Vengeance Is Mine (10 page)

He said something, and she must have answered, because now he was picking her up in his arms. Michele pressed her face against the smooth muscles of his chest and breathed deeply, fighting for some measure of control. He was putting her down on the bed, and she had to say something, be a little modest. He mustn't get the idea she jumped into bed with just anyone.

Then it was too late. No time for words, for anything but this. She pulled him down to her, and they were lost.

It seemed as if hours had passed before Michele could speak again. “Steve? I hope you don't think I—”

“I don't.”

“But I was so—”

“No, you weren't.”

Michele couldn't help it. She started to laugh. Every time she tried to say something, he interrupted her, and he probably didn't have the foggiest notion of what she meant.

“But I practically raped you!”

The words rattled out of her mouth so fast that there was no way he could interrupt.

“Only because you beat me to it. And, yes, I know you don't sleep around. And, no, I don't think you're too pushy. Now, is there anything else you feel compelled to say?”

Michele grinned up at him. She felt absolutely wonderful.

“Yes. I don't get seasick on a water bed.”

 

 

Where was Les? Trish glanced at the clock and frowned. It was twelve-thirty, and the bars closed at midnight on Sunday. He knew she'd be home by eleven at the latest, and he hadn't bothered to call. Les might not be the perfect husband, but he was usually considerate. If he wasn't home by one, she'd start calling the all-night restaurants in town.

By one-fifteen Trish had called all three Perkinses and the Embers. No other places were open this late. Surely someone would have notified her if there'd been an accident.

At one-forty Trish called the police station. Larry Jackson was polite and helpful. Trish knew she could count on him to be discreet. He'd gotten his promotion through Les.

“No problem, Trish. I'll check it out personally and get right back to you. He's driving the Continental, isn't he?”

“Yes. It's black with a Minnesota vanity plate, H-I-Z-O-N-E-R. I'm probably being silly, Larry, but with the murders and all . . .”

“Sure, Trish. I understand. I'll send out a unit right away.”

Trish was puzzled when she hung up the phone. Larry hadn't seemed worried at all. Either he was extremely professional or he'd already run into Les downtown. She wouldn't put it past Larry to cover for Les. That made a lot of sense.

She switched on the kitchen light and opened the refrigerator. Now she was getting angry. Les had no right to scare her this way. Trish grabbed a carton of half-and-half and poured it into a saucepan. She bit her lip as she pictured Les out partying with a bunch of high school buddies, leaving her to worry here at home. If he got drunk enough, he might even pick up a woman. There were plenty of man-hungry divorcees in St. Cloud.

The chocolate was right where she'd hidden it, in the salad spinner that had never worked right. Trish tossed two squares into the saucepan, along with a heaping scoop of sugar. There was no way she could diet when she was angry, and it was all Les's fault. If she gained weight tomorrow, she'd make him pay through the nose.

 

 

“Damn!” Steve swore as the telephone rang.

“I'm sorry, honey, but I've got to get that. It's the tie line with the station. And don't even think about moving. I want you in exactly the same position when I get back.”

Michele smiled as Steve raced for the living room. Then she sat up with alarm as something landed on the water bed, setting up a series of rocking waves.

“Pete! How are you, boy? I'll bet you thought we'd never let you in here.”

Michele heard Steve's voice from the living room. He sounded upset. It must be an emergency for the department to get him out of bed at two in the morning.

“Come on, Pete. I'd better make some coffee.”

Michele slipped on her bikini panties and an old denim shirt of Steve's that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. As she hurried to the kitchen she heard Steve giving urgent orders over the phone. She was just running water into the pot when he appeared in the doorway.

“Mayor Hollenkamp's dead! Get dressed, Michele. You're going with me. There's no way in hell I'm going to leave you alone.”

 

 

Trish Hollenkamp, wrapped in an old bathrobe, sat on her sofa. Her face was streaked with tears.

“Trish dear”—Margaret Whitworth's voice was soft—“Michele's got some coffee for you.”

Michele set a cup of coffee in front of Trish. She breathed a sigh of relief as Trish picked up the cup and took a sip. Poor Trish. This had been a terrible shock.

“I—I just can't help thinking about how mad I was when Les didn't come home. And all the time he was—”

“I know.” Dr. Henry Corliss patted Trish's shoulder. “Now, Trish, I want you to pull yourself together. Les would have wanted you to be brave. There are a few things we have to settle, and then I'll give you something to help you sleep.”

Steve looked at Henry gratefully. It had been rough going before Henry had arrived. Trish had been nearly hysterical fifteen minutes ago, but now she was pulling out of it. Steve had never gotten used to notifying families even though he'd been forced to do it many times. It was a lot easier with Henry, Margaret, and Michele to help him.

