Second Hand Smoke: Blood on Wolfe's Words

by Bill Capron

  The workout group got him through the worst of the drudgery. Canby was equal to him speed-wise, but his endurance dropped off the cliff at ten miles. Peter and Carla were very fast, usually leaving Robin after twelve miles to sprint to the finish; both would run under three hours with Carla contending with the leading women. In fact, he wondered that he’d never seen her name in any of the running magazines; she was that fast.

  His thoughts jumped ahead to the next afternoon when Bob Sunday would fill him in on Mona’s latest escapades. They had more than enough dirt, but Robin had lost the thread of why he kept Bob at it. It wasn’t as if he wanted to beat her price down; but he wanted to put the screws to that prick of a lawyer of hers. No, he warned himself, he was rationalizing. He wallowed in the pain of it to make sure he never did anything so stupid again.

  How did Mona happen? It wasn’t as if it was the first time. Eighteen years earlier he escaped from Mona’s twin, at least psychologically. He pulled out of the wedding with Joan after her sister described the manic depressive malady that drove a hidden roller-coaster life dominated by vanity, doubt, self-hatred and addictive sex. This time there was no sister.

  The signs were there, but he’d been oblivious. Like too many men, Robin Morgan lived life at a sensory level once removed from the actual events that begat them. He saw Mona and himself like a camera with the F stop way down, and everything else out of focus; he mistook attention for love. When she said, ‘Let’s get married,’ he said, ‘Why not.’ Six hours later they were united in Reno where they celebrated for three days in the hotel room. That was the high point of their life together, a one night stand that lasted a week. It was the most expensive mistake of his life, but what was money compared to being rid of Mona? It was nothing.

  Robin had known Bob Sunday since he’d moved to Clark County. They played golf every few weeks, and Bob was a regular at Robin’s monthly poker game. He was the natural person to turn to. Now, after a morning meeting, they and his lawyer would sit down with Mona’s lawyer, read him the riot act, hammer out the final terms, and be done with it. Robin would not look back.

  Robin pulled into John’s Landing Townhome Estates, a modern collection of boxy faux salt stained gray structures on the Willamette. There were no streets; a subtly lit sidewalk led from the lighted parking lot to his door.

  Robin sprinted through a light drizzle, let himself in and stripped off his all-weather before pouring a beer. The townhouse was an extravagance when he bought it, but since then his finances had skyrocketed. He liked the simplicity of it; no one acre lawn, no encroaching blackberry bushes, no twenty-five year old plumbing, no moles to kill. The five rooms and two baths were sparsely furnished; and the perfect getaway twenty miles from home. He’d brought Mona here, and for a couple weeks she made it her base of libidinous operations. Then he rented her an apartment in the Northwest and changed the locks for the Washington home and the townhouse.

  He sat at the computer and accessed his email; he responded to notes from Dick and Kathy. Do they work for the same company? He reviewed the mail from his skeptics group. I’m not a joiner, but here I am in all these clubs. How’d that happen? It was a residual effect of Rebecca and her successful behavior modification. Now, three years after her death, the lessons stayed learned.

  The image of Rebecca came on him, like an actual presence. When she met him, he was doggy paddling through life. She became his compass. She was a woman born with a sense of direction; she was out-going, intuitive, watchful, resilient, never confused and never ill at ease; she always did the right thing, no matter the circumstances.

  Rebecca would be embarrassed for him about Mona; that she hadn’t trained him better, but she wouldn’t be surprised. Rebecca was Robin’s sensory organ to the world of detail; and she knew it. He thought back to her irritation at his forgetfulness, his single focus attention, his inability to recall events without prompting, his being a guy. She loved him, even as she verbalized her frustrations at him. Rebecca was forever trying to make him the man she wanted him to be; she never gave up; it broke his heart.

  That next level down, that detail, still eluded him; that’s why Mona happened. He saw the sex, and nothing else, wasn’t looking beyond it, conducting life full speed ahead with his eyes wide open but dumb.

