by Bill Capron
These were the books he loved. Raymond Chandler, Ross MacDonald and Rex Stout. They were stories he’d read over and over for thirty years. He ran his fingers along the spines of the Lew Archer novels. There was a man who could plot.
The Nero Wolfe books were arranged by year of publication, about half of them paperback sized hard covers. He bought the rarities wherever he could, but he hadn’t found any since the move from San Francisco. He checked his list. Trenton was the seventh murder. Fer-de-lance, The League of Frightened Men, The Rubber Band, The Red Box, Too Many Cooks, Some Buried Caesar, Over My Dead Body … pre-WWII, Stout’s best work.
He opened Over My Dead Body to the last page and scanned backwards until he found it. Princess Vladanka Donevitch. He wanted a man who could play a woman. Short and thin. That narrowed the choices.
He scanned Fer-de-lance. Manuel Kimball. He tried Daniels, got no answer; he left a message.
He proceeded through his library, writing down the titles and the dates of their original publishing, then searching out the criminal. Go to number thirty-six! But he’d come too far to take a shortcut.
~ ~ ~
At two-thirty he closed the book on The Zero Clue from the Three Men Out trilogy. He dialed Bob Goodwin’s unlisted home phone in Seattle.
Goodwin’s voice was choked with sleep, “Hello.”
He identified himself; he heard the lawyer pull himself awake.
Robin said, “I need to know whether Jake Tarn knows a man named Jack Ennis.”
There was a quick intake of breath. “I don’t need to ask him. I know Jack Ennis. Played poker with him once at Jake’s house. I haven’t seen him in months. Is he the guy?”
“Yes, he’s the guy.”
Robin’s hand shook as he opened The Black Mountain. There it was, on the last page, Zov. Four pages earlier he found the full name, Peter Zov.
Yes, Peter could play a girl; long hair, padded bra, shaved legs, five-six, one-twenty; his erstwhile marriage advisor, Peter Zov, the psychotherapist. Whacko and therapist neatly packaged in one man.
Robin wrestled himself free from thoughts of Zov. Who’s he going to be next? The next Wolfe was a short story in Three Witnesses, When a Man Murders. The killer was Jim Beebe.
Robin called information but found no listing for Peter Zov. He recalled Carla once said she had been in Zov’s house; he left a message on her answering machine.
He called Bob Sunday and again left a message, asking him to find out if a Jim Beebe owned a yellow VW, or Peter Zov, or Jack Ennis.
Robin turned out the light and sat in the dark. He didn’t know why, maybe there wasn’t a why, but he knew what. It was three o’clock when his eyes closed to a deep, dreamless sleep.
~ ~ ~
It was four a.m. when Diane Simpson and Bob Sunday started on the state’s computerized crime tracking system. The data, though bureaucratically voluminous, was suspect. Everything from parking tickets to robbery to murder was captured with the pertinent details and distilled into categories and finally into statistics free of the pain and suffering and immediacy of the crimes themselves. It was like wastewater treatment, the excrement went in, and the sterile effluvium went out.
Bob and Diane were searching at the infectious level.
“Where first?” the officer asked.
Sunday paged through his notes. “Let’s try that stolen license plate. Maybe he’s had it a while.”
Diane typed in the number and made a global search. She whispered, “Bingo.”
From June tenth to the fifteenth there were eight tickets issued to a yellow VW with those plates, and one on the eleventh to a Ford Bronco. The plates were stolen in April. Eight of the tickets were in Portland, four in Corvallis.
Sunday asked, “Can we do parking tickets to yellow VW’s only?”
Diane answered, “It’ll be hit or miss. Why?”
“I’m thinking this guy doesn’t care if he gets tickets with stolen or legal plates. He’ll be gone before anyone closes in on him.” He read the doubt on her face. “Give it a try,” he urged.
For fifteen minutes she collected parking tickets for all yellow cars in June, May and April. She transferred the data to another file where she selected for VW, Volkswagen, Volkswagon, Volk and any of the other possible police abbreviations and misspellings; and then sorted by license number. She put the new data on the screen and starting paging through it.
