Deception

by Randy Alcorn

  “You already knew somebody took the bottle of white wine,” Clarence said.

  “But now it looks like they brought it too. Why would the killer bring wine to the murder scene? Did he offer it to the professor? Did the professor drink it or turn it down? And if he turned it down, maybe the killer drank from both glasses. That’s why he wiped them both.”

  “Your sergeant told you not to work on the case,” Jake said. He and Clarence cleaned up after the meal like a couple of housemaids.

  “I should have you ladies come more often.”

  Clarence looked around. “Yeah, you really should.”

  Jake picked up Why I Am Not a Christian from the coffee table, where it sat on top of Mere Christianity.

  “Been doing your reading?” I asked him before he could ask me.

  Jake smiled and pulled his own copy of Why I Am Not a Christian out of his briefcase. He turned pages, then read aloud.

  “Russell says, ‘I think that you must have a certain amount of definite belief before you have a right to call yourself a Christian. The word does not have quite such a full-blooded meaning now as it had in the times of Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas. In those days, if a man said that he was a Christian it was known what he meant.’ He’s right on target,” Jake said.

  “I didn’t think you’d agree with anything this guy says.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, he’s no friend of Christians.”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean he’s always wrong. I’m not afraid of the truth. I read lots of people I disagree with. How about you?”

  I shrugged, which is what I do instead of answering when I don’t like my answer.

  “Obviously,” Jake said, “I disagree with Russell’s view of Jesus as being just a good man and a decent teacher.”

  “You fault him for saying Jesus was a good man?”

  “No. For saying Jesus was just a good man. That He wasn’t God. When I first read Mere Christianity, Lewis got through to me when he argued that people can’t logically say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Jesus claimed to be God and to forgive sins. So He was either deceived or lying. The only other possibility is that He was telling the truth. When I considered the possibilities and weighed His words, I decided He wasn’t a liar and He wasn’t deceived. He was really who He claimed to be.”

  “At least look at the evidence,” Clarence said.

  “Look guys, I’m tired, and I’m expected at Kendra’s tonight. I’ll need my strength. I’d better take a nap.”

  Jake stood and put his hand on my shoulder. “Give our love to Kendra. Tell her we miss seeing her. Anything we can get you before we leave?”

  “Warm milk, maybe, and you can read me a bedtime story, from C. S. Lewis no doubt. Then you can warm up my jammies in the microwave and tuck me in for my nap.”

  Right then the doorbell rang. Clarence opened the door, and Mrs. Obrist marched in holding a tray with delicate china on it.

  “Feeling better?” she said to me. “Since you liked it so much, I brewed you another pot of Earl Grey.”

  The phone jarred me awake, and I saw 3:00 on the clock. Why was I not surprised? But the room wasn’t dark enough. That’s when I realized it was p.m., not a.m.

  “Sarge here. Chief Lennox wants to see you right away. I told him I’d ordered you to stay home after last night’s incident, but he was adamant.”

  “I’m right here if he wants to drop by.”

  “I’m afraid he meets everybody at his office.”

  Everybody but Kim Suda, whom he meets in the middle of the night at a convenience store.

  “He says he needs you here by four. Sorry.”

  It was 4:48, and I’d been waiting outside the chief’s office fifty-one minutes. This time his door was closed. I’d just squished chewed-up Black Jack gum between two pages of Architectural Digest when he appeared, shaking the hand of someone in an expensive suit.

  In public the chief kisses not only babies but a particular part of the human anatomy, mentioned by cops two hundred times a day, which I will not name in case my grandchildren—if I could be so lucky—one day read this.

  In private, when dealing with those under him—which is everyone wearing a badge—the chief acts like the animal with the same anatomical name.

  The chief walked the suit down the hall, then reappeared, all smiled out. Eyeing my trench coat, he beckoned me inside like snobs summon a waiter.

  “Don’t bother sitting—you won’t be here long.”

  I sat. “I’m feeling dizzy after being attacked last night. Thanks for sending the flowers.”

  He did a double take. I saw him make a mental note to tell his assistant not to send me flowers next time. That’s when he’d find out she hadn’t.

  “I’ve been looking over your paperwork,” Lennox said. “Despite our warning, you’re insisting that one of our own is guilty.”

  “I’m not insisting. I’m just concluding it, based on the evidence.”

  “And now you have a supposed assault?”

  “Supposed assault?” I said, pointing at my face, sporting all the colors of the rainbow and—I might add—not covered by makeup.

  “Are you going to say next that one of your fellow detectives was skulking around the back of your house, lying in wait for you?”

  “I don’t know who it was. But detectives can skulk. We’re professional skulkers. Cimmatoni skulks. Why couldn’t he do his skulking in my backyard? And furthermore—”

  “If you don’t resolve this case in a satisfactory manner, it’ll cost you your job. If you do it right, I’ll offer you a transfer anywhere, a promotion, a pay raise—you name it.”

  “You’re offering to pay me to ignore evidence pointing to a cop? If that’s what you’re saying, tell me directly.”

  The chief sat there uncomfortably, as one does when his head is in that location. He knew enough not to answer my question with a yes. But neither did he say no. He waved the back of his hand at me.

