by John Chabot
Harry tasted the coffee, deciding it had been brewed a lot earlier than it had been served. "In this case, we don't know who they are either. We'd like to talk about some people, and maybe about a case you handled twenty-two years ago."
"Yeah, it doesn't take a genius to figure that. You want to hear about Frank Carlsberg. You really think it has anything to do with his son's death?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"Hey, it was a long time ago. I've been thinking about it, but how much can you trust your memory?"
"I heard you were friends. That should help."
"Friends? Nah! I knew him. Hell, everybody knew him. Wilford was a lot smaller then, and it still isn't all that much. We were both Elks, so I saw him now and then. But friends? I wouldn't say that."
"What was he like?"
The tonic and lime almost disappeared in Faber's hand as he raised it. He glanced back and forth between Harry and Mickie. "What are we after here, fact or gossip?"
Mickie answered, "Most of the facts are probably in the report. Facts are nice, but they don't tell everything."
Faber grinned at Harry. "Smart. Sometimes facts even lie — you ever notice that? You training her?"
"No, she's training me."
Faber laughed, a big open sound. "I believe it. Hell, I believe everything." Then, more seriously, he said, "So, what was Frank Carlsberg like? He was a salesman. He could sell anything to anyone, especially if anyone was female. Tall, dark, big shoulders, big grin. And charm. Christ, but he had charm. I never trusted him."
"Why not?"
"He smiled too much. Nothing's that good. It was a great smile, but . . . I don't know. He was fun to be with, but you wouldn't want your sister going out with him."
"And did people's sisters go out with him?"
"Oh, yeah. He always had women."
"His wife knew?"
"How could she not know? I mean, he never tried to hide it. She must have known."
"And she didn't do anything?"
Faber took another sip. "You know," he said, "I used to have a drinking problem. I let the work get to me, I guess. God knows, too many of us do." He gazed at Harry speculatively. "I guess it gets to all of us eventually. That's why I drink gin-and-tonics and tell them to hold the gin. It used to be I had them leave out the tonic." He took another sip and said, "Belle Carlsberg retired. That's the only way I can put it. She just stopped working at it."
Mickie said, "I'm sorry, I don't understand. Working at what?"
Faber smiled, but there was no humor in it. "At living. She coped by not trying to cope. She gave up."
Mickie looked as if she couldn't believe anyone would do that, but she said nothing.
"Yeah, well, most of this is speculation, but you said you wanted the gossip. I met Belle when she started going with Frank. She was from somewhere around Charlotte. She came here after college and went to work at Frank's store. She did the bookwork, typing, stuff like that. She was plain looking — not ugly, mind you, but more the kind you wouldn't even notice. Very quiet. One of those women with a lot of hope, but not enough self-confidence to make it happen. Probably did a lot of dreaming. Then Frank started taking her to dinner and to dances at the Elks. I think the first time I saw her was at one of those dances. They were usually pretty noisy, raucous affairs — nothing really wild, but everyone having a good time. She seemed out of place. Stayed with Frank all the time. She had one of those little, diffident smiles. Wanting to fit in, but knowing she wasn't. I think if another woman had come along and taken Frank away, she'd have kept right on smiling. I think she expected it would happen. But no one did, and the next thing you know they were married. It really came as a shocker. Everybody wondered why a charmer like Frank would marry her. Most figured she must be pregnant, but that wasn't it. The oldest boy, Robert, wasn't born until they'd been married a couple of years."
Harry asked, "Did you get to know the kids?"
"I knew of them. Knew them when I saw them."
"I heard that Matt was in trouble a lot."
"Not police trouble. I think he was just the school rebel. It never got serious. We've all seen kids like that. I don't know how you do it, but I had my own way. The first time they did anything halfway serious, I'd take them down to the station, maybe even handcuff them, do my best to scare the living hell out of them, then send them home."
"And hope you never see them again, at least professionally," added Harry.
"That's right. But it never got to that with Matt."
