Night Game

by Alison Gordon

  “Excuse me?” I said. “Hello! In the chair! Maybe you’d better sleep somewhere else.”

  That didn’t work.

  I approached the chair, reached out, and touched the person on the shoulder. Jeff came up behind me.

  “It’s a woman,” he said.

  Blonde curls were showing above the top of the towel. I pulled it off.

  “Oh, my Cod,” I said, turning away.

  It was Lucy Cartwright lying there, and I could tell from the amount of blood that she wasn’t ever going to wake up.

  Chapter 8

  I had covered my face with my hands, but when I looked out, the horrible sight hadn’t gone away. Lucy’s face was unmarked, and she looked startled, with her eyes wide open. Her chest was just a pulpy mess, the blood black in the moonlight. I couldn’t look away. I was suddenly very cold. Jeff was down the beach, vomiting under a palm tree.

  “We’ve got to call the police,” I said, when he got back.

  “You go to the hotel and call.” Jeff said. “I’ll stay here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere alone,” I said. “And I’m not going to leave you alone, either. The murderer might still be around. It’s too late for her.”

  “You’re right.” he said.

  We walked quickly across the sand and past the pool to the back door of the hotel. I felt dizzy, and kept fighting the impulse to look back. The front desk was beyond the elevators. The clerk on duty was reading in the office behind the desk. I rang a bell to get his attention. He was young and earnest-looking, and looked irritated at the interruption. He kept his place in his book with his finger. The Bible. It figured.

  “Please call the police,” I said. “There’s a dead body on the beach. I think she’s been murdered.”

  “Oh my gosh,” he said. He went to the switchboard and dialled a number, then pointed to the phone at the end of the reception desk. I picked it up.

  “Sunland Police Department.”

  “I’m calling from the Gulf Vistas Hotel,” I said, not very calmly. “I’ve just found a dead person on the beach.”

  Sounding slightly bored, as if corpses were always popping up in Sunland, the officer asked for my name and details of the body. When he realized it wasn’t another senior citizen with a heart attack, he got a little more interested.

  “Stay right there,” he said. “We’ll have someone with you within five minutes.”

  I hung up.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the clerk.

  “Barry,” he said.

  “Well, Barry. Do you think there’s a chance we could get a cup of coffee?”

  “The kitchen’s not open,” he said.

  “I didn’t ask if the kitchen was open, I asked if I could get a cup of coffee,” I snapped. “Surely you’ve got a pot back there somewhere.”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” he said, smugly. “It’s bad for you.”

  What an asshole.

  “Look, kid, we’re going to have to be hanging around here for a while,” I said. “We are also going to have a bunch of cops here in a matter of minutes and you know they’re going to want coffee, so I suggest you might rustle some up.”

  “We’ll mind the desk,” Jeff added.

  Barry left in a huff, taking his Bible with him.

  “You’re a tiger,” Jeff said.

  “He’s a jerk,” I answered.

  I went and sat in one of the pink lobby chairs, under the lithograph of flamingos and palm trees. Jeff took the other one, under the lithograph of sandpipers in the sunset. I handed him a mint I’d taken out of a bowl at the desk, and we both stared at the door, as if waiting for a performance to begin.

  “There’s one thing about finding a body,” I said. “It sobers you up right quick.”

  I could hear the sirens coming. Two cop cars pulled up outside the entrance, and four cops came running in, hands on their guns.

  “Relax, guys,” I said, standing up. “The body’s already cold.”

  One of them, older than the rest, with some authority to him, walked over.

  “Officer Sweeney,” he said. “Are you the lady who called?”

  I introduced myself and Jeff.

  “She’s out back by the beach bar,” I said. “We know her. She’s Lucy Cartwright.”

  Sweeney’s reaction was no reaction at all. His face tightened, just perceptibly, and one of the other officers, young and blond, looked quickly at him, then away.

  “We’re sportswriters from Toronto,” I explained, filling the silence. “That’s how we know her. She comes out to Horkins Field.”

  “Will you show us where please, miss?” Sweeney said. We headed towards the back door. “Or maybe you’d rather stay inside and let Mr. Glebe do it.”

  “I can handle it,” I snapped.

  I looked at Jeff.

  “But if you would like to stay here, that’s fine with me.”

  He glared.

  “We’ll both go,” he said.

  The six of us walked past the pool and down to the beach in awkward silence. I stopped when we came in sight of the bar. I pointed.

  “She’s over there,” I said.

  “You just wait right here,” Sweeney said. “We’re going to need to talk to you afterwards.”

  My legs felt a bit wobbly. I sat down on the concrete wall separating the pool from the beach, shivering. Jeff joined me, and put his arm around me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  We were there for a long time, just watching.

  There was lots of action, fast. First, one of the cops pulled the cruiser to the edge of the parking lot and left it running, with its headlights illuminating the grisly scene. I laughed when the phrase caught my mind, because it was such a newspaper cliché. I reminded myself not to use it in print.

