Deception (26 page)

I straightened the number, then tightened the screw. I breathed deeply and knocked. I heard her on the other side, looking through the fish-eye lens.

“What were you doing?” she asked, before the door completely opened. She stepped out and looked at the door. “I should’ve known. Like I’m not capable of fixing a crooked number.”

“I know you’re capable. I just—”

“I didn’t open the door before looking through the peephole.”

“Good. Did you have the Mace in your hand just in case?”

“No. But when I saw it was you, I wished I did.”

I laughed. It would have been one of those perfect father-daughter moments … if she’d laughed too.

Not that it was a full-fledged scowl. It was more a look of moderate disapproval. But I learned many years ago that the mildest disapproval from a daughter is a twisted knife in her father’s heart. In my visits to Kendra over the years, I’d walked away with bloodstained shirts. Andrea was a long-term hemorrhage. Kendra was a recurrent stabbing.

In all fairness, I’ve fired off my share of rounds at her too. I always found myself looking back and rewording things. But it was too late. It’s always too late.

She’d invited me to dinner, yet I was sure an hour later she’d regret it. I looked at her knowing that whatever I said or didn’t say would be wrong. Just then I remembered I had something in my hand. I held them out to her.

“What are those?”

“Gerbera daisies,” I said.

She didn’t take them. I set them on a magazine on the coffee table. Apparently this wasn’t right, since she quickly scooped them up, rescuing the magazine.

“Kendra, is there any chance we could … you know … have a good relationship?”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Could you just … give it a try?”

“Am I supposed to feel guilty? Like it was my fault?”

“I didn’t mean that. It was my fault, not yours. Really. But I was hoping maybe the judgment would expire.”

“I’m being judgmental?”

“No. A judgment’s a legal decision against somebody. It expires after ten years. I just meant—”

“You think I don’t know what a judgment is? You’ve always thought I’m stupid.”

I’d never thought that. But I was beginning to wonder.

“Remember Stephen, the guy I was in love with?”

“Short guy with the goatee?”

“That was Sedgwick. He loved me too. Stephen was the guy you harassed.”

“Remind me.”

“We see you at a restaurant, and I make the mistake of going to the restroom. You tell him if he ever hurts me, you’ll kill him and make it look like an accident.”

“Okay, the guy with all the piercings. I said it good-naturedly.”

“Right, which is why you gave him three examples of how you might kill him.”

“It was two examples. I’d just started the third when you got back. I never even finished.”

“It’s funny to you, but he was terrified. And it’s my life you messed up.”

“You think Stephen was the right guy for you? Because if you do, I’ll get a metal detector and go find him tomorrow and apologize. I mean it.”

“You’d do that?”

“In a heartbeat. Just say the word.”

“No. He wasn’t the right guy for me.”

“Is he the.” I paused as if I’d stepped on a land mine, and any attempt to lift the foot would blow off a leg.

“Father of my child? No.” Long pause. “You wouldn’t like him.”

“Do you?”

“I thought I did, but he’s gone. Didn’t want the responsibility. Anybody who’d leave me because I’m having his baby would leave me for a dozen other reasons.”

“Or a hundred. I meant what I said, sweetheart. I’ll help you financially. Or any other way.”

“Abortion? That was the father’s solution.”

“I’d never want you to hurt yourself like that.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll do anything, and on your terms. I love you. I want to help you.”

She stared at me, as if trying to figure out a Rubik’s Cube.

“The side of your face is bruised,” she said. “What happened?”

I told her the story. As I did, her face softened. She got me a cold pack and medications, natural ones, the kind that didn’t require the killing of ducks or armadillos. She asked me to put on some orange ointment made out of kumquats or something. It smelled funny but felt good. Mulch could lick it off when I got home.

Over dinner we talked civilly. I asked her about her work as a real estate agent. We stayed away from the hundred subjects that would divide us and talked about the dozen we had in common. Especially Sharon. This was the first time since her mother died that Kendra and I had gone thirty minutes without fighting.

