NYPD Puzzle

by Parnell Hall

  “Did you get the license number?”

  “Of course I got the license number. You want it?”

  “You gonna read the number on the cell phone driving a car?”

  “Why not? I wrote it driving a car. Here we go. It’s two, seven—”

  “I don’t have a pencil. Hang on.”

  The phone had a long cord. Cora crossed to the sink, wrenched open the counter door to the left. It was a miscellaneous drawer, with everything from rubber bands to razor blades to plastic spoons to screws and bolts and bottle-stoppers. Cora scrabbled through.

  “Just a minute. I think there’s one in this drawer.”

  “Take your time. It’s a nice night for a drive.”

  “Got it!” Cora snatched up the pencil. “Oh, hell!”

  “What?”

  “The point’s broken. Hang on.”

  “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

  Cora dug her fingernails in to break the wood off the lead. “There we go. Lay it on me.”

  “It’s two, seven, nine— Oh, hell! He’s coming back!”

  And the phone went dead.

  Chapter

  12

  Cora had a moment of dread. Oh God, he got her!

  Thoughts flashed through her brain like lightning, laying on layer upon layer of guilt and dread. Becky’s dead! It’s my fault! It’s not my fault! Schmuck, what difference does that make? She didn’t tell me the license number, now I’ll never know. Schmuck, how can you think that? I’m going to kill him! Yeah, like that’ll help Becky. Idiot, who cares?

  Cora snatched her purse off the table, raced to the front door, flung it open. Realized she didn’t have her gun. She cursed, ran to the bedroom, wrenched open her bottom dresser drawer, and pawed through the clothes she never wore for the spare gun her ex-husband Melvin had given her. She found it, jerked it out, flipped it open. It was loaded. She flipped it closed and ran out the door.

  In the car, she wasted moments fishing for her keys. She gunned the motor without regard for whether it woke Sherry, Aaron, and the baby, rocketed down the driveway, and hung a left.

  How far was it? Becky said the guy turned around and doubled back. But she’d been on the phone a long time before that. And she hadn’t called before she passed the drive. So how far could that be? No farther than she could drive in that amount of time. But what amount of time? How long was it?

  Cora sped down the country road, her high beams lighting up the woods and fields and an occasional house along the way. No place a car could have turned off. No car off the road. Where were they?

  She reached Jackson Corners, so named though it boasted no landmarks of any sort, no houses, nor any corners. Except for the lone street sign, you wouldn’t know where you were. The only excuse for calling it Jackson Corners was that Jackson Road went two directions. Which way had they gone? Had they turned at all? If they’d turned, Becky would have commented on it. Yeah, if they turned off before the black sedan turned around. So they must have gone past. There was no way they could be on Jackson Road. Unless Becky had taken one of the side roads to get away from him after he turned around.

  Assuming she got away.

  Cora flew by Jackson Corners and kept going.

  A car coming around the bend nearly hit her head-on. Not that the car was going fast or that it was on the wrong side of the road. But Cora was. She cut the corner, and suddenly there it was, bright headlights and a blaring horn and sickening squeal of brakes. Cora wrenched the steering wheel to the right, careened across the road. She almost cleared it but not quite. She could hear the ding of her rear bumper catching the driver’s side front bumper of the oncoming car. She fishtailed, spun the wheel, and 180ed. Her car skidded backwards across the road and stopped with a bone-jarring thump against something hard that snapped her head like a whip.

  Cora straightened in her seat and looked over the dashboard just in time to see the headlights of a car bearing down on her. She instinctively flung up her hands as if they could protect her from a couple of tons of onrushing steel.

  A car pulled to a stop in front of her. An ashen-faced man got out, ran over, and wrenched the door open.

  “Good God, are you all right?”

  “Who are you?” Cora said stupidly.

  “I couldn’t avoid you. I nicked your bumper. I saw you fishtail.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cora said. She unsnapped her seat belt.

  “You probably shouldn’t move.”

  Cora heaved herself out of the car, pushed by him to look at his.

  “My car’s fine. I didn’t skid.”

  Cora ignored him, walked around so his headlights weren’t blinding her.

  His car was a blue Subaru.

  She turned back to the driver. “Where you coming from?”

  “Over the mountain.”

  “You pass anyone?”

  “No.”

  “I mean going my direction.”

  “No. No one.”

  “Any car off the road?”

  “Just yours.”

  “Comedian,” Cora muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “I gotta go.”

  The man was amazingly polite, considering Cora had nearly killed him. He was also a middle-age stick-in-the-mud fuddy duddy who insisted on exchanging insurance information. Cora nearly had to pull the gun on him to escape from his clutches. She fled the scene of the accident, and spent a half hour searching the side roads for any sign of Becky’s car.

  It was long gone.

  Chapter

  13

  Cora came in the front door to find Sherry and Becky sipping coffee in the living room.

  “What are you doing here?” Cora demanded.

  “I live here,” Sherry said.

  “Not you, damn it.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone,” Becky said.

  “Huh?”

