The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  “A car crashed through the embankment, tumbled all the way to the bottom, then blew up and burned down to the frame. What’s left of the driver is still inside. Beyond that, I’m not sayin’ squat. I need you to see this with fresh eyes.”

  “Fair enough,” Doyle nodded, picking up the edge in her tone. Zina had worked in Flint four years before transferring north to the Valhalla force. She was an experienced investigator, and if something was bothering her about this …

  He swiveled slowly, taking in the accident scene as a steady stream of traffic crawled past on the far shoulder. Wide-eyed gawkers, wondering what was up. Doyle knew the feeling.

  Two sets of broad black skid marks met in the center of the lane, then followed an impossible angle to the torn snowbanks at the side of the road. “Who called this in?”

  “A long-haul trucker spotted the wreckage as he crested the hill, around ten this morning. We caught a real break. The wreck’s not visible from the roadside. If we’d gotten a little more snow during the night, the poor bastard might have stayed buried till spring. I marked off a separate trail away from the skid track,” she said, leading him to a rough footpath up and over the berm. “There are footprints that … well, take a look for yourself.”

  Clambering to the top of the drift, Doyle stopped, scanning the scene below. A ragged trail of torn snow and shattered trees led down the slope to a charred obscenity crouched at the bottom of the gorge. A burned-out hulk that had once been an expensive piece of German automotive engineering.

  The charred Mercedes Benz was encircled by a blackened ring of torn earth and melted slush, its savagery already softening beneath a gentle gauze of lightly falling snow.

  Joni Javitz, the Joint Investigative Unit’s only tech, was hunched over the car, dutifully photographing the corpse. Even at this distance, Doyle could see the gaping mouth and bared teeth of the Silent Scream, a burn victim’s final rictus. A few patches of skull were showing through the blackened flesh …

  Damn. He hated burn scenes. The ugly finality and the vile stench that clung to your clothing for days. In Detroit, cops called them Crispy Critters. But here in the north, no one in Doyle’s unit joked about them. There’s nothing funny about a death by fire. Ever.

  Working his way warily down the slope, Doyle noted the uneven footprints in the snow of the roadster’s trail. “Did the trucker climb down to the car?”

  “The trucker didn’t stop,” Zina said. “He spotted the wreck and a little smoke. Wasn’t sure what it was, but thought somebody should take a look.”

  “It was still smoking at ten o’clock? Any idea when this happened, Joni?”

  “My best guess would be around midnight, boss, give or take an hour,” Javitz said without turning. Tall and slender as a whip, she had to fold herself into a question mark to shoot the wreck’s interior. “The car and the body are both cool to the touch now, but they’re still ten degrees warmer than the ambient temperature. The State Police Crime Scene Team is already en route from Gaylord. They should be here anytime.”

  “Okay …” Doyle said, swiveling slowly, taking in the scene. “We’ve got a hot shot in a Benz roadster who runs off the road at midnight, crashes and burns. Tough break for him. Or her?”

  “Him, definitely,” Joni said.

  “Fine. Him then. And why exactly am I here on my day off?”

  Wordlessly, Joni stepped away from the car, revealing the charred corpse, and the deep crease in the driver’s-side door.

  “Wow,” Doyle said softly, lowering himself to his haunches, studying the dent more closely. “Metal on metal. Red paint traces. No tree did this. Which explains the second set of skid marks on the highway. Somebody ran this poor bastard off the road …” He broke off, eyeing a small circle of dark red droplets, scattered like a spray of blood near the trunk.

  “Plastic pellets?” Doyle said. “Any chance they’re from the taillights?”

  “Nope, the taillight lenses are Lexan,” Joni said. “These pellets are definitely polypropylene, probably from a plastic gas container. A small one, a gallon or two. Like you’d use for a chain saw or a lawn mower. The can was definitely on the ground outside the vehicle. I’ve already bagged up some residue to test for accelerants.”

