Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  I, on the other hand, came down with the sniffles after my damp and chilly escape. Sure, okay, you can’t catch a cold from the cold; you catch a cold from another person. But if you’re around people who manhandle you and get too close, and their friends are around, too, and they’re all touching each other and packing into tight places, then your chances of catching a cold greatly increase. And then if you run around in the dark, damp cold you might get your resistance down and voila, you got yourself a cold.

  I made it through the rest of the weekend wrapped in a blanket with The Binkster pressed to my side on the living room couch, watching whatever came on TV. I learned to my horror that Binks was nearly out of food. I had enough stale saltines to last me a good week and a half, but I wasn’t sure what to do about my dog, so in the end I called my friend Cynthia for help.

  The great thing about her is she can take orders, mine being, buy something cheap and low-cal for The Binkster. I gave her the name of my usual brand and she showed up with a hefty bag of the stuff. She also picked up some mochis, a frozen Japanese dessert that is basically a ball of ice cream enclosed in a rice gum so that you can hold it in your hands. This set Binks dancing on her hind legs and twirling. I wasn’t sure if dogs can catch people germs, but I figured I wouldn’t take a chance sharing with her. I just gave her teensy bits and put the rest back in the freezer. Binks pathetically sat down in front of the refrigerator and whined. Cynthia couldn’t stand it and pulled out a few bites more.

  “You’re spoiling her,” I said, my voice all cloggy and dull.

  “I brought you something, too,” she said, digging into the large grocery bag she’d dumped on the counter.

  I hadn’t asked for anything for myself because I’m old school enough to want to get well without the aid of over-the-counter drugs. I’m so damned drug sensitive that the least little thing can make me stupid, crazy and seemingly on a bender.

  But Cynthia pulled out a quart of some goldish liquid. “Chicken soup,” she told me. “From Zeke and Jake’s Deli.”

  “Cool,” I said with enthusiasm. This sounded more like “Gull,” but I think Cynthia got the message.

  She stuck around long enough to serve me a bowl of soup and a couple of slices of baguette smeared with butter, but she tried to stay out of range of my germs. I just thanked my lucky stars that I had friends who actually liked me and wanted to do nice things for me.

  I’d been all set to spend the afternoon sniffing and feeling sorry for myself, but Cynthia’s soup and the baguette gave me enough energy to go over my notes on the Hatchmere case again, adding and tweaking and bringing them up to date. I swept my hardwood floor clean, pausing for long draughts of water from my kitchen tap, and then I plumped up the pillows on my couch and made the place presentable instead of some nest of sick germs. After doing a check for dog fur I hauled out the awkward vacuum cleaner, a canister type that I drag along like a ball and chain, and gave all the furniture a thorough cleaning. Finished, I found I was in a sweat, so I showered and redressed in fresh jeans and a light brown sweater. I felt almost human as I was combing the water from my hair, except my nose was red, swollen and dripping.

  My cell phone vibrated noisily and I hurried to the front room to answer it. I’d left it on my coffee table and it was spinning around like it was trying to make itself dizzy when I snatched it up. Caller ID was unavailable, which generally means: wrong number. However, I had a lot of callbacks from people who might or might not have blocked their numbers.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Jane Kelly?” a male voice rumbled. There was some kind of distortion on the line that made the timbre go in and out.

  “Last I looked. And you are?”

  “Vince Larrabee.”

  My mouth formed an O. I decided he must be outside and that was what was creating the audible interference.

  “Durbin said you wanted to talk to me about the wedding day burglaries.”

  “The Wedding Bandits.”

  He didn’t respond. Maybe he was one of those who obstinately ignored any name the press might ascribe to the culprits.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you that hasn’t been printed already,” he said, and I heard that tiny bit of judgment in his voice. Clearly he was doing his duty and trying to fob me off before things went any further.

  “Would you mind if we got together and I just picked your brain a bit?” I asked. Lame, lame, lame. From what I’d gleaned, the guy wouldn’t want some wet-behind-the-ears private investigator dogging his heels.

