Deception (37 page)

33

“You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
A
DVENTURE OF THE
S
IX
N
APOLEONS

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
24, 8:00
A.M
.

YESTERDAY
HAD
BEEN
A
LONG
ONE
. After my discovery that Kim Suda wasn’t in the crime scene log, Mulch and I had driven back to the Justice Center to meet with McKay Kunz, head custodian. I told him I needed something a suspicious character had tossed in the fifteenth-floor lobby garbage can.

Unfortunately, Kunz said, and he thought he’d made this clear to me when I called earlier, all the trash from the floor had been dumped into two giant bags at 8:00, so now I’d have to sort through everything from that floor to find what was in the lobby trash.

Wearing plastic gloves, I found what I was looking for after thirty minutes, put it in a plastic bag, joined Mulch in the car, and headed home.

This morning I called the patrol sergeant at 8:00 a.m., hoping to meet again with Dorsey and Guerino. He said they couldn’t be accessed until 1:00 p.m., and then only if it was absolutely necessary since this was Christmas Eve day, for criminy’s sake. I assured him it was absolutely necessary.

I was going to have to wait five hours to hear their story about Suda. I called Jake and Clarence and told them I’d have to leave by 12:30, so we met for lunch at 11:30. In honor of Christmas, Rory had six long-stemmed red roses and six white lilies at our table. Only one problem with this festive setting: Rory was wearing an elf hat. I’m all for civil liberties, but I draw the line at grown men wearing elf hats. He offered us complimentary hats, but we declined, though Jake and I tried to get Clarence to try one on.

We were deep in discussion when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Ollie! Merry Christmas!”

I cringed. What was Karl Baylor doing at my restaurant? I looked up at him. He was wearing an elf hat.

“I’ve heard you talk about this place,” he said. “Thought we’d try it today since we start fixing Christmas breakfast tonight.”

“Noting the ‘we,’ I turned further to see a smiling young woman.

“Ever met my wife, Tiffany?”

I paused a moment too long. “No.”

“Sweetheart, this is Ollie Chandler. I’ve mentioned him.”

I saw the glimmer of recognition. “I think we’ve met.”

“Maybe at the detective dinner last spring,” I said, knowing I’d skipped those dinners since Sharon died.

“Seems like recently.”

“I was working undercover as your mailman.”

She laughed. “That was it. Nice to meet you.”

Karl removed his elf hat and held it in his hands while he talked with Clarence and called him “brother” and introduced him to Tiffany. She seemed impressed to meet Jake, another columnist she enjoyed. I was glad to have her occupied with anyone besides me.

Rory pointed the Baylors to a booth fifteen feet away. They sat down across from each other. Fortunately, Tiffany faced the other direction.

“The Baylors seem nice,” Jake said. “I was expecting a couple of terrorists.”

“I’ll take a rain check on laughing.”

After a few minutes, the Baylors stood and switched sides. Tiffany stared at me. She looked away only when I glanced at her. Every time this happened, I scooted a few more inches into the booth. Soon I was out of her line of sight.

I needed to get back for Dorsey and Guerino, and Jake was taking off early for Christmas Eve, so we parted, wishing each other Merry Christmas. They invited me to join their families, and I said no. Kendra and I were going it alone.

“See you at the
Tribune
at 3:00?” I asked Clarence.

“Need to be home by 4:00. Sure it can’t wait?”

“Positive. Doesn’t anybody put in full days anymore? Carp’s expecting me. You can leave by 3:30.”

Afterward I sat in the parking lot, finding in my briefcase the typed notes of my interview with Rupert Bolin, fountain pen aficionado. I glanced at his business card and called him as I drove back to the Justice Center.

“Remember telling me about the different reasons people use fountain pens? You mentioned love letters.”

“Oh, yes, it’s so romantic. Women love the old-fashioned ways. It’s not like scratching out something with an ordinary pen. Or, heaven forbid, sending an e-mail. Every letter written with a fountain pen is an original. Sometimes I write a saucy one to my wife, with the finest pen and ink money can buy.”

