The False-Hearted Teddy (14 page)

“Sir, would you mind speaking with us for a moment?” The reporter was a twenty-something kid wearing a black blazer with the station’s logo embroidered on the left breast and dandruff on the shoulders.

“I have nothing to say.” I kept walking and the camera operator began backpeddling to keep me on camera.

“But we understand that you gave the victim CPR. Did you know she’s dead?”

“No comment.” I kept walking and now had to con-tend with another camera in my way.

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“How do you feel about that?”

“Excuse me, but unless you want your afternoon news teaser to be ‘Reporters Trip Cripple—Stay Tuned for the Full Story
and
Details about the Personal Injury Lawsuit,’ please get out of my way before I lose my balance and fall.”

The journalists scurried to make room and I passed through the lobby, not caring whether or not the registration clerks recognized me.

As I pushed open the heavy metal door leading to the parking structure, I heard a car door slam and Donna shout, “Leave me the hell alone!”

Donna’s vehicle was a boxy older model Plymouth Town and Country minivan with silver paint so oxidized that it looked as if the van had eczema. It was parked near the door with the engine running. A nearby empty luggage trolley told me that Donna had just finished loading her bears and was ready to leave.

Ash raised her voice to be heard over the engine.

“Donna, please listen. If you run—”

“Get away from my van!”

Then Ash did something that absolutely chilled my blood: She reached inside the minivan to get the keys.

One of the most important things a young street cop learns—if he or she wants to become an old street cop—

is to never, never,
never
lean into a vehicle with someone behind the steering wheel and grab the keys. That’s because the driver can take off and if you get stuck, you’ll experience the automotive equivalent of shooting rocky whitewater rapids without a raft as you’re dragged along the pavement. I obtained this knowledge the hard way back in 1982 when I tried to prevent a drunk driver from leaving a traffic stop. Half a block later I hit the asphalt, my uniform trousers in shreds and both knees bloodied.

However, I’d been lucky. Cops have fallen beneath the 112

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wheels of vehicles and died under identical circumstances and it was that knowledge that made the scene un-folding before me so terrifying.

I yelled, “Ash, get away from the van! Let her go!”

But it was too late. Donna popped the van into drive and, as I feared, when the vehicle started to roll quickly forward, Ash began to trot alongside the driver’s window.

Although I couldn’t see inside the van, from the angle of her shoulders I was pretty sure Ash’s arm was caught in the steering wheel.

Ash screamed in pain and alarm, “Donna, please stop!”

Realizing I only had a second or two to stop the van, I grabbed the luggage trolley and shoved it hard into the path of the minivan, hoping Donna would slow down or stop long enough for Ash to free herself. However, Donna apparently wasn’t paying attention to the roadway in front of her because the van was still accelerating when it hit the metal cart, which fell over on its side. The trolley began to crumple and collapse beneath the van’s under-carriage as Donna stomped on the brakes and Ash was sent sprawling onto the cement pavement. At the same time, the minivan swerved away from Ash and ran headlong into a large concrete support pillar. There was a loud metallic crash that echoed throughout the parking structure and the van’s engine died with a sputter.

I hobbled as fast as I could to Ash, who’d rolled over and was sitting up. Kneeling down, I asked, “Are you all right?”

“I think I’m okay.”

“Jesus, you about scared me to death.” I touched her cheek and noticed my fingers were trembling.

“And now you know how I felt for twenty-five years,”

Ash said softly and then took my hand and kissed it.

“You’re really okay?”

“I may end up with a bruise on my bottom.”

“I’ll give it a kiss later tonight. In the meantime, please stay here while I go over to say howdy to Donna.”

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“Don’t be mean to her. She’s very upset.”

“Mean? Me?” However, as I approached the wrecked vehicle, my rage was suddenly rekindled. I threw the door open and brandished my cane. “Get out of the van right now, you freaking maniac!”

I don’t think the words registered because Donna was crying uncontrollably as she tried to disentangle herself from the airbag, which had deployed during the crash.

