One on One

by Michael Brandman

“In what ways did he take you under his wing?”

  “In a lot of ways. He wasn’t only interested in me as a diver. He helped with my schoolwork. If I was uncertain about things, he would ask me about them and advise me.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Pretty much everything. Things to do with my family. My friends. Stuff like that.

  “Personal stuff.”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Did he ask about you and girls?”

  Again he stared at me, but this time I could feel the window into his thoughts rapidly closing. He became guarded, uncomfortable, choosing his words more cautiously. “He was always helpful.”

  “With girls?”

  “With everything.”

  That statement concluded our interview. He regarded me coolly, then stood, picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “I gotta go. My parents will start to worry if I’m late.”

  I stood, too. “Thanks for being so frank. You’ve been very helpful.”

  He was now in a rush to get away from me. “Good luck with finding the guy who did this. I can’t tell you how sad I am about it.”

  “Guy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said, the guy who did it. Why a guy?”

  “No reason. I guess I’ve been thinking that the person who did it was a guy.”

  “I see. Well, in any event, thanks again.”

  “You bet,” he said and hurried away.

  I watched him hightail it away, musing on what it was about the interview that had raised my hackles. He was hiding something and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. But I’d surely be making it my business to find out.

  Chapter Ten

  “He’s not letting her out,” Marsha Russo told me when I showed up at the office.

  “What do you mean, he’s not letting her out?”

  I flopped down onto my chair and took a deep breath.

  “Judge Hiller,” Marsha continued. “He set bail at ten million dollars, which the family can’t come up with.”

  “What did he do that for?”

  “Opinion?”

  “If need be.”

  “I think he wanted to stick it to Murray Kornbluth.”

  “Because?”

  “Because somewhere there’s a scorecard. A balance sheet. Kornbluth knows it. The D.A. knows it. And it serves to influence the judge.”

  “So her imprisonment was dictated by a three-legged scorecard?”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you implied it.”

  “I did. But I never said it.”

  “Aren’t we the semanticist?”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “So, where is she?”

  “Still in a County Courthouse holding cell.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What did you learn at the school?” she asked.

  “That seldom is heard a discouraging word.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Everyone thinks he was a saint.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Except for the widow.”

  “Who thinks…?”

  “He wasn’t the man she married.”

  “So, now what?”

  “The investigation continues.”

  “And?”

  “Murray Kornbluth appeals.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know, Marsha. This murder has given me a roaring headache.”

  “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.”

  She was the only occupant. The other seven cells were empty. It was a depressing place, having been hastily constructed in the basement of the County Courthouse as a makeshift holding facility for prisoners in transit.

  She was lying on a metal-framed cot that was, along with a metal chair, the cell’s only furniture. And there was a sink and a toilet.

  She looked up when I entered. “Is it you who’s responsible for my being here?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Why, then? I can’t get a reasonable answer from Mr. Kornbluth.”

  She was still dressed in the jeans and hoodie she wore on the flight back to Los Angeles. She was disheveled and dismayed.

  “Didn’t anyone bring you fresh clothing?”

  “Does it look like I’m wearing fresh clothing?”

  She was doing her best to remain calm and under control, but it was clear that beneath the surface, she was seething. Unkempt and uncertain, her world had turned upside-down and she was shaken by it.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

  “I don’t really know. I’m surprised he wasn’t able to get you out. Or why bail was set so high. I’ll make it my business to look into it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I believe you.”

  “That I didn’t do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s nice to know someone believes me.”

  I smiled. “Sometimes the ways and means of a small town get in the way of justice.”

  “Which means?”

  “Politics.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “What do you need?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Clothing. Supplies. What do you need?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’ll arrange to get them for you.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you?”

  “I don’t know, Kimber. But I will.”

  “And you’ll speak to Murray Kornbluth?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while. I watched as a whole panoply of emotions flashed in her hazel eyes. Then she turned to me. “It’s nice.”

  “What is?”

  “That you’re kind to me. You’re the only one.”

  “We’ll get through this.”

  “We?”

  “A figure of speech.”

  Chapter Eleven

  When she stepped outside and saw me standing there, Chrissie Lester turned and walked in the opposite direction. I waited a few seconds and then followed.

  If she was aware of me behind her, she didn’t show it. She kept walking, heading for the school parking lot. When she reached a maroon Prius, she used her remote to unlock it and was about to step inside when she finally acknowledged my presence. “Why are you following me?”