  “I didn’t see any skid marks from the other vehicle until the last second, just before it struck the Benz,” Doyle mused. “From the depth of these dents, both cars must have been traveling at one hell of a clip. So car number two runs the stop sign at high speed, nails the Benz dead center, hard enough to drive it through the snowdrifts …”

  “He’s damned lucky he isn’t down here too,” Zina said.

  “Maybe it wasn’t luck,” Doyle said, staring up the incline toward the highway. “If he hadn’t hit the Benz, he definitely would have blown through the berm himself. And there’s not much traffic out here at night. So, either he ran that stop sign, drunk, asleep, whatever, and the Benz had the million to one bad luck to get in his way or …?”

  “He wasn’t out of control at all,” Zina nodded, following Doyle’s gaze up the hillside. “You think he drilled him deliberately?”

  “Tell you what, Detective, why don’t you hoof it back up the hill and check out that side road for tire tracks or exhaust stains in the snow. See if car number two was sitting up there, waiting for the Benz to show.”

  “Jesus,” Joni said softly. “You mean somebody rammed this poor bastard on purpose? Then climbed down with a gas can and lit him up?”

  “I don’t like it either, but it works,” Doyle agreed grimly. “Have you identified him yet?”

  “The car’s registered jointly to Jared and Lauren Bannan, Valhalla address.”

  “Jared Bannan?” Doyle echoed, surprised. “Damn. I know this guy. I’ve played racquetball against him.”

  “A friend?”

  “No, just a guy. He’s an attorney, a transplant from downstate, works mostly in real estate.”

  “A yuppie lawyer?” Zina said. “Whoa! Want me to cancel the Crime Scene team?”

  The door to the classroom was ajar. Doyle raised his fist to knock, then hesitated, surprised at the utter silence from within. Curious, he peered around the doorjamb. A tall, trim woman with boyishly short dark hair, was addressing the class. Soundlessly. Her lips were moving, the fingers of both hands flickering, mediating an animated discussion with a dozen rapt teenagers, who were answering with equally adept sign language, their lips miming speech, but with no sound at all.

  It was like watching an Olympic fencing match, silvery signals flashing too quickly for the eye to follow.

  The woman glanced up, frowning. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry to intrude, ma’am. If you’re Doctor Lauren Bannan, I need a few minutes of your time.”

  “I’m in the middle of a class.”

  “This really can’t wait, ma’am.”

  “My god,” Lauren said softly, “are you absolutely sure it’s Jared?”

  “The identification isn’t final, but he was carrying your husband’s identification and driving his car.”

  “Jared wore a U of M class ring on his right hand,” she offered. “Did the driver …?”

  Doyle nodded. They were in Doctor Bannan’s office, a Spartan ten by ten box at Blair Center, the county magnet school for special-needs students. Floor to ceiling bookshelves on three sides, Doctor Bannan’s diplomas and teaching awards neatly displayed on the fourth wall. No photographs, Doyle noted.

  “I didn’t see a wedding ring,” Zina said. “Did he normally wear one?”

  “We’re separated,” Lauren said. “God. I can’t believe this.”

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Bannan?” Doyle asked. “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

  “No, I’m … just a bit shaken. Do you have any idea what happened?”

  “Your husband was apparently sideswiped on the shore road a few miles outside of town. Hit and run. His car went over a steep embankment, probably late last night. Midnight, maybe. He was pr
onounced dead at the scene. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

  Lauren’s mouth narrowed as she visibly brought her emotions under control. An elegant woman, Doyle thought. Slender as a willow with dark hair, a complexion as exquisite as a porcelain doll.

  But not fragile. She took the news of her husband’s death like a prizefighter rocked by a stiff punch. Drawing within herself to camouflage the damage.

  After a moment, she took a deep breath, and carefully straightened her jacket.

  “You said someone ran Jared off the road. What happened to the other driver?”

  “We don’t know yet, ma’am. Do you know why your husband might have been on that road last night?”

  “No idea. Jared and I separated last year. Except for conferences with our attorney, I rarely see him. Why?”

  Zina glanced the question at Doyle, who nodded.

