The False-Hearted Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “For what?” Tony and Mulvaney asked simultaneously.

  “How about deliberately providing false information to the police in a murder investigation? As I recall, he told you that I was the killer.”

  There was a flash of ruthless merriment in Mulvaney’s eyes. “That’s right, he did say that. Anthony Swift, you’re under arrest for willfully interfering with an official investigation. Turn around so we can handcuff you.”

  “I’m not going back to that cell. You released me.”

  “For murder. This is a new and different charge,” said Mulvaney.

  “Oh, and please resist arrest, because I know the three of us would enjoy using only that physical force necessary to overcome your resistance,” added Delcambre, making what I suspected was a quotation from the Baltimore Police regulations sound extraordinarily menacing.

  Like all bullies, Tony was a yellow cur at heart. He apparently saw something in our faces that he didn’t like, because he turned around and put his hands behind his back. Delcambre handcuffed him and started to lead him away.

  “We don’t have the time to fight traffic to get to the airport, so on your way back from the cells, grab a set of keys to a marked cruiser,” Mulvaney told the departing detective.

  “I’m driving,” Delcambre called out as he led Tony around the corner.

  Noticing Mulvaney’s lips twitch ever so slightly, I asked, “Is that not a good thing?”

  “Do you like amusement park thrill rides?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “We won’t actually go upside down, but it may feel like it. Let me go and grab my coat,” said Mulvaney, heading for her office.

  “Speaking of coats, you wouldn’t let me bring mine when you arrested me. Do you have a spare jacket or something here?”

  “Let’s see.” Mulvaney slowed her pace and began to visually inspect each work cubicle. Then she darted into one and came out with a blue coat. The jacket had Baltimore City Police patches on the shoulders and the word POLICE in bright yellow block letters on the back. She tossed it to me saying, “As long as you’re impersonating a Baltimore cop, you might as well look like one.”

  A couple of minutes later, we crossed the parking lot to the police cruiser. The rain was no longer coming down in a blinding torrent, but it was still fairly heavy, which didn’t bode well for a high-speed journey to the airport. I lowered myself into the backseat of the patrol car, while Delcambre got behind the wheel and Mulvaney belted herself into the front passenger seat. Delcambre fired the engine up with a roar and I was a little disturbed when I thought I heard him chuckle.

  Racing through the parking lot, he turned the overhead emergency lights and siren on, and made a right turn onto Eastern Avenue. Then Delcambre accelerated in a fashion very similar to an F-14 Tomcat fighter jet being catapult-launched from the deck of an aircraft carrier. We went from zero to seventy in about seven seconds and I was slammed back into the seat by the insanely abrupt increase in speed. Then, without warning, he blew the red light and made a sluing right turn onto another street.

  Several high-speed turns later, we were southbound on Interstate 895, otherwise known as the Harbor Tunnel Thruway. Now that we were off the city streets and on a freeway, Delcambre apparently decided he could really open it up and fly. However, there was a problem with that theory. Under optimum circumstances, other drivers are usually completely oblivious to the approach of an emergency vehicle, and our current conditions were awful. It was raining and all of the other motorists had their car windows up, so nobody could hear the siren and visibility was so poor that no one could see the flashing blue and red lights until the very last second. This tended to cause panicked reactions from the other drivers when they suddenly realized they had a cop car careening past them on the left…or right…or in the breakdown lane. I noticed that Delcambre wasn’t partial to any particular path.

  We ran into heavier traffic at the junction of the Tunnel Thruway and Interstate 95. Most sane people would have taken this as an unmistakable sign to slow down, but Delcambre simply increased the frequency of his zigzags. Not long afterwards, we descended into the Harbor Tunnel, where the roadway narrowed and Delcambre was actually forced to reduce his speed to Star Trek impulse power. However, he stomped hard on the gas pedal when we came out on the south side of the harbor, and when I idiotically looked over the detective’s shoulder, I saw that we were doing a cool eighty miles an hour when we flew past the tollbooth plaza.

