Night Vision

by Paul Levine

  "Right now I've got lots of worries, Nick," I said.

  "Hey, Jake," Rodriguez said, "what's the difference between a porcupine and two lawyers in a Porsche?"

  "Dunno," I said.

  "With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside."

  Having been taught etiquette by Granny Lassiter, I smiled politely.

  Rodriguez laughed so hard at his own joke he nearly dropped the gun.

  I sat there, still waiting for the warm-up act to end.

  Finally Fox stuck a finger in his shirt collar, stretched his brawny neck, smiled his winning smile, and said, "Jake, I thought you'd want to fill me in on your progress."

  "What?"

  "On the Diamond murder. That's why I asked for you and Hot Rod."

  "Forget it," I said. "I'm not reporting to you. Either it's my investigation, or get someone else."

  It crossed his face then, a moment of doubt or regret. "Easy, Jake. I'm not trying to interfere—"

  "Good. I'll take your statement while I'm here. But you're not getting copies of Rodriguez's reports or any part of the file. Understood?"

  He grinned at me as if we shared some secret. Maybe my toughness was just an act and he knew it because he played the same game. "Understood," he said, still smiling.

  ***

  "I met Marsha through Prissy," Nick Fox told me. "Priscilla, my soon-to-be ex-wife. They belonged to some bullshit women's awareness group."

  I nodded and pulled out Rodriguez's inventory of Marsha's apartment. Her bookshelves were a road map to her personal life. Smart Cookies Don't Crumble. How to Love a Difficult Man. Men: An Owner's Manual. Men Who Hate Women and the Women Who Love Them. The Secrets Men Keep. The rest of her library was an amalgam of get-in-shape, dress-for-success, and get-rich-quick books with a smattering of soft-core paperbacks on women's sexual fantasies.

  Fox turned toward the window. "I came home early one day and there were a bunch of them in the living room. Yackety-yacking, sipping tea and eating, whaddayacallit...pussy food."

  "Quiche?" Rodriguez guessed.

  "No, that lady-shit..."

  "Ladyfingers," I suggested.

  "Yeah, picking 'em up real dainty so not to mess up the nail polish, sitting around complaining about men, comparing orgasms, who the fuck knows..."

  "Amazing you and Prissy don't see eye to eye on things," I offered. "You're so sensitive to women's concerns."

  He hunched his massive shoulders and glared at me. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

  I didn't answer, so he continued: "One of the women was this cute, short number I recognized from TV."

  "Marsha Diamond," I said.

  He nodded. "Prissy introduced us, real sly like she was getting a kick out of it. So we started going out. Prissy knew all about it, told me Marsha was early in her development, but later she'd bust my balls. I said that was okay, I was used to it."

  "Was Marsha seeing anyone else?"

  "Not that I know of. All she did was work, shop, and screw, and screwing wasn't her favorite."

  It had been three days since they'd been together, Fox said. They talked by phone the night before she was killed. It wasn't serious, just a mutually enjoyable physical relationship.

  "She called herself my transition woman," Fox said.

  "What did you call her?"

  "Look, she wasn't that important to me, okay? She was a young one on the make who wanted to play in the majors. She was an okay-looking babe who wore too much makeup and was a halfway decent lay, and I'm real sorry she got aced. All right?"

  "What did you talk about?"

  "Talk?"

  "Yeah. What two people do to communicate thanks to some magical connection between the brain and the mouth."

  "I don't know. Her career, my career, whether she wanted a pillow under her ass."

  "That's it? Did she want more out of the relationship?"

  "Hey, great question, counselor," he said, lacing his voice with sarcasm. "What are you, Dear Abby, or that pygmy..."

  "Did she want commitment?" I asked.

  "Dr. Ruth," Rodriguez said.

  "What do you think, that Marsha was pressuring me to divorce Prissy and marry her, so I got pissed off and killed her? What kind of asshole are you, Lassiter?"

  "A duly appointed grand-jury kind," I said.

  "Then get the fuck busy investigating and stop bothering me."

  If he expected me to get up and leave, he had a long wait. I just sat there looking at him while he went back to work, scanning files, signing papers. Rodriguez continued playing with his guns, pretending to shoot Fox's plaques off the wall, sixteen times without reloading.

