“It wasn’t like that at all,” said Matt. “We were celebrating Rita’s six-week anniversary, and—”
“And what, drinking and dancing?”
“Not exactly,” answered Matt.
“Then what?”
“Well – mostly talking, actually. Chris and Rita danced a little, but more than anything, the three of us just talked.”
“Oh, real cozy like, huh, you and the home wrecker. What did you talk about? Me?”
“No,” said Matt, firmly, “we did not talk about you.”
“Well, what then?”
“Mostly about her affairs,” said Matt. He immediately regretted his choice of words. “That’s not what I meant. You know, she came with a lot of baggage, and she just wanted to explain herself.”
“And just how did she explain her affairs?”
Matt was growing weary of the subject. “Look, it’s not what you think, okay? She—we—needed to clear the air, that’s all. I think it worked out pretty well, actually.”
“Well, I’m not so sure I agree,” said Valerie. She pulled her robe tight around her and stood up. “I think you should sleep on the couch,” she said softly. With that, Val turned and walked off silently to the bedroom, leaving Matt wondering why he had even bothered coming home.
The next morning, he arose at sunrise, quickly showered and dressed, and put a pot of coffee on, all before waking Val. Reluctantly, she sat and listened as Matt filled in the details of the previous night’s events. He explained how desperately Rita had wanted to be accepted by the squad, and how her whole history had been distorted and exaggerated. He also described how her perfume had gotten on his clothing when she had unexpectedly hugged him in appreciation for his agreeing to go to Malone’s. More than once, Matt apologized for not calling home, and promised never again to leave Val guessing. Val tried staying angry, but the more she listened to Matt, the more apparent it became that he couldn’t possibly be fabricating such a story. Eventually Matt persuaded her to accept his apology, but not before Val managed to get in one last good-natured jab.
“You better be telling the truth, Buster. If I find out otherwise, you’ll be sleeping in the hallway, never mind the couch.”
“Yes, dear,” replied Matt, in his best Dagwood Bumstead imitation.
“Oh, and Dagwood,” said Val, picking up on the routine, “Don’t forget to pick up a roast at the butcher’s.”
Things were going to be all right, after all, thought Matt as he slipped out the door to greet the day.
The first thing Davis noticed upon his arrival at the precinct was that Freitag and Valdez were acting like divorced spouses at a birthday party for their mutual offspring; they appeared to be avoiding one another at all cost. Things remained like that until three o’clock, when Matt finally decided that enough was enough, and called the other two into his office.
“Okay, if anyone wants to say anything, say it now and let’s get it out of the way.” Freitag and Valdez shot nervous glances at one another, but remained silent.
“Look, it’s no big deal,” said Matt. “Nobody did anything, and nothing happened, right?” More silence. Rita started to speak at the same time as Chris, and both ended up laughing. Matt looked back and forth at the two of them. “Oh, so you’re telling me something did happen. Is that what it is?”
“Well,” said Chris, “not exactly—”
“But, it’s not what you think,” said Rita. Immediately, she regretted her choice of words. “I mean, you’re right. Nothing happened – at least, not like you that.”
“Oh, shit,” said Chris. “It’s no big deal. I drove Rita home…and…well, we just…uh, you know how it is. Well, shit, it’s none of your business, and let’s just leave it at that. Okay?”
“That’s fine,” said Matt, with an air of finality in his voice. “Really. Now, can we all get back to work, and stop acting like a bunch of teenagers?”
Chris and Rita looked at each other, and replied in unison, “Sure, no problem.”
“Good,” said Matt. “Oh, and you’ll both be pleased to know that, unlike you too, I spent the night on the old Thomasville convertible—but, everything’s cool, so not to worry.”
“Oh, Matt,” said Rita, “I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do—”
“Actually, I think you’ve done enough already,” laughed Matt. “But, seriously, Val and I had a long talk, and everything is really okay.”