  “Judging from the skid marks, the collision may not have been accidental, Doctor Bannan,” Zina said. “Do you know why anyone would want to harm your husband?”

  “Whoa, back up a moment,” Lauren said, raising her hand. “Are you saying someone deliberately rammed Jared’s car?”

  “We aren’t certain yet, ma’am,” Doyle said. “But the evidence does lean that way. At this point we’re treating it as a possible homicide.”

  “For the record, would you mind telling us your whereabouts last night?” Zina asked.

  Lauren glanced up at her sharply. “I was at home all evening. Alone. What are you implying?”

  “Nothing, ma’am,” Doyle put in. “It’s strictly routine. We’re not the enemy.”

  Lauren looked away a moment. “All right then. If you have questions, let’s clear them up now.”

  “You said you separated last year?” Zina asked. “Have you filed for divorce?”

  “We filed right after we separated. Last spring. March, I think.”

  “Do you have children?”

  Lauren hesitated. “No. No children.”

  “Then help me out here, Mrs. Bannan. Without children involved, you can get a no-fault divorce in sixty days, and I’m speaking from experience. Was your husband contesting the divorce?”

  “Only the property settlement. Jared earns considerably more than I do, so he felt he was entitled to a larger share. He kept coming up with new demands.”

  “Michigan’s a community property state,” Doyle put in. “A wife’s entitled to half, no matter who earns what.”

  “My husband is an attorney, Sergeant, though most of his work is in real estate. Fighting him in court wouldn’t be cost effective. We had our final meeting last Tuesday. He made an offer and I took it.”

  “But you weren’t happy about it?” Zina said.

  “Divorce seldom makes anyone happy.”

  “You’re newcomers to the area, right?” Doyle asked. “When did you move north?”

  “A little over two years ago.”

  “Why was that? The move, I mean?”

  “Why?” Lauren blinked. But didn’t answer.

  That was a hit, Zina thought. Though she had no idea what it meant.

  “I knew your husband in passing,” Doyle offered, easing the silence. “I played racquetball against him a few times.”

  “And?” Lauren said, with an odd smile.

  “And what? Why the smile?”

  “Jared was the most competitive man I’ve ever known. Did he beat you, Sergeant?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. Twice.”

  “And did he cheat?”

  “He didn’t have to. He was quicker than I am. Why do you ask that?”

  “Jared could be a very sore loser. I beat him at tennis once and he smashed his racquet to splinters in front of a hundred spectators. I filed for divorce a week later.”

  “Over a tennis match?” Zina asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “It was such a childish display that I realized that Jared was never going to grow up. And I was tired of waiting. I wanted out.”

  “And now you are,” Zina said. “Will the accident affect your financial settlement?”

  “I have no idea. Money always mattered more to Jared than to me.”

  “Money doesn’t matter?” Zina echoed.

  “I was buying my freedom, Detective. How much is that worth? Can we wrap this up? I have a class in five minutes.”

  “You might want to make other arrangements, Doctor,” Doyle suggested. “Give yourself a break.”

  “Working with handicapped kids is a two-way street, Sergeant. It keeps your problems in perspective. The last thing I need is to sit around brooding.”

  “You’re not exactly brooding, ma’am,” Zina noted. “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re taking this pretty calmly.”

  “I deal with problems every day, Detective. Kids who will never hear music or their mother’s voices, kids with abusive parents. Last week I had to tell an eight-year-old her chemotherapy regimen had failed and she probably won’t see Christmas. So this is very hard news, but …” Lauren gave a barely perceptible shrug.

  “A thing like that would be a lot harder,” Zina conceded, impressed in spite of herself.

  “And yet the sun also rises,” Lauren said firmly. “Every morning, ready or not. Are we done?”

  “Just a few final questions,” Doyle said quickly. “Your husband had a string of traffic citations, mostly for speeding. Was he a reckless driver?”

  “Jared never hit anyone, he had great reflexes. But every trip was Le Mans for him. I hated that damned car.”

  “Was he ever involved in conflicts with other drivers?”