Steve took a deep breath. He didn't like to intrude on Trish's grief, but he had to make sure Trish would cooperate.

“Mrs. Hollenkamp, when the people in St. Cloud hear about Les, I'm afraid they'll panic. Would you go along with a press release that says Les's death is under investigation but no definite conclusion has been reached as yet?”

“I—I don't know. What do you think I should do, Margaret?”

Margaret sighed deeply. “I'm not usually in favor of holding back information, but this is an exceptional situation, Trish. If people start to panic, we'll have real trouble on our hands, and that'll make it much more difficult for Steve to catch the killer.”

“I . . . see.” Trish blinked and took another sip of her coffee. “But shouldn't the people take precautions? There
is
a killer on the loose.”

Henry nodded. “You're right, Trish, but sometimes the precautions get out of hand. I think it's wise to cooperate with Steve and do our best to keep the full details under wraps for now. We'd have all sorts of terrible accidents if everyone went out and bought a gun.”

“Yes, you're right, of course. We don't want our people to panic.”

Margaret gave Trish an approving smile and refilled her coffee cup. “I've called an emergency City Council meeting for early tomorrow morning. We all think you should fill out Les's term as mayor if you feel you're up to it.”

“You want
me
to be mayor?” Trish sat up a little straighter, and the color began to come back to her cheeks. “Are you sure the people would accept a woman as mayor?”

Margaret nodded. “I don't think they'd accept anyone else. After Les's tragic death you're the logical choice. Don't forget, Trish, the people need someone they can trust, someone who will carry on with Les's plans for St. Cloud.”

“Of course, I'd be happy to help.” Trish picked up her coffee and took another sip. “Les would have wanted it that way.”

She turned to Steve and smiled. “And if you think it's in the interest of public safety to hold back the details, I'll certainly cooperate until the killer's behind bars. You
are
close to catching him, aren't you, Steve? Les assured me that an arrest was imminent.”

“Les said that to reassure his constituents, Mrs. Hollenkamp. All I can really tell you is that we're making progress. Of course, I'll put all available manpower on the investigation unless you choose to call in someone from the outside.”

“Definitely not.” Trish picked up her coffee again and drained the cup. “Calling in an expert would be the same as admitting that we couldn't handle it. Les said that you were doing a fine job, Steve, and I'll support you all the way.”

Margaret stood up. “Trish. I want you to come home with me. You shouldn't be alone tonight. Do you think you'll be up to taping a segment for my show after the City Council appoints you tomorrow?”

Trish nodded. “Of course, it's still a terrible shock, but now that I see my duty I'll do it. Les would have wanted me to be brave.”

CHAPTER 12

Michele and Steve had been in the office for more than an hour when Carol came in. Neither one of them had slept very well. By now the whole town knew about Les, and Steve had decided to go in early to field the questions he was bound to get about Mayor Hollenkamp's death.

“Good morning, boss,” Carol called as she made her way toward Steve's office. “Dr. Corliss left a message for you. Isn't it terrible about the mayor?” She stopped short when she caught sight of Michele.

“Oh, hi, Michele. What are
you
doing here?” Carol took in the glance that passed between the two of them and shrugged. “Forget it. Stupid question. None of my business, right?”

Steve just nodded.

“What did Henry say, Carol?”

“He's doing the post at ten-thirty if you want to be there. He said he needs a couple of minutes alone with you afterward. Steve? People are already calling about the mayor. It
was
an accident, wasn't it?”

“The official word is that Mayor Hollenkamp's death is under investigation. That's it. We're not making any further statements at this time.”

“Okay, boss. I'll type it up and leave it for Bernice at the switchboard. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Just one more thing. Michele hasn't eaten anything since Margaret's dinner last night. Will you take her out and make sure she gets a good breakfast? Then drop her off at the clinic after Louise comes in.”

Carol nodded. “Come with me, Michele. Didn't I tell you it was great to date a cop? You rate an official police escort, and I get a decent breakfast for a change.”

 

 

“You're positive it's the same weapon that was used on Perini and Kline?”

“I'd stake my life on it.” Henry Corliss picked up a mug of coffee and took a noisy sip. Then he set it back down next to the white-draped figure on the table. “You'd better catch him soon, Steve. I'm running out of drawers in the cooler.”

“Jesus, Henry, I'm doing all I can!”

“Hey, take it easy, son.” Henry Corliss laid his hand on Steve's shoulder. “I'm not criticizing you. I was just trying to lighten things up, I guess. This one wasn't easy for me. It's hard to be impartial when you're working on a friend.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that people are depending on me, and so far I've done nothing but run into dead ends.”

