Random Victim

by Michael A. Black

  “Go run down those MOs, Ryan,” he said, twirling the cigar in the flame of his lighter. “Any robbery teams that’ve been preying on lone females.”

  “What about the husband?” Leal said.

  “What about him?” Brice answered, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.

  “I think we should set up a surveillance on him.”

  “For what?” Brice said. “You ain’t got dick. So she was fucking around, supposedly. That don’t mean nothing.”

  “It could show a motive,” Leal shot back. “He’s our best suspect. Let’s ask him to take a polygraph.”

  “Those ain’t worth shit,” Brice said.

  “Not in court,” Leal said. “But it’s a good investigative tool. If we pressure this fucker, he’ll crack. I just know it.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Brice’s reaction was plain.

  “Look,” he said, his face reddening, “until we’ve eliminated all other possibilities, we’ll do this by the book.”

  What book is that, Lieutenant? Leal thought. But he clamped his mouth shut. Brice seemed to sense the defiance anyway.

  “Tell me if you got a problem with that, Leal,” he said. The veins in his thick neck were standing out against a flush of red.

  Leal glanced to Ryan, who was leaning back in his chair massaging his temples.

  “Well, do you, Sergeant?” Brice said. His lips curled downward as the cigar snapped in two between his fingers. Glaring, he stubbed it out in an ashtray, the trail of gray smoke winding upward toward the ceiling.

  Leal shook his head, but then thought, what the fuck. If we’re going to solve this thing…“I just feel it’s something we should be looking into, Lieu.” He met Brice’s stare with one of his own.

  “And I feel that you’re disregarding the team approach to this investigation,” Brice said, pointing with his index finger. Ryan started to speak, but Brice just turned to him and said, “Shut up.” He berated Leal for a few more minutes, then sat back, exhaling a long, slow breath through flaring nostrils. “All right, this is what we’ll do. I’ll review your report summaries. Ryan, you go over that offender’s file like I told you. Leal, you and your partner can go check with the state’s attorney. See if we got enough to get a tap on the husband’s phone.”

  Leal knew that they didn’t have nearly enough to meet the stringent applications of the law, but he nodded.

  “And,” Brice continued, “be back here tonight at nineteen hundred. Sharp. And dress nice. The sheriff wants to go over our case so far and the press might be here.”

  Marvelous, thought Leal. This is nothing but busywork.

  “In the meantime,” Brice said, “I’m gonna look up Investigator Murphy. See what he thinks of your theories. What they did along those lines. No sense covering the same ground twice.”

  Murphy, Leal thought. That fat fuck had his shot and he blew it. But he said nothing.

  “Make sure the whole team makes it tonight,” Brice said. “No exceptions.”

  “We got it, boss,” Ryan said, standing.

  In the hallway Leal and Ryan exchanged looks.

  “Man, I thought he was gonna lose it there for a minute,” Ryan said.

  “Nah,” said Leal, “you gotta have it in order to lose it.”

  “Well, he’s under a lot of pressure,” Ryan said slowly. He fumbled for his pack of cigarettes.

  “Shit, man, we all are.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said, squinting. “But I happen to know that he’s having some personal problems.”

  Leal looked at him. Ryan shrugged.

  “Brice sort of opened up to me the other day,” he said. “I guess his kid Max is causing him all kinds of grief. Has some kind of a learning disability or something. Messed up big time in school, now he’s dropped out totally.”

  Leal frowned. Sometimes it was better not to say anything. He wished he’d remembered that earlier.

  “Of course,” Ryan grinned, popping the unlit cigarette between his lips, “going through life with a name like Maxwell Brice can’t be a picnic, no matter how you cut it.”

  Neither can having an asshole for an old man, Leal thought.

  Back at the office, Hart and Smith reacted predictably to the change in plans.

  “Damn,” Smith said. “That’s gonna throw a big wrench in my Lamaze class tonight.”

  “And I was hoping to get a workout in,” Hart said.

