by Lia Matera
Hal joined us, wearing frayed jeans and a tight turtleneck. He glanced at me with the hint of a smile on his face.
I looked at Sandy. His brows crimped as he watched Hal; he’d noticed that smile too. His tone was less than friendly when he asked him, “Why didn’t you go after the guy? He must have come in a car. If you’d gotten a look at it, we’d have something to go on.”
My cousin regarded him coldly. “And leave Laura alone in the house? With no guarantee the man wouldn’t circle around front and come back inside?”
The two exchanged frosty looks. Hal knelt to settle some sticks of driftwood onto the fire.
Sandy turned back to me, asking me to describe the figure again. While I talked, he frowned at my cousin’s back.
“Not much to go on,” he mused.
“No,” I agreed. “Did you go to my house, Sandy? Where were you? Did Hal explain why I left the courthouse?”
“I waited for you a while,” Hal muttered, turning to face Sandy. “When you didn’t show, I walked home.”
“Walked? All this way?”
“No driver’s license, remember?”
“Why not?”
Hal shrugged. “Didn’t feel like taking the exam.”
Determined to court every inconvenience, my cousin.
I asked again, “Where did you go, Sandy?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I learned a little something that might interest you.” Sandy slumped in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I bought a lady policeman some lunch. Told her some of my war stories from when I was on the force in L.A.”
“You used to be a cop?” It was the first I’d heard of it.
His eyelids drooped. “A long time ago.”
Hal was curt. “So what did you find out?”
Sandy sat up again, looking at him. “You might find this interesting, too. The gun they found at the Gleason house was a twenty-two, all right, but they’re not positive it’s the gun that killed Bean.”
I was surprised. “I thought they had a lot of sophisticated tests—”
Sandy shook his head. “Basically, they just fire a bullet out of a gun and see if the little scratches on it match the scratches on the bullet that did the killing. But this piece is an oldie. It’s jammed. They sent it down to the city, but the ballistics people there can’t get it to fire, either. All they can say for sure is that it was fired, fairly recently. The bullet they pulled out of Bean had the right kind of markings—same spin. It definitely went through some kind of long-barreled twenty-two. And since they found one at Gleason’s, they’re guessing it’s the murder weapon.”
Hal asked, “Did it match the bullet they took out of—”
Sandy interrupted. “I was getting to that. They pulled a thirty-eight caliber out of Strindberg. We’ve either got two killers here, or one killer with two—”
Hal interjected, “A thirty-eight? I suppose you carry a Detective Special.”
Sandy looked irritated. “When I carry a gun, which is almost never.”
“A ‘Detective Special’?” I was lost.
Sandy said, “It’s a snub-nosed Colt that a lot of cops and private detectives use. Them and a hell of a lot of other people besides. It happens to be a very popular handgun.”
“Where exactly did the cops find the twenty-two? Did your lunch date tell you?” There was a snide undercurrent in Hal’s tone, but I didn’t know what it meant.
“The twenty-two was in a drawer.”
“With some letters?” I asked him.
Hal’s face lit with interest. “Cops asking you about your letters, Mowgli?”
Sandy glanced from Hal to me. He looked piqued, like someone outside of an inside joke. “She didn’t say anything about any letters.”
It was just like my goddam cousin to refer to them as “my” letters. “Letters to Kirsten from Gary and Lennart,” I explained. “The police captain asked me about them this morning, and I wondered why.”
Sandy continued to watch me, and I felt myself flush. As if to confirm Sandy’s impression that I was being less than candid, Hal chuckled as he turned to grab a lantern.
Motioning for us to follow, he led the way into his room. He closed the door and held the lantern so we could see what the bullets had done to the cheap door. Pieces of veneer had splintered off, leaving ragged, squarish holes.
Then he held the lantern up to the wall behind the door, where I’d been standing. A foot above the top of my head there were two small craters where the Sheetrock had collapsed.
