Remote Control

by Stephen White

  “What kind of sick?” Casey thought—like, the flu, so what?—that’s the least of her problems, and tossed the hairbrush onto the counter, the whole time trying to figure out how she could pull a sweater over her head without interrupting the conversation.

  “She needs medicine. If it’s what I’m afraid it is, she may need to go to the hospital, tonight even, right away, to get the drugs she needs.”

  “Hold on a second, I’m sorry, but I’m freezing here.” Casey exhaled, placed the phone on her dresser, and pulled a wine-colored turtleneck over her gooseflesh.

  She grabbed the phone again. “What do you mean, she may have to go to the hospital tonight? What kind of sick are we talking about?”

  Alan knew that Lauren may not have been planning to tell Casey about her illness. He also assumed that she might be angry at him for revealing it. He decided to deal with that later.

  “You probably don’t know this, Casey, but Lauren has multiple sclerosis. She just told me on the phone that she’s losing her vision. If it’s true, then it’s serious, it indicates an exacerbation—a flare-up of her disease. She has some regular medicine she takes by injection—I’ll be taking it with me when I go now—but she’s probably going to need IV medicine right away, too, high-dose steroids. For the acute vision problem—it’s called optic neuritis.”

  The details swelled and Casey was stunned.

  “Lauren has MS?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s losing her vision? Are we talking ‘losing-her-vision,’ glasses—or ‘losing-her-vision,’ blind? How long has this been going on?”

  “The vision problem is acute—today. The loss could be partial, or it could be complete. It could be one eye, it could be both. The pain started this morning. She just now told me about the vision loss. She was vague on the phone but I got the feeling that it’s still progressing. I think she was afraid someone might be listening.”

  Good, thought Casey, at least she’s being cautious about something. “But the MS, when did she—?”

  “—A long time ago, Casey. She’s had MS for a long, long time.”

  “Alan, while she’s in custody they’re not going to let her take any medicine without clearance from the doc who’s on call to the police department or the jail. That takes time in the best of circumstances. This is a weekend, and a blizzard, not the best of circumstances. And she’s going to have to tell the cops what it’s for. That’s true even for routine meds, let alone for something like you’re describing.”

  “I’m not sure she’s prepared to do that. To tell them she has MS.”

  “Revealing she has MS is the least of her problems right now, I’m afraid.”

  “She’ll try to finesse this, Casey, you watch. It’s a privacy thing for her. You said yourself that she’s stubborn, and you’re right.”

  Casey paused at the mirror and pondered what she had just learned. Lauren looks as healthy as I do. She’d known Lauren a long time. How could she not have known that Lauren suffered from a chronic illness? Am I really that thick?

  She lost a moment trying to decide whether to apply some makeup and whether to brush her teeth.

  No. Maybe do makeup in the car. Chew some gum.

  “Alan?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Lauren is going blind, how did she manage to shoot somebody?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing. She’s never told me she owns a gun, Casey. So I still don’t even know how she got one, let alone why she fired it. The question of how she managed to actually hit her target is way down my list of concerns right now.”

  “I’ll be out the door in two minutes. I’ll see you at the police department. And Alan?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need phone numbers, too, whatever you have. Beepers, cell phones, everything and anything I might need to reach anybody, whenever.”

  Alan dictated a long list of phone numbers, then said, “I’m on my way, be careful.”

  Casey Sparrow put her retriever, Toby, outside for a prowl, fearing a long night ahead. While the dog roamed, Casey sat at her laptop, typed a memo to the detectives at the Boulder Police Department, got the correct number from the police dispatcher, and faxed it to the detective division.

  She pulled on a heavy coat, a hat, and gloves and went outside and called for Toby. The dog responded eagerly and pranced around the truck while Casey scraped snow off the windshield. Halfway through the task, she realized that she had already made her first serious mistake. When Alan arrived at the police department, he was not going to be allowed to see Lauren; instead, he would immediately be pulled inside a room and be interviewed as a possible witness.