  “Hey, kids,” Ryan said, grinning and fishing out a cigarette. “I’m just the fucking messenger.” He stuck the cigarette between his lips. “Tell you guys what. Let’s all do what we gotta do and knock off after lunch. That way we can all be back here tonight refreshed. Sound like a plan?”

  “Not a good one,” Leal said. “If we keep spinning our wheels, we’ll never get this thing solved.”

  Ryan flicked his lighter and drew on the cigarette.

  “Don’t I know it,” he said. “So maybe we can bring that out to the sheriff tonight. It’s his ass on the line in the election, not ours.”

  Leal could imagine who the “we” would be, if they got the chance to talk at all. Probably that asshole Brice will be the only one saying anything, he thought He noticed Hart recoiling from the smoke and asked, “You ready?”

  As they started down the hallway, Leal heard someone call to them. He turned and saw Joe Smith jogging toward them.

  “Sarge,” Smith said, “I just wanted to tell you I talked to Miriam Walker’s doctor Friday.”

  Leal raised his eyebrows.

  “He said he wouldn’t release anything without a subpoena,” Smith continued. “Figured you should know, since you’re going to talk to the state’s attorney.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I did it on my own time. Thought it was an angle we should check out.”

  “Good thinking, Joe. Thanks,” Leal said. He was sensing something about this man. A simmering anger just under the surface.

  “So what else you want me to do?” Smith asked.

  “Well,” Leal said. “Brice wants—”

  “Not Brice, Sarge,” Smith said. “Or Ryan, either. You’re the one I respect.”

  Leal smiled slightly.

  “Look, Sarge, I know the story on Brice, and Ryan, too. And I talked to Johnny DeWayne about you. I know you’re straight.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” Leal said. He thought for a minute and took out his notebook. “Tell you what. Call this person and mention that you’re working with me on an investigation.” He wrote down the information and handed it to Smith. “She works for National Credit. I used to use her sometimes when I was in MEG. Ask if she’ll run a credit check on Martin Walker for us. On the sly, so we don’t get in trouble with the privacy act.”

  Smith grinned and nodded.

  “And see what you can find out about this Lunge Hill Corporation,” Leal said. “Maybe check the Hall of Records if you have time.”

  “Will do, Sarge. And I’ll have plenty of time. Ryan will probably be delighted to get rid of me. You know how he feels about my kind of people.”

  They watched him walk away, and Hart said, “You also know what they say about disregarding the coach’s instructions in the huddle, right?”

  “When the coach is an idiot, sometimes you have to call an audible if you want to win the game,” he said, pulling out the car keys. “Come on.”

  “Aren’t we going to walk? It’s only across the lot.”

  Leal smiled. “Brice didn’t say which state’s attorney he wanted me to ask. I got somebody special in mind.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Imperfect Matches

  Leal watched Hart picking away at her salad as he ate a burger and fries. Their trip all the way out to the Fifth District had gone pretty much as he expected, with the added benefit of his getting to see Sharon, since he’d remembered that she said she had a meeting there this morning. He was struck by the differences between her and Hart as he’d introduced them, Sharon looking drop-dead gorgeous with the jacket of her gray suit draped over her arm. Hart had l
ooked angular and very sleek, like a thoroughbred racing horse, or rather, a professional athlete. But, hell, he thought, that’s what she is. For the first time he wondered what it would be like to go to bed with Hart, eyeing the sweep of her sleeveless shoulders. He’d already dismissed Ryan’s theory that she was gay. But she might as well have been. She was his partner, and thinking carnal thoughts about somebody you worked with every day was not a good thing. He noticed her watching him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Just wondering what you were thinking,” she said.

  “Trying to figure out our next move,” he said, smiling. “You sure are drinking a lot of water today.”

  “I got up early and ran.” She speared some more lettuce and began to raise it to her mouth. “So is that the person you’ve been seeing? Sharon?”

  Leal nodded, remembering that Sharon had kept it pretty much professional as they all met in the hallway. She’d introduced him to her supervisor, Jack Fretters, and he’d introduced them to Hart. Sharon sat in for a few minutes as they began to explain the basics of their case and ask about the wiretap.