  "If you don't have time now, Mr. State Attorney, I'll issue a subpoena for you. If you refuse to waive immunity, the papers will love it."

  He stopped signing, dropped his pen in disgust, and looked up. "Fire when ready, Jake. Take your best shot."

  "You're missing the point, Nick. I'm just gathering data, trying to figure out who Marsha Diamond was."

  "Then let me save you some time. She was a ballsy broad who wanted to get ahead in TV land. She wanted to meet the politicos. She wanted tips about corruption probes. She wanted her bottom rubbed by the state attorney. Hey, I knew she was blowing smoke up my ass, but it didn't feel half bad."

  "Anything else about the two of you?"

  "Nothing much. She said she wanted to spend a weekend with me 'cause we'd never done that, learn all about me."

  "You ever do it?"

  "It would have been this weekend," he said, lowering his eyes. I watched him a moment and tried to see beyond the press stories, the macho shield he had erected. There was a part of him, I thought, that was touched and angered by her death. Homicide detectives say they can feel it, that there's a difference between a witness who bears guilt and one who feels loss at a death. Though he tried to hide his emotions, Nick Fox, it seemed to me, felt loss all the way.

  I sat there a while longer and thumbed through Rodriguez's report. The building manager said Marsha was a quiet tenant. Few visitors. A husky man fitting Fox's description would come over late, leave early the next morning, his Chrysler illegally parked on Ocean Drive. None of her friends reported anything strange in her behavior. She had not complained of threats. Nothing out of the ordinary her last days on earth.

  I told Rodriguez I wanted to talk to him alone. Fox suggested his conference room, a place with more bugs than a Fourth of July picnic. Instead, we took the elevator down to the courtroom level of the Justice Building. A bailiff unlocked a door and we sat in a holding cell, our words drowned out by the cacophony of inmates yelling for their lawyers, mothers, girlfriends, all protesting their innocence at majestic decibel levels.

  "Got Whitson's autopsy and lab reports yesterday," Rodriguez said. "Death by manual strangulation, just like Doc Riggs said. No evidence of sperm or seminal fluid in the vagina, plus her diaphragm was found in the bathroom drawer, dry as toast."

  "So, no rape and no consensual intercourse, either."

  "Right, only thing out of sync is that substantial vaginal secretions indicate sexual activity in close proximity to death."

  "Find a vibrator, that sort of thing?"

  He shrugged. "No. Maybe just thinking of Nick's dick was enough to wet her panties."

  "What else you have?"

  "Still working on the computer stuff," Rodriguez said, leaning close to block out the noise. He handed me a printout of the directories from the computer's hard memory.

  COMPU-MATE 06/26/90 00:03

  RECIPES 02/12/90 10:35

  X-MAS LIST 12/17/89 23:18

  TO-DO LIST 06/22/90 06:24

  LETTERS 05/02/90 21:35

  INVST-1 06/25/90 23:56

  CUES 08/29/89 20:12

  MAKEUP 11/02/89 08:20

  VOICE 10/20/89 21:45

  GOALS 05/03/90 22:49

  "Not much there," he said. "The first five categories are all personal stuff. We read the letters. Family mostly. The last four
are all work-related. Tips on getting ahead, that kind of thing."

  A huge, bald black man in the next cell banged his hand on the bars. Our cell shook. "Ain't no mugger. Been framed by the Man," he yelled, looking at Rodriguez.

  "Get yourself a good lawyer," I suggested.

  "They never seen me do it, got no ID," the man wailed.

  "That's a good defense," I said, hoping to quiet him down.

  "It was way too dark in that alley," he proclaimed.

  "Clients always say too much," I told Rodriguez.

  I looked at the document again. "Have you printed out the files in each directory?"

  "You want 'em all? They're mostly crap."

  "I want Compu-Mate as soon as you can get it. What's INVST-1?

  "Don't know exactly. Thought maybe it was some investment software, you know, keep track of your stocks. But the only file in the directory is a list of questions, like some quiz or something." He handed me another printout.

