Bitter Finish (3 page)

"
Okay." The reassuring voice of the red-faced officer came from the doorway. "Just walk on in. Nothing to alarm you. All covered with a sheet."

Enright snorted. "What do you think this is, a garden-club display?" He bowed slightly to accent the scorn in his voice. "Do come in, Mr. Spraggue."

They entered the dingy back room in close formation. It had a brick-red floor with a central drain. A refrigeration unit in a corner hummed loudly. A faucet dripped. Strong hanging lights illuminated a central slablike table covered with a still white sheet. Enright ripped it back.

"
Think that's your Lenny Brent?" he said.

Only Enright's nastiness and the fact that he'd snubbed the airline's attempt at lunch saved
Spraggue from following Kate's example and vomiting on the floor. He took a deep quick mouth-breath so he wouldn't smell the combination of decay and embalming fluid and played the scene like an acting exercise. An observation exercise.

The man on the table had a body but almost no head. A tall body, like Lenny's. All thin-to-medium body marred by a huge butterfly incision. The autopsy wound had been closed with gigantic uneven stitches. There was dark hair on the legs and torso, under the arms, at the groin. A white cardboard tag dangled from a big toe. The skin seemed terribly white. Spraggue forced himself not to look away. The head. He'd probably had dark hair. A slightly prominent jaw.

"
That your boy?" repeated Enright. The captain's voice was hoarse.

"
No."

"No? Just 'no'?"

"
You had a medical examiner look at this?"

"Forensic pathologist. Couldn't tell us much. Yet."

Spraggue nodded. "Lenny was about forty. Older than this guy. But he was in top physical shape. Exercised. Lifted weights. Look at this guy's arms. He sat at a desk."

"
Of course, you wouldn't want it to be Lenny . . ." began Enright.

"What I want doesn't change a man's shape. Find somebody else who knew Lenny, somebody who worked out with him."

"
Miss Holloway couldn't seem to—"

"Enright, she got sick," protested the young man. "The way you brought her in here, with no warning or anything—"

"Shut it, Bradley. Just shut the mouth."

"Okay. No beef."

Enright went on as if the interruption hadn't happened. "Mr. Spraggue, you say this is definitely not the body of Leonard Brent. Do you know whose body it is?"

"No."

"Go ahead and look more carefully. Plenty of time."

Spraggue kept his voice nonchalant. "No need. I don't know who it is. I do know that someone made a mistake and kept Kate Holloway in custody overnight for the murder of an unknown person. Her lawyer will be interested."

Enright grunted.

"Has the cause of death been determined?"

The captain guffawed. "Cause of death?" He nodded at Bradley to make sure he got the joke. "Practically missing his head, this fellow is. I figure that might have something to do with it."

"The head injuries could have been caused after death. Was there much bleeding?"

"I don't think," Enright said flatly, "we have anyone crazy enough around here to go beating up on a dead man like that."

"
How about somebody smart enough to want you to have a hard time identifying the body? Got anybody that smart?" If they did, Spraggue was pretty sure he or she wasn't working for the sheriff.

Enright said nothing.

"
I suppose you've taken prints?"

"Amateurs are always crazy for fingerprints. Not everybody's prints are on file, you know. Just if you've been in the army or gotten yourself arrested or something. Hardly anything gets solved by prints. Bet yours aren't on file anyplace."

"
Wrong."

"
Yeah?"

"Check with the Boston Police."

"
Didn't take you for a crook."

"
Guess again"

"
Why've they got your prints?"

"Standard procedure when you get your private investigators license."

Enright's lips tightened. "Let's see it."

Spraggue hunted through his wallet for a silent minute. "Here."

The captain grabbed the plastic-covered rectangle, held it closer to the light. He stared down at the tiny photo, then up at Spraggue.

"This is nothing but a piece of shit," he said. "Six-one, one-seventy, brown hair, brown eyes. The damned picture's so small it could be anyone. Your eyes don't look brown. And to top it all off, the thing's expired!"

