Killed on the Ice

by William L. DeAndrea

  “Hello?” I said. I kept my voice light, just above a whisper, in case there was something to learn by having the caller think I was Harris.

  No such luck. “Matt?” said Al St. John. “I was hoping I’d find you there—I couldn’t think of anywhere else to call.”

  “You gave me a heart attack, Al. I just want you to know that. You didn’t do much for Shirley’s health, either.”

  “Is Shirley with you?”

  “That was a stupid question, wasn’t it? Of course she’s with me. What’s the matter?”

  “Some reporter for the Times woke up Mr. Falzet and asked him about the murder of Dr. Dinkover.”

  “Jesus,” I said conversationally. “I bet Falzet loved that.”

  Tom Falzet was the president of the Network, survivor of one of the few corporate power struggles in the history of American business that actually resulted in backstabbing in more than the figurative sense. Falzet was honest and very good at his job, and those are the last good things you’re going to hear about him from me. His opinion of me was similar, if not downright congruent, and I suspect he would have fired me long ago if he didn’t suspect I would be delighted to have him out of my hair. I know I probably would have quit long ago if I didn’t think he would be glad to be rid of me.

  None of this was any secret, and Al was sort of tiptoeing around the matter.

  “...anyway, they said you’d left the hospital, and that Shirley had gone too. I figured, good Lord, where would you have gone except to check out Harris’s place, so I called you. I’m glad it worked out.”

  “Me, too. What does Falzet want?”

  “He wants to see you in his office. First thing in the morning.”

  “No.”

  “Uh...Okay, Matt, I’ll tell him I couldn’t reach you.”

  I yawned. “Tell him I said no, Al. For God’s sake. I’ve been up all night. What is it now, about a quarter to five?”

  “Exactly a quarter to five.” I smiled. It’s a little talent I have—I always know what time it is within ten minutes or so. Someday, I told myself, I’ll figure out a use for it. At the moment, all it was good for was saving me the effort of moving the sleeve of my overcoat to look at my watch.

  “All right. First thing in the morning for our esteemed president is about six hours from now. There is no way on God’s green earth I’m going to stay up for another six hours just for the pleasure of his company. I’m going to go home, walk the dog, and go to bed. Tell him I’ll see him this afternoon. Late this afternoon.”

  “He’s having lunch with the senator this afternoon.”

  “See? I’m so tired, I forgot. This evening, if he wants. Tomorrow. I’ll see him when I’m up to dealing with him.”

  “All right, Matt, I’ll handle it.”

  “Good, do that. By the way, Harris is going to be all right, his doctor says.”

  “Oh, that’s terrific. I’m sorry to admit that with everything that’s been going on, I forgot all about him. Did you get a chance to talk to him? Find out who hit him?” Al was being properly concerned, but the truth was, he and Harris didn’t get along too well. I think Al resented the fact that Harris was my top man, and would be until he quit.

  “No,” I said, “they had to operate. Harris was still out when we left. And don’t worry about forgetting. Dealing with Falzet is enough to scramble anybody’s brain.”

  “I still shouldn’t have forgotten him completely. Tell Shirley I sympathize with her.”

  “I will. This has been a tough night.” I’m a master of understatement. “You’ve done good work, Al.”

  He thanked me, a little more warmly than necessary, and we hung up. Shirley said, “Are you going to call the police now?”

  “Soon,” I said. “Not from here. I’ve been hung up at the scene of one crime already tonight.”

  “That was thoughtful of you, telling Al he did a good job,” Shirley said. “That sort of thing means a lot.”

  I shrugged. “Facts are facts.”

  “A good boss points out the facts. Al is sort of in awe of you.”

  “Oh, come on.” That kind of talk embarrasses me. “After three years?”

  “No, I mean it. He told me once you reminded him of his big brother, who he was in awe of.”

  At that moment, I would have been hard-pressed to think of a topic I was less interested in than Al St. John’s big brother. I offered to take Shirley home to Brooklyn, but she insisted on returning to the hospital. I dropped her off, then parked the Network car illegally while I made a quick pay-phone call to Lieutenant Martin’s office.

