Death Wore a Smart Little Outfit

by Orland Outland

  KC laughed. “You could tell him to stop.”

  “Yeah. But there are other things, too. I don’t know. He was interesting when I met him. And need I say irresistible? But it’s another case of my usual disease: great passion, yes; day-to-day compatibility, no. Like a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Scotch?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Guys like you always drink scotch.” He made the drinks and they sat down in the living room again. “I just wanted to thank you for backing me up. I knew I could wear Luke down eventually, but you made it easy for me.”

  “Like I said, it sounds like a good plan. So, tomorrow you call Art Mill and this Chamberlain guy?”

  “Oh, no,” he said blithely. “That’s all already taken care of.”

  KC laughed. “So you started the ball rolling, and then you told Luke? Why?”

  “In case he said no, I mean really, absolutely, no, as in the Police Department will stop you no. Then I’d just tell him it is now ten P.M. and too late to stop the presses, so take it like a trooper and help me out. Of course, I was hoping he’d say okay. He’ll be mad at me anyway, when he finds out I was going to do it no matter what.”

  “You can just exercise your not immodest charm and get him to write it off to basic Doan-type behavior.”

  Doan laughed and noticed KC’s smile for the first time. What on earth makes me think I need someone exciting? Doan thought. I’m exciting enough for ten men, he said without modesty. So he’s dull. I could liven him up a little. And he could be my anchor...silly goose! he chided himself. You of all people should know those people always marry their own kind. He’s just being friendly.

  KC, meanwhile, was thinking how beautiful Doan looked in his peach dress.

  Doan called Art early the next morning.

  “Is it in there?”

  “Of course it’s in there,” Art bristled. “Don’t you read my column?”

  “I don’t get the paper, remember?”

  “Oh, right. Ignorance is bliss.”

  “Exactly. I made that phrase up, did you know?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at Alholm’s office?”

  “KC’s picking me up in a bit, but it’s still early. Artists and thieves sleep till noon. How’re things with you?”

  Art laughed. “All hell broke loose this morning. The editor didn’t know what was in my column until his wife read it to him at breakfast. Can you believe it? The editor doesn’t read my column! I could have written about anything and gotten away with it. Get a load of this. He told me I had some nerve not turning hard news over to him! Like I’m supposed to stick to bubble gum. I was a real reporter back when he was…ah, never mind. What’s past is past. At any rate, your little bomb is definitely having an effect. Anthony Chamberlain and I talked art for hours after we got the item written.”

  “You couldn’t find a better husband.”

  “No doubt, if that’s what I was in the market for. Now, you be careful today, Doan.”

  “I will. I have several knights in shining armor today, and you are not the least of them.”

  “Scoot. Call me when it’s over.”

  “When it’s over? You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Call Luke and demand to go with him so you can cover the arrest.”

  “You are absolutely right. Dammit, that’s just what I‘ll do, and that goddamn editor can ...”

  The buzzer rang. “KC’s here, I have to go.”

  “Right. Good luck!”

  Steve Alholm was not thinking of escape routes at the moment. No animal instinct rose up to tell him which way to run. He was in the middle of the road, and the fast-approaching headlights were all he could see or think of.

  The paper lay at his feet on the floor, Art Mill’s column still in his sight.

