The False-Hearted Teddy (2 page)

I handed the bear to Tina and rasped out an altered version of the famous monologue from the film,
Dirty
Harry
: “I know what you’re thinking. Did he make five bears or six? Well, in all the excitement, I kind of lost track myself. But being that this is Dirty Beary, the most intimidating stuffed animal in the world, you’ve got to ask yourself, ‘Am I feeling lucky?’ Well, are you, Tina?”

She gaped in disbelief at the bear. “He’s amazing.”

“Thanks, but most of the credit belongs to Ash.”

“Don’t believe him, Tina. He made Beary all by himself,” Ash said.

“Yeah, but you spent
how
many hours teaching me how to use the Bernina?” I asked, referring to our futuristic sewing machine which can do everything but sing the

“Battle Hymn of the Republic,” (although you
could
embroider the words to the song by simply pushing a combination of buttons).

“But he made the bear and the clothes himself,” Ash said proudly.

Tina pulled one side of Beary’s tiny sports jacket open. “Oh my gosh, he’s wearing a leather shoulder holster with a tiny forty-four magnum!”

“I have a constitutional right to arm bears.”

Ash and Tina groaned.

“Bad puns aside, do you like him?”

“I absolutely love him. Do you think you could make me one just like him? I’d pay you.”

The False-Hearted Teddy

7

“Of course I’ll make you a teddy bear, but you aren’t going to pay me.”

“But—”

“No argument. You saved our lives. If you’d been a second or two later, Trent would have killed us.”

“Sergei helped.”

“Then I’ll make him a nice little teddy bear, too.”

While Ash and Tina chuckled at the absurd notion of Sergei Zubatov wanting a stuffed animal, I merely smiled, knowing that I’d come perilously close to revealing a secret about the retired Soviet military intelligence agent who owned the local barbecue restaurant. After seeing Dirty Beary the previous afternoon, Sergei had cautiously asked me if I’d consider making him a similar teddy bear dressed in the authentic dress uniform of a Red Army colonel. However, fearful of damaging his local reputation of being more cool and remote than the Ross Ice Shelf, he’d sworn me to silence about the project, with the understanding that that silence wouldn’t include Ash. That was because I’d need her help with the uniform and, more importantly, I don’t keep secrets from my wife—not that there’s any chance I actually could if I were foolish enough to try.

Tina handed Dirty Beary back to me. “I know you’ve been busy, but have you had the chance to give some thought to my offer?”

“I have, and I’m sorry but I still haven’t made a decision.”

“If it’s the money . . .”

“No, that isn’t it at all. There are just a couple of issues I’m trying to resolve. I promise I’ll give you an answer soon.”

“There’s no rush.”

Tina’s offer was that I become a paid consultant to the Massanutten County Sheriff ’s Department. If I accepted, I’d provide training to the deputies on analyzing and in-8

John J. Lamb

vestigating crime scenes, and would also be available for call out in the event of a murder or other major felony to provide expertise. Although it meant some extra income, which was always welcome, I was hesitant to accept because, to my shock, I wasn’t certain I wanted to return to police work. I’d been away from the job for almost two years and enjoyed not having to gird myself in invisible armor to deal with the toxic environment cops operate in on a daily basis. Not attending horrific murder scenes or

“grand openings” at the medical examiner’s office, where business—because it’s lying on stainless steel tables—is always looking up, was also a nice change. Besides, I was enjoying my new career as Ash’s partner in Lyon’s Tigers and Bears.

Still, admittedly I missed some aspects of being a homicide inspector, but for bad and selfish reasons. I longed for the intellectual excitement of hunting a killer, the pleasure of outmaneuvering my prey, and the satisfaction of being thought of as the very best at what I did. So, can you see my Faustian dilemma? The egoist in me wanted back into cop work while the rational part of me knew that any return could be at a serious cost to my soul.

Then again, I wondered if I was imagining a crisis where none existed. The position would give me the opportunity to share some of my specialized knowledge with the local cops, and as there wasn’t much violent crime in Massanutten County—the sole murder victim of the previous year was the guy who washed up in the river in front of our house—it wasn’t likely I’d be called to many murder scenes. I’d discussed my misgivings with Ash, who made it clear that she’d support me in whatever decision I eventually made.