  “Road rage, you mean? His driving often ticked people off, but he never stopped to argue. It was more fun to leave them in the dust.”

  “Which brings us full circle to question number one,” Doyle said. “Can you think of anybody who might wish to harm your husband?”

  Lauren hesitated a split second. Another hit, Zina thought, though not as strong as the first.

  “No one,” Lauren said carefully. “Jared was a charming man, as long as you weren’t playing tennis against him or facing him in court. If he was having trouble with a client, his office staff would know more than I do. He’s with Lehman and Greene, downtown.”

  “How about you, ma’am?” Doyle asked. “The Benz is jointly owned, so it’s at least possible your husband wasn’t the intended victim. Have you had any problems? Threats, a stalker, anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “What about your students?” Zina asked. “Your schedule includes mentally challenged students as well as hearing impaired. Are any of them violent? Maybe overly affectionate? Seems like there’s a lot of teacher-student hanky-panky in the papers.”

  Lauren met Zina’s eyes a moment, tapping on the desk with a single fingernail.

  “You two are really good,” she said abruptly. “Usually the male plays the aggressive ‘bad cop,’ while the female plays the sympathetic sister. Reversing the roles is very effective.”

  “Thanks, I think,” Zina said. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, Detective Redfern, some of my students have behavioral problems that keep them out of mainstream schools. But none of them would have any reason to harm Jared. Or me. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a minute alone before my next class. Please.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Doyle said, rising. “I apologize for the tone of our questions. We’re sorry for your loss, Doctor Bannan.” He handed her his card. “If you think of anything, please call, day or night.”

  Zina hesitated in the doorway.

  Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Something else, Detective?”

  “That kid you mentioned? What did she say when you told her the cancer had come back?”

  “She … asked her father if they could celebrate an early Christmas. So she could re-gift her toys to her friends.”

  “Good god,” Zina said softly. “How do you handle it? Telling a child a thing like that?”

>   “Some days are like triage on the Titanic, Detective,” Lauren admitted, releasing a deep breath. “You protect the children as best you can. And the battered women. And at five o’clock, you go home, pour a stiff brandy and curl up with a good book.”

  “And tomorrow, the sun also rises,” Zina finished.

  “Every single day. Ready or not.”

  In the hallway, Doyle glanced at Zina. “What?”

  “I hate having to tell the wives. The tears, the wailing. Rips your freakin’ heart out.”

  “The lady’s used to dealing with bad news.”

  “She’s also pretty good at dodgeball. She echoed half of our questions to buy time before she answered. Or didn’t answer at all.”

  “She’s got degrees in psych and special ed. She’s probably better at this than we are. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Her clothes were expensive but not very stylish. She’s a good-looking woman, but she dresses like a schoolmarm.”

  “She is a schoolmarm. What are we, the fashion police now?”

  “Nope, we’re the damn-straight real poleece, Sarge. I’m just saying a few things about that lady don’t add up. If a toasted husband can’t crack your cool, what would it take?”

  “You think she might be involved in her husband’s death?”

  “Let me get back to you on that. Who’s next?”

  “She said Bannan’s office staff would know about any threats.”

  “Argh, more lawyers,” Zina groaned. “I’d rather floss with freakin’ barbed wire.”

  The offices of Lehman, Barksdale, and Greene, Attorneys at Law, occupied the top floor of the old Montgomery Wards building in downtown Valhalla. Old town, it’s called now. The historic heart of the village.

  The new big box stores, Walmart, Home Depot, and the rest, are outside the city limits, sprawling along the Lake Michigan shore like a frontier boomtown, fueled by new money, new people. High tech émigrés from Detroit or Seattle, flocking to the north country to get away from it all. And bringing most of it with them.

  But Old Town remains much as it was before the second war, brick streets and sidewalks, quaint, globular streetlamps. Nineteenth-century buildings artfully restored to their Victorian roots, cast-iron facades, shop windows sparkling with holiday displays, tinny carols swirling in the wintry air. Christmas in Valhalla.