AHMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "No. I've had all the chemo, the newest drugs, I'm in the late fourth stage.” He picked up the cigarette pack. “The funny thing is, I still want one of these."

  Meltzer was stumped, at a loss at what to say.

  Herwitt finished his whiskey. “Neal Bevans,” he said.

  "What about him?"

  "I've heard his restaurant is so successful he might get the money to start another."

  "Gasoline and justice,” Meltzer said. “The supply keeps dwindling.” He hoped that was a cynical but nonprovocative comment.

  "You want to go over there for another drink?” Herwitt asked. “It's just down the street."

  "No, I don't. And I don't recommend you going over there either."

  Guilelessly, Herwitt asked, “How come?"

  Meltzer looked at him. He could detect, he thought, a little pilot light of fanaticism behind the dull opacity of the eyes. “You remember what you used to tell me about Bevans?"

  "How I would like to shoot him down in the street? I was just joking, Meltzer. You knew that."

  Meltzer took a pull at his nonalcoholic beer. “Did I?"

  "Do you really think Bevans got what he deserved? Fooled everybody with that phony insanity defense?"

  "He fooled some highly qualified psychiatrists."

  Herwitt's face had lost its pallor. “Hacks. Guys picking up state money because they can't make it in the marketplace, the real world. You going to deny that?"

  "Why'd you want to meet tonight?"

  "To fill you in on my medical condition.” And now the smile came easily. “I'm not a man with ulterior motives, Meltzer."

  * * * *

  Meltzer, in pajamas, was brushing his teeth prior to turning in. His wife Ruthie was busy flossing next to him at the twin sinks. “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

  He spit into the sink. “Why do you always ask me questions when I've got foam in my mouth?"

  "Because I know I'll get an honest answer."

  "You always get honest answers. What can I do? Nothing."

  "So what was he doing, testing the waters?"

  "For what reason? If he wants his revenge on Bevans he'll try and do it. If he succeeds, by the time his trial date comes up he'll be dead of natural causes. Foolproof."

  Ruthie had stopped flossing and was looking at him in the mirror. “I think I know what you should do, and you do too. But is it kosher?"

  "Ask Rabbi Werblow. Is trying to prevent a death kosher?"

  * * * *

  Neal's restaurant was jammed in between a hole-in-the-wall sushi joint and the bright chrome facade of a frozen yogurt emporium. Meltzer got there after eleven, hoping the kitchen people and the waitresses had departed for the evening.

  When he came in there was only a small cleaning crew vacuuming and wiping down counters in the trendy see-through kitchen. There was still the mild, tantalizing aroma of food and the lingering smoke from the wood grill.

  Bevans spotted him and came out into the dimly lit dining room. He wore a white apron and white shirt but no toque. “Something I can do for you, sir?"

  Meltzer sat down at one of the tables near the door and flipped open his wallet so Bevans could see his shield.

  "I don't look familiar?"

  Bevans came closer, peering hard at him. “Well ... yeah. I knew you a long time ago?"

  "Long time. Sit down. I was head investigator on the Herwitt homicide."

  Bevans started to edge away. He was an unpretentious, husky redhead, early forties, with formidable biceps and a neatly trimmed red beard framing an unflinching, boyish face.

  "Listen, I've been clean for—"

  "I know,” Meltzer interrupted. “You're as clean as my compulsive wife's kitchen. Sit down, this is unofficial."

  Still edgy, Bevans pulled out a chair, sat. “What do you want with me?"

  "Have you been contacted recently by Martin Herwitt?"

  "No. I haven't talked to him or seen him in years."

  Meltzer sighed. “Herwitt's got lung cancer. He might not be around very long."

  Bevans thought about this. Meltzer noticed what looked like bloodstains on his apron. Cool it, schmuck, the guy's a cook.

  "Right after the trial,” Bevans said, “he told the press I was faking it, that he wanted to kill me."

  "And?” Meltzer prodded. The crew was leaving, and someone was turning out most of the lights in the dining room.

  "Look, I know what I did to Karen, but I was mental, out of control, helpless. I loved her. In a way I don't blame him if he's still so angry he can't see straight. But—"

  "But you've paid for your crime, found God, and changed your life for the better. Not to mention you love your wife and kids."

