Wilding Nights

by Lee Killough

  “Like what?”

  “Such as locating him herself and deciding he’s unconnected to the murder.”

  That was possible. One more thing she never mentioned. Of course she knew nothing about Sir Galahad and that his description might just as easily fit Church as Manning. Which reminded him...he needed to locate the Benton’s waitress.

  “Check the case book for a supplemental on Church and see what it says about him.”

  Back out at his desk, Zane checked. The Church report had no supplemental attached.

  He sat staring at the case book, filled with questions. After several minutes he pushed to his feet and headed out of the office, down around toward Lieutenant Garroway’s office. He might be about to shoot himself in the foot, questioning the actions of the queen of homicide to her former partner, but when had he ever hesitated to dash into a mine field or fall out of a frying pan?

  Garroway stood at the division secretary’s desk, going over some papers with Willa Bertelli.

  “Lieutenant...do you have a minute?”

  Garroway turned and peered over half-glasses. “Sure. Go on in and make yourself comfortable.”

  Zane had to climb over unpacked cartons to reach a side chair.

  Garroway came in and shoved a box aside so he could close the door. “I never realized how much stuff I had in my other office. God knows how long it’s going to take to put it all away. The last time Jill and I moved, we still had boxes in corners a year later.” He sat down in the other side chair and tucked the half glasses in the pocket of his shirt. “What can I do for you?”

  “I...um...” How could he put this? “I’d like some advice on how to work with Allison.”

  Garroway leaned forward, elbows on the arms of the chair. “What’s the problem?”

  Zane took a breath. “I don’t know what’s going on in the case. There’s so much for me to learn from someone with her rep, but I’m not having the chance. She doesn’t take me on her interviews. I don’t even know who she’s interviewing. She doesn’t tell me what she’s doing. I keep coming across stuff she’s never mentioned.”

  Garroway smiled wryly. “How well I know.”

  Zane stared at him, a weight in him lifting. “You mean she always works this way?”

  Garroway nodded. “She’ll take off on some line of investigation pulled out of what seems the clear blue sky and never explain until she turns up with a suspect and probable cause for arrest. Sometimes that’s good, because independently you come up with solutions you wouldn’t if you’re both thinking on the same lines. But...” The wry smile returned. “...it did mean that a lot of the time reports were the only way I knew what she was doing. We ended up partners on all the homicide cases because I could go with the flow. Everyone else she drove crazy.”

  No kidding, Zane reflected. “Then how do I keep from covering the same ground she is?”

  “You ask her.” Garroway leaned back and propped an ankle on his other knee. “She may not volunteer information but she’ll always answer questions...without getting mad or treating you like the village idiot. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He would try that. “Thank you, sir.”

  And now, that Benton’s waitress. No sense going down there because she had probably not come on duty yet. So he returned to his desk and called Benton’s, asking for the manager. After introducing himself, he said, “I understand you have a waitress named Monica, Margo, Mira...something like that? She works late.”

  They had a Misty Gant, the manager said, who normally came on at six but who had called in sick today. The manager gave him Misty’s number.

  A hoarse voice answered just after the answering machine started its message. “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you. This is Detective Kerr from the police department. Have I reached Misty Gant?”

  For a moment labored breathing came over the line. “The once and future Misty, maybe. I’m not so sure about right now. How can I help you?”

  “Monday night do you remember an altercation between a woman and two men? The woman was a very tall blonde.”

  “The super-model?” More strained breath. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about what you remember about the fight.”

  “Just a minute.” Her cough made Zane’s lungs hurt to hear. “It wasn’t much of a fight. You could tell the yuppie type the blonde came in with was pissed at her about something, but I was up by the bar so I don’t know what they said. He pushed her away and this other guy who’d been sitting there jumped up and grabbed the yuppie’s jacket. I wondered if I was going to have to call Ben, that’s the bartender who’s a bouncer when we need one, but the two of them took it outside. That’s all there was to it.”

  “What time was this?”