  Sweeney, overseeing the scene, took stakes and rolls of yellow crime-scene tape out of the trunk, and he and the two others put up a fence all around the area.

  More cops arrived, gradually. First, more uniforms. Then a couple of guys wearing sweats, who looked as if they had been dragged out of bed. One of them was slightly older than the other and seemed to be in charge. I thought about Andy, and the nights he had been called away from our warm bed to scenes just like this, and felt a surge of sympathy for them. It’s a hell of a way to make a living.

  A generator truck parked on the beach and fired up noisily. Soon the scene was illuminated by half a dozen floodlights. It would have been festive, if it hadn’t been so gruesome.

  Half an hour passed, and I had just about decided that they had forgotten about us, when one of the uniformed officers pointed us out to the guy in charge. He called over the other man in sweats and sent him jogging across the sand to us.

  He was, inevitably, blond and fit-looking, with a no-nonsense tightness to his sharp features and an almost military bearing, despite the casual clothes. His sweatsuit was navy blue, with red and white trim. Of course.

  “You’re the ones who found the body?” he asked. We nodded. “We’re going to be a while. You’ll be more comfortable waiting in the lobby. There’s coffee.”

  “Why can’t we leave?” I asked, getting to my feet. My knees creaked, another birthday reminder. “We’ll let you know where to find us.”

  “Detective Sergeant Barwell will need to talk to you,” he said. “He’s the commander of the case squad.”

  “Who are all those people?” I asked.

  “Just investigators, ma’am.”

  “There are so many of them.”

  “Some are from the Sunland Police Department. Some are crime technicians from the county sheriff’s office. The lady is Doc Wilson. She’s the medical examiner. She’s got a crew with her. Then there’s the state attorney. He’s the guy in the suit.”

  “And who are you?”

&nbs
p; “Detective Sargent,” he said.

  “I thought the detective sergeant was the other guy.”

  “No, ma’am, sorry. Sargent’s my name. Jim Sargent. S-a-r-g-e-n-t.”

  “So when you get promoted, you’ll be Detective Sergeant Sargent?’

  “Yes ma’ am.”

  I giggled. He didn’t.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “You’re not the first,” he said, wearily.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Let’s go inside, Kate,” Jeff said. “I’m freezing.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Sargent said. “I have a couple of questions.”

  There was a shout down on the beach. One of the uniforms had found something, by a palm tree. Sargent watched with interest. I recognized the tree. So did Jeff.

  “Excuse me, detective.” he said. “I guess I’d better tell you something.”

  He explained his responsibility for the mess under that particular palm. Sargent, straight-faced, thanked him.

  “I’ll just go get that straightened out,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you inside.”

  Chapter 9

  It was warmer inside, and there was a coffee urn set up on a table next to the entrance to the bar. Barry had given up on scripture for the night, and was sitting at the desk, all ears—to no avail at that particular moment, because the four men standing around fell silent when we came into the lobby. They were dressed in jeans, plaid shirts, and down vests, and were either plain-clothes cops or alligator hunters getting an early start on the day. Very macho. They watched suspiciously as we filled Styrofoam cups and did the sugar and cream thing. We took our coffee back to the chairs under the sandpipers and waited.

  The phone rang. Barry picked it up, then motioned to one of the men, who picked up the house phone.

  “Where the fuck are you?” he asked. Barry cringed and glanced my way, perhaps concerned about the sullying of my ladylike ears. “Well, I’m sorry about that, but you better get your ass over to the Gulf Vistas, pronto. We got a cold one.”

  He listened for a moment, then laughed.

  “Well, that’s just tough, buddy. The dragon lady needs her splatter guy. . . . Okay, buddy. See you in five. . . . All right. Ten. Sure that’s all you need?”

  He laughed again, then hung up.

  “Says he’s just about done,” he explained to his buddies.

  “Speedy Gonzales strikes again,” said one of the guys.

  “Wonder who the chick is,” said another.

  “Guy probably does, too,” said the third. Guffaws all around.

  “Better get back to work,” said the one who had talked on the phone.

  There was grumbling agreement, and they drained their cups and left them sitting on the counter. The smoker in the group took a couple of greedy last drags on his cigarette before stubbing it out and following the rest out the door. Barry went back to his Bible.

  “What do you think a splatter guy is?” I asked.

  “I don’t think I want to know,” Jeff said, then got up and began to pace the lobby.

  “Quit with the tiger imitation,” I said. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “I just want to get out of here,” he said. “How long are they going to keep us?”

  “Longer than we want, that’s for sure. Don’t sweat it. It will just make it worse.”

  Jeff paced back, and threw his lanky frame into the backbreaking soft chair. I lit another cigarette.

  “I wish I smoked,” he said.

  “Passes the time,” I agreed, then coughed.

  “Passes it right into an early grave.”

  “There’s that, too.”

  The lobby door opened, and we looked up, expecting some official police presence. Instead, we heard singing, in a deep baritone which made up in volume for what it lacked in tune.

  “I could have daaaaanced all night . . .”

