by K. W. Jeter
“And this word ‘intimate’—just what is that supposed to imply? Specifically, I mean.”
“Well, I don’t think there’s really a technical term for the activity.” Fisher gave a nervous laugh, the top of his shining head reddening. “But, ah, if you want specifics . . .” His finger tapped the paper. “I’ve been given to understand that you and Buck were observed . . . what a lot of people call ‘French kissing.’ ”
“Is that right?” Marilyn knew it wasn’t doing her any good, but there was a certain pleasure in seeing the principal so uncomfortable. “What, once? Twice? How many times exactly? A hundred?”
“Let’s just say . . . repeatedly. On more than one occasion. I think we can leave it at that.”
She had to laugh. “And just who was it who told you all this?” She knew that already, too. Just the word French gave it away. Good ol’ Flaubert—there was no telling what kind of accusation there might have been if the book discussion at the park had turned to Kafka.
Principal Fisher stiffened. “You know I can’t divulge the person’s name.”
“You don’t have to. I know where it came from. It was Noah Ramsey, wasn’t it? This is a bunch of . . . stuff he made up and told his parents. And now they’ve come in and dumped it on you.”
“I don’t think we need to get into the personalities involved—”
“Kind of hard not to, isn’t it?” Marilyn leaned forward, pinning Fisher with her gaze. “I know very well that Noah’s been jealous of Buck for some time.”
“Jealous?” One of the principal’s eyebrows arched. “What do you mean? What would Noah be jealous of?”
Marilyn sighed. “Because Buck’s a better student; that’s what he’s jealous of. And maybe he’s a little ticked because I do spend more time and more attention on Buck. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been ‘intimate,’ as you call it, with him. I spend that time with Buck because he’s interested in learning.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard quite a bit about your extracurricular reading programs. There’s been some complaints made about that as well.”
“From whom?”
Fisher shrugged. “Parents. Concerned citizens. Concerned about some of the more, ah, unusual things you’ve asked some students to read.”
“I didn’t ask them . . .” Her temper flared. “They wanted to. And frankly, the kids at this school deserve better than what’s on the ‘approved’ reading list.”
“And you decide what’s better?”
“No. They do.”
The principal stood up from his chair and came around to the front of the desk. He gazed down at Marilyn. “Ms. Houston—this is all part of a larger problem. A problem that you’ve created. The radical politics—the activism—”
“Radical politics?” She stared at him. “I’m a registered Democrat, for God’s sake.”
“Nevertheless, you don’t make much of a secret of what you think about things like Supreme Court decisions, do you? And when you say those things, you certainly don’t sound like any Democrats I would know. The problem, Ms. Houston, is that you’re always pushing . . . always testing . . .” His voice had risen in volume, a blue vein ticking at the corner of his forehead. He went silent for a few seconds, forcing himself to simmer down. “This time,” he said quietly, “you’ve gone too far.”
Marilyn gestured toward the papers on his desk. “You don’t take that accusation seriously—”
He cut her off. “I think—and this is intended as advice for your own good, Ms. Houston—I think you’d be happier at another school. One where perhaps you and your ideas might fit in a little better. I think you should put in for a transfer.”
Her own anger had built up so large in her that she could feel the sinuses behind her face tingling from the pressure. “You can forget about that, Mr. Fisher.”
“Naturally you’d receive a favorable letter of recommendation from me—”
“I said you can forget about it. I’m not leaving this school.”
The principal’s complexion had gone from red to mottled, stonelike gray. “Then I’ll be forced to refer this matter of you and Buck Francisco—and the allegations of impropriety on your part—to the school board.”
“You really think you can try and blackmail me with something like this? There’s no proof. There’s nothing.”
The human being she’d been speaking to, or as much as there had ever been of one, had disappeared. A machine with the principal’s face sat back down behind the desk.