“That’s him,” she whispered, “nine tickets, Portland and Corvallis. Jim Beebe.”
The detective leaned forward, his voice tightened; “Can you find out if he owns a Ford Bronco?”
She hit the print button and they scurried up a floor and got on the DMV computer. Her fingers were shaking so badly it took three tries to get the password right.
Diane clapped her hands. “Got it! Beebe owns a Bronco, bought it in April from a Peter Zov.”
Chapter 19 - Thursday, June 29 - 6:00 am
The insistent ring shook him awake. When the answering machine kicked in, he heard Carla’s voice.
Robin grabbed the receiver. “It’s me, Carla, I’m up … yes, let me get a pen.” He scribbled down the address; “What about a phone … no one doesn’t have a phone, Carla … maybe he’s got a mobile … he called you at home when … yesterday … do you have caller ID … I’ll wait.” He heard her tapping; “… he must have the number blocked … thanks, Carla.”
He slipped on blue jeans and a polo shirt. From the gun safe he took his last pistol, an unregistered antique Colt, packed it in a holster and threw it over his shoulder. At the top of the stairs he grabbed his wallet, cell phone and keys and made his way on shaky legs to the garage. He’d left the doors open with the truck parked outside, the car inside. He decided on the truck.
He tossed the holstered gun onto the passenger’s seat and turned the key. The engine turned over and died. He started to turn the key again when he heard a clicking sound from under the dashboard. There was dew on the passenger side floor mat. He threw open the door, hitting the stone driveway with his shoulder and rolling. The explosion blew out the windows with a yellow fireball. Glass flew all around him. He felt a pain in his left arm.
Robin stood and forced his jello-ed legs straight. He pulled an inch long sliver from his forearm. His ears rang as he made his way to the car. This time he opened the passenger door. He got down on his knees and with his right hand carefully detached the bomb held under the dash by a strong magnet. He turned it and let the magnet grip the glove box. Two wires were connected by alligator clips to the radio. He unhooked the clips and set the bomb next to the smoldering truck.
Zov knows. Of course he knows. George probably told the runners everything he did. Yes, the jig was up, but there was one final loose end, me. Maybe he heard the explosion. He thinks he’s safe again.
~ ~ ~
The little white house on the cul-de-sac in Southeast Portland had the shades drawn. It was empty with that un-cared for look of a rental. The garage door stood open; there were drip spots on the concrete from two cars.
The door to the living area was unlocked. He entered through a small laundry room; sheets and towels were folded on top of the washer. Robin shook out a pillowcase. Sheltingham Realty Management was stitched in the corner. He moved on. The living room and kitchen were clean, dishes were stacked next to the sink. There were two bedrooms, with matching furniture. The guest room mattress had a plastic cover. He searched the main bedroom first, but found nothing; the same for the bathroom.
Robin moved back to the second bedroom. A sheet of paper had slipped behind the dresser and caught in the upright for the mirror; its corner stuck above the table top. It was a letter from OSU Administration. Beebe’s application had been reviewed, and his first interview was scheduled for June 29 at eleven a.m. Today!
He sniffed. There was a musty smell of sex. He looked closer at the plastic cover on the bed; he changed his angle. He could see the outline of her hips, the marks left by body oils, and a wet spot where a visco
us whitish fluid had dripped.
Zov wasn’t alone. Did she know what kind of animal he was? Did it matter?
As he drove to the highway, he left McMartin a voice mail about the bomb, Zov and Beebe, and OSU.
~ ~ ~
Captain Hardaway had been in the system too long. At fifty-three, he’d been a cop thirty-three years. He was ten years on a beat, then a short stint in vice, and lastly in homicide. He passed the sergeant’s exam on the third try and then waited three years for the promotion. Where he’d had a lackluster career as a cop, he proved adept at managing his officers. He paid attention to the little things, the mundane inconveniences of police life. He believed the easiest way to make a cop happy was to keep the coffee warm, and listen when they complained.
