by Tim Cockey
Kate and I floated from room to room, stopping randomly in front of the various paintings. Kate L-shaped her arms to rest her chin in the cup of her hand as she studied the works. I like this stuff too, but I was more interested in taking a half step back so that I could spy on the former fake Carolyn James from Hampden by way of Kraków. My pretty detective was definitely in her civvies tonight. She was wearing a sage green houndstooth suit, tailored to a T, a jaunty little sort of Edwardian flair to the jacket. Her blouse was cream-colored, with little soft buttons the shape of televisions, and she was wearing heels, albeit half heels. Not the sort of getup for chasing robbers. With a blush that wouldn’t quite go away and all sorts of interesting things happening around the eyes, it was evident that Kate Zabriskie had fancied some brushwork of her own before coming out to play.
“Are you going somewhere later?” I asked her after we had been soaking up a field of lilies for several minutes. She turned her head and gave me one of those looks that you can’t really read. The secret look of women.
“Why do you ask?”
“You look too good to be wasting it on a bunch of paintings or on me, for that matter.”
“Well thank you for that.” Since she was pre-blushed, I couldn’t tell if my compliment had drawn forth any additional color. She added, “In fact I am going somewhere later. I have an obligation.”
“God I hope it’s not a date. Not if you’re using a word like that.”
“It’s not a date, believe me. It’s a fund-raiser. My boss is running for governor. Tonight is his first big bash. All the troops are expected to show. They want a high body count. So to speak.”
“Alan Stuart, right? How about that. I was on hand this afternoon when he made his big announcement.”
“You were? At City Hall?”
“Yes ma’am.” I waggled a finger in her face. “Enough already.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “You can say that again.”
We moved on. Eventually we were passing the same paintings and busts and sculptures a second and third time. The glued-down man was gone now. So were the Art Institute Rembrandts. Kate and I found ourselves in front of a Cézanne, a gauzy, almost pallid rendering of a Tuscan village wrapped atop a hillside. Some slender pines in the foreground. A hazy tanned sky. Very nice. A place I wouldn’t at all mind being. I pictured myself on the neighboring hillside, the one overlooking the scene. I was standing there along with … well sure, why not, with Kate Zabriskie. In our dusty paisan garb, gnats darting all around, the chittering of unseen crickets in the heat.
“I’ve been assigned to the Guy Fellows case.”
I was jerked abruptly back to Baltimore. Kate was still looking straight ahead at the painting, though clearly she was not caught up in the crackling sizzle of Cézanne’s sun.
“I don’t know your profession. Is that good news or bad news?”
“To be honest, I’m not really sure yet. Kruk’s been reassigned. He’s not real happy about it.”
“Why was he pulled off the case?”
Kate shrugged. “Every office has its politics. He was put on a different case. There’s no shortage of murders, that’s one thing. Still, it was a lousy thing to do. Reassigning always is.”
“So now you’re the big cheese, eh? They must have faith in you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that… well, they figure you can solve it.”
“Of course, they figure I can solve it. I wouldn’t be on the force otherwise.” She turned to face me. “Look, pulling Kruk for me doesn’t mean they don’t have faith in him. Like I said, it’s office politics. John Kruk’s damn good. He rubs people the wrong way sometimes, but these things aren’t a personality contest.”
“So am I still a suspect?”
“Frankly, you’re a lousy suspect.”
“This is what I’ve been hearing. Not that I mind one bit. So who is? A good suspect, I mean.”
“I’d rather not discuss it any further right now.”
“Fair enough.”
Kate stepped over to a Picasso. “Let me ask you something. You were at City Hall today when Alan announced his candidacy. Did you just happen to be there?”
I told her about running into my old college chum out in front of the police station.
“So you know Joel Hutchinson?” she said.
“I could tell you stories.”
“I’m sure you could. Come on. Let’s go.”
As we started to make our way toward the exit, I broached the subject that we had thus far avoided.
