The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

“What are you on, Betty? Uppers?”

  She giggled, and pivoted away from me. “Oh, David. If you only knew.” This was getting spooky.

  “Why’d you help him do it, Betty?” Silly as she was acting, she might actually tell me something. And, no longer being a cop, I didn’t have to inform her of her rights. When she didn’t answer, I just waited. The chair got still. All I could see of her was the back of her head.

  “That damn Harv,” Betty finally said, in a near whisper. “He hooked me. Then he upped the ante. Higher. And higher!”

  The last word was almost screamed. This was getting out of hand. In addition to wondering whether Harv was Sarnoff’s real name, I was starting to wish for a back-up. For once in my life, even Charlie Blake would have been a welcome sight. I tried to calm her down.

  “Harv was your pusher?”

  “Damn straight. The son of a bitch. I should’ve — awww, poor Laura. That poor damn Laura.” Betty swung her chair to me and I saw she was crying. Real tears. This lady was wired like Consolidated Edison.

  “So who’s Sarnoff?”

  She looked up at me with eyes that refused to focus. A vertical streak of mascara streaked her fat left cheek almost all the way to the corner of her mouth. She smiled slyly. “Does it matter, Davey? I needed him and he needed me, know what I mean?” She steadied the purse on her lap. “And nobody knew! Didn’t tell a soul! Fooled ’em all, Davey. Sandy was point man and she didn’t even know it.” Betty giggled like a ten-year-old girl.

  “So who’s Sarnoff?” I persisted.

  Her eyes got sly again. “Want to meet him, Dave? Want to meet Steve Sarnoff?”

  “Sure.” She didn’t seem to hear me, so I raised my voice. “Where is he, Betty? Where is Steven Sarnoff?”

  But I couldn’t reach her. She was back in her private world. Her voice softened. “Kept giving Sandy memos about the account, using Laura’s signature. Made everyone think Laura was the one. I just needed the money, can you understand that?” Her voice suddenly turned vicious and she ground the next words through her teeth. “It was that damn Harv!”

  “Was that Sarnoff’s other name, Betty?”

  She stared at me thoughtfully, looked away and shook her head. “Then that damn McClendon had to go blow the whistle. And Laura knew. So she had to go.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want anything to happen to Laura. I didn’t! But Harv had me in a box! What was I going to do? God! I couldn’t live without that damn crack! I couldn’t!”

  Donovan got up and lurched to the desk. Suddenly she dumped the contents of her purse onto it. Billfold, lipstick, toilet articles skittered across the wooden desktop. And five or six joints. She picked one up and offered it to me, smile slack, eyes wandering crazily.

  “Want some, Dave? It’s good stuff — mostly tobacco, with a little something extra. Here!”

  I took it from her and sniffed it. There was crack in it all right. It had that unforgettable, acrid, vinegary odor. I flipped it disgustedly back onto the desk.

  “Don’t like crack much, do you, Dave? Well, neither do I, buddy, neither do I. You get hooked on it, and it’s damn expensive, boy. Damn expensive!”

  I felt sorry for her. Big mistake. Dumb mistake.

  40

  I decided the best thing would be to let Betty sleep it off on the ruins of the couch. By the time the police arrived, she’d feel better.

  “Why don’t you lie down, Betty?” I suggested. Donovan nodded wearily, her eyes still unable to focus. “Maybe you’re righ’, Dave,” she allowed. “Gimme an arm, willya, buddy?”

  The woman seemed ready to collapse. Feeling half disgusted, half sympathetic, I put an arm around her and tried to help her to the couch. She put all her weight against me. She was even heavier than I’d thought. I staggered a moment, righted myself and managed to get her moving, her feet trying to keep up.

  I had one warning. Her right arm was around my shoulders. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw wrapped around her right thumb a loop of wire, the end of it running up her arm into her jacket sleeve. That didn’t register fast enough. Had I acted immediately when I saw that… But I didn’t.

  Drugs fool everyone. They fool the user and then they help the user fool you. They make the users high; they can also make them unnaturally quick and strong. As I was about to find out.

