The Ambitious Card

by John Gaspard

  I thought about it for a moment. “’He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.’”

  “Bingo.”

  “So,” I asked, my mouth dry and my voice raspy. “It’s the next morning?”

  “Yes, it’s about…” she paused, glancing at her watch, “about twelve hours since you walked into Arianna Dupree’s apartment and got clonked on the head.”

  “Who hit me?”

  “We’re still trying to work that out.”

  I glanced past her around the room, recognizing that I was in some sort of medical setting. I was clearly in a hospital bed, that much was certain. I was wearing a hospital gown that, now that I was on my side, was affording a comforting breeze up my backside. There was an IV in my wrist and a heart rate monitor clipped on my index finger.

  And my head hurt like hell.

  The door to the room stood open a crack, and I could see the unmistakable blue uniform of a cop seated right outside the door. I looked back at Deirdre.

  “The cop guarding the door… Is he here to prevent me from leaving the room or prevent someone else from coming in?”

  “A little of both.”

  We looked at each other for a moment. There was a lot more going on than she was telling me. “Arianna?” I asked tentatively.

  Deirdre shook her head. “Dead,” she said.

  “How?”

  “She jumped…or was pushed…off her balcony. Twenty-three stories.”

  I lay back on my pillow, which felt as hard as my head. I stared at the ceiling for several seconds, then looked back toward Deirdre. “Was there a playing card?” I asked, not really wanting to hear an answer.

  “The King of Diamonds,” she said. “They found it in her pocket. It was pretty messed up, as you can imagine, but they found it.”

  “So Arianna, the full-body healer —”

  She cut me off, finishing my sentence for me. “Broke every bone in her body. Yeah, we put that one together right after we found the playing card. Someone has a very sick sense of humor.”

  “And I suppose Homicide Detective Fred Hutton is still convinced that someone is me,” I said, my voice cracking from the dryness in my throat.

  “Well, let me put it this way… You may have been unconscious, but you’ve had a busy night,” she said, getting up and handing me a cup of water from the tray near the bed. It must have been sitting there a while, for it was the epitome of room temperature. I didn’t care. I took a long sip that began the process of lubricating my Sahara-like throat.

  “As the night has gone on,” she continued, “you’ve progressed from the possibility of being charged with first-degree murder and assault, down to accessory to a first-degree murder, down to attempted murder, down to perhaps just assault. If you’re lucky. They’re still mixing and matching your options even as we speak.”

  “No wonder I’m exhausted,” I said, as I handed the empty cup back to her. She refilled it from the Styrofoam pitcher, and I was glad to hear the sound of ice cubes dropping into the cup along with the water. She gave the cup back to me, and I held it against my forehead for several seconds, enjoying the cold, numbing feeling it produced.

  “So why do the charges keep changing?” I asked before taking another long sip.

  “As more facts come in, they adjust the charges to fit the facts,” she said. “For example, originally they thought that you and this fellow Boone were in on it together and that after you both pitched Ms. Dupree off the balcony, you got into a fight and knocked each other out.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “What particular fly soiled that ointment?”

  “They looked at the security tapes. Turns out you got in the elevator at just about the very moment that Ms. Dupree went off the balcony. The tapes are time stamped. If you’d been outside a few seconds earlier, you might have actually seen the fall.”

  “I’m glad I missed that. So what theory popped up after they looked at the security tapes?”

  “They considered accessory to first-degree murder, but Boone is insisting he’s only met you once before. He seems adamant about it, although he refuses to tell us why he was at Ms. Dupree’s apartment. The last I heard, they’re leaning toward sticking the murder charge on Boone and sticking you with some sort of attempted murder charge or accessory after the fact, or at the very least assault on the person of Mr. Boone.”

  “How do you feel about that plan of action?”

  She sat back in her chair and gave me her most serious look. “I’m withholding judgment until you tell me what you were doing in that building and that apartment in particular last night.”

  “I was following Boone.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not entirely certain. Where’s Boone now?”

  “They gave him ten stitches, bandaged his head and took him in for questioning. He spent the night in jail. Apparently his head is much harder than yours.” She leaned forward toward me. “So, why were you following Boone?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got all day and you’re not going anywhere until the doctor signs you out. And in order to sign you out, he has to get by the cop at the door. So, let me ask you again…Why were you following Boone?”

  My head was pounding and this conversation wasn’t helping. However, it was clear that I had few options before me, perhaps even none.

  I gave her an abbreviated version of my conversation with Arianna at Akashic Records. Then I told her about my meeting with Franny, leaving out only those key details that might—if misconstrued—tie me even closer to the current roster of murders. Details like Franny seeing my image connected to the killings.

  “So you followed him around town all day and into the night on the advice of a psychic?”

  “It sounds less reasonable when you say it. All I can say is that it felt right at the time.”

  She leaned back and stared at a point on the wall for what felt like a long time. Then she turned back to me. “Eli, tell me, honestly, do you have any idea why you’re mixed up in all this?”

