Maybe

by John Locke

  “That should make you very happy. And proud.”

  “Yeah, whatever. So, are you coming?”

  “I’m still working it out.”

  “Reason I ask,” he says, then pauses for effect.

  “Yes?”

  He laughs. “You haven’t seen the news!”

  “What news?”

  “You’re gonna love this!”

  “How good could it possibly be?”

  “Oh, it’s good,” he says.

  “Sal. I’m 42,000 feet in the sky, on a jet. Tell me your big news before we lose reception.”

  “You remember Dani Ripper?”

  “How could I not? The whole country’s talking about her.”

  “She’s been staying with someone since the story broke.”

  “Right. So what?”

  “Guess who she’s been staying with?”

  “The Blues Magoos? Lord Fauntleroy? A family of polar bears?”

  “My niece, Sophie Alexander.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  He laughs again. “I told you you’d love it!”

  “I do. When can I meet them?”

  “At my Fourth of July party!”

  “That’s in what, five weeks?”

  “Not soon enough? I can get you into her husband’s funeral, if you want.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Friday.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Fuck no! Are you crazy? Her husband drops dead in Cincinnati where I live and work? And Dani happens to be staying with my niece? You think they might wonder why I’m at the funeral?”

  “You’re going to need my help.”

  “With what?”

  “When the cops make the connection they’ll arrest Dani for the murder. Then they’ll come looking for you.”

  “Me? What the fuck?”

  “Guilt by association. They’ll put the screws to Dani and Sophie and find out what happened.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Right. Here’s my question. Can you trust the shooter? Or do I need to get involved.”

  “There is no fuckin’ shooter! Sophie says the guy died of a heart attack.”

  “Sal.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I saw the husband on TV.”

  “So?”

  “No way he died of a heart attack.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. Hell, I didn’t even know they were a couple till today.”

  “Who’s a couple?”

  “Dani and Sophie.”

  “Holy shit!” I say.

  “I know. We were hoping Sophie would marry a rich country singer.”

  “This is great news!”

  “What? Why?”

  “Callie will be thrilled.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” I stop. I can’t tell him Callie might steal his niece’s girlfriend. Nor can I tell him I’m excited to learn Dani likes women because maybe Callie and I will have a chance to hook up if Gwen’s not at the party. But Sal lets it slide. He only cares about one thing.

  “You think Callie will come to my party?”

  “I can guarantee it.”

  “Tell her to wear a—whatcha call—bikini.”

  “I will. But Sal?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll need to get involved in the investigation. They’re not going to let this slide. Dani’s as high profile as it gets. This has to be handled properly.”

  “Why are you saying this to me? I told you I didn’t do it.”

  “What about Sophie?”

  “What about her?”

  “With the husband dead, she has a clear path to Dani.”

  “If she wanted the husband killed, she’d go through me.”

  “And she didn’t.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Okay. So who’s got her now?”

  “Dani?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nashville P.D.”

  “You know anyone in the department?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “What do you need?” Sal says.

  “Find out who’s got the case, and what they know.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Put a plan together.”

  “When?”

  “It’s Tuesday, funeral’s Friday. The cops will be all over Dani between now and then. But starting Monday, it’s going to get ugly.”

  “Why?”

  “By then the FBI will have the case. I’ll have to short-circuit their investigation Monday.”

  “Shit,” Sal says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t have any contacts among the feds. Do you?”

  “One.”

  “Who?”

  “Their boss.”

  “Who’s their boss,” Sal says. “Congress?”

  “The president.”

  “You know the fuckin’ president well enough to shut down the investigation?”

  “No. But by Monday I will.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “By Monday—and probably much sooner—he’s going to owe me, big time.”

  HIGHLAND-WINET AIRPORT is four miles north-west of Highland, Illinois, and less than five minutes from the home of Miles Gundy. We land, and I sign for the rental car. Within minutes I’m turning right on Atlantic Avenue.

  “Gundy’s house?” Miranda says.

  “Yup.”

  “Lou said it might be booby trapped.”

  “That’s why you’re going to wait in the car.”

  When I turn into the driveway she says, “This is how you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you park somewhere and scope out the scene first? Get a feel for what’s happening?”

  I notice she’s got her compact out, checking her makeup.

  “I probably should scope out the scene, but I don’t watch as much TV as you.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “A little.”

  “So you’re just going to what, find an open window in the back? Pick a lock?”

  “People don’t leave their windows unlocked in real life. And while I can certainly pick a lock, it’s easier to kick the door in.”

  “Won’t that make a lot of noise?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re not concerned about the neighbors?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “I make neighbors nervous.”