  “Don’t you guys work up by the Fourth District?” Fretters had asked. “Why did you come all the way down here?”

  “We were in the neighborhood,” Leal said.

  Sharon smiled slightly and stood to go, giving Leal a surreptitious wink and mouthing, “Call me,” so only he could see. A promise of good things to come, he hoped.

  “Yeah, that’s her,” Leal said.

  “She’s very pretty,” Hart said. “Too bad her boss shot down our hopes for a tap.”

  “I figured he would,” Leal said. “We just don’t have enough right now. That’s why we need to start pressuring our buddy Martin a little.”

  “You know, I thought of something,” Hart said, pushing aside her plastic plate and wiping her fingers on a napkin. She reached for her purse and took out the big envelope with the pictures of Miriam Walker inside. “I looked in the case file while you and Ryan were up with the LT. Martin gave the original investigators a picture, and there’s no note that it was ever returned to him.” She handed him the photos. Leal wiped his own fingers before accepting them. “Notice anything?”

  Leal scanned the photos. The original had a matte finish and was on heavy card stock. The copies were glossy, thinner, and obviously cheaper.

  “These are the duplicates,” he said, indicating the copies.

  “Which means that after all this time, he didn’t even inquire about getting the original back,” she said. “Don’t you think that’s just a little bit strange?”

  Leal nodded approvingly, then grabbed his chin. “You still set on working out this afternoon?”

  “Yeah, I need to, especially since we have the meeting tonight. Why?”

  “How about a little ride downtown first? Then I’ll join you for the workout.”

  She canted her head and looked at him.

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “In India, when they used to go tiger hunting, they’d send a bunch of natives in to beat the bushes,” he said. “It’s usually to stir the tigers out of hiding so the hunters could shoot them.”

  “I’ve always kind of liked tigers,” she said. “There’s not a lot of them left, you know.”

  Leal smiled. “Yeah, I like real tigers, too. But this guy’s made of paper. If we start to push, he’ll crumple.”

  Martin Walker’s secretary was an attractive, dark-haired woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She eyed the badges that Leal and Hart hung in front of her, then dutifully picked up the phone and spoke very softly into the receiver. Leal pocketed his badge and removed the cigar that he’d bought in the tobacco shop in the lobby. Hart had looked at him quizzically until he explained his plan in the elevator.

  “Mr. Walker will see you now,” the secretary said.

  They followed her to a sturdy-looking, darkly stained wooden door. The office itself was sumptuous, with thick carpeting, a large polished oak desk, and several black leather chairs. One wall contained a built-in bookcase and wet bar. Martin Walker stood up and slipped his jacket over his narrow shoulders, nodding curtly.

  “I’m very busy, Officers,” he said. “I hope this is important.”

  Leal moved forward and held out his hand. Walker shook it with reluctance.

  “We wanted to return your wife’s picture,” Leal said, opening the envelope and removing one of the cheap copies. “We appreciate you loaning it to us.”

  Walker set the picture on his neatly arranged desk. “That’s perfectly all right.” He looked down at it, then back to Leal. “Do you have any new information?”

  “We’re exploring some new leads,” Leal said, sticking the envelope under his arm and peeling open the cigar.

  “New leads?” Walker asked.

  “Yeah,” Leal said, taking out a book of matches. “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Well, this is not a designated smoking area,” Walker said. “But go ahead. What type of new information do you have?”

  Leal shook his head. “I’d better not do this. I’ve been trying to quit anyway.” He dropped the book of matches onto Walker’s desk and went around behind the desk. “Is that a trash can?”

  “Yes.” Walker’s gaze dropped to the desk, and he seemed to be visually startled. “What, err, what were you saying?”

  Leal dropped the unlit cigar into the can, and looked at Walker.

  “Ah, it’s nothing we can go over at the moment,” he said. “But rest assured, when the time is right, you’ll be the first to know.” He smiled again.

  “Sarge,” Hart said, “we’d better get over to see the state’s attorney like the lieutenant wanted.”

