by Liz Bradbury
“I feel so proud of myself. Honestly, I’d really be insufferable if I actually solved some complex case,” said Kathryn with amusement. All the gifts were wrapped. She stood up stretching her arms over her head, which I paused to appreciate. She picked up my sketch of the egg basket.
“These are the suspects in Carl’s murder, aren’t they? The football-helmeted egg is Leo, the one with the musical note is Jimmy, the one with the cross is... um, Connie?” I nodded as she asked, “and what’s drawn on this one? Is it a door?”
“It’s a closet door.”
“Ah, Rowlina... and the one with the X?”
“I think of that one as the unknown factor.”
“Bouchet? Miranda? Me?”
“Not you or Bouchet, both of you have alibis. Possibly Miranda, but she seems to have an alibi for the bombing. It’s just to remind me that there could be someone else I haven’t considered at all.”
“I can’t imagine any of them as killers. Does the drawing help you look at the case more abstractly?”
“I guess you could say that,” I said, working with the clay again, making tiny little bottles.
“I’m going to change my clothes,” said Kathryn moving toward the bedroom.
“You mean put on something more comfortable? Goody,” I chuckled.
“Keep working,” she tossed over her shoulder in a husky tone, “remember, you have to earn it.”
“Mmmmmm,” I groaned. I picked up the lists from Daria’s party and read through them quickly. Three bankruptcies and two car repos on the credit sheet. Several DUIs on the criminal sheet. Nothing to call Sara about. The only interesting thing was that Arturo Murcielago had been arrested for loitering during a Union demonstration 15 years before, which meant he was part of either a sit-in or some kind of protest. Of course, just because none of these people had a criminal record for rape or murder, didn’t mean that none of them could have killed Daria. In fact, crimes in some states don’t show up on these record lists at all. At least I could tell that none of these people had an assault record in Pennsylvania, at least not under these names.
I put the lists aside and began to move the clay figures around the drawing of the table. Kathryn came back, dressed in jeans and a sweater. Her hair was loose; she pushed it back behind her ears as she came to sit next to me again.
“I forgot to ask you,” she said, “what happened this morning? Did you talk to Jimmy?”
“Well, kind of.” I explained that Jimmy had blown me off at the Music Building, and then ran out of the Chapel later. I also told her about the dust-up between Leo and his ex-wife. I didn’t mention the runaway piano incident. “What did Connie Robinson say to you in the Chapel?”
“Just that she was sorry she’d made foolish assumptions. She wanted to apologize.”
We talked about the service and the exceptional music. “Do you think that’s what made Jimmy run out?” I asked.
“You mean because the music was so moving? Maybe, maybe. Do you want me to talk to him?”
“No, I don’t,” I said more sternly than I’d meant to.
She looked up, responding to my directive tone, “I’m sorry?” she said sharply.
“Oh Kathryn, it’s not that I don’t want you to help me, or even that I don’t think you could do a better job than I could, it’s just that...” I hesitated.
Her face softened to concern, “It’s that you think Jimmy could be a murderer and you’d rather I didn’t mix with that kind of crowd?”
“Yeah,” I said simply.
“OK, I’ll leave the potential bad guys to you... but I can take care of myself you know.” She smiled that suggestive half smile that made my heart leap and my underpants moist. Then she got up and moved to the other side of the table. I laughed out loud.
“Well, I’m supposed to be helping you, not distracting you, so I’ll stay over here,” she explained. “May I look at this list, or is it confidential?”
“Sure, read it over. It’s information anyone can get. Do you know any of those people? Read them to me.”
Kathryn read each name off the list. It began with Daria Webster, then listed each person who’d attended the party Daria had given just hours before she was killed.
“Taylor Johnson. Odd, he has no credit rating at all. Oh, I see, he’s only 16.”
“I met him at the homeless shelter. I guess Daria invited everyone who worked or volunteered there. Connie’s on the list, too.”
“Yes, Constance P. Robinson. I wonder what the “P” stands for?”
“Knowing her family situation, I wouldn’t be surprised with Prudence.”
