Murder in a Good Cause (15 page)

She grinned.

“Sure,” he said. “I'll call you.”

Dubinsky had been there for hours going through stacks of reports with his usual air of bored efficiency. “I hear there was some excitement last night,” he said, looking up.

“I hope Sally appreciated your presence,” Sanders remarked sourly. His partner grinned and didn't answer. “Any reports in on it yet?”

“Yeah. Franklin's in pretty bad shape. What in hell happened?”

“Someone doped them.”

“I know that,” he said, picking up another piece of paper and waving it at Sanders. “The report from the lab. All of them but little Miss Veronika. Nothing in her bloodstream but small amounts of alcohol. And only trace amounts in Whitelaw. How'd they do it?”

“It must have been the coffee. After dinner. It's the only thing that figures. Whitelaw said he ate everything but only had a mouthful of coffee. He claims that after Thursday night he has trouble drinking coffee made by Bettl. Veronika didn't drink any. Everyone else did. So that's what it looks like. Do we have an analysis of the coffee?”

Dubinsky shook his head. “It's still over at forensic.”

“I guess we'll know soon enough,” said Sanders with a yawn, “once they get off their asses and start doing something.”

“How in hell did they get to Franklin? He didn't go on duty until midnight. You're not telling me they were having dinner at midnight and invited him in to join them.”

“Uh-uh.” Sanders shook his head. “As far as I could get out of them, the housekeeper made a huge pot of coffee and handed out some of it at dinner. And zap! They're all out. She had some after she cleaned up the kitchen, and that was the end of her for the night. Before she passed out, she put the rest into a thermos for the gardener. And the gardener—under instructions from our Miss Nikki, by the way—drank one cup and gave the rest to Franklin. The thermos was in his car.”

“Who doped the coffee?” said Dubinsky innocently.

“Someone who didn't drink it,” said Sanders. “Which leaves us—”

“Whitelaw or the girl. She didn't touch the coffee; he had just enough not to look suspicious.”

“The question is, why was Franklin in the house? He must have been damned groggy if he drank from that thermos. And how in hell did he get in? When I got there, the house was locked, and the alarm was on. Someone in the house must have let him in and then smashed him on the head.”

“And that makes it Veronika. She was the only person in the house who was awake enough to do it.”

“Aggravated assault,” said Sanders. “Maybe attempted murder. To start with, anyway.”

The telephone rang, and Dubinsky picked it up. “How about murder?” he said grimly as he put it down again. “That was the hospital. Franklin died ten minutes ago.”

“Bring her in,” said Sanders.

“It's ridiculous to think that someone Nikki's size could smash a full-grown man on the head hard enough to kill him,” said Harriet.

“Not entirely,” said Sanders defensively. “He was too heavily doped to resist. If she grabbed something heavy enough and just dropped it in the right place, she might have—”

“If she could reach that high,” Harriet interrupted.

“Come on, Harriet. We don't know what position he was in when he was hit. He'd have been damned near unconscious, anyway. He could have fallen to his knees.”

“If you're so convinced, why did you let her go, then?”

“Not enough evidence,” he said curtly. “No matter what you may think, we don't arrest people without evidence.”

“Sure,” she jeered. “I believe you. I'm used to believing impossible things. If there ever was anyone you thought was guilty, John Sanders, it's that poor girl.” The night was growing cool, and Harriet slipped on her coat. “Where are we going?” They had been walking along King Street West, past the theater, toward a pastiche of restaurants, some good, some bad, but most of them expensive.

“We're almost there,” said Sanders, looking up at the signs dangling over the sidewalk. He stopped. “Here it is. I know you wanted the corner pizzeria, but you'll just have to lump it, sweetheart. I made reservations, and I have a reputation to keep up in the city.”

Harriet looked up at the name. “Are you sure you're not on the take, John? Or are you just addicted to eating in places you can't afford?”

“Actually,” he said as soon as they were seated and had ordered a bottle of wine, “I was planning on marrying this incredibly rich girl I met a few days ago and living off her immorally gotten gains. I released her this afternoon in return for an ironclad agreement to support me for the rest of my life. Wine, madam?”

