Killed on the Rocks

by William L. DeAndrea

  “A little,” Ralph conceded. “You’re trying to convince yourself not to be scared.”

  “Scared?” Bats rolled his eyes up as if to look inside his own skull. “No, I don’t think I’m scared.”

  “Doesn’t the prospect of being trapped with a murderer bother you?” I asked.

  “Not really. Why should a murderer be after me? I just work for the Network. I don’t even own any stock. I never cared if the merger went through or not, I was just doing my job.”

  “Maybe the killer doesn’t plan to leave any potential witnesses.”

  He did the eye trick again. “Nah,” he said. “I can’t see it. Why go through all the trouble to be mysterious? Besides, I’m not so sure there’s a murderer at all.”

  “Well, I’m sure Dost is dead.”

  “But how? All I’m saying is that if you can’t explain how something happened, you certainly can’t say anybody did it. I mean, just as many weird things happen by accident, instead of on purpose. What if Dost decided to jump off the roof or something?”

  “That would be on purpose.”

  “You know what I mean. This is a big place. Jump out at the right angle, and you could get quite a distance away from the building.”

  “Not that far. And the snow on the roof is unbroken, too. I checked while I was outside.”

  “You should ask Barry about it,” Bats said. “Tricks with the building, I mean. He knows everything about this place. Typical of him to run away when the shit gets thick.”

  “Barry?” I said. “Typical? You talk as if you know him.”

  “We were at college together. Business nerds at Princeton. There are science nerds and business nerds. I thought you knew.”

  “Why would I know?”

  “Special Projects is supposed to know everything.”

  I looked at him. “Have you been talking to Carol Coretti?”

  Bats grinned at me. “No, but I’d sure like to. Or are you asking me to stay out? I’m flattered you’d even be worried about a nearsighted, balding, skinny business nerd at all, Matt.”

  I could have told him not to waste his time, but it made better sense to get back to the point.

  “Why do you say it’s typical of Barry Dost to run away?”

  “Because he’s a stressed-out wreck, and has been since college. He worried about everything. I swear to God, one time a bunch of us went out to Chicago for a convention, and starting in Erie, Pennsylvania, Barry started worrying about whether there’d be a parking space available near the dorm.”

  “You were close, then.”

  “Not that close. There were five or six of us. We didn’t want to blow up the administration building, we didn’t do any drugs, unless you want to call beer a drug. We liked Neil Diamond better than Jefferson Airplane. So we found ourselves kind of falling together. We haven’t kept in touch at all since we graduated.”

  “You didn’t act as if you recognized each other last night.”

  “Barry might not have. That’s another thing. He’s always been incredibly self-absorbed. At the time, I thought it was just his father’s getting married again that made him so jumpy—would she try to keep him away from the old man, the way his first stepmother did; would she sign the prenuptial agreement; our whole freshman year, he was in a tizzy over stuff like that—but even after the marriage it never went away.”

  “Did he ever express any hostility about his father?”

  “Never. He worshipped his father. I’ve been thinking today that it’s a good thing Barry wasn’t going to college now.”

  “Why?”

  Bats tented his fingers and leaned back. “Because Dost didn’t get famous until later. I mean, we all knew he was loaded. The freaks would tell Barry, ‘Your father’s a rich pig, man,’ and Barry could more or less shrug that off—the freaks ran that at anybody whose father wasn’t a goddam sharecropper.

  “But now it would be, ‘Your father’s G. B. Dost, the corporate raider, the financial pirate, the parasite of the American economy,’ and all that happy horseshit. Barry’d probably get into screaming matches five times a day.”

  I felt the lump on the side of my head. “Don’t sell him short,” I said. “What did he think of Aranda?” I asked.

  “He hated her guts. There was a bit of negotiation during the prenuptial-agreement deal—Barry gave me a play-by-play at the time, but I’ve forgotten it—and he was convinced she was, and I quote, ‘a money-grubbing cunt.’ Of course things might have changed. Also his hostility last night seemed directed at you.”

  “I seem to be bringing that out in people, lately.”

  Bats grinned. “You’re still aces with me, Matt.”

  “Thanks, Bats. You’re a real chum.”

  “That’s me. Seriously, though, I think his problem is with anybody who was going to get between him and his father. I think Barry’s problem always was that he didn’t think he was good enough to be the son of G. B. Dost. And I don’t think that kind of thing happens without the father at least unconsciously confirming it, how about you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “My father was the white Bill Cosby.”

  “That’s why you turned out perfect, I suppose.”

  “Precisely. But Barry’s father is now dead. Messily and mysteriously. He’s beyond impressing or living up to. Where does that leave Barry?”

  Bats shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Okay. I said a little while ago that Barry hadn’t changed at all since college. I can’t know that, okay? I’ve heard his running PR for his father has really done a lot for him—at least that was the word when your people checked out the Dost People (there they are again) before we scheduled this meeting. So I don’t know for sure.”

  “Go by what you do know. The Barry Dost you knew in college, and what you saw last night.”

  Bats took a deep breath. “All right. If something like this happened to the Barry Dost I knew, it’s my admittedly amateur opinion that it would send him right off the deep end. He might do anything.”