  “You’re Chrissie Lester.”

  “What of it?”

  “I’m Deputy Sheriff Steel.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have a few moments?”

  “Not really. I have to get home.”

  “I’ll only take a tiny bit of your time.”

  She sighed theatrically and stood staring at me with one hand planted firmly on her hip. She was a plain-looking young woman, not particularly attractive. She wore a gray sleeveless sweatshirt over extremely short cropped jeans that revealed a good deal of leg and a glimpse of the bottom of her shapely behind. She was self-possessed, confident, and overflowing with attitude.

  “If you must,” she said.

  I flashed her my sincerest smile, an effort to win her with my incalculable charm. “What can you tell me about Henry Carson?”

  “The coach?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s dead.”

  She stared at me in smug anticipation of my response. I could sense her disappointment when I chose to remain silent. At last she spoke. “I didn’t have much to do with him.”

  “Wasn’t he one of your coaches?”

  “Mostly he coached the boys. We girls kept
our distance from him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know if I want to go into this.”

  “Go into what?”

  “He was somewhat of a polarizing person.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He was into separating us.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were either a Coach Hank person, or you weren’t.”

  “What was the distinction?”

  “Your looks.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You were either good-looking or you weren’t.”

  “And if you weren’t?”

  “He had nothing to do with you.”

  “What if you were good-looking?”

  “He was your new best friend.”

  “And you?”

  “Clearly, he had nothing to do with me.”

  “Aren’t you the captain?”

  “I am.”

  “How could he have nothing to do with you?”

  She dropped her hand-on-hip pose and leaned heavily against the Prius. Some of the air appeared to go out of her. Her attitude softened. She exhibited teenage vulnerability, an uncertainty that made her more accessible and even a bit friendly.

  She went on. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. If you were a Coach Hank Girl, you received special privileges. Sometimes he’d take you to Gruning’s ice cream parlor after practice. He talked you up to your teachers. Some girls he’d even invite out to dinner.”

  “So you weren’t included in any of his extracurricular activities?”

  “Never.”

  “Even as the captain.”

  “Whatever contact we had, me being the captain and all, he was cordial and polite. But he wasn’t warm and charming.”

  “Which he was to the so-called Coach Hank Girls?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you ever speak with your teammates about this?”

  “All the time.”

  “And?”

  “The good-looking girls shrugged their shoulders as if being a Coach Hank Girl was nothing special.”

  “And the others?”

  “Like me, you mean?”

  “You know, Chrissie, I have no interest in passing judgment on your Coach Hank-Girl qualifications, but to me you’re quite nice-looking. You’re articulate and clearly smart. Assets that are every bit as important as your looks. More so, even.”

  “Well, he didn’t think so.”

  “So what?”

  “So me and some of the others were left standing by the side of the road when Coach and his cadre went roaring off into the sunset.”

  “Did any members of his cadre ever complain about Coach Hank?”

  “Complain?”

  “You know. Did he ever get out of line with them? Did he ever come on to any of them?”

  “I wouldn’t know. If he did, no one ever said anything to me about it.”

  “What do you think?”

  “About whether or not he was a lech?”

  “Something like that. Yes.”

  Now she looked at me with contempt—as if she had just come to the conclusion I was a waste of her time. An annoyance. Like she was the wrong tree for me to be barking up.

  “What I think doesn’t mean squat. If you want to know about what went on between Coach and his girls, go ask them. Are we done now?”

  Clearly, she was. She glanced at her watch and began fidgeting, anxious to get as far away from me as possible. She asked again, “Are we?”

  “I suppose we are.”

  I reached inside my shirt pocket and pulled out one of my cards. I scribbled my cell phone number on the back and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

  She took the card and briefly glanced at it, then at me. She folded it in half, dropped it into her bag, got into the Prius, and drove off.

  The Coach Hank Girls, I muttered to myself. I didn’t like the sound of it. What it portended. What bothered me more was the disparate impacts he seemed to have had on Bobby Siegler and on Chrissie Lester. That there existed a polarity of criteria. Some were in and others were clearly out. Attractive was in. Unattractive was out.

  Which bothered me even more.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Why would you care?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. That’s the same question she asked.”

  “She being the widow?”

  “Yes.”

  “So? Why would you care?”

  “I guess because I don’t believe she should be in jail. And I take some responsibility for that.”

