by Chill, David
"What?"
"It never did."
*
I offered to buy Gail dinner that night and she agreed, but only if she could go home first and take a long, hot bath. That would give me time to wrap up a few final business matters. It was five o'clock and I had a client in need of a de-briefing, but there was someone else I needed to visit first.
The sun was going down in back of Baron Hall but Dick Bridges was still behind his desk. His wide frame was hunched over a set of papers, and the low hum of the air conditioning was the only sound. I said nothing as I opened the door and walked across the carpeted office.
"Have a seat, Burnsy," he said without looking up.
"You’re very intuitive."
He put his pen down and leaned back into the padded leather chair, rubbing his large face with a pair of meaty hands. "Glad you came by," he said. “I couldn’t get a lot of info from the uniforms in the parking garage. Figured you could give me a de-brief.”
“What do you know?”
"Not a lot. But I do know that Gail's done some good leg work on your behalf."
"I'll say."
Dick cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah," he continued, "she did a bit of digging around for you. Talked with some guy back in Cleveland. Apparently Ashley Stark was nailed a few times for prostitution. Turning tricks since she was fifteen. Isn't that something? Young Norman marrying a lady of the evening."
"The wedding'll be delayed for a few years," I said.
"How's that?" he frowned.
"Unless they choose to have the prison chaplain perform the ceremony. The Robbie Freeman case is solved."
Dick took a deep breath. "Norman did it to Robbie?"
"Nope," I said, shaking my head side to side. "Ashley."
A wry smile crossed Dick Bridges' lips and perhaps a new level of respect. "Wouldn't have guessed it," he said. "But I never would've guessed she'd have been a whore either."
"You should do a few reference checks on your job applicants. There might even be a few professors with colorful pasts. It's amazing how many people aren't what they say they are."
"True," he said. "Very true. But that was McCallum's call."
"So to speak," I smiled. "He hired Ashley for that very reason. She worked over at Neary's and knew her way around the block. When the high school recruits needed to be entertained, she had a posse of friends willing to do it discreetly. As for Ashley herself, she was probably getting tired of turning tricks and wasn't about to start processing claims in an insurance office. Working here gave her a chance to meet a few eligible young bachelors. And when old Norman came along, she reeled him in like a rainbow trout."
The wry smile had dissipated from Dick Bridges' face. His expression turned more somber and he started to rub his hands together. "McCallum wields a lot of power around here. But he's getting old. And I don't like the idea of somebody running a call girl operation on my campus."
"Helps the football program," I reminded him. "And that means it ultimately helps the University coffers."
"And it'll put my butt in a sling if word gets out. Anyone else you know involved?"
"A few of McCallum's assistants. But there's another area you ought to be more concerned about."
"What's that?"
"Drugs. Some of the guys on the team are pretty heavy users. One or two in particular were dealing."
"Who?"
I shook my head. "No names."
"Burnside," Dick sighed.
"I gave my word. Without integrity, a man is just another carnivore. No different from any jungle animal."
"Such a philosopher," he said, picking up his glasses. "Go talk to Gail. She was moping around today over something. You two have a fight?"
"Not that I was involved in," I said with a frown. "I'm seeing her later. She saved my neck, you know."
"Do what?"
I related the story of the past afternoon, and Dick sat mesmerized, particularly when I described the bout between Ashley and Gail. He took it all in, smiling when I described in minute detail the punch that landed on the bigger girl's schnozz and sent her reeling on her back.
"She's a good soldier," he said at the end of my discourse. "And I believe I once told you she could take you apart as well."
"That she can," I said, getting up to leave. "But she's gone one step further."
"How so?"
I smiled. "She's putting me back together again."
Chapter 21
I arrived at the Freeman estate as a gardener was aiming an obscenely loud leaf blower at a pile of Jacaranda blossoms. He wore a surgical mask over his mouth and nose, and the tips of a pair of foam plugs were visible inside his ears. At least someone found a way not to be bothered by the ungodly noise of those contraptions.