“Speaking of stories, I was under the impression that you were going to be telling me one tonight. About why you were posing as Carolyn James?”
“I know I was. It’s just… well, I’m not sure exactly where to start.”
“Dare I suggest, ‘at the beginning’?”
Kate stopped suddenly. She turned and studied my face. Intently.
“That’s what I’m beginning to think,” she said finally.
Just as suddenly as she had stopped she turned and exited the gallery. I held back—I wanted to watch her legs go back and forth—then I followed.
I caught up to her at the top of the steps out in front of the museum. Halfway down the steps The Thinker was still thinking. The stone lions flanking the museum steps continued their silent roars. Over against the cool marble of Neptune, a homeless guy was already nestling in under his newspaper blanket, dreaming no doubt of fishes. The sun was just about down now—a Tang-colored sliver of sky all that remained. A rat ran across the street on its way to Wyman Park as the streetlights flickered on. Monday night in Charm City.
Kate took hold of my arm. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 11
The Peabody Conservatory Library is a jaw-dropping piece of work, a cozy rectangular room that soars up and up and up, wrapped with spectacular wrought-iron walkways at each flight. Narrow aisles lead off each walkway back into the stacks of books. At the dizzying top of it all is the stained glass ceiling, an octagonal moonglow of oyster white glass with chips of dazzling green and blue and blood red all held apiece with hard black spiderings of solder. With a couple of drinks and a squint up at those curlicued railings you can pretty easily call forth an entire New Orleans neighborhood drifting out from the stacks, women in their bandannas and loose cotton dresses resting their arms on the black railings, calling across the square to each other or pointing down at some silly chicanery in the courtyard down below, a pig chasing a dog, or a cop chasing a cat, or maybe just the warm sun slowly chasing shadows out of their corners. I don’t know a damn thing about music—and the Peabody Conservatory is a place where they crank out musicians for a living—so I have no idea what kinds of books are up there in the endless stacks. But it’s a hell of a room, and it adds more than a little touch of class to whatever function the Peabody trustees happened to rent it out for. It’s no cheesy hotel ballroom, that’s for sure.
It’s where Joel Hutchinson had chosen to throw Alan Stuart’s kickoff party.
“None of that populist crap here, eh, Hitch?”
Hutch and I were standing just inside the entrance. The place was abuzz with Alan Stuart’s faithful: men and women in their elegant skins. Everyone was smiling and chatting away, being led around the room by their napkin-wrapped drink glasses. Among the glitterati, I recognized Harlan Stillman, senior senator from the Eastern Shore. Senator Stillman was a slow-talking, quick-thinking devil of a politician who had been in the state senate now for something like a hundred and fifty years, give or take a few. Most definitely old-style. A student of cornpone. Still, Senator Still-man was a shrewd and powerful player. His influence was as deep as the proverbial hills. The kind of politician who can get dead men to vote. If Alan Stuart had Harlan Stillman on his side, Spencer Davis had better just get a copy of his résumé on over to Kinko’s. The election was over.
I watched as the grand old man slowly loaded his tobacco pipe and got it going. We’re a No Smoking Pleas
e world these days, but no one was about to tell that to Harlan Stillman. The blonde hourglass attached to his arm was either his date or his granddaughter. I wouldn’t have dared to bet which. I complimented Hutch on the little quartet parked off in the corner that was providing the soiree with a classy little soundtrack. “They come with the space,” Hutch said. “It’s Peabody’s little way to plug what they do.”
Hutch hadn’t been as surprised to see me as I would have thought. With no particular fanfare, he gave my hand a few pumps when I walked into the room.
“Good to see you again, Hitch. You looking for some more free sausage?”
I gave him a ha-ha. But he was already focusing on the lovely woman standing next to me.
“Hello, Kate.”
“How are you doing, Joel?”
“I don’t get paid to complain. How about you?”
