EQMM, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

They made a quick plan. Sandy wiped down the interior of the Vic with a rag. Then he took a screwdriver and removed the license plates, putting them into the Mercedes’ trunk. As he did this, Jennifer put on a pair of gloves. All the time they worked, he held the .45 and Jennifer held on to the snub-nosed revolver. Bravely opening the trunk, she searched the bodies. She found a wallet on each of them. Her eyes were wet when she closed the lid. “Oh God. It's so terrible."

  "Toss the wallets in those bushes. The cops will find them and contact their families.” Sandy put a hand on his wife's shoulder. “It's better this way. They'll ID them through dental records. Seeing them all cut up ... identifying them that way...” He shook his head.

  Using the siphon hose from the SL550's trunk, Sandy sucked gasoline from the Vic's fuel tank and spread it around the interior. After that, he let the hose run out on the ground, gasoline puddling around it.

  When everything was ready, Jennifer drove the SL550 out to the paved road and looked both ways. No headlights in sight—she beeped the horn twice. A moment later, Sandy sprinted up and climbed into the passenger seat. As the Mercedes pulled onto the pavement, an echoing crack split the night; a flaming orange fireball boiled into the sky.

  She drove down the two-lane blacktop as fast as she dared. The GPS system had been removed from the car after they bought it. Sandy pulled out a map and found the road they were on. A few miles later, he had Jennifer turn left, and they set out for the highway in the distance. They reached it without seeing another car, and drove down the entrance ramp.

  The little roadster no longer purred; it had been beaten, and drove as if it were injured.

  Sandy tried to put his seatbelt on, but something was wrong with it. He held up the metal end, and found the Cosmonaut Lipstick had been hung by its hook through the hole. The heavy steel tube, once the size of a small flashlight, had been worn to a nub. He looked at his wife. “That's how you did it. This was what you were doing when you got into the car with him. Wasn't it?"

  Jennifer nodded. “Did it work?"

  Her belt had hung out the door as they drove off. The guy himself told her not to put it on. And the Cosmonaut Lipstick dragged along the pavement, leaving a thin red line. “I found, you didn't I?"

  She smiled. “Maybe your dad knew what he was doing. No other lipstick would have lasted that long. It's that damn super-thick stuff that made the difference."

  "Not much left of it, or of the tube."

  He jumped as a siren split the air behind them. A highway patrol car was right on their tail. Jennifer pulled over. A highway patrolman walked up on her side. “License and registration, ma'am."

  She pulled it out and gave it to him. Sandy thought of the two guns under his seat, the license plate in the trunk. The burning car in the distant night.

  The highway patrolman issued her a warning. Sandy had almost breathed a sigh of relief when the lawman leaned into the car and looked at him. “Haven't I seen you before? Weren't you driving a different car?” Then he nodded his head. “Yeah. You were getting a tire fixed."

  It was the driver of the second highway patrol car. The guy who pulled in just before the other patrolman left the gas station.

  "You're right, Officer. That was my brother's car. It finally died on me. My wife came out and picked me up in our car."

  The patrolman looked at him. Sandy wondered if it had been long enough for the story to make sense, but he didn't dare look at his watch. The patrolman asked, “Can I see some ID, sir?"

  Sandy took out his driver's license and handed it over.

  The patrolman stepped back. He read the license with his flashlight, then looked at the car. Sandy wondered if he could see all the dents and the dust in the dark, with only the backwash from his headlights. And then he saw the patrolman shine his flashlight over the outside of the car. Finally, the man nodded and handed the license back. “Okay. Drive safely.” He walked back to his patrol car.

  Jennifer looked at him, fear in her eyes.

  "No way,” he told her as if she had asked a question. “When the cops find that burned-out car with the bodies, they'll get us. We might have made it: Nobody saw my ID; I paid for everything in cash. But now, this guy'll compare notes with the other cop I dealt with. That other one ran the plates on the Crown Victoria; this guy ran your license and our plate. Plus he saw my license. They'll put two and two together. They'll know I was lying, and as soon as they look deeper—"

  "They'll know who you are."