I said, “Actually Tina, I have decided and I’d like to accept.”

Tina beamed and she patted my shoulder. “Thanks, The False-Hearted Teddy

9

Brad. We’ll talk more about it when you come to pick up Kitch.”

“Sounds great.”

“You’ve got a long drive, so I’ll let you get going now.

Ash, good luck with the Confection Collection and maybe next year I can come, too.”

“With your own artisan bears? We’d love it,” said Ash.

“And Brad?”

“Yes, Tina?”

“There are times when you can be a real brat.”

“Just times?” Ash and I said simultaneously.

Two

There are two ways to get to Baltimore from our house.

The most direct route is also the longest drive because it means committing your immortal soul to Interstate 495, otherwise known as the Washington Beltway. With its shocking collection of bad drivers, omnipresent gridlock, and claustrophobia-inducing fleets of eighteen-wheelers, the Beltway is one of the
bolgias
of hell that Dante missed on his tour of the Inferno. The longer but prettier and less stressful route is to go northeastward along the Shenandoah Valley to Frederick, Maryland, and head for Baltimore from there. Guess which way we went.

A little more than three hours later we were off the in-terstate, passing through Baltimore’s Little Italy and entering the neighborhood known as Fell’s Point. The tourist industry makes a big deal about Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, mostly because of the Camden Yards ballpark and the National Aquarium. But as far as I’m concerned, the rest of the district is one vast homogenized shopping center, mostly lacking in personality and featuring the same stores The False-Hearted Teddy

11

you can find in almost any mall throughout the county.

Fell’s Point, on the other hand, is loaded with character.

The well-maintained buildings are a delightful melding of antebellum and Victorian architecture and the cobblestone streets and black wrought iron streetlights hearken back to an earlier and more elegant era. You won’t find many national retailers in Fell’s Point, but as we made our way through the neighborhood we saw upscale antique stores, art galleries, trendy clothing boutiques, and an interesting collection of pubs and restaurants.

Ash pointed to a store as we made the turn from Fleet Street onto South Ann Street. “Look, a mystery bookshop. Maybe we can come back later on and see if the new
Pam and Pom
mystery is out.”

“Finally, a reason to go on living,” I said, taking note of the shop’s location.

My wife is a huge fan of mystery novels and her favorite books feature Pamela, a beautiful yoga instructor, and her cute talking Pomeranian dog, Bitsy. However, like almost every homicide detective I’ve ever known, I don’t care for mystery novels.

Ash gave me a wry here-we-go-again smile. “Honey, I know you don’t think they’re very realistic.”

“Really? You mean us dim-witted cops don’t always arrest the wrong person?”

“I don’t care, I still like them.”

“Yeah, and I’m really sorry for being such a curmudg-eon. We’ll try to get back there this afternoon.”

“And I want you to promise not to make any com-ments about how unrealistic you think the books are.”

“You never let me have
any
fun.”

“Oh? And how would you describe last night?” She ran her hand upward along the top of my right thigh and I could feel my pulse begin to accelerate.

“My love, the word ‘fun’ doesn’t even begin to describe last night.”

12

John J. Lamb

A minute later, we turned left onto Thames Street, which ran along the north side of the harbor. Off to the southeast, on the other side of the shipping channel, the brown angular walls of Fort McHenry—of the “Star-Spangled Banner” fame—were just barely visible and I hoped that we might get over there on Sunday before heading home. We followed the road until it dead-ended at the driveway entrance to the Fell’s Point Maritime Inn.

The hotel was large and composed of dark brown brick. Its design was apparently intended to commemo-rate the clipper ships built long ago in Fell’s Point because the eight-storied structure was shaped like an elongated almond, vaguely in the manner of a sailing vessel, and the roof was dominated by three tall white metal scalene triangle wedges, each larger than the next, which I assumed were supposed to recall an array of wind-filled jib sails. Personally, I thought the angular display looked as if a behemoth paper plane had landed on the top of the building.

