Second Hand Smoke: Blood on Wolfe's Words

by Bill Capron

  Robin said, “I’ll head back with George.”

  He made the right turn and spun to run backwards. “And thanks. I need all the help I can get.”

  He and George sloshed and splashed the next twenty minutes in silence. This time he saw the car trailing on the frontage road. Better start noticing stuff.

  When he closed the door, he called Judy. He heard an echo in the line. Is my phone bugged? Of course, I wouldn’t expect less. He hung up with a nagging feeling of paranoia.

  Under the hot shower he thought about motive, means and opportunity. But there was no motive that held water. He stepped out of the shower and sat on the closed toilet seat, letting the water slip down his body to the floor. He was sweating with fear. He stepped back into the shower and turned the spigot to cold.

  ~ ~ ~

  Bob Sunday waved from a corner booth at the downtown Denny’s. As Robin swung into the seat, the septuagenarian waitress nimbly pushed his coffee in front of him. He ordered a sausage and cheese omelet. The detective ordered the same.

  The older man shifted in his seat and reached across to shake hands. “Great news on the bail. I wanted to be there, but Judy said no.”

  Robin talked over the coffee cup; “Yes, a great ending to a lousy week. I didn’t much care for the jail experience.”

  The ex-cop said, “Makes you wonder why people keep going back.”

  “Maybe it’s a step up the quality of life ladder for them.”

  “No, they’re bone stupid, that’s all.” The PI motioned at him. “You look pretty good, all things considered.”

  Robin pointed a thumb back at himself. “I’ve been free eighteen hours. The captured animal look fades pretty quickly.”

  “How was the interrogation?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It got a little intense at times. What about you?”

  The PI’s hand made a rasping sound as he rubbed the stubble of a two-day beard. “Up until the point where I became a potential suspect, it was pretty tame. Then they took my palm prints, and grilled me pretty hard for two hours. Took Debbie’s too. Since then, nothing.”

  Robin apologized, “Sorry about that. It was my fault.”

  Sunday dismissed it with a tiny hand motion. “To tell the truth, it was pretty obvious I could be lying. Still, it wasn’t my job to tell them.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

  The PI’s smile was sympathetic. “Wouldn’t believe that from most of my clients.” He didn’t have to say the rest of it.

  “Are you going to continue on my case?”

  “Judy says no. She says I’m compromised with the cops. Anyway, I have to testify for the prosecution.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Sunday added, “So Judy’s probably right. The less I know the better.”

  “I understand.” The waitress refilled his cup. “I’m in a pretty tough spot though, even with the palm print. You got any advice?”

  The PI plunged in; “First, Judy said you were too easy on the cops,” Robin started to interrupt, but Sunday held up his hand, “and, knowing you, I’m sure she’s right. Cops are evidence collectors, and they grab up the easy pickings. Whoever set you up littered the field with easy evidence.”

  Without animosity, “You’re right, and they’ve got me pegged as guilty.”

  Sunday nodded. “They would need some kind of epiphany to change directions, and then the balls to fight the brass. It ain’t going to happen.”

  Robin’s voice was flat; “So they’d railroad me?”

  Sunday took the tone of a teacher explaining a particular thorny problem to a bright pupil; “It’s not railroading to them. They’re following the evidence. They don’t know you from Adam’s off ox.”

  Robin changed directions; “That detective, McMartin, she seems competent.”

  The PI frowned. “Yeah, she’s competent. A competent cop with limited resources. In my book, that spells trouble.”

  He thought about the detective, smiled. “She’s fair. She’ll follow the loose ends.”

  The PI shook his head. “I know Maureen. She thinks you’re guilty.”

  “Then I’m going to have to change her mind. My fate lies with the detective.” He shook his head as if to dispel a bad thought. “No, my fate lies with me.”

  “That’s good.” Sunday reached over and shoved his shoulder. “I’ve been reviewing my notes to jigger my memory. With Mona dead, a couple things take on a more sinister twist. They didn’t mean anything before, but now, who knows?”

