Malice in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  My cell phone rang as I passed between the two main entrances of Abraham Lincoln High School, where I’d spent many years expounding on the usefulness of commas and the many joys of literature. Or was it vice versa? I dug out my phone and caught the call.

  “Good news, Aunt Gerry. The results on the murder weapon are inconclusive. All the lab can say is that the knife with Zoe’s prints is the same kind as the one used to murder Brad. That, plus some very fancy footwork on the part of Zoe’s PD, and the judge is allowing bail.”

  We both gave a relieved sigh. “I’m so glad,” I said.

  “So, in case you’re in touch with June, you can tell her, okay?”

  “What makes you think—?”

  Skip broke in with a loud “ahem.” “It’s okay. I know where she is.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have a key to her house, so I put on my civvies . . . my June’s boyfriend clothes, not my official on-duty cop clothes . . . and had a look around.”

  “She just needed to check on Rhonda, Skip. She had no idea Rhonda might be in Lincoln Point.” I felt myself rushing to get everything out, to explain June’s actions. “Naturally, she figured the woman was still in Chicago.”

  “Ha,” Skip said. “So that’s where she is.”

  I took the phone away from my ear and looked at it. Busted again. How many busts this week? I couldn’t count.

  “You tricked me,” I said, with a definite whine in my tone.

  “How could I do such a thing, huh? Treat you like a common criminal? Yada yada. You’ll get over it.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. “We do that all the time,” he’d said one evening when his mother and I questioned a tactic we saw on a television crime drama. “Last week we told this guy his friends ratted him out, and we told his friends the same thing. We told another guy we found stolen goods in his house.” His response to our strange looks had been, “Come on. It’s not exactly water boarding. And of course, we only use it when we’re sure the guy’s guilty.”

  “You didn’t even go into June’s house, did you?” I asked him now.

  “I didn’t have to. You did the work for me. Thanks.”

  I hadn’t heard Skip’s voice so light all week. I let him enjoy the moment.

  I took a seat on a bench at the edge of the high school lawn. Its worn green slats were carved up with sets of initials that catalogued romances through the ages.

  “What are you going to do about it?” I asked.

  “You mean, am I going to charge you with obstruction of justice?”

  I sighed. Enough was enough. “What are you going to do about June? Charge her with something, too?”

  “Now that you’ve confirmed her location, I’ll take it from here.”

  It didn’t seem fair that Skip got what he wanted out of this conversation, and I got nothing. “Do you know where Zoe is now?”

  “She’s still in jail. I said she’s been granted bail, not that she had made bail. She hasn’t been able to get the money together. Her PD is working on it.”

  I was sure there were some very good public defenders, but I was surprised to hear that a professional woman would not be able to hire her own lawyer. On the other hand, Zoe was still quite young and trying to make it in an area of California where housing costs were nearly double those in Chicago.

  I got up from the bench, where JT had loved MF, and continued my walk toward the civic center, still on the phone with Skip.

  “Thanks for the information,” I said, a little snideness working its way into my voice.

  I clicked off before he could get the last word.

  Chapter 18

  “Working on Sunday?” I sympathized with my former student, now coconspirator, Drew Blackstone, at his post in the basement of the Lincoln Point police building.

  “The guys in here don’t get weekends off, so neither do I,” he said.

  I extracted a tin of ginger cookies from my tote (thus proving premeditation). “These are for Amy,” I said, putting the tin on top the tote. (I’d reasoned that giving Drew a gift might be considered bribing an officer; giving a gift to his wife who was still mourning the loss of her mother was innocuous.) “Please tell her I’m sorry I didn’t know about her mother’s passing, and I’m thinking of her.”

  “She’ll like that,” Drew said. He took the tin into his beefy hands and put it in a drawer of his gray, government-issue desk, then deposited my empty tote and purse on the shelf behind him. I had my doubts about whether Amy would ever taste a ginger-flavored crumb, especially since I saw Drew’s lunchbox (the old-fashioned black metal type) lying open, most of its contents gone. A little after one in the afternoon was probably just the right time for dessert.