  The sound was followed quickly by a small, portly gentleman clad in what some call “full Cleveland,” his white shoes and matching belt setting off plaid trousers, a striped shirt, and a patterned bow tie. The man’s hair was white, but he had a lusty sparkle in his eye and a heartbreaker’s smile as he waltzed his companion through the lobby. She, thickened in the middle, with freshly permed hair and an embarrassed but loving look on her face, was wearing a powder-blue shirtwaist dress in some sort of silky synthetic.

  “Jerry, there are people watching,” she said.

  He stopped in mid-twirl, looked over his shoulder at us, and winked.

  “More night-owls,” he said. “What’s the matter, locked out of your room?”

  “That’s none of our business, honey,” his wife said, then turned to us. “Please forgive my husband. We’ve been to a celebration.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “It’s not every day my first grandson gets married. Wouldn’t you say that was a reason to kick up my heels?”

  “The best,” I said.

  “We’ve just come from the rehearsal dinner,” his wife explained. “At the country club. It was a barbecue.”

  “Steaks this thick,” he said, measuring two inches between his thumb and forefinger. “Martinis. Wine. Dancing. They sure know how to entertain down here. Where are you folks from?”

  “Canada,” Jeff said.

  “Toronto, I bet. The Titans train here,” he said. We allowed that he was right on the money. “We sure hate them where we come from. Almost as much as the Yankees.”

  “Where’s that?” Jeff asked.

  “Akron, Ohio,” he said. Close. “We’re Indians fans. And the Reds, in the other league. We’re the Johnsons, Jerry and Judy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  We began to introduce ourselves, but were interrupted by the arrival of Detective Sargent.

  “Excuse me folks,” he said, politely. “We have some police business here.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Jerry said, quickly. “It’s about time I took my beautiful bride off to bed. Come on, sugar-pie.”

  As the elevator doors closed, I heard her voice, saying “They don’t look like criminals, do they, honey-bun?”

  Sargent grunted at us and went to pour himself a coffee.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, coming back across the lobby and sitting down. “That’s what this business is about. Hurry up and wait.”

  “Hey, we had nothing better to do,” said Jeff. “Except maybe sleep.”

  “Makes two of us,” Sargent said. “Three of us.”

  “Can I ask you a question first?” I asked.

  Sargent grunted again.

  “Some of your men were talking about a splatter guy. What’s that?”

  Sargent almost smiled.

  “That’s what Doc Wilson calls Guy Charon,” he said, pronouncing the name nothing like its obvious French-Canadian roots. “He’s one of her crime-scene investigators. Specializes in blood stains.”

  “I knew I didn’t want to know,” Jeff said.

  “There are some really interesting patterns out there,” Sargent said, obviously wishing he didn’t have to babysit witnesses.

  Jeff shut his eyes.

  “I forgot. Your friend’s a bit squeamish,” he said, not bothering to disguise his contempt.

  “It’s hardly surprising,” I said, wanting to defend Jeff. It felt like his manhood was under attack, and he was in no condition to defend himself.

  “Takes some people that way,” Sargent said.

  “Ours is not a line of work where we see a lot of gore,” I explained.

  “Didn’t seem to bother you any.”

  Was that an insult?

  “Can I break up this meeting of the cast-iron stomach society?” Jeff asked. “I’d like to get home to bed.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “That make
s three of us, again,” Sargent said. “But I got a job to do.”

  He pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket.

  “Names?”

  We told him.

  “Address?”

  I gave him the name of our hotel, and our room numbers.

  “You’re not together?”

  “No,” Jeff said. “We work together.”

  “You were working at two-thirty in the morning?”

  “I can’t see that it’s any of your business,” I said.

  “Okay, it’s like that,” Sargent said.

  “No it’s not,” we said, overlapping each other.

  “Not what?” Sargent asked. Jeff began to laugh. So did I.

  “What’s funny?” Sargent asked, suspiciously.

  “Nothing’s funny,” I said. “My sense of humour just kicked in.”

  “About time, too,” Jeff said.

  The tension broken, Jeff and I got on with the job of describing everything we had seen when we found Lucy on the beach. It didn’t take long. Sargent got up and put his notebook back in his pocket. We got up, too.

  “So we can go?”

  “Not until you talk to Detective Sergeant Barwell.”

  “And that will be when?” I asked.

  Sargent shrugged.

  “When he’s through outside.”

  “Finished with the splatters,” Jeff said.

  “You got it,” Sargent said, looking almost cheerful.

  After he left, I went to get another coffee, and almost bumped into a good-looking guy wearing jeans, cowboy shirt, and ostrich-skin boots. We’d last seen him at The El Rancho, slightly less rumpled. I thought he was another hotel guest, until he asked for Dr. Wilson.

  “Are you the splatter guy?” I asked. I couldn’t resist.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Witness,” I said. “She’s out back.”

  “Thanks,” he said, looking confused. “Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?”

  “Could be, cowboy,” I said, and sashayed back to my seat.

  “Cute,” Jeff said.

  “This sitting around is getting me punchy,” I explained.

  “It’s pissing me right off.”