  She coughed again. “Around quarter to twelve.”

  “Describe the second man.”

  Her breath wheezed. “I didn’t see him well. He was about the same height as the yuppie, but skinny, and had kind of flyaway hair. Not blonde.”

  Rats. Not much help. “Would you know him again if you saw him?”

  “Probably not.”

  “What did the blonde do after the men left?”

  This time the cough made him want to ask if she needed oxygen and made him feel guilty for bothering her. “She had a drink.”

  “Do you know how long she stayed?”

  “Long enough to finish the drink, and she didn’t hurry it.”

  That seemed to confirm Makepeace’s story. “I’ll need to have you come in and make a formal statement.”

  After a long pause, her voice came in a pathetic wheeze. “Now?”

  “Tomorrow is soon enough. Tell the front desk to send you up to Crimes Against Persons.”

  “Okay, tomorrow.” Another cough racked her. “If I’m still alive.”

  Zane grinned. She was keeping a sense of humor.

  And speaking of formal statements...he needed to set up a time for taking Makepeace’s. When he called Makepeace’s number, however, an answering machine picked up: To leave a verbal message, press One; to send a numeric page, press Two; to reach the main household phone and probably a live person, press Zero. Zane listened in astonishment. Main household phone? He chose option Two and left a page.

  Then stared at the phone after hanging up. Despite Makepeace’s desire he say nothing to Allison, Zane saw no choice. This was too important. And Garroway had said, if he had questions, ask. Zane picked up the receiver and punched in her number.

  “Where can we meet?” he asked. “Where are you?”

  “The Seashell Hotel.”

  A mental image of sagging lobby armchairs and threadbare carpet flashed in his head. “What are you doing there?”

  “Canvassing for Blondie’s accommodations. If he isn’t local, he must be a tourist.”

  “She isn’t a tourist. That’s what I need to tell you. I know who she is.”

  He heard an intake of breath, then her voice came back soft and urgent. “Where are you? Close to her?”

  “Nowhere close,” he reassured her. “It doesn’t matter, though. She doesn’t seem to be involved in Demry’s death.”

  7.

  Allison stared at the phone. Then he could not really know Blondie’s identity. Could he? It was difficult to think when she still felt numbed by that heart-stopping moment he dropped his bomb, flooding her with equal parts profound relief, bewilderment how he found Blondie first, and terror he might be in arm’s reach of her. They definitely needed to talk. “Meet me at Jorge’s Pizza.”

  Since Jorge’s sold carry-out, everyone sat on their cars or leaned against the building as they waited for their orders. A few people ate their pizza there, too, and the gulls watched like vultures for scraps...perching on the light poles and the parapet of the pueblo style roof, or landing on the parking strip and edging up to the vehicles. Indignant squawks and flashing wings announced Kerr’s entrance into the parking strip. Allison had taken the farthest slot to give the
m privacy. Everyone else wanted to be in front of the counter. When he pulled in alongside her, they still had four parking slots to the next car.

  As soon as he halted, she jumped into the passenger side. “Tell me about Blondie.”

  Listing to him, Allison clamped tight on her expression, sweating ice, swearing bitterly. Son of a bitch! That idiot! Or those idiots. Someone with police knowledge helped Peter set this up. Peter himself, of course, considered the charade a lark...like one of his repo tactics. Likely this Misty was one of his female conquests, charmed into backing him up. Both of them totally ignorant of the trouble he had landed them and Detective Goodnight in. Now she had a Peter grenade to juggle, too.

  “Number five-three!” the counter man yelled.

  “That’s us. Would you pick it up?” She reached into her shoulder bag for her phone.

  Zane peered over his sunglasses a her. “Are you sure? There are three pizzas.”

  She turned on the phone and brought up the address book. “If it isn’t enough, order another. I’ll cover it.”

  “Viapiana was right.” He reached into the back seat for his Stetson.

  Allison punched in Gary Golden’s number. “Did you put Peter up to this Blondie stunt?”