  Robin moved into the table until his stomach touched it. “What do you mean?”

  The PI pulled a black notebook from his jacket. He thumbed the pages until he found one marked with yellow. “It was three weeks ago. Mona picked up a guy at the Hilton, and they took a cab to Sandy Boulevard. There was another cab trailing hers. It followed her to the motel; a guy watched Mona and the john take a room.”

  “And?”

  Sunday frowned. “I figured him for a jilted lover.”

  Robin waved a hand. “No way to know where this was leading, Bob.”

  Sunday turned some more pages. “The next queer thing happened last week while I was on Mona. I felt like I was being followed, usually ex-cop paranoia, but I checked anyway. I left Mona and turned up a side street. He followed me for three turns and broke it off. He figured out what I was doing, or maybe it was his street.”

  “Did you get the license?”

  “It was too dark, but it was a bright yellow VW beetle, one of the new ones.” He closed the notebook. “Strangest thing was, last Tuesday I thought I saw the same car outside my house, but then there are a lot of those yellow beetles. Then I saw it again the day Mona was murdered.”

  “This time you got the license plate?”

  He turned the book to Robin, showing the circled number. “Yes. Not that I suspected anything, but us cops record things. It’s our way.” He folded the notebook and put it back in his pocket. “So, I had a friend run it through DMV yesterday. The plates were stolen. I told McMartin, but she wasn’t much impressed.”

  Robin grinned for the first time. “Hey, it’s progress. Maybe your ghost is real.”

  Sunday motioned to the waitress and asked where their meals were. She told him the kitchen was backed up.

  He returned his attention to Robin. “The problem is still motive. Mona’s murder had a reason, and we have to find it.”

  “Not we, me.” He recalled the morning run. “One of my marathoners said maybe it was a random crime, that there was no reason.”

  Sunday shook his head. “No, there’s a reason.”

  The waitress put down their meals and refilled the coffee cups.

  “Screw Judy! I’ll find this VW for you.” He pointed at Robin. “You keep thinking about motives.”

  Robin’s exasperation surfaced. “It’s not easy. I keep traveling the same narrow roads, like deja vu all over again. It’s getting me nowhere.”

  ~ ~ ~

  It was a long time since she’d awakened to an empty house. No loud music, no sullen house mate, no repressed feeling of guilt. This was what she gave up by never being single. From the at times smothering arms of her parents to a cold, un-homely apartment with a husband, then a baby. How had Meg happened?

  Look in the dictionary under naive, that’s my picture, yes, that’s how Meg happened. I should have grown up before I had children. I should have become an adult before I became a bride. I should have learned to depend on myself. All the things I could have, should have done. Now I’m afraid of when Meg leaves, when I’m alone forever in this house.

  God, you’re morbid. Stop treating life like a worst case scenario. I’ve got forty more years to get it right. Anyway, being a cop can fill the waking hours. If I let it; if I need it; I can be like Rob Dill and live for my work.

  She pushed the thought away, buttered the toast, poured coffee and reconvened herself at the kitchen table. On the corner, unopened, was the latest self help book from her
mother. It was titled ‘Be All That You Can Be’, by the latest fad guru whose biggest accomplishment was telling other people what was wrong with their lives. She picked it up and tossed it ten feet into the waste basket. “There, right where you belong.”

  Maureen leafed through her notes as she ate. The case was slipping away. It was drowning in evidence as her perp floated away on a single piece of improbable flotsam. She had to shore up the case.

  Shore up! What’s wrong with that concept? If I weren’t a cop, I’d call it … I don’t know what I’d call it, but it wouldn’t sound good. I’ve got the evidence. I’ve kept my perspective. I’ve looked at it from top to bottom, and I haven’t made any unwarranted assumptions.

  But it wasn’t true; she wanted Robin Morgan to be guilty. He was too good, too nice, too smart, too handsome, too everything, mocking every choice of man she’d ever been with. Even Meg and Simpson were captured; was no one safe? Yes, she wanted him to be guilty.

