by John Chabot
CHAPTER 8
Harry drove the VW back out to the main road. There was a convenience store a few blocks down with a phone booth attached. The last time he had noticed, both the phone and the directory were intact. He could have gone back to the station, which was not much farther, but he wasn't ready yet for questions he had no answers to.
His first call was to the number he had taken from the realtor's sign. He didn't have any real hope of finding anyone in the office on a Sunday evening, and he wasn't disappointed. The answering machine invited him to leave a message, but he couldn't see any point to it.
After that, he used the phone book to find all the Carlsbergs. There was one in Connor Beach and four more in Wilford. Eason had said the brother and sister lived in Wilford, so he started there. He was about to give up on the first one, when the ringing stopped and a husky woman's voice answered. She sounded as if she were half-asleep.
"I'm looking for relatives of a Matt or Matthew Carlsberg. Do you know anyone of that name?"
"What name?"
"Carlsberg."
"Yes, that's me. What do you want?"
Not sleepy — drunk. Harry had talked to so many drunks, he had become something of a connoisseur. The slow, syrupy voice told him that this was probably a gin drunk, as opposed to a beer or whisky drunk. Someone who had started on martinis, and gradually done away with the bother of olive and vermouth.
"Do you know anyone named Matt or Matthew Carlsberg?"
There was a silence on the other end, and then, "I don't know either one of 'em."
"It's just one person. Matt Carlsberg."
"Well, why didn't you say so. Hell, if you don't know who he is, how am I supposed to tell?" The voice mumbled on a bit, then ended with a click.
The other calls were more conventional, but no more informative. One didn't answer. Another was out, but asked for a message after the beep. Two were home, but didn't know any Matt Carlsbergs. One had a cousin named Marty, could it be him? "He's in the Navy, stationed in California. San Diego, I think."
He drove back to the house and was surprised to see the forensics team van parked by the curb. They must have been very close by. At least something was going his way. He had thought this might turn into an all-nighter.
As he got out of the car, he saw Wilder and the two uniformed officers coming back toward him. When they were close enough, he asked Mickie, "Any luck?"
"Sure, we found an old guy who complained about the party. I wasn't sure if it was the noise he didn't like or that he wasn't invited. He didn't hear anything else, though."
"Did he see a car? One drove by, parked down there somewhere."
"He didn't mention it. I'll ask him."
"Anyone else?"
"A couple who live year round down at the end. They didn't even hear the party. They were in all evening watching TV. What is there to watch on Saturday night?"
"To each his own. I've got the number of the realtor who handled the house, but there's no one in the office. We need to know who owns the house, who was it rented to, for how long. Whatever you can get."
"What's the name?"
"Southview Realty."
"Yes, I know the owner. Went to school with his son. I'll give him a call."
Harry went into the house, avoiding the immediate area of the crime, trying to stay out of the way. One of the team looked at him questioningly, so he showed his badge. The man nodded and went back to work recording the scene with a video camera.
He found a bedroom in front that obviously wasn't used. Connected with that was a bathroom that was. A towel was lying in a heap at one corner of the tub. From there, another door led into another bedroom. He thought at first that this was also unused, but then noticed the clothes hanging in the closet.
There weren't many. On the left were several pairs of slacks, each hung neatly on a wooden hanger. Next to these were shirts, all of them facing the same direction, with one button buttoned. To the right of them were a windbreaker and a gray suit, each facing the same way as the shirts. Both had London labels. On the extreme right were five extra hangers, waiting for something to do. He noticed there were also two extra hangers with the slacks and two more with the shirts. On a shelf above were a neat stack of four sweaters, each folded to the same size. On the floor, a pair of sneakers and two pair of brightly polished oxfords were lined up like soldiers.
He opened the drawers of the dresser and found the usual. Underwear, socks, handkerchiefs, pajamas, a sweatshirt. A place for everything, he thought, and everything in its place. Nothing on top of the dresser. There was a hook on the back of the bedroom door, but nothing hung there.
He went back to the closet and let his eyes take it all in again. He frowned.
In the bathroom, he lifted the edge of the lump of towel and put his hand under it. Still damp on the bottom. The shower curtain hanging from an aluminum rod had been pushed back to one edge of the tub and, between the tight plastic folds, it was still wet in places.
A clothes hamper under the window held two pair of boxer shorts, two T-shirts and two pair of socks. Nothing else. The frown deepened.
The room hadn't been worked yet, so he used a pen to push open the medicine cabinet. A safety razor, clean, and shaving cream. A tube of toothpaste, squeezed from the bottom, a toothbrush lying neatly beside it. One bottle of aspirin. One packet of dental floss. A small, clear glass bottle that contained some kind of pills. The label was in some oriental script. Probably Japanese, he thought, from what Eason had said. The only other thing was a brown, plastic tube with a plastic screw-on top, the kind that pharmacies use in filling prescriptions. He read the label and thought he recognized the name. If his memory was right, it was a painkiller. From the size of the dosage, it must be industrial strength.