  “Like conk somebody on the head and run off into hiding?”

  Bats nodded. “Exactly like that,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it all ended up in a mental hospital somewhere.”

  “The way things are going, I’ll have the next cell.”

  “Hey, not you. Perfect people do not go nuts.”

  I handed it over to Ralph, who got Bats’s declarations that he had seen and heard nothing for the record, then we let Bats go.

  When the door closed behind him, Ralph turned to me. “Boy, you guys have an act.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Abbot and Costello. Rowan and Martin.”

  “Martin and Van Buren. See, I can do it with you, too.”

  “I don’t want to do it. I’m in way over my head, and all of a sudden my lifeguard starts a comedy act with one of the suspects.”

  “That wasn’t comedy, that was repartee. New York City banter.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you call it,” Ralph insisted.

  “You are so right. What matters is that it works. New Yorkers of my generation have been absolutely corrupted by David Letterman.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the attitude that prevails in the Big City today, as personified by that gap-toothed jerk.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if he was on your Network.”

  “See, you’re doing it, too. What’s important is to be hip. And the only way to be hip is to scorn everything. Because if you take anything seriously, if you care about anything, if you think anything is worthwhile, if you believe in anything, if you love anything, somebody might come along and laugh at you. And of course being a laugher is so much hipper than being a laughee.”

  “So you laugh at a murder,” Ralph said.

  “If you want somebody like Bats to talk to you about it, you do. You saw how he squirmed when you called him on it, and he had to admit, yes, he might have some unhip human dece
ncy left in him?”

  “I thought this guy was your friend.”

  “He is.”

  “Why? If he’s like that?”

  “My point is, we’re all like that. Then half of us go to group therapy just so we can be serious about something.”

  “Do you, ah ...?”

  I laughed. “No, I don’t. I pick out helpless deputy sheriffs and unload my troubles on them. It’s a lot cheaper than therapy. Who’s next on the hit parade?”

  He checked his list. “Wilberforce.”

  “Oh, goody,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to ask him something.”

  Then the door opened and there he was. He was dressed for court, brown double-breasted suit, tie, brown shoes, wire-framed glasses polished to a steely glint, the whole number. It was intended either as a compliment to us or as a warning, I wasn’t sure which.

  Wilberforce strode to his chair and sat. He didn’t wait for any questions.

  “Cobb, I must take exception to the way you are handling this whole thing.”

  “I’m not handling anything,” I told him. “I’m simply assisting Deputy Ingersoll.”

  “Nonsense.” He turned that dead, gray-pink face on Ralph. “I’m sorry, young man, but we won’t get anywhere until we all acknowledge that it’s nonsense.”

  “Oh, I think we’re getting somewhere,” Ralph told him. “I’m getting good at Network vice-presidents.”

  Wilberforce gave up on him and turned back to me. “That is part of what I’m talking to you about. What could possibly have possessed you, attacking Haskell Freed that way?

  “I told him what possessed me. Why? Did you try to pull an insider-trading scam with Network stock, too?”

  Charles Wilberforce is probably the most self-possessed man I’ve ever known. I’ve only seen him lose control once, and that was the time. “Don’t be ridic— How dare you— Haskell tried to—”

  “He tried to, and he admitted trying to. What did he tell you?”

  Wilberforce opened his mouth.

  “Never mind, I don’t care. Just don’t go jumping to any conclusions before you get the whole story.”

  Wilberforce closed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, nodded and let the air go. When he was done, there was no sign he’d ever been upset. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps that will be best. Give me the whole story.”

  “No. You are a suspect, Charlie. A suspect. We ask questions, you answer.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are going about this in the wrong way, Cobb.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now we’re back where we started. Tell me everything you did and saw and heard last night.”

  “Eventually, they’ll get us out of here; when we get back to the Network, you’ll still have to work with Freed and me.

  “Unless I decide to tell the Feds, and Haskell goes to jail. What is it with you people? Are you all in this together, or what? I for one am a lot more concerned about living to be gotten out of here than about what’s going to happen at the Network when I do.”

  Wilberforce said, “Hmpf,” and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Now tell us about last night.”

  He did, in detail. His memory of our little excursion to the front stairs matched mine in every detail, which was gratifying but no help.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  Ralph said, “Yes.” I said, “Not quite.”

  The look in Wilberforce’s eyes led me to think that maybe I ought to think twice about going back to the Network when this was over, at that. Maybe I could get a job as a deputy sheriff.

  Why in the name of God did you insist on seeing Dost’s body?” I asked.

  “Quite simple. I wanted to confirm for myself that it was indeed the body of G. B. Dost.”

  “By that time, Deputy Ingersoll had identified the body, I had identified the body, his wife, his partner and lifelong friend, and his servants all had identified the body as the remains of G. B. Dost.”

  “You might be mistaken. The others might be lying for some nefarious purpose. Now that I think of it, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have been lying too. I don’t see why I should trust you any more than you seem to trust me. Perhaps Dost was still alive, and a dead double substituted for him. How should I know? I just felt it my duty to my employer ...” He didn’t actually say a duty some of us obviously feel more strongly than others, he just paused long enough so my conscience, if I had one, could fill it in for me. “... my duty to make sure. That is all.”

