Name Games (23 page)

Huh? “Hey, Neil,” I interjected, “look but don’t touch.” I cringed to imagine—one false twitch of the fingers, and the desk’s delicate toothpick legs could snap.

He looked at me as if I were nuts. “I’ll be careful,” he assured me while taking the desk from Grace’s hand. He, Grace, and Glee leaned in close to examine Bruno’s workmanship, commenting on the functioning rolltop, the sliding drawers, the working locks. Huddled over the desk, whispering about it and poking at it, they looked like a team of doctors performing heart surgery on a mouse.

Fearing the worst, I turned away, unable to watch. One slip, and I could find myself with an expensive new hobby—collecting broken miniatures.

“What the—” Neil’s voice stopped short. The others fell silent.

Uh-oh.

Neil laughed. “What’s this little critter on the bottom?”

“That’s Bruno’s mark,” said Grace, “his trademark. He draws it somewhere inconspicuous on all his pieces.”

I breathed again. With my fears allayed and my interest piqued, I joined their circle, peering down at the fuzzy image of an animal on the underside of the desk, straining to focus on it.

“It looks like a…porcupine,” said Glee.

Aha. I asked her, “May I borrow your glasses?” She lifted the slinky chain over her head and handed me the half-frame spectacles. They were ground to a strong prescription, not intended for my eyes, but by holding them like a magnifying glass, I was able to get a clear look at the trademark. I told the others, “I’ll bet it’s a hedgehog. Walking to lunch with Roxanne yesterday, she mentioned that
hérisson
literally means ‘hedgehog.’”

“Really?” said Neil.

“I never knew that,” chimed Glee.

“Well, who’d have thought?” clucked Grace. From the side of her mouth, she added, “Bruno doesn’t
look
like a hedgehog.”

Laughing with the others, I handed the glasses back to Glee. There was something on my mind, though. The style of the drawn hedgehog, which was slightly abstracted, seemed familiar. Then it clicked. “Glee,” I said, “remember Bruno’s silk cravat? There was a pattern on it, repeated over and over, like wallpaper, and it—”

She interrupted me with a little gasp. “I do remember the pattern. I couldn’t tell what it was. But now I’m sure—it was Bruno’s stylized hedgehog.”

Now it was Grace’s turn to gasp. “My heavens,” she told us, “that’s the pattern that was on the scarf we found.”

“I’m confused,” said Neil. “What scarf?”

There was a moment’s pause.

I reminded him, “The scarf from the murder scene.”

Back at the
Register,
I sat at my desk, transcribing some notes into my computer, when Lucille Haring rushed in from my outer office. Planting herself in a chair across from me, she blurted, “We’ve dug up some important background on Carrol Cantrell, but first, switch on your radio.”

Having been absorbed in my notes, I found it difficult to make sense of her hurried words. “What…?”

“The radio,” she commanded. “Turn it on. Denny Diggins.”

As instructed, I reached to the credenza along the wall behind my desk and turned on the radio. It was already tuned to the local station, as evinced by the closing lines of a jingle for Dumont Chevrolet, “…where we’ve got just the deal…to put
you
behind the wheel.”

As Lucy and I shared a silent oh-brother roll of the eyes, the affected tones of a too familiar voice came over the airwaves:

We’re back, friends. You’re listening to
Denny Diggins’ Dumont Digest
. And
I
…am Denny Diggins. As we told you before that noteworthy commercial announcement, our guest this afternoon is Miriam Westerman, founder of Dumont’s Feminist Society for the New Age of Cosmological Holism. As many of you know, Miriam has just opened a private New Age day school, called simply A Child’s Garden. Welcome to the program, Miriam.

Thank you, Denny. It’s a pleasure to be here.

Now. We had planned, of course, to discuss the opening of A Child’s Garden, but you informed me just before airtime that you’d brought news of rather stunning developments in the Carrol Cantrell murder case.

That’s right, Denny. First let me say that I appreciate the opportunity to tell your listeners about A Child’s Garden. Conspicuously, the
Dumont Daily Register
has all but ignored our efforts.

Now
why
doesn’t that surprise me? (
Har har.
) Once again, it only goes to prove that Dumont’s only dependable source for unbiased news is right here—with yours truly, Denny Diggins.