  Good morning, good morning. How are you all doing today? Better than fugitives from justice Steven Alholm and Charles Ambermere, I have no doubt. Not only are they wanted for kidnapping and murder, but it seems a sizable number of works in their collection have been declared forgeries. Anthony Chamberlain, art critic for the San Francisco Times as well as the S.F. Police Department’s expert in the SoMa Killer case, has reviewed the collection and identified a number of the forgeries. Chamberlain is an expert on the works of Mortimer Arbuthnott, among others, and thinks that Alholm may have sold one genuine work by the artist, the rest forgeries. Alholm’s angry customers filed a class action suit yesterday in U.S. District Court, calling for a seizure of Alholm’s and Ambermere’s assets in repayment. Judge Arthur Robinson issued an order freezing the assets of both defendants. In granting the order, Robinson cited the defendants’ being fugitives from justice as the reason for his prompt action. So, should Alholm and Ambermere escape the country, they’ll discover that they are the first case affected by the agreement with the Bahamian government signed last week regarding bank disclosure and asset seizure, and are consequently not just wanted but wanting. Meanwhile, one San Franciscan artist is taking measures of his own. Stan Parks, falsely accused of being the SoMa Killer and freed only days ago from jail, is sending his representative, Doan McCandler, to the site of the Alholm/Ambermere lot today to comb through his works and weed out the forgeries. “Stan’s prison time got him a lot of publicity,” Mr. McCandler stated, “and consequently his works are increasing daily in value. We feel it is of the essence to guard his reputation against any further damaging rumor. It’s going to be a long, lonely day tomorrow, but it’s worth it.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Alholm muttered. He’d forgotten about the money, he really had. There had been so much of it, it had just become something that would always be there, that he could always count on. Just because you killed someone, they couldn’t take away your honestly earned proceeds. Just ask OJ! But this...now he had nothing. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Forgeries? Was this guy crazy? The kind of money he was making on the genuine article, three daubs on a canvas for ten thousand bucks the last day he’d worked before this whole disaster, hell, he hadn’t needed to forge anything.

  Charles. Yes, that made sense. That stupid son of a bitch had really done it now. Goddamn his cowardly ass! No wonder the cops were willing to let him off, at least for the murders. With no money for a lawyer, Alholm was dead meat in court. They’d give him life for the kidnapping alone.

  Charles came in and saw the look on his face. “What? What is it?”

  Alholm threw him the paper. Charles read it, turning purple. “No.”

  “Yep. Broke. Because of you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The forgeries, you asshole! You had to go and kill the golden goose. God, you are so stupid!”

  “I swear to God, I don’t know anything about any forgeries! I don’t! There aren’t any, this is a lie...Wait. Wait.”

  “What?”

  “McCandler. This guy who’s going to be at the gallery. That’s the faggot. The one she sent around the world with the papers.”

  “So?”

  Charles smiled. “Do you want Eleanor to talk or not?”

  “No games, you hear me? Spit it out.”

  “He’ll be there all alone. We’ll get him. And if you don’t think seeing him getting cut to pieces before her eyes will get her to talk, well …”

  “She’s nuts, she can’t tell us anything.”

  “Shock sent her into it, right?”

  Alholm considered. Was this the trap, then, that Captain Fisher had ready to spring on him? Or did this new development mean the deal was off? That would be like Charles, too, to change sides when the wind changed. Especially if he had just realized what Alholm had about his fate in the hands of the police, now that he was an ordinary impoverished citizen who’d seriously broken the law. Instinct told him Charles had the right idea.

  “All right. I’ll go get him. You get her ready to travel. I’ll call you and tell you where to go.”

  Doan was completely calm. Logic was his perfect shining weapon
this morning. If Charles and Alholm ransacked the house before taking Eleanor, it was because they needed the last set of papers. If they took Eleanor, it was because they didn’t find them and needed her to tell them where those papers were. If Eleanor was still their living captive a day later, it meant she hadn’t told them yet. If she shouted “Vive la Revolution” from a speeding van, it meant that she’d slipped and was not likely to be able to tell them where those papers were. That slip back into fantasyland had bought Doan valuable time. He knew that she had to be back by now; but still not talking.

  They would want a lever to use on her. She was a tough old girl, he knew. Physical violence short of torture would not move her. Charles knew what Doan meant to Eleanor. Doan was now known to them to be alone and unguarded today. Thus, the lever had offered itself.

  Alholm would come for him, he was sure. He could not afford not to. There was only one problem. Alholm’s office was a converted loft, and consequently there was nowhere to hide the requisite backup policemen (handpicked by Luke for their trustworthiness and discretion). Said cops would have to stay out of sight until called upon at the crucial moment. Luke and Doan were to be the only ones inside the building.

