Murders at Hollings General ddb-1

by Jerry Labriola

  "When I get there, will I find out for sure?" "Affirmative. I have a five-minute plan."

  "Five minutes? What can you do in five minutes?" "Tease away your clothes."

  "I'll be right over."

  David drained the rest of his drink and, while he waited, he lit the fireplace, a task whose results he enjoyed but whose execution he dreaded. The flames finally took hold as he heard a car pull into his driveway. He added another log and, looking out the window, saw Kathy framed by two icicles, trudging through snow, trying to find the front path. A garment bag was slung over her shoulder and she carried a small overnighter.

  Inside, she said, "You really ought to do some shoveling."

  "Can't, bad knee." David took the bags and placed them on a chair.

  "Then have some kid do it for you."

  "Can't."

  "Why not?"

  "They charge."

  She was about to reply when he picked her up with his left arm and covered her mouth with his right hand, whereupon he lowered the uppermost two fingers and replaced them with his lips, but only for a moment. He relaxed his hold and allowed her thin frame to slither down his body.

  "We'd better go straighten out your bed," she breathed as she ran her tongue over moist, plum lips. "It doesn't need straightening."

  "It will in half an hour," she said, her voice now throaty.

  On the way to the bedroom, she stopped abruptly. "Wait!"

  "What's the trouble?"

  "Your knee."

  David led her by the hand and said, "I'll grit my teeth."

  An hour later in the kitchen, he poured Kathy her usual Chardonnay. She wore one of his shirts, a potato sack that reached her knees. She tugged on white athletic socks she had selected from his dresser drawer.

  "What next?" she asked.

  "Eat. Check the freezer. There's probably something there for two."

  She did and there was.

  In a minute, Kathy was at the stove. Off to the side, David sat at the table, pretending to read a magazine. He studied her face, heart-shaped with skin like China silk, trying to dislodge the thought that she was a cop. She cast an occasional blue-eyed glance his way, while he reprised the cologned fragrance and the movement of buoyant breasts against his skin.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Wondering how such a wisp can do police work." "I avoid trouble. Plus I get hulks like you to do my dirty work."

  David pinched the blond stubble on his chin. "That reminds me," he said. "I've got some dirty work for you. But let's wait till we start eating."

  "You sound famished," she said.

  "Not any more." His eyes ranged freely up and down her body.

  "David!" she said with feigned annoyance. He sprung to her side and said, "You called?"

  She pulled down on his shoulder in an unsuccessful

  attempt to lift up to his ear. He hardly heard her words:

  "Get out two forks."

  They sat on a blanket before the fireplace, prepared to picnic on hamburgers, salad and soggy potato chips. Kathy said, "I never realized the color of your hair and mustache were different"

  "They are?"

  "In the firelight they are. The mustache is darker. Smile."

  "What?"

  "Smile. Let me see your teeth."

  He flashed a row of teeth, perfectly aligned save for a single lateral incisor. "I feel like a horse that's up for sale," he said. "Why not spread my mouth so you can get a look at my molars?"

  Kathy giggled. "Well, yesterday you called me a Shetland." She lifted his upper lip. "They're a little off-white. The fire must shade things differently."

  "Kathleen?"

  "Huh?"

  "Do me a favor?"

  "What?"

  "Eat."

  Over time, David added logs and stoked, and added logs again. The fire dwindled and raged, its finicky glow playing off the walls and off Kathy's face in a manner he hadn't ever noticed before.

  She was first to finish eating but remained stretched out on her side, her head braced against a hand. "So what did you accomplish today?" she said.

  "Medically, only a few house calls. I've decided to ease up for the time being. And I went to Bugles' post, or at least the start of it. Learned nothing I didn't already know."

  David played with her knee. "But I got my main interviews out of the way-Foster, Tanarkle, Spritz. Foster's a phony tightwad. I still don't know how I wangled that so-called office from him."