  He nodded. “The feds will think they've got me. Haul me in on a serial murder charge—and you too, since you were driving the getaway car. I either sing, or we go down."

  "They'll kill you. They'd never let you live."

  Sandy nodded. “The mob would get to me. Dad has a lot of power, but not that much. We have to do a Sailor Joe."

  Her eyes snapped to his. “You thought they'd kill Sailor Joe."

  "But they didn't. Remember? I told you, I took that delivery to him. He's in the Caymans; doing fine. Whole new identity and everything."

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I'm on the periphery, you know? I don't really know what these guys do. I'm just the schmuck who went to work for his dad as an IT manager."

  He shook his head and his voice soured. “Here I thought my dad was a spy, that I was working for the CIA or something. Couldn't believe it when I realized it was the mob. Now I'm the computer geek who set up their whole system."

  Jennifer heard the pain, the loss of innocence remembered too clearly. They had been married for barely six months the night he came home and locked himself in his office with a bottle of Scotch. When he finally let her in, the bottle was still full. After he told her, she understood. She felt the same way. Wanted a stiff drink, but knew she wouldn't be able to keep it down.

  They talked long into the night, discussed what it meant for their lives, how everything had changed. They decided they couldn't have children, couldn't bring kids into such a household—especially when they might be used as leverage against their parents some day.

  Sitting in the SL550, she looked at him. “Are you sure Sailor Joe's still alive?"

  "Yeah. I don't understand these guys. Not really. But one thing I know; when they decide to kill someone, they don't waste time. They do it right away. If Sailor Joe was alive when I saw him, then he's still alive. Besides, as long as we aren't where the cops can reach us, my dad can protect us."

  She didn't ask about money. She knew about the four million in offshore numbered accounts. She looked into his eyes. “Okay. How do we do it?"

  He leaned over and kissed her. They sat there, on the side of the road, clutching each other's hands. “What we do is, you drive, while I call Big Mike."

  Jennifer nodded. Big Mike was the number-two man in Arizona, second only to Sandy's father. As she drove, he spoke to Big Mike on the mobile phone in the car. It had a special system that scrambled the call. After several minutes, he hung up.

  "Big Mike says to come in. They'll be waiting for us in Phoenix. They're setting up the papers we need if we have to run. Meanwhile, they're sending a crew out to find the Crown Vic. If they get there before the cops, they'll clean it up and we're covered. If they're too late, we're out."

  He waited a beat, then: “You know, if the cops get there first, and we go to the Caymans or wherever ... Well, after a few months, we'll know we really are safe. And since we won't have to worry about someone trying to use kids to get to us..."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Really."

  They drove for a while, headlights splitting the dark night before them.

  "You know, Sandy, I'm really scared. And I know it's crazy, but I hope Big Mike's crew gets there too late."

  He put one hand over hers on the wheel. He felt the surging power of the car, but now he also felt how the vibration had changed from the long drive over that dirt road. “So do I, honey. So do I."

  (c) 2008 by Dixon Hill

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  P
assport to Crime: DIRECTION FROM THE GRAVE by Richard Macker

  Richard Macker is the English pseudonym of Norwegian writer Reider Thomassen. The author is especially noted in his native country for his crime short stories. A new volume of seven long Thomassen stories is in the works in Norway, and another story was recently included in a Ger-man anthology of works by Europe's leading crime writers. This is the fifth Richard Macker tale for EQMM.

  (c)2008 by Richard Macker; translation (c)2008 by Runar Fergus

  Translated from the Norwegian by Runar Fergus.

  The lengthy, delicious meal had turned Carl Vinger's face red and his eyes glassy. He set down his glass of wine, smiled jovially and said: “Dear children, to come straight to the point, I have invited you here to Carlsbo to inform you that I was murdered. I also intend to reveal which one of you it was who committed the deed."

  "But, what on earth?"

  The exclamation emerged from Bente Vinger Dale, a middle-aged, well-dressed woman with sharp features and artfully coiffured hair. She was joined at the table by her half-brothers Arild and Joachim Vinger. The three of them had the same father, but different mothers. During the course of his long life as an actor and film director, Carl Vinger had been fond of the opposite sex.

