by Paul Levine
"Great winds," I acknowledged, wondering when I would be able to put weight on my left leg. If I couldn't windsurf in the Aruba-Bonaire classic, maybe I could qualify for the wheelchair races.
"Bunch of calls piling up since you been out of touch. Charlie Riggs says the bass are biting. Granny Lassiter asks whether you're eating enough greens. Dr. Katzen wants to talk. Oh, your friend Rodriguez called."
I picked through the stack of pink forms.
"What the hell does this mean?" I asked her.
"Dunno. Figured you would…"
I read the Rodriguez message aloud: "'Got story for your friends at the paper, on the record this time.'"
"What else did he say?"
"That's it, word for word, or best I can do since shorthand isn't my strong suit. Said it was priority one, or category red, or some cop talk."
I dialed Rodriguez's number, but it rang busy. I signed some letters and some pleadings, barely pausing to note the typos.
Tried again. Still busy. I reviewed some memos from the managing partner about indiscriminate use of the firm's credit cards at a Surfside massage parlor.
Tried another time. Still busy. What did Rodriguez want? Last time he talked to the paper, he was a "source close to the investigation" and let everyone know about the Compu-Mate connection.
One more try, then I rang the operator. I told her my name and semiofficial part-time government position, and through infinite willpower, she concealed how impressed she was. She took a moment plugging into the line. Off the hook, she said.
Okay, maybe he was taking a nap. Could have been at a homicide scene half the night. I grabbed the cane and my cotton duck Tilley hat with the wide brim to hide my battle scars and hobbled toward the parking garage. Cindy advised me not to pop two Tylenols with codeine, but it was the only way to use the clutch without my left leg declaring mutiny. By the time I reached I-95, nothing hurt that much. I felt fine. Even the traffic seemed more tolerable than usual, though there was an inordinate amount of horn-honking headed west on the Don Shula Expressway just south of the airport. I looked at my speedometer and discovered I was doing thirty-five in the passing lane. A little too mellow, the pills woozing me into outer space.
I slapped my face a couple of times, stuck my head into the wind, and put the old buggy into fourth gear, giving it hell. Ten minutes later, I pulled into Alex Rodriguez's driveway, bouncing over the curb when I missed the cutaway.
It was a small concrete-block, stucco house with faded green shutters and a carport. The county-owned Chrysler was there, locked up tight, the hood cool in the shade. The house was old and the yard belonged to a guy who didn't know crabgrass from crawfish. There were no children, so when Maria left him, she really left, heading to Honduras with a man who said he owned twenty-seven percent of a coffee plantation.
I rang the doorbell and waited.
I tried the door. Unlocked.
I stepped inside. The air-conditioning was on, whimpering and groaning. The coils could use cleaning. I called his name. The compressor whimpered. I tried again, louder.
I eased my way, cane-first, through a small living room with lime shag carpeting. The dining room was a raised section to the rear. The kitchen was dark. I flipped on a light. Rodriguez would never win a homemaker-of-the-year award. Beer cans, paper plates, and the fossilized remains of home-delivery pizza covered the sink and counters. The kitchen phone dangled down a wall by its cord. I put the receiver back on the hook and called his name again. Nothing.
Down a narrow hall were two rooms. The first was the master bedroom. The bed was unmade. A rumpled short-sleeve shirt was draped over a chair. Heavy black oxfords sat on the floor, a sock balled in each one.
I peeked back into the hall. One other door to try. It would be a spare bedroom used as a study. The Biggus Dickus sanctuary. Despite the air-conditioning, I started sweating.
The door was cracked an inch. I pushed it open with the tip of my cane. No one went in or came out. I raised the cane like a sword, figuring I could handle anybody armed with an umbrella, maybe even a crutch.
The room contained a chair, a desk, a phone, bookshelves, a computer.
And Alex Rodriguez.
He lay on his back. His bare feet stuck out from beneath the desk. The chair was overturned. He wore gray slacks and a white T-shirt. The T-shirt had a small, blackened hole just over the heart. The hole was surrounded by a spray of gunpowder. Somebody had gotten close. I felt for a pulse, didn't expect to find any, and wasn't surprised.