“Not much of a marksman.” Sandy pulled out his pocketknife. He dug a bullet out of the wall, where it had lodged in a stud. He held it in his palm, in the full light of the lantern.
“It’s a thirty-eight all right,” he confirmed.
21
It was twilight by the time the three of us got to Clarke Street. The rain had stopped, leaving the air clear and icy. Torrents of water gushed along either side of the street, disappearing into cavernous, roaring pipes at the corners. Down the block from my house, an old man unclogged his rain gutter with a stick, while his wife held the ladder for him. Another neighbor pulled a plastic tent off her rain-beaten daffodils. A toddler sat on a wet porch, running his fingers over the slick wood, then licking them.
At my end of the block, all traces of normalcy vanished. Half a dozen reporters were encamped on my front steps, and at least as many lounged in logoed vans and station wagons. Wallace Bean had been in the news for over two years, omnipresent at times, invisible at others, like a national case of cold sores. Murdered—executed—he was once again the lead story, film at eleven. And I’d been his lawyer. He died in my hometown. The reporters wanted a statement.
I noticed the handsome KRON reporter interviewing someone—a neighbor, presumably—in front of Gary Gleason’s house. A yellow plastic streamer kept them off the lawn, and a row of police cars kept gawkers from congregating in front. A second murder hours after Bean’s, in the same small town. The press was bound to exploit every innuendo.
Judy Britt waved to me as I climbed out of the Mercedes, and suddenly the news vans began to empty. The reporters on my porch leapt to their feet; cameras were hoisted, lights were hastily clamped to tripods, microphones and tape recorders were adjusted. I pushed my way through to my front steps, saying, “No comment. No statement now.”
That didn’t stop the questions. “Did Bean contact you?” “What was Bean doing here?” “Do you think he was murdered by right-wing vigilantes?” And more personal questions: “Is it coincidence that you live across the street from Kirsten Strindberg?” “Do you know anything about her murder?” “Did she know Wallace Bean?” “Wasn’t she married to your ex-husband?” “Did your ex-husband ask you to move here?” “Did he know Bean?” “Was he jealous of Bean?” “Was Strindberg jealous of you?” “Is your presence tied to her murder?” “Are you still in love with your ex-husband?”
“Hell no!” I blurted in response to the last. The reporters laughed, and I began elbowing through them, climbing the steps to my front door, Hal and Sandy right behind me.
Then Judy Britt tossed a morsel of information to the piranhas. “Gleason left you for Strindberg, didn’t he?”
She stood between me and my front door, looking utterly dowdy in maroon polyester. Her hair was in a limp pageboy, her double chin met her collar. And I finally remembered her: “You petitioned the principal to keep antiwar protests off campus.” A swell of reporters pushed me up against her. I smelled Chanel No. 5; cheap and passé—it figured.
I elbowed her to one side and unlocked my door. Talking to the press only invites garbled confusion; the Bean trial had taught me that. Britt would write what she wanted to write, and the others would misconstrue it as they chose to misconstrue it. Over the hubbub, the KRON reporter boomed, “Is it true? Did your husband leave you for Strindberg?”
I wheeled around, pushing my startled cousin aside. “No, he didn’t!” I announced to the microphones and cameras. “I was in love with someone—”
Judy Britt smirked, and I felt myself teeter on the brink of indiscretion. Hal gave me a firm backward push, shielding me from view with his body. Before I could protest, he’d backed me into the house, and Sandy had closed the door behind us.
Neither man said anything. Hal stepped into the living room. I watched him pour vodka into last night’s glass. Sandy pulled a telephone credit card out of his wallet, waving it at me inquiringly.
I pointed to the hallway phone, then fled upstairs.
A hot shower helped. So did dry clothes.
I was trying to coerce my hair into tidiness when I heard a knock at the back door.
My bedroom window faced the overgrown plot of mud in back. I opened it and leaned out, wondering if some enterprising reporter had climbed my back fence.