  "Murdered! The old bird always had a taste for the absurd."

  Joachim Vinger leaned his head back and gave a dry laugh. He was five years his half-sister's junior, slim and rather long-haired. There was an air of chic about both his unkempt clothing and his narrow, unshaven face.

  "Be quiet, I would like to hear what Father has to say."

  Arild Vinger spoke with authority. He was the oldest of the three children, and with his reddish face and square body, he was the one who most resembled their father.

  Carl Vinger had lit a cigar. “I see you're shocked,” he said. “And that isn't too surprising. I don't suppose any of you had expected to see me again. Well, here I am again, and I know that one of you has murdered me. There is of course the possibility that two of you conspired, or even all three, for that matter. But I have chosen to believe that two of you are innocent. Call it black optimism if you wish, because the certainty that I was murdered by one of my own children turned my mind as dark as the depths of night, even though I have been sitting here acting cheerful and unruffled."

  Bente Vinger Dale pushed her chair back and was about to rise.

  "I can't stand this. I've got to get out of here now!"

  Arild Vinger grabbed her arm and pulled her into her chair.

  "Sit down. You have to go through with this too, you know that."

  Carl Vinger inhaled his cigar deeply before blowing out the smoke in a thin stream. Then he proceeded: “During the past three to four years I have been the subject of attempted murder at least eight times. Initially I obviously had no idea that someone was trying to kill me. After all, the accidents were quite convincing. Once, my row boat capsized on the lake here at Carlsbo as a speedboat whizzed past. Another time, I fell down the stairs here in the house. It was as though I tripped on an invisible wire. A third time, I was almost crushed between a wall and a reversing car. I just managed to get out of the way at the last moment. That was when I came to the abominable realization that someone was out to get me. And when I almost succumbed to fire in my hunting cabin in the mountains, I really began to fear for my life. But I didn't alert the police. Instead, my suspicions fell upon you. I am a rich man, and you are my heirs. It didn't seem likely that anyone else would want to kill an old fogey like me. Anyway, about a month after the fire, shots were fired at my office window and I knew my life was in constant danger. However, I had no way of knowing what kind of accidents would befall me and I was once foolhardy enough to take a bite from a box of chocolates that a ‘young admirer’ had bestowed upon me. It almost cost me my life. More attempts were to follow, but I had luck on my side, at least until the murderer finally got the better of me. I'm dead now. How I died, I don't know. I only know that it wasn't from natural causes, because I was in perfect health. My doctor had told me so recently, although it didn't help me in the end. One of you finally got me. It's a terrible situation, and the two innocent ones among you can probably understand why I had a quiet funeral. Now you have come to Carlsbo, full of anticipation as to what my dear and loyal attorney Einar Graff will reveal in my will. Well, a murderer will have to be unmasked before my will is read out. You may now leave the table. I'm sure you will have plenty to talk about. We'll meet again at the coffee table in the drawing room at six o'clock sharp."

  * * * *

  "I can see that Father meant it as a sick joke, but I still think it's unbearable and horrid. I can't believe we're having to go through with this."

  Bente Vinger Dale dried the corners of her eyes with a pink handkerchief. Arild Vinger stared at her with an inscrutable demeanor. Then he shot an accusing stare at a blond, slender man at the foot of the table. “Listen here, Graff, what is this show you're putting on here? Don't the mourners have a right to be spared this psychological torture?"

  The attorney shrugged calmly. “I'm sorry, I'm merely fulfilling the will of the deceased. And I shall do it to the best of my ability. The next video will be screened in the drawing room at precisely six o'clock."

  He walked to the far end of the dining table where a video monitor was positioned on a tea table. He rolled it across the parquet and into the drawing room while the three dinner guests followed him with their eyes. It was quiet for a while. Then Joachim Vinger's dry laughter broke the silence.

  "This is the most insane experience I have ever had. Father has outdone himself this time. You remember how bizarre and eccentric he could be, that's why he was such a great director. And now we are witnessing his final performance. I must say I can only see it as a burlesque comedy, and I intend to enjoy it to the end."