Rita breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m really glad, because I wouldn’t want anything to happen that would screw things up for any of us, if you know what I mean.”
“Everything’s just fine,” said Matt. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think we should all get back to work solving crime. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve still got a killer to catch.”
CHAPTER 46
9:15 p.m., Friday, May 12
Since spending the evening with Freitag at Malone’s, and in light of their budding relationship, Rita had been slowly disengaging herself from her other “relationship,” (if one could call it that) the one with her online friend, Carl. She had pretty much told him that she wasn’t interested in pursuing things, and he had actually seemed relieved. Everything appeared to be falling place – she hoped.
She was reading a news article posted on her AOL home page, when an “Instant Message” box opened on her screen.
Hunkalovin’: Hi! What’s shakin’?
At first, Rita was startled by the intrusion. She knew it wasn’t Carl, but didn’t recognize the screen name. Then, she relaxed. It must have been someone who had been in a chat room with her. That’s it, she reasoned, he must have written down my screen name.
Sexy39: Do I know you?
Hunkalovin’: Not really. Do you want to?
Do I want to? Yeah; why not?
Sexy39: Okay, I’ll bite. Who are you?
Hunkalovin’: You’ll bite? Really?
Oh boy, another sex pervert. She decided to end this conversation now.
Sexy39: Sorry, buddy. I think you’ve got the wrong girl...
Hunkalovin’: Do I really? Aren’t you sexy Rita?
A cold chill ran up Rita’s spine. How could he know her name? She never used her name on screen—just “Sexy39.”
Sexy39: Is that you, Carl?
Hunkalovin’: Who’s Carl? Is that your boyfriend?
Rita was totally perplexed. Carl was the only one who knew her real name. Yet, it wasn’t like him to play games like this. True, she reasoned, she didn’t really know him that well. But, would he really try a stunt like this?
Sexy39: Okay, Carl. If that’s you, please tell me. I’m not enjoying this...
Hunkalovin’: What? You mean you don’t like games? Ha! Ha!
Sexy39: You know what I mean. This isn’t like you...
Hunkalovin’: And what am I like? I mean, what’s Carl like?
Sexy39: Okay – that’s it! I’m out of here
Hunkalovin’: WAIT!!!
Rita hesitated. What if it was Carl? What if he was just kidding? She didn’t want him to think her immature.
Hunkalovin’: HEY! I’M SORRY!! ARE YOU STILL THERE?
Sexy39: Carl?
Hunkalovin’: No, I’m not Carl. But, I am sorry!
Sexy39: Well, I think I’m still out of here
Hunkalovin’: Please! Don’t Go! I really am sorry...
Sexy39: How did you know my name?
Hunkalovin’: I got it from your profile
My profile? Profile—Oh, shit! She remembered that she had had to fill out an information questionnaire in order to obtain an AOL screen name. So that’s where he got it. Damn it!
Sexy39: Well, look Hunk, or whatever your name is – I’m not interested, okay?
Hunkalovin’: I’m Jack! Don’t be mad, please?
Sexy39: Look, Jack, I’m not mad. But, you really scared me...
Hunkalovin’: I didn’t mean to. I was just fooling around. I’m really sorry
Rita thought about it for a minute, an
d then decided that maybe it wasn’t such a big deal after all. She’d have to remember to take her real name off her profile, or block it—or something. Anyway, there wasn’t any real harm in talking to the guy. What else did she have to do on a Friday night? Besides, wasn’t that the whole idea of this chatting crap, anyway?
Sexy39: Okay, you win. I accept your apology...
Hunkalovin’: Thank you, Rita
Sexy39: Do me a favor, okay?
Hunkalovin’: What?
Sexy39: Just don’t call me Rita...It makes me nervous...
Hunkalovin’: So what should I call you?
Rita thought about it for a minute. She really wasn’t comfortable with him calling her by her name, but what else could he call her? What the hell, she thought she might as well enjoy this. Her fingers flashed over the keyboard:
Sexy39: How about just Sexy?