  “Deirdre, I honestly don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”

  She looked at me for a moment, then reached for her purse and pulled out her ubiquitous tube of lipstick. “Well, let’s see what we can do about getting you out of here,” she said as she began to apply a new coat to her lips.

  Before I could go, I had to wait to be officially discharged. While I waited, a nurse insisted that I eat my breakfast, which had been sitting on the tray by my bed for what tasted like a long time. It was just about as delectable as you might imagine. Finally I received a visit from the attending physician, a good-natured transplanted New Yorker, with thinning red hair and a bushy red beard.

  “Back from the dead, are we?” he said with a laugh as he entered the room and started to page through my chart.

  “So far,” I said.

  “Stick around here long enough and we can take care of that.” He finished with the chart in record time even for a speed reader, set it back in its holder and turned his attention toward me. “I’m Dr. Levine, I was on call last night when they brought you in. You had quite the smack on the head,” he said as he ran a hand over my skull, stopping when I winced. “You’ll have a bump for a few days. But, not to worry. We did an x-ray of your head last night and found nothing.”

  “Rim shot,” I said, tapping out a quick drum roll with my fingers on the bedside tray.

  “Thank you, thank you, I’m here all week.”

  “Try the veal.”

  “To be on the safe side, I’d recommend staying away from the veal in our cafeteria, unless you truly want to be here all week.” He peered into my left eye, shining a small penlight at my pupil. “Seriously, it’s uncommon for someone to be unconscious for as long as you were after a hit on the head. That’s why you spent the night in the hospital while your friend got stitched up and went home.”

  “Actually, went to jail.”

  “Well, yes,
there is that.” He peered into my right eye. “However, what they do to you once you leave here is outside of my sphere of influence. And, my friend, by the looks of things, you’re ready to leave my sphere right about now.” He put the penlight into one pocket of his lab jacket and pulled a prescription pad out of the other. He scribbled quickly on the pad and tore the top sheet off, handing it to me. “Here’s your discharge notes,” he said. “Follow these instructions and you should be fine. Take care of yourself.”

  He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and with that he was gone. I could hear him as he entered the room across the hall. “What,” I heard him say in mock surprise, “don’t tell me you made it through the night. Well, I just lost five bucks.” His voice receded as the door swung shut. Deirdre got up and opened the closet, pulling my pants and shirt off the built-in hangers.

  I looked at the prescription in my hand. Although he had the typically poor penmanship universally attributed to all physicians, I was able to make out what he wrote with no trouble.

  It read simply, “Don’t get hit on the head anymore.”

  It would have been nice to go home and crawl into my own bed, but that was not to be.

  Instead, I was transported, in handcuffs no less, from the hospital to the downtown police station, the same squad room Homicide Detective Fred Hutton and his partner had brought me into after Grey’s death. The transporting officers didn’t take my personal effects this time, just sat me on a bench and told me to stay put.

  There was a general bustle in the room, a buzz of activity, and I was surprised that no one paid the least bit of attention to me.

  From where I sat, I could see the enclosed interrogation room they had put me in during my last visit. The door to the room was open and through it I could see Boone, looking even worse than he had the day before, slumped in a chair.

  Homicide Detective Fred Hutton was pacing behind Boone. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but whatever it was, it wasn’t getting any response from Boone, who had a sullen, glassy look plastered on his face.

  Deirdre, who had driven herself from the hospital, arrived at that moment. She sized up the mood in the room quickly, immediately establishing my position and its relation to her current husband, like a dog owner who’s always on edge trying to prevent two disagreeable mutts from biting each other’s balls off. Assured that we were a safe distance apart, she crossed the large squad room.

  Homicide Detective Fred Hutton saw her coming and made a beeline toward her. He grabbed her elbow and steered her away from the interrogation room, in the process putting them within eavesdropping distance from me. I looked away and did my best to give the impression that I couldn’t hear them.

  “Get anything out of Boone?” Deirdre asked.

  Homicide Detective Fred Hutton shook his head. “He still insists he walked in the apartment and got clonked on the head. Refuses to say why he was there.”

  She glanced in my direction. I was looking at my shoes. “How about the security tapes?”

  “They’ve got cameras on all the entrance doors, in all the elevators, in all the stairwells. Our guys sat with the building’s security guards and went through the tapes. No one who came in that doesn’t belong, with the exception of Boone and your ex. We’ve got men watching the monitors now.”

  “What about motive? For Boone? And, for that matter, Eli?” she added as an afterthought.

  “Looks like Boone just broke up with that girl, Nova something. She was previously involved with Grey and with Ms. Dupree. Apparently she swings both ways.” Deirdre merely grunted and he continued. “Might be some sort of revenge, crime of passion thing. I sent a car to pick her up.”

  “Where’s Eli fit in all this?”

  I snuck a look at them. Homicide Detective Fred Hutton was chewing on his lower lip. Deirdre stared up at him and after several seconds he looked away. Poor bastard. “I’ll admit that, besides proximity…we don’t have much to go on.”