  “If you had a cell phone, I could have called you and told you where I was. But, oh no, I call here, get no answer, don’t know where you are.”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “I knew that. I just didn’t know where.”

  “So you came here and woke up Sherry.”

  “I was awake. Someone started a jet plane in the driveway.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Becky said. “I was quiet as a mouse.”

  “She let herself in,” Sherry said. “I looked out the window to see if it was you, saw her car in the drive.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Cora slumped down on the couch.

  “Have some coffee. It’ll calm you down.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Decaffeinated. Hot and comforting. Like hot cocoa. Without all the calories.”

  “I thought he got you.”

  “Got me?”

  “I thought he realized he had a tail and came back to rub you out.”

  “I’m fine. Sherry was just filling me in on the joys of motherhood.”

  “Jennifer’s got a strep throat. She’s not happy about it. Sounds like an angry buzz saw cutting metal.”

  “She likes telling me stuff like that,” Becky said. “Thinks it makes up for stealing my man.”

  “Don’t you think stealing’s a little harsh,” Sherry said, “after several years’ absence?”

  “Hey, when I brand ’em, it’s for life.”

  “Damn it,” Cora said. “I’ve been frightened out of my wits and nearly wrecked the car. You wanna tell me what the hell happened?”

  “Wrecked the car?” Sherry said.

  “Nearly, nearly. I banged the bumper.”

  “On what?”

  “Well, technically, the other guy banged the bumper. I slid off the road.”

  “What!”

  Cora described the accident.

  “Idiot,” Sherry said. “You could have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t. I thought she was.”

  “I just dropped my cell phone,” Becky said.

  “What?”

  �
�He startled me. Turning around like that. Suddenly there’s bright lights coming at me. I dropped my cell phone.”

  “He wasn’t after you?”

  “Hell, no. Went by me like a house on fire. Took off down the road. I swung a U-turn, tried to keep up. I think he turned left on Mountain Road.”

  “You think?”

  “There were lights in that direction, none up ahead. I tried to follow, but it’s twisty, there’s a zillion forks, he could have gone the other way on any one of them. When I came out on Colson and didn’t see him, I figured he was gone.”

  “You went all the way to Colson Road?”

  “Not that far if you’re doing ninety.”

  “You went ninety on Mountain Road? And I’m the one who had the accident. Damn it, why didn’t you call me back?”

  “The phone was under the seat. I figured you’d be pissed if I was driving Mountain Road at ninety miles an hour while groping under the seat.”

  “But you got the license number?”

  Becky smiled. “See, Sherry? She wasn’t worried about me. She was afraid she wouldn’t get her license number.”

  “Yeah,” Sherry said. She put her cup down on the coffee table, cocked her head at Cora. “So, you wanna address the elephant in the room?”

  “Why, Sherry Carter! Becky may be your rival, but don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

  “That’s feeble, even for you, Cora.” Sherry shook her head pityingly. “You must be really worried.”

  “Wrong elephant?”

  “You got arrested for murder.”

  “Oh. That pachyderm.”

  “Were you going to get to that?”

  “I figured by now you and Becky had hashed it over and planned my defense.”

  “From what Becky tells me, your defense is pretty straightforward. The police compare a bullet from your gun to the bullet in the body and have to concede you didn’t fire the fatal shot.”

  “For this I pay you a huge retainer,” Cora told Becky.

  “Glad you brought it up,” Becky said.

  “I shouldn’t pay you anything. You let the guy get away.”

  “I got the plate. Of course, it may not mean anything.”

  “How can it not mean something? What was the guy doing if he wasn’t following us?”

  “He was on his way home.”

  “So when he sees a car behind him, he naturally pulls a one-eighty and proceeds to ditch you.”

  “It’s late, he was tired, he missed his turn. When he realized it, he tried to make up the time.”

  “You really believe that?”

  Becky shrugged. “I’m a lawyer. I just have to create reasonable doubt.”

  “It’s not funny, Becky. I thought he might have got you.”

  “An insurance salesman from Bakerhaven?”

  “If that’s what he is,” Cora said.

  But she didn’t believe it.

  Chapter

  14

  Cora walked into the police station and dropped a piece of paper on Officer Dan Finley’s desk. “Got time to run a license plate?”

  “Will it get me into trouble?”

  “When have I ever got you into trouble?”

  “All the time. You hold out on me and I’m in trouble for not getting you to talk. You talk, and I’m in trouble for listening.”

  “Gee, Dan. What brought this on?”

  “Chief wants to see you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

  “I wasn’t home.”

  “I figured that when you didn’t answer your phone and Sherry answered hers and said you weren’t there.”

  “You bothered Sherry?”

  “The chief really wants to talk to you. He can’t, and he’s blaming me.”

  “Well, now you’re the golden boy. You found me. Pick up the phone, tell him I’m on my way in.”

  Dan picked up the receiver.

  “While I’m talking to him, you can trace that plate.”

  “Cora.”

  “Too busy?” Cora picked up the number, turned toward the front door. “I can come back later.”