“Besides having my arm twisted to come here? I’m fine.”
“You should look at it as a perk,” Hutch said.
Kate turned to me. “This is a perk.”
“I don’t know perks,” I remarked. “I’ll get a discount on my coffin when the time comes. That’s about it.”
Hutch grinned at Kate. “There you go. Now isn’t this little perk looking better already?”
“Yes, Joel, your party is better than a funeral,” Kate said flatly. “I won’t argue with you.”
Hutch was enjoying this. “Go ahead, Kate, argue with me. It’s what you do best. Well, I mean, it’s one of what you do best.”
“Fuck you, Joel.”
And with that, Kate stormed off. That’s when Hutch had said, “None of that populist crap here, eh, Hitch?”
My gaze followed Kate. She was aiming straight for the bar. I said to Hutch, “So I take it you two have met.”
Hutch laughed as he rolled his eyes. “Kate Zabriskie hates my guts.”
“That was kind of my impression.”
“It goes way back.”
“Gut hating usually does.”
“Kate’s got a big chip on her shoulder.” Hutch waved across the room at someone, I couldn’t tell who. “I don’t know if you follow the news much, but she got her fifteen minutes about five, six months ago.”
I shook my head. Knew nothing about it.
“The short version is, she got some headlines. Hero cop. That sort of thing. She didn’t handle it well. Understandable reasons. But that’s her business. Anyway, since signing on with Alan I’ve been trying to get her to go along with a couple of spots. TV. Maybe print. She’d be a real asset.”
“Is that right?”
“Sure. Women look up to her. And men want to fuck her.”
“I’m glad to see you’re choosing your words so carefully.”
“Hey, don’t get sore, Hitch. You know what I mean.”
“You just said what you mean.”
“That I did. The thing is, I could do a lot with this hero cop business. It’s a good angle. But Kate won’t have any of it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t support Stuart.”
“Bullshit. She adores Alan Stuart. She’s just got her nose out of joint on this thing.” He broke off to shake someone’s hand, then he went on. “It all became moot anyway. Alan pulled me back. She’s a detective now, he reminded me, not a street cop. Her face shouldn’t be plastered everywhere, yah, yah, yah.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“It is, sure. I didn’t argue. But still… I’m definitely not on that lady’s Christmas list.”
“She’s Jewish.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean. There’s bad chemistry there.”
“Sad tale.”
Hutch pumped another well-heeled paw, steered it off toward the bar, then he turned back to me with a quizzical look on his face.
“So, just what are you doing here with Kate Zabriskie anyway?”
I gave him my best ear-to-ear. “I look up to her.”
Hutch snickered. “Yeah. Right.”
I spotted Alan Stuart off on the far side of the room. He was working his crowd, listening intently one instant, exploding with a powerful laugh the next.
I asked Hutch, “Was that guy ever a street cop? I mean, do they really come up through the ranks like that? Somehow I can’t picture him in a blue suit swinging a billy.”
“Oh absolutely. Alan Stuart was a flatfoot. Started out on the street. Clubbed his way to the top. You’re looking at a hardworking self-made man there. And don’t think the governorship of Maryland is the end of it. From Annapolis you can practically see the damn White House. It’s just over the river. The times are very favorable for a guy like Alan Stuart. This governorship could be just the thing to line him up for the big one.”
“Hutch, I don’t want to be the wet rag, but isn’t your Baltimore city police chief hyperventilating a little here? I mean, the guy just announced yesterday for governor and you’re already picking out new drapes for the Oval Office.”
“Hitch. Answer me this. Who did Nixon tap to be his veep? A no-name governor from, gee, was it Maryland?”
“You’re referring to the guy who failed to pay his taxes and was drummed out of office in disgrace?”
“Alan pays his taxes. I checked.” Hutch slapped me on the shoulder. “Look, I have to go and kiss some fanny. The bar’s over there. Top-shelf only. Enjoy yourself. I’ll catch up with you later. I’m glad you could make it.”