  “Let’s face it, Fred, you don’t have anything to go on with him. He’s met the other suspect once, has virtually no connection to the three victims. All you’ve got is a playing card that keeps turning up at the crime scenes. And that’s not going to hold up in court.”

  “So you just want to let him go? Again?”

  “I think that would be the wisest course of action at this point.”

  “Okay. And then what happens if someone else dies and we prove Eli did it and the press finds out we brought him in twice and let him go twice, on the advice of the District Attorney’s office?”

  “Then I’m going to be updating my résumé and will probably end up going back to the Ice Capades. But until that time, the District Attorney’s office doesn’t feel that there is sufficient evidence for a conviction in this case.”

  “That’s your final answer?”

  “That’s my final answer.”

  I tried to contain a laugh but I couldn’t and it burst out, an explosive snort that was louder than the laugh would have been if I hadn’t tried to suppress it. They both turned in unison and stared at me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “For a moment it sounded like I was flipping channels and had stumbled on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’”

  Homicide Detective Fred Hutton ignored my observation. “Marks, you’re free to go. Again. I’ll get someone to uncuff you.”

  Deirdre walked me out of the office and down the long corridor to the elevator without saying a word. I pressed the button and we waited in silence for the elevator to arrive.

  “I hope I’m not getting you into any trouble with all of this,” I said. “I mean, I appreciate what you’re doing on my behalf.”

  “Damn straight,” she said, giving the button a couple of violent but wholly unnecessary jabs with her index finger. “Now do me a favor and put as much distance as you can between yourself and the other people currently involved in this investigation.”

  “I will absolutely do that, no problem,” I said as the bell signaling the elevator dinged and the doors began to part. Before they were completely opened, I was greeted with a sound that fell somewhere between a yelp of joy and a screech of surprise.

  “Eli!” the voice yelled and I looked over in time to see Nova bounding out of the elevator and throwing her arms around me. She was dressed in tight blue jeans and a colorful shirt that seemed to be an artful blend of peasant blouse and halter-top, which left a healthy serving of her tanned midsection uncovered.

  “Thank God you’re here. Arianna’s dead and they’ve brought Boone in and everything is just colossally fucked up.”

  Behind Nova were two uniformed cops and from the puzzled expressions on their faces I guessed that they had been the ones assigned to pick her up and bring her in for questioning. I imagined that it had been a very interesting car ride, one that they would be recounting to their co-workers for years to come.

  “Let me guess, you’re Nova,” Deirdre said, as she stepped forward and took charge. “I’m Deirdre Sutton-Hutton, Assistant District Attorney. Thanks for coming down. We just need a few minutes to ask you some questions about the unfortunate events of the last couple days. These two officers will take you to our conference room and get you settled. I’ll be in with a representative of the Homicide department in just a moment to speak with you.”

  I’m not sure if Nova understood, or even heard, much of what Deirdre said. But, as I’d discovered many times in the past, Deirdre’s tone and manner were so self-assured, that people generally slipped into a docile mode and instinctively did what she said.

  Such was the case with Nova, who unhooked her arms from my neck, smiled meekly, and followed the two cops down the hall. Before she had gotten too far, she turned back to me. “And Eli, thanks again for staying with me the other night. It was great.” Nova then averted her eyes from Deirdre and continued down the hall with the cops.

  Deirdre turned slowly and gave me a look that was hard to read.

  “It’s not what you think,” I began
, trying to come up with something plausible on the fly.

  “What I think is that she probably came on to you in a big way and, chaste magic man that you are, you spent the night sleeping two feet from her bed, sitting in a chair, fully clothed.”

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback by her prescience. “Then I guess it is what you think.”

  “Go home, Eli.”

  I stepped into the elevator and turned to give her a friendly wave, but she was already headed back down the hall.

  Chapter 16

  I had gotten home from the police station, walking the several blocks to the Carlyle parking ramp to retrieve my car.

  I drove home via side streets, my head still feeling a bit woozy, either from the crack on the head the night before or from the hospital breakfast I’d been forced to eat that morning.

  After giving Harry an abbreviated report on the events of the previous day and night and that morning, we both agreed that he could manage the shop while I went up to my apartment to lie down. Which I did with a vengeance, sleeping for what I guessed to be several hours.

  At some point, while I was sleeping, I heard a persistent knocking.

  The sound of someone knocking on my apartment door is a very rare occurrence. In the months since I moved back in, I don’t think it had happened even once.

  When I was younger, in my teen years, Aunt Alice and Uncle Harry got in the habit of simply calling me on the phone when my presence was required. Neither one wanted to scale the steep stairs to the third floor, stairs even steeper and more treacherous than those they used to go up and down into the shop from their rooms on the second floor.

  At first I thought the knocking was part of a dream. In my dream I was still following Boone, driving slowly behind him as he navigated the twisty streets of Prospect Park. I heard knocking and assumed that there was a problem with the car, but even after I pulled the car over and opened the hood, the knocking persisted. Then something pulled me out of the dream and back to the surface of reality and I woke up.