shouldn't be doing this. He glanced at a number and entered it voice over internet through a Grand Cayman proxy server.

Two rings and a sleepy "Hello?" with an interrogative at the end.

"Jenny Cartwright?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Jenny Cartwright, you are a top of the line, Academy Award winning, hurtful bitch."

Then Tim shut up. A voice, tinny and frightened—the way Tim wanted it—asked querulously again, "Who is this?"

Tim cut the connection and took a last look at that DPAU garbage, got up, turned out the light, and closed the door behind him on the darkness such drivel and Jenny Cartwright deserved.

Bente Flindt was in Tim's office when he arrived at 9:15. Chris Juul was down the hall, checking in with his superiors in Copenhagen. Tim took the opportunity to extend a dinner invitation for the following day, and Bente accepted with evident pleasure.

"There's something I should tell you," Tim said. "Marilee was shot in a bank robbery five months ago. She suffered spinal cord damage. I can give you the medical specifics, but the practical consequences are that she is a paraplegic."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Bente said after the briefest of pauses. "It must be difficult to say that to new friends—and I hope Chris and I can call ourselves that. I also hope that you didn't think that this unfortunate circumstance would matter."

"I didn't, but there have been some less recent friends and clients of Marilee's who haven't handled it well."

"And have made themselves unavailable. Or available and thoughtless."

"Yes. I'm glad you understand."

"I've seen this before, professionally. And I'm guessing that you feel the need to protect your wife from such encounters. Am I right?"

"Yes. Shouldn't I?"

"To a point. You can never shield her from life, not if she is to live it and
in
it. Have you had any counseling in this?"

"No. Marilee has."

"Perhaps we are more progressive in Denmark in making counseling accessible, and encouraging it." She looked at Tim sharply. "Or am I wrong?"

"It was there. I didn't take it, though perhaps I should have. It's probably a cop thing."

"Not everywhere." Bente Flindt's eyes fixed on his with an intensity that locked him to her. "Strong men can at times need counseling so that they can apply that strength where it's needed. It might be in areas you can't guess at, and misplaced in others."

Tim looked at this woman.

"I think I'm getting some good counseling now."

"I think you need more." Her head held in an interrogative tilt, all but asking:
What do you fear?
He gave her high marks for not saying it. His gratitude augmented his need, and he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm afraid she might kill herself."

"Has she said anything about that?"

"No, but she's so impatient with life at times. And so angry."

"She is an adult mind in what is suddenly an unresponsive infant's body. That causes frustration But it presents a challenge." She looked up as Juul came in. "We'll talk more on this later."

Tim extended the invitation to Juul, who also accepted.

"And plan on spending the night. We've got plenty of room, and you'll enjoy the drive back to the city better after a night's sleep in the country."

"And maybe a run in the country," Bente responded. "I could use that better than a good night's sleep."

At 9:45 Conerly called. Tim turned away from such thoughts and shifted gears.

"We've had an old case reopened on the basis of new evidence," he told Conerly. "We believe that one of your employees might be involved."

"On what evidence, and how old?"

"Photographs of a suspect in a Conerly uniform. And almost eight years old."

"Eight years?" Conerly's voice crackled with asperity. "Isn't there a statute of limitations?"

"Not on murder."

That produced a moment of silence.

"And you need a name to go with the photos." It was a statement of fact, not an interrogative. Conerly was more than no nonsense. He was quick.

They arranged to meet at a bar near Conerly's offices at 5:30.

Conerly may have owned his company, but he preferred a workingman's bar. He could likely afford a Zegna, but wore a suit that was rumpled and looked off the rack. Tim guessed that he had been a lunch bucket guy who had worked his way up. He knew college football, though, and picked up on Juul's football connection faster than Tim had.

Over the background buzz of monosyllabic chatter and an Oakland A's game on the above bar TV, they learned that their man had a name that Conerly was able to resurrect: Pat Roberts. He had left the company three years ago, and had not been the kind to confide his plans. No prospective employer had asked for references. Conerly remembered Roberts as a quiet man given to occasional outbursts of temper, usually occasioned by a real or imagined social slight. He promised to provide Tim with personnel data from the company files, but doubted that the last address he could come up with would help. Roberts seemed to have changed addresses four or five times during his employ. Apparently real or imagined social slights—and quarrels—came with the home territory as well as the workplace.