  “They’ll call the police.”

  “I doubt that. But if they do, I’ll handle it.”

  “How?”

  “Miranda?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “This is what I do. Can you just sit back, finish powdering your nose, and let me do it? I mean, no offense, but I could’ve been inside by now.”

  “Just tell me how you’d handle the police.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” she adds, sweetly.

  “If the cops show up I’ll say I came to check on Miles because I haven’t heard from him in days. When he didn’t answer the door, I kicked it in, concerned he might have suffered a heart attack. He has a heart condition, you see, and I’m his cardiologist.”

  “You are?”

  “I’ve got papers to prove it.”

  “Cool.”

  “You’re happy now?” I say.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Off you go!”

  I open the door and start to get out, but stop long enough to ask, “Just out of curiosity, why are you so worried about the cops?

  “Because there are two policemen in the car behind us, watching the house.”

  I frown, and look in the mirror. Must be the angle, but I don’t see them. I climb out of the car and as I turn to look, an unmarked police car turns into the driveway and comes to a
stop two feet behind my rental car.

  They exit the vehicle and tell me to put my hands where they can see them. One approaches, one stays back.

  “Are you Miles Gundy?”

  “No, but I hope to catch him at home.”

  “Why?”

  “Follow up interview.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m a corporate recruiter.”

  “A what?”

  “Some folks say headhunter.”

  “Like in Africa?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I pause. “No? Well anyway, I hire unemployed executives. Mr. Gundy’s a chemist, looking for work. I’ve got a possible job for him.”

  “You got an ID?”

  I show him one.

  “Donovan Creed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And who’s this with you?” he says, pointing at my passenger.

  “Miranda Rodriguez, director of Human Resources, NYU.”

  He walks around to the passenger side, taps on the window. She looks up.

  “Can you step out of the car, Miss?”

  He stands back while she opens the door.

  “ID, please?”

  She shows him her driver’s license.

  “You’re a long way from New York.”

  “So are you,” she says.

  “Gundy’s not here,” the cop says. “But we’re looking for him.”

  “Can I ask why?” Miranda says.

  “You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

  “Well, if he’s done something wrong, I’d like to know about it. We’re looking to employ an honest chemist, not a law-breaker.”

  The other cop likes the way Miranda fits her jeans. He walks over and says, “His prior employer reported some dangerous chemicals have gone missing. We’re waiting for him to show up, see if he knows anything about that.”

  “His prior employer?” Miranda says. “Esson Pharmaceuticals, of St. Louis?”

  He consults his notes. “Yes, ma’am. Gundy’s supervisor, Ephram Livingston, reported the property stolen.

  “Dr. Livingston, I presume?” Miranda says, without the slightest hint of a smile.

  He consults his notes furiously before giving up. “I’ll have to assume he’s a doctor,” he says. “Strange name, though, don’t you think? Ephram?”

  “My father’s name was Ephram,” she says, shamelessly. “He died in a car crash, when I was a child.”

  “I’m so sorry!” he says. Then adds, “I certainly didn’t mean to imply I don’t like the name. It’s a fine name. Just unusual, is all.”

  Miranda smiles. “You’ve done me a kindness, informing me about the reported theft. That was very gallant of you.”

  “Gallant,” the first cop says.

  “How so?” the second cop says, trying to sound sophisticated.

  “We’ve narrowed our job search to two applicants. Mr. Gundy, and Ms. Possumdegumstump.”

  She looks at me and says, “Mr. Creed, I think we can safely say Ms. Possumdegumstump is our new head chemist.”

  “Swell,” I say.

  The second cop tips his hat.

  “Glad to be of service,” he says. “Will you be staying in our fair city overnight?”

  “Our fair city?” the first cop sneers.

  “Alas, no,” Miranda says. “Our winning candidate lives in St. Louis. I suppose we’ll be heading there now.”

  She looks at me. “Is that correct, Mr. Creed?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, pooh!” she says.

  “Well, until next time,” he says.

  “Until then,” she says.

  As we get back in the car we hear the first cop say “Oh, poo!” to his partner.

  I wait for them to back out of the driveway. When they do, I follow suit, and Miranda waves to the cops as I head down the street.

  “Ms. Possumdegumstump?” I say.

  She smiles. “That’s right.”

  “Because?”

  “In my experience, a longer, stranger name is more believable than a common one, like Smith or Jones.”

  “I’ll say it again. Come work for me.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll pay you three thousand dollars a week.”

  “That’s very generous, but no.”

  I sigh. “You’re a heartbreaker.”