I pounded the brass knockers and Mrs. Freeman answered the door. She looked divinely chic in a turquoise nylon sweat suit with color coordinated flip flops. Her chestnut colored hair was tied back with an orange silk scarf. I decided she and Norman were probably the same age.
"Harrison Freeman, please."
She gave me a truculent look. "This isn't about the lot, is it?"
"No, I'm afraid it isn't."
"I'm Harrison's wife and I don't appreciate being deceived. Or made a fool of."
"That wasn't my intent."
"Then you can tell me what this is about," she declared. "You don't need to disturb Harrison. He was very upset this morning. Everyone was."
I peered at her. "You want to know what I'm going to tell Harrison?"
"And then I'll relay the message."
I nodded. "I'm going to tell him who killed his son, Robbie," I said. "Would you like to get a pen and paper?"
She put her hand over her mouth. "You're serious."
"I'm serious."
Her tawny eyes filled with concern and she ushered me in without a word. I followed her into the living room where Harrison Freeman was quietly watching the evening news in a dark green wing chair. Norman was with him, lounging on the couch.
"Good evening," I said, my voice particularly somber. This was not a time for jokes. What I was about to tell them was the second bombshell they would have to endure in one week. I didn't envy them, wealthy or not.
"Burnside," Harrison said, his voice anxious and his face drawn. "What did you find in Robbie's apartment?"
"I found out who killed Robbie."
Both Harrison and Norman drew collective breaths. Harrison's wife sat down quietly next to her husband, and pushed a button on the remote control. The television went dark.
"Who?" he asked. "Tell me who and I'll tear the son of a bitch apart limb from limb."
I shook my head. "The suspect is already in police custody. And you've got the wrong gender as well."
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"I have something to tell you. It won't be very pleasant to hear or very easy to accept. But it's the truth and you need to know it."
Norman sat up. "Who are you saying did it?"
I turned to him. "I'm sorry, kid. The police arrested Ashley Stark today. She'll be charged with homicide."
"What?!" Norman screamed, jumping up. "You're crazy!"
I shook my head. "Ashley entered the apartment during the party. When Robbie and that pimp Curt dragged Lenny Caputo off to the bedroom, Curt popped Robbie over the head. Curt returned to the party and a few minutes later, Ashley threw him over the ledge."
Norman was on his feet, fists clenched, breathing through his nose like an angry bull. His muscles were tensed and he seemed poised to take action. Considering his state, I didn't especially want to tangle with him right then, so I took care to avoid any wise ass comments.
"Lies!" he shouted. "Your a liar. I hired you to investigate Robbie, not frame my fiancée!"
I rubbed the bridge of my nose without taking my eyes off him.
"Your fiancée wears a white denim jacket, correct? With stars on it?"
Norman nodded angrily. I continued.
"I no
ticed in the party DVD that somebody with a white jacket entered the apartment. That same someone left later but without the jacket, because all I saw was a black sleeve. Apparently she left the jacket there, and we found it stuffed in Robbie's closet. Understandable, after all, it was a hot night and she had other things on her mind. And inside the jacket was a claim stub from a pawn shop. She hocked your engagement ring to pay Curt. To help her take out Robbie. She slipped into the party and one of the strippers there caught a glimpse of her in Robbie’s room. We know she was there because she got a parking ticket outside the building that night.”
"That's nuts!" Norman said. "She told me the ring slipped off her finger and..."
"What kind of a car does Ashley drive?" I interrupted.
"Acura," he fumed. "Same as me."
"Is her license plate --," I stopped and took out Saavedra' list of citations given that night. "6XYY618?"
Norman frowned. "I'm not sure."
"You can confirm that. And you can double check the VIN numbers if you like. Her car was cited for a parking violation in front of Robbie's apartment. At 10:58 p.m. That's about three minutes before your brother was killed."
"But why?" Harrison frowned. "Just why would she do all this?"
