Red Queen's Run

by Morris, Bourne

  “Did she lose at blackjack often?”

  “Yeah, she lost most of the time. But she came back every week, sometimes twice a week. Played from early evening until the boss told the cocktail waitress to stop bringing her drinks. Tequila was her favorite. Lots of it. All night.”

  “What happened when she ran out of money?”

  Terry sighed. “She’d head for the bar. Sometimes she’d get some guy to buy her more tequila.” He hesitated. “Usually she would leave with the guy.”

  “Different guys?”

  “Always different guys. Probably guests of the hotel. Me, I didn’t judge. She was usually too drunk to drive so maybe that was her way of getting a bed for the night.”

  A question crossed my mind and came out of Joe’s mouth. “Were you ever one of the guys?”

  “Hey Detective,” Bingham bristled. “I got a good girlfriend in Reno. I don’t need to get into any trouble about Doris. She was just a friend. I let her crash on my sofa a couple of times. But that was years ago and that was it. Nothin’ between us.”

  “I’m sorry, Terry, I didn’t mean to say there was. I do need to know if Doris ever told you about her life in Landry.”

  Bingham calmed down. “She told me she was married to some big shot at the university, that she lived in a nice house and her husband gave her money whenever she asked. At least he did until the last time I saw her.”

  “Tell me about that last time.”

  Bingham leaned back. Clearly he was tired and hesitant, but it was also clear he wanted to be rid of Joe. “The last time I saw Doris, she’d stayed at my place overnight. I made her some coffee in the morning and she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and thanked me for ‘being kind,’ as she said. Then she said she was meeting her brother at the Cal Neva that morning and her brother was going to take her home to Buffalo. I must have looked surprised because she said she was leaving her big shot husband because he wouldn’t give her money anymore and he was talking about having her committed to rehab for gambling and for drinking. So she was getting out.”

  “Was that all she told you?”

  “That was about it. I drove her back to the casino and, sure enough, some skinny guy who could have been her twin was waiting in valet parking with his car. She got out of the car, thanked me for being her friend and said to say goodbye to Nevada for her. Then she walked over to her brother’s car and got in. That’s the last I saw of her.”

  “And nothing more about her husband?”

  “Just what I told you. I figure Doris was a real looker when she was younger, but I also figure her big shot husband ran out of patience. I mean once or twice a week she was up here drinking and gambling and whatever instead of being with him.”

  Poor Simon, I thought, forgetting for a moment that he scared the hell out of me.

  Joe thanked Bingham and gave him a card, asking him to call if he remembered anything else. Bingham shook Joe’s hand and returned to his table. Joe signaled me to head out. As we approached the front door, I glanced back at the casino section. The old women were gone, but the young woman with dulled eyes was still leaning against a slot machine, still smoking a cigarette. Television ads portray slot players as happy, surrounded by friends, nearly hysterical with the joy of winning. I’d never seen that.

  It was dark by the time Joe headed out of the Cal Neva driveway. “I’ll take you to that restaurant you like.”

  The place was in Tahoe City with good food and a view of the lake from a table by the window. A full moon illuminated the enormous lake; the waters were still and the mountains old and white in the distance.

  “I hate Simon, but I sort of feel sorry for him,” I said.

  Joe looked at me intently, green eyes even darker than usual.

  “I grant you his wife treated him badly, but who knows how he treated her. What we know now is Simon was probably broke because of his wife’s gambling. We also know Simon was afraid he might lose his job and hated Henry. What we don’t know is if all of this means Simon had motive to go to Henry’s office, pick up that trophy and try to ram it into Henry’s back, and then watch Henry stagger down the hall and maybe give him a push down the stairs...and then go back and wipe the trophy clean and leave Henry to die in that stairwell.”

  I was quiet. Joe was right. Tragedy may beget crime but doesn’t excuse it. We ordered our dinner and ate slowly. We tried to talk about more comfortable topics, Joe’s other cases, my classes, but the memory of what we had learned intruded and kept us sober and reflective.

  “Red, there’s something I want to tell you,” Joe said. We were just starting our coffee. “I didn’t leave Chicago purely because the Landry chief wanted me here.”

  “Joe, it’s okay. I don’t need to know everything about...”

  “Let me finish, Red. It’s important to me that you know this. So listen because this is hard.” Joe swallowed and looked out the window at the lake, then back at me. “I loved doing police work in Chicago and I loved Chicago. But one very hot day in the summer, I walked into a store where there was a robbery in progress. I saw a short guy in a big, puffy coat with a ski mask on. The woman behind the counter was screaming her head off and the guy was pointing a gun at her. I called him out. He turned, aimed his gun at me and I fired mine. I shot right through his chest and killed him.”

  “That must have been awful, Joe. But he was committing a crime.” I reached for Joe’s hand but he pulled back in his chair and looked away.

  “Yes, he was committing a crime. His first crime, as it turned out. With an unloaded gun.” Joe’s breathing was short and shallow.

  “But you didn’t know that the gun wasn’t loaded,” I said, wishing he would look at me instead of the lake.

