Unforced Error

by Michael Bowen

  Not since a spasm of post-adolescent rebellion against respectability in her early twenties had Melissa used in its imperative mood the useful verb that English derives from the German ficken, meaning “to strike or to bang.” She came very close to doing so now, but at the last second had a better idea.

  “Let me see the room receipt,” she snapped, striding over to the desk as if she had every right in the world to the document.

  The desk clerk hesitated in an apparent agony of indecision, weighing the honor of the innkeepers’ guild against the prospect of forty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. Forty-nine-ninety-five won. He thumbed through a tin box on the desk and produced a piece of paper.

  Whoever checked in had identified herself as Anita Lay. She had written down a California address which Melissa memorized without any hope that it was genuine. She had signed in at six-twelve yesterday evening. No credit-card information, vehicle data, or phone number.

  “She paid cash?” Melissa asked.

  “They will do that. Ah, do you think you could kinda step it up? You smell kinda funny. Are you nauseous?”

  “No,” Melissa said, graduate-assistant instincts triggered by the sloppy diction, “you’re nauseous. I’m nauseated.” She returned the receipt to him.

  “Okay. What about the forty-nine-ninety-five?”

  Now Melissa used the verb.

  Chapter 15

  “Is it just my imagination, or are you missing one of the sabers you had displayed here yesterday afternoon?” Rep asked Trevelyan around one-fifty.

  This was a shot in the dark. It missed.

  “Wish I was,” Trevelyan said without hesitation, shaking his head. “When the cops picked my cutlery up for testing I said, ‘Hell, you can keep ’em. I’m not doin’ any good with ’em.’ Haven’t sold an edged weapon all week.”

  “How about that antique Barlow knife the young Confederate was so upset about yesterday?”

  “If you’re buyin’, I believe I could find it. If you’re teasin’, I’m not in the mood. I bought that piece fair and square without lie-one in the bargain, and I don’t care how upset that feller is, I mean to sell it at a handsome profit.”

  Rep mentally shrugged. Oh for two. Trevelyan now blinked as he suddenly seemed to remember Rep’s face.

  “You’re outta uniform there, ain’t ya, private? Where’s your union suit?”

  “At the tailor’s,” Rep said, “getting a button sewn on.”

  Trevelyan glanced down for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had a little less rustic josh and a lot more shut-up-and-deal to it.

  “Okay,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, finding out that button was worth three-hundred-fifty dollars started me wondering about other Civil War collectibles.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Start with medals. I don’t know the name of the one I’m thinking about. I’m not even sure it’s from the Civil War.”

  “The only two medals authorized in the United States armed forces during the Civil War were the purple heart and the congressional medal of honor,” Trevelyan said. “The Rebs didn’t have any atall.”

  Rep described as best he could the medal he’d seen displayed in Lawrence’s office. Trevelyan shook his head.

  “Not a Civil War medal, that’s for sure,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like it’s even American. Too fussy.”

  Rep’s cell phone rang. He impatiently turned it off.

  “How about documents?” he asked, carefully watching Trevelyan’s face.

  “Depends on the document.”

  “A copy of General Order Number 11,” Rep said.

  “General Ewing’s?” Trevelyan asked.

  Had to be a stall. How many other General Order Number 11’s would Civil War hobbyists be interested in buying?

  “Right,” Rep said evenly. “General Ewing. Redlegs.”

  “Well,” Trevelyan said, “copies of that order were supposed to go to every civilian in three counties, so a lot of them were printed up. Not all that rare. Genuine specimen, not too ratty, probably get ya twelve hundred. For ten percent I’ll try to find someone who might be interested, or I’ll take a look at what you got and tell you how much I’d take it off your hands for.”

  “You think someone like Mr. Lawrence might be interested in buying something like that?”

  Trevelyan backed away from his side of the table and folded his arms across his chest, resting them on his ample belly.