  I wouldn’t want to say that the actions were connected, but a few minutes later I was walking through the metal detector and then down the hallway to the visitors’ area, accompanied by Officer Laura Fischer, the nicer of my latest two brushes with policewomen.

  I found a much more subdued Zoe Howard in the visiting area this time.

  “Thanks for coming, Gerry,” she said in a voice I could hardly hear.

  I wondered if her lawyer should be present, but figured it was her choice and I shouldn’t worry about it.

  Officer Laura allowed us a hug. Zoe felt as limp in my arms as the rag dolls I’d made for Maddie when she was a toddler.

  “I heard the news,” I said. “You got bail.” I tried to sound upbeat, but it was hard to be too excited knowing she was still a long way from abandoning her ugly, ill-fitting uniform.

  “Yeah, as if.” Zoe sniffed. “My brilliant PD, whom I’ve already fired, got them down to three hundred thou. Do you know what my house is worth? Less than I owe on it. I got one of those miraculous loans and now I really do need a miracle.”

  I swallowed hard and managed to stifle my desire to comfort her (or put up my own home) at the expense of learning anything useful. I wished I’d heard from Ryan so that I’d know for sure he was the person who let Zoe into the Rutledge Center.

  Then I remembered lessons learned from Skip. There were the theoretical lessons, what he’d told us in what he probably considered casual conversation—that the police could be ruthless in interrogations, inflicting not physical, but emotional and psychological pain. And then there was the very practical lesson he’d just given me when he lied and manipulated me into telling him where June was.

  If the police could be as cavalier about evidence or eye-witnesses, surely I could get by with something less egregious.

  I sat across from Zoe and looked her in the eyes, as if I had all the authority of the Lincoln Point Police Department behind me. “Why did you lie to me about how you got into the building where Brad was working?”

  She put her head down. I thought she’d fallen asleep, until I heard her small voice. “I didn’t lie.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Zoe, first, there was no custodian on duty on Monday night. I checked on that. And second, it’s impossible to walk straight through from the television studio to the artists’ work area as you claimed. I checked that, too. You’d need at least three keys.” (I made that last part up, in keeping with my new investigative strategy.)

  Zoe ran her fingers through her hair, which was badly in need of a shampoo. I heard a whimper, then a growl. I looked around for something she might throw at me but saw nothing. Except the chair she was sitting on.

  But I needn’t have worried. When Zoe picked her head up I saw that tears had formed in her eyes.

  “I didn’t want to get him in trouble.”

  “Ryan Colson?”

  She nodded and sighed, resigned to what I hoped was the last of her lies being uncovered. “Uh-huh.”

  “How did that come about?”

  “I went to the north side of the complex, where I thought Brad was working, and Ryan happened to be outside. He was in a dark corner. With someone.” Zoe emphasized “with,” and I got the message. “When I pulled up they tried to duck into d
eeper shadows, but I saw the shiny buttons on his uniform, so I went over to see if he’d let me in. He hemmed and hawed.”

  “The security for the building doesn’t seem that tight.”

  “Well, I guess they’re supposed to be a little more careful at night. The management is afraid someone might . . .”

  Zoe paused as we both realized that management’s greatest fears had been realized that night.

  “Did you know Ryan before then?”

  “Not that well. I’d seen him around and knew he was security, but that’s all. One thing I did know was that he wasn’t supposed to be fooling around with the little honey in the corner.”

  I had a hard time thinking of Nan Browne as either little or a honey. “Are you saying you threatened to expose his liaison if he didn’t let you in?”

  “Uh-huh. Stupid, I know. But it worked.”

  “But everyone knew that he and Nan were . . .” I paused, giving consideration to using the entwined index finger/middle finger gesture that was so popular lately. Instead I finished up with, “. . . an item.”

