3 Strange Bedfellows

by Matt Witten

  "Access the what?"

  "I'll show you," Derek said, jumping up from the table and racing to the computer room. His little brother put down his cup so quickly that milk sloshed onto the table, and then he ran to the computer room, too.

  "You haven't been excused yet," Andrea called out, but Derek and Bernie either didn't hear her or didn't want to. She turned to me. "I don't think you should discuss your murder investigation in front of the kids."

  "Why not? Even if we try to hide it, they'll just find out anyhow."

  "But don't talk about it any more than you have to. I don't want them getting all upset and doing their weird nighttime stuff."

  I knew what she meant. At our house, when the going gets tough, Derek walks in his sleep and Bernie pees in his bed. The last time our household got all caught up in a murder investigation, it took us months to get back to normal. So I promised Andrea to try to avoid talking about homicides from now on, at least at the dinner table.

  After we got that settled, we trooped into the computer room. We watched with growing amazement as Derek's hands flashed here and there all over the keyboard, and the screen showed one incomprehensible (to me) message after another, until finally a message came up that I did understand. It was Ducky Medwick's home address in Clifton Park, New York.

  "Incredible," I said, as Derek printed it out. "You're a genius."

  "No, I'm not," he said, shrugging. "Any kid in my class could do this."

  He may have been right. And that's the frightening part.

  I tried to call Will to report in, but his phone was busy for half an hour. Probably off the hook again, so he could steal some sleep. I knew from experience, being wrongly accused of murder can kind of disrupt your sleep schedule.

  Since I couldn't talk to Will, I spent some time playing Ms. PacMan with the kids—the one thing I really enjoy doing on the computer. Then after I put them to bed, I buzzed down to Ducky's house in Clifton Park. I guess I should take a moment to describe Clifton Park, though I really don't want to, because it's the dullest place in America. There's no downtown to speak of, no civic life, no volunteer fire department… just a lot of shopping malls.

  On the positive side, Clifton Park does have some nicely built 70s-era ranch houses. Medwick, his wife, Linda, and their children, Barbara and Terry, ages thirteen and eleven—my kid had gotten all this info off the Internet somehow—lived in an especially sprawling ranch house on an especially large property at the end of an especially secluded cul-de-sac. The house probably cost an especially large sum of money. Personally, you couldn't have paid me to live there.

  But hey, Ducky probably wouldn't have wanted to live in my house, with its ninety-year-old quirks and occasionally obstreperous neighbors.

  I walked up to the front door, setting off a motion detector that turned on the porch light. To calm my nerves, I conscientiously remembered to picture Ducky sitting on the toilet constipated.

  But when the door opened, as far as its chain would allow, it wasn't Ducky standing there. It was his wife, Linda. I stared at her through the three-inch opening, my jaw hanging down in surprise.

  Ducky's wife was the same hot babe I'd seen in the Hack's office, packing up his personal effects with tears in her eyes.

  "Ms. Medwick?" I said hesitantly.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name's Jacob Burns. I'm looking for your husband."

  "He's not here."

  "Do you know when he'll be back?"

  "What do you want?"

  I want to nail him for murder. "I want to talk to him about an important matter. I'm with the Daily Saratogian. Here's my card." I handed her one of my two-year-old "Jacob Burns, Writer" cards from my wallet.

  "I'll let him know," she said, and shut the door on me.

  What was going on here? Was Ducky's wife really the Hack's secretary? But why? Obviously they didn't need the money.

  Between Linda Medwick and Susan Tamarack, I was dealing with two very puzzling women. I walked back to my Toyota, annoyed at having no one around to answer my questions. One unfortunate reality of detective work is that in order to do an interrogation properly, it helps to have someone to interrogate. It's not like writing, where you can just go off by yourself and do your thing.

  I resolved to wait in my car until Ducky came home. Of course, Linda might notice and call the cops on me, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

  I waited thirty minutes, until 9:45, when a car finally pulled up in Ducky's driveway. It still wasn't Ducky, though. He must be off at some late-night, cigar-filled political meeting. A gangly preteen boy hopped out of the backseat carrying a basketball, and said good night to the woman who was driving. Yet another bleached blonde, I noted. What's this world coming to? " 'Night, Terry. Good game," she told him, and zoomed off.