  “Coffee?” Luke asked, proffering a thermos.

  “I have to pee badly enough already.”

  “So go.”

  “The bathrooms are locked.”

  Luke held up his hand for silence. “I heard a car.”

  His walkie-talkie clicked twice, confirming his hearing, but then clicked twice more, indicating Alholm was not alone. They looked at each other. “He wouldn’t bring Eleanor...” Luke supposed.

  “He would.”

  Luke ducked into his appointed hiding place in the office; Doan jumped up with his clipboard and stood m front of a canvas, making notes.

  The door to the loft opened. There were two sets of footsteps, all right, but they were both rapid and strong. “Good morning, good morning! I’m just about done here,” Doan said, turning around. “If you’ll just…oh my God,” he said, his shock genuine.

  Luke stood up. “Police! Don’t…” and lost the policeman’s only advantage, the one second of surprise, when he saw the face of the man with Alholm. Alholm raised a silencer-equipped pistol and shot Luke in the chest. He fell with a grunt and passed out from the pain.

  “Now then,” Alholm said with a smile. “To business. Good morning, good morning, yourself, you clever little bastard.”

  “There’s nowhere you can hide now. You’re broke.”

  Alholm laughed. “You liar. There wasn’t any seizure. At least, all that money I’ve got in the Bahamas is just fine. And now I’m going to go claim it.”

  “The cops are outside.”

  “Oh, I know. But we have a hostage now, don’t we? It was really too easy. Two clicks meant I was here, two more meant I wasn’t alone. Detective Faraglione wasn’t very thorough on that point, was he? Two more clicks just meant I could be with anyone. As you see. There’s nothing I can do to the police to get them off my back, except...well, as you see, discover their every move in advance.”

  “We already have Charles in custody. What’s in those papers will put you both in the chair. There’s more than one set, you know. There’s…”

  “Five, total.” Alholm’s companion came forward. “Five sets. And I’ll be thankin’ ye for the fine vacation I had. Hah! Crazy cousin Doan, into Mother’s closet again, and her safe, too! We just let him go his way, pulling his stunts. Mother prefers it that way, and Mother holds the purse strings. But here’s a letter from her, my good man, so would you return those papers to me, please? Ah, too easy,” Sergeant Seamus Flaharity said with a sigh. “Just like candy from a baby.”

  “Every set. We got every set but hers. And you’re going to help us get them out of her.”

  “He’s crazy,” Doan couldn’t help but say to Flaharity, “so he has some kind of excuse. You’re just a bug.”

  Flaharity flushed. “I’ll show you a thing or two…”

  “Hold on. If you want to beat him up, go ahead. But give me the gun. We need him alive.”

  Flaharity handed the gun to Alholm and advanced on Doan. Two things happened at once. A foot left the floor and landed in Flaharity’s crotch with a speed that amazed. A figure jumped from the rafters and landed squarely on top of Alholm, smashing him to the floor. Flaharity screamed and doubled over. Doan picked up a canvas and drove the corner of the frame into the back of Flaharity’s neck.

  Alholm still struggled with his attacker, each of them with a hand on the gun. Doan jumped to where Luke lay and seized his gun, pointing it at the two combatants, too unsure to fire. Then Alholm threw the man into Doan; the two of them collapsed in a heap. The police burst in and tackled Alholm to the ground. Only then did Doan realize that it was KC who had saved his life.

  “Kiss me,” Doan demanded, and KC did just that.

  Luke was awake when they packed him into the ambulance; his bulletproof vest had shielded him from serious harm. “Alholm?” he asked Doan.

  “Under arrest, darling, thanks to you.”

  “Doan, listen: Don’t tell Binky I got shot in the chest. She’ll think it’s worse than it is.”

  “I’ll make it sound positively awful,” Doan promised. “As if you’re hovering near death’s doorstep.”

  “Oh, no, please, you’ll scare her.”