I saw a man in a business suit, but it was too dark to see who it was until the back door opened, bathing him in light.
It was my Uncle Henry.
Hal stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind him. I heard a sound I never thought I’d hear: I heard my Uncle Henry cry.
Hal, a good eight inches taller than his short, stocky father, watched him. He kept his distance, saying nothing.
Slowly my Uncle Henry regained control of himself. He stood facing his son (facing me, too, had he looked up), mopping his eyes with a handkerchief. He swayed slightly. I wondered if he’d been drinking.
My uncle said, “You should have told me, too.”
Hal’s tone was dry. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
My uncle’s voice became hushed, confiding. “I’d have looked after you, hired someone to help you with—”
“I didn’t need help.”
“Henry, please. I’m your father; let me help you now. It’s no disgrace to be handicapped in this day and—”
“I’m not handicapped. If you want to see handicapped go to the goddam vets’ hospital sometime.”
My uncle’s hand dropped from his face. “So quick to take offense. Just like your mother.”
Hal’s shoulders hunched as he dug his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think she’d appreciate the comparison.”
“No,” my uncle conceded wearily. “But I don’t suppose you do either.”
“What are you doing here?”
My uncle’s response was so quiet, I didn’t hear it.
Hal said, “I know the feeling.”
He held the door open for his father and the two men went inside, thwarting further eavesdropping.
I stood at the open window, inhaling the wet yard smell, listening to water drip from the eaves to the porch.
Hal handicapped.
I remembered the Purple Heart, the Thorazine in his duffel bag. It must be bad, must be serious, for my uncle to be so affected. And yet, I’d have thought my uncle would be almost glad to discover a physical excuse for my cousin’s poverty and antisocial behavior.
I’d have given anything to know what afflicted my quirky cousin, given anything to hear the rest of his conversation with my Uncle Henry.
And it occurred to me that maybe I could—by proxy. I’d left Sandy standing in the hall near the telephone—a perfect spot from which to eavesdrop.
There was a phone in my room, on the floor beneath the window (I hadn’t leased quite enough furniture to fill the rooms). I picked up the receiver, meaning to break in on Sandy’s call and ask him to keep his ears open.
But the voice on the telephone line rendered me mute.
It was a quiet voice, with a trace of a German accent. It was saying, “And what will Laura do about—”
If I hadn’t known he was dead, I’d have sworn I was listening to Lennart Strindberg.
Sandy’s voice cut in. “Someone’s on the other line. Hello? Who’s there?”
I was too shaken to announce myself. I hung up.
It had been fourteen years since I’d talked to Lennart Strindberg. I couldn’t have described his voice after so long. But hearing the man on the phone, whoever he was, brought it back: the romantic defeated quality, the faint, melodic accent.
I heard footsteps on the stairs, running steps: Sandy. And I realized I didn’t want to know who he’d been talking to. I don’t know why I reacted that way. Maybe I was afraid I’d find out it was Lennart, maybe I was afraid I’d find out it wasn’t.
I bent and undipped the module that plugged the telephone wire into the wall. The footsteps were on the landing now, fast approaching my door.
I did the expedient thing. I set the phone outside on the sill and quietly closed the window.
I was still standing by it when Sandy came in without knocking.
I didn’t want him crossing closer to the window, so I approached him. I met him in the middle of the room, at the foot of the bed. I knew I should embrace him, I knew that would be normal. I just stood there.
“Something’s wrong,” he observed.
“I heard my Uncle Henry come in.”
Sandy nodded. “He’s in the kitchen with Hal.” His voice hardened as he said the name. “Your uncle’s already had a snootful, and they’re into your whiskey. Which reminds me,” he added disingenuously, “the hall phone’s not very private. Is there an extension somewhere?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t order one.”
Sandy glanced around the room. He noticed the telephone module under the window.
“Not in here,” I lied. “I don’t like being disturbed while I sleep.”