Hunkalovin’: Cool! Hey Sexy! Do me a favor?
Hunkalovin’: Call me Jack?
Sexy39: Why not Hunk? That’s sexier...
Hunkalovin’: Yeah but Jack is, like, my nickname...
Hunkalovin’: ...and it gets me hot!
Sexy39: Maybe I shouldn’t use it then...ha! ha! We don’t want to get you too hot...
Although the conversation was a bit immature, Rita enjoyed chatting with Jack. The time seemed to fly by, and before she knew it, it was almost eleven o’clock. She had learned a couple of things about him. He was single, drove a Honda, and lived in New Jersey. He had also been married once, but for only two years. He didn’t think he ever wanted to marry again, but might consider it “if the right girl came along.” He claimed to be a construction worker, but Rita knew that was probably crap. She told him she was a secretary, figuring he didn’t need to know any more about her than was necessary. What difference did it make, anyway? They’d never meet; so let him think what he wanted. And, if they ever did, well, she’d worry about setting the record then. No point in putting the proverbial horse before the cart. They signed off, but not before Jack got her to agree to let him “PM” her some other time.
Before she even got into bed, Rita had long since forgotten about Jack, and fell asleep with images of Carl filling her dreams.
Jack’s dreams were of another variety all together.
CHAPTER 47
9:25 a.m., Sunday, May 14
Joan Swanson was really annoyed. She and Maria Caruso had a date for doubles tennis at ten o’clock, and she was anxious to get the scoop on her friend’s date last night. It was already nine twenty-five, and if they didn’t get moving soon they would probably miss their game. The two of them usually walked the three-and-a-half blocks to the West Side club, but now they would probably have to take a cab. She dropped her Adidas tennis bag on the floor outside Maria’s apartment, and rang the buzzer.
“Come on, Maria,” she shouted at the metal apartment door, “it’s getting late.”
After knocking loudly for almost five minutes without a response, she was no longer annoyed, but instead was becoming increasingly concerned. It wasn’t like Maria to be late. Just then, the door to the adjacent apartment opened, and an elderly woman poked her head through the narrow opening allowed by the limit of the security chain.
“Are you looking for Maria?” asked the woman.
“Yes I am,” replied Joan. “Have you seen her this morning?”
“No,” said the neighbor, “but I think she had company last night.” Then, realizing her last statement might make her appear to be a busybody, she quickly added, “We watch out for each other, you know. When I heard a man’s voice, I opened my door.”
“Did you see him?” asked Joan.
“Yes and no,” she replied.
“Well,” said Joan, “I’ve been knocking for quite a while, but she’s not answering.”
“So I noticed,” said the woman. “Maybe we should call the super?”
Joan glanced at the designer watch on her wrist and considered going on alone, but a nagging sense that something was wrong made her inclined to agree with the woman. “I think you’re right. Maybe we should call somebody,” she said.
Moments later, the neighbor returned with the janitor, an elderly gentleman smoking an oversized, blackened pipe that spewed a steady stream of noxious, blue smoke. His head was encircled by a cloud that moved along with him much like a personal weather system. Reluctantly, he selected a key from a large metal ring attached to his trousers. “Ya know, I don’t really like to get involved in other people’s business,” he said.
“Please,” said Joan, “could you just open the door?”
“Okay, okay,” he said. He inserted the key in the cylinder of the deadbolt, and gave a twist. “That’s strange,” he said, “the deadbolt’s not locked.” He slipped a different key into the worn lock opening of the doorknob below and gave a twist. The door opened easily.
The first thing they noticed was how quiet the apartment was. “Maybe she’s not even here,” said Joan. “If she went without me I’m really going to be pissed.”
The superintendent started down the narrow hall toward the bedroom, followed in turn by Joan and the neighbor. “Miss Caruso?” he called softly. “Are you there?” There was no answer.
“Maria,” said Joan, “It’s me. We’re late.”