  "David, darling. Think about it. You make house calls for doctors who are kept happy because they have the time to see more patients in their offices. Therefore, more patients might get admitted to Foster's hospital. Therefore, Foster's happy-and he wants to keep you happy."

  "I suppose you're right. Anyway, Spritz is a dingbat and Tanarkle? Well, you know how I feel about Ted. I owe him-wish that stupid blood didn't lead to the lab."

  "Stay objective, David."

  "I know." He swallowed the last of the food. "I spent a lot of time with Sparky-he's really with it. Tomorrow, we'll see if Coughlin cooperates. You can get off for Bugles' funeral?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, good. Afterwards, there's a little get-together at Foster's house. What a laugh-he's got to keep an image. Maybe you can scout around."

  "Sure, but what's your take on the guys you questioned so far?"

  They had been lying on their sides. He straightened to a crossed-legged position. "Kath," he said, punctuating the air with his fork, "any one of them could have done it. They all had the motive and the opportunity and the means, that's for sure. And that had to be a payback crime. Lots of bones to pick around there. Forget Cortez, he was just in the way. Someone wanted to commit as preposterous a murder as he could think of. Why? Well, first, he's nuts. And, second, he wanted not only to eliminate Bugles, but also to do something else at the same time."

  "Like what?"

  "I'm not sure, but possibly like ruining the hospital's reputation."

  "He'd go to that extreme?"

  "As I said, he's off his rocker but that's a very determined thing he did. And if the reputation angle is part of it, I hate to imagine what could still happen around here. My read is those guys would think spit's a nice aftershave for each other."

  Kathy changed to a sitting position. "You mentioned dirty work," she said.

  "Well, it ties in. Let's wait for now, but if someone needs shadowing, can you arrange it for me? I know you're short-handed, but … "

  "No problem. We can always scrape up a body from somewhere."

  "And, another thing," David said. "You think these hospital people find trouble with my wearing two hats?" "Do they answer your questions?"

  "Yeah, but I recoil inside."

  "So? Look, if you ask and they answer, why sweat it? Personally, I think you can get more out of them than we could." She took hold of his hands. "And also, David, one thing Nick and I won't do, I promise. We won't ever press you for minutiae. `Nit-reporting', we call it. That smothers an investigator. He and I both know. We've had it done to us. You plow ahead just give us broad updates. If you think we can help-like that shadowing-give me the word."

  "What's with Nick?"

  "Him? He's testing your commitment. It'll work out"

  "No further questions, your honor," he said. He dabbed his lips with a napkin which he then made into a ball and hurled across the room before wrestling her to the floor. They retired early.

  Chapter 7

  In several years of solving cases as an amateur detective, David had tracked stolen goods, runaway teens, missing records, embezzlers-but never a matching, pearl-handled dagger, particularly a facsimile of those the samurai wielded centuries ago, or, perhaps an original. He was prepared to devote the whole day, Thursday, to some serious legwork before attending his martial arts class at five.

  At ten in the morning, he accessed the Internet and contacted three resources he estimated might be helpful: Defense/Link of the Department of Defense, the Na
tional Technical Information Service, and the Smithsonian Institute. Neither their web sites nor the software he down-loaded gave any indication they might provide a clue in locating a Japanese dagger. Next, he phoned an Information Broker he had dealt with before. The broker said he couldn't begin that type of case for three weeks, but David couldn't wait that long.

  So, after scowling at the computer, he set out on a clandestine search he was sure had no precedent in the greater Hollings area, and a quickened pace belied his confusion over where to turn first. He simply wanted to accomplish as much as he could before predicted gale winds struck.