  After luring Toby back inside the house, Casey jumped into the cab of the truck, started it to get the defroster working, grabbed her cell phone, and called Alan at home to warn him off.

  No answer. Damn. She checked her list of phone numbers and realized the list didn’t include one for his car. She found the number he had provided for his beeper and punched that in. At the voice prompt, she entered the number of her car phone.

  “Shit,” Casey said aloud, “that is going to be my last damn screwup on this case. The absolute last.”

  She double-checked her briefcase to be sure she had everything she needed with her and turned left out of her driveway onto the Peak to Peak Highway, choosing Boulder Canyon instead of Coal Creek Canyon to get to town. It was always a toss-up which one would have been better scraped by the snow plows. But she chose Boulder Canyon because it had much more consistent cell reception than Coal Creek.

  Casey Sparrow had a few more calls to make.

  Driving toward town, Alan Gregory realized he didn’t know what was in his wife’s purse.

  He’d never looked. He wondered if that was odd, if other husbands knew.

  If pressed, he would have guessed lipstick, tissues, wallet, keys. Her pager. A small container to carry medication. Maybe her appointment calendar, some candy or gum—something to freshen her breath.

  But he never would have guessed a gun.

  Alan was stumped. He didn’t know where she had gotten the gun. He felt chagrined admitting that to himself. But it was true.

  For a couple of blocks, it left him wondering about other omissions.

  But the gun was his focus. The gun was what got her arrested.

  That, and the fact that the police thought she was somehow able to shoot a man with it from half a block away. In the dark.

  Aloud, he said, “Lauren, what the hell were you doing at Emma’s house with a gun?”

  Alan had been to the police department many times to see Sam Purdy over the years. A few of those times had been after hours.

  He knew the routine.

  He parked his car on the street, avoiding the visitor’s lot, and plodded through unplowed snow to the south side of the building, where the cops park their personal vehicles. He checked the rows for Sam’s car, found it, then high-stepped back through the ankle-deep snow to the public entrance. The outer door of the vestibule was unlocked. Once inside, Alan lifted the telephone that was mounted on the wall. Someone answered after three rings.

  “Yes, may I help you.”

  “Detective Purdy, please.”

  “And you are?”

  “Dr. Alan Gregory.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes,” Alan lied.

  “You’ll have to hold on a minute, it looks like he’s on his line.”

  From his vantage in the glassed-in vestibule no activity was apparent in the adjacent lobby. The entrance to the detective bureau was in the far south corner of the waiting area. On the other side of that door, Alan guessed, things were hopping. Shootings were not routine in Boulder and the law enforcement authorities mobilized for them with zeal. Few major crimes went unsolved and clearance on murders was exceptional. It was a point of pride with the department.

  Lauren had told Alan that the chief, at least one of the detective sergeants, the department le
gal counsel, and the DA on call had already arrived at the building. From prior experience observing a murder investigation up close as a psychological consultant to the department, Alan figured that an additional half-dozen detectives would have been called in from their homes, too. Throw in some crime scene investigators, some extra clerical support, and a weekend property person, and the detective bureau would be bustling like a retail business during an after-Christmas sale.

  And all that would be for a routine attempted murder investigation. This one wasn’t routine, though. This one involved a deputy DA, and…who?

  Alan got lost, once again, wondering who the hell his wife was accused of shooting.

  Behind him, the door that led outside from the vestibule opened. Before Alan had a chance to see who it was, he heard, “Hang up. Quick. Come on.” The voice was friendly and enthusiastic, as though the speaker were inviting Alan out for a beer with the boys.

  When Alan turned, he found himself staring into the Adam’s apple of Cozier Maitlin. Alan knew Maitlin socially, had met him while accompanying Lauren to lawyer parties. And he knew Cozier Maitlin by reputation. Maitlin was the only six-foot eight-inch criminal defense attorney in the Boulder bar.

  “You’re Alan Gregory, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang up the phone please, Dr. Gregory. Please accept my advice that it is absolutely not in your wife’s interests for you to be paying voluntary visits to the detectives.”