  “Pick my brain?”

  “I could meet you. Let me buy lunch.” I held my breath.

  He hesitated. “You sound like you’ve got a cold.”

  “Allergies,” I lied.

  I could almost hear him debating with himself. He didn’t want to bother. He really didn’t. “There’s a place in southeast called Tony’s, off Holgate,” he said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  Thank you, Dwayne. “I know it,” I said, which wasn’t exactly the truth but I was pretty sure I could find it.

  “I’ll be there at two.”

  He hung up before I had a chance to ask how I would know him. Glancing at the clock, I grabbed my windbreaker, threw the hood over my head, patted my dog on the head good-bye while she stood stiffly, staring from me to the door hopefully. She jumped down but I hurried out, telling her not this time.

  The wind hit me with a rain-filled blast, slapping my face.

  “Peachy,” I muttered, and scurried to my car.

  When it rains, it pours, so to speak. The weather was a case in point, the gray skies throwing down an endless supply of precipitation. But also in life sometimes, like now. I’d been complaining that no one returned my phone calls but now the phone was ringing off the hook. Larrabee phoned as I drove to meet him, followed by calls from both Renee Hatchmere and my brother, Booth.

  I didn’t have time to talk to either of them, but I had to work hardest with Renee—who seemed thrilled to learn I wasn’t available—to get her to even allow me a second phone call. She was intent on doing her duty, but that, apparently, was the extent of what she considered good manners. I could hear the wheedling tone in my voice that begged her please, please, please with sugar on top let me phone her back later. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t completely say no, either.

  Luckily, Booth wasn’t much interested in talking, either. There seemed to be something on his mind, but when I told him to “Spit it out” he retreated into his shell at top speed, mumbling something about his job and he was too busy to spend time trying to make me and Mom happy. I thought that was just plain rude and told him so, but he’d already hung up.

  If that wasn’t enough, the phone rang again and Deenie identified herself. Ah yes, the hard-to-reach maid of honor. Her tone was petulant as she said the only reason she was returning my call was that Gigi had said she should. I checked my watch. Two p.m. straight up. Anxiously, I scanned the buildings around, realizing the area appeared a little bit too industrial for a restaurant. To Deenie, I said, “I’m walking into a meeting. May I call you back in an hour?”

  “Well, I guess…”

  “Thanks.” I clicked off and drove over the speed limit, searching the area. Finally I saw TONY’S scrawled in black cursive along the cream-painted cinder block back wall of a building in a tired-looking commercial center, tucked up against a lumberyard and some kind of scrap metal operation.

  I hoped to hell I wouldn’t be the only female in the joint, gathering my courage as I stepped past the scarred front doors whose only decoration was a large NO MINORS ALLOWED sign.

  I was hit by the cigarette smoke before the doors closed behind me. If the day had been any brighter I would have had to allow time for my eyes to adjust. As it was, I could see the bar was populated by a smattering of middle-aged men in varying degrees of decay, a woman behind the bar with a belly large and tight sporting a T-shirt that said Beyond Bitch, three young men in dirty jeans and plaid shirts ho
lding up the bar, all attempting to grow facial hair without serious success, and a guy in a booth facing the door whose gray overcoat and serious expression signified the long arm of the law.

  I walked straight to him. “Detective Larrabee?”

  “Ms. Kelly.”

  I slid in across from him, feeling like we were playing some scripted part in a film noir. I wasn’t sure what my line was, so I waited, hoping for a cue.

  His face was lean, his liquid-brown eyes filled with an underlying amusement, as if life were just one long joke of which only he understood the punch line. His skin tone was much darker than my own. He had a De Niro look about him that was both magnetic and spoke of barely leashed energy. He wasn’t wearing a hat and moisture had coalesced in his dark brown hair, darkening it further, leaving dampness at his temples. He didn’t have a spare pound on him. I suspected he was hard as cement.

  “So, you’re Durbin’s friend,” he said.