I was breathing hard and my mind was racing. I tried to think like Charlie Riggs. What would he do? Slow down. Talk to me, Charlie. There are four manners of death. Accident, suicide, homicide, and natural. Even I knew it wasn't a heart attack. I looked around for a gun. Suicide or accident, and it would be right there on the floor. No gun. Okay, Lassiter, it's a homicide. Very good. Step to the front of the class.
Now, try not to disturb anything and look around. What do you see? A fairly neat desk. Some bills, a day-old newspaper, some advertising fliers, and a police-department fingerprint kit. Something else that looked familiar, the logo of interlocking male and female symbols. I picked it up. It asked for name, address, handle, and password. It asked how often you used the service and if you had any suggestions. It asked, on a scale of one to ten, how you would rate the overall quality of the fantasy and the flesh produced by your pals at Compu-Mate.
Alex Rodriguez never answered the questions. Before he had a chance to fill in the blanks and stick on his stamp…wait. There was no return envelope. The questionnaire didn't come in the mail. It would have been brought by Bobbie Blinderman, who personally surveyed her customers.
Satisfaction guaranteed.
Somewhere in the back of my mind a buzzer was going off. The Compu-Mate connection. Of course.
Nick Fox and Alex Rodriguez didn't kill anyone. The murders weren't to silence anyone. And they weren't the work of a motiveless serial killer. They were planned and carried out for the oldest and best of reasons. Jealousy and revenge.
Nobody fucks with Bobbie.
Bisexual and promiscuous, Bobbie Blinderman waltzed door-to-door with her cockamamie surveys. You never know who'll invite you in for a drink and a tickle. Maybe a TV Gal, a Flying Bird, a Forty Something. And you never know who'll be right behind. An enraged husband who borrows a dead guy's poetry and a drunk guy's handle. He finds the bedroom, too, gets his revenge. Uses a gun to force his way, then ends the rivalry with his powerful jockey's hands. Until the next one comes along.
Larynx snapped in two. Fractured hyoid, thyroid, and cricoid cartilage, the whole shebang.
I remembered his hands, clawing reflexively at my own throat. With the women, it was easy enough. But that's not how you kill a man. If you target a man, a cop, you bring a gun and use it.
I gingerly picked up the phone, trying not to leave prints. I called the state attorney's office and told Nick Fox where I was and who lay on the floor.
"Oh Jesus," he said.
I told him about Bobbie and Max Blinderman, and he said it sounded crazy.
"Nick, the guy's flipped out. He assaulted me this morning because he thinks I'm diddling his wife."
"Are you?"
"No! What's that got to do with it?"
"You musta beat the shit out of the little punk."
He waited. "No, I took it easy on him."
"Okay, I'll send homicide out there. You stay put. Let's hope we get lucky, and somebody saw him going in or coming out of the house, or we come up with a gun."
"Lucky! We've got the printouts, and Max had the motive and the ability to sign on as Passion Prince. He raped the women and strangled them, and now he's shot Rodriguez. What more-"
"Jakie, simmer down. And start returning your calls, or don't they teach that downtown? Your pal Doc Katzen stopped by about twenty minutes ago. Blinderman's blood doesn't match up."
"What?"
"You heard me, Jakie. No match on the DNA. You got nice
theories, tying everything up and all. And maybe you're right for once. But Max Blinderman didn't do the screwing, so you tell me how you're gonna prove he did the strangling…"
I didn't know.
"And one other thing, Jakie."
"Yeah?"
"You're fired. I'm taking you off the investigation. Back to your divorces and whiplashes. I'll handle it from here. Turn in your badge and your gun. And give me some blood."
"Blood?"
"Yeah, Jakie. Bleed a little. You like to take it. Time to give. It's for a worthy cause. Just stop at the lab and see Dr. Katzen. And bring the gun into ballistics."
"The gun. Why?"
"Standard procedure. A man says he found a gunshot victim and the man doing the finding has a gun. Routine request, nothing more."
The gun.