  “But…I want to see her.”

  “Of course you do. The reality is that the police won’t allow that to happen for a while. Trust me. Hang up, come with me, and we’ll discuss what will be happening in the next few hours. Okay? Going in that door is a mistake. Allow me five minutes, please, to convince you. For her sake.”

  Alan followed Cozier Maitlin outside. A big BMW with the engine running was parked in the absolutely-don’t-even-think-about-parking-here zone in front of the police department. Cozy slid awkwardly into the backseat. Alan followed.

  “Let’s boogie,” Cozy said to the driver, a woman. The car glided off smoothly through the thick cushion of snow on Thirty-third Street, heading toward Arapahoe.

  The music from the CD player was loud, the heat was on high, and the defroster was blaring away like a wind machine.

  “Alan Gregory, that’s Erin Rand up front. It’s ‘Doctor’ Gregory, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Alan Gregory, Erin Rand.”

  Erin waved a greeting from the front seat. Above the din, she said, “I’m real sorry about your wife.” Then sardonically, almost under her breath, she admonished Maitlin, “Real good introduction, Cozy.”

  The CD that was blaring was reggae. Erin adjusted the volume down, clicked the fan blower to a lower setting, and cranked the car west at the light. Alan sensed a slight fishtail.

  Cozy Maitlin held out his right hand and said, “I’m Cozier Maitlin, I think we’ve met before at some insipid legal affair or another. I do apologize for having to kidnap you back there, but Casey and I agreed that you shouldn’t be talking with the authorities quite yet.”

  “You’ve spoken to Casey?”

  “I’m sorry, we’re both in the dark here, aren’t we? Neither of us really knows what’s going on.” He raised his eyebrows. “For all I know, you’re assuming that maybe Erin and I were out chasing ambulances and happened to stumble upon your wife’s difficulties.”

  Alan didn’t know how to respond.

  “Well, what actually happened is that Casey called and thumb-nailed me about your call to her and asked me to assist with Lauren’s defense. She’s helped me out a couple of times when I’ve had cases in JeffCo. She knows the local jurisdiction there. I know it here. So I’m helping out. Anyway, I like your wife, I’m delighted to be of assistance. Lauren has a sense of fairness I’ve come to admire over the years. It never feels like it’s just about winning and losing with her. And if Casey and I succeed in getting her out of this tussle without too much scar tissue—” his voice rose “—God, will she ever owe me big time.”

  Erin spoke from the front seat. “Since Cozy probably isn’t planning to include me in this conversation any longer, for your information, I’m not his chauffeur. I’m a private investigator. And, Cozy, I would seriously like to get started doing my job. Do either of you know where the shooting was? I want to drive up there and check things out, see what’s going on at the scene. Take some photos, talk to some strangers.”

  Alan could guess that the shooting had taken place at, or near, Emma Spire’s place. But it would only be a guess. And, given Lauren’s discretion during their only phone call since her arrest, he wasn’t sure how Lauren wanted to handle the whole Emma Spire situation.

  Alan said, “No, Erin, I’m sorry, I don’t know where it happened. I know almost nothing.”

  “Cozy, I know it’s going to absolutely destroy your ability to concentrate, but I’m going to need to turn junior Marley off so I can hear the scanner.”

  “If you must.” Alan heard the Jamaican rhythms diminish, only to be replaced by the crackle of Erin’s portable police scanner.

  Cozy faced Alan as much as a person his size could in the backseat of a big German sedan. “I think better with reggae on. Odd, isn’t it? I think so, anyway. My, you’re a shrink, aren’t you, I’d better be careful about what I say. Oh well. Let’s talk about Lauren, if you don’t mind. She’s in quite a jam.”

  Alan’s head was spinning. “Mr. Maitlin, Cozy—may I call you Cozy?”

  “Sure. Unfortunately, virtually everyone but my mother does.”

  “Please don’t be offended, but I don’t really know you. And I don’t want to screw anything up for my wife.” Alan nodded at the car phone. “Do you mind calling Casey for me?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Quite prudent, actually. I pray the trait runs in your family.”

