Suicide Season

by Rex Burns

  “In the kind of partnership they had, all stock from a deceased partner reverted automatically to the company to be purchased by the surviving partners. Technically, it wasn’t his to offer. Besides, it wasn’t worth all that much when Dad died. The real jump came a little later.”

  “But you still see a lot of the professor?”

  “No—as a matter of fact, I hadn’t seen him since the funeral until he called me a few months ago.”

  “He had a job for you?”

  “Not him. An acquaintance.” Someone, the words crossed my mind, who wanted me to investigate your husband. An act that probably contributed to his suicide. “You know Loomis, don’t you? He told me you were a graduate student of his.”

  “Oh, yes—at Columbia. I was working on my MBA, but that was years ago, and I was just one of dozens of his students.”

  “It couldn’t have been too many years ago—you don’t have that many.”

  “My, aren’t you gallant, sir!”

  “It depends on my inspiration, ma’am.” The bell signaled the end of intermission and I stuffed our thin plastic wine glasses into the rapidly filling trash can and joined the eddy back into the auditorium. “You decided not to get your MBA?”

  “I met Austin. After that, graduate school didn’t seem so important. Nothing did, except … Well, as things turned out, I would have been wise to complete my degree, wouldn’t I?”

  “You still can.”

  “I’ve thought about it. I’m going to have to do something. But the children are so young. And you saw how Shauna acted when I was getting ready to leave; they’re still quite insecure—I think they’re afraid they might lose me, too.” She added, “Fortunately the insurance settlement has been enough so that I don’t have to think about working for awhile.”

  And Haas had elected the option that paid off the house in the event of his death, so she didn’t have that large bill to meet every month. I knew the details of the settlement as well as she did; and although the amount was comfortable for now, it would gradually be eaten away by inflation and by growing children. But not for awhile—not before she could decide on some career of her own. Or someone married her. And given the quick laughter that chased away the lingering pain in those deep green eyes, given the supple womanliness beside me and the tiny fragrance from her black and gleaming hair, she would not lack for suitors. Nor did the idea of marriage seem so foreign a thought.

  It wasn’t until after the theater when we had settled behind the quiet table at the restaurant and scanned the menu with its handwritten list of the evening’s few entrees that she asked about Vinny Landrum.

  “You did find out something about the person who has been intimating those things, didn’t you?”

  I had been trying all evening to frame words that would tell the truth but leave out the worst. And still did not have them. “A little bit. Enough to know that you don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Please tell me, Devlin.”

  I sipped my wine. “It’s a private detective—one Vinny Landrum. He told me he was hired by someone who doesn’t think your husband committed suicide.”

  “But he did!”

  “Everyone knows that—almost everyone. Landrum’s the kind of p.i. who’ll make as much as he can off a person’s delusions. It was a suicide and he knows it.”

  Margaret leaned back to let the waiter top off her glass and settle the wine back into its ice bucket. “Do you know who hired him?”

  “What difference does that make? There’s no truth in it.”

  “I want to know.”

  I flicked a bread crumb from the linen near the butter dish. “His secretary. Miss Busey.”

  “Carrie? Carrie hired this man?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she doesn’t think he killed himself. She doesn’t think he was the kind to do something like that.”

  Margaret in turn studied the bleached tablecloth in the glow of the candle and her long fingers stroked one of its dim wrinkles.

  “Landrum asked those questions because he figured you were the only one in the house with your husband. You were the only alternative.”

  “I see.”

  “Now he knows it was a suicide, and that’s what he’s going to tell Carrie Busey.”

  “But why is she so convinced that Austin didn’t do it?”

  I could have lied, but I didn’t. Not quite, anyway. “She was in love with him.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s not that unusual. You know that. A lot of secretaries fall in love with their bosses. Especially someone who’s dynamic and in the middle of exciting events. And after all, you loved him. Is it so strange that someone else would, too?”

  “I … I suppose not. But it seems rather strange to learn of all this … this passion that I knew nothing about.” The wide, green eyes lifted to mine. “She must have been terribly jealous all that time. She must still feel that way to hire a private detective.”

  “Probably. But it’s not something you have to worry about now.”

  Her glossy black hair swung gently as she gazed at some vision trapped in the icy crystal of her water glass. “That poor woman.”

  When the waiter had cleared the plates and brought coffee and the small, bright glasses of after-dinner liqueurs, she asked me if I had discovered anything more about why her husband had sold out to Aegis.

  “Nothing about why—other than the possibility of the money. Probably quite a lot of it. We did learn who his contact was.”

  “Who?”

  “A David Neeley. Did your husband ever mention him?”

  She searched her memory. “Not that I remember. Have you talked to him?”

  “No. And that might be pretty difficult to do. Aegis doesn’t want any connection at all established between your husband and their company.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it might give McAllister grounds for a suit. Even if he lost it, the projects could be tied up for a long time in litigation. The Aegis Group could lose a lot of money.”

  “So suddenly Austin’s a curse to them. They used him, they got what they needed, and now they don’t even want to admit that he was alive!”

  It didn’t matter anymore who used whom or who got what. I sipped at the golden dollop of Drambuie.