The last time I saw the gun it was on a black enamel table in Cindy's apartment taking a breather after Pam fired it.
Oh brother. It's one thing to lose your new fountain pen, another to lose a county-owned gun. But what was I worried about? I hadn't done anything wrong. My blood would be red with just the right amount of calcium, phosphorus, and potassium, and a tad too much cholesterol. The gun would be right there where I left it, oiled and shiny. Wouldn't it?
CHAPTER 37
The Saint
Max Blinderman. Ex-jockey, penny-ante con artist, a life told in a series of yellowed newspaper clips and scraps of microfilm.
Roberta Blinderman. Goes by Bobbie. Ex…Ex-what?
Just who the hell was Roberta Blinderman? No criminal record, at least not under that name. I had been watching her swiveling walk but not paying attention to anything else.
My thoughts were interrupted by someone pounding on my front door. They do that after pushing the button half a dozen times. The doorbell hasn't worked in years. I yelled that it was unlocked. I heard some feeble pushing, but the door didn't budge. In the humidity it swells up like a patrolman's feet.
"Hit it with your shoulder," I yelled.
A thud, a curse, and a moment later Bobbie Blinderman high-heeled it into my combination library, living room, conversation pit, and entertainment area. It's a library because the sports pages are usually spread across the floor. I spend most of my time here, hence the living room, and I entertain myself with one-sided conversations. At the moment I was lying on a sagging sofa, nursing a sixteen-ounce Grolsch, my gimpy leg propped up.
"I was just thinking about you," I said, telling the truth.
She wore a black scooped-back dress, molded to her body, with a sweeping skirt. It was the first time I couldn't see a mile or so of thigh.
"You look very nice," I said. "Almost ladylike."
"We need to talk."
"About Max."
"No. About Pam."
"Pam?"
The name sounded familiar, but I hadn't thought about her since she had hustled me into an elevator at the hotel. The emotional wounds must be healing, or were they only superficial? I hoisted myself to a sitting position, offered Bobbie a seat, and she gracefully bent at the knees and lowered herself into the cushion at the far end of the sofa. She had spent some time tending to herself. The blush emphasized the sanguine complexion, the black hair was in a cultivated shag that suggested wildness under control. Her dark, wide-set eyes were accented with liner, shadow, and mascara.
She took a breath and said, "I thought Pam and I might really have something special. And we do, or did. I gave her all my love, and believe me, Lassiter, it's a lot. You have no idea how hot I burn, the depth of my passion."
She looked at me with eyes both smoldering and vulnerable. It was a new look, as if she had been playing a role, tough and loose, and now something else had opened up, sensitive and giving. As for the depths of her passion, if I didn't know now, the look said I might soon learn.
"Now Pam wants to know all about you and me," she said.
"A short conversation."
"That's what I told her, the truth, that you arouse me and I flirted with you, but you never responded."
"I responded, but you're married, and even if you weren't, it would be a conflict of interest with the investigation going on."
I patted myself on the back, gave myself the discretion-is-the-better-part-of-ardor award. Then I realized I wasn't investigating anything anymore. I had been fired. I was supposed to give blood but said to hell with it. I was supposed to turn in my gun, but Cindy couldn't find it. Now, revising the equation, the only hang-up was that Bobbie Blinderman was married.
And promiscuous.
And bisexual.
And her husband may be a maniac who kills anyone who dallies with her.
Other than that, we were made for each other.
"Pam doesn't believe me," Bobbie said, her eyes on the paddle fan, seemingly hypnotized by the churning blades. "She's obsessed with the thought that you and I are lovers…"
She let it hang there, and unspoken words passed between us. And if she believes it's true, why not make it true? Because, I reminded myself, she's married, promiscuous, and bisexual, and her husband…and so on and so forth.