  “Don’t you want that girl to make up her mind once and for all that you are the man for her?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “No buts. Off you go!” he said, cheerily slamming the ambulance door.

  “Now,” he said to KC, “to save Eleanor.”

  The phone had assumed the persona of all the fates to Charles. Alholm had been gone three hours! There was something wrong.

  “Lunch!” Eleanor shouted for the fifth time in as many minutes.

  “Shut up!”

  “Lunch lunch lunch lunch lunch lunch lunch lunch!”

  Charles stormed into the back room. “I swear to God, I’m going to kill you.”

  “Do it, pig! Add it to your war crimes!”

  “Where the hell is he?” he muttered to himself.

  “What?”

  “None of your business.”

  “The other one? You mean you don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Oh, he’s gone for good.”

  “No. You don’t know that.”

  “Sure I do. He told me.”

  “No!” he screamed. “What did he say?”

  “Lunch lunch lunch lunch!”

  He bellowed and ran to the cage, fumbled with the keys, opened the door, and tore her out of it, throwing her to the floor. “What did he say!”

  “Ow, stop! You’re hurting me! I’ll tell you! He found the last set of papers. And decided to take all the money for himself.”

  “There is no money.”

  “There was another account. In Paraguay. Where all good Nazis keep their accounts,” she added for good measure. She hoped his fear would prevent him from noticing how casually she’d mentioned the papers, but she’d had to slip character to play that card, no matter how dangerous it might be.

  “Oh my God, I’m doomed. Doomed!” He cradled his head in his arms for a moment, sobbing. Then he looked up with murder in his eyes. “And it’s all your fault, you bitch. If you’d kept to your bed like a good girl, none of this would have happened. But you had to run around and be a fool with that faggot, and go crazy. Worst of all, you had to get better. So I’m going to jail, so what?” he said with a casualness that chilled her. “First I’m going to do what I’ve always wanted to do. I’m going to kill you.”

  Some of Alholm’s insanity had reached Charles. But even as his hands began to close around her throat, she looked at him with steel in her eyes and said, “You need a hostage.”

  It worked. An option, a way out, was enough to bring back the real Charles, the chicken. Indecision met murder and stopped it cold. He turned around and beg
an wringing his hands.

  That was all she needed. She seized the cage and pushed it as hard as she could, then hit the deck. The force it picked up on its way back was not great, but it was enough to knock Charles off his feet when it hit him square in the back, and that was all she asked.

  “Oof!” was all he said as he hit the floor face first.

  Eleanor rolled out of the cage’s path, got up, and ran.

  The alarms were going full blast at the museum when Doan, KC, and a small army of policemen arrived. “They’re gone,” Doan decided instantly. “Eleanor got away from him, at least momentarily, and got out through one of those Alarm Will Sound doors. Sweep the area,” he commanded the policeman driving their car. “We’ll find her.”

  The day Eleanor had been kidnapped was a day like any other. Which meant that her MUNI Fast Pass was tucked securely in her blouse, along with a BART ticket. Should the urge to go off and explore hit her (as it often had since her recovery) at any time, she was ready. She was so happy to just be able to walk out the door and go wherever she wanted, under her own power. For all her wealth, it was this little thing that made Eleanor Van Owens happiest.

  And as a frequent rider of the city’s public transportation, she knew that the Van Ness subway station was only blocks away. She couldn’t outrun Charles, she had no money for a cab (it didn’t occur to the poor dear to flag one down and beg for help), and (this did make sense) if there was one thing she knew that Charles didn’t, it was public transit.

  By the time Charles woke up and began his pursuit, she was almost at the station. Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely stupid. He was aware of his wife’s habits, and made a beeline for that same destination. The police cruiser circled around the area. “Nothing,” Doan wailed.

  KC clasped his hand. “Soon.”

  A pedestrian flagged the cruiser down. “Hey, I don’t know if it means anything, but I saw an old lady run down into the station looking real scared, and this real mean-looking guy just ran down there, too. I think he’s after her.”