  Terry aimed a jump shot at the basketball hoop in the driveway, getting a satisfying swish. Then he bounced the ball up the path toward the front door. I jumped out of my car and intercepted him.

  "Excuse me, Terry," I called out.

  He grabbed the basketball, pulling it tight to his body, and froze. I could practically hear his brain cells screaming, "Don't talk to strangers!"

  "I didn't want to bother your mom this late," I said casually. "Do you know where I can find your dad?"

  Terry had an open, honest face. In his confused eleven-year-old eyes, I could see "Don't talk to strangers" warring with "Be polite."

  I felt like some kind of evil child molester, but I continued on. "It's just that your dad wanted me to give him something. For tomorrow's vote in the Senate."

  Finally Terry spoke. "Dad's not home," he said. His voice broke a little on the last word, and a twinge of sadness crossed his face. What was that all about?

  "Is he at a meeting? I could just go and give him this thing."

  "No, he's at a hotel."

  Huh? "Which hotel?"

  "Holiday Inn. In Halfmoon. He's been there since Sunday."

  Then, as if afraid he'd already said too much, Terry hurried away and let himself in the front door.

  The Holiday Inn in Halfmoon, fifteen miles north of Albany, was no doubt a hot spot for traveling salesmen on their way up I-87 to Plattsburgh or Montreal. But it wasn't exactly a place where you'd expect to find the majority leader of the New York State Senate fluffing his pillow.

  Maybe that was the point, though. Maybe he didn't want anyone to find him.

  Myself, I got lucky. I didn't have to bribe someone for a waiter's uniform and then sneak up to Ducky's room pretending to be room service in order to get hold of him. He was right downstairs in the hotel bar, sitting all by himself in the corner with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Two other lone wolves sat in other corners with glasses in their hands, and behind the bar a chubby, dimwit-looking bartender yawned. B.J. Thomas's voice came over some tinny speakers, warbling about raindrops falling on your head. The television set was showing a commercial about how you can reverse hair loss.

  But Ducky, bald though he was, ignored the commercial. He was ignoring everything except his glass. He sat there staring at it mindlessly as he swirled his drink around and around. I felt sorry for him. I was almost tempted to walk out and let the man suffer in peace.

  Then Ducky looked up. His bleary eyes recognized me, and instantly his drunkenness seemed to fall away. He straightened his back, his eyes flashed, and he became once again the man I'd seen on the TV news so many times over the years, blasting away at governors, Democrats, criminals, and whoever else was unlucky enough to arouse his fury. He got the ironic nickname "Ducky" not because he resembled that friendly, waddling creature, but because he acted so positively mean and un-ducklike.

  "What, are you stalking me?" he snapped as I walked up. "I'm calling the police."

  "I doubt it," I replied. "I doubt you want anyone to know you're staying here."

  That stopped him. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Jacob Burns. I'm a friend of Will Shmuckler."

  "Ye
ah, so what?"

  I couldn't think of any nifty P.I. moves to pull on him, so I cut right to the chase. "Did you kill Jack Tamarack?"

  He barked out a laugh. "What nonsense. Why would I do that?"

  "Because he was blackmailing you."

  His hand went involuntarily to his throat, but his voice stayed aggressive. "Where'd you hear that?"

  "Never mind where I heard it. Where were you Monday night?"

  "Jack Tamarack was not blackmailing me. Don't be preposterous."

  "Give me one other reason why you'd endorse a lifelong hack, a guy who never even got elected to dogcatcher, to run for the United States Congress."

  Before, I had believed that Ducky endorsed the Hack to reward him for twenty years of brownnosing; but upon reflection, that now seemed naive to me. You can't brownnose your way to the top, only to the middle.

  "Jack Tamarack was a very capable man," Ducky said huffily.

  "Yeah, right. The Hack never had an original idea in his life."

