by Lonni Lees
The animated figure, the bridge and the railings appeared on the screen and Maggie started playing with the numbers. Height of railing, height of John Doe, distance from the bridge to where the body landed. No matter where she placed him on the bridge the results were the same.
It was just as she suspected.
The calculations proved that there was no way Mr. John Doe could have gone over that railing without assistance. The architects and engineers would certainly have designed the bridge to avoid just such an accident. They had done their job and now she had to do hers. So who was he? And who had hoisted him over the railing and into the javelina enclosure? They’d already determined that he was dead before he landed, but there were no apparent attack wounds on his body other than those from the javelinas. So how was he killed? The autopsy should provide some answers. Although it was the crime that mattered not the motive, motive helped in zeroing in on the perpetrator. And identifying the victim was an important step toward some answers.
But he was a nameless mystery.
She called the extension again.
“Just a head’s up,” she said. “Our John Doe was definitely a murder.”
Maggie hung up and rose from her desk.
She needed to think and she needed a smoke.
She reached for her purse and the phone rang.
“Detective Reardon,” she said.
“Maggie, this is Rocco.”
Her heart did its usual dance at the sound of his voice.
“Hello Rocco.”
“I got a call from the Museum. A bunch of gossip really, but they’re closed and my volunteer days have been cancelled until further notice. What’s going on?”
“A dead body.”
Blunt, to the point, no details.
“At the javelina enclosure, I know, but I hoped you could fill me in.”
“There’s nothing to add yet. And Rocco, you know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Ever the professional. I should’ve known better.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“Should I get used to bodies sprouting up wherever I turn?”
“Get close enough to me and it’s bound to happen.”
He changed the subject. “About last night…”
Maggie stiffened, waiting for the usual I’m dumping you excuse. She’d heard it more times than she cared to count.
“Go ahead.”
“I was wondering when I could see you again.”
An inaudible sigh of relief as she jumped on it like a cat on catnip. “How about tonight?”
“I was hoping that would be your answer.”
“My house is a mess. Can we make it your place?”
“Seven-ish?”
“That works for me.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Maggie hung up, grabbed her purse and headed through the front door.
Leaning against the building she inhaled deeply. Nothing like a little nicotine mixed with fresh air to calm her down and help her think.
Jerry Montana and Aaron Iverson walked across the parking lot in her direction. She’d try not to gloat too much when she told Jerry what she’d discovered. She loved being right as much as he hated being wrong. Were it not for their truce, she’d have found great pleasure in rubbing it in until his skin burned.
“You guys finished combing through the trash bins?”
“No way,” answered Aaron in his Minnesotan accent. “We’re about half way is all, but we’ll finish it up tomorrow, you betcha.”
“Too bad you couldn’t join us,” said Jerry. “But you wouldn’t want to get those pretty little hands dirty.”
“You gotta love the pecking order, right Jerry?”
“I don’t know about him but I’m ready for a hot shower and some peppermint schnapps,” said Aaron.
“You were good out there today.”
“Thanks.”
When they reached the front entrance she said, “Oh Jerry, just thought you’d like to know something.”
“Depends,” he said, turning to face her.
“It was no accident.”
CHAPTER SIX
Politics and Paint Brushes
“Be patient,” Rocco La Crosse said to Adrian as the artists trickled one by one into the gallery. “We’re bound to lose a few more, just like we lost Belinda. People come into our lives and people move on.”
“What if there aren’t enough of them left to put on a show? Then what?”
“Those that support us will continue to do so. Those that don’t are no loss. This is a time of change and we need to move forward. If worse comes to worse we can all clear out the backlog in our studios to fill the walls. Hell, I’ve got enough at home for a one man show. Maybe two.”
Adrian rose from where she sat behind the desk and reached for her pile of papers.
“I’d be more comfortable if you did the talking,” she said.
The metal folding chairs in the first gallery room began to fill. The space was thick with inaudible whispers that turned silent when Rocco entered. Adrian sat down and fidgeted with her papers, avoiding eye contact.
Rocco stood before the seated artists.
“This is a difficult time,” he began. “First I’d like to thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Where’s Barbara?” asked Calypso. Orange Bozo the Clown hair clashed with her magenta blouse like melted crayons run amok. Her hair danced in crazy strands, as though she’d just dragged herself out of bed and was struggling to get her bearings. “I haven’t heard anything since, well, since…” Her voice drifted off as her attention span took its usual decline. Her focus turned to her bright purple skirt, fingers tracing the stitches along the borders of the multi-colored floral appliques.
Rocco was direct.
“For those of you who haven’t heard, Barbara has confessed to killing Armando.”
Gasps of disbelief echoed through the room.
“I don’t understand,” said a bewildered Mary Rose. The elderly woman shook her head. “I thought it was a robbery.”
“She probably had good reason,” said Paloma Blanca. “He never was a prize.”