  “I think we know where we stand, Detective. Close the door behind you.”

  As I walked out of the chief’s office and shut the door, my eyes fell on that photo of him, his wife, and his daughter. The moment I saw it, lightning struck. I pulled my Olympus from my trench coat pocket and took a picture of the picture.

  I fought traffic and returned home at 5:50. Hours of time to experience eight minutes of being threatened and bribed.

  I opened my laptop to the crime scene pictures, then to the photos of the photos on the mantel. I scrolled through them until I landed on one in particular. There, in the third frame on the left side, was a picture with the professor’s arm around a girl on his left and another on his right, with two boys to the outside. I didn’t need to look at the picture I’d taken an hour ago to recognize that one of the girls was Chief Lennox’s daughter.

  I fell asleep, this time in the recliner, and woke up at seven. I showered and found a clean shirt and was heading toward Kendra’s house when I got stuck behind a fender bender. I considered calling her, but I knew whatever I said would sound like an excuse. I had such a track record of excuses that legitimate reasons don’t count. I’m the dad who cried wolf.

  I rolled down the window. The smell of brakes and wet asphalt didn’t help my head. I thought about flipping on the siren, but I didn’t want to get another reprimand, like the time I used sirens to get home in time to watch the season finale of 24.

  I pulled up to Kendra’s apartment; she’d been here eighteen months. It was only my second visit, though I’d driven by a dozen times hoping to catch a glimpse of her. As I walked to her door, I noticed the bushes, the bad lighting, and figured out six hiding places and three escape routes for an assailant. I’d talked to the manager about it when I was here the first time. I’d do it again, but this time I wouldn’t make the mistake of mentioning it to Kendra.

  The number on her door was hanging loose, so I reached for my Swiss Army knife that
hangs from a thin metal wire on the inside of my belt. It was the only gift my father ever gave me. He’d thought it clever that it wasn’t kept in the pocket but hidden under the belt. As far as I knew this was the full extent of my heritage from my father. I wondered what my daughters would say I’d passed on to them.

  I straightened the number, then tightened the screw. I breathed deeply and knocked. I heard her on the other side, looking through the fish-eye lens.

  “What were you doing?” she asked, before the door completely opened. She stepped out and looked at the door. “I should’ve known. Like I’m not capable of fixing a crooked number.”

  “I know you’re capable. I just—”

  “I didn’t open the door before looking through the peephole.”

  “Good. Did you have the Mace in your hand just in case?”

  “No. But when I saw it was you, I wished I did.”

  I laughed. It would have been one of those perfect father-daughter moments … if she’d laughed too.

  Not that it was a full-fledged scowl. It was more a look of moderate disapproval. But I learned many years ago that the mildest disapproval from a daughter is a twisted knife in her father’s heart. In my visits to Kendra over the years, I’d walked away with bloodstained shirts. Andrea was a long-term hemorrhage. Kendra was a recurrent stabbing.

  In all fairness, I’ve fired off my share of rounds at her too. I always found myself looking back and rewording things. But it was too late. It’s always too late.

  She’d invited me to dinner, yet I was sure an hour later she’d regret it. I looked at her knowing that whatever I said or didn’t say would be wrong. Just then I remembered I had something in my hand. I held them out to her.

  “What are those?”

  “Gerbera daisies,” I said.

  She didn’t take them. I set them on a magazine on the coffee table. Apparently this wasn’t right, since she quickly scooped them up, rescuing the magazine.

  “Kendra, is there any chance we could … you know … have a good relationship?”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  “Could you just … give it a try?”

  “Am I supposed to feel guilty? Like it was my fault?”

  “I didn’t mean that. It was my fault, not yours. Really. But I was hoping maybe the judgment would expire.”

  “I’m being judgmental?”

  “No. A judgment’s a legal decision against somebody. It expires after ten years. I just meant—”

  “You think I don’t know what a judgment is? You’ve always thought I’m stupid.”

  I’d never thought that. But I was beginning to wonder.

  “Remember Stephen, the guy I was in love with?”

  “Short guy with the goatee?”

  “That was Sedgwick. He loved me too. Stephen was the guy you harassed.”

  “Remind me.”

  “We see you at a restaurant, and I make the mistake of going to the restroom. You tell him if he ever hurts me, you’ll kill him and make it look like an accident.”

  “Okay, the guy with all the piercings. I said it good-naturedly.”

  “Right, which is why you gave him three examples of how you might kill him.”

  “It was two examples. I’d just started the third when you got back. I never even finished.”

  “It’s funny to you, but he was terrified. And it’s my life you messed up.”

  “You think Stephen was the right guy for you? Because if you do, I’ll get a metal detector and go find him tomorrow and apologize. I mean it.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “In a heartbeat. Just say the word.”

  “No. He wasn’t the right guy for me.”

  “Is he the.” I paused as if I’d stepped on a land mine, and any attempt to lift the foot would blow off a leg.

  “Father of my child? No.” Long pause. “You wouldn’t like him.”

  “Do you?”

  “I thought I did, but he’s gone. Didn’t want the responsibility. Anybody who’d leave me because I’m having his baby would leave me for a dozen other reasons.”