“I still can't see why you had enough evidence to arrest her at two and not enough to keep her past six.”

“A couple of things,” he said. “The pathologist thinks Franklin was killed by a blow administered with considerable force—her words, not mine. When I asked her if a woman could have done it, she muttered something nasty about a female shot-putter, maybe. In other words, no. And then someone found out there were several keys that disabled the alarm system,” he said simply. “We thought there were only two—the gardener's and Nikki's. Anyone with a key could have turned off the alarm, entered the house, and attacked Franklin. And besides, why dope the dogs if it was someone from inside? Although why anyone would want to put the entire house and the dogs to sleep,” he added bitterly, “just to kill Franklin, who was as harmless a guy as you'll ever meet, I don't know. And that's another thing. Why? If it was Nikki, it would have been so she could run, wouldn't it? And she didn't. The mystery is why it happened at all. It's absolutely insane.” The waiter intruded his inquiring face into Sanders's speech. “The antipasto and grilled fish for both of us,” he said.

“But wouldn't you like to choose your fish, sir?” asked the waiter, shocked. “If you'll wait a moment—”

“No. I prefer not to meet my fish before I eat it. You choose.” And the waiter hastily backed away under the force of Sanders's glare.

“Aren't we getting a little masterful?” said Harriet. “What if I had wanted soup and spaghetti?”

“Then we'll come back and eat soup and spaghetti and you can pay for your own meal. This time we're eating antipasto and grilled fish.”

“You were right,” said Harriet as she pushed away her coffee cup. “Although it pains me to say it. It would have been a waste to have soup and spaghetti, wouldn't it?” She looked at her watch. “I think you've forgotten that I have to be back on King Street at seven a.m. tomorrow.”

“It was six last time.” His tone was accusing.

“I couldn't possibly have said six. The sun doesn't rise until way after six these days.”

“You lie, Harriet. Repeatedly and with intent,” he said, standing up. “Let's go,” he added, looking at his watch.

“I can get home on my own without any trouble,” she remarked as soon as they were outside. “The streetcar stops two blocks from my apartment.” She stepped up to the curb and began looking up the street.

He grabbed her by the arm. “Harriet, I'm taking you home. My car stops right outside your door.” He paused. “If you don't want to invite me in, you don't have to. But women have been attacked in your neighbourhood. I'd much prefer it didn't happen to you.” He spoke in a loud enough voice to attract the attention of several passersby, who paused, interested, to see what would happen.

“For God's sake, John, stop being so goddamn protective,” she whispered, suddenly embarrassed. “How do you think I survive when you're not around? And anyway, you live just over there, don't you?” she asked.

“Would you rather come to my place?”

“Don't be stupid. I have to get going at dawn. I'm only trying to save you from driving halfway across the city.” Her voice lost its edge, showing signs of capitulating. “I'm not trying to make a thing about it.”

He wound one arm around her waist to propel her across the street. Under the soft material of her coat and dress, he could feel the configuration of her spine and hips and found himself pulling her closer to him as he scanned the road for a break in the Saturday night traffic.

He almost wished that traffic had been heavier as he pulled up to Harriet's front door; this seemed to him to be a moment charged with too much significance, one that he would gladly put off. He let the engine idle for a moment, then turned it off. “Harriet . . .” he began.

“You don't believe me, do you?” she said. “I have an assignment that has to be done tomorrow morning. This weather could change any day. If we have a rainy spell, it could take three weeks before I get out there again, and by then the sun will be too far to the south to be any use.”

“Oh, I believe you,” said Sanders. “But you could wait—just once in a while, anyway—to hear what I had to say before biting my head off.”

“Sorry. I should stop assuming—” She stopped and shook her head, tired and confused. “It's been a lousy couple of days. Actually, it's been a lousy week. What were you going to say?”