The door to the bedroom was ajar, and Joan gently pushed it open. Then, she looked inside. “Oh, my God!” she cried.
The superintendent barely had time to react, as Joan fainted, and then collapsed silently into his arms. While struggling to hold her limp form upright, the man peered past her into the dimly lit room. He wanted to get a better look at what had caused such a reaction. Before him was a scene not unlike one of many he had witnessed countless times before in a movie—a horror movie—and he gasped for breath in order to scream. Almost immediately, as if in a bizarre show of support, came the shrill cry of the elderly neighbor, whose voice joined his in a morbid duet.
Davis, Freitag, and Valdez got there at 9:57. By the time the detectives arrived, several uniformed patrolmen had already secured the scene; yellow crime tape crisscrossed the opening to the weathered apartment building. They flashed their badges, and hurried upstairs. The door to the apartment was open, and inside, men from the forensics lab were busy collecting evidence. Davis and Freitag donned latex gloves, and stepped inside. Rita did likewise. They moved through the hallway and entered the bedroom.
“Just like the others, huh?” said Davis, addressing one of the uniformed patrolmen. His practiced eyes scanned the room.
“Certainly looks like it,” said the patrolman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-years of age. Matt could sense his discomfort. He’ll get used to it. Shit! Who am I kidding? You never get used to it.
“We’ve got three witnesses,” said the officer, pulling a small pad from his pocket. “Let’s see; there’s a friend, a Joan Swanson—she’s in the other room. And then there’s the super. The two of them discovered the body. Then there’s the neighbor, Mrs. Milam. She’s the one who called the super.”
Freitag left the one bedroom, and entered what appeared to be a second bedroom, which had been converted into a makeshift exercise room. The Swanson woman, who by now had regained consciousness, was sitting on a folding chair, sipping a Coke that one of the officers had brought to her. “Ma’am,” he said. “Do you think you could answer a few questions?”
“Well,” she sighed. “I guess so. But I don’t think I can help you much.”
The two of them went into the dining area of the living room and sat down at the small, Formica table. Freitag pulled out his notebook and a pen.
“Had you known the deceased long?” he asked.
The woman sitting across from him sagged in her chair, with her upper body limp, nearly assuming the contours of its back. Her blue eyes were moist from crying, and her dyed blond hair was matted against her damp forehead. It was obvious that she was devastated. The use of the word “deceased” cemented the fact that, indeed, her friend was actually
dead. It pushed her over the edge. Softly, she began to cry, tears cascading down her cheeks. Freitag offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted with a sigh. He waited until she had regained her composure, and began again.
“Had long had you known Miss Caruso?” he inquired.
“Almost two years,” she replied.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do this to her?”
“No,” she said. “Maria was a wonderful person. Everybody liked her.”
“Do you know if she was seeing anyone?” asked Chris.
“You mean, like a boyfriend?”
“Exactly,” said Freitag. “Usually, when something like this happens, it’s somebody the victim knew.”
“Well, she wasn’t dating anybody,” said Joan. “But, she was getting pretty friendly with some guy she had met online.”
“Did she mention a name?” asked the detective.
“No, but I know she was supposed to have a date with him last night.”
“Did she say where they were going?” asked Chris.
“No, just out for dinner,” she said. “I don’t think she wanted to say too much, in case it didn’t work out.”
Freitag reflected on the irony of her statement. “Well, thank you, ma’am,” he said. “If you think of anything else, here’s my card. Just give us a call.”
She nodded, and Matt offered to have one of the patrolmen drive her home, but she declined, saying the walk would do her good.
“Oh, detective?” she said. “There’s is one thing.”
“What’s that?” asked Chris.
“She met him in a chat room. You know, on the Internet. The guy she was supposed to go out with, I mean.”
Freitag jotted the information down in his notebook. He’d have to impound the computer, have forensics run a search of the hard drive, and see what they could come up with.
As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 16