“You should realize, Ms. Houston, that these are very serious charges. With anything regarding possible sexual activities with students, I think you will find that the board tends to err on the side of caution.” Fisher picked up the sheets of paper and tucked them inside a manila envelope. “After the board is through investigating the matter, you might also find that you won’t be teaching anywhere.”
Now she had ceased to exist for him. He didn’t look up as she left the office.
The front desk had all the paperwork ready. The pink copy on top of the blue, on top of the goldenrod; all that in order to get Michael Bukowski fifty-one fifty’d over to Mental Health. So the shrinks and the social workers could observe him for ninety days, try to open up his skull like a Tupperware container that had been left too long in the fridge. Open it up and poke around the fuzzy blue-green science-project lumps that were his thought processes, and see if there was anything salvageable. If there was, or if there wasn’t, the likeliest recommendation would be to hold him for a second ninety-day observation period. Mental Health was clued to the bad PR it made, releasing transfers from the police department right out onto the streets with nothing but a follow-up appointment and a little paper envelope of antipsychotic meds.
“Are we going to need restraints on this guy?” One of the two burly orderlies who had come over to the station in a white hospital van looked Bukowski up and down.
George looked up from the clipboard with the forms. “I don’t really think so.” As a Detective Two, he was the ranking officer at the moment; Captain Grazer and the others were all down at the mayor’s office, backing up the police chief’s press conference. “He shouldn’t give you any trouble.”
It seemed a safe bet. Bukowski was noticeably subdued, even somewhat abashed. Head bowed, looking down at his feet. George had wangled him a set of jail overalls that fit his lanky frame, and had gotten him a blanket when he’d complained—weirdly, given the hot weather squatting on the L.A. basin—of being cold in the interview room. He still wouldn’t look George in the eye, but, seemed grateful enough not to cause any trouble.
“There you go.” George signed the last of the forms, tore off the hospital’s copy, and gave it to the orderly who had spoken. “He’s all yours.”
“Let’s go for a ride, sport.” The orderly clapped Bukowski on the shoulder. Without looking back, Bukowski shuffled obediently toward the station doors and the van waiting at the red-painted curb.
In the squad room, Sikes was staring at one of the computer screens. The CRT glow put tiny rectangles in the centers of his eyes.
“Well, Bukowski’s off our hands.” George picked up a fairly meaningless memo from the IN basket and looked it over. “They took him away for his psychiatric evaluation. Other than the letters he wrote, there’s nothing to implicate him in the murders.” The memo appeared to be something about putting in for time off. “Essentially a loner with no ties to any of the established Purist organizations. High school dropout with no medical or scientific background—”
“Yeah, I read your report.” Sikes poked at the keyboard, and a new screenful rolled up.
He dropped the memo back in the basket. “I don’t believe he’s the killer.”
“Amazing piece of deduction, Detective Two.”
Now he knew why Bukowski had asked for the blanket. The day could be hot enough to conjure sweat—if he’d been human, he would have been damp with perspiration—and you could still feel the temperature dropping to iceberg leve
ls.
He glanced at the screen. “What are you doing?”
Sikes leaned his face closer to the amber words and numbers. “Trying to find some connection between the victims. Unless you got some other idea worth a hundred and twenty-five dollars a week more.”
The thermometer went down another notch.
“Matt, I realize you’re not very well exposed to me right now.” George watched his partner working at the computer terminal. “But we can’t let that affect our case. Despite your feelings of envy, we still have to work together.”
“Envy?” Sikes glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, it’s envy, is it?” He turned back to the screen. “Give me a break.”
“Well . . . whatever. Let’s just say, your personal feelings. All right?”
Sikes didn’t seem to be listening to him. His partner’s eyes shifted slightly in focus, the attention going somewhere else inside. What Sikes himself, talking about suspects or witnesses, had always described to him as ‘being able to hear the gears turning.’ For a long time, when they had been first working together, he had wondered if it was a common human notion about their cerebral anatomy, that their brains were made of clockwork and machine parts.