  Dan snatched the paper out of her hand.

  Cora went into the office. Chief Harper was on the phone. “She’s here now,” he said, and slammed it down.

  “Finley?”

  Harper gave her a look.

  “The kid’s persistent. Tracked me like a bloodhound.”

  “Damn it, Cora, where have you been?”

  “Why do I think you know?”

  “I got a call from the NYPD. A Sergeant Crowley, I believe it is. Wanted to know if I have any control over the good citizens of Bakerhaven. Seems one of them drove to New York yesterday and shot someone.”

  “I don’t know how these rumors get started.”

  “Were you or were you not arrested for murder yesterday?”

  “You say that as if it were a bad thing. It’s no crime to be arrested. You’re innocent until proven guilty.”

  “I’m not interested in the technical merits of the case. Did you or not shoot a man?”

  “Would I do something like that?”

  “Yes. Repeatedly.”

  “But I wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  “I beg to differ. Would you like me to refresh your memory?”

  “I never shot anyone in cold blood. That’s what we’re talking about here. A cold-blooded, premeditated crime. As my lawyer will have no problem demonstrating.”

  “Where have you been all morning?”

  “Ducking phone calls.”

  “Cora.”

  “I’ve been driving around trying to think. Which isn’t easy. You try getting arrested for murder.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do I have to instruct you again? Anyone can be arrested. It is no indication that they have committed a crime.”

  Harper exhaled, shook his head. “I’m too tired to spar. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  “Do I need my lawyer present?”

  “What in the world for?”

  “I don’t know. Were you planning on blabbing to the New York cops? Call that sergeant back, get a few brownie points?”

  “Hadn’t crossed my mind.” Harper shrugged. “Has now.”

  “Come on, Chief. Let’s not posture. I’ll say the word ‘hypothetical’ and we’ll talk off the record.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “No, that’s the whole point. It’s not bad at all. But with other cops involved, things can get a little sticky.” Cora fished her cigarettes out of her purse. “Solve your break-in?”

  “You can’t smoke in here.”

  “You want me to ignore my lawyer’s advice, bad-mouth the New York cops, and solve your illegal entry for you, you can damn well let me smoke.” Before the chief could protest, she fired one up. “It’s lit, Chief. Throw me out if you want.”

  “You gonna tell me what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what might have happened. And if it goes any further, I’ll deny it.”

  “Cora.”

  “Relax, Chief. It’s not that bad.”

  Cora gave Chief Harper an expurgated version of what had happened. She left out the bit about playing chicken at midnight out past Jackson Corners. Even without that episode, there was a lot to tell.

  “It’s a wonder you’re not in jail,” Harper said.

  “I wondered about that myself. I figured the NYPD called you and you put in a good word.”

  Harper shook his head. “First I heard about it was this morning. And the word I put in was not good.”

  On the way out, Dan Finley handed Cora Felton a folded piece of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your plate number. Maybe you can do something with it. I couldn’t.”

  “What?”

  “Plate’s not registered.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s an unregistered num
ber. No one has it.”

  “Someone does.”

  “If you say so. Any chance you got the number wrong?”

  “Absolutely not,” Cora said, but she wondered how well Becky could have written it while driving with one hand.

  “Anyway, I can’t help you with the plate. As far as the registry of motor vehicles is concerned, it doesn’t exist.”

  “Who would have an unregistered plate?”

  “No one.”

  “How about an undercover cop?”

  Dan shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “An undercover cop would have an untraceable plate.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “An untraceable plate is registered to a person who doesn’t exist. Or to an address that doesn’t exist. Or to a car that doesn’t exist. It’s registered, it’s just registered wrong. Anyone tracing the plate won’t find anything suspicious. It would have layers and layers of insulation. It would take a real investigation just to find out the plate was bogus.”

  Dan was enjoying showing off. “An unregistered plate, you try to trace it, it isn’t registered at all, you know right away it’s phony.”

  “Where’d you learn that?” Cora said.

  Dan flushed. “Actually, it was on this cop show.”

  “Right.”

  “But you get the point. As soon as the plate doesn’t exist, you know it couldn’t be some little old lady from the local bridge club.”

  “I play bridge,” Cora said.

  Dan’s mouth fell open. “Not that young women don’t play bridge. Or men,” he added lamely.

  Cora went out, sat in her car, and thought that over. Things were adding up, and she didn’t like what they were adding up to. She and Becky had been followed home by a car with an unregistered plate. Whatever the reason, it was scary as hell. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure he wasn’t identified. Or she, Cora thought, echoing Dan Finley’s PC nod to sexism, though she didn’t really think the driver was a woman. The killer was a man.

  At least she was pretty sure he was a man. All she really saw was a figure dressed entirely in black who had his back to her, and who had sprinted away with a stocking over his face.

  And a gun in his hand. That was fairly distracting. Kept her from noticing any anatomical clues as to the weapon-wielder’s gender.

  But was the driver the killer? Or was he, despite what Dan might have seen on TV, an undercover officer keeping tabs on the suspects?