It was the best meal of vegetables, fruits, nuts, and carrot juice I’ve ever had. To be there with my little girl, no darts flying for the last two hours, was … a taste of heaven.

As I left, she thanked me for the flowers. I wouldn’t have traded that moment for all the cheeseburgers and orange malts in the world.

22

“Data! Data! Data! I can make no bricks without clay!”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
A
DVENTURE OF THE
C
OPPER
B
EECHES

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
6, 10:30
A.M
.

MY REGRET IN NOT REPORTING
to work the day before was that I hadn’t seen the other homicide detectives and couldn’t study their faces. Whoever had attacked me Wednesday night would likely have a bruise, where I struck him with the flashlight. But only four others were in Friday, and by then a bruise could have been covered. Cimmatoni was gimpy, probably his rheumatism. No bruises were obvious. Everyone kept their distance but Tommi. And she hadn’t been my assailant. He’d been too strong. It must have been a man.

I left headquarters to meet Carp in her home office in Northwest Portland, near Wallace Park, twelve minutes from downtown. Her furniture was modern. No clutter, yet the house seemed comfortable and fit her. I admired her wall hangings—award-winning photos she’d taken of bridges, buildings, forests, mountains, lakes, animals, and people. I’ve done enough crime scene photography to appreciate good stuff. I vaguely sensed that something was missing. Then it came to me—no photos of dead bodies.

She took me into her photo lab and sat me down next to her in front of a twenty-one-inch monitor displaying a wallpaper of multicolored flowers in a meadow with breathtaking clarity.

“That’s beautiful,” I said.

“Thanks.” I was slow to figure out she’d taken the picture.

“I’ve superenlarged the mantel and the photos on it in five of the pictures taken in the last year before the murder.” Then she took my own photos of Palatine’s mantel, and my close-ups of each picture. “Each of these pictures shows nine photos, but there were eight after the murder. The ninth is missing. Just like you figured.”

I nodded.

She called up another image on the monitor. “Here’s my best resolution of that missing photo, using a computer enhanced sharpening feature. It shows the professor and two females, a blonde and a brunette. Based on his height you can judge theirs. Obviously their faces are blurred. Even eye color’s questionable with this degree of enlargement and enhancement. Sorry.”

“Considering they were just tiny spots in the background on the originals, I’m amazed you got this much.” I pointed to something shiny. “Jewelry?”

“Earrings on this girl and part of a chain necklace on this one. If not for reflection from the original flash, we wouldn’t see them. You’re positive you don’t have anything taken with a digital camera?”

“These were from Palatine’s camera, a Canon SLR,” I said.

“Good camera, but it’s all film, not digital. For magnification this extreme, I need a digital file.”

She pushed her chair back from the computer. “So who swiped the photo from the mantel?”

“My money’s on the murderer. The question is why.”

“Because of the identity of the girls in the picture, right?”

“One of them anyway.”

“You think the professor had a compromising relationship?”

“He seemed to have a pattern of compromising relationships. But the killer must have thought the girls would point a finger at him.”

“Or maybe the girls’ jewelry?” Carp said.

“I never thought of that.”

She smiled. “Find me another picture, taken with a digital camera, even if it’s just the mantel in the background again. Maybe I’ll get you faces you can recognize.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m one of those helpful journalists.”

“Lunchtime,” I said. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Double cheese, double pepperoni? I know just the place. I’ll drive.”

She took my arm, pulling me to her front door. Once you know their love language, everything falls into place.

Two hours later I took Abernathy with me to meet Jenn Lennox, who insisted we meet at a Starbucks in Gresham, on Division, next to Red Robin.

“Interviewing the chief’s daughter is strictly under the lid,” I said.

“Won’t she tell her father?”

“Let’s hope they don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“What kind?”

“The talking kind.”

“Why are we at Starbucks?”

“She didn’t think a donut shop was cool. I had to guarantee she could have a venti Frappaccino. Told her the sky was the limit.”