  1. WHO GAVE THE ORDERS TO WALK ALONG THE DIKE PRIOR TO ENTERING THE VILLAGE OF DAK SUT?

  2. AFTER THE MEDIC AND RADIOMAN WERE KILLED, WHAT WAS THE STATE OF DISCIPLINE OF YOUR MEN?

  3. WHEN YOUR PLATOON ENTERED THE VILLAGE OF DAK SUT ON JANUARY 9, 1968, WHAT ORDERS DID YOU GIVE?

  4. WAS THERE EVIDENCE OF NVA OR VC IN THE VILLAGE?

  5. WERE THE VILLAGERS ARMED, AND IF SO, DID THEY THREATEN YOUR PLATOON?

  6. WERE ANY VILLAGERS WOUNDED OR KILLED BY YOUR MEN?

  7. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR TRANSLATOR?

  8. THE LAST TIME YOU SAW LIEUTENANT FERGUSON ALIVE, WAS HE

  "She didn't finish the last question," Rodriguez said.

  I looked back at the printout of directories. "What time did the ME say she was killed?"

  "Around midnight on the twenty-fifth. Give or take two hours either way."

  "Had to be after midnight," I said, examining the first document. "She finished working on the INVST-1 file at four minutes till midnight and logged out of COMPU-MATE at three minutes past. Her last conscious thoughts might have been about Lieutenant Ferguson, whoever he is, or some playmate on the computer."

  "How you gonna find the lieutenant?"

  "By figuring out what she was investigating."

  "Huh?"

  "It's not an investment file. INVST-1. Her first investigation. Something about Vietnam."

  A jailer came in and emptied the cell next to ours. Twelve men, chained together at the ankles in twos, filed into a courtroom for arraignment.

  "Why would a bimbo on local TV give a shit about Vietnam?" Rodriguez asked.

  "Fox served in 'Nam, right?"

  "Sure. A first looey with a chestful of medals. Uses it in all his campaigns."

  I chewed that over a moment.

  "Hey," Rodriguez said, watching me. "A million guys did their time there."

  "Sure they did," I said. "But best I can tell, she was only screwing one of them."

  CHAPTER 8

  The Lesser Man

  Arnold Tannenbaum toddled toward the bench, his three-hundred-twenty pounds occupying center stage. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, snapped his fire-engine-red galluses for effect, and began: "A classic invasion of privacy, Your Honor. Prohibited by the penumbra of rights of the United States Constitution and Article One, Section Twenty-three of the Florida Constitution. Ever since Griswold versus Connecticut, Your Honor, we have held sacred the right of privacy in the home. When the bedroom door closes and the lights are dimmed, the government—here personified by Mr. Lassiter—may not intrude within. No, Your Honor, government may not poke, pry, or peep beneath our sheets."

  In a matter of seconds Tannenbaum had taken us inside the home, into the bedroom, and under the sheets. I wondered how far he would go. So did Judge Dixie Lee Boulton. She peered down at Two-Ton Tannenbaum through pink glasses with fins like a '59 Plymouth. She listened for a moment, then slid the glasses off her tiny nose and let them dangle around her neck on a chain of imitation pearls. Even without her bifocals, Dixie Lee could see all she wanted of Arnie Tannenbaum, former amateur magician, failed operatic baritone, and perennial summer-stock actor. Currently, he sported a half-grown beard as he prepared to play Ephraim Cabot in Desire Under the Elms. Perched in the front row of the gallery was his client, Roberta Blinderman, long legs demurely crossed at the ankles, black mini hiked halfway to heaven.

  "A man sits at a computer in the privacy of his own home," Tannenbaum droned on, "composing words in the darkness. And Your Honor, a man's home—or a woman's home for that matter—is his...that is...his or her castle."

  It was clear Tannenbaum was winging it now, and Judge Boulton's face was wrinkled in confusion.

  "By the miracle of modern technology, those electronic words are transported to the home of a willing woman who awaits his entreaties. He may have the eloquence of a Byron or the crudeness of a pornographer. But either way, it is the modern equivalent of a Romeo, nay, a Cyrano, or...or...what's-'is-name?"

  The judge extracted a pencil from her silver beehive. "What's-'is-name?"

  "Damn. In The Fantasticks. The horny kid at the wall..."

  "'Try to re-mem-ber,'" I cooed at him, putting a little tune to it.