"I’m not sure yet. But I do know Ashley had a checkered past. You probably don't know this, but she was arrested back in Cleveland for prostitution."
"No way!" Norman shouted. "That's absurd! I can't believe this guy!"
"It's true. And Ashley used to work at Neary's, the strip joint Robbie and some of his friends hung out at. So that’s how she knew Curt. Best I can figure is Robbie found out about Ashley's background and threatened to reveal it to your family. Ashley whacked him to protect herself."
"Protect herself?" Norman frowned. "But from what?"
I looked over at Harrison and shook my head. Norman's naïveté was a little much at times. "Million dollar families don't grow on trees."
Harrison Freeman sat down and put his face in his hands, while his wife stroked him softly. Norman meanwhile stood fixated in front of the couch, fists still clenched, but his mouth was open and his expression was of bewilderment more than anger. He didn't look like he wanted to take a swing at me anymore. If anything, he looked rather helpless and pleading. Say it ain't so, Burnside.
As if there weren't enough bombs dropped in the Freeman household tonight, Norman uttered another one. As his father proffered a horrified look, Norman asked where he could find Ashley. He wanted to be with her. Despite the fact that she was a street walker who hired some ape to kill her fiancée’s brother, or that she finally took it upon herself to throw Robbie off a twenty-two story building, Norman Freeman still cared about her. Go figure.
The whole family could have probably used some professional counseling, but my license only covered investigations. And not feeling it was my place to tell someone how to live, I gave Norman the address of the Purdue precinct and wished him luck. Lord knows, the kid sure needed some.
*
I stopped by a florist shop and picked up a dozen sterling roses, and they smelled as pretty as they looked elegant. I arrived at Gail's apartment to find her dressed in sweats, makeup gone and her hair pulled back. Handing the roses to her, I kissed her cheek.
"They're beautiful. Let me put them in water."
Taking a large crystal vase with squared panes lining the exterior, she filled it from the tap halfway. Pulling a pair of scissors from the drawer, she clipped the stems one by one so they fit in comfortably. She placed the vase on the kitchen table carefully, and took a few steps back to admire it.
"Voila," I said. "You do wonders with simple things."
"It's not exactly out of Architectural Digest, but it's a start."
We settled into the couch, Gail with a glass of Pinot Noir, me with a bottle of Blue Moon. I offered to take her to dinner but she thought ordering a pizza would be more appealing tonight. I could hardly disagree. It had been a rough day.
She flicked on the television and seemingly the moment it came on, a picture of Robbie Freeman flashed on the screen. The anchor woman, a pretty Korean, said that a member of the LAU athletic staff had been taken into custody and was being charged with murder. No mention of Norman was forthcoming, however they showed a ten second talking head shot of Captain Lafferty speaking about how he broke the case. Nobody bothered to ask him why he had closed the case two days ago and declared Curt Salvo as the culprit.
"What a hero," Gail said dryly.
"Life isn't always fair," I reminded her. "But things have a way of getting sorted out in the long run."
"You cracked that case. You deserve the recognition."
"It's not everything. Feeling satisfied with myself is worth a lot more. Not to mention the fee I collected for putting in one week's work. Plus, I didn't do it alone. If it wasn't for you, the suspect might be halfway down the Baja right now. I owe you."
Gail managed a smile, albeit a little one. "That brings up something else you owe me, you rat."
"Rat? Me?"
"Yes, you!" she said, elbowing me softly in the ribs but managing to cause me to wince nonetheless. "In case you don't know, it's common courtesy to talk to a girl the day after you sleep with her for the first time."
I raised my hand in surrender. "You have a point. I get kind of involved in my cases."
"And you especially should have called when you left without saying good-bye."
I frowned. "You looked so lovely. I didn't want to wake you."
"Next time wake me. It's an empty feeling to find yourself alone when you're not expecting it. I feel a little vulnerable afterwards."