  I heard more in his tone than was probably there. Some kind of stress on “friend” that suggested a lot more. It bugged me, but I chose to ignore it. I mean, I was trying to get in the guy’s good graces. No need to start out by questioning his meaning.

  “You’re a friend, too,” I responded, pretending there was no subtext at all.

  The amusement deepened. “Known him long?”

  “A few years,” I said.

  He was drinking a tall glass of water, which he picked up, never losing eye contact with me. Taking a long drink, he set the glass back down. “He said you were interested in the…Wedding Bandits.”

  “Violet Purcell is afraid the police think she’s responsible for Roland Hatchmere’s death. I’m looking into other options.”

  “She admitted to hitting him with the metal tray,” Larrabee said mildly.

  “She says she didn’t kill him.”

  “You trying to pin this on the burglars?”

  “I don’t think they did it. Not in their m.o., unless there’s something the press hasn’t been telling us.”

  “Not in their m.o.,” he agreed.

  “I’d like to know what the police think. What you think,” I stressed. “I’d like to know the current status on the investigation.”

  “Not exactly public information.”

  “I get that. What do you think about the Wedding Bandits?”

  Larrabee held my gaze. I hoped he would share something, just throw me a few crumbs.

  Our waiter arrived, a big, beefy guy wearing a white apron, and handed us each a menu. Mine was splatted with grease stains. I glanced down the selections, glad to break eye contact with the detective. There was something magnetic about him that made my pulse beat hard and affected the neurons traveling through my brain. The air between us felt dense. I wouldn’t call it sexual tension. I wasn’t feeling that way…well, not exactly. But I was completely aware of him, like I’d sprouted antennae all tuned to his channel.

  When Larrabee ordered, I said I’d have the same. The waiter brought us each a Reuben and a large diet cola that I at first thought was dark beer.

  We ate in silence. The food was really good. And I mean, really good, which explained why he’d suggested this place. After the chicken soup and bread I’d thought I wouldn’t be able to eat much, but I managed to tuck in like I’d been on a deserted island for weeks. What is that axiom? Feed a cold, starve a fever? Feed a fever, starve a cold? Whatever the case, I smacked that Reuben down in record time, though Larrabee beat me. A pile of french fries had been placed on a platter between us and I selected a few carefully, wondering if they were really to share. Larrabee grabbed a fistful and ate them slowly, watching me. I grabbed a few more and shoved them in my mouth. I had an insane urge to chew the food and then open my mouth to show him. I managed to tamp it down, but I sensed we were in some kind of pissing match, a hazing of sorts, to determine whether we could ever speak again or if the loser should just leave in silence.

  “Allergies, huh?” he asked.

  “Or possibly a raging, unidentified, lethal pathogen that will take us both out.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “How did Durbin find you?”

  “We had…mutual friends,” I said.

  “How much do you know about him?” he asked curiously.

  Not enough, I decided right then and there. But I’d be damned if I’d let Larrabee know that. There was some kind of chess game going on between him and Dwayne, I realized. Currently, I was one of the pawns.

  I gave myself a hard mental shake. I’d offered to buy lunch, so I pulled out my credit card. I’d barely scanned the menu and I’d been afraid to check the prices, but a deal was a deal. Tony’s wasn’t a happening, trendy place, but one never knows. I’m one of those people so afraid of debt that I pay off my credit card every month. The idea of paying interest makes me ill.

  Larrabee wiped his mouth with the tiny paper napkin they’d allotted him. I did the same with mine. After a long, long moment, he leaned forward. “You don’t have much to say, do you?”

  “I have a lot to say,” I responded. “I just haven’t started.”

  He lifted a hand in a “go ahead” signal.

  “Who are the Wedding Bandits? Do you have any idea? Do you think they accidentally killed Roland Hatchmere, or are you focusing your investigation on Violet, like she thinks? Or…”

  “Or?”

  “You tell me. Is there another ‘person of interest’? Someone keeping you from indicting Violet?”