  “Because no one told her not to leave town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wouldn’t that be obvious?”

  “Not necessarily to a young woman whose husband was just brutally murdered, who was sedated, and who wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  The Sheriff was making one of his rare appearances at the courthouse and was seated in his office with nothing much to do except show the flag, so to speak. Staff members and Deputies stopped in to pay their respects. They lifted his spirits.

  “Judge Hiller, right?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Were he to lower the bail to a more manageable number, her parents could likely post it. Be good if he could do it right away. She’s still in some kind of emotional shock. Being in jail is tough on her.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I stood and stepped over to him. I squeezed his shoulder and rested my hand gently on his cheek for a moment.

  “Don’t go getting all soft and mushy on me, Buddy,” he said.

  “I’ll try my best.”

  When I reached the door, he called to me. “You’re not interested in this woman, are you?”

  “Interested?”

  “You’re not doing this because you’re attracted to her? Like you were with the last one.”

  “The last one?”

  “The Reverend’s sister.”

  “Why would you say a thing like that?”

  “You know what I’m getting at, Buddy. Best not to shit where you eat.”

  I stared at him. “You know, Regina has a point.”

  “About?”

  “About what a profane son of a bitch you are.”

  He flashed me his most sardonic grin. “And proud of it, too.”

  The conversation with my father was unsettling. It’s true I might have stepped over the line when I became involved with Maggie de Winter, the sister of the con-artist preacher I had been investigating when we met.

  I keep telling myself it was inadvertent. A sudden, irresistible itch that I scratched before realizing what I was doing.

  But psychoanalysis had taught me that this type of self-justification was bullshit. Unconsciously, I had set myself up for a fall and, while I became mired in self-pity for a moment when it ended, I knew damn well it was doomed right from the start. We were both emotionally unavailable, but despite that, I had lurched forward with un-evolved blindness.

  “Be wary of participating in a conspiracy against yourself,” my shrink always told me.

  Which is what I had not done with Maggie. And I paid a price for it.

  I vowed not to succumb to my feral instincts. Kimber Carson was damaged goods and taking advantage of her vulnerability, although tempting, was another way of emotionally shooting myself in the foot. I would do what I could to help her because I had a measure of guilt over her having left town. But as for hooking up with her, no way, no how.

  My musings were interrupted by the insistent intrusion of my cell phone. “What?”

  “You need to see something,” Johnny Kennerly barked back at me.

  “What do I need to see?”

>   “It’s beyond description. You have to see it for yourself.”

  “Where?”

  “Temple Israel.”

  “When?”

  “Rabbi Weiner is waiting for you.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m with him.”

  The call served to postpone my musings about the possibility that I might once again be on the threshold of behaving neurotically. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

  With a sigh of relief, I said, “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “At least it’s not anti-Semitic,” Rabbi Herbert Weiner proclaimed.

  We were standing in front of the Temple Israel Recreational Center, a postmodern glass-and-concrete structure whose soaring white walls were now covered in graffiti. Giant red upper and lower case letters had been spray-painted on a sky-blue background. The letters, when read in sequence, spelled ROBBER XMAS.

  “How on Earth was he able to access the wall in the first place?” Johnny Kennerly pondered.

  “It appears that the back gate had been left unlocked,” the Rabbi said. “Not an unusual occurrence.”

  “Because?” I inquired.

  “Complacency, I suppose. We’ve never been vandalized before, so over time we stopped handing out keys and just closed the gate without locking it.”

  “This doesn’t look like the first time this artist has left his calling card. It’s a very confident job,” Johnny stated.

  “But it’s a first for Freedom,” I said. “We haven’t seen any graffiti in this town.”

  The Rabbi frowned. “I hope it’s not the start of a scourge.”

  Herb Weiner had been Chief Rabbi of Temple Israel since its inception in the late nineteen eighties. He was a scraggy man, prone to wearing rumpled black suits. He had a well-tended salt-and-pepper beard but his once-flourishing curly black hair had both thinned and grayed. He suffered from chronic back pain which slowed his movements and affected his posture. “What do you think Robber Xmas signifies?”

  “Could be anything. Taggers love to sign their so-called artwork. Makes them feel important. We’ll check to see if there are any persons named Christmas listed in the county. Probably be a good idea to re-visit your decision not to lock the gate. Just in case it is an act of anti-Semitism.”