  “So you looked.” Wilberforce nodded. “And?”

  “It was Dost.”

  “Thanks. That’s what I thought.”

  Wilberforce got up and left. It was a struggle, but I managed to cork my laughter until the door closed behind him.

  “What’s so funny now?” Ralph asked.

  “Nothing. After that lecture I just gave you, I should be ashamed of myself for laughing. I am ashamed of myself. It’s just that I never dreamed Wilberforce would come up with something so romantic. Nefarious substitution plots, for God’s sake. There’s an imagination somewhere behind that dead face.”

  Ralph scratched his head. “Since you let that Freed guy off the hook, I don’t see where we have anything better.”

  “You’re a killjoy, you know that, Ralph?”

  “Just trying to keep my mind on my job. I’ve got it tougher than you have, you know. You’re trying to decide which one of them did it. I’ve got to watch you and decide whether you did it.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Is this the same guy who was begging me to help him, this morning?”

  “I still need your help. I’ve been helped already. I completely agree with you about the trickiness of what’s going on here. It’s just that watching you work, I’m beginning to think you’re the trickiest guy I ever laid eyes on.”

  “It’s the only way I know to do this sort of thing.”

  “Oh, I understand. And I don’t really think you did it. I just want to be absolutely fair, and let you know you’re still on the list.”

  “I’d be disappointed in you if I weren’t,” I told him.

  Carol Coretti was next. She had no axes to grind, no lecture to deliver. She just sat prettily with her hands in her lap and answered questions. After the meeting with me and Wilberforce, she had gone to bed, alone, and slept until the hubbub over finding Dost’s body awakened her. She had nothing helpful to offer, no observations or opinions.

  “Have you had anything further to do with Mrs. Dost?”

  “No. I haven’t been exactly avoiding her, but I haven’t been lingering around her, either. Should I?”

  I begged, her pardon.

  “Do you want me to spy on her or something? I mean, I wouldn’t sleep with her or anything, but I certainly know how to flirt.”

  “I know,” I said. “You were flirting with me in the car.”

  She looked at me sadly. “I wasn’t, you know. But it’s not your fault. Men are sex-crazy by nature. If a woman isn’t actually hostile to you, you think we’re flirting. It’s a choice all gay women have to make, you know. And since I don’t hate men, I decided to put up with occasional charges of false advertising. I’m sorry.”

  Don’t mention it, I said. “Live and learn. Why are you willing to flirt with Mrs. Dost?”

  “Well, only if it will help. If you think I could learn something that would help you figure this out. I don’t like being stuck with a murderer any more than you do.”

  “Oh. Thanks for the sentiment, but don’t do anything just yet. We want to talk to Mrs. Dost first.”

  “Oh. Okay, Matt,” she said. She smiled shyly and wiggled her fingers in good-bye. It sure looked like flirting to me.

  I turned to Ralph. “All right, you sex-crazy bastard, who’s next?”

  “You want to talk to Roxanne Schick?”

  “Nah. We talked to her all morning.”

  “Okay. I can’t see a motive for her, anyway. She’s got as much money as Dost had, for God’s sake.”
/>   “Not quite. Close, though.”

  “Well, that leaves Jack Bromhead and the widow.”

  “Oh, let’s save the widow for last.”

  Jack Bromhead limped in and sat in the chair. About every three seconds he winced. Ralph asked him if he was all right.

  “Oh, yeah,” Bromhead grunted. “It’s just about time to take the next dose of medicine, you know. I’ll take it as soon as we’re done here. Codeine makes me a little dopey, I’d rather be alert to answer your questions.”

  “I’d like to take a look at your ankle,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’d like to see your ankle. That it’s really sprained. If it is, it’s probably less likely you killed him. I mean, as far as we can tell, the body got out there by magic, but a sprained ankle makes everything harder, probably magic, too. On the other hand, if it’s a nice, pink, healthy ankle, we can call it established you’re a dirty rotten liar, and go on from there.”

  Bromhead laughed. “This is your day for pissing people off, ain’t it, boy?”

  “I figure I’ve used up about six months’ worth, so far. Come on, Jack, you must have known this would be checked. If not by us, then by the regular investigators.”

  “What if I tell you it never crossed my mind for a second that I would be suspected of killing my oldest and closest friend?”

  “Then I’d say if you meant that, there’s no way you were smart enough to be G. B. Dost’s right-hand man.”

  Bromhead laughed. “All right, all right. I can see why Gabby wanted to hire you. Go ahead, but you take it off. Hurts like hell when I bend over.”

  I knelt and unlaced the boot. He’d had it tight enough to keep a broken bone in place. I knew he wasn’t faking as soon as I pulled the boot off. I was as gentle as I could be, but Bromhead gasped and turned white. No one could fake that.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Hell with that. You started, now finish.”

  I eased down the sock to reveal an ankle swollen to twice its size. It was an old sprain, and a bad one, the bruises black where they weren’t turning green.