  He thought a moment. “Durbin asked me to talk to you. That’s why I’m here. I’m not duty-bound to tell you anything. If I don’t feel like keeping you in the loop, you’re not in the loop.”

  “Check,” I said, holding his gaze.

  He leaned back. He seemed to consider a number of responses, discarding all of them one by one. The waiter came and scooped up my credit card.

  I was signing the receipt when Larrabee finally revealed, “Your so-called Wedding Bandits have diversified. They are also Funeral Bandits now.”

  I looked up in surprise, more that he’d confided in me than the news he’d imparted. “You have any leads on them?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s all I get? Maybe?”

  “We have the make and model of a van seen in the area.”

  “So you were doing surveillance,” I said, pleased that my own thoughts traveled along the same line as law enforcement’s.

  “Been a number of notable weddings since the Hatchmere homicide. No ‘Wedding Bandits’ anywhere near them. But homes have been burgled while the mourners were at a loved one’s funeral.” He finished the rest of his cola and slid his water glass in front of him again. “These burglaries weren’t planned as well, and the victims weren’t well known, wealthy families. Not as much money involved and therefore not the same dollar recovery per item.” He spoke slowly and carefully, clearly picking his words. “Then recently, another wedding was targeted. First one since Hatchmere. The groom’s parents’ home in Beaverton was burglarized. A van seen in the area was similar to one reported outside the home of the man who died in that six-car pileup on 205. Did you read about it? His house was burgled during his funeral. Stole their TV and DVD player.”

  “That’s low,” I said with feeling.

  “Not the same caliber of crime as the ‘Wedding Bandits’ pulled off. Certainly not at the last wedding. No expensive presents, silver, crystal, envelopes of cash. The groom’s parents lost their TV, like the man who died in the pileup, but it was an older model. Quite a bit older. Either we’re dealing with a different group of burglars, or they’ve lost their connection to the money.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “If it’s the same group, their targets shifted after the Hatchmere homicide. I can make a guess,” he said cautiously. Again, I waited, figuring the less I said, the better. I sensed eagerness would be a serious turnoff to learning more. “I think they stumbled across Roland Hatchmere’s dead body and it scared ’em. Whoever was their inside m
an, cut out. They lost their connection to the moneyed families when he or she left. Now they’re scrambling for whatever they can find.”

  “So you don’t think the Wedding Bandits are responsible for Roland’s death? And you don’t seem to be focused on Violet, either.”

  “Violet admitted to hitting him with the tray.”

  “And it’s definitely the murder weapon?”

  He nodded.

  “How many times was he hit with it?”

  “A number. I see why you’re Durbin’s girl. We’re not publicizing that fact yet.”

  “So you don’t want me to tell Violet, I take it.” I was struggling to get over him calling me Durbin’s girl.

  “I’d rather you didn’t, but I can’t stop you. Roland Hatchmere was hit twice. The first blow didn’t kill him. Did it contribute to his death? Possibly. Possibly not. The second one crushed his skull. Violet Purcell has maintained she hit him with the tray. Once. Either she’s very clever and actually hit him several times, hoping we’ll believe her and search for some other killer, or she’s telling the truth. In that case, we have a different killer.”

  I nodded. “But not the Wedding Bandits?”

  “Do you see the burglars stopping their looting to grab the tray and hit Roland Hatchmere? It could have happened, if he’d caught them in the act and tried to call for help. But he was likely lying right where Violet left him. I think Hatchmere was already dead. The burglars came in, grabbed a few things, discovered the body and took off. They’ve never killed anyone, as yet.”

  “Someone else, then,” I said.

  Larrabee said, “Learning the motive would go a long way to identifying the doer.”

  I nodded slowly, realizing I had only considered two possible motives: Violet’s anger at Roland, or the Wedding Bandits’ need to silence Roland to keep him from identifying them.

  “Do you have a theory?” I asked.

  “I got a lot of theories,” Larrabee assured me. “When we catch the ‘Wedding Bandits,’ maybe we’ll get some answers.”