  “No, I didn’t at the time. When I took off the ski mask, I saw he was a kid.” Joe’s gaze returned to me. His eyes were liquid. “Thirteen years old, no record and an old gun of his father’s that didn’t even work anymore and had no bullets.”

  “Oh, Joe. And there was an investigation and news stories I suppose.”

  “You suppose right. It was awful. The kid’s mother had cancer and lost her job. The kid was trying to get money for his family.”

  His head was bowed and I sensed his sorrow. We stayed that way, silently for several moments. Then he lifted his head. “I was cleared, but I couldn’t stay in Chicago. I keep seeing that kid lying on the floor in the middle of the heat with that big coat on. I should have figured out he was a boy trying to look grown-up. Now, I think about his mother and wonder if she’s still alive. I wrote her a letter but I never had the nerve to actually see her.”

  Joe was looking directly at me. “If we are going to keep working together on this case, I want you to know why sometimes I get moody and distant. I’m not an easy guy to be with.”

  “I think you’re a terrific guy to be with.”

  “I think you would have made a good cop.”

  “I don’t want to be a cop. I want to be a cop’s friend.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter 13

  Eighteen days had passed since Henry’s death, with no real break in the investigation. Yet I woke up Thanksgiving morning, surprisingly content, suffused in gratitude. My room was painted a soft blue and the windows had sheer curtains that let in the light. The window was always open at least a bit. In the summer, the morning came with the smell of the roses that climb the front of the house. In November, the spruce tree outside rustled in the wind.

  Thanksgiving dinner was set for four o’clock at my house. I had invited Joe and his sister, Elaine, and her husband, Vince, with their kids and, as I did every year, Sadie. Elaine made homemade cranberry sauce. Sadie brought wine and her incredible pecan pie. Give thanks for good friends. Give thanks for my mother’s big dining room table, the only furniture I’d brought with me from Ohio.

  After dinner, Vince took the kids
to see the newest Christmas movie.

  “This was wonderful,” said Elaine, yawning and smiling at her brother. Elaine was dressed in one of those full silk tunics plump women use to hide big hips and round bellies. Her dark hair was cut short and framed her face; she had no gray around the temples like her brother. She was a pretty version of Joe.

  Sadie sipped her port. Joe put his arm across the back of the sofa, almost touching me but not quite, yet comfortably proprietary.

  “I trust you all will have a lovely long weekend to get away from all the troubles of the school,” said Sadie.

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Except I have some work to do on a presentation to the Faculty Senate next week,” I said. “And Joe still has the investigation.”

  “What are you looking for at this point, Joe?” said Elaine.

  “I’m looking for more information. I can’t seem to find out who might have been in or near the journalism building that Sunday.”

  Elaine shifted in her chair. “Joe, I know I’m not supposed to ask, but did the medical examiners find anything that suggested foul play?”

  “They found what they found, Elaine.”

  “So, no murder?”

  “Jesus, Sis. You sure do know how to ruin a nice holiday afternoon.” His arm came away from my shoulders.

  “Sorry, folks,” said Elaine, “but my reporters and editors are after me. They think I’m covering for the cops because of Joe or for the school because I teach there. I get phone calls every day.” She frowned and folded her arms across her chest.

  “I get calls, too, Elaine, but we have to live with the mystery until Joe solves it,” I said, hoping for a return of his arm near my shoulders. “For now, I would love a change of subject.” I had managed not to think about Simon for an entire day.

  “Aren’t you worried for yourself Red? I mean if someone killed the last dean...”

  “Damn it, Elaine. If you don’t change the subject, I’m taking you home.” Joe stood up, ready to go if needed.

  “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” said Elaine. She walked to the window. “Looks like the weather might change,” she said. “I think it’s probably time to go home and hear all about the movie Vince and the kids saw.”

  Sadie stayed seated while Joe helped a subdued Elaine into her coat, took her arm and walked her to the door. He put his arms around her and I heard her whisper one more “I’m sorry” into his shoulder. After Elaine left, Joe picked up the coffee cups and headed into my kitchen.

  “Elaine’s not entirely out of bounds on this,” Sadie said, looking at the fire. “I worry for your safety, too.”

  “I know you do, Sadie, I worry myself. And Joe does, too. I sometimes wonder if he’s spending time with me because he cares about me or because he’s guarding me.”

  “Perhaps both,” said Sadie.

  The Monday after Thanksgiving started off with a troubled parent. Nell met me at the top of the stairs, now her method of warning me of some problem ahead.

  “A Mr. Clark Cummings is sitting outside your office,” she said. “And there’s another man with him. Terrance something.”

  Terrance something turned out to be Terrance Magee, a local attorney.

  Mr. Cummings was, of course, Celeste’s father. I seated them both at the table and asked Nell if she would please bring some coffee.

  Clark Cummings did not strike me as the typical helicopter parent who swoops in every semester to talk to the administration about how his child is doing. This was his first visit to the school since bringing Celeste up for freshman orientation. He had driven three hours from his home and his eyes were bleary above a firmly set mouth.

  Cummings folded his hands together and leaned into the table. “Celeste came home for Thanksgiving with some very disturbing news,” he began.