  Alan watched as Erin touched a speed dial button on the car phone. She passed the phone over the back of the seat, said, “Oh shit,” and yanked the steering wheel so that the car glided back into the ruts that indicated where her lane was supposed to be.

  “Have you ever considered buying snow tires for this boat, Cozy?”

  “I have snow tires. But snow tires are for winter. This is still autumn.”

  “Snow tires aren’t wardrobe, Cozy. They’re for snow. Look outside, this is snow.”

  Maitlin ignored her.

  Alan held the receiver to his ear. “Yeah,” was how Casey Sparrow answered her car phone.

  “Casey, it’s Alan. I’m with Cozy Maitlin. Is that okay with you?”

  “Good. Yes, absolutely. Do what he tells you. I’m parked behind a fishtailed cable TV truck just up the canyon from the Red Lion. Did Cozy catch up with you before the cops did? Please say yes.”

  “Barely, but yes.”

  “Thank God. I asked him to hurry, but with Cozy, you never can tell. I don’t know what you know and I don’t want you to tell me over the air what you know, but I didn’t want you inadvertently helping the detectives. Cozy will be assisting me on this. One pair of hands won’t be enough, especially during these first few days. I’ll be down to Boulder as soon as I can get past this stupid truck.”

  “So it’s okay to talk with him?”

  “Oh good. A tow truck has arrived, praise the Lord. Yes, absolutely, you can trust Maitlin. He may make you want to pull your hair out, he’ll definitely make you want to pull his hair out, but, yes, you can trust him.”

  Alan, the psychologist, thought he detected an adrenaline surge in Casey’s demeanor. He wondered if it was because of the case. Lauren had once told him that there was nothing as appetizing for a DA as prosecuting a high-profile capital crime. The same would probably be true for a defense lawyer.

  “You want to talk to him, Casey?”

  “No need, I’ve already yanked on my own hair plenty tonight. Hope to see you soon. Bye.”

  “Well?” asked Cozy.

  “She said I could trust you.”


  “She implied I was difficult, too, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she implied that.”

  “She’s right. I am. I like to think it’s one reason why I’m so successful at this.” He paused. “That’s how I rationalize my behavior, anyway.”

  From the front seat, Erin laughed loudly.

  Erin Rand removed her gloves and wrapped both her bare hands around the double latte she had ordered at an espresso bar on the Hill before she had driven the BMW up Baseline to the site of the shooting. She rotated her wrist to look at her watch. Ten-fifteen.

  “Shooting was when, Cozy?”

  Cozy answered her. “Casey thinks right around seven. Little before, a little after.”

  “This snow really screws up the scene. They’re never going to find evidence till this shit melts, and even then half of it is going to get washed away.” Erin had pulled Cozy’s car right next to the crime scene tape at the end of the block. She and Cozy lowered the two driver’s side windows so they could try to see what was going on. Snow as heavy as soggy cornflakes drifted inside the car and quickly melted on the warm leather.

  Erin asked, “How long is this storm supposed to hang around?”

  Alan said, “Not long, I heard that the upslope should break apart soon. Tonight, maybe tomorrow morning.”

  Cozy was gazing outside. He said, “The canopy is a nice touch, though, don’t you think, Erin?”

  A portable canopy had been erected on the side of the street in the middle of the block. It was about fifteen feet square and was centered over the spot where the victim had fallen.

  Erin said, “Absolutely. I haven’t seen one at a crime scene before and I admire their resourcefulness. But look how much snow is already under it. I bet they just got it up. If it keeps snowing this hard the damn thing will collapse from the weight, anyway.”

  Cozy said, “Still, you must admit, a nice touch. Someone up here is using his head. Perhaps a good sign for us, perhaps not. Time will tell.”

  Alan listened to the banter. Cozy was dipping a tea bag up and down, up and down into a cardboard container of hot water as though the act itself was an important part of whatever would lead to freeing Lauren from jail.