"
I know."

Enright turned on his heel. "Crap," he said loudly.

"
Bradley, when you get this mess cleared up, take Mr. P. I. Spraggue over to the jail to see Miss Holloway. I got things to do."

His boot heels broke the silence.

"You can wait outside," Bradley said after the door had slammed. "Get the smell out of your
nose." He covered the battered thing on the table with the sheet.

"
Thanks." Spraggue moved toward the door.

"
Don't mind Enright so much. He's got a bad stomach. Always acts up in here."

"That why he gave Kate Holloway such grief?"

Spraggue asked sharply.

"
Misery loves company, so they say. He'd have gotten along with you a lot better if you'd turned green and thrown up. Now he's got to prove he's tougher than you."

"
He must be a pleasure to work with, Officer Bradley."

"
Lieutenant Bradley. Brad." The ruddy face got even redder.

"Okay, Brad, why did you keep Kate Holloway in custody?"

"
Body was found at Holloway Hills." The answer came out almost on time.

"
It's a big place," Spraggue said. "No fences. Anyone could get in."

Bradley hesitated. "I suppose when they thought it was this guy Lenny . . ."

"
Yeah?"

"Well," Bradley said weakly, "the valley's like a small town, really. You hear a lot of gossip."

"Such as?"

"I repeat gossip to you and Enright'll have my head looking like this dude's. Sorry. Go breathe outside for a spell. I'll be right along."

Outside, he inhaled audibly, deeply. Filled his lungs with sweet fresh-mown grass, stale car exhaust, and the first faint stink of deceit.
 

3

Lieutenant Bradley wound up doing double duty as chauffeur.

When he and Spraggue drove past the sheriff's office twenty minutes later, Kate Holloway sat slouched on one of the stone benches out front, Spraggue's duffel bag at her feet.

Bradley braked to a halt. "I'll be damned," he said.

"
So that's why Enright walked out on you. Figured you'd be so pleased to see her, you might forget to holler about violated rights,"

"
Not so dumb after all," Spraggue said, swinging the car door open. "Thanks."

"Wait up. She hasn't got a car here, and neither do you. Cabs are plenty scarce."

"We'll manage."

"
Well, I'll malinger around back fifteen minutes or so just in case. Be glad to drop you someplace."

"
Fifteen minutes." Spraggue banged the door shut and strode quickly up the concrete path. He knew that if he stopped to think of what to say to her, he'd turn to stone before the right words came.

Kate huddled sidesaddle on the bench, legs drawn tight against her chest, arms wrapped around them—folded into the smallest possible space. Her pointed chin rested against denim-covered knees. His footsteps startled her. She turned abruptly and began to rise.

"
Don't bother." He peered down at her pale face and hesitantly touched her cheek. "You okay?"

"
Sure. Don't overdo the concern."

"You look good."

"
Is that supposed to make me feel better? You think I care how I look just now?"

"
I'm trying to say I'm happy to see you, Kate."

"
Okay." Her fingers plucked at his sleeve. "Then I'll try to say thanks for getting me out of that hellhole."

"Want to talk?"

"
Not here." She shuddered. "Not this close . . .Captain Baboon might dream up another reason to put me away."

"
There's a much nicer officer idling his engine around the corner. He'll take us home if you want."

She didn't answer.

"
Come on," Spraggue said. She shook off his hand when he tried to help her up.

Kate standing had nothing defenseless about her. An inch over six feet tall, she looked Spraggue straight in the eye. She seemed smaller because she was thin, model thin, with dark, sleek, waist-length hair and Indian cheekbones. Men pestered Kate on the streets of L.A. with movie offers. She invariably refused, and when the would-be producers heard her speak, the legitimate few were relieved. She had a deep, foghorn voice, almost like a boy's, permanently arrested in mid-puberty.

Bradley was waiting, good as his word, sipping coffee from a red plastic thermos. After initial greetings, the ride was silent, the atmosphere strained. Bradley sped up the Silverado Trail, didn't have to ask directions until they passed Taplin Road. He dropped them at the gate: Kate's instructions.