  Not that I could hear anything in the backseat and over the siren, but I guessed there was a radio call for Mulvaney, because she snatched the microphone from its holder on the dash. There was a brief exchange of mimed conversation and then Mulvaney shouted back to me, “They’ve agreed to talk to us until three o’clock when their jet begins boarding, and they’ll meet us at the state police offices at the airport!”

  “It’s two-twenty-five now, but please don’t hurry on my account!” I yelled back.

  We were about two miles from the interchange with the Baltimore-Washington Parkway when traffic began to clog and the roadway seemed filled with a solid brake-light wall of eighteen-wheelers. The rain was coming down hard again and so fast that the windshield wipers were almost useless. Delcambre swerved hard to the right, shot into the slow lane, and right there in front of us and nearly at a stop was a huge cement mixer truck. We were going maybe seventy miles an hour and I realized there was no room to stop and that we were about to die.

  My brain was filled with a sudden and peculiar mélange of practical and esoteric questions, all occurring instantaneously. Was this going to hurt as much as I anticipated? How was Ash going to take the news that after all those dangerous years of cop work and with the joyful prospect of several decades ahead of us making teddy bears together, that I’d gone and gotten myself killed in a car accident? Why was this truck even out here, because what sort of fool pours cement in heavy rain? Was there a heaven? And more importantly, if there was and if, on account of some angelic paperwork mix-up I actually got in, would St. Peter be willing to explain to Ash, when she finally arrived, that she shouldn’t be too cross with me? After all, except for the fact that I’d knowingly gotten into a car driven by an amateur auto stunt driver, and was aware in advance that we’d be traveling at breakneck speeds on a series of wet, slick, and crowded highways on one of the rainiest days of the year, I really had tried to be careful.

  I shut my eyes, yet the expected collision didn’t happen. Don’t ask me why, since the only answer I can come up with is that Delcambre secretly possesses some sort of superhero powers that allow him to alter the flow of time or maybe the physical properties of the universe. It’s the only thing that makes sense, because although there wasn’t any room to maneuver, he somehow did. I heard a truck’s horn blare, we veered hard to the right, and at the last second we swerved into the right-side emergency lane.

  The other amazing thing about the episode was that Mulvaney didn’t so much as grimace as we narrowly avoided being the guests of honor at a police funeral. I was impressed. And now that I knew her a little better, I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and attribute her stoic reaction to steady nerves and not face-paralyzing cosmetics.

  Once we were clear of the tie-up and back on the highway, Delcambre looked over his shoulder at me. “Scared?”

  “Not so you’d notice,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  “You need to do what I do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep your eyes shut,” he said with a giggle.

  “You’re killing me, Shecky. Hey, Lieutenant?”

  “What?” Mulvaney said.

  “I’ve got an embarrassing request to make.”

  “Do we need to stop at a restroom?”

  “No, worse. Can you call ahead to the airport and have one of those golf cart things standing by for me? By the time I hobble to the State Police offices, it’ll be five o’clock.”

  “I’ll take care of it…and it�
��s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Mulvaney, reaching for the radio microphone.

  “Thanks.”

  We made the transition onto Interstate 195 and in the distance I could see the tall parking structures that stand in front of Baltimore-Washington International Airport. Delcambre asked, “Are the State Police offices on the ground or upper level?”

  “Upper,” said Mulvaney.

  Delcambre nodded and got into the lane marked for arriving flights. A moment later, we skidded to a stop in front of the terminal. There was a Maryland state trooper in a rain jacket, sheltering beneath an overhang and watching the flow of traffic. Noticing the arrival of the cruiser, she jogged over. Meanwhile, Delcambre opened the police car’s back door and helped me out.

  “I’m supposed to lead you guys to the office,” said the trooper.

  “Did you receive our request for the handicapped transportation?” asked Mulvaney, getting out of the patrol car.

  The trooper pointed through the sliding glass doors. Inside the terminal, I saw a small white golf cart. It had a rotating yellow light mounted on its front bumper and a cheerful purple-haired lady who looked old enough to be my mother sitting behind the wheel. Knowing that the vehicle would also make a shrill beeping sound throughout its journey, I suddenly regretted having asked for the special transportation. However, there was nothing to do now but swallow my pride and accept the ride to the State Police offices.