“Envy,” murmured Sikes. “Personal feelings . . .” He hunched over the keyboard, pecking out another sequence. “What are you doing?”
“Just . . . a hunch . . .”
He couldn’t restrain his curiosity. He stepped behind Sikes’s chair, to get a better angle to read what had come up on the screen.
He recognized the crawl of data. “Dr. Bogg’s employment record. Why are you looking at that?”
“Envy . . .” Sikes traced his fingertip down the screen, past the listings of hospitals and neurological clinics. “Something I thought I spotted before—yeah, here it is.” His nail tapped against the glass and the words behind it. “PB Consultants. It’s the only nonmedical item on his resume.”
“I checked that out already.” George shook his head. “It was Bogg’s own corporation; he was the president and only employee. Basically it was to keep his taxes straight on the few pieces of outside consulting he did.”
“Okay—then check this out.” Sikes called up another screenful of information. “What we got here is a summary of Onyx Pesticides’ check register. Let’s scroll back a couple of years . . .” More key taps. “Do a string search . . . and let’s see what pops up.”
Numbers and words flew across the screen, too quickly to follow. Then they froze, the cursor blinking at the top line.
“Bingo.”
George leaned over Sikes’s shoulder. “PB Consultants,” he read off the screen. There was more than one listing. He did a quick mental calculation of the dollar amounts involved. They came close to a six-figure sum. “So Peter Bogg was doing work for Onyx.”
“Looks to have been for about a six-month period, all told.” Sikes sat back in his chair, rubbing his unshaven chin. “Hey, and catch that note right there—‘For human neurotoxicity studies.’ ” He turned and smiled at George. “And what little pleasant number have we met recently who’s got a speciality in making bug sprays safe for people to use?”
“Richard Parris.”
“That’s right—our wine connoisseur, out on the seashore.”
George nodded. “And Onyx is the company that Parris took to court. He claimed they stole his patent.”
“Five’ll get you ten, it was Dr. Bogg that Parris blamed for ripping off the patent.”
“So . . . you’re theorizing that Parris murdered Bogg, after having also murdered the judge who ruled in Onyx’s favor.”
“It’s personal,” said Sikes. “All that Purist horseshit is just a distraction. It’s all just a personal vendetta.”
“Well . . . it’s possible.”
“Gee, thanks.” Sikes punched a key, and the screen went blank. “Go get your shoes polished, why don’t you?” He picked up his jacket and service pistol draped over an open desk drawer. “I’m getting a warrant and bringing the jerkwad in.”
“I’m going with you.”
“The hell you are.” Sikes pulled his jacket on over his shoulder holster. “Look, I’m not talking anything personal right now—okay? It’s got nothing to do with you and me. But face it, George—I’m not going out there to just talk with the guy. This could get rough; we’ll be out on the water . . .” He shook his head. “Do us both a favor. Stay here.”
George watched for a moment as Sikes headed for the squad-room door. Then he buttoned his coat and followed after.
The sunlight bounced off the water, wriggling pieces of fire.
“You’re doing this just to piss me off.” Sikes strode past the marina entrance and onto the wooden dock. He walked fast, shoulders hunched, radiating his anger. “And you’re succeeding.”
George caught up behind him. “I have a responsibility to this case.”
“Bullshit.” Sikes didn’t even look back. “You know goddamn well I could’ve handled this by myself. You’re just going to be in the way.” He halted in his tracks, raising one hand to shade his eyes. “Oh, great . . .”
Holding on to the rail at the side of the dock, George scanned past the rows of boat slips. He saw what had triggered Sikes’s burst of sarcasm. Parris’s sailboat had left its mooring; exhaust from its small engine bubbled under the surface as it puttered away, heading for the distant breakwater.
The smell of the ocean nauseated George, muddling his thoughts. “What are we going to do now?”
“Hey, you’re the senior officer. Don’t you know?”
