Up in Smoke (37 page)

“… don't forget … Cass,” Jack mumbled.

“Not a chance.”

42

After a long, futile, frustrating straight twenty-four-hour shift, Susan had Osey go out front and keep the media focused while she slunk out the back. Huge black thunderheads were rolling in and at four in the afternoon, it was dark as night. Susan crawled into her house, put a Brandenburg concerto on the CD player, cranked the volume up to window-rattling and collapsed on the couch.

Parkhurst and Demarco had gone through the Egelhoff house inch by inch and had found no sand, nothing related to sand, nothing pretending to be sand, nothing remotely similar to sand. She and Parkhurst had questioned campaign manager Todd Haviland, media consultant Leon Massy, general assistant wherever needed Bernie Quaid, press secretary Hadley Cane, and Nora Tallace, personal assistant to Mrs. Garrett. They'd even spoken with Molly Garrett who was so distraught by her husband's condition she could barely focus on the questions. The cameraman, female interviewer, and all press who'd been present had been tracked down and questioned. Nothing came from any of it. The governor was still in intensive care, his condition still critical, and no one would hazard a guess as to his prognosis. Wait and see, was the physician's answer to any probing. Osey and Yancy were checking into Mary Shoals, the woman who'd shot the governor.

Susan was drifting along the stream toward sleep when the doorbell rang, the sound drilled right into her tired brain and brought her up fighting for air. It was Sean toting a large, white paper bag.

“You again!”

“And gratifying it is to see you so thrilled about it and all.”

“What's in the bag?”

“Food. When did you last eat?”

“What is this? You're always popping up with food. Like some genie.”

“The hotel kindly packed it for me.” He plopped the bag on the coffeetable, turned down the volume on the CD player and started removing clear plastic containers. “Roast pork. Salad. What they called French bread around here that is nothing but disguised Wonder Bread. And—” Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat he brought out a huge wedge of chocolate cake.

“What is it you're trying to get from me?”

“Only bringing you dinner. Just sit. I'll take care of everything.” He went off to the kitchen and returned with knives, forks, napkins and two plates. He handed her one of each and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffeetable. “Bad day?” He scooped salad on the plates and handed her one.

“You could say that.” She stabbed a cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth.

“I'm sorry about the little girl. I heard she was smothered with a pillow.”

“Fourteen years old and some asshole smothered her. A kid. A funny, smart, silly kid who called herself Moonbeam because she thought Arlene was dorky.” Susan smacked down her fork. “God damn that son of a bitch!”

Sean went in search of wineglasses, filled one, gave it to her, filled the second and took a sip.

“It's a good thing you aren't staying long.” She tipped the glass and took a good swallow. “Otherwise, I'd be an alcoholic.”

“Damn right. It's your heritage, darlin'.” He forked pork medallions from the plastic container. “You think it was a man? The attacker?”

She shrugged. “Who knows. At this point, I don't think anything.”

“Hey.” He put down his fork and picked up her hand. “It wasn't your fault.”

“Yes, Sean, it was. It was my fault. I should have protected her.”

“Suse, you had someone standing at her door.”

“Oh yeah, look how effective that was. You got by him.” She clenched her teeth. “God damn it, so did the creep who killed her.”

Sean topped off her glass, put it in her hand, and guided it to her mouth. She took a gulp. “Why the hell didn't I put two people on her?”

“Susan, I don't mean to make light of your officers, but I venture to say they don't have a lot of experience in big bad ways.”

She shot him a look, got ready to hit a defensive stance, then sighed. “Still.”

“If you'd had two people watching her, the killer would have figured a way to get by two of them. If he was determined, he would have found a way.”

Susan jabbed a piece of lettuce.

“Why was she killed?” Sean asked.

“I don't know.” She reminded herself Sean was press and she shouldn't get tipsy in front of the press. “I shouldn't be talking to you.”

“Weekly magazine,” he said. “I'm not the daily news rushing off to meet the deadline.”

“We're assuming he was afraid she could identify him.”