We sat in the most private corner, not wanting to bump elbows with the Wi-Fiers or buoyant caffeine-happy greeters or be seen by passersby. Truth is, I used to spend lots of time at Starbucks. I was named employee of the month twice without ever working there. But one-third the price plus unlimited refills at Lou’s lured me away.

The girl appeared, dressed like she’d raided the giveaway table at Salvation Army. If she didn’t live up to
my
apparel standards, you can imagine what a sight she was.

She had a face that could have set off a thousand metal detectors. Rings everywhere—lips, cheek, eyebrows, half a dozen on the ears. She was a walking jewelry store. It was the same unhappy face from the family portrait, but it weighed a few pounds more, both in flesh and metal. Her hair was purple and orange.

“Jenn Lennox?”

“Mr. Detective?” she asked through her chewing gum. Her voice was baby talk, and her eyelashes batted like a butterfly. I don’t know if her flirtatiousness was conscious. Maybe it was her way of fishing for Frappaccinos.

I ordered the drinks from a friendly young guy named Matt, plus the double chocolate brownie she informed me she couldn’t live without. She marched over to a stack of coffee mugs near a CD rack displaying a young male musician. She took out her cell phone and held it up to take a picture. She squealed, thrilled she’d gotten this photo. While we waited, she popped her gum, then picked it off her lip rings. Her hair was making its way to her left eye. She pulled it back, but it kept obeying the law of gravity. She kept pulling down her skirt. It obeyed a different law.

She was a little girl trying to look grown-up. It wasn’t working. No coffee or chocolate yet, and she was already so jittery she could jump-start a car. She kept chewing her fingernails, but there was nothing left. I was afraid she was going to start on mine.

After sitting with her five minutes, we learned that she knew everything and hated everyone. Kids have always been know-it-alls. I was, I guess. But I don’t recall the cynicism going so deep. The chief’s daughter reminded me of my Andrea at that age.

“How did you know Professor Palatine?”

“That’s what this is about? You said you wanted information.” Her voice was no longer baby talk, but nasal and whiny. Made me miss the baby talk.

“You said you wanted a Frappaccino. You got what you came for, and a brownie too. How about the information? If it’s good, I’ll give you a Frap to go. Tell me about the professor.”

She leaned forward. “I’m a senior, and they said we could take a course at Portland State. Figured I’d do it to meet guys. Philosophy was one option. It sounded cool.”

“Why were you at the professor’s house?”

“He invited new students over.”

“Do you remember who took this picture?” I handed it to her.

“Gross,” she said. “I don’t know who took it.”

“Who else was there?”

“The four of us in the picture and the professor.”

“Plus whoever took the picture.”

“The professor mainly talked with the other two girls. Cheerleader types.”

She said it with a secretive voice—the type that makes you want to ask questions to find out what she’s hiding. So I asked for a while before I figured out she had nothing to hide. Any secrets were an inch below the surface, eager to get out … and absolutely useless.

“I have to pee,” she said. In a moment she was gone.

I saw the look on Clarence’s face. He appeared unsympathetic both to her and her bladder. I had the feeling she’d used a word his children don’t.

She returned, talkative, caffeine sinking in, along with the promise of imminent sugar from the Starbucks chocolate-hazelnut biscotti and the package of chocolate-covered coffee beans she’d wrangled from me in exchange for renewed interest in our conversation. I looked at the drinks and minidesserts and considered that I’d already paid for three full lunches at Burgerville.
This better be worth it
.

High on the list of things cops don’t like are: wandering, and inability to answer a question without interjecting irrelevant self-disclosure. (Relevant self-disclosure: I killed the guy; I saw the guy who killed the guy. Irrelevant self-disclosure: I was finishing up my skinny vanilla latte when I saw this dress at the Gap, and I thought Brandy would be so jealous if she saw me in it, and I …”)

“How’d you like the philosophy class?”

“I hated it.”

“What’d you think of the professor?”

“I hated him.”

“The boy with you in the picture?”

“I hated him.”

“What’d you think of the cheerleader girls?”

“I despised them.”

Good. There
was
a thesaurus in her brain.

She looked at Clarence, then me, then said, “Boring.”