Then she hunched over and grabbed the steering wheel as if it were the last lifesaver on the
Titanic
and the ship’s band had just finished playing “Nearer My God, To Thee.”

At last she opened her eyes and sobbed, “Please don’t hurt me.”

Realizing that Donna was petrified, I lowered the cane and said in a somewhat calmer tone, “I won’t. But for God’s sake, lady, you nearly killed my wife.”

“I was scared. I was just trying to go home and her arm got caught. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Uh-huh. Just like you didn’t mean to hurt Jennifer Swift?”

“I didn’t kill Jen,” she said between ragged breaths.

“But you were in her room last night.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You lie as badly as you drive. I know you tricked the desk clerk into giving you a duplicate card key.”

“All right, I was in her room, but I didn’t kill her.”

“Who did?”

“Tony, I think.”

Either my homicide interrogation skills were deterio-rating or she was a world-class liar, but it sounded as if she were telling the truth.

A man and woman came through the doors into the parking lot and paused to look at the crash. I heard Ash tell them that there’d been a minor accident, but that no one was hurt. The couple didn’t seem particularly concerned and went to their car. However, with the hotel 114

John J. Lamb

packed with more cops than a police convention, I knew it was only a matter of time until someone told them about the traffic accident.

I said, “Look, we need to talk, but not here. I want you to come to our room and tell me the entire story.”

“Why should I?” She was becoming a little more pug-nacious as she recovered her composure.

“Because even if you didn’t kill Jennifer, you’re custom-made to take the fall for it. You’ve got motive, means, and opportunity and the only thing standing between you and a charge of first-degree murder is my good will. Now, let’s go.”

Eleven

When no cops or security guards arrived to check on the wreck, I decided we should tidy up the scene before leaving. If we left the damaged van in its present position, half blocking the roadway, someone would soon let the Maritime Inn management know . . . if it hadn’t happened already. The staff would tell the detectives working at the hotel and, after that, it would only be a matter of time before news of the crash and the vehicle registration information was passed along to Lieutenant Mulvaney, who’d undoubtedly recognize Donna’s name from the witness statements. However much Mulvaney was convinced Tony was the killer, she’d want to know why the woman who’d announced her hatred of Jennifer to a roomful of people, five minutes before the murder, had tried to flee the teddy bear show.

Ash started the minivan, and although the engine was making a loud thumping noise like the kind a clothes washer makes when all the wet bath towels end up on one side of the tub, she managed to coax the damaged vehicle 116

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into a parking spot. Meanwhile, I dragged the broken pieces of the luggage trolley out of the traffic lane and tucked the wreckage between the cement wall and the front of the van. When we finished, I found myself pondering a legal question: had Ash and I just committed two fresh counts of interfering with Mulvaney’s investigation or, if it turned out that Donna actually was the killer, was our offense the more serious felony crime of harboring and aiding a fugitive? But I decided the problem wasn’t worth any further brainpower because we already had so many potential charges pending against us that the pun-ishment for any new ones would hinge on us living past a hundred.

With Ash and I flanking Donna, we went back into the hotel and stopped near the elevators.

I said, “I’ll take Donna up to our room and I think it would be a good idea if you went back to the exhibit hall.”

“Why?”

“Because the longer both of us are gone, the more likely it is that someone’s going to notice and word will get back to the Baltimore cops. Mulvaney may be gone, but she hasn’t forgotten about us.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“It’s been known to happen occasionally.”

Ash’s eyes got hard. “And if I get some spare time maybe I can look up your new friend, Lisa. What is wrong with that woman? She just stood there smirking at me as if she’d already seduced you.”

“I know and I’m sorry.”

“What did the little trash-truck say once I left?”

“Uh . . . just that she was a good listener.”

“Really? I wonder how well she’d listen with a pair of fourteen-inch teddy bears rammed into both her ears?”

Donna hadn’t spoken since apologizing to Ash out in the parking lot, but she emerged from her silent funk to The False-Hearted Teddy

117

shyly ask, “I don’t mean to pry, but are you talking about Lisa Quesenberry?”