  Gary laughed. “No one has to put Peter up to anything. You know that. He had the idea when he realized he had a girlfriend in a bar with right location. I just...advised.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Did you advise him of the shit he was jumping into! Has he warned his girlfriend what she’s doing lying to a cop?”

  “She didn’t lie to anyone. Peter answered her phone with his voice disguised.”

  Kerr was coming back with the pizzas. Allison climbed out of the car and moved away. “Go ahead and start without me,” she called to him.

  Gary’s tone went prickly. “What are you complaining about? You said you couldn’t blame this guy in Austin because you didn’t have any evidence of him being in town the night of the murder. Now you do. Kerr can go chasing him instead of Blondie.”

  “Where the hell did you get the idea I’d approve faking evidence! As it happens, the guy in Austin has an alibi.”

  “So?” Gary’s tone shrugged off the detail. “Kerr will chase some non-existent guy. It’ll keep him out of your way and protect the clan.”

  Protect the clan? She wanted to strangle him. “The way to protect the clan is to catch Blondie, not create quicksand! Unless I fake every report I write, the bosses, and certainly Kerr, are going to notice that he’s after a male suspect who appears suitably psychotic but I’m still concentrating on the ostensibly innocent Blondie.”

  “You’re supposed to be so smart,” he snapped. “You figure something.”

  “I have! Peter has to recant.”

  “Well, that’s going to be hard, because I believe he and Misty will be unavailable for a while.” Gary paused. “If he doesn’t come in, are you going to rat him out to the humans?”

  Of course not. That possibility never occurred to her. “If you know where to reach him, tell him to call me! And from now on in this case, when I need help, I will ask for it and tell you what I need!”

  She turned around to find Kerr standing frozen with the pizza boxes. She swore silently. In her anger she must have accidentally shown some Shift halo. As a uniformed officer she learned to use that instinctive human fear. Practicing on drunks and junkies, who were never sure later what they experienced, she perfected how to power up just enough to intimidate the hell out of someone. But she wanted to choose her subject and moment, not sling the effect around indiscriminately and send them into screaming panic.

  She reached for the top box as if noticing nothing. “I’m starved.”

  He swallowed and set the other boxes on the hood of his car. “That call seemed... intense.”

  “You heard?” She made her voice casual.

  “No. Just saw...the body language.” He opened a box and picked up a slice of pizza. “Do you think Church could be Sir Galahad?”

  Fiona? she thought, then her relief that he heard nothing turned to a curse as she realized who he meant. She said hurriedly, “I hadn’t considered that, no.” Stupid...forgetting the lie. The lapse lasted only seconds, but she could tell that Kerr noticed. She better dispose of Church so she could quit keeping track of the fiction.

  “Why didn’t you issue an ATL on him?”

  He had discovered that? Her mind raced, hunting an out. “Did I forget to tell you he contacted me? It wasn’t long after you’d called the number he gave me. It turns out he’s an undercover DEA agent.”

  His eyes were invisible behind his sunglasses and the shadow of his hat brim, but she felt him staring. “You did forget to tell me, and there’s no supplemental in the case book.” He paused. “There are several things in this case you’ve forgotten to tell me about.”

  What else had he learned about? She glanced around. “This is no place for a heart to heart. I think someone mentioned you live in the area.” Not only would it be private, but seeing his home environment might tell her things about him that would help her juggle the Kerr grenade.

  “You want to go to my place?” he said in surprise. “Uh...follow me.”

  She had not really expected “in the area” to mean smack in the middle of the warehouse district, and a building that except for good windows, looked little different from the derelict across the street. A freight door rolled up and he drove in, gesturing out his window for her to follow. Inside, about half the ground level had been cleared for parking. Above them, a cut-out central area of each floor let her see up to wheels, pulleys, and ropes hanging from the rafters.

  “I’m using the third floor. You have a choice between stairs and a freight elevator.”