So true, so true. But this lapse on the part of the
Register
goes far beyond the prejudices of its publisher against my school. Now, it seems, the paper has simply been remiss in not reporting new details crucial to the Cantrell murder case.

Ooooo, how delicious! Do tell us more.

Well, Denny, as you know, the
Register
reported this morning that a routine investigation of the victim’s computer files contained a possible new lead. What the
Register
failed to mention was that the computer file was in fact the draft of an extortion note, written by the victim, demanding hush money from a sex partner.

Ooooo, double delicious!

Hardly. The people of Dumont deserve to know that the other party named in the blackmail note was, first, a man, and, second, a local public official.

My God, you can’t be serious. Who was it, Miriam? Please tell us.

None other than…Douglas Pierce, sheriff of Dumont County.

Heavens! How shocking—I daresay scandalous. Where did you learn this?

A reliable source, I assure you.

You coy thing, Miriam. Well—I can’t thank you enough for breaking this news right here on
Dumont Digest
. It certainly casts the investigation in a whole new light. It also explains why Sheriff Pierce was reported to have turned over the investigation to his chief deputy detective.

Yes, it does. But tell me, Denny—don’t you find it strange that this information was withheld by the
Register
? Or could it be that the publisher was concealing his own poor judgment in having recently endorsed Pierce for reelection? Hmm?

Why, Miriam, do I detect a note of cynicism here? I’m sure the
Register
was merely holding back on this story in the name of sound journalistic principles. (
Har har.
) I’m sure the
Register
’s editorial stance has in no way infected the paper’s reporting of—

Seething, I switched off the radio. “Why, those goddamn, irresponsible, reprehensible…If Doug doesn’t sue their sorry asses, I certainly ought to! Malice and libel aside, they’re sensationalizing the investigation and could jeopardize its outcome. Whoever leaked the information to that bitch ought to be shot.”

“That would be Harley Kaiser,” Lucy told me nonchalantly, grinning, amused by my outburst. “Think about it: Miriam and the DA are all palsy on the obscenity issue, so they both have an ax to grind with Pierce. Most important, Kaiser was one of the few people privy to the contents of the computer file. Sure, it could have been Deputy Dan, but I’d bet on Kaiser.”

“You’re right. So would I.” Listening to Lucy, I’d calmed down and was relieved to note that her thinking was clearer than mine at that moment. I asked, “What about Cantrell’s phone records? Did they reveal any connections that could have been of interest to Kaiser?”

“I’ll get to that,” she told me, grinning. She opened a file in her lap and ran a hand through her spiky red hair. “I’ve been on the Internet since our morning meeting, and I’ve discovered some interesting background on King Carrol. What’s more, his probate report was released a few minutes ago, and something is starting to fall together.”

Needless to say, she’d captured my attention. Smiling, I again recalled the woman’s formidable research and computer skills, which she’d demonstrated back in Chicago at the
Journal
—that’s why I’d hired her. “What have you got?”

“Let’s start with the California probate report,” she said, removing several pages from her folder and spreading them on my desk. “First of all, it shoots holes in the theory we floated this morning that Cantrell may have been having financial problems—in fact, the guy was loaded. Moreover, the report reveals no heirs who would have had a likely motive to kill Cantrell, let alone anyone who’d have the opportunity to strangle the guy here in Dumont. His estate is complicated, but the upshot is, no one’s been waiting for him to die.”

“Damn,” I said, recognizing the morbid ring of my disappointment.

“However”—she paused to twitch her brows—“it was disclosed that Cantrell’s business holdings were somewhat…diverse, not limited to the realm of miniatures. In fact, he was involved in a far more profitable venture that actually subsidized his interest in miniatures. Get this: Carrol Cantrell was founder and principal stockholder of Hot Head Video, a producer of gay porn.”

“Well now,” I said, flumping back in my chair, “that
is
an intriguing angle. It seems my hunch was right—pornography did play some sort of role in the murder. Did Cantrell have organized-crime connections? Was he in trouble with the law?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Hot Head is strictly legit—no kiddie porn, no snuff flicks, just good-ole triple-X adult entertainment. They’ve actually racked up quite a few awards over the years.”

“I’m impressed, Lucy, but what’s the point?”