  “Is Mr. Magee here representing you or Celeste?” I asked.

  “I’m just here as a supportive family member at this point,” said Magee, unbuttoning the jacket of what looked like a thousand dollar suit. Magee was in his fifties and well-tanned. His tone was friendly but his eyes were not. “Celeste’s mother is my cousin.”

  “Celeste tells us you plan to expel her from the school,” said Cummings, rubbing his short gray crew cut. He had the look of an ex-marine, a tired and angry ex-marine.

  “I’ve already expelled her,” I said. “She received formal notice of expulsion before the Thanksgiving break. By the way, did she give you her permission to discuss this with me? We have strict rules about student privacy.”

  Cummings grunted and handed me a note from Celeste that authorized both men to discuss her case. “She didn’t show me any formal expulsion letter,” Cummings said, “but she did tell me she would have to find a new major in another college and you were expelling her from this journalism school for a very minor infraction.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Cummings, but stealing someone else’s work and claiming it as your own is not a minor infraction. It’s plagiarism.”

  Magee put a restraining hand on Cummings’ arm. “But isn’t this sort of plagiarism rather common these days, Dean Solaris?” Magee had a syrupy voice.

  I looked steadily, first at Magee and then at Cummings. “Regrettably, academic dishonesty does occur all too frequently at many universities, but that doesn’t excuse it. All students are told from their first day here, that penalties for dishonesty are severe. Warnings are written in all the handbooks and in every syllabus for every course we offer.”

  “My daughter says she simply forgot to attribute in her presentation. She was exhausted after working all night on the project,” said Cummings. He worked his jaw muscles and stared grimly at me as if he thought his stare would persuade me to change my decision.

  “Did she tell you about her earlier infractions?”

  “What earlier infractions?” Magee asked, the syrup gone.

  “Plagiarism in English. Cheating on a test in Anthropology.”

  For a moment I thought the wind had gone out of Cummings. He lowered his head, but when he raised it up again, I saw a renewed anger and new purpose.

  “My daughter wants a career in television. She is not going to be expelled from journalism,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Cummings, she is.”

  “If you expel Celeste, then I’m afraid your Dr. Worthington is in for some considerable trouble.”

  What the hell was this?

  “He seduced my daughter,” said Cummings. His eyes were hard as marbles.

  “Clark, are you sure about this?” asked Magee, surprised by this turn. Or, on second thought, as I looked at him, pretending to be surprised.

  “Worthington and my daughter have been in a sexual relationship for some time,” Clark Cummings said.

  Oh, shit. The dark thought.

  Chapter 14

  “What were you thinking?” I asked.

  Max sat in the chair opposite my desk, a slight and unexpected smile on his face. He looked oddly at ease.

  “I won’t deny it, Red. But the sex was totally consensual. Celeste is twenty-one. She wanted me. I wanted her. There was no pressure. She didn’t ask me to change a grade or anything.” His smile became that little rueful grin of his. “She didn’t even ask me to talk to you about her expulsion. That was my idea.”

  “You’re her advisor, Max. Consensual doesn’t count in a professor-student relationship. You’re twenty years older than she is. It was wrong, ethically wrong. You know she can use this against you, against the school. Her father is threatening to report you and go to the media if I don’t reverse my decision to expel her. How could you be so stupid?”

  Max sat up straighter in the chair. “I didn’t harass her, Red. I didn’t seduce her. She came to my office one day and, while we were talking, she casually unbuttoned her blouse. Sure I was aroused. I asked her to leave. But she walked over to me, knelt in fr
ont of me and unzipped my fly.” Max reddened. I tried to remember Max was my good friend, my supporter, but then he said, “I’m sorry, I’m a lonely man these days, Red. Trudy’s very pregnant and...”

  My hands flew to my face. “Oh, Max. No more. No more. Oh God, you’re terrible.”

  I dreaded seeing Stoddard after Max left. The provost’s usually cheerful big face was grim when I described my discussion. He looked like an angry bear. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “You journalists are something else.”

  “That’s not fair. This is not the first case of sexual exploitation of a student you have ever seen.” I was flustered and angry with myself. Why I don’t know. I was not my faculty’s keeper.

  “You’re right, Red. I’m not being fair. It’s just that for a small college...a small school of journalism, you guys seem to be making too many big, bad headlines these days.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  Stoddard stood up, shook his big shoulders and walked to the window. It was cold outside. The sky was gray again and promised snow. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized tweed jacket and let out a long whistling sigh. Then he turned back to me and said, “You have a decision to make. You can give in to Cummings’ threat and let Celeste stay in journalism and hope this problem with Worthington stays discreet. Or, you can expel Celeste and take the public exposure she and her father probably have in mind.”

  I ran my hands over my skirt. In spite of the cold, my palms were sweaty. “Celeste Cummings does not belong in journalism.” I realized how naïve that sounded.

  “And Max Worthington does not belong in education. He should be put on administrative leave, or at least brought to a hearing, but you don’t seem to want to do that.”

  We were both silent for several minutes. Stoddard was not going to make my decision. At length I said, “I think I’ll let Max suffer whatever happens. Celeste is out.”