  Detective Gumple picked it up. Gumple had a reputation for being the best one-man tail in the history of the New York Police Department. The consensus was he did it by scent; he sure didn’t do it on brain power.

  I asked for Lieutenant Martin or Detective Rivetz; neither was in. “Everybody’s gotta sleep sometime,” Gumple told me.

  “A noble sentiment,” I yawned. I told him about the trashing of Harris’s apartment.

  “What are you telling us for? This is the homicide squad.”

  I could picture Gumple (who resembles a mole) pulling his ear and wrinkling his nose in consternation that I had dialed the wrong number.

  I tried to put him at ease. “The lieutenant will want to know about this,” I assured him. “It might be connected to the Dinkover case.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. If Harris’s place had been left alone, I would have been convinced there was a connection; as it was, I just thought there might be.

  “The lieutenant will want to talk to you about this,” Gumple warned.

  Everybody wanted to talk to me. It was heartwarming to be so popular.

  “I know,” I said. “And I want to talk to him, too, but not till three o’clock this afternoon. I’m going to get some sleep myself.”

  “I don’t know, this Dinkover guy was a big shot, pretty important. I wouldn’t want to tell the lieutenant—”

  “Just tell him if he wants to talk to me before I get some goddam sleep, he’d better bring a warrant. And if he does, I’ll just go to Riker’s and sleep there.” I hung up, yawned again, got in the car, and drove home.

  “Home” was the Central Park West (Eighth Avenue in the poorer neighborhoods) co-op belonging to Rick and Jane Sloan. Rick and Jane had surprised me; I’d known them since college, and they’d always seemed nothing more than pleasant but basically inconsequential drones living on old family money. Then, a few years ago, they had discovered archaeology, when they decided to see how the vast amounts of money they donated to the museum were spent. They were so impressed, they took off with an expedition (which they also financed) and had been gone ever since, doing coolie labor in a leech-infested rain forest in Thailand.

  In the meantime, I got custody of a fabulously expensive place to live in one of New York’s ritziest neighborhoods. I enjoyed it a lot—so much that I was getting spoiled. When Rick and Jane finally came back, and I had to live some place I could afford, I was going to feel like Cinderella. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I also, for the time being, had custody of Spot, Jane’s purebred Samoyed, also fabulously expensive, especially after what they’d spent on obedience training and attack training. Not that I had any complaints. Spot had saved my life more than once.

  It looked as if I had just gotten home in time to save his. As usual, he started to yip as soon as I put my key in the lock. Then, as soon as I opened the door, he sprinted past me, ran to the elevator, and began to yip again.

  Spot looked reproachfully at me. I felt guilty about leaving him so long without walking him, and Spot’s eyes and body language reinforced the guilt. He didn’t actually cross his legs and jump up and down, but he left no doubt that I hadn’t gotten there a moment too soon.

  Outside, Spot took care of business, then I cleaned up after him (Spot and I have never violated the great New York poop-scoop law—good citizens both of us). After that I tried to make up for my night of neglect by ta
king him on a nice little walk around the block. It was a brisk morning, sharp and cold and clear below an overcast sky.

  Samoyeds were bred in Siberia to be sled dogs, so Spot really enjoyed himself. His perpetual smile was wider, his small pointy ears pricked up and alert, and his fluffy pure-white fur ruffled in the wind. I felt a little better about things, myself.

  It was daylight now, but nobody was on the streets yet except a few deliverymen and joggers. I tried to ignore them, but Spot was more than willing to exchange cheery hellos. It got on my nerves after a while, but I let it go on until I was in danger of waking up.

  Back at the apartment, I stripped and took a shower, watching as my blood and Dinkover’s washed off my hands and mingled as it went down the drain. I get morbid when I’m tired.

  I turned off the water, dried my hair, pulled on a pair of briefs, and collapsed on my bed. I think I was awake to feel my face hit the pillow, but it was close.