“That's okay. At least this time I've got something for you to go on.”

Henry reached in the pocket of his lab smock and handed Steve a small envelope.

“This little prong was embedded in Les's forehead, just above the left eye. I ran a quick analysis, and it's definitely high-grade silver.”

Steve examined the small silver prong. It shot his theory on barbed wire all to hell, but it was the first real clue he'd gotten.

“Thanks, Henry. Any ideas?”

“Not unless it's broken off a silver ring. It was smack-dab in the center of a T-shaped contusion. I took a picture before I pulled it out, and all the details are in my autopsy report.”

“Could you do me a favor? Call me if you come up with any possibilities even if they sound as implausible as hell. I need all the help I can get on this one.”

“Sure thing.”

As soon as Steve left, Henry pulled off his disposable gloves and tossed them into the trash. He made sure the identifying number was securely fastened to Les's toe and wheeled the gurney into the refrigerated section of the morgue. His daughter had dated Les in high school. Henry still kept a picture taken at the junior prom, Les in a rented white tuxedo standing next to Kathy in the prom dress she'd made in sewing class. This whole thing was a damn shame.

Poor Steve was getting a little touchy, but Henry didn't blame him a bit. It was tough having three unsolved murders on the books. Of course, Les's death wasn't officially listed as a murder yet, but people were still nervous. Just as soon as they found out that there was a killer roaming the streets, they'd start jumping at every shadow and blowing each other's heads off. It hadn't gotten too bad with Ray Perini. Everyone knew he had Mafia connections, and his death was almost justified in most people's minds. Dale Kline had been Ray's lawyer, so his murder was tied to the Mafia too. Les Hollenkamp was a horse of a different color. His murder couldn't be explained away by mob connections, and it presented a real threat to the ordinary citizen.

Henry had heard lots of speculation in the hospital coffee shop this morning. The nurses were gossiping about how even the mayor wasn't safe in St. Cloud, and a couple of Henry's colleagues had worked up the nerve to ask him about Les's autopsy. Henry had told them that the cause of death was not yet determined. He was supporting Steve all the way. There'd be a ruckus when this whole thing came out officially, and the longer Steve could keep the details from the public, the better off they'd all be.

Steve was a good cop, probably the best they'd ever had in St. Cloud. He'd been there for all three autopsies, and that meant he was three up on Barney Schultz. The chief stayed as far away from the morgue as he could get, and he'd never once asked Henry for advice.

Henry gave a quick glance around the room to make sure everything was in order and hung his lab coat in the locker. Then he gave his hands their customary thorough washing. Some of the new men were careless, but Henry believed in following proper procedures.

As soon as he'd finished Henry switched off the banks of lights over the table and headed for his office. He had planned to meet Kathy for lunch, but he wasn't hungry anymore. He'd get Edith to fill in for him and spend the time browsing through the new books that had arrived by express this morning.

The books were still in their carton. Henry pulled out the top one, Bernard Spilsbury's
Famous Murder Cases
. He also had H.J. Walls's thirty-year chronicle of Scotland Yard forensics. They were almost in the realm of pop reading, but they might yield some valuable information. At less than $10 apiece in paperback they were certainly worth the money.

The third book was expensive. Henry had winced when he priced it at $67.50, but it was a valuable research text. He'd make sure to save the receipt and deduct it from his income tax. Lester Adelson's
Pathology of Homicide
. He'd been meaning to buy it for months.

Henry picked up his phone and called home. The line was busy as usual. Since Edith had retired from teaching last year, she seemed to spend most of her time on the phone.

After he'd thumbed through Spilsbury's book, Henry tried his call again. Still busy. He paged through the Walls book and dialed again. Perhaps there was something wrong with the line.

Another try and Henry called the operator. He had to mention that he was a doctor before she'd break in on the line. Edith wasn't happy about the interruption. She'd been talking long distance to Hank, Jr., at Harvard, but she agreed to meet Kathy for lunch.

As soon as he finished his call Henry put both lines on hold. If somebody really needed to reach him, the main switchboard would send down a runner. Then he poured a fresh cup of coffee in the mug his grandson had given him for Christmas. Kathy said five-year-old Bobby had picked it out himself. The bright yellow mug had “Old Doctors Never Die—They Just Lose Their Patients” printed in big block letters on the side. Henry didn't think the joke was funny, but he had to make some concessions to Bobby's age.

The coffee looked like coal tar, and five tablespoons of Pream lightened its color only slightly. Henry reminded himself to wash the percolator before he made another pot. It hadn't been done since October, when Edith had stopped in at the office. Then he leaned back in his swivel chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and started to read.