“By we, I assume you mean you and Tonto.”

“You're not funny.”

“You always used to think I was.”

“That was before I knew better.”

“Why wouldn't he smother her immediately? Why wait two days?”

“Assumption again. This was his first opportunity.” She swirled the wine and watched it circle in the glass.

“There you are, you see. He waited and went in when he found an opening. You couldn't have done anything.”

“I could have put armed guards with shotguns around her bed. Goddamn it.”

“If he was determined, he'd have found a way.”

“Fourteen, Sean. She was fourteen. I failed her. I failed the department, and the town and—”

“And who?”

“Nobody. I just feel like a failure all around.”

“Daniel? Don't tell me you're comparing yourself with your husband. He died four years ago.”

“He was a good guy, Sean.”

“I don't doubt it.”

She smiled shortly. “Okay. I don't know what he would have done. I don't even know what kind of cop he was. We weren't married long enough for me to learn much about him. It's just that I've been thinking so much about him lately.”

“I know, darlin'. I can see that,” he said gently. “You're looking back, Susan. You can't do that forever.”

She sighed. “Sean, do you think I should go home?”

“Absolutely.”

She threw a pillow at him and he ducked.

“Now that that's out of the way, what's on your mind?” Sean set the cake in front of her.

“Sand,” she said.

“Sand?” He stuck her fork in her hand and guided it toward the cake. “Like the beaches of home?”

“What else comes to mind?”

“Mr. Sandman. Sands of Iwo Jima. Footprints in the sands of time.”

“I get that one a lot.”

“Is there a prize for the correct answer? You think sand has something to do with the man who attacked her?”

Susan shrugged.

“What does sand have to do with her attacker?”

“I don't know,” Susan said. “I don't know anything.”

“Aw, Suse, don't use this tragedy to beat yourself up. You're already in a—”

She shot a look at him. “Yes?” she said darkly.

“—fragile state. This has sent you skittering along toward the edge.”

She snorted. “The edge of what?”

“Your funk, depression, melancholia. Whatever you want to call it. It makes me want to yell at you, or smack you.” He divided the last of the wine between her glass and his. “Drink up. When you're really drunk, I'll sing Irish songs.”

“If you sing ‘Danny Boy,' I'll smack you.”

He tipped his glass and drained it, started to set it on the coffeetable, then glanced up with a thoughtful frown.

“Dawn's early light?” she said.

“A thought. One year for Christmas Lynn gave me some fancy-ass cologne or aftershave or something called Sand. Came in an artsy bottle that actually had sand in the bottom. There was a card with poetic descriptions of the rainbow of colors in the stuff and that it came from some deep secret part of the sea or some shit like that. Hannah liked to tilt it back and forth, shake it and watch the sand settle.”

After a second, when his words got to her brain, Susan got up and went through the French doors into the small room off the living room that she used as an office and punched in Parkhurst's number.

“Tell Demarco to meet us at the shop. You can pick me up on the way.”

“What's up?”

“Tell you when you get here.” She hung up and went to brush her teeth and gargle.

*   *   *

Somebody had made a fresh pot of coffee. Susan poured a mug and carried it to her office. Parkhurst started to pace.

“Sit!” She hoped the Excedrin she'd taken would kick in soon.

He sat, slid down, and rested on his spine. Five minutes later, Demarco arrived and stood at attention in the doorway. She sighed.

“Who was in the girl's room when governor Garrett went to see her?”

“The governor,” Demarco said, “his press secretary Hadley Cane, Bernie Quaid, who's assistant to just about everyone, campaign manager Todd Haviland, media consultant Leon Massy, Mrs. Garrett, her assistant Nora Tallace, highway patrolmen Phil Baker and Art van Dever. And the media.”

“Did you get their names?”

“Cameraman Rich Laslo, blond TV newscaster named Kathy Wendell, mag reporter Sean Donovan. Ty Baldini from the local paper.”

Sean had been there? He hadn't mentioned it to her. She leaned forward to pick up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “Any thoughts on what the girl meant by sand?”