  I woke up at a quarter to two, sooner than I would have liked but later than I expected. After a minimum of yawning and swearing, I rose to face what was left of the day.

  I fed Spot, then punched buttons on my answering machine to see who was mad at me today. Lieutenant Martin was fairly angry; I was to be in his office tonight at seven sharp. A lot of people at the Network were angry, according to Jasmyn Santiago, my secretary, especially Falzet and the Public Relations department. My mother was pretty upset at me for getting involved in another murder case. She thinks I do it on purpose. She also reminded me I had to come to church on Christmas day to hear my sister sing in the choir. I love my sister, but there was a longstanding rift between me and church. It was something I’d have to think about.

  The only person who wasn’t mad at me was Wendy Ichimi, who wanted me to call her at the Garden anytime before two fifty, which was when she was scheduled to go on for the Wednesday matinee of the ice show. She even said please.

  I dialed the number she left and waited while somebody went to get her. I got the impression they weren’t too crazy about phone calls in the dressing room while the show was going on, but Wendy’s name carried enough weight to get things done.

  While I waited, I wondered how she’d gotten my home number. It’s listed, but under Rick’s name. Then I remembered that I’d given the number to Max Brother last night as a gesture of the Network’s full commitment to his client’s welfare and similar horseshit. It seemed so long ago.

  “Mr. Cobb?” Wendy’s voice came. “I’m sorry it took so long to get to the phone. I was putting on my costume.”

  I told her it was all right. “What can I do for you.”

  “I really would like to talk to you today. I’ve got something I have to tell somebody, and after yesterday, I think you’re the person. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. At this point, I minded anything that had me awake, but work was work.

  “I want this to be private,” she said.

  “That can be arranged. Have you eaten?”

  “Are you crazy? I have to skate! I’ll be ravenous after the show, though.”

  “Good. Have you ever had Afghani food?”

  “Not lately. You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  “Hey, this is New York. When is the show over, three thirty?”

  “Twenty after. Meet me at the players’ entrance at the Garden. Do you know where that is?”

  “I’ve played basketball there.”

  “No kidding?” She sounded impressed.

  “I would never kid a star. Dress casually.”

  “Um...I can’t manage casual unless I go back to the hotel first. How about sloppy?”

  “Sloppy is even better.”

  After the call to Wendy was finished, I used the phone again, this time in an attempt to mollify Mom by promising to hear my sister sing at a rehearsal or something. It did not work, but at least I tried. Then I got dressed. I tried to split the difference between sloppy and casual with a pair of jeans and bulky black turtleneck sweater. With my snorkel jacket over it, all I needed was a pipe to make me look like one of those guys who sail around the world all by themselves for no particular reason. Next, I got Spot into his silver-studded collar and leash, took him outside and walked him around awhile, then went to meet the star.

  “To explore strange new worlds...”

  —William Shatner, Star Trek (NBC)

  CHAPTER SIX

  “WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DOG!” Wendy Ichimi gushed as we clambered into a taxi on Seventh Avenue. “But why do you call him Spot?”

  I sighed. Somehow, I had hoped Wendy would be different. Everybody gushes over Spot. I know how to say “what a beautiful dog” in eleven languages. Everybody also wants to know how a pure white dog comes to be named Spot, which means I have to tell everybody. I have Rick Sloan to thank for this—it was his idea.

  “He’s named for the gigantic white spot that covers his entire body,” I explained.

  “That’s silly,” Wendy said. “Cute, but silly.” She patted Spot, who proceeded to lick her face.

  She told him to stop, giggling all the while. She was wearing jeans and an olive drab army jacket with about a million pockets. No hat, no makeup. She looked about thirteen years old and a million miles removed from the grim-faced woman who had told me she wasn’t a bitch. There was a lot to Wendy Ichimi; at least more than a first impression would show. All of a sudden I was looking forward to lunch.