"
I've been cooped up way too long," she said after Bradley had driven off. She stretched out her arms and rolled up the sleeves of her plaid shirt. "Let's stay outside for a while."

Spraggue sounded out his stomach, found the funeral home experience over. "Lunch?" he suggested. "I'll buy."

"Business expense?"

"What else?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but then backed off, decided not to read anything into his response.

"
Look," she said instead, "there's bread and cheese in the house. You can fetch it when you dump your bag. And a bottle of wine. We'll picnic."

"Where?"

"
You know."

Spraggue got lunch together. They climbed up to the clearing, Kate hugging the bread and cheese, Spraggue toting the wine. Their target was halfway up the hill, a circle of soft grass and clover bounded by bushes, three large flat rocks, and yew trees. One of the few places in the valley with no view of vineyards, it stared straight up into the mountains. Star-lit nights, years ago, they had . . .

Spraggue shook his head, eyed Kate warily. Had she brought him up here to reminisce, or did she still use the clearing . . . as a meditation corner, a rendezvous to meet new lovers?

"The bushes are overgrown," he said. "Trees are taller."

"
Because you've been away too long."

"Looks the same to you?"

"
I come up here pretty often, Michael. For lots of reasons. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Sit on the rocks?" he said. The bread and cheese were fresh, the wine heady. They ate without any polite small talk, greedily.

"
Had enough?" Kate said finally.

"
Too much. Cameras put pounds on you. I have to be gaunt by Sunday."

"More wine?"

"Enough for an afternoon"

Her hand reached for his, held on. "Do you want to get reacquainted?" she said softly.

"
Reacquainted?"

"Do you want to revive old memories, Spraggue? Make love? Or have sex?" Her lips bore the ghost of a smile, but her dark eyes were unreadable. Her fingers toyed with the top button on her shirt.

Spraggue shoved their wineglasses into the comparative safety of a cleft between two rocks. He reached out and tilted her turned-away chin toward him. Her face was impassive. "Katharine," he said gently, but he knew he used her full name only in anger, "why the hell do you find it easier to sleep with men than talk to them?"

He knew as soon as he said it that he should have said "me" rather than "men," because she took it as an attack against what he'd once called her "unfaithful ways," not as a plea for more than physical communication. Shit, maybe he'd meant it as an attack, following the old pattern. If her way to avoid talk was sex, his was battle.

"
Why the hell do you try to goad me into slapping your face?" she said.

"
Sorry."

She didn't seem to notice the muttered apology.

"
What do you want from me, Spraggue?" she went on. "How do you know what I do with other men? Maybe I'm a vibrant conversationalist with other guys. Maybe we never go further than holding if hands. Maybe you're the only one I don't know how to talk to."

"
Don't you think we should try?" he said. "Considering the circumstances?"

Instead of answering, she made a production out of cleaning up the two cloth napkins, shaking the crumbs out to leave for the birds, folding them neatly and using the wine bottle to weigh them down against a gentle breeze.

"
Dammit, Michael," she said linally, "I thought it would be easier. I've been in jail on suspicion of murder. Idiots yelled questions at me most of the night. The mattress they gave me wasn't more than a quarter-inch thick, and it felt like crumbled cardboard and smelled like ammonia. I'm exhausted and I don't think I can go through what we always go through when we're together . . . and we're not really together."

"
Wonderful," Spraggue said shortly. "So you decided to offer yourself as some kind of sacrificial lamb. You can get me out of the way and we can go on to other, more important things."

"
Maybe it's not so important to me who I screw anymore. You don't like that, do you? Coming from me?"

"
You're just trying to get me to slap your face and then we'll be back on familiar ground. Right?"

"God," Kate said wearily, "why can't we behave the way civilized people are supposed to?"

"Want to try? You can shake the napkins out again and I can sweep the grass. You pick up the stray leaves. I'll change the water in the squirrel's dish."