"Message received," I said, happy there would be a next time. I sipped some beer and the sports anchor came on and talked about the Dodgers snatching defeat from the jaws of victory by walking in two runs during the ninth inning today. Not everyone was on a roll.
"That was part of why I came over today," she said. "The other part was about Ashley."
"I know. Dick Bridges told me."
Gail shook her head. "What a faker. Ashley Stark had everyone on campus assuming she came from a ritzy background. I met her once and came away thinking she was part of a Midwest aristocracy. She told me her father was a meat packing executive before he died. And that her parents were killed in a private jet crash over Bali. My contact in Ohio said in actuality she was a second generation whore. Father unknown. Ashley had been walking the streets since she was an adolescent. It's not difficult to see how someone could become so hardened that way. She had everyone fooled."
“Especially Norman,” I said. “She was a good actress. Most whores are."
Gail stroked my wrist and seemed to read my mind. "Bringing back some memories of Judy? There's not much you can do about that one. You tried to help and she betrayed you. A real Judas."
"I was also thinking of Danielle. I tried to help her and couldn't."
"You know," she said, "there are some things you just can't fix."
"Maybe," I answered. "But if you give up on others it just means you give up on yourself. It's a negative sum game."
*
My Pathfinder was ready a few days later and it looked good on the outside. The grill was shiny once more and the radiator, fender and front end had been replaced. The garage had even gone the extra yard and washed it. Gleaming in the warm sunlight, it looked as sturdy as ever. The Focus had gotten me where I needed to go, but the Pathfinder was like a dependable old friend. It was a part of me.
I returned the game DVD I owed Johnny Cleary and told him I wasn't ready to trade in my magnifying glass for a whistle and a tackling sled. Football had been Johnny's whole life; for me it was a stepping stone to something more intriguing, not to mention more satisfying. The Ashley Starks of the world posed a bigger challenge than Notre Dame ever could.
There was one piece of old business left and I decided to take care of that today. The mechanic at the garage had apologized for not having the proper chrome side molding
yet so I asked him for a favor. I suggested he lend me something that would cut through thick metal with as little fuss as possible. He blinked a few times but then pulled out an enormous pair of wire clippers that were so sharp they could sheer a man's hand off at the wrist. I told him it would definitely do the job. To his credit, he didn't bother to ask what exactly that was.
I arrived at the home of Cindy Wachs at a little after three. Parking my truck across the street, I calmly walked across her driveway and began to work on the padlock that was hooked into her garage door. If any of her neighbors noticed, they kept it to themselves. After a couple of tries I snipped the lock open, jerked it out and put it in my pocket. I replaced it with a padlock of a similar style. Then I went back into my truck and waited. And waited.
At about six-thirty Mrs. Wachs came chugging along. She turned her Plymouth Fury into the driveway and slowly eased out of her car. The oversized brace was still wrapped conspicuously around her neck and she moved with the fragility of a woman twice her age. As she went to unlock the garage however, a curious thing began to happen.
No longer seeming as feeble as she had a moment ago, Mrs. Wachs had the spry movements of a vigorous young woman. She tugged and pulled at the lock as if she had the strength to open it with her bare hands. She pushed the key over and over again into the lock but to no avail. Finally she slammed the keys to the ground, reared back and kicked the garage door with all her might. She slammed her fist on the hood of her car and stared at the garage in anger. After a full minute of glaring at the lock she stooped down and picked up her keys with no problem and stormed up the stairs to her front door. Cindy Wachs was as agile as a college student.
I had to make a concerted effort not to laugh. The camcorder was stable as long as my breathing was regular and I didn't make any sudden movements. The whole episode took no more than a couple of minutes but in that time I had unraveled what Mrs. Wachs’ lawyers had probably spent months putting together. I had the feeling the Differential Insurance Company would be very pleased. After all, the camcorder never lies.
The End
Thank you for investing the most valuable commodity you have -- your time -- to reading my novel. I appreciate it very much and really hope you enjoyed it!