  He chose, first, the library. Whether it was because he knew every librarian and clerk there or because a dagger had been described by the media recently, David decided to fend for himself between index files and bookstacks. He learned about daggers used by British commandos during World War II, about M6 bayonets, and about the bowie knives of the Civil War. He perused a book about military weapons of Far Eastern nations, and read an article-more slowly-that stated daggers are used chiefly for self-defense or sudden attack, but some have served purely ceremonial or decorative purposes. Finally, he came across a passage entitled, Japan's Men-At-Arms, and read it twice:

  "The material symbol of the martial spirit of the times was the warrior's principal weapons, his sword and his daggers. In later years the privilege of carrying these deadly instruments came to be reserved for the knightly samurai, but during the Kamakura period, some men of lower birth also had them and used them to carve their way to glory. They were not, however, weapons only; to the samurai especially, a sword and a pair of pearl-handled daggers were the central objects of an elaborate cult of honor."

  David toyed with the idea of abbreviating his legwork for the day because he had already succeeded in discovering more than he expected, namely that his research had validated what Sparky had said about the dagger pair. And that probably, not possibly, the twin to a murder weapon was concealed somewhere in the vicinity.

  Yet, he wanted to make a second and final stop. He drove to the city's north end, past tenement blocks and a Mobil station, and he parked across the street from a one-story storefront with three golden balls fastened to a bracket. A tarnished matching sign read, HARRY RAZBIT, PAWNBROKER. David had grown up with the owner's son and had seen the father occasionally but never professionally.

  He climbed out of his car and looked right and left on the desolate side street, the wind feeling and sounding as if worse were to come. A red and white "OPEN" sign hung from twine on the inside of the centrally placed door. Before entering, David perused the displays through the windows on either side.

  He saw silver and gold timepieces; brightly spangled rings and bracelets; vases, urns, place settings and silverware; cameras, stereos and tape recorders. There were desk sets and trophies; and a baseball glove and football helmet and fishing rod. Perched on the uppermost shelf were a trombone, a cornet, several guitars and even a tuba that appeared too big to lift, much less blow through.

  David wondered about the plight of the legitimate people who would surrender such items: the budding tailback without a helmet, the hero without trophies, the musician without a guitar or tuba. He also thought about the penny-ante rewards of lawbreakers who lied their way around Mr. Razbit. In the face of widespread availability of credit cards, Razbit's continued to survive because of the honesty of its proprietor.

  David walked through the sound of a jingle into a blown-up replica of the window displays. Essence of vanilla could not hide the must of half a century. Behind a glass counter crammed with jewelry, an Albert Einstein look-alike emerged from the back door. Open-mouthed, he pointed at David and said, "Well, I'll be! David Brooks. I mean Doctor David Brooks. And, I understand, a detective for good measure. I haven't seen you since you and Harry were in high school."

  The reedy, little man raised on his toes, pretending to see over David's head. "What have they been feeding you, my son?"

  "Hello, Mr. Razbit. Good to see you again. How's Harry, Junior?"

  "He's fine. He's a doctor, too, you know. Up in Albany."

  The old man wore a faded tan sweater whose shoulders dangled down his front. His hands bore plexuses of veins the size of his fingers, and David guessed he could slip his thumb under the man's leather watch strap.

  "I must write him some day. But I've come here to show you …"

  "This is about that terrible killing over at the hospital, isn't it? Couldn't it have been an accident?"

  "There was also a knifing in the surgeon's locker room."

  "Oh, right, yes, right. I guess you can't fall on a knife."

  "No sir, not very well. And that's why I'm here."

  David placed Friday on the counter and removed the photograph of the pearl-handled dagger from it. "Have you, by any chance, seen something like this recently?"

  David observed Razbit's face and concluded he'd like to meet him in a poker game some day.

  "A dagger," the pawnbroker announced. "That's a dagger, right?"

  "Right."

  Razbit's eyes took on a hunted look. "Yes, David, I'd have to say yes."

  David, confident, pressed on. "Can you tell me about it?"

  "I read about the pearl handle of the dagger in the newspapers, but I'm bound by the ethics of my business. I'm like the poor man's banker, you know, and respectable bankers follow the ethics of the banking industry."

  David believed the pawnbroker was stalling and chose a word to preempt an anticipated oration. "So?" he said.

  "So I can't give you names"

  "But, can you say a dagger like the one in the photo crossed your hands recently?"

