by John Gaspard
“The mystical qualities of a deck of cards?” she said with a note of doubt in her voice. “Such as?”
I squared the deck and then did a series of one-handed cuts while I spoke. “Well, you might be surprised just how interesting an average deck of cards actually is. There’s a lot going on in here,” I said.
“Such as?” she asked.
“Such as,” I said, mentally scrambling to remember all the arcane facts I knew about playing cards. “There are two colors…red and black…representing day and night.”
“Okay,” Megan said, sounding completely unconvinced.
“There are four suits, each representing one of the four seasons. There are fifty-two cards in the deck—”
“Just as there are fifty-two weeks in the year?” she suggested.
“Exactly.”
I pulled the top card off the deck, extended my arm and made the card first disappear from my hand, and then made it reappear a moment later. “Each suit consists of thirteen cards, which corresponds to the thirteen lunar cycles in a year. And finally,” I said, returning the card to the deck and squaring it again, “If you add up the values of all the cards, you’ll get 364. Add one more for the Joker, and you end up with 365, or the number of days in one year.”
As I finished my recitation, I made one single card—the Joker—rise up out of the deck as a final flourish. Megan laughed and applauded.
“That’s all well and good,” she said, taking the deck from me and returning it to the nightstand, “but what sort of vibrational energies do the cards emit?
“Nothing like the red crystal,” I admitted. “So it’s a good thing you brought it along.” We started kissing again and I’d venture to say that we both forgot entirely about the cards and the crystals for the next few minutes.
Chapter 17
I awoke to music emanating from my cell phone, which by the sound of it was in my pocket in my pants somewhere on my bedroom floor. I recognized the ring tone as the latest one I had assigned to Deirdre, which I’d come to think of as a sort of musical early warning system.
If anyone ever wanted to chart it, the trajectory of the Eli-Deirdre relationship could be mapped entirely from the ring tones I had chosen for her calls.
I started with a Rolling Stones tune and have stuck with them ever since, each song acting as a mini-signpost of the state of our current emotional battlefield.
The first ring tone I used was Honky Tonk Woman—we met in a bar, although to set the record straight, she was not gin-soaked and we were not in Memphis. We graduated to Let’s Spend the Night Together and then settled in with Loving Cup for most of our marriage. You could tell things were headed downhill when I switched to 19th Nervous Breakdown. That evolved into (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, followed by As Tears Go By, Sympathy For the Devil, and finally my latest selection, It’s All Over Now. That one seems to be the one I’ll stick with.
I glanced at the alarm clock, which read 7:12 a.m. If she was calling at that hour, it could only be more bad news. I literally rolled out of bed onto the floor, doing a quick sweep with my hands until I found my pants.
“What now?” I said as I leaned back against the bed frame and rubbed something out of my left eye with the palm of my hand. I glanced over at Megan, who appeared to still be sleeping. Even with her hair a mess and with pillow wrinkles covering her face, she still looked amazing.
“Where are you?” Deirdre said. Her tone sounded edgy and a little ticked off. Business as usual.
“You know, when I was a kid, no one ever asked that question on the phone. You always knew where someone was when you called them.”
“Let’s explore the myriad changes to the daily fabric of our lives wrought by the electronic age at a later time,” she said as she cut me off. “There’s been another attack.”
I sat up straight. “Who? Where?”
“Your friend, Franny Higgins, in her house about three hours ago.”
“Franny,” I said, louder than I had intended to. Megan stirred and opened her eyes. “Is she...?” I asked, not quite able to say the words out loud.
“She’s in the hospital, alive but in a coma. I’d like you to come down here to talk to us.”
“And if I don’t, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton is going to come get me, right?”
“More than likely. We’re at Hennepin County Medical, in Intensive Care.”
“Give me thirty minutes.” I hung up and looked over at Megan, who was wide-awake now, her head propped up on one elbow, a concerned look on her face. “I’ve got to go to the hospital. It’s Franny. She was attacked. She’s in a coma.”
“I’m going with you,” Megan said. Before I could assemble anything resembling a decent protest, we were both dressed and in my car on our way downtown.
I left a note for Harry on our way out, and Megan called one of her store clerks about opening up without her.
Traffic was light and our conversation was sparse, due perhaps to the early morning hour, or the news about Franny, or the slight awkwardness that settles in after a first-time intimate encounter.
But she took my hand as we walked through the parking ramp and if I had any worries about the likelihood of a second encounter, those doubts vanished in an instant.
So, less than twenty-four hours after I had been discharged, I was back at the hospital, this time with Megan in tow. We made our way through the stark hospital lobby, into the elevator bank and up to the fifth floor.
When the elevator doors opened, I found myself face-to-face with Homicide Detective Fred Hutton.
Behind him was his tiny partner, Miles Wright, and across the small lobby was Deirdre, deep in conversation with a nurse. Two uniformed cops stood near the automatic door that led to the ICU. The doors swung open and an orderly came through—I could see two more cops on duty further down the hall.