Then the Peter Principle happened to him; he was appointed Captain after a political purge of three top officers. Suddenly Hardaway had to deal with the political classes, men and women with motives and agendas he couldn’t fathom, often spouting venom at the men and women under his command. He had moved from serve and protect the community to serve the politicians and try to protect his troops. He’d replaced guilt and innocence with risk calculations based on blame and reward.
The two cops on the other side of the table were the enemy, politically. He was taking grief from all sides, his bosses, his bosses’ bosses and the media. He’d asked the mayor’s aide, Roger Bernhart to sit in; let him see the mess that was brewing. If there was any chance the women were right, somebody needed cover. Two city supervisors, Arnie Nast and Carleena Davis, he gay and she black, were also there, at the request of Bernhart. They had been the most ardently outspoken against bail for Morgan, and since.
Detective McMartin was unaware of any of this.
Diane whispered in her ear, “Something’s cooking, and I don’t like the smell.”
The captain interrupted, “Okay, detective, make your case.”
Maureen positioned a single sheet of paper in front of her though she didn’t need the cues; she ran through the original facts and described the results of their search. The looks around the table went from indifference to concern to fear.
“This could be coincidence,” Carleena Davis warned.
Maureen was adamant; “No, Supervisor, it’s not coincidence.” She turned to Diane. “Officer Simpson.”
Diane described the search for the yellow VW, and that after the meeting they would issue an arrest warrant for Jim Beebe.
“You can’t do that!” Supervisor Davis screeched. To the captain she blurted, “I need time. We need time.”
“For what, supervisor?” Maureen asked.
The captain answered for her; he was forthright, “To cover their butts, detective.” He pointed his angry eyes at the politicians. “They want two days to say nice things about your past suspect, to say the police have rushed to judgment, to make it our fault.”
Bernhart said to the captain, almost with a smile, “Yes, captain, that’s what we want, and that’s what we’re going to get.”
A uniformed officer entered the room and whispered in Maureen’s ear. She moved to the phone at the back of the room and pushed the lighted button.
“McMartin.” Her face drained pale; “Is the car there … okay sheriff, thanks.”
She turned to the room. “Robin Morgan’s truck was firebombed this morning. He wasn’t in it, but there was blood in the driveway. His car is missing.” She stopped, unsure where to take it from there. “He’s either dead, or …”
She directed her words at the captain; “I’m assuming he’s alive and knows who the killer is.” To Diane, “Let’s get that warrant right now.”
Bernhart was out of his chair. “Now wait one minute, you two. We have to …”
Maureen bit off her words; “Stick it up your ass, Bernhart.”
She asked the captain, “Any orders, sir?”
Hardaway decided protecting was more important than serving; “Get the hell out of here, and don’t come back until you get that son of a bitch off the street.”
It was Davis this time; “Now listen here, Captain, we can have your badge …”
Hardaway motioned to his women officers to leave. They heard him say, “Any time, Supervisor.”
~ ~ ~
Diane Simpson aimed her bright blue eyes at the detective. “Are we going to tell the media Morgan’s innocent?”
She shook her head. “Not yet, it’ll keep. This guy may think he’s safe, that only Morgan knows the story. I don’t want him running.”
They sat silent.
The detective gave her head a sudden shake. “No, I’m wrong.”
She called the DA. “Hi, Jack, it’s Maureen … the captain already talked to you … good … look, I want a statement issued at noon that Morgan is not a suspect … we’ll try to get Beebe before noon, that’s all I can promise … if we miss him, I don’t want him killing Morgan … no, noon at the latest … we’re going to Corvallis right now.”
Maureen returned her attention to Simpson; “Any other questions?”
The pretty blond tugged on the diamond stud in her earlobe. Her low-keyed voice was stripped of emotion; “I like Robin Morgan a lot, detective.”
“I couldn’t tell.” She kept her voice calm; “And?”
Diane shook her head. “Well, detective, Maureen, he doesn’t know I exist. He’s only got eyes for you.”
A blush suffused Maureen’s face. Where’s this going? “And?”