“I’m sure she’s overcome with excitement,” I said.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied. “We have several special pens and superior stationery that I highly recommend for you to write exquisite letters to that special woman who has captured your heart.”

“I don’t have …”

I stopped. I wondered how the phrase “double cheese, double pepperoni” written in fine fountain pen ink on a superior stationery, might move the heart of Lynn Carpenter.

I opened the official crime scene log from Records, so it’d be ready for Dorsey and Guerino. They arrived at 1:05 p.m.

“What’d we do this time?” Guerino asked.

“You guys know Kim Suda, right? She’s standing by the watercooler, but don’t stare, okay?”

They both stared, then nodded.

“Do either of you remember her coming into the professor’s house that night?”

“She was there,” Guerino said.

“I know she was there. I’m asking if you remember her arrival.”

Dorsey shrugged. “Must have been when I was talking to the gawkers.” He looked at Guerino. “You signed her in, right?”

“I don’t remember her coming to the door. But I went inside a couple of times to point stuff out to the criminalists. You must’ve been there when she came.”

“Nope.”

“Here’s the logbook,” I said. “Check it out. Neither of you signed her in. Her name’s not there.”

“But … one of us was at the door at all times,” Dorsey said. “That’s SOP.”

“Not leaving the scene’s SOP too.”

“You say the words
ski mask
once,” Dorsey said, “and we’re going to duke it out right here.”

“Forget that. Now think, guys.” I looked at the log and pointed name by name. “Remember the ambulance, the two paramedics coming in? Two criminalists? Then me and Clarence? Hatch, the medical examiner? Lynn Carpenter,
Trib
photographer? Then Manny, the grouch. And three uniforms named Nick Goin, Chris Warren, and Alex Helm, who you let in for reasons I don’t understand.”

“It was because—”

“I don’t care. I only care whether you remember them.”

“Sure,” Dorsey said. “I told Guerino you’d have a cow if we let them in.”

“It was a pretty big cow,” I said. “Okay, then there were two more criminalists they called for, after I left the scene. They were the last two you signed in. Remember them?”

“A wiry guy.” Dorsey looked at the log. “Carlo Failla. And a young gal, red hair … Kristin Wennerlind.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you’re telling me you remember every single one of these people who logged in? Now, I’ll ask you again. Do you remember Kim Suda arriving?”

They both shook their heads.

“But we know she was there,” Guerino said.

Their faces showed they didn’t understand what it meant.

I did.

34

“My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
H
OUND OF THE
B
ASKERVILLES

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
24, 1:50
P.M
.

I HAVE FOND MEMORIES
of Christmas Eve day as a kid. My brother and my buddies Gary Swan and Wayne and Lynn Kim and I, and my black lab Ranger, would gather at the Kims’ house, sleds and saucers in tow. I had a hot pink saucer that, on the snow, could be seen from Mars.

We’d spend the day sliding down any slope within walking distance and make it back, fingers frozen, to Mom. She thawed us out with Ovaltine while Bing Crosby sang “White Christmas” on the big old 33 album platter, back when our RCA record player let us choose between speeds—33 or 45 or 78. We loved to switch them to the wrong speed so Bing sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks.

I could still taste the chocolate malt of the Ovaltine and remember looking longingly at all the presents under the Christmas tree, a bunch with my name on them. Before the night was over, I’d unwrap those treasures.

Now, forty-five years later, this was Christmas Eve day too. But my life was no longer spent dreaming dreams. My job was unraveling nightmares. Still, truth is, since my childhood dreams of being an astronaut or a pro-wrestler or Green Lantern hadn’t materialized, I couldn’t think of any way I’d rather spend the day than solving a murder.

I phoned the chief’s daughter. “Jenn Lennox?”

“Yeah?”

“Detective Chandler.”

“What do
you
want?”