  “Here’s the way it is, pilgrim,” he said. “In this little deal you’re talkin’ about, you’d be bringin’ a piece of paper with General Ewing’s signature on it, and the buyer would be bringin’ a check. What I’d be bringin’ is that I know the two of you and you don’t know each other. So if I start tellin’ you who buyers are, I don’t have much left to sell except charm and good looks—and I’d starve to death peddlin’ those.”

  “Actually, Mr. Lawrence already has a copy of General Order Number 11,” Rep said. “Suppose I were interested in buying one, like he did. And suppose I wasn’t too particular about where it came from or how it got here. You think you might be able to lay your hands on one?”

  “You done got me a trifle confused,” Trevelyan said. “One minute you maybe have one, and the next minute you maybe want one. When you git your mind made up what you’re talkin’ about, come back and we’ll confabulate.”

  Rep noticed Trevelyan glance reflexively at a Navy Colt like the one he’d pitched to Rep yesterday. This one, though, wasn’t in a display case. It was holstered, slung over the back of a chair a couple of feet from Trevelyan, and from what Rep could see of the cylinder, it was loaded. Nodding politely, which was more than Trevelyan did, he walked away.

  The encampment seemed eerily untouched by the murder Rep had discovered around eight hours before. Rep didn’t know if cops were still circulating among the re-enactors looking for information, but the scene-of-crime team was gone. The Port-a-Potty where he’d found Quinlan’s body was nowhere to be seen, but the others were still in place. More re-enactors had arrived, more tents had gone up, and more evidence of horses—much more, Rep thought—had accumulated.

  Trevelyan had seemed open and expansive about the medals but evasive and close-mouthed about General Order Number 11—especially when Rep connected it to Lawrence and hinted at a dubious provenance for it. Had Tommy Quinlan gotten his throat cut over that—over some cheesy little twelve-hundred dollar swindle? Maybe. People were murdered over less every day in America. But, Rep reflected ruefully as he plodded toward the hill leading to Jackrabbit Press, men were murdered a lot more often over women.

  Shoulders slumping a bit, he checked his cell-phone for messages. There was one, from Melissa. She told him about finding Peter and the police searching the Damons’ home. Then her voice flattened a bit, as if to prepare him for anticlimax.

  “Finally,” she said, “I’m now at the Jackson County Public Library, waiting to talk to Peter’s boss. I’m passing the time trying to run down that medal you described. So far I have about six possibilities from as many countries, none of them ours. Talk to you later.”

  A puffy-eyed receptionist sitting at a polished chestnut desk was the only difference Rep noticed in the front room at Jackrabbit Press. Word of Quinlan’s murder had apparently foreclosed any thoughts of clearing away the props from last night’s social. The police must have come, but Rep couldn’t see any evidence that they were still there.

  “I’m very sorry about Mr. Quinlan,” Rep told the receptionist.

  She nodded as she reached for a Kleenex. He didn’t deliberately look at her cleavage as she leaned forward, but a distinctive necklace tucked under her top drew his eye. After a moment’s surprise, he realized that the elegant but rather large object dangling from the chain was a DeLorean hood ornament. He averted his glance, both to be polite and to see whether she was wearing a wedding ring. She was.

  “Mr. L
awrence says it’s like a death in the family,” she said, her voice a trifle husky. “In summer, if we weren’t gearing up a title, Mr. Lawrence and Tommy and I would often be the only ones here. We’re a very small press.”

  Whose editor-in-chief drove a DeLorean with a knurled walnut dashboard, Rep thought. And maybe treated the receptionist as a fringe benefit. He made a mental note of the name on her deskplate: Karin Henderson.

  “I’m early for a two-thirty appointment with Mr. Lawrence,” Rep said then. “I’m Rep Pennyworth.”

  “He’s expecting you in the downstairs conference room,” she said.

  Rep found Lawrence dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a black tie and a black silk handkerchief. He had a monopoly on mourning garb, for Andy Pignatano, the other man in the room, was wearing a navy blue blazer and a powder blue, open-necked dress shirt. He was within an inch of Rep’s modest height and had even less hair, so Rep liked him immediately.