  We were almost to the couch, her right hand around my neck, left hand hanging onto her right hand across my chest. I was watching her face. (I’d have been better off watching her feet.) Suddenly her eyes rolled upward, her knees gave way and I had her full weight.

  I should have realized that if she’d lost consciousness, her hands would have let go of each other. Instead, they clung tight.

  The extra weight made me stagger. I took a step forward to keep my balance. Or tried to. But one of her feet was suddenly in the way and I started down. The fall was abruptly accelerated by a sudden knee in the back from the no longer comatose woman. I was in big trouble.

  I hit the floor hard, face first, the wind knocked out of me. I tried to roll, but Donovan’s whole weight was on me. And like a flash, a wire was around my throat, jerked hard and tight. I must have instinctively tightened my neck muscles. Which probably saved my life. Without that, the wire would have crushed my windpipe in that first second.

  Everything went momentarily black. The neck didn’t hurt that bad — that came later — but I saw purple circles of light expanding out to the edge of my vision, new circles replacing the ones that disappeared. My sight partly returned and I was able to see the carpet a half-inch from my face, swimming and shimmering in the expanding circles.

  Just one thought kept running through my mind: you idiot, Betty Donovan is Steven Sarnoff, Donovan is Sarnoff. Good timing there, Dave.

  Meanwhile, Betty’s knee sought better purchase in the small of my back. I could hear her grunt with effort as she tugged the wire tighter, trying to snuff me out.

  My neck muscles were straining, and the skin of my neck was starting to tear with the sawing action of the noose. Attempting to roll to either side was out of the question. I had to try something else. The noose tightened. I needed to get over on my back to bring my arms into play, but I couldn’t move.

  A hoarse, rhythmic, animal sound filled the room. I vaguely realized it was Betty grunting. I could visualize her, teeth bared, eyes popping, in the effort to strangle the life out of me.

  My oxygen was going. I fought to free my right arm, trapped under my body. Donovan responded by rolling her weight to put more pressure on my back.

  That’s where she blew it. In shifting her weight she gave the noose a little slack. I sensed a slight lessening of the pressure around my neck and reacted to it. Violently. Abruptly arching my back, I lifted my head as high as I could, relieving the pressure still more. She realized she was losing leverage on my throat and immediately rocked backward to recover tautness. As I felt her rock back, I snapped my head forward. The wire dug deeper into my neck, but I ignored that and rolled right.

  That roll cost Betty the noose. But not the fight. I was now on my back and she went straight for my face. Her fingernails sliced into my cheek and jarred against the ridges above both eyes.

  One of my arms was still trapped under me, the other was shielded by her shoulder. My only immediate defense was closing my eyes and rolling my head away from her probing fingers. Fingernails ripped across a tightly closed eyelid.

  Betty’s knee crashed into my groin. I reacted with an instinctive hip roll. I had to stop playing defense and start fighting back, but she wasn’t letting me. She was a fury. And I was exhausted. I was running out of oxygen fast.

  Summoning strength from somewhere, I finally got one arm free, then the other. I went for her hands, still gouging at my face. I blindly managed to get hold of one wrist. God, she was strong! It took both hands just to hang on.

  Once I did, I thought I had her. I didn’t. She could now use my own leverage against me. Feeling her other hand leave my face, I opened one
eye to a slit to see what was happening. The answer came sooner than I wanted: her free fist was coming straight at my face from over her head.

  I jerked my eyes shut again. Her fist slammed my head into the floor so hard I damn near lost it once and for all. A lot of pain, more expanding circles, more flashes of light.

  Another smash wouldn’t be far behind. Not caring to leave my brains on the dusty floor of this godforsaken office, I released her wrist and spun to my right. I felt her lose purchase. Her fingernails futilely slashed the back of my neck, and I kept right on rolling. I opened my eyes as I rolled. Nice to be able to do that without immediate risk of losing them.

  Two-and-a-half rolls later, my back to Betty, I dizzily got partway to my feet and started my hand for the .38. A whisper of air and that damn wire was around my throat again. How could anyone that fat be that quick!