He ignored the tone in Sikes’s voice, and tried to think. “We can call the coast guard . . .”
“Errrnngh.” Sikes made a noise like a game-show buzzer going off. “Wrong answer.”
“What . . .” He turned and watched as Sikes trotted back along the walkway. A kid, a blond beach-type in his twenties, was tying up a sleek speedboat.
Sikes flashed his shield, then shoved it back inside his jacket, making sure the kid saw the holstered pistol as well. “Police. I need to commandeer this boat.”
He came up behind Sikes. “We need to commandeer this boat.”
“Goddamn it!” Sikes turned on him. “You’re not going out there!”
Behind his neon-colored sunglasses, the kid glanced from one detective’s face to the other. “Jeez . . .” The end of the rope dangled from his hands.
“I most certainly am—”
“This is the ocean, George!” Sikes gestured with both hands upraised. “Salt water! Sulfuric acid!”
“I’m perfectly aware of the danger involved.”
“Hey, guys . . .” The kid backed away from them, holding out the boat rope. “Whatever you want, ’s fine by me. Take it—”
“I don’t want to have to worry about covering my ass and yours!”
“I am your superior officer—I make these decisions.”
“I’m sick of this!” Both Sikes’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m sick of you!”
“Then maybe . . .” George felt his own voice grow heated. “Maybe you should put in for a new partner.”
“Maybe that’s a good idea—”
“There’ll be plenty of time for it.” George shoved his way past Sikes and stepped down to the speedboat bobbing in the water. “Right after I make this arrest—”
Sikes grabbed the collar of George’s coat and yanked him back up onto the dock. “Get your ass out of there!”
He shoved Sikes, striking the human in the chest hard enough to stagger him backward. “Keep your hands off me!”
There weren’t any more words. Sikes lowered his head and charged, tackling George around the waist. They fell against the planks of the dock, grappling with each other.
“Holy shit!” The beach kid jumped back, dropping the rope. The boat began drifting away from the dock. He made a grab for the rope, but the wrestling figures rolled toward him, chasing him back.
“Stay away—” Sikes spoke through his clenched teeth,
the butt of George’s hand pushing up against his jaw. “Stay away from that boat—”
George strained to break out of the human’s bear hug. “Let me go!”
They rolled together, toward the edge of the dock. For a moment Sikes’s weight had George pinned against the wooden planks. The pressure on his chest and lungs put dancing black spots in his vision. He grunted and threw his weight to one side, rolling Sikes beneath him.
The ends of the planks cut across Sikes’s shoulder blades. George looked past him, down to a dizzying view of the ocean, the greenish water lapping against the pilings. He felt his head swim, the salt odor welling up with each gasp for breath.
He arched his back against Sikes’s hold, trying to get away from the sight and smell below. The ocean tumbled to the horizon. Out there was Parris’s sailboat—he spotted it, making steady progress toward the breakwater and the open sea beyond. He could even see the tiny figure at the rudder, Parris in a hooded windbreaker blue as a flag . . .
And then there was fire.
It burst into George’s sight, so abrupt that at first he wondered if Sikes had clouted him on the side of the head with his fist or the butt of his gun. The bright, churning ball expanded at the center of his vision.
The sound of the explosion hit a split second later, washing across the deck like a hard-edged tidal wave.
“What the . . .” Sikes let go of him, and scrabbled up onto his elbows. So that he could look out across the water as well.
To the point where Parris’s sailboat had been. Where now there were just the flames pushing a roiling black cloud up to the sky.
“Oh, man . . .” the beach kid whimpered, crouching against the rail. The speedboat’s hull slapped against the dock.
George felt a sudden sting on his cheek. He touched it and felt seawater, splashed there by a piece of smoking debris. More pieces, some tinged with fire, fell into the ocean. Steam rose from where they hit.
Beside him, Sikes sat up, forearms flopped across bent knees. Together they watched the burning hull, what was left of it, turning slowly on the waves.
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