  Robin put on Sinatra, set his alarm clock, folded into his recliner and opened Chandler’s The Long Goodbye. Around midnight he fell asleep, the book open on his chest.

  Chapter 2 - Thursday, June 22 - 7:00 am

  Detective McMartin cleared a space in her cubicle for Officer Simpson. She scanned Jackson’s statement and pushed it at Simpson. “Read this.”

  Diane scanned it slowly. “I’m surprised. He seemed a bit repressed to me.”

  “Aren’t we all?” The detective blushed; “It was observant of you, officer.”

  Simpson spoke more to herself than her superior; “Yeah, I’ve embarrassed Jackson, that’ll really make me shine with my fellow patrolmen.”

  Maureen tapped the table to get the younger woman’s attention. “You can’t think that way, Officer. Until we know what’s happened, every fact is crucial, and they don’t come easily. No one wants to tell us anything, even the good guys. You take facts where you find them.”

  “I know, Detective, but did we need to know it? I mean, we got the guy, right?”

  The detective concentrated on the officer’s blue eyes. “You want to keep an open mind, collect the data.” Then to herself as much as her young aide, “Nobody likes to admit it, but once a cop decides on guilt, he only sees the facts that support his case. Once he’s done that, he can rationalize everything else away.”

  Diane was a practical girl, and the shortest distance is a straight line. “Even when you have the guilty guy already?”

  Maureen shook her head. “Even when it takes you to the right answer, it’s the wrong way to get there. There are a hundred cops in this town who think this case was over when we found out about the sex and the divorce. It’s the husband. They’re probably right,” she paused, “but what if they’re not, and we miss clues pointing to the right person?”

  “The point being?”

  “That we can’t learn too much.”

  The pretty blond officer put her elbows on the desk, her chin on her hand. She worried the corner of Jackson’s statement. “So what have you learned, Detective?”

  Maureen laughed. “I know Robin Morgan probably killed his wife, but I’m trying not to admit it to myself yet. I want the evidence to lead me.”

  “But?”

  “But, right now the clues all point his way.”

  Bob Sunday stuck his head into the cubicle. “Hey, pretty girls must run in herds in this building.”

  Maureen introduced Sunday to the officer. “You know, Bob, it looks bad for your client. You got anything that might lead to someone else pulling the trigger,” she paused, rubbed her chin, watched his eyes, “of his gun.”

  “His gun, eh?” The PI grinned. “Evidence, is that all you got?”

  Simpson was confused. “Evidence isn’t enough for you, Mr. Sunday?”

  “Hey, call me Bob.” Sunday shook his head. “Officer, a signed confession could sway me, and I’d distrust that, not that two beauties like you would even think of beating a confession out of a suspect.” He held up his hand when Maureen started to interrupt. “Only kidding, McMartin. I’ve been thinking about it all morning, and let me tell you, I’d bet my life he didn’t do it. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Maureen quipped, “You calling us dogs, Bob?”

  He turned to Simpson. “Cute, isn’t she? Well,” he pointed a finger at the detective without looking at her, “I know that dog can hunt.”

  He returned his attention to Maureen. “You girls better watch your backs. It’s going to be big news by nightfall, and the chief will be looking for any chance to put some flunky pal in charge. It is high profile, and, mind you, open and shut –”

  Maureen said, with a touch of irritat
ion, “We’ll follow the evidence, Bob.”

  “– but, take my word for it, it isn’t that easy. So do a thorough job ladies, and make us all proud.”

  After he left Simpson said, “He seems pretty positive about Morgan’s innocence.”

  She shrugged. “They’re friends.” The detective wanted that to be all, but, she figured Bob Sunday for good instincts.

  Simpson picked up on the PI’s other point; “Will they take the case from you?” She didn’t hide the worry in her voice.

  Maureen bit the end of her finger. “Only if we dawdle. So let’s have this thing wrapped up by Monday and we won’t have to worry about it. Why don’t you see if the statements from the motel guests have been typed up?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Robin’s legs rebelled at the pace. “Come on, Carla, slow it up a bit. My size sixteens have soaked up three pounds of water.” He turned to look back. “Anyway, we’re losing Canby and George.”