  “Yeah, right,” Leal said. He held out his hand again. “Like I told you before, Mr. Walker, we’ll get whoever did this to your wife. You can count on it.”

  “I would like to be kept informed of the progress of the investigation,” Walker said, extending his hand to shake Leal’s. But Leal snared just the ends of Walker’s fingers and pumped his hand.

  “Well, now that you mention it,” Leal said, “there is something else you can do.”

  “What’s that?”

  Leal kept squeezing Walker’s fingers while he spoke. “The list of your wife’s friends you were supposed to make for us. Have you finished them yet?”

  “No, I’ve been rather busy.”

  Leal released Walker’s hand and clucked sympathetically.

  “Yeah, I know how that is,” he said. “But you know what else? Could you also include a list of the people who were with you the night your wife disappeared?”

  “Yes,” Walker said slowly. “I guess I could do that.” He inhaled quickly. “If you think it’s pertinent.”

  Leal smiled. “Everything’s pertinent until we figure out what isn’t. Right, Hart?”

  “It factors in the reconstructive process,” she said. “We try to learn as much about the victim as possible, to better understand her actions.”

  Walker swallowed, then nodded. “I’ll get to it.”

  “Thanks, we appreciate it,” Leal said. “Maybe we’ll drop by later in the week.”

  “Why don’t I give you a call instead?” Walker said. “I have a very busy schedule.”

  “Sure. You still got my card?”

  Walker nodded.

  “We can always drop by your house,” Hart said. “We work a lot of nights.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I finish,” Walker said.

  In the elevator going down Hart smiled at Leal.

  “He didn’t even look at the picture,” she said. “Don’t you think you’d notice it was a copy if you really cared about someone?”

  “He’s nervous. And nervous people make mistakes.”

  “Well, if he needs a cigarette,” she said, “at least you gave him back his matches.”

  Richard Connors was just setting up his traditionally carved white-and-black chessmen for a game against his computer ad
versary when his private line rang. It helped him, when he had a lot on his mind, to keep the game going on the actual board as well as the screen. Frowning, he picked up the phone and listened to a frantic Martin Walker describe what Connors knew must be an embellished version of the visit by the two cops.

  “Marty, Marty, Marty, you’re making more out of it than it really was.”

  “Easy for you to say. They weren’t in your fucking office breathing down your neck. They know, I tell you. They know.”

  “Calm down, for Christ’s sake.” Connors set the white queen on her square. “I got things covered.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what you said the last time.” Walker’s voice sounded close to cracking.

  “They don’t have anything,” Connors said. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Oh no? Well, what about the matches?”

  “It don’t mean shit. I told you, I’ve got things covered.”

  “Your supposed inside man?” Walker said. “Well, you’d better do something fast, Richard, because I don’t plan on going down alone.”

  Connors picked up the white king and set him beside his queen. “Like I said, calm down. And call me tonight at seven thirty, as planned, okay?” He could hear the other man’s rapid breathing on the line.

  “All right.”

  “Good,” said Connors, setting a black knight in place. “I’ll be expecting your call, so don’t forget. I should have some very good news for you.”

  After a few more reassurances, Connors hung up. The chess pieces were still in their places from his half-played game. He studied the uneven symmetry of the board. Marty had been useful to him, in his own way, but he was too stiff and unimaginative. Plus he panicked. Couldn’t deal with the pressure. Sort of like a bishop, powerful, but only able to move along one set of colors. This guy Leal was a knight, capable of outmaneuvering Marty, as long as the cop stayed one move ahead. The two rooks were the insurance. With the business dealings pretty well set in place, Connors felt it was time for a bold move. He imagined pieces scattered all over the board, himself a king, directing others to cut down pawn and knight. And bishop as well. A sacrifice move. Marty had outlived his usefulness, having completed the setups of all the dummy corporations, the foreign accounts, the realty trusts in the names of more dummy companies. The complex layering that would insulate him, just as the rows of pawns and other pieces safeguarded their king.