  Ducky stared at me incredulously. "And you think that's a negative? What are you, an idiot? Listen, Burnside, or whatever your name is, the last thing I want is an independent-minded congressman. I want a guy who does exactly what I tell him, whether it's getting tax breaks for some local company or easing pollution regulations or whatever. I wanted a hack, Burnside, and that's why I got the county chairmen to pick Tamarack."

  I almost believed him. But Hack Sr. had been so absolutely certain that his son was blackmailing this man.

  "Now if you'll excuse me," Ducky continued sarcastically, "I was enjoying a little peace and quiet before you came along—"

  "You still didn't answer me. Where were you Monday night?"

  "None of your damn business."

  "Are you separated from your wife?"

  He glared at me but didn't answer. Instead he lifted his drink to his lips. It was time to aim a wild haymaker at him.

  "Senator, was your wife having an affair with Jack Tamarack?"

  Ducky stopped in mid-sip. Then he threw the glass at me. It slammed into my nose but luckily didn't break, just spilled scotch all over my face. Then Ducky stood up abruptly and left the bar.

  I took that to mean yes.

  6

  When I got home, it was almost midnight—but Derek Jeter wasn't in bed. For a crazed moment, I was afraid some vicious murderer had kidnapped him. But then I found him at the computer, his tired, drawn face looking ghastly in the screen's cold glow. The kid would be a wreck tomorrow. Not good. The first week of school was no time to relax bedtime schedules.

  "Derek, what are you doing up?" I began, preparing to yell at him for sneaking out of bed. But then he turned toward me and I saw a familiar unfocused look in his eyes. He was asleep.

  "How you doing, kid?" I asked gently.

  He nodded vaguely, then turned back to the computer screen. I noticed he had a bunch of newspaper articles about Jack Tamarack listed on there.

  "Honey, it's time to go to bed." I signed off of AOL—I may be technologically challenged, but at least I know how to do that—and lifted the kid up. He protested weakly, then slumped against my body as I carried him upstairs.

  Once I lay him down in his own bed, he woke up. "Hi, Daddy," he said. "Was I sleepwalking?"

  "Yup."

  "What was I doing?"

  "I don't know. You were at the computer."

  "Oh, yeah. I was helping you solve the murder."

  I sighed. "Sweetheart, it's okay, I really don't need help."

  "But I don't want you to almost get killed, like last time."

  I started to give some reassuring reply, but then I smelled something. Bernie Williams had peed in his bed.

  Yes, it's hard to be hard-boiled when you've got two young sprats at home. I put some dry pants on the still-sleeping Bernie, and lay down with Derek until he was asleep, too. I was too tired to deal with Will, so I turned off the ringer on our phone in case he called me. Then I went to bed myself.

  The next morning, Andrea and I talked it over and agreed it would be better for our family—and for Will, too—if I simply dumped the investigation in the cops' laps.

  After all, they had infinitely more resources. I figured I now had enough grounds for suspicion against Senator Ducky that the cops would be forced to take my story seriously. So I called up Lou Coates, the African-American, Yiddish-speaking Troy police chief.

  "Chief Coates," I said, when the receptionist finally put me through, "Ducky Medwick and his wife are separated. They split up on Sunday."

  "Nu? What am I, a gossip columnist?"

  "Jack Tamarack was killed on Monday."

  "And the Mets won a doubleheader on Tuesday. So what?"

  "So Jack Tamarack was having an affair with Ducky's wife."

  There was a silence. Then the chief asked, "You have any evidence, or are you just ringing my chatchkas?"

  Ringing my chatchkas? That was a new one on me. "No direct evidence, but—"

  "But shmut. Don't be a nudnick. You got nothing. And I got no yen to go on a wild-goose chase against Ducky. 'Specially when we already got the dirty mamzer who did it: Will Shmuckler."

  "If I can get you proof they were having an affair—"

  "Do me a favor. Go shake your shlong at someone else."

  He hung up. So did I. Chief Coates had taken some liberties with his Yiddish, but that didn't really bother me. You're supposed to take liberties with Yiddish; that's what Yiddish is for.