  Without breaking stride, she turned her head. “You want to get to three-and-a-half, you’re going to have to hold this pace for a while.”

  Robin complained, “I’m not there yet. I’m a month away.”

  “Okay, but only because those clown shoes you wear are looking heavy.”

  Carla Masters backed off the pace. She was an almost good looking woman, the same height as Peter Zov, five-four, a hundred and ten pounds of muscle. Her black hair, unplucked brows and prominent nose were a little too sharp for Robin, but she had a sexy low voice, and a way of looking at him that matched it. Carla was thirty years-old and a nurse at OSHU. She’d been in Portland five months.

  Peter Zov circled a tree and merged in with the slower pace. A leg weary Canby eased into the threesome from the back with George Fox right behind him.

  George whined, “Hey, guys, I got two more miles before my turn, you could stop acting like you’re trying to dump me.”

  George ran with them for eight miles, but took a shorter, slower path back to the start. His goal was four hours plus, and when the pace picked up in the next month he’d need another group to run with.

  Carla called over her shoulder, “Sorry, George. I lost control of my legs for a minute there.” To Robin she asked, “So how goes the saga of Mona?”

  As if on cue, the runners pulled into a tighter knot.

  George’s legs found new life as his focus was turned from the pace. “Yes, Robin. Let’s hear the news, all that’s fit to print.”

  Carla chided, “Forget the fit to print. God, Robin, if it wasn’t for your life, I’d have no life at all.”

  They were all in on it, a moving group therapy session focused on Robin and Mona. And they didn’t know Mona, so they were on his side.

  They hurdled a large puddle in unison.

  “We’re down to the short strokes,” Robin said. “I meet with Sunday this morning, and we lower the boom on her lawyer.”

  Peter was doubtful; “You really think he’s going to be concerned with Mona’s indiscretions? Come on, Robin, the sexual revolution was thirty years ago. Christ, you lived through it. Weren’t you paying attention? Mona’s not even that strange these days, exercising her libido like we’re exercising our legs. Don’t you watch television?”

  Robin laughed. “No, not much.”

  Peter went on, seriously, “You should have taken my advice and gone for counseling. I know people who could have helped, and it’s not too late to start.”

  Canby’s laugh was sharp and cruel. “Cut it out, Peter. You can’t believe Robin and Mona have a future. He should get on with getting over it. Toss the bitch to the wolves if necessary, but move on.”

  “Yeah, right,” Carla chimed in. “I should have an ex like you. Mona will hit the bricks set for life.” With her eyes flitting between the road and his face, she said, “If they give you any more trouble, threaten to fight them tooth and nail for every dollar, Robin. You’ve been too easy, and they know it. You get them in court, and maybe she doesn’t get a penny. You should do that anyway, on principle. She’ll probably set up house in Palm Springs or some such place.”

  Canby added, “Yeah, she’ll have to skip town to find someone she hasn’t screwed yet.”

  Robin was long past being embarrassed by the talk; in fact, talking about it inoculated him, as if it was someone else’s life, someone else’s wife.

  George Fox joked, “Hey, she hasn’t got to me yet. Robin, is it okay, when you’re finally cut free, if I see if Mona would like me?”

  Robin laughed. “George, you’re kidding, right?”

  “Yeah, well,” George hemmed and hawed and everyone laughed.

  Carla said, “Yeah, George, at your age it’d probably kill you.”

  “I’d die smiling.”

  Canby was more serious; “It’s hard to believe Mona’s not dead already. I mean hepatitis or AIDS, and then the whackos. She’s lucky she hasn’t been beaten up or murdered.”

  Carla answered for him; “I think she’s too mean.”

  Peter was more therapeutic in his view; “You guys are much too hard on Mona. She’s got real problems.” To Robin, “You’d be doing her a favor if you tied the settlement to her getting treatment.”

  Robin’s smile wavered. “Peter, it is bad enough I have to give money to Mona, I don’t want to give it to some quack.”