Two boys walked in the door, and in an instant she was up greeting them. She took out her cell phone and took pictures of them. Then she posed with one of the boys and coerced the other into taking a picture of the two of them, Starbucks counter behind them. She said her friend Tasha “just won’t
believe
I saw you here.” She punched buttons on her phone and sent the photo to Tasha apparently and said she’d have to download it when she got home and post it on MySpace.

I took note that caffeine helps people say and do stupid things with more energy and enthusiasm. I beckoned her over and asked if we could wrap it up.

“Do you think I’m silly, Detective?” It was one of the first nonsilly things she’d said.

“The thought occurred to me,” I said. “But if you have evidence to the contrary, now would be a good time to present it.”

“My parents think I’m no good.”

“Are they right?”

“What?”

“
Are
you no good?”

She thought about it. “My father thinks he knows everything. He’s always telling me what to do. And he’s never happy with my choices.”

It struck me—that’s how I felt about God. A killjoy who never liked what I did, so why try? And if He didn’t like me, okay, I didn’t like Him either.

“It’s not easy being a dad,” I said.

“Sometimes he’s just mean.”

“My guess is—” I couldn’t resist—“his bark is worse than his bite.”

“You sound like him.”

“Listen, if you remember something about the professor, or about someone who hated him, I mean way more than you did, call me, would you?”

I handed her my card.

“Will my dad find out?”

“Not if you call this number. Your dad doesn’t answer the phone in detective division.”

An hour later, weather cooperating, I decided not to take on city traffic and instead walk the half mile to Portland State University. I passed Seattle’s Best, a caffeine oasis located in the middle of a three-hundred-foot desert between two Starbucks. Had I not just been at a Starbucks with Jenn Lennox, I would have stopped. Suddenly, realizing I could justify it on the basis that I needed to warm my hands, I turned around and ordered a large coffee.

I walked to Broadway, then headed south to the Park Blocks and Portland State University. The artsy attractions along the way made it more interesting than two laps around a track. I’ve never actually entered the Portland Art Museum, but I feel cultured walking by it. Besides, there’s a Polish sausage vendor on that sidewalk who’s made meat into an art form.

At the University Station Post Office, I asked a vacant-looking underclassman where I’d find the academic dean. He scrunched his face, mumbled about a provost, then pointed, as far as I could tell, to the second building, Cramer Hall. The directory led me to the third floor.

A secretary assured me they didn’t call them deans, but provosts. The academic provost was Dr. Hedstrom. He’d been a highly reputed sociology professor before that, she explained. I nodded, like I cared. She told me to wait in an undersized chair while she fetched him. I paced. The hallowed halls of academia are not my home.

Two minutes later, the secretary returned to the reception area, followed by a provost-looking individual. He was a thick-throated, chinless man who could have shaved from cheek to Adam’s apple without angling the blade. There’s a lot of gravity in this world, and Hedstrom was carrying more than his share. I’m no lightweight, but if I’m a moon, he’s Jupiter. Shoulders stooped, head tipped forward like it needed something to prop it, he made eye contact with the floor tiles. He beckoned with his fingers. I followed, shifting to my lowest gear not to rear-end him.

We entered his office, which smelled of polished wood. His redwood bookcases were masterpieces. A picture on the wall showed him standing straight and slim forty years ago with a college basketball team. He’d probably shrunk three inches since then. It’s a tough world that makes a man shrink. One day, like all of us I thought, he’s going to just disappear. And then what? What’s on the other side? Nothing? Something? What?

Hey, he’d been a highly reputed professor. Maybe I should ask him.

Nah.

“I am Dr. Elwin Hedstrom,” he said, as if I should be impressed.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, lying.

He laced his fingers at the Greenwich median of his equator and plunged into what I’d told him I wanted to discuss.

“I had my issues with Dr. Palatine.”

“Did you?”

“He assumed that humans are social beings by their nature and subscribed to the position of Francisco de Vitoria that statally organized peoples were in need of a legal order to govern their mutual relations.”