I spotted it about forty feet below the lip of the overview, snagged on a bush, a rag of white plastic with big blue and red polka dots. A string trailed off from one end and it was still bright and clean and slickly wet.
* * * *
Ned Freemont stepped out through his patio doors. Lisette flowed to one side, pressing back into the deeper black along the retaining wall, giving me working room.
"Who's there?” the intern demanded again. You could see him in the growing dawn light. He was in his shirtsleeves, his tie yanked down sloppily. He was a little unsteady, as if he'd been putting a shot glass to good use, and he looked young and scared.
"Don't tense, Doc. It's the law,” I replied, staying back in the shadows beside the garage. “Deputy Pulaski, L.A. County. I was one of the guys up at the murder scene."
"Murder?” I saw him weave a little under the impact of the word.
"Uh-huh,” I replied, stepping out onto the patio. “I'm just here collecting a little more evidence. Oh, and I'm collecting you, too. You're under arrest for the murder of Dorothy Kurtz."
"What ... what are you talking about?” His voice started to lift. “Dorothy committed suicide. They said..."
I shook my head, taking a step closer. “Nah, you killed her. Premeditated and in the first degree, and, speaking as a cop, may I say thanks. In a world of plain old day-in day-out mayhem, this is the first time I've ever worked one of these fancy, set-up killings like Ellery Queen writes about. It's been a charge."
"You're crazy!” His voice was cracking now. “I was nowhere near Dorothy when she..."
"That was the whole idea, wasn't it? For you to be alibied and in the clear when her car went into the canyon?"
Before he could speak again I held out my left hand with the sheaf of bread slices in it, just starting to turn leathery. “Didn't your mama ever tell you about the starving kids in China? That was a good half a loaf thrown away in your garbage. But then, you needed the plastic bread bag to pack the ice in."
He stared at the bread in my hand as I eased in another step. “You dumped the bread out of the bag and emptied your ice trays into it. Then you tied off the end of the bag with five or six feet of string. You put it in your car and you drove up to the overview for your lovers’ showdown.
"Oh, and Miss Kurtz didn't call you. You called her and asked her to meet you there. You had the terrain all scoped out. And, as you'd figured, there were other couples at the turnout, enjoying the view. It's a popular place on Saturday night. You wanted witnesses but distracted ones. People who wouldn't be paying too close attention to what you were up to.
"You pulled in alongside Dorothy Kurtz's Studebaker, got out of your car and into hers. She was pissed and you had words. Not many, because you'd already made up your mind to kill her."
"No!"
"Oh yeah,” I insisted. “You're an intern at a receiving hospital. You've seen plenty of car-crash victims. You know how people die. So you reached over, grabbed her by the hair, and smashed her throat across the steering wheel, maybe a couple of times, crushing her larynx. Then you held her while she convulsed and suffocated to death."
He didn't say anything this time. It was just a sound.
"As a doc,” I continued, “you'd also know how the warm night would blur the coroner's ability to estimate the exact time of death, but you still had to move fast. You also didn't want those witnesses to be able to see just exactly what you'd be doing when you got out of her car, so you disabled the dome light by removing the bulb.
"When you'd made sure of the dark, you got out of the Studebaker and chocked its rear wheel with the bag of ice from your car. You'd left it in the backseat where you could grab it easily. Then you reached back into the Studebaker, started it, released the parking brake, and put the automatic transmission in drive.
"With the engine just idling, the Stude didn't quite have enough power to ride up and over the ice chock wedged under its wheel. But man, that ice was melting. You wiped your prints off the shift lever and brake handle and you were careful to slam the string tied to the ice bag in the Studebaker's door. Then you got back in your car and you peeled out, real loud and showy, so that everyone in that turnout would remember you leaving and when."
I chuckled softly for effect. “You must have been sweating blood, praying that no peeping Tom would look into that Golden Hawk before you got yourself safely situated on that barstool. Nobody did, and after about twenty minutes, the Studebaker's idling engine pulled the car over the melting ice and rolled it off the edge of the overlook.