Mickie asked, "Was there ever any talk about the kids, or the wife, being abused?"
Faber turned to her and said, "Good question. But no, if there was any, I didn't hear it. Not that that means a lot. That kind of stuff usually goes on with the doors closed."
Harry thought for a minute, his eyes on the undrunk coffee. Then he asked, "What do you remember about the murder?"
Faber sat up straighter. "Ah, back to the world of fact. I found the notebook I was using at the time, and went through it. I think I remember pretty much the way it was."
"You still have it?"
"Yeah. Crazy, huh?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, simulated-leather covered book. "The first time I filled one up, I kept it in case I had to refer to it. And then the second one went with the first, and I just kept it up. I put dates on the covers and kept them in a box. Stupid, I suppose. I look back at the notes I made then and wonder what the hell most of them meant. But this was a murder. In a place like Wilford, you don't get many murders. And then, there were some things about it that are hard to forget. You've read the report?"
"This morning."
"That's about it, then. There was nothing mysterious about it. A textbook triangle. Man fools around with woman — woman's husband shoots man. Nobody disputed anything. Everyone agreed on what happened."
Harry said nothing. Faber's smile came on again. "But you want everything I can remember, right?"
"If you don't mind."
"Mind, hell! Believe me, I bless the day I retired and got out of the game, but sometimes . . . well, sometimes I miss it. No, I don't mind."
"You were there first?"
"Yeah, we were in the area checking a B and E, not three blocks away. We must have got there maybe five minutes after it happened. An old man was waiting for us in the hall. He's the one who called. He'd heard shots, so he cracked the door to see what was going on. He saw his neighbor, a man named Roy Hanover, coming out of his apartment. That's just across the hall from him. He started to say something to him, but then he saw the gun in his hand. And he saw the look on his face. So he called the station.
"The door was wide open. In the bedroom, Mrs. Hanover was still in bed, just sitting there, naked except for the covers over her legs. She didn't cry or moan or say anything. There were flecks of blood on her face and chest, but she didn't seem to notice it."
"In shock."
"She had good reason. Frank was on the floor. He must have been standing by the wall when it happened. His coat and tie were off, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Two slugs had gone right through him into the wall. The third one had hit a rib and ricocheted. Very messy."
"Did the woman say anything to you?"
"Not then. Later, she said her husband had walked in and started shooting. She didn't even know he was there until the gun started going off. A .45 automatic. Lots of noise. Lots of mess. Then he pointed it at her. Just held it there in her face. Must have scared the pee out of her. Didn't shoot, though. He just turned around and walked out."
"Did he say anything to her?"
"She said no. Just looked at her awhile and left."
"Did you know him?"
"I knew who he was. One of those quiet, moody types that drink alone. He was fine sober, but a mean drunk. He'd been in a couple of fights. We arrested him once when he broke someone's jaw. The guy had made some remark about his wife fooling around."
"Any truth to it?"
"Probably. She was about tw
elve years younger than him, and not the domestic type. At least, that's what I got from talking to her later. I don't think Frank was the first. Hanover worked for Frank Carlsberg, by the way. Loaded and unloaded delivery trucks. Dock work."
"Yes, I saw that in the report. Carlsberg must have felt pretty sure of himself."
Faber shrugged. "Maybe. Knowing Frank though, I think it made it better for him. Not just a woman. Not just somebody else's wife, but someone he knew. Someone who depended on him. 'I not only tell you what to do, but I can have your wife whenever I want.' It made it better for him."
He finished his drink, and said, "Of course, that's speculation again, but I don't think I'm far off. According to the neighbor, he was there several times a week."
"Any trouble finding Hanover?"
"None at all. He was spotted walking along the street. Not running. Just walking along, still carrying the gun. When we got there, he was up on somebody's lawn, telling everybody to stay away. It was one of those quiet old neighborhoods where you never see anyone on the street, so there wasn't really a crowd. The patrolmen who found him were behind their car with their guns on him, but he wasn't threatening anyone but himself. Said he was going to kill himself."