“No, ma'am.”

“There's an aftershave called Sand. Maybe her attacker wore it and she smelled it when he slashed her. Later, in the hospital, her memory may have been triggered by smelling it again.” She glanced at Parkhurst.

“Don't look at me,” he said. “Never touch the stuff.”

“We need to find out if anyone who was in that hospital room uses Sand aftershave. Leave the news people till last. It's possible there's a homicidal maniac among them, but barring that, it's unlikely one of them slashed the throat of a little girl and then smothered her to finish the job. We'll start with the governor's people.”

She told Parkhurst to take Demarco, track down and question Todd Haviland, Bernie Quaid, Leon Massy, Mrs. Garrett—who better than a wife to know if a man wore aftershave—Nora Tallace, and Hadley Cane. Highly unlikely the governor, in disguise, skulked into the hospital, but just to be thorough.

“And don't forget the highway patrolmen.” She retrieved her coat from the coat rack.

“What about Donovan?” Demarco asked.

“I'll take care of him.” She wondered if wearing a man's aftershave was a good way to set someone up. Anybody could buy the stuff and splash it on. Who would know if it had never been used before?

Slipping out the back door to avoid reporters and leaving the pickup in the parking lot, she tugged her belt tighter and moved in a brisk walk the four blocks south to Behren's Department Store at Eleventh and Main. The cosmetic counter was given lots of attention by three teenagers choosing eye shadow and lipstick. Edgy with impatience and worried that the media might get wind of what they were doing, it was all she could do not to tap her foot. When the girls twittered away, Susan asked the saleswoman if they carried Sand aftershave.

Oh, indeed they did, and very lovely it was, too. Would she like to buy some?

She would. Since it was a little steeper than she anticipated and she didn't have enough cash with her, she handed over her credit card.

43

In the five minutes it took Bernie to splash water on his face, put on his shoes and get to the living room, Nora's nonstop blathering about Jack needing time to recover and Molly stepping into his position and taking over as governor had Todd ready to strangle her. Bernie went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee—it was going to be a long afternoon. Todd was standing with his back to them, staring out the window at the black clouds hanging low in the sky. Leon gave Bernie a thumb's up from the other side of the room where he was selecting a sandwich from the assortment on the platter.

Bernie took a sip of coffee and wedged himself against the arm of the couch. “What's going on?”

Todd turned from the window. “We need to make decisions on how to play this until Jack is well enough to get off his ass and back on the trail.”

“Well, that's a nice way of putting it, I must say.” Nora sniffed. She was offended by what she considered unnecessary vulgarity.

“Where's Hadley?” Bernie thought the media consultant needed to be in on any planning sessions.

“Out doing—” Todd waved a hand. “Whatever the hell it is women do when they go out.”

“Shouldn't we wait for her?”

“Yeah. While we're waiting you can go and pick up Cass.”

Leon started singing softly,
“I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger.”

“Where is she?” Bernie asked.

“Why should she be here?” Nora said. “Molly doesn't like her and right now Molly can use all the consideration you can give her. She—”

“How the fuck should I know,” Todd said to Bernie. “Find out.”

“Is it necessary to be quite so profane?” Nora said. “I mean, for goodness sake…”

“It's going to get worse if you don't shut the fuck up!”

Bernie called Cass on his cell phone. When she answered, he said, “I'll pick you up in a few minutes. We're having a planning session and Jack wants you in on it.”

As he anticipated, she said she couldn't come. “I'm really sorry, Bernie. I have an appointment at seven that I have to keep. It's really important.”

Before he could tell her he'd be there in ten minutes, a solid knock on the door startled them all. Since he was the closest, he answered the door.

Highway patrolman Phil Baker had Chief Wren with him, her trusty sidekick Parkhurst, and a third cop who looked like he chewed nails for relaxation.

“Jack—?” Todd's face went white.

“This isn't about Governor Garrett,” the lady cop said. “I need to ask a few questions.”