  “Right. That’s the point. He wasn’t with Nan. He was with Nan’s daughter.”

  There was no end to the surprises of the day. “The one who’s an artist?”

  “Uh-huh. Diana Browne. At least she’s closer to Ryan’s age. Can you imagine? Getting it on with mother and daughter both? I think he’s more afraid of Nan than he is of his wife.”

  I sat back from my intense listening position. Ryan Colson was busier than I thought. I wondered how he was going to fit in a role as Judge Stephen A. Douglas on Tuesday if he got it.

  Something else made sense now, too. Nan Browne had been overheard yelling at Ryan, saying she’d be visiting him in jail. Either she found out he’d breached security by letting Zoe into Rutledge Center or he confessed it to her as pillow talk. What would she yell out if she knew her boyfriend was also her daughter’s? I didn’t want to be there when she found out.

  Or did I?

  “Anyway,” Zoe continued (since I was speechless), “he just said, ‘let’s call it even’ and that I should make up some other story about how I got in. I guess I should have checked whether my story was even plausible.”

  We heard the static-laden sound of a walkie-talkie approaching. Officer Laura left her post in the corner of the room and opened the door.

  Uh-oh. The intimidating Officer Lois Rosen loomed in the doorway. Had she heard that Officer Laura had been lax, allowing a hug and the occasional hand-patting between me and the prisoner?

  Zoe and I stared at the two women, who stood deep in conversation. When they broke apart, the bad cop left and the good cop came over to us.

  “You’re free to go,” she told Zoe.

  Zoe jumped up, pushing her chair back. “For real?”

  I hoped they weren’t sending her, unprotected, into the arms of the bad cop.

  “Yup. Your bail’s been posted. You can pick up your things back in the east wing.”

  Officer Laura seemed pleased to be the one to make this announcement. I had the sneaking suspicion that she was still trying to impress me, Skip’s aunt. She probably hoped I’d pass the message on to my nephew about how nice she’d been to a woman she thought was my friend. Questionable logic, but I’d seen it before among Skip’s fans.

  Zoe, in a new spurt of energy, brushed past me to the door.

  “Zoe, I still need to talk to you,” I said to her back. “I have a lot more questions.”

  “Some other time.”

  She was out the door. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to spend one extra minute in the airless basement.

  Neither did I.

  I had another short but refreshing walk ahead of me, from the police building to the library. I needed air to cleanse me of the feeling of frustration I felt. I’d been blocked at every turn, it seemed, getting close to information only to have it walk out on me—with June, with Skip, and now with Zoe as soon as she was free to leave.

  I wondered if Zoe realized she wasn’t yet off the hook. She’d been bailed out, not exonerated. I had to find a way to get answers to my questions about Brad Goodman. And another interesting question had materialized.

  Who had posted Zoe’s bail?

  I sat on a bench outside the library, too early for my three o’clock meeting with Lourdes. This bench was free of carvings, which might have meant that few young lovers frequented the library on a regular basis. I felt a twinge of regret that I’d agreed to the two-hour tutoring session. I wished I had the afternoon clear to pursue the information I needed. Where was the Geraldine who not long ago wished she could do more volunteer work to help people like the town’s ad hoc fiddler and sidewalk artist?

  Bad tutor! I told myself.

  And where would I do more good even if I were free? In Chicago urging June onto a plane to San Jose? Pounding the streets of Lincoln Point looking for Rhonda? Taking a magnifying glass and pipe to the Rutledge Center to look for clues?

  I was better off tutoring.

  I still had time for phone calls, however. I called June’s home and cell phones, just in case she’d slipped into town without notifying me. I had an idea that she might have been the one who posted Zoe’s bail. She’d been away for all of the latest, nonfatal stabbing incidents and I felt she should know about them, for her own and Zoe’s protection. I left messages for her.

  I came upon Ryan’s card in my purse and considered calling him, but let it go. I had what I needed about his role in letting Zoe into Rutledge Center. The only thing left was for me to intimidate him further into talking about what else he saw the night of the murder, and I could do that anytime.