  "To the death.” He smiled weakly. “Excuse me, I guess that's a very inappropriate phrase."

  "You know, I can't protect you,” Meltzer said flatly.

  "No police protection? You gotta be kidding."

  "Our hands are tied unless he actually attempts something."

  "But give me a break, man, that might be too late."

  Meltzer spread supplicating hands and saw, incongruously, that his nails were dirty. “Make sure you're not followed when you come here and when you leave. And elsewhere. I checked the Vehicle Registration—he drives a dark green ‘98 Buick.” He jotted down the license plate number on the back of his business card, handed it to him.

  "But what about my wife, my kids?"

  "Do you have a daughter?"

  Bevans was near trembling, his big hands clutching the clean, newly placed tablecloth. “No, two boys. You mean—"

  Meltzer said, “You know what I mean. If you think he's following you or casing your house, I want you to call me immediately. You have the number on my card."

  Bevans was still trying to steady his hands. “Jesus, what can I do?"

  "Every Sunday at Mass? Pray."

  * * * *

  Almost twenty-four hours later, Meltzer got a call on his cell phone. It was Bevans, his voice as unsteady as his hands had been. “He was here tonight."

  "In your restaurant?"

  "Where else? Came in late. Just kinda this average guy, by himself. Had a glass of wine, nice dinner, left a good tip, and left."

  Meltzer was in their living room watching TV with his wife, whom he silenced with a finger to his lips. “Did you talk to him?"

  "Nah. You know we got an open kitchen, so I could see him in the dining room, and he could see me."

  "He made no effort at all to come near you?"

  "Didn't even get up to go to the restroom."

  "When he came in, you didn't tell him he was unwelcome, he should leave?"

  Bevans's sigh had a stinging resonance in Meltzer's ear. “I didn't even think—I mean, I was so surprised. Hell, Lieutenant, I don't want any trouble with the ACLU for refusing a man service."

  Meltzer would have laughed if the situation wasn't so serious. “Tell you what, Mr. Bevans. If he comes in tomorrow night, as soon as he steps in the door, call me."

  "Good, I'll do that.” Bevans sounded relieved. “And thanks for all the advice, Lieutenant. I've been doing a lot of extra praying. So's my wife."

  Yeah, Meltzer thought grimly, so did many of the death camp inmates during the Holocaust. Hypocrite, he quickly chastised himself—he was doing a lot of worrying and praying himself these days.

  Meltzer and his wife were on their way to the movies the next night when Meltzer's cell phone rang.

  "Don't answer,” Ruthie warned. She had waited weeks to see this picture.

  "Yes?” Meltzer said to the phone.

  It was a nervous Bevans. “Guess who has just walked in, settled himself at a table near the window."

  "Let's hope he stays.” Meltzer hung up and quickly flipped a U. They were only seven minutes away, a negligible amount of time to Los Angelenos who measured miles in minutes instead of distance.

  "Herwitt again?” Ruthie asked, her eyes heavy on his face.

 
Meltzer nodded. “I don't have time to drive you all the way back home. You'll have to sit and have a cup of coffee."

  "And a piece of pie,” she said ruefully. “You think the owner will comp me?"

  "Doesn't have to. He knows I'm good for it."

  * * * *

  They came into the restaurant, Meltzer scanning the patrons at the table near the window. Yes, there was Herwitt, neat in herringbone jacket and tie, studying the menu. He already had a glass of wine at his elbow.

  Meltzer pointed Ruthie to a faraway table and headed for Herwitt, exchanging a look with Bevans, who was taking ice cream from one of the gleaming fridges in the kitchen.

  He took his time settling into a chair across from Herwitt. The man's face looked eggshell fragile, like an old fighter who'd had his facial bones rewired. Meltzer noticed a portable oxygen tank at his feet.

  The menu lowered. “Bevans called you?” Herwitt asked, not unpleasantly.

  "I told you you shouldn't be coming here,” Meltzer said, his voice slightly hoarse.

  "You talked to him, didn't you?” It was a nonaccusatory question, like asking about the traffic.

  Meltzer wasn't as pleasant. “What are you trying to do, intimidate him, wear him down?"