  “Or a hundred. I meant what I said, sweetheart. I’ll help you financially. Or any other way.”

  “Abortion? That was the father’s solution.”

  “I’d never want you to hurt yourself like that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll do anything, and on your terms. I love you. I want to help you.”

  She stared at me, as if trying to figure out a Rubik’s Cube.

  “The side of your face is bruised,” she said. “What happened?”

  I told her the story. As I did, her face softened. She got me a cold pack and medications, natural ones, the kind that didn’t require the killing of ducks or armadillos. She asked me to put on some orange ointment made out of kumquats or something. It smelled funny but felt good. Mulch could lick it off when I got home.

  Over dinner we talked civilly. I asked her about her work as a real estate agent. We stayed away from the hundred subjects that would divide us and talked about the dozen we had in common. Especially Sharon. This was the first time since her mother died that Kendra and I had gone thirty minutes without fighting.

  It was the best meal of vegetables, fruits, nuts, and carrot juice I’ve ever had. To be there with my little girl, no darts flying for the last two hours, was … a taste of heaven.

  As I left, she thanked me for the flowers. I wouldn’t have traded that moment for all the cheeseburgers and orange malts in the world.

  22

  “Data! Data! Data! I can make no bricks without clay!”

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6, 10:30 A.M.

  MY REGRET IN NOT REPORTING to work the day before was that I hadn’t seen the other homicide detectives and couldn’t study their faces. Whoever had attacked me Wednesday night would likely have a bruise, where I struck him with the flashlight. But only four others were in Friday, and by then a bruise could have been covered. Cimmatoni was gimpy, probably his rheumatism. No bruises were obvious. Everyone kept their distance but Tommi. And she hadn’t been my assailant. He’d been too strong. It must have been a man.

  I left headquarters to meet Carp in her home office in Northwest Portland, near Wallace Park, twelve minutes from downtown. Her furniture was modern. No clutter, yet the house seemed comfortable and fit her. I admired her wall hangings—award-winning photos she’d taken of bridges, buildings, forests, mountains, lakes, animals, and people. I’ve done enough crime scene photography to appreciate good stuff. I vaguely sensed that something was missing. Then it came to me—no photos of dead bodies.

  She took me into her photo lab and sat me down next to her in front of a twenty-one-inch monitor displaying a wallpaper of multicolored flowers in a meadow with breathtaking clarity.

  “That’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Thanks.” I was slow to figure out she’d taken the picture.

  “I’ve superenlarged the mantel and the photos on it in five of the pictures taken in the last year before the murder.” Then she took my own photos of Palatine’s mantel, and my close-ups of each picture. “Each of these pictures shows nine photos, but there were eight after the murder. The ninth is missing. Just like you figured.”

  I nodded.

  She called up another image on the monitor. “Here’s my best resolution of that missing photo, using a computer enhanced sharpening feature. It shows the professor and two females, a blonde and a brunette. Based on his height you can judge theirs. Obviously their faces are blurred. Even eye color’s questionable with this degree of enlargement and enhancement. Sorry.”

  “Considering they were just tiny spots in the background on the originals, I’m amazed you got this much.” I pointed to something shiny. “Jewelry?”

  “Earrings on this girl and part of a chain necklace on this one. If not for reflection from the original flash, we wouldn’t see them. You’re positive you don�
�t have anything taken with a digital camera?”

  “These were from Palatine’s camera, a Canon SLR,” I said.

  “Good camera, but it’s all film, not digital. For magnification this extreme, I need a digital file.”

  She pushed her chair back from the computer. “So who swiped the photo from the mantel?”

  “My money’s on the murderer. The question is why.”

  “Because of the identity of the girls in the picture, right?”

  “One of them anyway.”

  “You think the professor had a compromising relationship?”

  “He seemed to have a pattern of compromising relationships. But the killer must have thought the girls would point a finger at him.”

  “Or maybe the girls’ jewelry?” Carp said.

  “I never thought of that.”

  She smiled. “Find me another picture, taken with a digital camera, even if it’s just the mantel in the background again. Maybe I’ll get you faces you can recognize.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m one of those helpful journalists.”

  “Lunchtime,” I said. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Double cheese, double pepperoni? I know just the place. I’ll drive.”

  She took my arm, pulling me to her front door. Once you know their love language, everything falls into place.

  Two hours later I took Abernathy with me to meet Jenn Lennox, who insisted we meet at a Starbucks in Gresham, on Division, next to Red Robin.

  “Interviewing the chief’s daughter is strictly under the lid,” I said.

  “Won’t she tell her father?”

  “Let’s hope they don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “What kind?”

  “The talking kind.”

  “Why are we at Starbucks?”

  “She didn’t think a donut shop was cool. I had to guarantee she could have a venti Frappaccino. Told her the sky was the limit.”

  We sat in the most private corner, not wanting to bump elbows with the Wi-Fiers or buoyant caffeine-happy greeters or be seen by passersby. Truth is, I used to spend lots of time at Starbucks. I was named employee of the month twice without ever working there. But one-third the price plus unlimited refills at Lou’s lured me away.