Kathryn read a few more names and then said, “Cedrick S. Druckenmacher, also C. Sheldon Druckenmacher, also Shel Druckenmacher. Miranda’s ex-husband?” she asked with raised eyebrows. I nodded. She flipped over the page, then looked at the other list. “He’s such a low life, you’d think there’d be more about him. He doesn’t seem to have a record though, just a low credit rating, and that could happen to anyone. Hmm, well, he seems to have three low credit ratings, one for each configuration of his name.”
“Giving a new meaning to the term creative financing?” I suggested.
Kathryn stood, and began to walk around the room, still looking over one of the lists. She glanced out the window. The late afternoon sun was beginning to set, making the sky redden and casting a pink hue on the house façades. I watched her as she turned and walked back toward the fireplace and bookcases, idly looking over the objects on the shelves. She picked up a big conch shell a friend had given me as a house-warming present. She noticed me watching her. “Shall I light a fire?” she asked nodding at the fireplace. I smiled, she’d been lighting a fire in me all afternoon.
“Is that everyone on the list?” I said trying to sound businesslike.
She scanned the paper while holding the shell in her other hand. “Here’s a man whose last name is Murci...”
“Murcielago,” I pronounced it for her, “Arturo. He’s the Executive Director of the shelter.”
“I’ve never heard that surname before...”
“I was just thinking that it’s a strange last name, it means, um... bat in Spanish.” I vaguely wondered who else might have known that.
Kathryn put down the list and began to run the tip of her finger over the smooth surface of the opening of the shell, tracing the folds sensually, touching it like it was part of a woman’s body. Then catching my eye and holding my gaze, she brought the flowing organic shape closer to her mouth. I thought, If she starts to lick the inside surface, I may faint. Kathryn smiled devilishly, then simply held the object to her ear, listening for the sea. And it was only a seashell, again. Sea... shell.
“Batman and Robin,” I said aloud. I bolted out of my chair knocking it over. I grabbed the other list of names, scanning intently.
“Maggie, what is it?” asked Kathryn in alarm.
I held my hand up, frozen in thought. Then scooping up my cell phone I scrolled to Connie Robinson’s number. “Connie?” I nearly shouted when she answered, “This is Maggie Gale. You were at the party at Daria Webster’s, right? That’s what you were talking to me about today wasn’t it? You know Mickey Murphy? Yes, he lived next door. Did he call you Robin? And Arturo was... Batman? He called Daria... yes, yes. You heard him? Connie, listen carefully, who was... The Sandman?”
Chapter 38
“Hello, Emma? I tried to reach Sara, but her cell isn’t on.”
“She’s here, we’re in my office going over Mickey’s case. What is it?” said Emma.
“It’s about Mickey. I think I know... come upstairs, now!”
I’d tried to call Sara the minute I’d gotten off the phone with Arturo Murcielago, whom I called for more information after I spoke to Connie. Now I could hear Sara and Emma’s footsteps clattering up the stairwell. I turned to look at Kathryn. She sat comfortably in an easy chair near the fireplace, watching my every move with a look of fascination in her eyes. I stared back at her for a
moment, exchanging a spark. Most people would have asked me what I’d figured out. It was interesting that Kathryn was content to wait and let things unfold.
I opened the door. Emma and Sara burst into the room and then stood there, not knowing what to say. Emma noticed Kathryn and smirked, “Is this still your first date?”
Kathryn shook her head smiling, “Technically it’s our fourth.”
“Great,” said Sara, “because you know, if people like each other, usually the fourth date is when they...” she glanced toward the bedroom.
“I’ve heard that,” said Emma snickering.
“Will you women stop flirting and pay attention, this is important,” I said firmly.
Sara faced me and could see I meant it, “What is it Maggie, go ahead.”
“Kathryn can listen to this, can’t she?” I asked.
“As long as what you’re going to tell us has to do with clearing Mickey. If you’re going to say he’s guilty, she’ll have to leave,” said Emma seriously.