“I’ll be brief,” said Rocco. “Barbara’s in jail. At this point she hasn’t been charged, but we should have an answer soon and I’ll keep you posted. Bottom line is we’re hoping they see it as self-defense.” He filled them in about Armando’s cocaine smuggling and how it was accomplished. And how he’d attacked Barbara when she found him out.
“And she hit him with the Gaia statue? How utterly ironic.” Paloma Blanca smirked, looked around the room and stretched her neck to see who was seated behind her. “And where is the great Belinda? I’d have thought she’d be here.”
“She came and left,” said Rocco. “She’s decided to go to another gallery. If any of you are uncomfortable and want to follow suit we understand and there will be no ill feelings. You can pick up your art and your money and leave. If you choose to stay, Adrian and I will be in charge until things settle down. I needn’t say that your support will be more than appreciated.”
Only Paloma Blanca rose. Dark eyes peered through her long black hair as she scanned the room. She walked over to the display case that held her jewelry and began placing the pieces into her large tote bag.
“I’ll make arrangements elsewhere,” she said.
“I can’t understand why you won’t be staying,” said Mary Rose. “You’ve been here so long. You’re family my dear.”
“Mi familia? It’s run it’s course so consider this our divorce. I’m cutting ties and moving on.” She walked over to Adrian and reached for her check. “Well, it looks like you’ve got Barbara all to yourself again, just like you wanted.”
Adrian mumbled an expletive under her breath.
&nb
sp; Paloma ignored the group as she headed for the exit.
The door slammed behind her.
“Not even a ‘nice to have known you’,” said Mary Rose. “I’m truly shocked at her behavior.”
“Didn’t you know she was banging Armando? That’s probably why she stayed as long as she did.” Calypso’s turquoise and silver bracelet jangled as she rearranged her gaudy gypsy skirt.
“Common knowledge my dear, but hardly an excuse for her rudeness.”
“I never could figure what he saw in her,” said Calypso, her jealousy showing at being one of the few he’d rejected.
“She was female and she liked to play,” said Adrian. “That was enough.”
The words stung. Calypso liked to play, but despite her blatant efforts he’d never given her a tumble.
“Two prima donnas gone,” she said.“And one Lothario.” She stretched her hands dramatically upward, waving them to and fro. “A blessing from the Goddess.”
“Let’s not deteriorate into gossip,” said Mary Rose. “It serves no purpose nor should one speak ill of the dead. It’s bad karma.”
The watercolor artist, Misty Waters, spoke up for the first time, her trembling voice a mere whisper, as soft and washed out as both her appearance and her paintings.
“So we won’t be holding a memorial for him.” There was no sarcasm in her comment.
“Inappropriate under the circumstances, don’t you think?” muttered Adrian.
“But sad,” Misty replied, then folded back into the safety of her shell.
Rocco looked at the walls filled with art from the interrupted show. They were already down two artists. He understood them not wanting to be associated with a murder but had hoped their loyalty would outweigh their apprehensions.
“Before we continue,” he said, “is there anyone else who prefers not to stay?”
Silence.
“Good. Your support is our life blood, but our family needs to grow. Anybody know any artists who’d be interested in joining us?”
“Oh, I do,” said Mary Rose, adjusting the lavender flower in her snowy hair. “My neighbor Giorgio would be a wonderful addition. He makes jewelry to sell at the swap meets. He’s a silversmith and deserves better exposure. Look,” she said, waving her hand in the air, “he made this ring. Very talented fellow.”
Misty Waters leaned forward to look at the ring.
“He recycles broken pieces,” said Mary Rose, “adds to them and creates beauty.”
“A good replacement for Paloma,” said Adrian. “Jewelry always sells.”
“And he’s a handsome devil,” said Mary Rose.
That got Calypso’s attention.
“Don’t get optimistic,” Mary Rose said to her. “He’s a bit light in the loafers, if you know what I mean.”
“Darn.”
“And Rocco,” Mary Rose continued, “he’s no prima donna. He’d be a perfect fit.”
“I trust your judgment.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Any more ideas?”
“I can talk to a few of the art students next time I’m in Bistro Bleu. It’s a hang-out for the University crowd,” said Calypso. “The Bistro hangs their art. They might be students, but they’re good.”
“Brilliant.”
“I’ll get on it. They’d kiss your hairy toes to get into a real gallery.” Calypso’s attention drifted. She rose and started to remove her colorful collages from the wall and decorated boxes from their shelf, stacking them onto the floor. “I can’t believe I didn’t sell every one of them,” she mumbled to no one in particular. “But I did okay, considering…”
“Misty,” Rocco asked, trying to prod their resident mystery out of her silence, “do you have any ideas?”
She squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable at being the center of attention. She lowered her head and spoke. “I don’t know anyone. But I’m working on some new canvases.”
“Great. There’s nothing else to cover, so let’s get the art down and you can pick up your checks.”
Misty rose and walked over to Calypso.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.”
“I’m looking for a home for my pet. He’s a white cockatoo and his name is Baretta.”
“Why would you give away such a beautiful creature?”