"As it did, the string closed in the door pulled the ice bag after the car. And, like you figured, the bag was torn away by the brush on the hillside, becoming just another piece of road trash in the sticker bushes. The couple of inches of string caught in the door would be disregarded as irrelevant and the water stain on the ground from the melting ice would evaporate."
I was within grabbing range now. “And it did, just not fast enough."
You could see the trapped animal welling up in Freemont's eyes. For all of his attempted cunning he really wasn't a very good killer. But he made the effort. “This is crazy! I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Doc,” I said gently, “the coroner's checking the body for torn scalp follicles and he'll be paying real close attention to bruising and blood-pooling discrepancies. And while you wiped off the outside of the Stude's dome light, we've got a real good set of your prints from the inside of the housing. The backseat of your car is damp from where you laid the ice bag, and we've got a plaster cast of the blurred tire track made by the car riding up and over it. Our crime lab will be able to match the string caught in the Golden Hawk's door with that tied to the bread bag and probably to a hunk you've got laying around your house somewhere."
I gestured with the bread slices I still held. “The lab's also going to be able to match the recipe of the breadcrumbs adhering to the inside of the bread bag with what's in your garbage can. They can probably even match the baking batch and the individual loaf."
I tossed the bread down on the paving. “That's gonna be more than enough for the D.A. to bind you over. Now you can be smart or you can be stupid. Which do you want?"
"I want to talk with my family's lawyer,” he said dully. He was going to be smart.
"Suit yourself.” I unhooked my handcuffs from the back of my belt. “You can call him from the Hall of Justice."
There was some pink in the gray over the San Gabes and a few more birds were waking up as we led him down the road towards Car.
We'd take him in so the detectives could catch the credit and the paperwork. Then the Princess and I would drive out to her place or mine. We'd grab a shower, a little sleep, and maybe get back to what we'd started up on the hills.
I guided Freemont with a hand on his shoulder while the Princess trotted along beside us. “Why kill her?” she asked conversationally. “You had it all, the money, the medical degree, the future. Why mess it up?"
Sometimes if you hit ‘em just when they're in shock from the arrest, when they're in that strange moment of emotional relief because their guilt's out, sometimes they'll pop open.
"Dorothy wanted to get married,” he murmured, sounding very young and very lost. “And I wasn't ready. She said she'd gotten pregnant. She'd make it ugly with my family, a breach of promise ... She'd ruin my chances with the practice that was taking me on ... It just seemed easier for her not to be there anymore."
"Not really, man,” I replied. “Not really."
(c)2007 by James H. Cobb
* * * *
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DEPARTMENT OF FIRST STORIES: SKIN DEEP by Renée Yim
The following tale belongs to our Department of First Stories as the pseudonymous 29-year-old writer's first work of fiction ever to see print in any language. But it also belongs to Passport to Crime, for the author was born in Lyon, France, of parents from Cameroon, West Africa. She worked as a podiatrist, using her free time to translate articles from English to French, before taking courses at a Parisian writing school and trying fiction.
Translated from the French by Mary Kennedy
Friday, September 21, 10:00 A.M.
ntoine was sitting in the back office reading the fax from his accountant. He sighed and removed his glasses. Things looked serious. He rubbed his eyes, then held them closed for a minute, half hoping it was just a bad dream that would go away when he opened them again. But it was no use. There it was: “...declare bankruptcy..."
His little company was struggling. That he could live with. But to see it disappear altogether was like walking with a bad limp for seven years, then waking in bed one morning to find both legs amputated.
Back in June 1998, his best friend and associate, Mathieu, had found a space in this small renovated building. In a flood of energy, the two of them had fixed it up. They had faith in their project: literary publishers and booksellers. Antoine Dufour and Mathieu Planchon were striking out on a great adventure. Six months later, the Dufour-Planchon Bookshop opened its doors in Paris.