  “You should be honored,” I told her when Spot finally desisted. “He doesn’t lick just any old body, you know. That shows you’re all right by him.”

  “He’s all right by me, too.” She wiped her face on the sleeve of her jacket. “He’s just a little damp.” She stroked his head again. “I’ve always liked dogs, but with all the traveling I’ve always done, it would be silly to own one.”

  “How long have you been traveling?”

  “Since just after my father married Helena.”

  “Since you were what? Ten?”

  “Six. I was almost nineteen when I won the gold medal. When are we going to be there? I’m digesting my own stomach by now.”

  “We’re there,” I said. I had the cab driver pull over to the southwest corner of Second Avenue and St. Marks place in the East Village, paid him, and got out.

  I don’t get to the East Village that frequently, but then I don’t have to. Things there somehow got frozen in time circa 1970. I mean, Wendy and I saw five guys who looked like Jesus in the half block we walked from the corner to our destination. If she wanted to be unnoticed, this was the place to be.

  I tied Spot to a railing outside the Cafe Kabul, and we went in. Late afternoon was the quiet time of the day there, so the low table by the window, with the floor cushions and the view of the passing show, was available.

  “This is neat,” Wendy said, easing herself down to the cushion. She winced twice in the process.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. Arthritic knee. Inconvenient, but the doctor says I might as well skate on it as walk on it. For a little while, anyway.”

  “Does it give you a lot of pain?”

  “Not much.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I keep it under control with an illegal drug.”

  “This is the neighborhood for it.” Out on the sidewalk, Spot watched in fascination as a black man with dreadlocks lit a joint the size of a Tootsie Roll and walked calmly on.

  I turned back to Wendy, who said, “Not that kind of drug. No good for pain.”

  “Seriously, what are you using, DMSO?”

  “That’s it. How did you know?”

  “Makes sense. Lots of athletes use it.”

  “It really helps. I don’t know why they’re not allowed to sell it as medicine.”

  “A glitch in the bureaucratic machinery. The Network news magazine show did a big report on it a while back.” I explained to Wendy that DMSO—she already knew that it stood for dimethylsulfoxide—had been developed as a solvent, which was still the only leg
al use for it, aside for some veterinary applications. Then they discovered its pain relieving properties and sent it to the FDA for tests. That’s where the trouble started. Nothing can be approved as a medicine until it passes what’s called a double-blind test. That means some patients get the real stuff being tested, and others get something harmless and inert. It’s called “double-blind” because neither the doctor giving the medicine, nor the patient, is allowed to know which is which.

  “Unfortunately, you can’t test DMSO that way,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the DMSO, since it penetrates your skin and gets into your system so fast, has an unavoidable side effect.”

  “That garlic taste. I always get this fishy, garlicky taste when I use it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why don’t they just give the patients a clove of garlic to chew on before they run the test?”

  I looked at her. “That is a great idea. I wonder if they ever thought of it.”

  Our waitress, a tall, wide-eyed girl in loose wool pants and a brocade vest over a turtleneck, brought water and menus. As she left, the sound system started playing twangy music with unusual rhythms. Wendy made gentle movements of her head in time to them, and her sleek black hair danced for me.

  “Well, you’ll have a lot nicer garlic taste in your mouth in a minute,” I told her. “The food here is really good.”

  “Why don’t you order for us, then?”

  “If you like.”

  “I like, believe me. You know, it’s incredible. Practically every town I go to, the arena management or somebody wants to go to a Japanese restaurant—and I’m supposed to order for them, too. Tell you another secret—the idea of eating raw fish makes me want to barf, heritage or no heritage.”

  I smiled at her. “Okay. Not many fish in Afghanistan, raw or otherwise. Landlocked. I’m going to get us a sambusa appetizer then ashuk for the main dish.”

  “Sounds exotic.”

  “Sambusa is sort of like a taco shell, only it’s closed all around. It’s got this ground-up vegetable mixture inside. You dip it in a yogurt sauce with garlic and mint, and it’s great.”