He reached over and took the hand that wasn't poised on top of the door handle. “Something else that's going to make you bite my head off. I . . .” He was about to say he couldn't bear the thought of going home alone tonight and clamped his mouth shut on the words. Harriet looked at him, waiting for him to finish. “I thought we might prolong the evening for five minutes or so,” he said casually.

“Five minutes, indeed,” she said. “All right. Only you'd better pull the car into the driveway. You'll get a ticket there.”

He doubted that, but without a word he turned on the engine and pulled up in front of the garage.

Carlos was standing with the refrigerator door open, shoving things around and swearing. The buru was sitting at a corner of the table, reading a newspaper; Manu sat at the end, beside him, watching Carlos with a calculating, interested, but not especially friendly look on his face. Finally, Carlos emerged with a summer sausage in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. He put these down on the kitchen table beside a large Italian loaf, a bowl of peaches, and a plastic container of black olives. He grabbed a pile of plates and a couple of knives from the counter and set them on the table as well. As an afterthought, he reached back into the cupboard behind him and brought out a bag of chips.

“That's it?” said Don.

“It's what there is,” said Carlos.

“Jesus,” said Don. “You call that crap dinner? I'm sending out for a pizza. You guys want some pizza?”

Manu's soft eyes swiveled over briefly in Don's direction; he shook his head. The others shrugged.

“I'll get a large, then.”

As soon as Don left the room, the conversation switched from English. Manu turned his pale, gloomy face back to concentrate on Carlos; he leaned his long body forward in his chair, his hands grasping his knees tightly, as if to prevent them from lashing out and hitting someone. Carlos was trying desperately to explain something, stumbling over his words. Twelve years as a child and adolescent in North America had lost him facility in his native tongue, a facility that a few months of working with the two other men had not fully restored to him. When his search for a way to end his sentence turned into a lengthy pause, Manu began to speak in a low but emphatic voice. Whatever it was he wanted to get through to Carlos, however, was interrupted by Don's noisy reentry into the big kitchen.

“Christ, I wish you sons of bitches would talk in something I can understand. You make me nervous, and I don't like being nervous.” The threat hung in the air for a second or two before dissolving. “The pizza 'll be here in thirty minutes,” he added, sitting down beside Manu and cutting himself a large chunk of sausage with one of the communal knives.

Manu waited until he finished. “I was pointing out to Carlos your great stupidity, yours and his.” The gentleness of his voice almost belied his words.

“What's that?” said Don, past a mouthful of hard sausage.

Carlos leaned back in a relaxed stretch and yawned. “All I said was, why don't we just leave the rest of it where it is. Nothing's happened to it before. It's a lot more dangerous trying to move it, especially with an asshole like Don around. There are cops looking for us everywhere these days. Jesus, there's one walking two feet behind him at work every time he goes to the can, and he's stupid enough to trip over them with a box in his hands.”

“Watch who you're calling stupid,” said Don resentfully.

“Sure,” said Carlos. “Anyway, we were lucky to get half a truckload out. Just remember, you wouldn't have any of it if it hadn't been for Don and me. But Manu here, he wants—” he paused to jerk his thumb in the direction of Manu, whose eyes widened into clouded, unhappy pools.

“I want to be able to go back home with enough money to help the fight for independence,” Manu said. “That's all. And if we sell the rest of the stuff, we can. But before we can sell it, we have to get it out. And besides, as long as it's there, it is a danger.”

Carlos leaned forward and turned to the buru, who was still deep in his paper. “Poor Manu. He thinks it isn't safe anymore,” Carlos sneered. “And he's afraid. He's good with cars, but he gets scared, eh, Manu?”

Manu turned a steady gaze on the other man. “Scared? A man who shoots helpless women shouldn't talk about scared. I'm not scared. I just don't want to lose everything.”

Angry red blotches spread across Carlos's cheeks. His fingers curled around the edge of the table and whitened. There was a long silence. He seemed at last to decide that Manu's comments could be taken for rough joking, sat back, and forced out a laugh. “Trying to get it all out now, that's even more dangerous. It's crazy.” He flicked his expressive thumb across his throat.