The firm, clear sound of the shop door opening brought Antoine back to the present. He and Mathieu were having a book signing for the release of Yasmine Azoul and Hinda Wafi's book Skin Deep, about two Muslim women and their differing lifestyles. He raised the blind and glanced quickly into the shop. A tall young man wearing a cap was stepping through the door. Yasmine was sitting behind a wooden table listening to a customer. Was it small talk, flattery, or curiosity? Mathieu was meticulously arranging the display of new releases in the shop window. Antoine picked up the stack of letters that needed to be mailed before noon and emerged from the back office, doing his best to hide his distress.
As he gave Mathieu the bad news, Antoine noticed the face of the young man with the cap twist into a grimace. He watched the beanpole of a man move, book in hand, toward Yasmine. At his approach, the cheerful expression on Yasmine's face faded. When she reached for the book he held out, thinking he wanted her autograph, he spat on it, flung it in her face, and cried out, “Miscreant!” Spouting insults, he turned on his heels and, proud of his performance, left the shop.
Antoine and Mathieu rushed over to Yasmine with surprising speed. The same anxious cry sprang from both their throats at once. “Are you okay?"
"...Yes,” she murmured.
Yasmine felt her throat tighten. Her eyes, almost wild, followed Mathieu's hand as it picked up the object of aggression. Such violence over a book! “That's no reason to assault someone,” she continued in bewilderment.
* * * *
11:30 A.M.
That jerk had certainly succeeded in upsetting Yasmine, but she'd shown herself to be brave, thought Antoine, as he slipped some coins into a stamp dispenser at the post office. He was checking to make sure he had all the letters that had to be mailed when, suddenly, a deafening blast resonated throughout the building. Three hundred meters away, the shop window of Dufour-Planchon had been blown to pieces. Someone had thrown a bomb.
* * * *
Tuesday, September 25
Yasmine gripped the bed frame, then let herself fall back onto the pillows. The clock on the wall of her hospital room read 4:00 P.M. Antoine would be there soon. She picked up a literary magazine she knew she couldn't possibly read. A persistent migraine hammered in her head.
On the other side of town, Antoine was seated on the cushions of his living-room couch preparing himself psychologically to announce his decision. From time to time he cast furtive glances at Gabrielle. She was unusually calm today. He noticed that she had hurt her right hand. How could he not notice such an elaborate bandage? It was clear to Antoine that Gabrielle was trying to attract his attention. Either that or she had injured herself again as a result of her alcohol-soaked brain.
Their eyes met. Mustering his courage, Antoine broke the silence. “I'm asking for a divorce.” His face had become serious.
"Who is it?” she began. “Yasmine?"
"Stop it, Gabrielle. I'm tired of telling you, my relations with Yasmine are strictly professional."
"Liar, liar, liar! You're nothing but a liar."
"That's enough, Gabrielle!” The anger in Antoine's voice was rising.
"I'm no idiot. I've seen how you undress her with your eyes. You couldn't care less about her book,” she retorted.
Antoine stood up. “Think whatever you like. I have no intention of trying to convince you."
"Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” she screamed in fury.
"I'm suffocating, Gabrielle. You're suffocating me. Our marriage is suffocating me. I feel trapped.... I want a divorce!"
"I'll keep you away from Maeva. She'll come with me. You can forget her.... Just remember, a father who's always broke never gets custody of his child."
Antoine was about to fire back, “Because a mother who's an alcoholic is better!” when he noticed Maeva. He passed his tongue over his dry lips and remained silent.
Now totally enraged, Gabrielle wiped away the tears that were welling in her eyes with a furious gesture and turned toward the side table, her attention irresistibly drawn by a vase. She grabbed it. Antoine was holding the doorknob. The vase flew through the air as he slammed the door shut behind him.
From the corner where she had hidden, Maeva could see that her mother was beside herself.