And another reason, too, Lassiter, old buddy. The days of easy flesh are gone, my friend. Oh, a guy with an itch can still find an evening's diversion, just a bar stool or computer terminal away. There was a time when even a semi-tough linebacker knew every nightspot in the AFC East and most of the barmaids therein. But no more road trips, groupies fluttering in the lobby bar, then up the service elevator for curfew-busting pregame revelry. It's not the seventies anymore. The sexual revolution has been repealed by a vote of the electorate. And not just because of communicable rashes and deadly viruses. There's an old-fashioned word that makes us smart guys wince: morality. Or if that's too self-righteous for you, remember the flip side. Chilly awakenings in strange beds, the harsh light of morning, and not a word to say. What was her name: Susie, Sandy, Mandy, Candy? A flight attendant or travel agent or cosmetics salesgirl who liked opera or Cancun or hockey. Hey, it's hard enough when you're aglow with the buzz of someone special and it turns out to be a false alarm. No use sighing and sweating just for the exercise.
Jake Lassiter, number fifty-eight, placed on waivers, emotionally unable to perform. Refuses to hit and run. Welcome to the grown-up world, Lassiter. I'm almost proud of you, buddy.
"Look, I don't mean to be rude," I said, "but I've got other things on my mind besides your relationship with Pam."
"Such as?"
"Where's Max?"
She shrugged.
"I mean, if he's following you around, maybe I ought to find my Louisville Slugger, get ready-"
"I told him not to bother you again," Bobbie said.
"How considerate. Did you tell him not to bother Alex Rodriguez?"
She looked puzzled, so I told her. She kept shaking her head and biting her lower lip. "What time did it happen?"
"ME says between noon and three p.m. yesterday." Bobbie let her face relax. "Max was in the office all afternoon. He drove me back from Key Biscayne after your…disagreement, and we worked all day."
"Who else was there?"
"Just the two of us."
"Uh-huh."
"You don't believe me."
"No. I think you're covering for him."
"Max would have no reason to kill the cop."
"Really? Who would he have reason to kill?" She didn't answer. "Let's play a little name association game," I said. "Marsha Diamond."
"What about her?"
"You tell me, Bobbie."
"She belonged to Compu-Mate. You know that."
"Ever make love with her?"
"No!"
"Never shared her bed, had that something special you had with Pam?"
"No! We never met. I've already told you." When a witness starts to open up, keep the questions coming, short and sweet. Process the information later. "Mary Rosedahl."
The long, black lashes fluttered. "She was so lovely. Bisexual since her teens. We were together off an
d on. I was shocked when she was killed."
"Priscilla Fox."
"She wanted to experiment, that's all. Very adventurous. A one-nighter. We laughed about it. She was so full of life. It's awful what happened."
"Alex Rodriguez."
"The flatfoot! Give me a break. Except for a vice cop when I was a kid, I never-"
"Where were you married and when?"
"Miami Beach, three years ago, August third."
"So why doesn't Dade County have a record of the marriage license?"
"I don't know. Max handled all that."
"What's your maiden name?"
"Why?"
"What is it?"
She stood and walked to the wall. She was staring at a poster of a Hawaiian kid doing a three-hundred-sixty-degree flip on a sail-board. Either she was fascinated with aerodynamics or she was thinking.
"St. Simeon," she said. "Roberta St. Simeon."
"Unusual name."
"I'm an unusual person."
"If I ran that name through the Metro computer, what little shocks would I get?"
She turned back to me. "How easily do you shock?"
I didn't answer. I just sat there studying her. For once, she wasn't trying to be provocative. No risque jokes, no limericks. Something was bothering her. And me. If I could only draw the two bothers together.
"Was there really a Simeon who was a saint?" I asked.
"I'm told there was. A monk who lived on top of a pillar, just praying and praying, denying all flesh."
That almost made me laugh. Life is more pleasurable if you develop a sense of irony.
"Saint Simeon," I said, the name tickling my mind.
"Saint Simeon," she repeated.
"There's a name for it, isn't there, an ascetic monk who lives atop a column or pillar."
"I believe there is."
"What is it?"
"Can't remember," she shot back, too quickly to have tried.
Something was there, creeping around the shadows of my mind. I wanted to open a book, but what book?
"Well," she said, "if the interrogation is over, perhaps I should leave."
I didn't try to stop her.
She gathered herself in the way women do before making an exit.