  "Somebody said the food was very good here, reasonable. The doctor says I can have anything I want as long as it keeps my weight up."

  A young, actress-looking waitress with spiky hair brought over Herwitt's order, a steaming bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. She looked at Meltzer. “Something for you?"

  "Just a beer. Nonalcoholic."

  "Which means you're on duty,” Herwitt said smugly after the waitress had left.

  "You thought maybe this was just a social call?” Meltzer said. “Look, Martin, whatever's in your head is crazy. You should get some help on this."

  "You mean one of those shrinks who pronounced Bevans cured?” He coughed, held a handkerchief to his lips. “I take it you've warned Bevans to take precautions. But you know, don't you, that there's no way to really prevent a murder if someone is set on it, or even a suicide, for that matter."

  "We have a damn fine psychiatrist downtown who'd be happy to have a talk with you."

  Herwitt seemed to be enjoying his spaghetti, using a spoon to wind the strands. But his hands were frail, unsteady “Never believed in shrinks. Who said—was it Marx?—'Psychiatry is the disease that pretends to be the cure'?” His laugh degenerated into another cough.

  If this keeps up, Meltzer thought wryly, I'm going to need a shrink myself. “Are you religious, Martin?"

  "After my bar mitzvah—poof! My wife drags me to temple for some of the High Holidays folderol, but I'm not a believer. You think I should suddenly communicate with God, tell Him I've been on sick leave for fifty years? The Old Testament is a cavalcade of revenge stories, Meltzer. You should read it sometime."

  "I'll be here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Every night you come here, I'll be waiting."

  Herwitt studied him, knew he wasn't joking. “Don't you have better things to do every night?"

  Meltzer leaned back in his chair, saw Bevans watching them from the kitchen. “I hate to say it, Martin, but you're a lot more interesting than anything on the tube."

  On the way home, Meltzer was silent. Ruthie placed a consoling hand on his on the steering wheel. “Isn't there anything you can do?"

  "I've run out of options. I'd put a man on him twenty-four hours a day, but I don't have the money, the personnel, or the authorization."

  "He should take his wife and kids and get out of town."

  Meltzer was silent again, annoyed as he started to catch the few lights on Pico Boulevard. Then he said, “There might be only one chance—the cancer will kill him before he can act. He could talk like a son of a bitch tonight, but he had an oxygen tank and he was coughing."

  They were almost home when Meltzer's cell phone rang.

  "Live it up,” Ruthie said with a sour smile, “who cares anymore, we missed the movie."

  Meltzer listened. No more than a few seconds later he said, “I'll be there,” and clicked off.

  He was shooting a U-turn in the sparse traffic when Ruthie said, “Who was that? Where are we going?"

  "Back to Neal's. Five minutes ago Herwitt collapsed and died at the table."

  * * * *

  It was immediately a major media story: Did Wife Killer Slay Father-in-law?

  Meltzer came home after nine the next night, looking haggard and harassed. Ruthie was waiting for him at the door. “What happened?"

  "Had to wait all day to get the autopsy results on Herwitt. How come those CSI folks on TV get it in two seconds every week?"

  "What did it show?"

  "Arsenic poisoning. Had to have been in that spaghetti and meatballs he was eating when I was with him. But the bowl was washed."

  "My God.” She came to him, folded her arms around him. He kissed her. “So what do you think?"

  "Well, the prosecuting attorney thinks Bevans put the stuff in his pasta. Had it in for him. His kitchen people say he prepared the dish himself."

  "What do you think?"

  "Why would he do it in his own establishment knowing everybody knows his past and his connection with Herwitt?"

  Still holding each other, he felt her flinch as a shudder ran down her spine. “And talking about food—I hope you didn't make me dinner tonight. For some strange reason, I seem to have lost my appetite."

  A little after nine, Rabbi Joel Werblow dropped by. He was a serious young man, mid thirties, already losing his hair.

  "Ruthie thought I should come over,” he said hesitantly. “Said you were having some ... difficulties."

  "That's a kind way of putting it, Rabbi."

  They settled in the living room, Sara Beth sentenced to do her homework sitting at the kitchen table. But Meltzer knew she was listening to every word.