“No, this is good,” I picked up the lists of partygoers and gave one to Sara and one to Emma. “Look at the names and remember what Mickey told us about the day he was arrested. He said, ‘I remember the police guy, Chief O’Hara, and Batman and Robin, and there was The Sandman... he’s one of Spiderman’s enemies, he shot me.’ We know Mickey assigns cartoon character names to real people...”
“Maggie, Mickey doesn’t always make sense,” said Sara.
“He doesn’t always make sense to rest of us, but I think he always makes sense to himself. He just can’t explain it, or sometimes, he can’t remember it. But let’s figure that these are real people. Chief O’Hara the police Chief of Gotham City is easy, it’s Lt. Ed O’Brien. We know he was there on the scene later that night, but earlier at the party, Mickey saw Batman and Robin. Robin is Connie Robinson, she confirmed that on the phone to me a few minutes ago. And Batman, is Arturo Murcielago.”
Sara was looking at the list of names, “How could Mickey have known that Murcielago means bat in Spanish?”
“I just called Arturo at the shelter, he said he told Mickey about his name when Mickey was doing volunteer work there one time. That’s secondary, though, more importantly, Daria is... was... Spiderman.”
“And you know this because?” asked Emma.
“Her name was Webster,” I explained simply.
Sara was looking more intently at the lists, “And...” she pressed.
“And Spiderman’s arch enemy is The Sandman. I think Mickey dubbed Cedrick Sheldon Druckenmacher, as The Sandman. Oddly,” I went on, “he’s indirectly part of the Carl Rasmus case, too.”
“Druckenmacher?” wondered Emma.
“No, Shel. Look at the list, C. Sheldon... get it seashell?”
“Well, that’s a possibility, but I don’t think it will hold up in court,” said Sara with concern.
“But there’s more. Druckenmacher was suspected by more than one person of selling drugs at the Shelter. Arturo Murcielago wanted to fire him for it. Daria told Connie she wanted to get rid of the drug dealers at the Shelter. Connie had seen Shel arguing with Daria in an aggressive way. She just confirmed that to me on the phone. Murcielago just told me that Daria asked him for a meeting for the day after the party, to talk about illegal drug issues. Murcielago believes that Daria was going to give him the name of the pusher. He even told the cops about it, but when they arrested Mickey, they stopped worrying about other suspects. So it fits. Druckenmacher had motive, and a history of abuse toward women. He was at the party being aggressive toward Daria, and then there’s Mickey’s ID of him as the Sandman.”
“OK, let’s work from there. We can follow this up, but why did Mickey say that the Sandman shot him?” asked Emma.
“The water! The water on the floor. It’s just a theory but let’s say Shel comes back to Daria’s apartment after the party when she’s cleaning up. He tries to frighten her into giving up the evidence she has about his drug dealing. He bullies women physically, it’s his pattern, but Daria won’t tell him where the evidence is. He tries to force her by assaulting her, then he chokes her with the rolling pin. He may have gone too far by mistake, or he may have killed her on purpose, knowing that she could identify him to the police.”
“But Mickey said he shot him?” insisted Sara.
“I’m getting to that... OK, so Shel uses the Lucite rolling pin to choke Daria. When he realizes she’s dead, he takes the rolling pin to the sink to wash off his fingerprints. Daria may even have scratched him, there might have been his own blood on the rolling pin. So there Shel is, standing at the sink, washing the pin with the sink hose and Mickey walks in. Shel aims the hose at Mickey and squirts him by pulling the hose trigger. The shock of the water and seeing Daria dead on the floor scares the hell, and all coherent memory, out of Mickey. He runs back to his apartment terrified and hides.” I looked at Kathryn, who was nodding.
Kathryn said, “Didn’t the papers say that Mickey was found in his underwear? That would explain why. His clothes were wet so he took them off. The police couldn’t find any blood or semen stains on Mickey’s clothes, because they were only stained with water. By the time the police searched Mickey’s things, the water had dried.”
We all looked at Kathryn, who was leaning forward. She was right on the mark. I said, “Yes, exactly.”