  We went into the terminal and as I clambered aboard the cart, the driver said, “Hi, hon.”

  “Pleased to meet you”—I squinted at her name tag—“Thelma.”

  “C’mon,” said Mulvaney, as she, the trooper, and Delcambre began jogging through the concourse.

  “Hey, can you do a tail job?” I did my best Humphrey Bogart, complete with facial tic.

  Thelma grinned, obviously remembering the scene from The Big Sleep where Bogie asks the woman taxi driver to follow Joe Brody’s car to the Randall Arms. “I’m your girl.”

  “Then follow them, but don’t get too close.”

  The old woman gunned the cart and with yellow light flashing, we beeped our way through the terminal in pursuit.

  Nineteen

  The State Police office was located down a corridor that led from the terminal’s main concourse and by the time I arrived, Mulvaney and Delcambre had already gone inside. However, the trooper who’d met us at the curb was waiting for me, holding the door open. I came as close as I ever will these days to leaping from the cart, thanked Thelma for chauffeuring me through the airport, and hurried into the office. Inside there was a tiny lobby with the inevitable bulletproof-glass reception window and an armor-plated door that looked as if it could withstand an anti-tank missile strike. There was a buzzing sound as someone disengaged the electronic lock. The trooper pulled that door open and I followed her through an empty clerical office to a snug roll call room at the end of a short hallway.

  It was like every other cop briefing room I’ve ever visited. At the front was a small table where the shift supervisor sat during roll call. A chalkboard was on the wall behind the desk and it bore the underlined message: ALL OVERTIME MUST BE APPROVED IN ADVANCE! Beneath it, some anonymous dissenting cop had scrawled: “Just as soon as I develop ESP and can predict when there’ll be a last minute call, you fool.” The tables and chairs where the troopers would sit were the usual ratty and mismatched assortment of hand-me-downs and throwaways that inevitably end up at police stations. There was a large blueprint-style map of the airport on one wall, a combination TV-VHS tape player on a table in the corner for watching training videos, and clipboards hanging from hooks loaded with wanted posters from the FBI that no one had ever looked at. The only thing missing were the state police officers; they were all out at work.

  Instead, there were Mulvaney, Delcambre, and the foursome of plutocrats I’d seen at the teddy bear show cocktail reception the previous evening. It was warm in the room and everyone had taken off their coats. The Wintle execs were dressed in business casual for the flight home and none of them looked even remotely cheerful.

  One of the men was making a big point of studying his platinum wristwatch, which I had no doubt was a Rolex that had cost more than our Nissan Xterra. The man appeared to be in his early sixties with an aquiline nose that looked as if it had once been broken and imperfectly set. His glossy, perfectly styled hair was the same color as a polished silver dollar, his teeth were white and flawless, and his skin was that golden tone only attainable after many hours in a tanning salon. The only incongruous element was that his fingernails were bitten to the quick. From the way everyone was watching him, I assumed he was Jeffrey Wintle and Mulvaney confirmed this when she made the introductions.

  The other three Wintle suits were the company’s legal counsel, Steven Coburn, Peter Kinney, the vice president of manufacturing, and Carolyn Fielding, the VP of licensing. Coburn was short—maybe five-five—slight in build and those features, combined with oversized upper incisors, a receding hairline, and cold brown eyes, brought to mind the image of an attack Chihuahua. Kinney was a half-foot taller and older, with hair and a moustache that looked as if it had been dyed with Kiwi brand cordovan boot polish. Fielding was willowy, yet her face was fleshy and heart shaped. Her jaw was a little slack and the skin beneath her eyes was puffy and gray, which led me to believe that she was weary and had been so for some time.

  “You aren’t with the police.” Wintle gave me an accusatory look and, although he lived in west Texas, his accent marked him as a transplant from somewhere in the urban Northeast.

  “You know me?”