Sandy smiled. “I’ve noticed.”
Someone leaned on the doorbell—a jarring, grating sound.
“Reporters! Will you disable the bell for me, Sandy?”
He was saying, “Sure thing,” when the buzzing turned into thumping and shouts so loud they could be heard all the way upstairs. Reporters don’t usually shout and pound at doors. Something was up.
Hal’s voice rose above the din. “What the hell do you want?”
I heard a muffled reply, a pause, then the sound of footsteps on the stairs again.
Hal appeared at my bedroom door. He looked at me and Sandy standing beside the bed, and his mouth set into its usual cynical line. “Cops at the door, my dear,” he informed me. “Saying they’ve got a warrant to search the place.”
I preceded Hal through the door and down the steps.
And sure enough, two plainclothesmen and two uniformed officers stood on the porch, causing a brouhaha among the reporters. I hustled the cops inside and closed the door on the reporters’ shouts of, “Is this an arrest? What are you searching for? Will you cooperate, Miss Di—”
I recognized one of the plainclothesmen from my visit to the Lucky Logger that morning. One of the uniformed officers also looked vaguely familiar.
I said to the plainclothesman, “Show me the warrant.”
He handed me the inexpertly typed document. It was signed by a magistrate I’d met the day before, at my office-warming party. It authorized the police to search my house “for weapons, especially but not necessarily limited to, handguns of the .22 and the .38 caliber variety; and written material of, by, or to Kirsten Strindberg; and evidence relating to the presence of Wallace Bean on the day of …”
“This part about evidence relating to the presence of Wallace Bean”—I waved the warrant—“it’s unconstitutionally vague. The Fourth Amendment prohibits this kind of fishing expedition, where you look for anything that might be evidence of crime. And this stuff about searching for weapons ‘not necessarily limited to’—that’s just fishing, too. So, gentlemen, I put you on notice that I recognize your authority to search only for Kirsten Strindberg’s letters, and for the two types handguns. And I don’t recognize the existence of pro
bable cause to search for those items, either. But that’s something properly challenged in court.”
The plainclothesmen exchanged give-me-a-break glances, and one of the two uniformed cops, the one who looked vaguely familiar, grinned as appreciatively as if I’d been a circus sideshow.
My Uncle Henry chose that moment to come in from the kitchen, looking a bit pink of eye and holding a tumbler of whiskey. He stopped short when he saw the cluster of men in my hallway.
“Dick? What’s going on here?” Years of governance had imbued his voice with authority.
Dick, the cop from the Lucky Logger, shrugged his shoulders and tugged at his collar. “Well, Mayor, we were asked to execute this search warrant.”
My uncle snatched the duplicate warrant out of the plainclothesman’s hand. He skimmed it quickly, then tapped the signature. “Looks like the magistrate is still p.o.ed I took the Elks presidency away from him.”
The plainclothesman stifled a hoot of laughter. “All I know is the captain told me to execute—”
“I’d like to execute the cap—”
“Uncle Henry,” I warned. It’s not good policy to utter threats against police captains when their menials are present.
My uncle looked at me, swayed a little on his feet, then burst out laughing. “Every drunk old coot should have a lawyer in the family, eh, Dick?”
I decided I’d better get the mayor out of there until he sobered up a bit. “We’ll be waiting in the back yard,” I told the cops. I expected them to stop us, to frisk us and keep us under guard while they searched the house. It said a lot for my Uncle Henry that they didn’t.
I took my uncle’s arm and drew him toward the back of the house. He was definitely tanked, and he kept stopping to pat my hand.
“You turned out good, Laura. I always thought that mouth of yours would get you into trouble, and here you go and turn it into a gold mine.”
We were almost out the back door when I began to wonder where Sandy was. Odd that he hadn’t come down to see what the shouting was about.
When we got outside, I peered up at my bedroom window. I could see a blue uniform near the window. But no sign of Sander Arkelett.