“When you were at the professor’s house … that was just two and a half months ago?”

“I don’t know. Couple of weeks after the first class.”

“According to records, your class started in late September. That would put the get-together mid-October?”

“I guess.”

“When you were at Palatine’s that night, did you have your cell phone?”

“Always.”

“You didn’t take any pictures with your phone did you?”

“Probably. Wait, yeah, I did. Pictures of the professor and other students.”

“In front of the fireplace?”

“I think so.”

“Still have them?”

“Probably not.”

“Don’t you save any pictures?”

“Only ones I want. I don’t keep pictures of people I hate. Not like Tasha. She keeps everything on her computer. She’s a geek.”

“You’re sure you don’t have those pictures? Can you check?”

“Why?”

“If you find them I’ll give you a Starbucks card.”

“How much?”

“Ten dollars.”

She laughed. “Not worth it.”

“Twenty-five dollars?”

“Thirty.”

“Okay. You find me some pictures taken in the professor’s living room that night—but they have to be where the fireplace mantel is visible—then I’ll give you a thirty-dollar Starbucks card.”

And they say we don’t negotiate with terrorists.

At 2:00 p.m. Suda entered the conference room. To soften her, I’d brought in a cup of coffee and a white frosted donut with those colored sprinkles that irritate me.

“Coffee and donut?” I asked.

She shook her head and sat down. “I have twenty minutes, that’s it.”

“What time did you come to the professor’s house November 20?”

“Near four, I think.”

“I guess if I needed to know, I could just check the log.”

“I guess.” No twitch.

“You did sign the log, didn’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Could you point out your signature?” I handed her the log. “We’ve got paramedics, criminalists, Clarence and me, Hatch, Lynn Carpenter, Manny, and the uniforms you ushered out. You must have come in somewhere between me and the uniforms. So … why didn’t you sign in?”

“They know me.”

“They know me. And Hatch. And Manny. They signed us in.”

“It was a zoo when I got there.”

“Guerino and Dorsey remember talking with you inside and when you left. They don’t remember you arriving.”

“What’s your point?”

“Where’d you park?”

“Around the corner.”

“What corner?”

“The street next to the professor’s. 22nd?”

“I left before you did, to check my messages at home. I took 22nd down to Stark. I didn’t see your car. And it wasn’t on Oak either.”

“There were lots of cars.”

“I notice cars. Was it your red Toyota Camry?”

“I guess.”

“Why would you have to guess?”

“Yeah, it was my car. It’s a Camry. It’s red.”

“How many feet from Oak were you parked?”

“Forty?”

“East side of 22nd?”

“West. Look,” she said, “you showed up at one of my investigations, remember? Did I harass you about it?”

“I’m not harassing you.”

She got up, teeth clenched, and stormed out of the room in a cold front. If she’d had a broom, she could have flown.

Have I mentioned I have a way with women?

I removed a few of the sprinkles and ate her donut.

I was going to meet Clarence at the
Trib
, but I had an extra fifteen minutes, so I stopped by to see Phil in crime lab. He wished me Merry Christmas. At least he wasn’t wearing an elf hat. I handed him a clear evidence bag.

“Look,” I said, “here’s that gum wrapper, still sealed in your bag. I realize it was careless of me to drop it at the crime scene, but I shouldn’t have picked it up. And I shouldn’t have asked you to give it back to me. It puts us both at risk. I don’t feel right holding on to it.”

“Conscience?”

“You don’t need to mention this. You’d be in as much trouble as I would.”

“Okay. I’ll just put it with the other evidence. I’ll just change the date and leave it unmarked. Doubt if anyone’ll notice. Nobody needs to know. As long as nobody needs to know about that contaminated blood sample.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

Clarence had been routinely invading my workspace. I returned the favor that afternoon. It was dry, so I decided to cut through Terry Schrunk Plaza south to Jefferson and head four blocks west to Broadway, where I turned left and entered the front door of the
Oregon Tribune
.