“The point is”—she scattered more pages from her folder on my desk—“I discovered on the Internet that Cantrell was in pretty thick with the ACLU.”

“Makes sense. The porn industry has always rallied round the First Amendment—it’s the cause célèbre of any civil libertarian.”

“
Exactly.
” She leaned closer to tell me, “Cantrell wasn’t just a card-carrying
member
of the ACLU. He didn’t just write them
checks.
No, Mark—he’s appeared on their behalf as an expert witness, testifying across the country at numerous obscenity trials.”

My hand reflexively rose to my forehead as I absorbed this dizzying bit of information. With the room in a spin, I told Lucy, “I
thought
it was strange that he arrived in town a week early for the miniatures show. His true purpose here must have been related to the trial.”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, pulling another page from her folder. “That’s where the phone records paid off. Cantrell made a batch of calls from his cell phone to Chicago, all to the same number. It was none other than Aldrich and Associates, a huge law firm hired by a consortium of interested parties to defend the porn shops on the outskirts of Dumont. There’s some big money behind pornography, and the industry takes any prosecution—even out here in Podunk—very seriously, as the outcome could saddle them with a dangerous legal precedent. I managed to get through to the head of the defense team, and, yes, he confirmed that Carrol Cantrell was on their witness list.”

“Beautiful! Great work, Lucy,” I told her, beaming. “This puts our esteemed prosecutor on some very thin ice. Approaching an expert witness without the knowledge or presence of the defense is an ethical breach that—”

“Not so fast. That was
my
first reaction, but here’s the catch: The defense team had talked to Cantrell, and they definitely planned to use him as a witness, but they had not yet issued their list. It was to be submitted to the prosecution yesterday morning, Monday, but Cantrell was killed on Sunday.”

With a measure of disappointment, I conceded, “Then it’s
possible
that Kaiser was leveling with me yesterday at lunch. He claimed to have had no previous knowledge of Cantrell at the time of the Saturday visit with Miriam Westerman. He said the visit was
her
idea. But how would Miriam—”

My words (and the thoughts behind them) were cut short by the sight of Doug Pierce barreling across the newsroom, headed toward my office. Stomping into the room, he blustered, “Did you
hear
it? I didn’t—but I sure as hell heard
about
it, and fast!”

Assuming the topic had shifted to Denny Diggins, I told him, “In the next edition, we’ll set the record straight as to what is and isn’t known about the extortion note. We’ll also deliver a firm editorial lecture on the principles of responsible journalism. And I plan to phone Roxanne tonight for an opinion on whether either of us has grounds for legal action. But meanwhile, and this is a big ‘meanwhile,’ Lucy has dug up something good—something that gives new life to our behind-the-scenes investigation.”

Not until I mentioned Lucy’s name did Pierce notice her, so focused had he been on his anger. “Oh. Hi, Lucille. Forgive my lousy manners.” In one hand he carried a zippered portfolio of paperwork; in the other, an open bag of Chee-Zee Corn Curleez. He set both on my desk.

“Don’t mention it, Sheriff. Having a bad day?”

As the answer was self-evident, I added a question of my own: “When did you start eating those things? They’re fat-bombs, you know.”

“I’ve been…nervous,” he explained, plucking one of the gnarled, orange-colored snacks from the cellophane bag. Before popping it into his mouth, he asked Lucy, “What’d you find?”

I told him, “You’d better sit down.” So he joined Lucy, facing me over the desk. We were cramped there—we would have been far more comfortable in the conference area of my outer office—but the close confines seemed appropriate, lending a secret, conspiratorial edge to our conversation.

Lucy laid it out flatly: “Carrol Cantrell owned Hot Head Video, a producer of gay porn tapes. As a free-speech activist, he also testified effectively on behalf of the ACLU as an expert witness in various porn trials. He planned to testify here in Dumont.”

Needlessly, I added, “The implications are staggering.” As I said this, my eyes were riveted to the gaping bag of Chee-Zees. Having not tasted one in years (they always reminded me of Styrofoam packing “peanuts” that had been sprayed with that ridiculous fake cheddar color), I took one from the bag and ate it.

Pierce was still absorbing Lucy’s revelation. “God,” he said, “where do we begin?” He pulled a fistful of Chee-Zees from the bag, eating them from his palm.