Homicide Detective Fred Hutton glared down at me. He was holding his cell phone in his hand. “Marks,” he said flatly. “I was just going to call and send someone to pick you up.”
“Happy to save you the cab fare,” I said, moving past him and toward Deirdre. The nurse said a few hushed words to her as we approached, and then she slapped the silver panel to open the doors and disappeared into the ward.
“She’s still in a coma,” Deirdre said, anticipating my question. “She’s unconscious but stable,” she added, looking from me to Megan and then back to me.
“This is Megan, my landlord, er, neighbor. She’s a friend of Franny’s. And me,” I was finally able to sputter out. “What happened?”
Homicide Detective Fred Hutton and his partner joined our small group, standing like silent sentries behind me.
“Someone broke into her house around four this morning,” Deirdre said. “The intruder attacked and left her for dead, not realizing that she had managed to trigger the medic alert alarm that she wore around her neck.”
“It might have been triggered inadvertently in the struggle.” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton corrected.
“However it happened,” Deirdre continued, “when she didn’t answer her phone, an ambulance was dispatched. They found her alive, but unconscious.”
“And what makes you think this is connected to the other murders?” I asked.
Deirdre looked over at Detective Wright, who opened the manila folder he was holding and took out what had become a very familiar sight—a clear plastic evidence pouch containing The King of Diamonds.
“It was found on the nightstand. And once again, our killer is exercising his wit. I understand Ms. Higgins was a phone psychic?” Deirdre asked, delivering her question as much to Megan as to me.
“Almost exclusively,” Megan answered.
“Well, she was strangled. With a phone cord.”
It made sense, in a perverse way.
“And what’s even more interesting,” Deirdre continued, “is that Ms. Higgins had two phones in the house. Both of which were cordless.”
“The killer brought his own phone
cord?”
“Apparently.”
“And where’s Boone during all this?” I asked.
“Still in custody,” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton said.
I turned and looked up at him. “But if he was in custody when this happened, obviously he’s not the killer.”
“We’re still not convinced that this is a one-man operation. Speaking of which, where were you at around four this morning?” He had just the slightest trace of a smile on his lips, like a cat that’s convinced that he’s cornered a mouse.
“He was with me,” Megan said suddenly. All eyes turned to her, surprised at this admission.
“At four a.m.?” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton repeated.
“All night,” Megan answered, a bit defiantly.
“And you can attest that he didn’t go out and come back?” Deirdre asked.
“He would have had to climb over me to do it.” Megan said. “And I’m a very light sleeper,” she added, looking up at Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. There was a long silence as the detectives and the Assistant District Attorney exchanged looks.
“Can we see her?” I asked, feeling that a change of topic was in order.
“For a minute,” Deirdre said. “The doctors are going to take her down for a scan in a few minutes, to see if there’s any brain damage.” She hit the plate on the wall and the doors swung open.
Deirdre led the way and we followed. I looked back to see Homicide Detective Fred Hutton glaring after me, and then the doors shut and he was gone.
Both of the times I had met Franny, I had been struck with how tiny she was. Now, seeing her in the hospital bed—with all the tubes and wires and the machines whirring and beeping—she seemed even smaller.
And certainly more frail.
We stood outside her room, the three of us looking through the window at the tiny woman who looked to be on the verge of being swallowed up by the large, white hospital bed.
Megan put her hand to her mouth the moment she saw her.
“I’ve never seen her be so still,” Megan finally said in a whisper. “Every time I’ve been with her, she’s always been moving. And moving and moving.”
“She’s a tough old bird,” a voice from behind us said. I turned to see Dr. Levine, the red-haired and red-bearded doctor from the day before. He recognized my face but I could tell he was having trouble placing me. I mimed being hit on the head and his face immediately brightened.
“Ah, yes, my unconscious friend from yesterday,” he said in a jovial, but appropriately quiet voice. “Have you avoided being hit on the head since departing the loving embrace of our care?”
“So far,” I said.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, as he looked from me to Megan and Deirdre and then through the glass at Franny.
“Under the circumstances,” he said, using an only slightly more serious tone, “she’s doing quite well. Breathing on her own, which is a good sign. No bones broken in the struggle. Pulse and blood pressure are both good. Brain activity is strong, but we still need to check for internal bleeding. The problem is, oxygen was cut off from her brain for, well, we don’t know for how long. And so we’re in wait and see mode right now.” He looked at the three of us and then patted Megan’s shoulder. “Don’t fret. I think she may still have a few surprises in her.”
“I hope so,” Megan said, her voice cracking just a bit.
He nodded at me and moved back to the large, circular desk that filled the center of the unit. Two cops leaned casually on the desk, conversing quietly. They took turns looking in our direction and keeping tabs on our location.
“What’s most distressing about this,” Deirdre said to no one in particular, “is that she probably saw who attacked her. She just can’t tell us who it is. At least not yet.”
We all watched the small figure in the bed for several more minutes, the only sound the hum of voices at the desk and the steady beep-beep coming from Franny’s room.