He pushed the cabinet door closed and went out. The bedroom door opened into the living room, the desk and the body of Matt Carlsberg, still staring up at the ceiling. From the way he was lying, Harry thought, he must have been sitting at the desk. Then he tipped backward, he and the chair both going over.
One of the forensics team was at the desk, looking into the half-opened drawer. The Medical Examiner was just getting up from beside the body. He unfolded into a very tall, very thin, very serious looking man with steel rimmed glasses that rode low on his nose. He saw Harry and scowled at him, and Harry showed his badge again.
"Lieutenant Chervenic. Can you give me a time?"
The M.E. sighed. "Everybody wants exactness. Well, you've no doubt heard this before, but you might get a more exact time after the P.M. Then again, you might not. It isn't exactly fresh."
Harry said nothing, but waited.
"I'd say probably nine to midnight last night. I don't suppose you happen to know when he ate last?"
"I'm told it was between 7:00 and 7:30."
"Well, that's something. Then I'll be able to narrow it down some when I get inside."
"You'll be doing the postmortem, then?"
"I have the honor of being the pathologist as well as the Medical Examiner." He didn't sound as if he fully appreciated the honor.
"When?"
"I'll let you know. As soon as I can."
The man at the desk said, "Lieutenant, you ought to see this." He had pulled the central drawer of the desk completely open. "This drawer was half open already."
Inside was a single sheet of paper. Attached to it with a paper clip were two business cards. A few drops of blood had spotted the bottom half of the paper. Beside it was a leather-covered address book, a much-used metal ballpoint pen, and a container of pills similar to those he had seen in the bathroom.
The paper was in longhand, undated. Harry went down on one knee to read without touching it.
'The time has come. I have always hoped that, when it did, I
would be able to leave with some dignity. Except for a longer
life, what more can we ask? My affairs, as they say, are in
order. The cards attached to this are
those of my doctor and
my lawyer. One can tell you why I've done this, the other can
see to the disposition of my will. I hope this causes no real
trouble for anyone. I have had regrets but, on the whole, it's
been good.'
It was signed Matthew Carlsberg. Chervenic read it through again, then looked at the contorted face on the floor.
"Suicide? Where's the gun? Did you find a gun?"
He received only a puzzled look from the other man. Behind him the M.E. asked, "What gun? He wasn't shot, you know. It was a knife."
Chervenic took this in. "All right then, same question. Where's the knife? There was no knife when I saw him."
"Yes, there was. It's still in him. The handle broke off, that's all."
The forensics man picked up a plastic bag from the table and handed it to him. He saw the knife handle, about three inches long, slightly curved and covered with bright tiles.
"He was holding this. It was in his right hand."
Harry turned it to see where the metal had broken off just below the hilt. "That's not steel. What kind of metal is that?"
"Don't know. Something pretty brittle, I guess. You want us to do anything with this letter?"
"Yes, check it for prints."
"We can't do that here — not from paper. We'll need to take it into the lab."
"Yes, I know the routine. While it's there, could you get someone to check the handwriting? I should be able to get you some samples from his lawyer. Or his relatives, when we find them."
"That might take a little longer."
"I just want to be sure. By the way, when you get to the bathroom, there's a towel in there on the tub. See what you can find on it."
"Anything in particular?"
"No, but it was used recently. It's still damp. There could be blood or hair. Either would be nice. Oh, and there's two bottles of pills in the medicine cabinet, and these in the drawer. I want to know what they are. I'm pretty sure about one, but the other has a label in Chinese or Japanese."
The other man picked up the paper with a pair of tweezers and, blowing open a large plastic bag, slid it in. Keeping his eyes on what he was doing, he asked, "You're not buying the suicide?"
"I'll buy when the price is right. You finished with the desk?"
"Sure. Where do you want the report sent? You from Wilford?"
"Connor Beach."
He received a skeptical look. "You've done this before?"
Chervenic might have laughed at that. Had he done it before? "Yes, I have. Too many times."
When Harry left the house, Mac Bonham's van was gone. He wondered if he had located the Wicked Witch's sunglasses.
He found the two uniformed officers and sent them on a search of the beach. "About two-hundred yards each way. Look through the dunes as well as you can, and any trash cans beside the houses. And especially the trash cans on the beach. They still have them out there this time of year?"
"Yes, sir. Are we looking for anything special?" He sounded slightly bored, as if he had been on general fishing expeditions before.
"Clothes, probably with a lot of blood on them. They may be loose or in a bundle — maybe tied up in a towel or a bath mat."
Both officers were at once alert. "Let's do it. We're losing light."
He saw Mickie's Honda pull in and went out to meet her.
"Did you get hold of them?"
"Sure, no problem. All the paper work is at the office, of course, but he remembered."
"When did he rent the place?"
"He didn't. He bought it."
"When?"
"Two weeks ago. The closing was on the Saturday before last."
"All right. That's good. So what did he use for collateral on the loan? Was there a cosigner?"
"No loan. He paid cash. Wrote checks on a local bank. And none of them bounced."
"Did he now! A house that size, on the beach, and he pays cash. Now we're talking money."
"I think so. Ross wants you to call him as soon as you can."
"Anything new?"
"That's what he wants to know. He's getting antsy."