He closed the little notebook, laid it on the table. He didn't need anything to help him with this part. "I could see he was on the edge. He was really tight. He was going to do something. I figured if I could get him to talk about it, he might start crying or screaming or cursing. That might take the edge off. I asked him if he'd killed Carlsberg, and he said yes. Didn't show any emotion at all. He seemed confused, if anything. I asked him why, and he just looked at me. Well, under the circumstances, it wasn't the brightest question. But I wanted to get him talking about it. I asked how he knew about them, figured that might set him off. Told me he had the letters. Can you believe that? Lord, they will save letters, won't they?"
Mickie asked, "Did you ever find the letters?"
"No, and I looked. A man like Roy wouldn't keep them, though. He'd tear them into little bits and stomp on them."
Harry asked where he had got the gun. Faber opened the notebook to verify what he remembered. "At a pawnshop in Wilmington. At the time, we didn't have one in Wilford. Bought it the day before. Pawnshop owner identified his picture, and his signature was checked. He bought the gun. You can bank on that.
"In case you're wondering, we didn't leave it there. We didn't assume anything. Residue tests showed he was the only one who had fired a weapon. It wasn't the wife, we thought of that. We even tested the victim and the old man who called us. We talked to people where he worked. They said he had been acting strange . . . well, stranger than usual, for several days. He always brought his lunch and ate it out on the loading dock. On this day, though, he left just after Frank did. Told the kid he was working with he had something he had to do."
He stopped suddenly, looking up at the ceiling. "Yeah, now I remember. It was a Saturday. The kid he was working with on the dock was Matt Carlsberg. Damn, I'd forgotten. When I was trying to get him talking, right at the end he said, 'Tell Matt I'm sorry.' It was right after that I asked him to give me the gun. He didn't, though. He looked at me for a long time, like he was trying to figure something out. Then he put the gun up to his head, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger."
Faber looked very sad, remembering. To no one in particular, he asked, "Have you ever seen a man blow his brains out, literally, with a heavy caliber gun?" When neither answered, he looked somberly at Mickie and said, "Think about it."
There was a silence, as no one knew quite what to say. Finally, Harry broke it by asking, "Do you know if Mrs. Hanover is still around?"
"No, I don't think so. I think she went back to Michigan or wherever it was. She had family there. After she got past the shock, she was madder than hell about the way things turned out."
Mickie said, "The way it sounds, she was lucky to be alive."
"She was, wasn't she? She didn't see it that way. There was a suicide clause in Hanover's insurance policy, so they weren't about to pay on it. She cursed Hanover's guts. All she could see was that, by shooting himself, he had screwed her out of the money."
Mickie shook her head, almost in disbelief. "What a lovely bunch. The only one you can sympathize with is a murderer."
CHAPTER 15
Alex Ford was half asleep when he heard his name. He opened his eyes and yawned. The late afternoon light was throwing distorted shadows on the ceiling. He felt warm and content, aware of Diane close beside him.
"Were you asleep?" she asked.
"Dropped off for a minute."
She rolled to her side, putting her hand on his arm. "I have a question."
He turned to look at her, and saw the long, auburn hair falling about her eyes. And the face. Such a childlike, trusting face. He loved to look at her. He pushed the hair back along her neck, asking, "Legal question or romantic? I don't know anything about anything else."
She looked serious. "Legal."
"Sorry, not allowed at this time."
"I need to know."
Lord, she did seem serious. He didn't feel at all like being serious. He felt like drifting back to a lazy drowse. Instead, he lay on his side to face her. "All right, the office is open. How can I help you, Madam?"
"What do I say to the police? I mean, if they start asking me questions."
"Nothing. It's none of their business. If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear, so don't even talk to them."
She seemed doubtful. "Are you sure?"