He pumped my hand again and then waded off into the crowd. I spotted Jeff Simons, standing next to a bust of Mozart, a semicircle of admirers fanned out in front of him. It’s true, he wasn’t looking his usual TV-glow self. His trademark cowlick was performing superbly and he was sporting his perpetual tan, but his eyes carried a sort of watery look, certainly not the crystal-clear sparkle of trust and mirth that had kept him at Baltimore’s bosom for nearly two decades. I had met the man a number of times. His mother and my aunt are old friends and ruthless cribbage players. The two meet once a week to race each other around the table. Billie and I play, too. That’s usually how we decide who takes on the next funeral.
I finally spotted Kate, coming back my way. I met her halfway. She handed me a glass.
“Do you like bourbon?”
“That’s damned good detective work. How’d you guess?”
“I didn’t, really. It’s what I like. I’m drinking vicariously.”
Kate was holding a flute, popping with amber bubbles.
“Champagne?” I asked.
“Ginger ale.”
She caught me not asking the question that was floating before us. She clinked her glass to mine. “It’s one of my rules. No drinking in public places.”
“That would make you the exact opposite of a social drinker,” I observed.
She took a sip of her ginger ale, keeping her eyes on me. “That would be absolutely correct.” The message was clearer than her ginger ale. Subject closed.
We mingled. Kate didn’t really seem to know too many of the guests either, except for a few of her colleagues. She caught a couple of “Welcome backs” from her brethren. “I’ve been on a leave of absence,” she explained. She didn’t elaborate. I looked up at one point and spotted Detective Kruk, standing near one of the stacks. He was gazing down at the gathering, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. From where I stood it looked as if he had maybe ironed his wrinkles. But apparently there was nothing to be done about that hair. He might have been looking down at Kate and me. I couldn’t tell.
Kate was speaking.
“Did Joel explain to you why I was so friendly to him just now?”
“What? Oh. Um… no. Well. He told me you wouldn’t cooperate with the Stuart for Governor campaign.”
We had wandered over by the quartet. I had no idea in hell what they were playing. I just knew that I couldn’t tap my toe to it.
“He told you that?”
“Yes. Why? Isn’t it true?”
“Sure, it’s true. But that’s not why we don’t get along.” She took a sip of her ginger ale.
“Joel Hutchinson is jealous, pure and simple. Alan … Alan took me under his wing, I guess you could say. The phrase you hear is, ‘I came up fast.’ It’s a long story. Bottom line is your college buddy is a control freak. He wants Alan all to himself and for some reason I threaten him.”
She took another sip. “Plus he made a pass at me and I told him to buzz off.”
“Hutch made a pass at you?”
“Several. Men don’t always bounce back so well after they’ve gotten rejected. Have you noticed?”
“Who says I’ve ever been rejected?”
“Who says I was saying you had? I only asked if you had noticed.”
She gave me one of those looks. Challenging. At least that’s what the bourbon in me was saying. But maybe it wasn’t a challenging look at all. Maybe, I thought, it’s a warning. Maybe she was warning me not to make a pass at her. What a shame. The prospect of completing a successful pass with this off-duty detective was striking me as a fantastic idea. Of course, I didn’t even know if she was married, or maybe had a squeeze of her own already. No rings—I had checked earlier—but these days that doesn’t always tell the whole story. Anyway, I passed on the pass.
“So, you’re telling me that Hutch the family man is a farce.”
“Ninety percent of family men are farces,” Kate said flatly. “Men are genetically programmed to stray. And to cheat. And to lie. And to—”
“Whoa, whoa, this is my fellow ape you’re smearing here. I’m bound by tribal law to defend my own.”
“I wouldn’t waste your breath.”
“Damn it, Detective, you’re not going to turn out to be one of those beautiful man-hating types, are you? It’s gals like you who really ruin the party.”