“He talks.”
“How delightful.”
“Not really. He swears like a sailor and it bothers me.”
Heads turned as Calypso snorted, then muffled her laughter.
“What does he say?”
“Things I’d rather not repeat.”
“I’d love to meet him.”
The two women continued their conversation as Rocco started to take down Mary Rose’s remaining landscapes. She was frail and the frames were heavy. There were several empty spots where her sold paintings had hung.
“You’re such a gentleman,” she said, approaching him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“And you, my darling Mary, are a true lady. Catch the door and I’ll carry these to your car. It looks like you’ve got a healthy check coming.”
“Now I can turn up the air conditioning,” she said, daintily dabbing at the beads of perspiration collecting above her top lip. “That should make Sir Chesterfield happy. My fluffy feline finds the summers challenging. As do I these days.”
“Tonight at The Oasis,” Calypso announced with a dramatic belly dancers hip-thrust. “Come, watch me dance!” She wiggled and jiggled her multi-colored palette across the room and out the door.
One by one, the artists removed their works until the walls were freckled with nothing but empty nails and the display shelves held nothing but yesterday’s dust.
* * * *
Detective Maggie Reardon tossed her cigarette butt to the pavement and ground it out with the heel of her shoe. She popped a breath mint into her mouth, then followed Jerry Montana and Aaron Iverson back into headquarters and caught up with them.
“C’mon over to my desk,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
“I want to go home,” said Jerry.
“We rest when our work is done.”
“I’m done,” he said. “Call it a day.”
“We’ve hardly begun”
“Aren’t you even curious?” said Aaron. “She said it wasn’t an accident. Let’s see what she’s got.”
The two of them hovered over Maggie’s chair, Jerry’s arms crossed and his foot tapping impatiently as she brought up the screen on her computer. The glow from the screen mixed with the late afternoon hues that cut through the windows and across her desk.
“I’ve played with this over and over and no matter how I enter the calculations the results are the same.”
Maggie dragged the computer’s mouse from one spot to another and the two men studied the animated caricature as it performed its tricks. First it froze from different positions along the bridge railing above the javelina enclosure. Then they watched as it tumbled and did cartwheels over the railing, first from one angle and then from another.
“Gumby fall down, go boom,” said Jerry. “So?”
“The point is…,” she began.
“Yeah hey, I see it!” said Aaron. “No matter what you do with the guy it would have been impossible for him to go over the railing…”
“Without a helping hand.”
“But there were no signs of…” said Jerry. “There wasn’t a damn thing that indicated foul play and you know it. Barney Fife here is as blind as you are.”
“The calculations don’t lie. We’ve definitely got a murder on our hands. When you go back tomorrow I want you to comb every square inch of the place. The medical examiner should come up with cause of death as soon as she catches up on her backlog. That should give us
a clue to the murder weapon and with luck it’s out there somewhere. We need to find it.”
“We?” asked Jerry sarcastically. “I don’t see any dirt under your fingernails.”
“I thought we had a truce,” she said, rising from her chair and facing him. “Either you start treating me with respect or I’ll have you written up for insubordination. You got that?”
If looks could kill, he thought, she could burn me to a crisp with those devil green eyes. “I read you, Irish,” he said, knowing further comment would just fuel the flames. She was hot enough already.
“Detective Reardon to you. Why don’t you practice saying that tomorrow while your sifting through all those piles of crap? It might help your perspective.”
He glared at her. It was no wonder her ex boyfriend gave her a shiner and a fat lip. Instead of running the guy in, he should’ve given him a medal. Or paid him to finish the job he’d like to do himself. A mutually beneficial alliance if ever there was one.
“And wipe that smirk off your face.”
“We’re a team, aren’t we?” said Aaron, trying to be diplomatic. The last thing he wanted to do as a rookie was ruffle the guy’s feathers, but he was finding Jerry Montana increasingly difficult to work under.
“And it’s going to take teamwork to figure this out,” said Maggie.
“You betcha,” said Aaron.
Maggie’s phone rang and she picked it up.
“Hi Rocco,” she said.
Jerry strained to hear the voice at the other end.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”
She hung up the phone.
“As I was saying, we need teamwork on this.”
“Right,” said Jerry as he turned and walked away, squaring his shoulders so the big chip wouldn’t fall off.
Aaron remained at her side as Jerry exited the front door.
“Can we talk? Confidentially?”
Maggie nodded.
“I don’t like working with Jerry.”
“That’s no surprise.”
“I know he’s supposed to show me the ropes and all but he treats me like I’m some dumb-ass hayseed.”
“Go on.”
“Where I come from we didn’t have much crime, I know that. A few break-ins, some domestic abuse calls and a book full of traffic citations. Not much of a resume. I wanted my obituary to say more than I was the cop who got the Jorgensen’s cat out of the tree. Not out of ego, but because I want to make a difference. I wanted to come to a place where I could cut my teeth and prove myself, but I made a mistake.”