Riding down in the elevator, Antoine mulled over Gabrielle's threats. She had crossed a new line by bringing Maeva into their problems. If she thought she was going to use their little girl to hold on to him, she had another thing coming. He couldn't stand living with her anymore. Gabrielle was jealous by nature. They'd met at university, and even back then she used to repeat, “I trust you, but, as a rule, I don't trust women. They find you far too attractive.” Her remarks became more unpleasant after Maeva's birth. Her trim body, which had thickened during pregnancy, refused to slim down. Unable to come to terms with her new appearance, she'd slipped into a state of chronic paranoia. He couldn't speak to anyone of the opposite sex, let alone look at them, without being accused of lustful intentions. When she had had too much to drink, a scathing tone crept into her remarks: “Dirty hypocrite, if you chose your authors for the quality of their work, you wouldn't be broke all the time."
But what could she know about literature? She was the director of a laboratory.
It was 5:30 P.M. by the time Antoine got to the hospital. He followed the nurse's directions and went down the corridor to room 212, carrying a potted amaryllis.
"A plant to brighten the place up a bit!” he announced pleasantly, before greeting Yasmine's mother, Madame Azoul, then Mathieu and Hinda.
Yasmine answered gently, “How lovely, the scent of fresh flowers...” She slipped her arms around Antoine's neck and pulled him against her.
Antoine took off his glasses and started chewing absent-mindedly on the plastic arm of the frame, as he always did when facing a problem. “I've brought two pieces of news. One good. And one bad. Which do you want to hear first, Yasmine?"
"Keep the good news for last and start with the bad."
Antoine handed her a brown paper envelope. “We received this letter yesterday. It was postmarked in Paris,” he explained reluctantly.
Madame Azoul's eyes darkened, searching her daughter's tense face as Yasmine read the letter.
"A bunch of insults and threats,” Yasmine summed up, a note of anxiety in her voice.
"Threats?!” repeated Madame Azoul, clearly alarmed by the news.
Antoine quickly interrupted Yasmine and her mother. “Wait, wait, wait, wait. This is no time to waste energy on fear and specu
lation. Let's not forget that the police are investigating. Two witnesses noticed a suspicious-looking guy smoking a cigarette near the bookshop just before the explosion. Their description of him matches the thug who harassed Yasmine on Friday. Tall, thin, a cap on his head, probably of Middle Eastern origin. The Criminal Records Office collected some cigarette stubs from the sidewalk to take fingerprints. I'm sure they'll find the guilty party. If things take a bad turn, Yasmine will receive all the protection she needs."
"What's the good news?” ventured Madame Azoul, still worried. She was looking straight at Antoine.
"Next week we've been asked for ... a radio interview!” Antoine announced. “Go on, see if you can guess which program?"
Yasmine raised her eyebrows, indicating her impatience.
He cleared his throat and articulated grandly, "Both Sides!"
The expression on Yasmine's face brightened only slightly, but her eyes were sparkling with excitement when she exclaimed, “To what do we owe this honor?"
With a look of triumph, Mathieu unfolded his newspaper and read out loud the headline across the top of the page:
YOUNG ALGERIAN WRITER VICTIM OF
BOMB ATTACK IN PARIS BOOKSHOP.
For a split second, a shadow veiled Yasmine's eyes. Hinda interrupted Mathieu. “Are you all right, Yasmine?"
"I've had a close brush with the worst that can happen ... I admit I'm afraid. If I simply ignore this piece of hate mail, I don't dare imagine what may be in store for me."
"You know, even if I haven't done as much as you to promote our book—and I'll never be able to thank you enough for respecting my choice not to—I understand your fear, Yasmine,” Hinda said. “And I share it with you. All the same, I do think this invitation to go on the air is a great opportunity."
Antoine nodded in agreement as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Hinda is right. Promoting a book involves knowing how to take advantage of unforeseen events to push it into the spotlight."
Madame Azoul turned toward Antoine and said courteously, but in her sternest voice, “In such a delicate climate, why throw oil on the fire? Is this radio program really essential?” An anxious note had crept into her final words. Antoine pulled up his chair and took Madame Azoul's hands in his as he tried to give her a reassuring account of the situation.
EQMM, July 2007 Page 14