  "Rabbi,” Ruthie said, “my husband's got it in his head that he's culpable for what happened."

  Werblow turned his slightly myopic eyes on Meltzer. “All I know about this is what I heard on the TV. Why culpable?"

  "Because I took it on my own to warn Bevans that Herwitt wanted to kill him, knowing because of his health situation he would never pay for his crime."

  The rabbi was far ahead of him. “But, Mr. Meltzer, didn't you consider it your duty? If you didn't warn the gentleman, Herwitt could have had a clear shot at him. The man paid for his sins, why should he be an open target of a man irrationally bent on revenge?"

  Meltzer's smile was sad. “Herwitt tweaked me about how revenge is all over the Old Testament."

  "So it is. But it seems we must leave revenge to our Maker. Am I wrong?"

  "No. But don't you see what Bevans's defense will be if he's prosecuted?"

  The rabbi touched fingers together, tip to tip, incongruously like a church steeple. “Yes. That he knew that Herwitt would try to kill him, so he acted in self-defense."

  "You should have been a lawyer, Rabbi."

  "I almost was, but my widowed mother insisted on rabbinical school. A very wise woman, it turns out."

  * * * *

  Almost a year later, Harold Bevans was convicted and sentenced to twenty years in prison. Meltzer was still plagued with guilt even though he knew he would never learn the truth of what had really happened.

  One day, still needing solace, he met with Werblow and told him his theory: Herwitt had planted the arsenic himself, knowing the poison would deliver him from the increasing pain of his inevitable death and that the hated killer of his daughter would probably pay the price. A frame that worked.

  "We will never know if that's true, but I think we must accept the verdict,” the rabbi said.

  "But my God, Rabbi, he's leaving a wife and two children and a wrecked business. And he could be innocent."

  Werblow nodded. His hand touched Meltzer's sleeve. “But at times it's best to look at the upside. At last he avoided being murdered, and even inca
rcerated he can still lead a decent, Christian life. A good example to his fellow inmates. I can't help Mr. Bevans, but does this give you any sense of relief?"

  Meltzer smiled ruefully. “You know, I'm beginning to think your mom was a very wise woman indeed..."

  Copyright (c) 2007 William Link

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  KILLING TIME by Rhys Bowen

  * * * *

  Tim Foley

  * * * *

  He woke to cold gray light. When he tried to move, his joints were stiff from half lying, half sitting too long in one position. His tongue felt dry and swollen, like an alien object in his mouth, and when he ran it experimentally over his teeth, he tasted furry stickiness that repulsed him. He sat up cautiously. The car windows had fogged up on the inside. He cleared a patch in the windshield and peered out. Outside was a world of indistinct shapes looming through the fog. It seemed to be foggy every day at this time of the year. Cold, foggy, and bleak. Was it Mark Twain who said the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco? Mark Twain! He smiled grimly. Mark Twain belonged to another world when he had lived as a civilized human being.

  He held up his watch close to his face. Six thirty. Damn. Only six thirty. Why did he always have to wake so early? Why couldn't he ever sleep in until nine or ten? Now he had endless hours to kill until darkness fell again and he could drift into merciful sleep. A whole day ahead with nothing to do but mooch for food, read other people's newspapers, and hopefully find enough money for a drink. His life had been reduced to killing time. Christ, how did it ever come to this?

  * * * *

  A year ago he would have been up by this time, off to the gym before work, or sitting at his desk, answering e-mails that couldn't wait. And Sandy would be making coffee. When she was in a good mood, she'd bring him a cup at his desk, and he'd turn to kiss her, and sometimes that led to things that made them both late for work. Sandy. Gone. Work. Gone. Life. Gone. What remained was a car that was scarcely running, a suitcase full of clothes, now all needing cleaning, a few books he couldn't bear to part with, some photos to remind him that he had once been a person.

  * * * *

  How could it have happened so quickly? He had asked himself this question, over and over. Other people lose their jobs and bounce back. Other people's girlfriends stay with them in bad times. But he had to admit to himself that he had not been the easiest person to live with, even in good times. The typical type A male—driven, demanding, impatient, arrogant. And when the bad times came ... he had driven her away.