Sara whispered, “Brava.”
Emma snapped back into lawyer mode. “OK, so, where is Shel Druckenmacher? The police need to get him into custody.”
“Luckily,” I replied, “the police have him in custody. He’s been in jail since yesterday, when he tried to stick me with a flick knife.”
Sara turned back to me and said in a louder voice, “Brava!”
“Good,” said Emma, “but we have to be sure the police keep him there. I’ll call the top guys I know and alert them to this. I think I’ll call the DA’s office too. Cracking the case this way, by getting a drug dealer, maybe even getting him to cop on other dealers, will be much better PR for them than convicting poor defenseless Mickey Murphy. And now that they’ll have a real suspect, they’ll be more likely to link the DNA connections.”
Sara said, “I’ll go to the jail and talk with Mickey. If I take a picture of Shel and he identifies him as the Sandman, we’ll be clear to move ahead. Mickey may be able to tell us something more. I’ll talk to Arturo Murcielago in person; he may be able to tell me what kind of evidence Daria might have had to prove Shel was dealing. It could still be in Daria’s things, maybe in her office.”
Minutes later Sara and Emma were off tying the loose ends of Mickey’s defense together and I was alone again with Kathryn.
“Aren’t you sexy when you’re being a detective?” she said putting an arm around my waist.
“You’re not so bad yourself. You really impressed Sara and Emma. I loved that.”
“It was so intense, when everything was clicking into place, so satisfying, almost physical. Is it always that way?”
“Well, it can be, but there are downsides. All sorts of them, and while you’re working you constantly wonder, What if I can’t figure this out.”
“But you did figure it out, and it looks like Mickey will get out of jail, and probably the real killer will be caught. You did that. It was exciting. I’m very impressed,” she held me closer; my breathing began to deepen.
“Are you? That sounds promising. So do I... get a reward? Or are you going to punish me for all the naughty situations I got you into this week?”
“Hmm, reward I think... any special requests?” asked Kathryn, drawing her fingers down my throat and along my collarbone.
“I remember some mention of erotic thrills?”
She laughed. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll call you when... I’m ready.”
I watched her disappear through the door. I was beginning to crave her calling me to the bedroom. Waiting for her voice built heat in me that could have been measured in BTUs, and frankly the adrenalin that pumped up from figurin
g out part of Mickey’s case had stoked my fires. I sat still, floating in the sweet sea of anticipation.
“Maggie.” Just that one word, but her voice held the promise of all things sensual. I heard the shower running. On the bed was a large note that said, “Undress and join me.” I realized I was breathing like a marathon runner.
I left my clothes in a pile and opened the bathroom door. Steam billowed, clouding the room. I moved to the shower door, peering into the large tiled enclosure. Kathryn stood under the wide circular showerhead, a torrent of hot rain coursing over her beautiful body. She tilted her head up, letting the water stream over her face, washing down her torso in swirling rivers.
She felt my presence, shook the water from her eyes with a toss of her head and held out her hand to me. In a low sultry voice she said, “Come hither.”
She drew me into her arms, the water flowed and eddied between our bodies. I ran my lips along her throat, drinking in the wet taste of her skin. She held my hand to her mouth, gently sucking the ends of my fingers.
“Oh, Kathryn,” I murmured as my desire grew.
“Oh, yes,” she answered. She pressed the shampoo dispenser on the shelf and began to massage the liquid soap over me in fluid strokes, rubbing it slowly over my breasts, then teasingly soaping between my legs. “Sit down,” she said, pressing me back onto the tile bench built into the corner of the large stall.
“This has been quite a reward,” I smiled. “I have some wonderful massage oil that’s perfect after a shower.”
“There’s more to this shower,” she said unhooking the handheld nozzle and straightening its hose. “You need to be... rinsed off.” Before I could mention that the hose wasn’t working, she twisted its dial and a gentle gush of warm water spilled out of a dozen holes at its head.
“I fixed it,” she explained.
“Your talents are boundless,” I said as she trained the tickling stream over me, rinsing the suds off my shoulders.