She raised her shoulders. “I’m declaring myself out of the game.”
Saved by the phone; Maureen listened; “That warrant’s downstairs, Diane. Let’s finish this now.”
~ ~ ~
As Robin exited the highway for Corvallis, the cell phone rang. He answered. A secretary said she was patching him into the meeting. He hit the speaker phone button and pressed the phone to the Velcro strip.
Dick’s voice boomed, “Robin, are you there?”
“I got you loud and clear.”
“Robin, I’m with Kathy, Donald King, and assorted lawyers and decision makers.”
“Hi, Robin, this is Donald King. We’re hung up on a last detail. I’ve been telling your people that a significant part of the valuation is based on your personal goodwill. I figure it conservatively at ten percent of the value.”
Well, he didn’t waste any time telling me what he wants, and without even asking for it. It was time to fish or cut bait. “Don, can you clear the room for a minute? I need to talk to you and Dick and Kathy. Can you do that?”
“Sure, Robin.” There was a shuffling of chairs and a click as the door shut. “Okay, Robin, it’s the three of us.”
“Thanks, Don. I know where you’re taking this, but I’m not going there. At noon today, my time, either we have an agreement at the last price, or my guys come home.”
“You’re being a bit rash …”
Robin cut him off, “No, I’m not being rash. I think we’ll do fine back on the open market, but if you sign today, we won’t look back, and we won’t regret it.”
“But …”
“Hey, Don, I got no time, the ball is in your court. Dick, don’t call me again unless the deal’s closed. Noon. Otherwise, I’ll see you after you return.” He hung up.
Chapter 20 - Thursday, June 29 - 10:00 am
The streets were summer empty, but there were the ever present activist signs in apartment windows and on telephone poles. College hadn’t changed much in twenty years; high public caring and activism, low personal accountability and responsibility. The government or big business can do no right, but never ask me to own up to my wrongs. I’ll apologize for society, but never myself. The mantra never changed. I’ve got great ideas, so you can ignore my total lack of real life experience which only pollutes you anyway. Listen to me! Damn it, listen to me, or else.
The campus was pretty much depopulated. A single woman manned the receptionist desk in the Administration building. She was about fifty-five and in possession of all the worst habits of a
public servant. She was filing; he was the only person there, and she made him wait. Hey, I’ll get to you when I get to you. Where else are you going to go?
When she finished, she looked up, but she didn’t move towards the counter. Over her half glasses she asked, “And you want what?”
Robin controlled his irritation; “I’m looking for a man who is either a student here, or works here, or has a summer faculty position. His name is Jim Beebe.”
No hurry. Never rush. She aimed her fat hips between the two rows of files as she waddled to the counter. She turned over a sheet of paper. “Do you spell that B-E-E-B-E?”
Robin reached for the paper. She pulled it back.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You didn’t see him when you came in?” Robin shook his head. “He dropped off this application for supplemental housing two minutes ago. Said he was lunching at Treeline Park Center, at the west edge of the campus. He had a bag from Subway.”
Robin drove west until the campus ended; a yellow VW was parked at the head of the wilderness trail; a Ford Bronco was parked a few spaces away.
Robin followed foot prints into the forest.
What are you doing? Go get the cops. The sandy dirt stuck to his sneakers as he slogged up the hill. He heard a twig crack up ahead and started to jog, slowly at first, then faster. Another twig snapped behind him; a pfft send out a puff of debris as a bullet entered the tree trunk to his left.
He turned his head, slipped sideways and used his hand to keep balance. Zov’s gun had a bulbous silencer. Peter fell as he skidded to a stop.
Robin ran; the faster Zov was content to hang back. The trail split in a wye; Robin veered left, but a bullet in the ground pushed him right. He’s herding me. Robin turned off the path into the underbrush and crashed noisily down the hill back onto the trail below the cutback. Zov was a hundred yards behind.
In another two hundred yards he saw his tracks up the hill. He veered left back to the parking lot. There was a fresh set of footprints. Zov wasn’t alone!