Oh God, he really had to watch what he said to her. She was one of those who believe anything that's said with a straight face. Putting on his best Edward G. Robinson voice, which wasn't all that good, he snarled, "Listen sister, we don't like squealers, see! You don't tell 'em nothing, see! You don't say nothing without your mouthpiece. You — "
She punched him on the arm and said, "Stop it, damn you. I'm serious. Mother said a detective came to see her at the shop. She says she didn't even know Matt had come back, but he asked her about all sorts of things. So what do I do?"
Alex rolled over on his back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Well," he said, "that depends. Are you guilty?"
She stared at him, as if wondering if she was being kidded again. "Of course I'm not guilty."
"Then it's simple. You answer all their questions. Don't add anything. Don't leave anything out. And don't, for God's sake, lie. Most of what they ask you they already know the answers to. They just want to see if different people's stories agree. If they catch you lying, they really start digging."
She lay quietly for a moment, studying his profile. Then she asked, "What if I'm not innocent?"
"What?"
"Just a for instance. What if I'm guilty?"
He considered that. "Then you get a good lawyer, say as little as possible, and deny, deny, deny."
She came over on to her elbows, and smiled down at him. "Would you be my lawyer?"
"I'm not a lawyer, I'm a paralegal. There's a big difference."
"Well, that's almost a lawyer. A paralegal I know . . ." she kissed him on the nose, " . . . tells me you do most of the work in that office anyway."
"That's a solemn fact."
"Like right now." She kissed his chest. "You're very, very busy."
"Listen, you, I'll have you know I spent the entire afternoon — "
"Not the entire afternoon."
"All right, nearly the entire afternoon doing very dull title searches at the Wilmington courthouse, and if I — what was that?"
"The buzzer. Someone in the foyer wants in."
"Ignore them. They'll go away."
"Can't." She was getting up. "It might be mother."
"A bit early for her, isn't it?"
"Or it could be Mrs. Whitmore. She's a dear, but she's always forgetting to take her key, so she buzzes me to let her in."
She went through the door, a loose robe swirling after her. He called after her, "If it's not
your mother, come on back. We can go on discussing how hard I work."
He heard her moving in the other room, saying something he couldn't quite hear. She came back, took off the robe and began pulling on her clothes. He watched appreciatively. She saw him watching, and said, "You, sir, had better get your pants on. It's the police."
When the door opened, Harry saw very large dark eyes in a face that was obviously copied from Ruth Babineau's. This girl was taller than her mother, and certainly didn't copy her in dress. She wore very old blue jeans, a sort of peasant blouse that was now off one shoulder, and sandals. Her reddish-brown hair was mussed as if she had just got up.
She studied him suspiciously, but softened a little when she saw Mickie. "Okay, come on in. Are you the one who was talking to my mother?"
"Yes, that's right."
She led them into the kitchen saying, "She said you were nice, but to watch out for you." As she walked, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, fastening it with a clip.
Harry said, "I hope I don't seem threatening."
"Not to me. I'm going to make tea. Would you like some?"
Harry was not a tea drinker. His wife drank tea, letting it steep until it was dark and potent, but he had never liked it. "Not for me, thanks."
"It's not really tea." She filled the kettle and started it heating. "It's herbal. They put all kinds of dried stuff in a bag — flowers, spices, a little orange peel maybe. There's never any real tea. It sounds god-awful, but it's pretty good. It's refreshing."
She stopped, and Harry took the opportunity to introduce himself and Mickie. On a hunch, he again used first names rather than rank.
"Hi. I'm Diane. But you know that. Have a seat." She indicated the chairs at the kitchen table. To Mickie she asked, "How about you? Some tea?" She was being cheerful, but there was something brittle about it.
"Sure. I'd like some."
Diane took three mismatched mugs from the cupboard, and dropped tea bags into them. Harry reminded her he didn't want any. "No," she said, "this one's for Alex." She raised her voice. "Alex, you decent yet?" Dropping her tone back to conversational, she said, "We usually have tea. I mean, we don't smoke, you know?"