We pulled up to the main entrance and had to wait a few moments until the traffic ahead cleared out. The Har-Bear Expo was a major show that routinely attracted over a hundred artisans from all over the U.S. and Canada and even some bear makers from Europe. It looked as if most of them had arrived just a few minutes before us. The temporary parking area was packed with minivans and SUVs in the process of emptying their cargoes of folding tables, display shelves, signage, and crates of stuffed animals. The first fat droplets of rain began to splatter on our windshield and everyone began to scramble to get their bears inside. I parked in a handicapped slot not far from the door and Ash and I shared our large umbrella until we’d reached the shelter of the covered portico. Then we went inside to register.

The lobby was decorated in an age-of-sail nautical theme—heavily varnished oaken floors, old naval flags The False-Hearted Teddy

13

hanging from the walls, and a wooden registration desk appointed in gleaming brass accents. A pair of painted and artificially weathered hand-carved mermaid figure-heads were mounted on the wall flanking the desk, and thickly corded ship’s rigging was strung overhead like gi-ant spider webs. Although it was a little noisy in the lobby, I could faintly hear music from the hotel’s PA system and it took a second before I realized it was an in-strumental version of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” being played with an unfretted guitar, tin whistle, and concertina as if it were a jolly whaling song.

The place was seriously kitschy, but I still considered the atmosphere an improvement over the usual marble-appointed hotel lobby, which tends to be so cold and austere that I’m reminded of a mausoleum.

A four-foot-tall sandwich-board sign featuring an illustration of a bear wearing a Cap’n Crunch–style old-time sea captain’s uniform stood at the head of the corridor leading to the right, pointing the direction to the conference room where the Har-Bear Expo was being held.

There was a continuous stream of people entering and leaving as they unloaded their bears. At last, we checked into the hotel, got our key cards, and as we headed back toward the door, saw that it was raining harder.

Ash said, “Why don’t we drive the truck into the parking structure and unload it there?”

“I really need to stretch my leg, so if you don’t mind, could you drive it in and I’ll stand by here to grab one of those luggage carts?”

“Of course. How bad is your leg?”

“It isn’t where I got shot that’s hurting so much, but I end up holding my leg in a funny position—”

“And it causes the other muscles to ache. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Actually, I shouldn’t be complaining. I can still walk and there are people coming back from Iraq who are 14

John J. Lamb

dealing with far more serious injuries and not singing the blues. Remind me of that the next time I snivel.” I handed her the umbrella and the keys to the Xterra.

“You don’t snivel.” She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “I’ll meet you in the parking structure.”

Once Ash left, I snagged a freshly abandoned cart. I pushed it down a corridor, through two sets of heavy metal fire doors, and out into the concrete parking structure where I walked right into one of a cop’s least favorite situations: a man and woman engaged in a domestic dispute. However, they were so involved in exchanging charm-ing repartee that they didn’t notice my appearance.

The couple stood next to the open side doors of a huge metallic salmon-colored Dodge van. There was a dolly near the open doors of the vehicle and it was loaded with plastic crates full of plush bears with golden halos, little wings, and wearing ivory gossamer angelic robes. A petite woman in her mid-thirties with curly russet hair, full lips taut with anger, and a slightly olive complexion that looked jaundiced in the bluish light cast by the naked flu-orescent bulbs overhead stood behind the dolly, clearly trying to keep it between herself and a man I assumed was her husband.

The man was at least six foot two and pushing three hundred pounds, with short blond hair, bright porcine eyes, and a moustache-goatee combo that did nothing but serve to draw attention to a fleshy double chin that bordered on being a full-blown wattle. He wore tan khakis and a long-sleeved Stuart-plaid flannel shirt that wasn’t tucked in because he erroneously thought it would conceal his huge gut.

She said, “Just for once, will you listen to me, Tony? I don’t like it.”

“Open your damn ears, we aren’t breaking any laws.”

My ears pricked up. Those are the words that corporate The False-Hearted Teddy

15

CEOs and politicians customarily use to describe unethical, dishonest, but technically legal behavior.

“I still don’t like it.”

“Yeah, and guess what? I don’t give a shit what you don’t like, Jennifer. You aren’t going to screw this up for us.”