  "Yes."

  "A dagger or a pair of daggers?"

  Razbit looked helpless. "A pair."

  "A pair was bought?"

  "Yes."

  "You can't give names?"

  "No." David knew a fake name had been used, anyway. He gave the old-timer his most piercing stare. "Can you at least describe the person who bought the pair?"

  Razbit rearranged a collection of lockets on the counter.

  "She had dark hair-wore dark glasses-had a bandana on-was all bundled up. That's all I can remember."

  "That's all?"

  Razbit now looked captured. "Maybe one other thing."

  "Which is?"

  "She had a husky voice."

  "Was she tall? Short?"

  "Everyone looks tall to me."

  David decided he'd pumped as much information out of his school chum's father as he could. He assured him the interview never took place, asked him to be remembered to his wife and walked out the door.

  At five, David cursed as he climbed three flights to Bruno's Martial Arts Studio. How about an elevator, for Christ's sake? But I suppose we black belts aren't supposed to have trick knees.

  He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and waited to hear its laminated glass panel shake, as it always had for nine years. Imprinted in black at each corner of the glass were, in turn, CHINESE-JAPANESE-KOREAN-AMERICAN. In the center was:

  MARTIAL ARTS

  Bruno Bateman, Grand Master

  Inside, it was as if David had crossed a bridge to a land far removed from turmoil, stress or even tedium on given days. One would think it was merely because of the concentration of fending off serious injury in percussive tae kwan do combat: kicking, elbows flying, slashing with hands and feet. But it was more than that. His senses were piqued again: the smell of sweat, the talcum taste, the clash of expiratory grunts, the give of the shiaijo mat under his bare feet.

  David had become somewhat of a master himself in bujutsu, a form of Japanese martial arts that stresses combat and willingness to face death as a matter of honor. He had never been required to take it that far since he began the study as a teenager, but he respected the spiritual concepts on which it is based: Zen Buddhism and Shinto. And it was through the pursuit of those teachings that he grew to understand Japanese culture in general.

 
He peeked in at Bruno who was in a side room and had already begun his class for beginners. He alternated it nightly with a class for intermediates. The middle-aged Grand Master was as tall as David but thinner. Ruddy complexioned, he had cheekbones that appeared inverted and greying hair gathered in a ponytail. When not in combat, his movements were economical, and he kept his hands pressed to his sides like lethal paddles. Even his smile took a full sentence to form-but a period to dissolve.

  "Sorry I missed Tuesday," David said.

  "Understandable," Bruno responded, one eye on David, the other on a student he had in a partial hold. "See you next week?"

  "I sure hope so, but if things get hairier, I might have to skip again."

  "First things first, and I wish you success."

  In deference to his knee, David had recently given thought to limiting his workouts to non-percussive aikido-merely to throwing or locking, and neutralizing his opponent without striking. He couldn't abandon, however, the gusto of what had become second nature to him: the give and take of the inherently lethal; in his mind, the only bona fide karate. Moreover, the pain would come later.

  He was one of a handful of members who had been issued lockers. On Thursday nights, he changed into a pajamalike costume of white cotton jacket and pants and a black belt. On Tuesdays, he wore simple gray sweats. This time was no different from other Thursday nights: mats all filled, friendly chatter between yowls, exchanging opponents around the room, his savoring the ambiance of a full hour. He took a shower. There had been nothing unusual up there.

  Outside, a fierce, biting wind whipped a drizzle to the side. Newspapers blew around David's legs while, nearby, a Stop and Shop bag was tangled in a tree. Only after winter classes did David have a stocking cap handy to join his scarf and gloves because he had been told in physiology class that thirty per cent of body heat was lost from the head. And that it was probably more if one's pores were open. David had always gone along with the thirty per cent, but he had difficulty picturing pores opening and closing. So suppose they're open now-what difference does it make under two tons of hair? Nonetheless, he took the cap from his pocket and put it on.