  Zov’s irritation was apparent; “Hey, it’s not quackery. Because you don’t understand it, that doesn’t make it imaginary.”

  Robin apologized, “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. As it stands, the last thing Mona wants from me is advice.”

  Canby said, “Your money would have been better spent on a hit-man.”

  “Is that what you did?” Carla asked.

  He laughed. “No, my second wife did me the ultimate favor of getting beaten to death by her boyfriend, the day before our settlement. Now that’s a solution.” To Robin, “For enough money, I might do her myself,” he offered.

  Carla said, “Yeah, like you already don’t have more money than Midas.”

  She looked to Robin. “You haven’t thought about that, have you, dear Robin?”

  He shook his head. “No, Carla. I’ll count this as a life lesson learned, and move on.”

  “Move on,” George moaned. “Gee, I missed my turn. I must be getting Alzheimer’s.” He put regret on the next words; “But then in a week your life will be as boring as mine, and I won’t have to run so hard to learn about it.”

  George slowed and made a right turn to the river where he’d follow the railroad tracks back.

  The darkening skies opened to a soft, cold rain. Robin ruefully watched George disappear around the corner.

  Carla rued, “I guess we’ll all be single.”

  Robin said, “Amen.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Simpson returned to Maureen’s cubicle. She sat and crossed sharply creased pants legs. “Still no word on Robin Morgan. He hasn’t shown up at either house.”

  “Do we have the search warrants yet?”

  She shook her head. “They should be ready by ten, after the DA tells the judge the next of kin is the only suspect.”

  “Those aren’t words I want us to say out loud,” Maureen warned the young officer. “This is the dangerous time.” A question formed on the officer’s face. “Once we go public, the damage is done.” She paused, thought, and then, “We’re going to change Robin Morgan’s life forever, and not in some inconsequential way. He’ll always be remembered for this, even if he’s found not guilty, or even innocent. Let’s be sure we have the right guy before we do that.”

  Simpson stated the obvious; “You won’t be allowed to wait.”

  Maureen put her face in her hands and massaged her eyes. “I know that.”

  The officer leaned forward. “I read Bob Sunday’s statement. You add that to Jackson’s, and it’s pretty close to justifiable homicide in my book.”

  The detective chuckled understandingly. “You ever been married, Simpson?”

  Without a moment’s hesi
tation, “No, I’m too young.”

  “God, that’s refreshing. I only wish I’d been so smart.”

  “And?”

  Maureen pulled at her left ear. “Well, let me explain it this way. In marriage, especially bad ones, the one kind I personally know anything about, there are lots of reasons for what you might call justifiable homicide. But the system doesn’t work that way.” She stopped for a moment, seemingly reviewing her words. “Scratch that. Once we start empathizing with a killer, we should find new jobs.”

  Simpson nodded. “Okay, point taken. Still, regarding marriage, maybe you can give me advice on what to avoid.”

  Maureen’s smile was turned inward as she gave the best advice she knew; “Yeah, right. Remember this, Simpson, never take advice from a proven loser. I am that; and I’ll keep my losing advice on marriage to myself.”

  Simpson was undeterred. “You must have learned something from the experience.”

  “I learned I’m stupid when it comes to men,” she shuffled the paper on the desk, “but I’m smart when it comes to murder.”

  Simpson changed subjects; “I was wondering about Bob Sunday. He wasn’t very forthcoming in the statement.”

  “He’s an ex-cop. Getting information out of him is like pulling teeth.”

  “Well, he was pretty cagey. Shouldn’t we have someone watching him?”

  Maureen smiled at her young helper. “I agree, but Sunday was too good a cop not to pick it up. Still, I want him to know we don’t trust him.”

  “What do we know about the wife, Mona?”

  Maureen shook her head. “Nothing more than the statements from Sunday and Jackson and the salesman from Iowa, or wherever Duluth is.”

  “She picked him up at the bar?”

  Maureen nodded.

  Simpson mused, “Free hooker?”

  The detective didn’t understand women like Mona. “She wanted the sex. Why? It must be something like too much testosterone. I mean, that’s how men think, not women?” She made it a question.