  Rep’s plan had been to use the conference as a pretext for finding out as much as he could about the investigation thus far. Not a bad idea per se but it promptly fell on its face, for Lawrence wasn’t going to let a substantive word out of his mouth. Pignatano was there in case Rep wondered how the term “mouthpiece” had come to be slang for “lawyer.”

  As a result, Rep and Pignatano ended up conversing in a kind of arcane code that lawyers use when they’re talking to each other in the presence of clients. For the benefit of readers who aren’t lawyers, the following account includes a simultaneous translation into standard English.

  “Well,” Pignatano said after introductions and distribution of coffee and ice water, “maybe we can start by you bringing me up to date.” (I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. You first.)

  “Police searched the Damons’ home earlier today and took some things,” Rep said. (We’ll start with a tease. Then we’ll see.)

  “Including a saber?” (I want the good parts.)

  “The nosy neighbor who passed this information on didn’t specify,” Rep said. (You can’t always get what you want.)

  “Well,” Pignatano shrugged, “I guess that much was to be expected.” (Come on, you haven’t actually told me anything yet.)

  “Really?” Rep said. “Are search warrants that easy to come by in Kansas City?” (I’ve told you more than you’ve told me.)

  “I understand that Mrs. Damon was seen talking to the murder victim last night,” Pignatano said. (I can prevaricate as easily as you can.)

  “Sure, but so what? Quinlan was Linda’s boss. It’d be natural for them to talk if they ran into each other here. I don’t practice criminal law, but it seems a little light in the probable cause department.” (Bullshit.)

  “Maybe,” Pignatano said, sketching another shrug. “Or maybe that’s not all they had.” (I have to give you something, don’t I?)

  “That’s my point,” Rep said. “Did the cops sell blue sky and sunshine to a judge? Or did they really have something else? And if so, what was it and who gave it to them?” (Yes, you have to give me something.)

  “Fair questions,” Pignatano said, nodding. “In any urban police force you’re going to have some cowboys. On the whole, though, the cops here play it pretty straight. I don’t think they were just making it up.” (Of course, the cops I know have accounting degrees and go after bank clerks—not guys with Uzis under their tank tops. But you don’t know that, do you?)

  “So. What else did they have?” (Oh yes I do.)

  “Whatever it was,” Pignatano said, “they haven’t shared it with me.” (I’m not going to out-and-out lie to you, but if I actually tell you the complete truth it will be an accident.)

  “How about you, Mr. Lawrence?” Rep asked. “I know this has been a tough day for you and you have other things to worry about, but have you picked up anything about what’s gotten the police interested in the Damons?”

  “Andy knows everything I know,” Lawrence said.

  “Has Mrs. Damon given a statement to the police yet?” Pignatano asked. (If at first you don’t succeed…. )

  “Only if she’s done it in the last hour or so.” (Figure it out, college boy.)

  “Where is she now?” (…try, try again.)

  “Are you sure you want to know?” (Yeah, right.)

  “I don’t follow,” Pignatano said, smiling in politely feigned puzzlement. (You don’t trust me, do you?)

  “You live here,” Rep said. “You have to work with the Kansas City Police Department every day. Neither of the Damons has hired you, at least not yet. Information you get about them right now isn’t privileged. I know you wouldn’t volunteer it. If a cop happened to ask you, though, that might confront you with a delicate dilemma.” (No, I don’t trust you.)

  “True enough,” Pignatano said. “One solution would be to have one of them hire me as soon as possible, assuming that’s what they want to do.” (Let’s fish or cut bait.)

  “You’re right, it’s not fair to leave you up in the air,” Rep said. “Let me check and see if there’s any further word.” (Yes, let’s.)

  Rep stood up, took out his cell phone, and strolled toward the wall behind Pignatano’s chair as he dialed Melissa’s number. As simulated ringing sounded in his ears, he pointed the face of the headset at the part of the wall where the mounted medal hung and pushed (or hoped he pushed) a button that would digitally record the image.

  “Hello?” Melissa said.