  “Stairs are fine.” Carrying the pizza boxes, she followed him up. “I presume you’re legitimately here and not squatting.”

  He grinned. “Yes. It was actually cheaper to buy than a lot of houses. I just had to replace the roof, doors, windows, electrical wiring, and plumbing in order to live here. There’s still a lot of work to be done. I’ll be lucky if I finish by the time I retire. But it has plenty of wall space.”

  The second floor looked untouched, a cavernous, cob-webbed space littered with abandoned equipment. Then they reached the top floor, and Allison stopped cold.

  Directly opposite the stairs on the front wall of the building hung a massive oil painting. It maintained a presence even in the vastness of the loft. The dark, impressionistic landscape could be either rocky terrain or the crumbling ruins of a city. On high points, forms of uncertain species crouched brooding, while predatory eyes glinted in the darkness of the foreground. And above it all a night sky blazed with stars and shimmering curtains of Northern Lights. She could almost see them move and hear a crystal ringing, the songs of volke souls. Allison had no need to look for the signature. The style shouted: Honora.

  Without being conscious of moving, she found herself standing at it, reaching up to follow the paint ridges as she traced the Northern Lights. “How did you come by this?”

  Honora kept photographs of most pieces, but Allison did not remember seeing this one. A glance at the lower corner found an inscription rather than a signature: For Benedict. It had been a gift to a lover, then.

  When Kerr did not answer she glanced around to find him gaping at her. Then he started and shook himself. “Ah...I bought it at an estate sale in Missouri about eight years ago.”

  Missouri! Then he moved here, where it had come from. The coincidence raised goosebumps on her.

  “I’m not sure why I bid on it.” Kerr picked up the pizza boxes from where she had set them on the floor and brought them over to a leather couch with the battered patina of an old bomber jacket. “We were there for the antique glass. It isn’t signed and Susan detested it on sight.” He cleared books and law enforcement magazines from a matching ottoman and opened one box on it. “But...it called to me.”

  Her grandmother’s work had that effect on human
s...it either drew or repelled them.

  He sat on the couch, gazing at the painting. “Every time I look I see something different...an alien planet, a post-apocalyptic Earth, new things there in the shadows.” He paused. “A lot of women don’t like it.”

  Human women, obviously. “What did you pay for it?”

  Kerr smiled wryly. “A hundred dollars and my marriage.”

  Honora would be flattered that he preferred her painting to a woman.

  A slice of pizza in hand, Allison turned to study the rest of the loft. Which seemed mostly space, the furniture making little islands in the vastness. The leather couch, ottoman, arm chair suite for one. An entertainment center for another...looking small even though it held a TV, CD player, police scanner, plus shelves of action adventure videos and an eclectic collection of CD’s that gave him choices from Mozart to Meatloaf to play through his headphones at the police gym. On the far side, beyond the open center, she could see a long refectory table off a kitchen area.

  Bookcases lined the wall from here to the kitchen...some of them real bookcases, others constructs of stacked boards and concrete blocks. Books filled all the shelves. No wonder he wanted wall space.

  Allison wandered along the shelves. The books had been pushed to the back, leaving space in front to display other objects...antique handcuffs, a noisemaker carried by the Nightwatch in pre-police days, an English Bobbie’s hat, a French policeman’s kepi, Old West marshal and sheriff badges...and a collection of model police cars, including a hummer, to which he had added vehicles unlikely to be in a department fleet, big-boy toys like a Mazda 240Z and Mercedes gull wing among others, and classics that included a Cord 810 and Duesenberg Model J. All meticulously painted with law enforcement insignia. The one on a Bugatti Royale purported to be that of the Monaco Police. A young cop obsessed with his job.

  She found three photographs...two that appeared to be enlargements of snapshots, of a man with Kerr’s hair and grin lounging on a gurney in surgical scrubs and a woman with Grace Kelly beauty looking up from a hospital chart with an impatient frown...and Kerr at sixteen or seventeen, behind the wheel of a Porsche convertible with its top down.