  What did bother me was that Chief Coates was clearly afraid to tangle with a powerful state senator. In upstate New York, it seems like everything in public life is about favors. If you want a government job, or a tax reassessment, or you just want your dried leaves removed from the curb for Pete's sake, you better know the right people.

  And if you're like Lou Coates and you already have a government job, and you want to keep it, then you better keep the right people happy.

  My musings were interrupted by an irate phone call from the one and only "dirty mamzer" himself. "Why the hell didn't you call me back yesterday?" he complained.

  "Sorry, I did try—"

  "I'm dying here. I got reporters hiding in my bushes now. I open my door to get the paper and they ambush me. I'm scared to go out for orange juice. My campaign events are getting canceled right and left. Give me some good news, I'm begging you."

  I began to get worried about the guy. "Do you have people who can bring you food? I'll try to get down there today—"

  "Screw that. Just give me some reason to hope."

  I did my best. "Listen, Will, do you happen to know if Ducky Medwick's wife was the Hack's secretary?"

  "Yeah, she was. Why?"

  "You ever hear rumors she was having an affair with the Hack?"

  Will figured out the implications immediately. All his frenzied angst disappeared. "Holy shit, that's fabulous! So you think Ducky killed him?"

  "It's a possibility."

  "Oh man oh man oh man!"

  "Hey, don't come in your pants just yet."

  "This would win me the election for sure! I'll be an innocent man, set up for a false murder rap by the corrupt Republican machine. Talk about getting the sympathy vote!"

  Will's continuing obsession with his moribund campaign was getting on my nerves. "Susan Tamarack will get sympathy votes, too. Look what happened to Hillary's popularity when her husband had an affair."

  "Yeah, but it didn't last. And Susan's gonna get hurt by Pierce."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You didn't hear? He announced his candidacy last night."

  I whistled through my teeth. "Amazing. He's actually bucking the bosses? Someone must've lent him a new set of balls."

  "So now we got two Republican write-ins stealing each other's votes. Jake, we're gonna kick ass. All you gotta do is nail the killer before the election and get me off the hook!"

  I sighed. "No sweat. And after that, I'll establish permanent world peace and pitch the Red Sox into the World Serie
s."

  "Just humor me, will you? I'm trying to keep my mind off the fact I may be going to jail for the next hundred and twenty years."

  I didn't know how to respond to that.

  "And Jake?"

  "Yeah."

  "Don't lose faith in yourself, you're the best. I love you, man."

  Yeah, yeah, I love you, too, I thought as I hung up the phone. But my life sure would be a lot simpler if I'd just gotten a different college roommate. What was I supposed to do now—

  Answer the doorbell, that's what. It was ringing. So I went to the door and opened it.

  Standing there in front of me was the bleached blonde bombshell.

  I'd never seen Linda Medwick in sunlight before. With her soft skin and light smattering of freckles, she turned out to be one of those women who look even better in the daytime. Her low-cut, tight white T-shirt and short pink gym shorts didn't hurt her looks any, either.

  "Come in," I said.

  I held the door open for her, and she brushed against me as she walked past into the living room. For a second I wondered if it was intentional, then decided I was imagining things. She sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs.

  "Can I get you something?" I asked.

  She shook her head, her mane flying around as she did so. She'd done something extra to her hair this morning, and she looked like the second coming of Farrah Fawcett.

  "My husband says you know about my affair with Jack," she said.

  I perched on the chair across from the sofa. "Yes, I do," I answered.

  "Why do you care about it?"

  "You have to admit, it does give your husband a good motive."

  She looked puzzled. "For what?"

  "For murder."

  She stared at me a moment, then threw out an unhappy laugh. "Ducky wouldn't kill anyone over me. He doesn't even like me. We're getting a divorce."

  "When did he find out about you and the Ha—you and Jack?"

  I didn't expect a straight answer, but she proceeded to actually give me one. Something smelled fishy here. On the other hand, if she was willing to spill the beans with so little effort on my part, who was I to complain?