  “I’m the owner of one of the biggest toy and stuffed animal companies in the country. It’s my business to know you. Lyon’s Tigers and Bears. Wife is Ashleigh, right? I like her work.”

  “So do I. Thank you and I’m impressed.” It was no accident that he’d only commended Ash and ignored my work. I wasn’t offended. In fact, my opinion of his expertise in teddy bears rose slightly and I was relieved that the guy wasn’t going to give me a smoke-and-mirrors show.

  “So, how come you’re here with the police?”

  “Back before I began to make mediocre teddy bears, I used to investigate murders for a living. I’m helping with this case.”

  “Then maybe you can start by telling me what the hell this has to do with us.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, and by the way, you’ve got seventeen minutes.”

  “It concerns you because Jennifer Swift was murdered this morning—”

  “What?” Wintle gaped at me in disbelief.

  I continued, “And the motive is more than likely connected with the licensing contract that she and Tony just signed with your company.”

  Kinney shook his head as if bewildered while Fielding turned to look at the map of the airport and then down at the floor.

  Coburn put a cautionary hand on Wintle’s shoulder. “Jeff, in light of the fact that this incident is probably going to generate a civil suit, I strongly recommend that you terminate this interview immediately.”

  “Mr. Wintle, neither you or your associates are considered suspects in this investigation,” Mulvaney nervously cut in.

  “We just want to know some details about the licensing contract,” I added.

  “Then I’d suggest you get a subpoena dueces tecum because we have nothing more to say. Good day.” Coburn had precisely the sort of high-pitched raspy tone I’d expect from a talking Chihuahua that thought he was one cool and bad hombre. He nodded in the direction of the door. “Let’s go, Jeff.”

  “Mr. Wintle, I realize we live in a world full of ambulance-chasing lawyers.” I shot a disdainful glance at Coburn. “And someone might file a lawsuit. But I’m asking you to do the right thing and help us.”

  “Jeff, let’s go.” Coburn was slipping his jacket on.

  “What if it was your wife or someone you loved lying there in the morgue and the killer was free?”

  “Jeff.”

  Wintle shrugged and wouldn’t
meet my gaze. “Sorry. I’d like to help but…well, nothing personal, but this is strictly a business decision.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant?” Fielding asked diffidently. “Do you or the other detective have a blackjack or a sap?”

  Mulvaney was baffled by the request. “No ma’am, those sorts of weapons are against department regulations. Why?”

  Fielding gave me an imploring look. “Then could I borrow your cane for a minute, Mr. Lyon?”

  “No, and, again, why?”

  “Because I swear to God, if I hear one more person describe morally bankrupt behavior as ‘just business’ again, I’m going to hit them and I don’t want to hurt my hand.” Fielding erupted like one of those old Saturn V rockets that used to propel the Apollo moon missions into orbit. “What are we, Wintle Toys or Monsters Inc.? Jeff, I’ve worked for you for over fifteen years and I’ve kept my mouth shut as you pulled off every sort of rotten legal stunt in the book. I even went along with you when you shifted our manufacturing out of the country to lower costs—and to avoid the child labor laws. But the era of me being a good ‘team player’ is officially done. We’re talking about stonewalling over a murder that we might have helped cause and I won’t go along with that.”

  The three men were stunned at her outburst and Kinney began to edge away from Fielding as though he’d suddenly discovered she had some sort of virulently contagious and fatal disease. Wintle’s lips were compressed and I couldn’t decide whether his cheeks were pink from shame or anger. Coburn was the first to recover his composure.

  “I think it would be best if you calmed down, Carolyn.” The lawyer sounded imperious, yet there was an underlying note of apprehension in his voice.

  “And I think it would be best if you kept that sewer outlet you call a mouth shut, you revolting little shyster.” Fielding’s eyes were brilliant with anger. Turning to glare at Wintle, she continued in a stiffly cadenced voice, “And you. For God’s sake, Jennifer is dead and the only thing you’re concerned about is damage control and the corporate profit margin. I had always hoped there was at least some limit to what you’d do for a buck, but I guess I was wrong. And here’s the worst part—”