"Well, I can't blame him. We'll go see him."
He told Wilder about the suicide note and the attached cards. "I'll take the lawyer, you call the doctor. This is his number in Boston. You won't be able to get him tonight, but start in the morning. Sometimes it takes a while to run them down."
He made a call to the lawyer's office, and got the answer he had expected, which was electronic. He called his home number, getting the same response. This time he left his name, told him his business concerned Matt Carlsberg without saying what it was, and ended by saying he would call the office in the morning.
He went by the station and told Ross and Wilder all he knew about the death, and a few of the things he thought. Then he went home and let the cat in, fed him, and put a frozen dinner in the microwave for himself. His wife was visiting their son and the grandchildren in Baltimore, and would be gone for another week. After thirty years of being married, he hated eating alone.
He did what cleaning up was needed, opened a beer, and sat down in his lounge chair to think. As soon as he was settled, the cat slid into his lap and curled up for his fourteenth nap of the day. Harry's fingers began stroking the soft fur as he went over what he knew (not much yet), what he suspected (probably wrong), and the unending list of things he wanted to know.
From a large brown envelope he took photocopied pages of the address book found in the desk. The original had gone with the suicide note to the SBI forensics lab in Garner. Only a few of the pages had entries. There were no names anywhere, just initials followed by addresses and, sometimes, telephone numbers. Most of them had European addresses. One in Austria had been neatly crossed out, a single stroke through each line. Dead, perhaps. Under the R's he found M.R. and an address in Italy. There was no street, but what looked like the name of a villa and a town he had never heard of. M.R. Who would that be? Would he ever know? The dead left so few explanations.
He thought of the other addresses. France, the Netherlands, Germany, England. Who were these people? Business contacts, friends, enemies? Oh God, don't let this be one of those cases. He knew how easily someone could fly in, make a kill, and fly out. He could be back in Europe or visiting Disneyworld before the body was found, secure in anonymity while Harry chased his tail around Connor Beach. Don't let it be one of those.
On the last page, under a column marked 'Notes', were three more. There was an R.C. and an A.C., each followed by what could be a local telephone number. Were the C's for Carlsberg? Why weren't they on the C page? There was certainly room. Perhaps these were the last things he had entered. Perhaps he knew there was no need to give them a more permanent entry.
Under these two was the name and address of a bank in Wilford. And just below that something had been scratched out, very thoroughly, with straight lines and whorls so that nothing could be read. It had been two lines, about the same size as the name and address of the bank. Why so thoroughly? He turned the page over and saw that it was also crossed out on the back. Taking no chances at all. Just what, he asked, had he been trying to hide?
He disturbed the cat by reaching for the phone, dialing the numbers of R.C. and A.C. He let each one ring more than a dozen times, but it did no good. So far, his record with the telephone was perfect. It seemed no one wanted to know about the death. He took out his notebook to check these numbers against the Carlsbergs he had taken from the phone directory. R.C. was Robert Carlsberg. It was one of those who hadn't answered on his first try. For A.C. he drew a blank.
There was a great deal to consider, but most of what occurred to him were questions. At one point, his hand stopped as he thought of another. The cat opened one eye and pushed his head against the hand to remind it of its duty. Harry wondered idly when the cat had got into his lap — he didn't remember it. He went back to scratching the head and just behind the ears, and organizing what h
e would do in the morning. Tomorrow he would find and talk with the relatives. There were always relatives. They would have shock or anger or disbelief or suspicion, or maybe all of those, and most of it would be directed at him.
He remembered again why he had come to a little place like Connor Beach. He'd be rich now if he had a buck for every time he'd told himself how much he hated homicides.
CHAPTER 9
The two desks in the office were as different as the people who used them. Mickie's was bare except for a framed picture of her parents, another of a bearded young man name Paul, a telephone, a notepad and a cup holding several ballpoints and two pencils, both sharpened. In a lower desk drawer she kept a spray can of furniture polish, which she used on the desktop once a week. She had offered to let Harry use this on his own desk, but since he could seldom see the top of his desk, he had never taken her up on it. Whatever need he had for neatness and order was displayed only in his thinking and his regard for his car. His desk was pretty much on its own.
Mickie Wilder sat fiddling with the second cup of coffee, waiting for the phone to ring, looking out the window. Her view was a broad expanse of green, part of the soccer field she had played on as a child. She had started when she was in the third grade, if you could call it soccer at that level. Mostly it was two gangs of kids in shorts and long socks, running up and down the field, kicking at everything that moved. It was a wonder any of them had survived.
She had played soccer because she had three older brothers, all of them only a year apart, and they had taught her. Her parents had been against it. After three boys, they hoped that she would be the pink ruffles to balance the torn-kneed jeans. They christened her Michelle, then waited for her to blossom into their princess. In this they were disappointed. Tagging after her brothers, she learned the fine art of climbing trees and fences and anywhere there was a chance of breaking her neck. Still, her parents were patient.
In the first grade a boy named Tyler, who had no sisters, tried to take her lunch away as a joke. She chased him, got him on the ground, and began beating him with the lunch bag. The apple her mother had included caused some prominent bruises.