  "'The kind of Sep-tem-ber,'" he sang out in a rumbling baritone, "'when life was slow and oh so mellow.'"

  "'Try to re-mem-ber,'" I whispered again.

  "'The kind of Sep-tem-ber when grass was green and grain was yellow. Try to re-mem-ber the kind of Sep-tem-ber when you were a tender and callow fellow...'"

  The bailiff snickered, the court clerk nearly dropped her romance paperback, and the judge seemed more baffled than ever. "Mr. Tattle-beyer," she piped up, loud enough to quiet the singing lawyer.

  "I'm sorry, Your Honor. Now, where was I?"

  "Something about a man's castle." The judge sighed.

  Two-Ton strived to rescue the moment. "Indeed. Was it not William Pitt, the Earl of Chatham, who said as much?" Then, assuming the limp of a sovereign with the gout, Two-Ton hobbled toward the bench and, feigning the accent of the House of Lords, proclaimed, "The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the forces of the Crown. His cottage may be frail; its roof may shake; the wind may blow through it; the storm may enter; the rain may enter. But the King of England cannot enter. All his forces dare not cross the threshold of the ruined tenement!"

  I felt like applauding. Lord Olivier might be gone, but we still had Arnie Two-Ton Tannenbaum.

  "Meaning what, Mr. Taggleborn?" the judge demanded.

  Two-Ton thought about it and licked a sweaty upper lip. He was better when he didn't have to ad-lib.

  "Just as the king is powerless to invade the home, so too is Mr. Lassiter, wearing the color of state authority, forbidden from demanding entry and possession of items therein. The subpoena must be smitten, must be quashed under the righteous weight of judicial power. It must be torn into shreds and cast upon the wings of a zephyr. Let it be swept away on the breeze, on the...the..."

  "'The wind they call Ma-ri-ah,'" I singsonged, but this time, he didn't take the bait.

  "Very well," the judge concluded, then looked for me, hidden behind Two-Ton's bulk.

  I elbowed my way around Tannenbaum to get into the judge's line of vision. "This is a murder investigation," I told her, "and the state has a compelling need for the information. We do not seek to invade anyone's home, but rather to gain access to certain business records of Compu-Mate, Inc., a Florida corporation that enjoys none of the personal rights so eloquently defended by Mr. Tannenbaum. Those business records may show the identity of the last person to communicate with a murder victim. In short, the corporation has no right to withhold the records. As for the authors of the messages, there is no precedent to suggest that there is a constitutional right of anonymity where a person blindly transmits electronic missives into the night, oblivious to the identity of the recipient."

  "I see," the judge said, replacing the glasses on the bridge of her nose. Dixie Lee Boulton had worked fo
r three Democratic governors, and when the last had been put out to pasture, she was rewarded with a judicial appointment. She hadn't read a law book since graduating from night school in 1949, but I wasn't worried. She had a fifty-fifty chance of being right.

  "Motion to quash denied," she said. "Mr. Tottlebum, your client has forty-eight hours to produce the records."

  Two-Ton exhaled a sigh like a foghorn and gave me a congenial slug on the shoulder. "I shouldn't have sung," he whimpered. "'Music is the brandy of the damned.'"

  "William Pitt?" I inquired.

  "George Bernard Shaw," he said, then waddled toward the door.

  As the courtroom emptied, Roberta Blinderman slinked out of the gallery and approached me. Her feelings about me must have changed. "Mr. Lassiter," she breathed. "You were so very good just now. I almost wish you were on my team."

  "Well, Arnie gets a little carried away."

  She smiled and moved close, enough to give me a whiff of a sweet, heavy perfume. "You're telling me. He's one of my clients. Goes by the handle 'Big Ham.'"

  "I'm looking forward to learning more about your customers," I told her.

  "I can tell you about the clients," she said, gesturing with a small briefcase. "Periodically, I sample them to find out if they're getting what they want."

  "Which is?"

  "Satisfaction, of course. That's what we all want, isn't it, Mr. Lassiter?"

  She opened the briefcase. Inside were a stack of computer printouts and two hardcover books. I thumbed through the papers. A bunch of questionnaires. On a scale of one to ten, rate the sensuous quality of your Compu-Mate calls.

  "Our peter meter," Bobbie explained.