  His half-sister gave him a sharp look and furrowed her forehead at him. “But what if it isn't a joke? What if one of us actually murdered him?"

  "One of us? Who would that be? You, maybe?"

  Arild Vinger spat out the words. She didn't get the chance to respond before the kitchen door opened and an elderly, plump woman with white hair entered.

  "So, was the food to your liking?” she asked.

  "Of course, Edna, delicious,” replied Joachim Vinger. “Now I understand even better why Father kept you at Carlsbo for all these years."

  The housekeeper nodded, but she didn't smile. She started to clear the dining table. The three guests entered the drawing room and took their seats on the settee next to one of the panorama windows. Joachim Vinger spoke:

  "Imagine the perfect direction. Father allowed himself to be filmed while eating one of his favourite meals: turtle soup, lamb chops, and vanilla ice cream with strawberries. Then we are served the exact same meal while the recording is played. I think it's a safe bet that there will be marzipan cake and cloudberry liqueur with the coffee."

  Arild Vinger stared through the picture window, towards the green lawns, the beautiful trees, and the colourful, well-kept flower beds. A hundred yards farther down was the lake with its jetty, its boats, and an idyllic small beach.

  Joachim Vinger considered his half-brother for a moment. Then he spoke:

  "This place is worth its four million and then some. What do you think?"

  Arild Vinger started, and turned redder in the face. “Don't speak of money now."

  "Why not? Have we not all come here to hear the content of the will? Don't try to pretend that you're not interested in what we are inheriting. I have read about the unfortunate bankruptcy of that fashionable restaurant you ran back in the capital. The inheritance won't do you any harm, will it?"

  Arild Vinger threw back his head, annoyed. “I'll manage, Joachim. Unlike you, I've worked for a long time. You're still a ‘student’ and a playboy. Tell me, how many women are currently funding your life of leisure on the Riviera?"

  Joachim put on an unruffled smile. “You have quite the wrong impression of m
e, big brother. I've supported myself as an advertising and stage artist for many years, and supported myself well from it."

  "Please, let's not argue,” Bente Vinger Dale said. “You have no idea how this affects me, especially in these circumstances."

  She had the handkerchief in the corner of her eye once more. Joachim Vinger gave her a sly glance.

  "Pardon me for saying so, Bente, but now you resemble the hysterical woman you portrayed in your latest role. You haven't had any offers after that disaster, have you?"

  A hard look came into Bente Vinger Dale's heavily made-up blue-grey eyes. She leaned back on the sofa, lit a cigarette, and calmly studied her younger half-brother.

  "One thing I know, my dear Joachim, is that I am a far better actor than you are an artist."

  "Let's stop this bickering,” Arild Vinger said with authority. “Let us agree how we should handle Father's rather original idea. We view it as an elaborate and macabre joke, but we don't know if he meant it seriously. He always was a bit of an original, and that's probably why he did so well at directing. But as you know, a person's characteristic traits get more intense as they get older. It's no secret that Father was quite a strange character in his last years. He wouldn't leave his profession, and he had the means to produce any film he wanted, one of which we have seen today. I propose that we view it as a curiosity. None of us really got to know him well because he was always so busy creating. This may have made him bitter, and it may be that he became paranoid lately. None of us were told that he was dead until this Graff character sent us copies of the obituary about a month ago. The funeral was a quiet affair, as we all know. But now Graff has summoned us for this meeting, and in one way we have met Father again. And he has honoured us, despite the deranged allegations. Personally, I have never wanted him dead, and I can't even in my wildest dreams imagine that any of you have, either."

  "My sentiments exactly,” commented Bente Vinger Dale.

  "Mine too,” said Joachim Vinger. “We loved him and were proud of him, all of us, and it's a tragedy that we were never to have the opportunity to get to know him better. But now we are here as heirs. At least two-thirds of our father's assets are due to us. He may have been of the opinion that none of us made much of ourselves. Maybe he was so disappointed in us that he felt the need to torment us with this display. Let us just watch it without becoming too excited. Let us view it as his final piece of art, in the certainty that none of us could kill their own father."