  There, Maureen, you’ve said it, now get over it. You’re an evidence collector. Do your job, follow the rules. But, am I being fair, or have I already decided?

  She knew that answer too. He was guilty, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be fair.

  Twist the evidence. Alter the assumptions. Make believe he’s telling the truth. If he is, what would I do differently?

  She held her notebook above the table and turned it in her hands. She visualized the evidence, looking for what she wasn’t doing.

  I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I’m a good cop. I’m doing my job. It’s not my job to find Robin Morgan innocent. No, but it is my job to find the murderer, and if he’s innocent, then I haven’t found the murderer.

  She dropped the notebook; the thinking made her head hurt. She blurted aloud, “No, he’s guilty.”

  If he goes free, the brass and the media will toast my buns. I don’t need doubt. I need results.

  She opened the notebook again and forced her mind back to the evidence. He thinks he’s going free. It made her angry all over again.

  Maureen called the cop on Morgan’s tail. She talked for two minutes; she piled the dirty dishes in the sink and made for the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  Bob Sunday stopped the last bit of egg on the way to his mouth. “Oh, oh,” he pointed his egged fork at the door, “here comes trouble.”

  Robin watched the detective turning heads in her wake. She stood close to the PI; her raincoat dripped on his shoulder; he twisted his neck to see her.

  “Witnesses and perps getting their stories straight. It’s a beautiful sight.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “Maybe I should talk to the DA.”

  Sunday looked at Robin who nodded. “I was on my way out the door. It’s good to know you’re protecting and serving on Saturday.”

  Sunday scurried out the exit.

  Robin motioned with his hand. “Sit down, Detective, or is that not allowed?”

  She hung her coat in the hook between the booths and slid onto Sunday’s warm seat. “You’ve had a busy morning, Mr. Morgan. You shouldn’t be consuming your freedom so cheaply.” She used a napkin to pat her face dry.

  Robin waved to the waitress who poured a new coffee. He gave her a twenty with the check.

  “Picking up the pieces of my life, Detective. The last few days haven’t helped.”

  She sipped her coffee. “That’s not my fault.”

  His chin rested on interleaved fingers. “I know it’s not your fault. You’re doing your job, what I’d expect if it wasn’t me you were doing it to.”

  She was accusatory; “It’s a mess of your own making, Morgan.”

  “You can call me Robin.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  He nodded, and then, “You’re almost right. Mona was a mess of my own making. I was already paying for that. Her murder, no way.”

  He watched her eyes, read the doubt. “You don’t believe me. Why?”

  “The evidence, Mr. Morgan.” No response. “Evidence doesn’t lie; it lays there waiting to be found. And it’s pointing at you.”

  “Then the evidence is wrong.”

  “All of it?”

  “What about the palm print?”

  The detective leaned into the table, almost touching him with her stabbing finger. “Let me tell you something. The evidence says you’re guilty. I don’t know what smoke and mirrors your high priced lawyer will conjure up with that print, but I can see right through it.” She fell back into the seat.

  His voice was expressionless; “I’m not the ogre you think I am.”

  She felt suddenly exhausted, as if her last tirade had taken a physical toll. “I don’t think you’re an ogre, Mr. Morgan, but I think you did a bad thing. You may be the greatest person in the world except for that one thing.” She stabbed her finger again, but her voice lacked the same intensity; “That one thing is the only thing I care about, the only part of you I will ever know.”

  She saw his black eyes turned within; then he was there again.

  He put his elbows on the table and crossed his forearms. He spoke directly, “I’m a good man. It’s not by chance either. I work hard at it. I try to do the right thing, and failing that, to make amends afterward. I am never intentionally mean or abusive.” He bit his lip. “I don’t know where I’m going here. No, what I want is for you to consider the possibility that maybe I didn’t kill Mona.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “You’re good, real good. My daughter comes home and tells me her teacher used to work for you, thinks you’re innocent. She agrees. No good reason.”

  He put two and two together. “She’s in Carrie Robbins’ class?”