I anticipated another run-in with Homicide Detective Fred Hutton when we left the ICU, so I was pleased to find him in the midst of his own run-in as we exited the ward.
When we came through the automatic doors I could hear him arguing in a low voice with someone in front of the elevators and was surprised to see that his confrontation was with Megan’s soon-to-be ex, Pete.
Pete looked a little disheveled and certainly not up to going one-on-one with the iron giant. As soon as he spotted Megan, his face lit up. “That’s my wife, right there,” Pete said to Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, pointing in our direction. “She’ll vouch for me.”
Megan and I both stopped dead in our tracks, not certain why Pete was there or what Homicide Detective Fred Hutton may have said to him in our absence. In the momentary confusion of our arrival, Pete was able to sidestep both homicide detectives and make his way over to us.
“Megan, I called the shop this morning and Trina told me about Franny and said you were down here. Is she okay?”
“She’s still in a coma,” Megan said, taking a subtle step away from me. Pete looked over and seemed to see me for the first time.
“Oh, Eli, hi,” he said, clearly a little confused about what I was doing there.
“I gave Megan a ride down here,” I said by way of explanation.
“Oh, great, thanks,” he said, and then turned back to Megan. “Can I see her?”
Megan shook her head. “Like I said, she’s in a coma. They’re taking her down for a scan, but otherwise they don’t know much. I mean, they’re not sure when or if…she’s going to come out of it.”
Pete moved toward her and they hugged awkwardly. I turned to see Deidre looking at me from one side, and Homicide Detective Fred Hutton looking at me from the other. Their expressions were inscrutable.
“Well,” Pete said as they came out of the hug, “as soon as I heard, I thought I should be here. For you. And for her.”
“That’s great, Pete,” Megan said. “I know she’d appreciate that.” Megan looked at me but managed to make it look like she was looking at everyone in the group. “Well,” she said, “I guess we should be going. Call me if you hear anything,” she said to me as an afterthought.
“I will.”
Pete took her by the arm and they walked the short distance to the elevator. After a small eternity, the elevator arrived and they stepped into it. Pete threw me a small wave and Megan smiled weakly as the doors closed.
Deirdre and Homicide Detective Fred Hutton were still looking at me with deadpan expressions.
“What?” I asked, my voice coming out a tad higher than I would have liked.
“Her husband?” Deirdre said dryly.
“They’re separated. Practically divorced.”
“Uh huh,” she said, unconvinced.
“Am I needed here any longer?” I asked.
“What’s the hurry? Got a date?” she responded, smiling up at Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, who returned the smile in spades.
“I have things to do,” I said.
“Fine,” she said. She turned to Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. “Do you have any further need for Mr. Marks?”
“I do not,” he said, doing a lousy job of suppressing a grin.
Deirdre turned back to me. “Then you’re free to go.”
As I walked to the elevator I could feel them staring at me, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of turning around. My elevator arrived and I stepped in, turning to press the button for the lobby. I looked up to see Deidre and Homicide Detective Fred Hutton smiling at me from across the lobby.
“You know what I think, sweetie?” Deirdre said to Homicide Detective Fred Hutton without taking her eyes off me.
“What’s that, dearest?” he replied.
“I think that someone might want to consider removing moral superiority from his list of annoying personal attributes,” she said.
“I think you’re right,” he replied.
The elevator was closing quickly, but I’m prett
y sure they both had time to see me flip them off before the doors shut.
“Eli! Hello there, Eli.”
I was hustling through the hospital lobby, toward the freedom promised by the front revolving doors, when I heard the voice calling after me.
The nasally British accent could only belong to one person.
I turned to see Clive Albans striding confidently toward me. Once again he was dressed like a modern day Oscar Wilde.
“I thought that was you,” he said in a voice way too loud for the setting. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here,” he added as he shifted into a conspiratorial tone that was almost louder than his regular voice. “Being that you’re still a person of interest, as the police are so fond of saying.”
“Hello, Clive,” I said, hoping that he would adopt my quiet, conversational tone. “You caught the scent on this one pretty early, I see.”
“Yes, well, the police scanner is my new best friend,” he said, his voice echoing. “A phone cord, can you believe it? Isn’t that delicious? I mean, I recognize that there’s a human life involved here, but you have to admire the chutzpah, don’t you? A phone cord,” he repeated, shaking his head admiringly. “Wonderful turn of events, wouldn’t you say? I believe I’ve got myself a real page-turner here, not to mention the movie rights, knock on wood.”
He saw the look on my face and instantly switched to a more funereal tone. “But, as I say,” he said somberly, “there is a human life involved here, can’t let that get trampled in the furor. A wonderful woman. Had a chance to speak with her myself just the other day. Tremendous energy, lust for life and all that. Such a shame.”
He bowed his head for a brief second, and then a moment later turned and bounded toward the elevators. “Well, good to see you, Eli. Glad to see you’re not in jail. Yet.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” I sighed, and then a thought occurred to me. “Say, Clive,” I called after him, “was that you I saw talking with Boone the other day at The International House of Pancakes?”