  “Nuts, voice-mail,” Rep said over his shoulder.

  “No, honey,” Melissa’s voice informed him, “I’m on the phone.”

  “Melissa, this is Rep. I’ve been talking with Mr. Lawrence and the lawyer he recommended, Andy Pignatano, who seems very good, and—”

  “Reppert, beloved, I am ON THE PHONE. LIVE.”

  “—I think we need to get Linda in to see him as soon as possible. Have her block out as much of tomorrow as she can. ”

  “Oh, I get it. Sorry to be so slow on the uptake.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  He ended the call. While he was putting the phone away he squinted at the framed copy of General Order Number 11 on the wall. He just wanted to confirm that General Thomas Ewing’s name was at the bottom.

  It wasn’t. The order was signed by John Rawlins, a general Rep had never heard of.

  Have to think about that later, Rep thought as he turned back to the other two.

  “Well,” he said, “I can’t speak for Linda or Peter, of course, but I think you’re absolutely right. We need someone who knows what he’s doing on their case without delay.” (Which, however, can’t be you, because it looks to me like you’re somebody else’s lawyer.)

  “Thanks for the kind words.” (Even though you were just stroking me.) “I have a nine o’clock in intake court tomorrow, but I’ll have my secretary save as much time from eleven-thirty on as I can.” (I’m never going to see these people, am I?)

  After a quick round of moist handshakes and professional smiles, Rep left. On the way out, he took a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his sport coat. As he reached the receptionist’s desk, though, he decided that a ballpoint pen wouldn’t really do for what he had in mind.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Karin Henderson, “but could I possibly buy a pencil and an envelope from you?”

  “No,” she said with a smiling-through-the-tears moue as she opened the top right-hand drawer of the table. “I will cheerfully give you one of each, but only if you promise to take them at no charge.”

  “We have a deal,” Rep said.

  He supposed he should have found a handy tree stump to sit on while he composed his message, but decided instead to take the first perch away from Jackrabbit Press that offered itself. This turned out to be the bumper of a school bus parked about halfway down the hill toward the encampment, presumably after delivering a covey of screaming summer-schoolers on a Civil War-theme field trip.

  The lined paper in his notebook was
anachronistic. He couldn’t help that, but he tried to mitigate the problem by turning the notebook sideways and writing across the lines instead of along them. After resisting the urge to lick the pencil point, he set to work:

  My Dear Sgt Pendleton,

  I have the honor to request that you make contact with me at your entire convenience to speak further concerning the matter we entered on this morning.

  He added his cell-phone number, wrote “Esq.” with a flourish after his signature, sealed the note in the envelope, and wrote, “Sergeant Red Pendleton, Mo. Partisan Rangers” on the front.

  He wandered tentatively toward the Confederate side of the encampment, which was less familiar to him than the Union side. With new participants steadily arriving, what little bearings Rep had lost their meaning in the blossoming of additional tents and swarming of fresh activity. He was wondering whether the copse he was passing through was Yankee or Rebel territory when a gray-clad figure answered the question by stepping out from behind a bush with his musket at port arms.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” he bellowed. “Please state your business!”

  Startled, Rep jumped back and searched for words. Those that came didn’t have a nineteenth-century ring to them, somehow.

  “Ah, right. Yes. I, ah, have a message for Sergeant Pendleton of the Missouri Partisan Rangers.”

  “Sergeant Pendleton is engaged, sir!”

  Rep wondered why the picket thought this information would be of interest to people several miles away, where Rep was quite sure the stentorian retort could be heard. Not without some trepidation, he tendered the envelope to the picket.

  “Would it be possible, do you think, for someone to deliver this to him when he’s free?”

  “Corporal of the Guard, post number four!” the picket bawled as he accepted the missive. “Message for Sergeant Pendleton! Corporal of the Guard, post number four!”

  “Thank you,” Rep said.

  “Corporal of the Guard, post number four! Message for Sergeant Pendleton!”

  “Much obliged.”

  “Corporal of the Guard, post number four!”