  But this time I surprised her. Instead of trying to break free, I went the other way. I was up as the noose hit, and backpedaled fast. The noose loosened slightly, then I felt and heard a gasp as I slammed into her. I dug my heels in and backpedaled harder. Your basic move to box your man off the boards in unrefereed schoolyard basketball. Presumably not having played schoolyard basketball, Betty didn’t know the countermove.

  She must have let go of the wire at that point, but I was too busy to notice. She lost her footing and went down hard. Blindly, I followed her down, ramming my elbow deep into her abdomen as I did, bringing another gasp.

  Betty’s body went still. The fight was over. Except…

  I’d rather skip what I did then. The woman was clearly out. One glance at her ashen, contorted face left no doubt. She was doubled up, struggling for air. But I was…I don’t know. I went into her chest with my elbow again, the weight of my whole body behind it. As I later learned, that blow broke three ribs and collapsed one lung. And came within a hair of acing her.

  I could argue, “All’s fair” or “Hey, she played possum before.” Or “She had it coming.” But those are rationalizations. Police training is clear: No excessive force, meaning you don’t hurt someone more than the minimum required. That final slam to Betty Donovan’s midsection was excessive force. I was sorry for it the second I did it. And I’m sorry for it today.

  I’d just got to my feet, panting, and begun to feel around my face and neck to see how much damage the maniac had done when I heard a key turn in the lock. A second later, Dan Rice was in the room. The realtor took one look at the gasping woman on the floor and another at me, and his eyes grew huge.

  “My God, Goldman, what —?”

  That was as far as I let him get. “No time, man! Get the hell back to where you came from and get an ambulance. Tell them on the double! She may be dying.”

  He ran, leaving the door ajar. As I bent to see what I could do for the woman, I could hear through the window the faint but growing sound of a siren.

  41

  Just like old times. The place lousy with cops and medics. Kessler insisting I had to check into the hospital for observation, me telling him he was full of it. Like riding a bike, some things you never forget.

  Of course, all that was after the two paramedics had hustled Betty out on a stretcher. The looks on their faces said what they wouldn’t: Betty Donovan wasn’t going to make it. And the way she was breathing — or rather struggling to breathe — they had logic on their side. They failed to reckon with the woman’s stubbornness. She was her normal self a year later when she stood to face the jury and heard them proclaim her guilty on all four counts of Murder One.

  Rice — my “weak reed” — had done splendidly. He’d sent the police up straightaway and waited downstairs for the ambulance, which came in less than ten minutes. The two patrolmen had been with me in the office for nearly eight minutes by then, none of us able to do anything about Betty other than watch her try to breathe. They were green but handled themselves pretty well.

  The paramedics looked just as green at first, but they took one look at Betty and went to work like pros. One of them had an oxygen mask on her, the other monitored vital signs. They got her stabilized, on the stretcher and out of there in about a hundred and fifty seconds.

  The patrolmen stuck around but resisted the impulse to ask me any questions. I guess they knew Homicide was on the way. Homicide doesn’t take kindly to being infringed upon.

  Kessler and his usual sidekick, Sergeant Mike Burke, popped in a minute or two after the stretcher went out. They were their typical cool selves. The more bizarre the circumstances, the cooler they get.

  After asking me if I was okay, Kessler wanted a rundown on what the hell was going on. I told him. I was hoarse and feeling lousy, mentally as well as physically. I kept the jokes to a minimum.

  “I didn’t buy in,” I explained, “to Fanning being the Strangler, so I kept on looking. Which resulted in my bumping into Miss Donovan here in this office just twenty minutes ago. We had a slight altercation.”

  That didn’t strike his funny bone. “Yeah, an altercation. Are you telling me you think she murdered those women?”

  “Hey, I don’t think anything, Inspector. I know she did. She told me as much.

  “Furthermore, Officer Holmes there,” I gestured at the tall young patrolman with the mop of tousled brown hair who was standing uncomfortably to the side, “has taken a certain piano wire into custody — where’d you put it, Officer?” Holmes pointed to the wire on top of the desk.