  “That’s all right.” The bitterness was gone from her voice.

  I looked up to see her smiling at me. “What is?”

  “I’m more resigned to the possibility now—that Austin was leading a kind of double life. I suppose we can never know someone else entirely, even a husband and the father of one’s children.”

  Her lips may have said she was resigned to it, but her eyes told me something else. “I think it would be best to stop the investigation, Margaret. If he didn’t do it for the money, he may have done it for the challenge. Who knows? Our chances of finding out anything more are pretty slim. It looks like he did it. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  I could see only the top of her bowed head and half expected a tear to stain the tablecloth. But it didn’t.

  Instead, she took a deep breath and raised a pallid face. “I think you’re right.”

  We paused at the door of her home; west, across the gently rising blackness sprinkled with the shimmering lights of streets and homes, a dim horizon glow silhouetted the ragged peaks and ridges of the mountains. Just above them, sharply painted, a quarter moon tilted large and white and low against a sky that seemed dark blue in its velvety clearness.

  “It’s supposed to rain soon,” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “The moon—it spills water when it’s tilted like that.”

  “That’s silly!”

  “But true. It has to be true—my sainted mother told me.”

  “And you believe what women tell you?”

  “No reason not to.”

  “I think, Mr. Kirk, you’re in for some heartache.”

  “Possibly. But
until it happens, I’d rather believe than disbelieve. I see too much of suspicion and deception, anyway.”

  “Well, you won’t be burdened with any more of my suspicions.”

  “Some are less burdensome than others. I hope I can keep seeing you, Margaret. I really enjoyed this evening. I enjoy being with you.”

  Her hand rested lightly on my arm. “I’ve enjoyed it too, Dev. I really have.”

  I studied the pale light that touched her profile and made even darker the shadow of her hair and eyes and the full lips that parted over glistening teeth. “And that means I can see more of you.”

  “Are you so certain what it means?”

  “I’m certain I don’t want you to say no.”

  “Then I won’t say no.”

  I leaned toward her but she drew back slightly and there was a moment of awkwardness before she laughed with a nervous, breathless sound. “It’s been years since I’ve been on a date. I feel a bit silly and now I’ve gone and spoiled the moment, haven’t I?”

  “No.” Holding her gently to me, I caressed the silk of her hair and did not try again to kiss her. “You’ve made the moment more comfortable … more honest.” The rigidness went out of her body and for an instant I felt her curving softness warm against the angles and planes of my own flesh as she held me in return.

  Then she pulled away and fumbled her key into the latch. “I’d better get in; I told Tammy’s mother I’d be home early, and now it’s not so early.” She paused, the low light of the entry behind her. “I’ve truly enjoyed myself tonight.” She kissed me quickly and lightly on the cheek. “Do call.”

  The Healy seemed to drive itself back to the house; at least my hands and feet worked automatically because my mind lingered back at Margaret’s doorway, replaying what she said and how she looked and how, with delightful unfamiliarity, her body had been warm and soft against my own. It wasn’t until I had driven past my front door toward the narrow alley leading to the garage that my mind registered the car parked in the deeper shadows of a low-hanging tree down the street from my duplex. It was one of a line of cars that always filled the curbs in a neighborhood where there was little off-street parking and a lot of rented rooms in basements and upper floors. But unlike the other automobiles, this one had two shadowy figures lounging low against the seatbacks in the familiar slouch of surveillance.

  In the Healy’s rearview mirrors, I caught the dim stir of the figures; and as I slowly turned the corner, I saw the car’s door swing open. Then the scene glided out of the mirrors as I swung into the alley toward the pale glimmer of the garage.

  I heard them before I saw them, the crackle of grit between shoe leather and the concrete of the narrow walk that led beside the house to the street in front. Two men pushed through the tattered blackness of a lilac bush into the pale moonlight and saw me. Wordless, they rushed forward, one coming in low for the legs, the other a blurred fist aimed at my face.

  I kicked at one and parried the other, rolling the heavy body high over my shoulders and yanking down hard to spill the man solidly against the earth. But the second drove in, his fists thudding solidly into my stomach and punching the air out in a muffled grunt. I chopped down at the silent figure’s neck, the side of my hand jarring against hairy flesh, and an arm tangled around my face and jaw and another set of fists began swinging wildly against my head and kidneys. An instant later we were tangled on the ground, rolling and gouging with fingers and knees and I felt the weight of the two of them begin to press me against the earth. I freed an arm to drive the blade of my hand solidly across a nose, but missed the follow-up, the heel of my hand landing on the bristly cheek instead of the shattered nasal bone. A solid, numbing thud sprayed red sparks across my vision and another cracked down on my collarbone to numb my arm and flop it useless at my side. I twisted hard and heard the sap thwack into the lawn beside my ear and kicked my heel at the knee hovering on the edge of vision. It caught a corner of bone and a man’s choked voice gargled “Goddamn!” Rolling to my feet, my arm beginning to tingle with the needles of returning feeling, I backed against the cold brick of the house and waited as the two separated and began to close in from each side.

  The glare of a yard light suddenly flicked on, followed by the frightened, angry voice of Mrs. Ottoboni.