  During a lull in my own dialing (as we used to say), my cell phone rang.

  “Hi, Grandma! It’s me!”

  “I can tell. Are you having a good day with your dad?”

  “We’re home. Guess what he bought me?”

  “A new, frilly dress for parties.”

  She let out a loud laugh. Maddie probably thought she’d never want that to happen, but I had a feeling it was just a few years away, though maybe not the frilly part.

  “Guess again. Be serious, Grandma.”

  “A new computer game.”

  “No, no. Guess again.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Okay, here’s a hint. How am I talking to you right now?”

  I hesitated. Did Richard buy her a cell phone? I didn’t want to bring it up—if I was wrong, it would only start a storm of whining. I stalled just long enough for Maddie to run out of patience.

  “I have my own cell phone, Grandma! I have my own cell phone and it’s red!”

  “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. Now instead of picking you up on time, I can finish all my investigating first and just stay in touch by phone.”

  “Nuts,” she said. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “Never.”

  I had to admit, I felt a weight lift at the idea of Maddie’s being in constant reach.

  Skip was next on my list to call. (But not until I’d called Maddie three times at her new number, “to test it.”) Skip’s office was just across the great lawn from where I was sitting, but I doubted he was there. I called his cell.

  “Hey, Aunt Gerry,” he said. I heard traffic noise and pictured him with his new car headset. He was on a campaign for everyone in the family to use one. “I suppose you want to know who posted Zoe’s bail. I have no idea. I just heard she was released.”

  “I know.” I didn’t feel the need to tell him I was there when she walked out. He probably knew anyway. “I’m concerned for her safety. What if whoever is the real killer is just out there waiting for her?”

  “What if she’s the real killer?”

  “Then I guess we’re the ones who need protection.”

  “You got that right. Anything else I can do for you?”

  From his grouchy tone I gathered that June hadn’t called him. “Since you’re so pleasant and cooperative to
day—yes, I do have a question for you.”

  “Sorry. I’m just . . . you know. How can I help you, Aunt Gerry?” Skip used his standard falsetto when he wanted someone to know he was forcing pleasantness. I was pleased there was a touch of humor left in him.

  “What became of Rebecca Garrity or whatever was the latest name Rhonda Goodman used? The last I heard, she was pulled in for disturbing the peace and you were going to check on a search warrant for a hotel room.”

  “Nothing ever came of that. She walked away. She quoted some laws that made it okay for her to be marching out there, and when that didn’t fly too high, she pointed out that she was from Florida and the laws there are different and she couldn’t have known. No one had time for a nuisance like that, so they let her go since she didn’t really hurt anyone.”

  “As far as we know,” I said.

  “As far as we know.”

  I’d already committed a faux pas by implying that the various sections of the LPPD should be more on speaking terms with each other, so I held back now. I wished I could find a circuitous way to point out how likely it was that Rhonda had done all the stabbings, from the paintings, to the raccoon, to the fruit. And, on the way—to Brad Goodman.

  I tried another tack. “I’m sure there’s a procedure in place to find her and question her about all the stabbings. The fruit and all.”

  “Yeah,” Skip said.

  I seemed to have exhausted my sources and my ability to extract information. All I could do now was return to my normal life and meet Lourdes.

  Once I pushed distractions to the back of my mind, I enjoyed working with Lourdes. She was a very willing and conscientious student. The hardships she’d endured as an immigrant had made her more appreciative of the opportunity to learn than most of my teenage students through the years.

  I’d collected excerpts from the texts (or alleged texts) of the Lincoln-Douglas debates for Lourdes to use for reading comprehension exercises and for her civics questions.

  “It makes me feel part of the festival,” she said now, as she read a Lincoln statement. “ ‘. . . There can be no moral right in connection with one man’s making a slave of another. ’ Lincoln was a very smart man,” she added. To which I agreed.