  “That’s an interesting little item, Inspector.” I kept talking to Kessler’s back as he walked immediately to the desk to study the wire. “You’ll obviously want to check whether it’s the one. But I’ll give you dollars to doughnuts it is. But, whether it is or not, the M.O.’s definitely the same. I can testify to that. So can my neck. And if you want to compare the marks it makes on the victims’ throats, you don’t have to look any farther than right here.” I lifted my chin and pointed at the wounds and bruises all around my neck.

  “Judas Priest!” Kessler took a step closer. “That Donovan woman did that? I saw what she did to your face and eyes, but —! What the hell happened?” He spun around and yelled. “Mike!”

  The beefy sergeant, whom I had greeted when they arrived, was in the midst of taking Rice’s statement. He looked up.

  “Take custody of this weapon,” Kessler snapped. “It may be the Strangler’s.” As fussy as Kessler is, he didn’t say a word to Burke about being careful with it, which said a lot about his opinion of Burke. Burke’s a damn good cop. I know that myself. He was my direct supervisor the first two years I was in Homicide.

  The inspector came back to me. I gave him the full story — everything but my sneaking that Xerox of Laura’s palm. Kessler had a hard time understanding how I got a phone number out of G O S T.

  “Yes, I can see that the G could be a six. And the S a five. I’d thought of that myself. But where’d you get the four ones?”

  I tried to give the inspector a lesson in repeating decimals but got hopelessly tangled up in the math. He finally cut me off.

  “All right, Davey,” he sighed. “You’ve got a genius penned up over there on Thirty-seventh, with no workable legs, nothing to do but pray, and no one to talk to but a putz like you. So what’s he got to think about but your cases? I’m not surprised he doped it out. Next time, though, you’d better have him explain it to you a couple more times until you get it straight.” He gave me a friendly wink.

  “You know,” Kessler went on, a grin now showing through the beard, “I actually considered showing him that photostat myself, just to see what he’d say. Dammit, I thought maybe he was the one guy who could figure it out. But… I never did.” He shrugged. “What I’ll never understand is how you two doped that Fanning was innocent. For my money, he had guilty written all over him. Bishop Regan’s clairvoyance acting up on him again?”

  I shrugged. With the vow of secrecy my boss had laid on me, that was about all I could do. Which didn’t make my former boss very happy.

  For that matter it
didn’t make me very happy either. The shrug had rubbed my collar up against my neck.

  “All right,” Kessler went on. “What the hell did Donovan use this office for, then? Assuming that she’s it.”

  I nodded — and winced again. “Yeah, I’ve been asking myself that same question ever since I heard about it this morning. I first thought it might be where she went to shoot up, or where she had her drugs delivered. But that’s not it. For one thing, her pusher, Harv, came to her office. For another, she only rented this office a month or so ago.”

  I swung around — with my whole body this time — and looked over the room. “What I think is, Laura came here that Friday night. Betty’d told her Sarnoff was here. Or at least that he’d be coming here. Then Betty came instead. And killed her.”

  Kessler nodded then yelled, “Burke!” The sergeant looked over again. “Are you planning to dust this place?”

  “What for?”

  “Do it, Mike. I’ve got a feeling we could find some of Laura Penniston’s prints around here.”

  Burke nodded. With absolutely no curiosity. That’s why he’s Kessler’s favorite gofer. And why he’ll never get any higher than sergeant. If Laura had left a trace of a print in this room, Burke’d find it. But he’d never think to ask why the hell he was looking for it in the first place.

  “Only thing I want to know, Dave.” Kessler was back to me again. “How’d you let that woman get the drop on you? Didn’t you have her tagged the moment you walked in?”

  I looked at the inspector. I didn’t want to tell him I’d thought she was only an accomplice till the wire was around my neck. I didn’t want him to know the Bishop and I had been chasing our own tail the past three days, looking for a guy named Sarnoff who didn’t even exist.

  Most of all I had no desire to talk about the fight. This one I wasn’t proud of. I’d been suckered like a ninny, come through it more marked up than the other guy, and ended it with a very cheap shot after the buzzer. And the other guy was a woman. So I tried the light touch.