"Pat Roberts," Tim shook his head.

Conerly looked at him in puzzlement.

"Christian Juul would have a preferred ring," the Dane said.

"I guess it would. Lots of Pat Robertses. Who did mine kill? Someone in Copenhagen?"

"A Danish citizen. Now how about numbers—social security, driver's license? Can you have your personnel man fax them to Detective Marchese?"

"Sure. Do it tomorrow." He turned to Tim. "You're not going to tell me more, are you? In any language?"

"Not till we know more ourselves, Mr. Conerly. And that's going to take a lot of digging."

Not as much as Tim had feared. First thing Wednesday morning he set a young detective to work calling carpet cleaning firms in the Bay Area for employees named Pat Roberts. Clearly the cautious, measured approach that he had taken with Conerly would be impracticable when dealing with a vast array of firms. They'd have to take their chances on spooking Roberts. Meanwhile Tim planned a visit with Juul to Roberts' last address in long shot hopes of turning up a lead.

But Juul had a question and a suggestion that he brought up as they were virtually out the door.

"Why do you think no one's asked for a reference on Roberts?"

"Because in this litigious society of ours no one does more than verify employment and the dates involved. People sue if a former employer gives them an unfavorable reference that they imagine costs them a job. And employers sue former employers if they withhold that same adverse information that might result in theft, sexual harassment, or even assault."

"You're altogether too cynical, Tim," Juul said. "Maybe Roberts never needed a reference because he went into business for himself. Why not check the area's business licensing departments to see if Roberts has set up under a DBA?"

Bingo. By midafternoon when they returned young Hannaford had a DBA—Atlas Carpet Cleaning—and a phone number tied to Pat Roberts.

"One for you," Tim told Juul. "Now let's get Bente over here."

"Too soon for dinner, isn't it?"

"Not too soon to get an arrest warrant for Roberts. And get set up for the arrest. That's where Bente comes in."

"I don't follow."

Tim leaned back in his chair. "Well, we've learned in this new Hunt-Trachtman age to make as few arrests as possible in public areas. Too easy to spook the suspect and too easy for him to wreak mayhem. So the city has rented a number of apartments. We try to arrange meetings there. Works especially well in drug buys, which definitely tend to turn violent. Better there than on the street or in a bar. In this case, I think we'll have Bente call and arrange to have the carpets cleaned." He paused. "After that we can think about dinner."

Bente was excited about the prospect of zeroing in on the quarry. The investigative work had done a minimal amount for her therapeutic mission. A meeting with the killer would advance it hugely, particularly with her making the contact. She made the call.

"What you'll probably get with a one-man operation like Atlas will be an answering and scheduling service," Tim told her.

"And if I get him and he asks how I selected Atlas?"

"Tell him you liked his website."

"Do I?"

"Why not? Besides, people don't ask too much when the other party is trying to throw money at them."

Bente called. She did indeed get a bored and disinterested scheduling person. Tim and Chris listened on the speaker phone. The scheduler suggested the following week. Bente stated that she had a party coming up before then, and really needed her carpets cleaned before the weekend. Tim raised an eyebrow. The scheduler, like a maitre d' faced with dinner guests who might walk, found a way to book the appointment for nine AM Friday.

"Well done," Tim said. "But why?"

"Chris leaves over the weekend. Hope you don't mind, but I'd like to have him with us."

"I'll be there," Juul said.

Marilee was waiting for them, cheery and upbeat. She had prepared the teriyaki marinade and had the salmon well immersed and soaking up its flavors. She had the barbecue fired up as well.

Juul looked at Tim. "I thought you said you were doing the cooking."

"He is," Marilee said. "He gets to throw the fish on the grill. Turn it, too. You get to help him."

"Assertive woman in this house," Juul smiled.

"You brought another one with you," Bente said. "All the way from Denmark."

"Seems like we have something in common, Bente," Marilee swiveled her chair. "Let me show you around while the men pour the beers and do their other manly stuff."

Dinner was fine. There was some serious early talk about the upcoming Roberts arrest, the unspoken undercurrent of fear and acknowledgment of the danger, however small. Marilee was used to that; she had never accepted it well, and seemed less inclined to now. She was also aware that the danger spilled over to Bente, whose job description hadn't previously included peril.