When the two gals at the front desk of the
Trib
asked for my ID, I showed them. When that didn’t appear good enough, I showed them my Glock in my shoulder holster. I showed it to the security guard, along with my ID. He told me I might have to surrender my weapon. I told him that my Glock and I are conjoined twins and it would require a delicate surgery. I wondered if he felt up to it. He got on the phone. They let me through, then said, “Mr. Abernathy will come down.”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m going up.” Not that I knew exactly where I was going. I’d visited the
Tribune
about as often as I’d visited the Kremlin. No offense to the Kremlin.

Journalists are nervous about people with guns. This is understandable since they do so much to aggravate gun-owners. They write columns about how regular people shouldn’t be allowed to have guns. Of course, I don’t think journalists should be allowed to write words, which have destroyed more lives than guns. These thoughts contributed to my self-righteous swagger as I walked through the state capitol of self-righteousness.

I bumped into Clarence as I was about to get in the elevator. Clarence is a lot to bump into.

“I told them I’d come down to meet you,” he said.

“What a coincidence. I told them I’d come up to meet you. Apparently we were both right. I’m tired of you occupying my world. I feel like occupying yours for a change.”

“It’s my job to be part of your world. It’s not your job to be here.”

“Here I am. Loaded firearm and all.” I said the words loud, drunk loud, though I hadn’t had a drink since yesterday. I patted my jacket and watched people look at us nervously.

“Homicide,” I said loudly.

One woman in dress and high heels and fancy scarf, who I recognized as a columnist, turned pale.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I don’t commit them. I investigate them. There’ve been threats about vigilantes going after journalists because of slander. I’m here to guard your life.”

“He’s joking,” Clarence said.

It was fun, a Christmas present to myself, turning the tables and making people nervous who make their living making others nervous.

Clarence’s editor Winston blew in like a hurricane. “Who do you think you are, barging in here?” he bellowed, Louis Armstrong-like, with cheeks to match.

“I think I am Police Detective Ollie Chandler. Wait, hold on.” I pulled out my ID card, read it, and said, “I
am
Detective Ollie Chandler, and I’m paid to barge into places. Excuse me if my presence is inconvenient and uncomfortable. You journalists have always been sensitive to my convenience and comfort, and I certainly want to reciprocate.”

Winston, his mammoth cheeks red, scowled. I scowled back. His natural face gave him a big advantage. He was the Grinch who stole Christmas. If an elf hat had been nearby, I would have crammed it over his head.

“Okay, enough holiday cheer,” I said to Clarence. “Where’s Carp?”

Clarence led me through the giant maze, explaining that most photojournalists just had workstations but Carp had her own office.

She greeted us warmly. I presented her with three Papa Murphy’s coupons. “Clipped them myself.” She gave me an endearing look.

I sat down and showed Carp the crime scene log. “You signed in at 3:51, but they didn’t sign you out when you left to take the pictures on the street. When was that?”

“That’ll be easy,” she said. “The pictures all have a date and time stamp.” She maximized her photo program and looked at the slides on her screen, then checked Properties. “Looks like I took all those pictures in eight minutes, between 4:46 and 4:54.”

“That was quick.”

“It was spooky out there. I don’t hang around murders like you do.”

I flipped through the neighborhood pictures on her computer screen three times.

“No red Camry. Suda’s car wasn’t where she said it was.”

“Why would she lie?” Clarence said.

“And why would she park away from the scene? Above all, why didn’t she sign in? And why don’t Dorsey and Guerino remember her arriving?”

“Is it really that important that she didn’t sign in?” Clarence asked. “I mean, obviously she was there. We all saw her.”

“Suppose the officers were right and she didn’t slip by them,” I said.

“But she had to slip by,” Clarence said. “What other explanation is there?”

I looked at them both, preparing to say what I’d been thinking: “When Dorsey and Guerino arrived at Palatine’s, Kim Suda was already in the house.”