  She rolled her head from side to side, her smile both incredulous and dismissive. “There you go, so frigging solicitous, so attentive, so good looking. Well, Mr. Morgan, I work on the principle that you are nasty and ugly. I mean, nasty and ugly people are innocent too, but then your Miss Robbins and my daughter wouldn’t be all over me for persecuting them.”

  Unbelievably to Maureen he smiled, a real smile, one to make her wonder what she’d said. “Detective, that’s what I want from you, to consider me nasty and ugly. I want the same police work as that nasty, ugly person deserves.”

  She defended herself; “You act like this is some kind of personal vendetta, like I’m out to get you.”

  He held his hands out, palms up, and shrugged, still wearing the enigmatic smile.

  She felt her anger well up; but she lowered her voice; “That’s how I see you, nasty and ugly,” she shook her head sharply, “like what you did.”

  He took his change from the waitress, left a tip, and returned his attention to the detective. “You’re going to have to explain the print,” he leaned into the table and jabbing his finger as she had earlier, “to yourself.”

  She formed a wordless question with her face.

  He answered, “The DA will dance around it, and might even convict me despite it. He’s a good man, good at his job, but he can ignore that itsy bitsy piece of wrong evidence. You can’t. If you avoid it now, it will nag you until one day you set me free, because you have to.”

  “Bah.”

  His voice was calm, but passionate; “No bah about it. I’m innocent; and I think my future is in good hands.”

  Maureen rose without another word, grabbed her coat and strode away. She didn’t look back; she didn’t want him to see the flush of her skin. She said to herself, “Nobody’s this good,” three times before she got to the door.

  Chapter 10 - Saturday, June 24 - 2:00 pm

  It seemed longer than two days; FindIt was already foreign territory. His office was too reminiscent of the interrogation room, spare and windowless. Still, the obligations to his employees held him until the sale was complete.

  There was a knock on his door. Kerry Williams, his secretary, stuck her head in. “Benny said you were back. Oh, Robin …”

  She rushed forward. He stood away from the table to embrace her. The thin black wom
an’s unlikely green eyes were filled with tears.

  “I thought you were still in Hawaii,” he said.

  “We flew in late yesterday. Jason agreed, we couldn’t have a good time with what was happening to you here.” She used her index fingers to wipe both cheeks. “I want to be here if you need any help.”

  He embraced her again; her tears wet his shirt. “Thank you.”

  Kerry disengaged herself, a flush further darkening her skin and reddened the whites of her eyes. She visibly rearranged herself.

  “I’ve got a fresh pot brewing. It’ll be ready in a minute. You want some?”

  He said yes. She returned with a dry face and her usual look of controlled efficiency.

  “Why’s everyone in today?” He waved his hand to take in the entire office.

  She placed the steaming cup on his desk. “Dick and Kathy held the project reviews this morning. Dick said yesterday was a total loss, and the status reports are needed for the negotiations. When I called to check on you, he asked if I could come in, so here I am. We’re editing the final reports. We’ll be done by six, or seven, or eight.”

  They both laughed. Closing time was an inside joke most spouses did not appreciate. Kerry’s husband, Jason, was a junior member of a law firm; he understood.

  Kerry tsked at the puddle beneath his all-weather. She folded the dripping coat over her arm. She read his face and anticipated his request; “I’ll see if they can see you.”

  Kerry buzzed him that Dick and Kathy needed ten minutes. He perused their logs on the central database.

  Once in Dick’s office he felt the tension. “I read through your notes on the conference call with Don King. It was one call, wasn’t it?” No answer. “I mean, you both heard the same words from King.” Still nothing. “Wouldn’t get that from your synopses.”

  Kathy looked to Dick who remained silent; she blurted, “King’s ready to bolt. He’s not going to do the deal.”

  Dick barely moved his lips; “That’s one way of reading it.”

  “But?”

  Dick smoothed the edges of his voice, like saying we’re all professionals here. “He sees an opportunity to get FindIt at a bargain basement price. Suddenly he focused cheap. He wants to get us down thirty percent.”