  “Good thing you’re a cardiologist.”

  “Thirty-five hundred.”

  “No.”

  I turn right at the intersection, left on Fairway.

  “Where to, Mr. Headhunter?”

  “We’ll go ahead and pick up Miles.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “I do.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you knew where he was, why did you want to kick in his door?”

  “Evidence.”

  “Ah.”

  “LOOK FOR TWELVE-forty-two,” I say, as we turn onto Vincent.

  “You think he’s staying with his ex and her sister?”

  “No, I think he’s stalking them.”

  “You’re going to capture him, right? Then torture him?”

  “Yes. You still want to be a part of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You might want to re-think that.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to take my time,” I say. “He’s going to suffer.”

  “I’ll watch as much as I can. But mostly I want to talk to him.”

  “Then you shall. Okay, it should be somewhere on this block.”

  “There’s twelve-twenty-eight,” Miranda says. “Slow down, it’s…okay, it’s two houses up, on the right.”

  “The gray ranch? Red shutters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled for a white Honda Accord.”

  “Okay,” she says. “If we see one, I’ve got the license number in my purse.”

  “You mean your handbag?” I say, trying to sound hip.

  “Actually, I was referring to my coin purse.”

  “The one you keep inside your hand bag?”

  She gives me a strange look. “Where else would I keep it?”

  I drive to the intersection, turn right, make the block.

  No white Honda Accord.

  This time when I pass the house I go two blocks.

  “Bingo!” I say.

  “Where?”

  “Next block, left side.”

  She digs in her handbag for her coin purse, opens it, and removes the notes she took back in Virginia.

  “4XT167C,” she says.

  I pass the car.

  “Guy in the driver’s seat,” I say.

  Miranda checks the license plate against her notes.

  “Omigod!” she says. “It’s him!”

  I drive another block, make a u-turn, and find a place to park where I can keep an eye on Miles.

  “What happens next?” she says.

  “We watch and wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Until he moves or it gets dark.”

  “Donovan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “How long can you hold it?”

  “Umm…ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

  I sigh. It’s three-fifteen, broad daylight. We’re in a residential area.

  I reach across her, open the glove compartment, and pop the trunk.

  “Hang on a second,” I say.

  I get out of the car and remove my duffel from the trunk. Then come around to her side and open her door.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’re going to drive.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m going to walk along the sidewalk toward his car. When I get there, I need you to drive right up beside him, lower the passenger window, and ask him where the nearest fast food restaurant is.”

  “Then what?”


  “Try to engage him in conversation.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then drive to the fast food place and pee. Then drive back here and park the car. If you don’t see me, call my cell phone.”

  “What if he drives away while I’m gone?”

  “We’ll follow him.”

  She says, “You’re going to put a tracking device on his car while I’m engaging him in conversation.”

  “Thirty-eight hundred a week. That’s my final offer.”

  She giggles. “Sorry, no.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll talk you into it, eventually.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  As I walk down the sidewalk toward Gundy’s car, Lou Kelly calls to tell me two dozen kids and three adults were poisoned at a birthday party in Nashville two days ago.

  “Sunday? Same day as the Derby City Fair?”

  “Same day. One of the moms gave a description. Said a guy showed up at the party with a cookie cake, and there was something odd about him.”

  “Odd how?”

  “The way he stared at her gave her the creeps, so she followed him through the house and out the front door, and saw him drive away in a white Honda Accord.”

  “The three adults?” I say.

  “All Moms.”

  “Damn it, Lou! Why did it take you two days to make the connection?”

  “I just found out about it this minute.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “The cookie cake was laced with ricin.”

  Ricin poison takes two to four days to kill, depending on the age and health of the victim.

  “They must’ve all gotten sick the same day. Why didn’t anyone report it?”

  “It was a kids’ birthday party. The moms figured the kids ate too much, or maybe the potato salad was bad. They started calling each other last night to compare notes, but still didn’t want to offend the hosts.”

  “But all that changed today?”

  “Right.”

  “How bad is it, Lou?”

  “The kids are all dying or dead. The moms will probably survive.”

  I’m closing in on Miles’s car.

  “Son of a bitch!” I say.

  Looking behind me, I see Miranda pulling out into the road. I press her number on my cell phone.

  “Is this too soon?” she says.

  “When you pull next to him, keep six feet of distance between the cars.”

  “Okay.”

  She passes me and pulls up alongside him, keeping a six-foot distance between their windows.

  I’m directly behind his car now.

  Miles is staring ahead so intently he hasn’t noticed Miranda’s car yet.

  She taps her horn.