 

 

Trish stood on the platform next to Margaret Whitworth. She knew it was her obligation to carry on with her husband's work, just as Muriel Humphrey had done. The City Council had unanimously accepted Margaret's suggestion this morning. Trish was now the first woman mayor in the history of St. Cloud.

Margaret finished her introduction and nodded to Trish. It was time. Trish cleared her throat and stepped close to the microphone. The faces that peered up at her were friendly and sympathetic.

“For those of you who didn't hear my interview on Mrs. Whitworth's show, I'd like to repeat that my husband's tragic death is still under investigation by the St. Cloud police. There is no cause for alarm. Steven Radke, acting chief of police, is merely following the statute that applies in cases of deaths that are due to undetermined causes, and he will make a full public report when his investigation is concluded.”

Trish took a deep breath and glanced at Margaret. She gave a brief nod, and Trish addressed the microphone again.

“Some of you may already know that the City Council has asked me to fill out my late husband's term as mayor. I have accepted. Mayor Les Hollenkamp worked hard to make WinterGame a success. He firmly believed that the Alternate Life-style Center would be beneficial to our fine city. Please support WinterGame and help me make Les's dream a reality.”

Someone in the crowd started to clap, and the applause swelled. They were impressed. Les's constituents, her constituents now, respected her.

A flash went off as Mike Allen, Margaret's photographer for the paper, took a series of pictures. Trish was glad she'd worn her new powder-blue wool coat. Of course, black was traditional for a widow in mourning, but it simply wasn't her color.

 

 

Bishop Donahue sat quietly, watching the news report. The elation he'd felt last night had all but evaporated as he waited to discover Black's next move. The mayor's wife had taken the Black Rook's place, but she was only an insignificant pawn. The danger would come from elsewhere, and it would take all his skill to recognize his opponent's devious tactics.

Mother Superior wiped a tear from her cheek as Trish finished her speech.

“Mayor Hollenkamp was a good man, wasn't he, Sister Kate?”

“I think so, Mother. He cared for his community.”

“Then I'll pray for his soul even if he wasn't Catholic.”

Margaret Whitworth took the microphone again. Major Pietre pointed at the screen. “There's the real guts in this town. Whitworth's as tough as an old battleax!”

Gustie turned to glare at him. “I think Margaret Whitworth is nice. Look how she's helping the mayor's wife . . . and she's a little overweight, just like me.”

“You're both right.” Sister Kate laughed a little.

“Mrs. Whitworth's been very nice about publishing the news of the church. And she's certainly a powerful force in St. Cloud. I'm sure it was Mrs. Whitworth's idea to ask Trish to take over as mayor.”

Bishop Donahue stared hard at Sister Kate. Thanks to the woman's insipid prattling, he now understood Black's strategy. The threat from the Black Rook, Mayor Hollenkamp, had been a diabolically clever ploy. Bishop Donahue had used his White Knight for the capture, exactly as Black had anticipated. That left Black free to advance his Black Pawn, Trish Hollenkamp, while keeping his Black Queen thoroughly protected. The Black Queen was none other than Margaret Whitworth.

“Here's our lunch.” Sister Cecelia wheeled in the cart. “BLTs and butterscotch pudding for dessert.”

Bishop Donahue frowned as he remembered his position. Norm Ostrander, his White Rook, was still in jeopardy, and Black had yet to move. He needed more time to study the board, but Sister Kate would become suspicious if he spent all afternoon in his room alone.

Suddenly he had an inspiration. Bishop Donahue gave Sister Kate his friendliest smile.

“This sandwich is very tasty, Sister Kate. And butterscotch pudding for dessert. I think this is my favorite lunch.”

Sister Kate gazed at the bishop in amazement. He'd never complimented her on the food before. The last time they'd served this menu, the bishop had refused to eat. He said there were too many preservatives in the bacon, and instant pudding was a sin against nature.

“Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it, Bishop Donahue.”

“I have a favor to ask, Sister Kate.” The bishop wiped his fingers on his napkin and smiled again. “Is there a chess program for that computer the archbishop gave us?”

Sister Kate was so startled she just nodded. Bishop Donahue had never shown this much interest before.

Major Pietre looked up from his food. “I'll show you how to run it after lunch. It's on the same cassette as Infantry Attack.”

“Thank you, Major. I'd appreciate that.”

Sister Kate excused herself quickly and rushed for her files. She had to write this down right away before she forgot a single word. The bishop was actually relating to one of the other patients. This was the breakthrough they'd all been hoping for.