“No, Lisa Parr. She’s a judge for the teddy bear competition,” I said.

“And one of the things she apparently wants to judge is my husband’s performance—and not as a teddy bear artist.” Ash glowered.

“Same Lisa, new last name. I suppose she’s gotten re-married since the last time I attended a show.” Donna glanced at Ash. “If you want, you can go back to my van and get a couple of the knight bears. They have miniature wooden swords, so they’d be a little more painful when you shove them into her ears.”

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you,” said Ash.

I pressed the elevator button and then leaned over to kiss Ash on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a little while, so please hold off on any mohair mayhem until I can be there to watch.”

“I’ll be good, so long as she keeps her distance.”

Two uniformed cops in wet yellow rain jackets appeared from the around the corner and the conversation died faster than the notion that having Roseanne Barr sing the national anthem at a baseball game had been a good idea. One of the officers was carrying a cardboard box packed with four mermaid-decorated cups of over-priced coffee while the other was lugging a large metal case that likely contained some sort of forensic equipment that was needed in the Swifts’ room. At last, the elevator doors opened and Donna and I stepped inside while Ash headed toward the exhibit hall.

The cops followed us into the elevator and I asked,

“Floor?”

“Seven. Thanks.”

I pressed the buttons for the fifth and seventh floor.

The doors slid shut, and we rode in silence, all four of us 118

John J. Lamb

watching our reflections in the polished metal door. I was nervous. Being a novice criminal is stressful. I couldn’t tell for sure how Donna was handling the tension, but I looked down and noticed that she was gripping her brown leather purse so tightly that her fingers were white, so it was a good guess she was frightened, too. The short ride up seemed to take forever but the doors finally opened and Donna and I got out on the fifth floor.

A minute later, we were in our room and I hung the do not disturb sign on the outside door handle. The maid had cleaned the room and made the bed while I was gone.

Better yet, there were two fresh foil packages of real coffee next to the brewer. I made a mental note to leave the maid a nice tip when we checked out.

Donna said, “Can I use the bathroom before we start?”

“Of course.”

A minute or so later, she emerged from the bathroom and put her purse on the dresser. Walking over to the window, she turned her back on me to look out at the stormy panorama.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“No, thanks.”

“You mind if I have some?”

Donna’s voice was surly again. “It’s your room. Can I ask a couple of questions?”

“Sure.”

“Is it true that you’re a retired police officer?”

“That’s right. I worked as a homicide detective in San Francisco.”

“But you’re hiding me from the police. Why?”

“Because I’m conducting my own private investigation of Jennifer’s murder.”

“Is that legal?”

“Nope.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Ego, mostly, and a desire to get even with the Baltimore The False-Hearted Teddy

119

homicide detective working the case. I react badly when my wife and I are falsely accused of murder.”

“I heard that Tony was arrested for her murder.”

“Yup.”

“But you don’t think he did it?”

“I strongly doubt it—not because he isn’t a brutal scumbag. It’s just that he doesn’t impress me as being bright enough to have pulled off such a sophisticated murder.”

She turned around to face me and folded her arms across her chest. “And so you think I might have killed Jen?”

“I think it’s possible, but I’m not as convinced as I was an hour ago.”

“How reassuring. So, what do you want from me?”

“Just some truthful answers.”

Donna jutted her chin out. “Why should I talk to you?

Couldn’t I just call that detective and tell her my story?”

“Sure.” I jerked my head in the direction of the phone on the nightstand. “But a word to the wise if you decide to talk to Lieutenant Mulvaney—pack a toothbrush.”

“Why?”

“Because it won’t make any difference what you tell her. Once they match your fingerprints to the latents they’re almost certain to have recovered from the Swifts’

room, you’ll be a permanent guest at the Razor-Wire Courtyard by Marriott.”

“So I’m stuck with you as my protector? Wow, I feel so much better.”

I was beginning to find the acidic sarcasm annoying.