  “What’s going on out there? I’ve called the police and I can see you men and I have a shotgun here!”

  The two men, one with a long ponytail tangled and twisted wildly around his head, the other with a smear of glistening red wiped through his mustache, glanced up at the blinding glare and the voice behind it. Ponytail sprinted back into the darkness beside the house, and bloody face, starting after him, paused. “You were told, Kirk, but you wouldn’t listen. We’re going to get your ass, man!”

  The numbness of my head was turning into a stabbing pain that winced my right eye shut, and I gingerly probed into the ache of my shoulder for the telltale spur of a broken collarbone.

  “Mr. Kirk? Are you all right?”

  “I’m a lot better than before you came out, Mrs. Ottoboni.” The break wasn’t there, but the bruised flesh and bone had begun to throb deeply. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, my goodness, you’re hurt. Come up here—come on, let me see what they’ve done to you.”

  “I’ll be all right. Really.”

  “Nonsense. You get over here right now.” She opened the gate between our yards and steered me into the light, a broom clutched in one hand.

  “Where’s your shotgun?”

  “This is it. That’s the only thing I could think to say.” Staring at my head, she said, “My goodness, you’ve been hit!”

  She reached toward the side of my head and I instinctively jerked back and sent another blade of pain through my skull.

  “Come in and sit down.” She led me into the kitchen and hurried to the refrigerator where I heard her rattling ice cubes.

  “That was a dangerous trick, Mrs. Ottoboni.”

  “Well, I did call the police, though.” She tilted her head back to look through the lower half of her glasses.

  “Hold still now.” She pressed a cloth full of ice against the hot flesh. “This’ll help. When Mario was alive he used to get into some real fights at the foundry—the Italians and the bohunks, always fighting.” She lifted the cloth and then pressed it down again, the cold, knotty bundle easing the pain. “That was when he was young, of course. He settled down after we got married. My, listen to me run on! I guess it’s the muggers in my own back yard—I really can’t believe it. It makes me so nervous all I can do is talk. Are you hurt anywhere else? How many of them were there?”

  The ice had begun to trickle into water by the time we heard the heavy tread of official shoes on the porch, followed by the solid rap of large knuckles on the door.

  “That must be the law—I’ll answer. You just sit right there and don’t try to stand up. Whatever they hit you with cut your scalp and you don’t want to start it bleeding again. Sit still, now.”

  She hurried through the house and I gently rotated my shoulder to work out the remaining tingle and numbness. I heard the creak and jingle of pistol belts and equipment, and a moment later looked up at the bulky blue uniforms crowding into the kitchen and looking back at me with professional interest.

  CHAPTER 10

  “SO YOU FILED a complaint. So what’d you tell them?” Bunch, too, looked with professional interest at the red lump that swelled under the hair on the side of my head.

  “Don’t touch it, Bunch!”

  “It doesn’t feel sore to me.”

  “It’s going to if you don’t leave it alone.” I sipped my coffee and let the hot liquid ease slowly across my tongue so it wouldn’t jar my head. It was sorer this morning than it had been last night when the police finally left and Mrs. Ottoboni stopped fussing with the ice bag and I could at last sink into bed. “I gave them a description, that’s all. They listed it as a mugging.”

  “One of them said your name?”
/>   “They knew who they were after. But the cops don’t need to know that.”

  Bunch heaved off the corner of the desk. “The only toes we’ve stepped on lately have been Aegis’s.”

  “That watchman got a good look at me and gave my description to the police. I suppose Leonard Kaffey recognized me.”

  “So why didn’t Kaffey tell the cops who to look for?”

  “That’s a good question. Why didn’t I tell the cops everything?”

  “Because you’ve got something to hide.”

  “And that sounds like a good answer.”

  He thought a minute. “The connection with Haas?”

  I made the mistake of nodding. “It could be. It seems a little over reactive, but that’s probably it.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know about ‘over reactive,’ though—you figure both those projects together come close to a billion dollars, that’s a lot to protect.” The man’s weight made the floorboards squeak as he went to the window. “Still, I think that scumbag was just blowing smoke. I don’t think they’ve got the guts to try it again.” He came back to the desk and used the tip of his little finger to punch numbers into the telephone. “Lew? This is Bunch. Did you ever come up with anything on the corporation name I gave you—the Aegis Group?” He waited. “Yeah, that’s the names we got, too. They’re clean?” Bunch pulled the list of Aegis telephone numbers closer. “Here’s some more names from the same place; see if they connect with anything.” He read the list to Detective Lewellen who asked him to repeat a couple. “Yeah. I appreciate it, Lew.”

  Hanging up the receiver, he told me, “All he had were the listed officers—Merrick and Kaffey—and nothing on them. He’s going to check out the others and get back to me.”

  “What do you expect?”

  “Probably not a damn thing. But it does cross my mind that an outfit that whistles up two-bit muscle like that might have some reason for needing it.” The man’s heavy shoulders rose and fell. “If your skull hadn’t got rattled, you might have thought of that yourself. Then again, probably not.”

  “Whose skull got rattled?” Uncle Wyn let himself in without knocking. “Good morning, boys.”