The Moonpool cr-3

by P. T. Deutermann

  The Moonpool

  ( Cam Richter - 3 )

  P T Deutermann

  The Moonpool

  P. T. Deutermann

  WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA

  Allie Gardner was desperate to find a place to pull over. Her throat felt like it was on fire all the way down to her stomach, and she was having real trouble with her breathing. The interior of her car felt hot even though she had the A/C on max and it was only in the mid-fifties outside. The traffic out on College Road was crawling, and she was trapped in the wrong lane. She’d had her clicker on for two minutes and no one, but no one, would let her over. For a moment she thought she saw spots floating across her eyes, but then she blinked rapidly and her vision cleared. Then she spotted the convenience store on the corner.

  Screw it, she thought, and began pulling to the right, provoking a long blast from the horn of the SUV on her right quarter. Her car was much smaller, but she made it clear she was coming over, come hell or high water, and the angry SUV driver finally had to put on the brakes. Guy’s an asshole, she thought, just like my thieving brother.

  Eighty thousand dollars and he just took it. Bastard. But she was going to fix that, and him, just as soon as she got back to Triboro.

  Traffic stopped entirely for the red light, and she stopped along with it, mostly in the right lane. She took another long pull on the bottle of water. It didn’t help. How in the hell had she caught strep throat that fast, she wondered. It hurt to swallow, and it was beginning to hurt when she tried to take a deep breath.

  Strep. Had to be something like that. Throat on fire. Maybe they’d have something in the store. C’mon, light.

  The light finally changed, and she was able to pull all the way over and up into the gas-pump island at the convenience store. The SUV honked at her again, and she halfheartedly flipped him off. It was dusk, and the sudden blaze of sodium vapor lighting startled her when the fueling-area lights buzzed on. She pulled the car up alongside a pump and shut it down. Without the air-conditioning, she immediately felt even hotter, and her eyes were throwing a perfect storm of black spots now. She opened the driver’s side door and took one final hit on the water bottle. Still no help, and her stomach felt like there was a mass of warm lead in it. She capped the bottle and then dropped it without knowing it and got out of the car. She had to hang on to the door to stay upright. She was surprised to see the water bottle rolling across the concrete, where a tractor-trailer was pulling in to the diesel line. The truck ran over the bottle with a loud pop. It sounded like a gunshot, but her reactions were off, way off. Everything was taking a long time to penetrate.

  She focused on the front door of the store. Has to be a ladies’ room in there, she thought. Pray to God it’s empty. She tried not to stagger as she went across the oil-stained concrete and through the door, but the clerks were busy with other customers, and no one so much as looked at her. She tried for another decent breath of air, but it wasn’t coming. Her lungs felt like they were shutting down, like she was trying to inhale an entire steam bath. Holding on to the edges of shelves, she managed to make it back to the rest rooms. The door to the ladies’ was cracked open, and she practically fell into the tiny bathroom. It reeked of pine oil disinfectant, but it was cleaner than most. She remembered to close the door and lock it, and then she sat down on the john, only she missed it. She felt a jolt as she landed alongside the toilet bowl, banging her elbow on the cold porcelain.

  Hug the bowl, girl, she thought, as her brain started to wander. Just like college, only she wasn’t beer sick this time. Her head was getting very heavy, and she felt her chin digging into her front. Try as she might, she couldn’t close her mouth. This is serious, a part of her brain told her, and another part answered back with a cynical No shit, Allie.

  Panicking now, she fumbled in her purse for her cell phone, gonna call 911, gonna get some help here. This was terrible. It wasn’t a heart attack, and she didn’t feel nauseous, just hot. Hot all over, especially in her throat, mouth, and now her entire upper chest. Each breath became harder than the last. She tried to call out for help but could only manage a raspy croak, and even that hurt like hell. She stared at the door, the spots getting bigger in her field of vision. She willed someone to open the door, to see her on the floor with her mouth on fire, and most of all, to call 911.

  But the door didn’t open. Then she remembered she’d locked it. She tried for another croak, but it didn’t come. Her heart was thumping in her fiery chest and there was a roaring sound in her ears.

  Then she felt her heart just stop.

  Just like that, she thought, as the room became very bright and everything finally stopped hurting.

  TRIBORO, NORTH CAROLINA

  I was wrapping up my day as president, CEO, and chief coffee wrangler at Hide and Seek Investigations when my phone rang. Being a retired bureaucrat, I automatically glanced at my watch, ever mindful of the enduring office rule: Anyone who answers his office phone in the late afternoon deserves to be stuck with the inevitable hairball. Then I saw the caller ID, which displayed the words HOMICIDE BUREAU and a 910 area code. I picked up and identified myself.

  “Hey, Lieutenant Richter,” a man said. “This is Bernie Price. Used to work in Triboro. I was city po-lice when you were still with the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Yeah, Bernie, I remember,” I said. “D-One, right? How’ve you been? Nine-one-zero-that’s Wilmington?”

  “Yes, sir,” Price said. “I’m number two in the homicide bureau now. And we got us a little situation down here.”

  “And this involves our snoop posse how exactly?”

  Price didn’t laugh. “Y’all got a lady named Gardner, Allison E., working for you?”

  I felt a pang of alarm. Had Allie somehow intruded into a homicide investigation? “Yes, we do, and yes, she’s on assignment in Wilmington. She works wayward spouse cases. She’s retired from the Job, too. What’s going on?”

  Typical of a homicide detective, Detective Price answered my question with a question. Another alarm bell. “Can you tell me what she was working on here in Wilmington?”

  Oh, shit, I thought, leaning forward in my office chair. “Did you say ‘was’?”

  Price sighed. “Well, yeah. Was. Sorry to have to tell you this, Lieutenant, but she turned up dead last evening, in a gas station ladies’ room.”

  I swore, and my two German shepherds appeared in the doorway to my office, ears up.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Don’t know yet. No smoking guns at the scene. Medical examiner has the remains at County right now. No signs of foul play. She have ticker trouble, maybe?”

  “Not that I knew about,” I said. Allie’s dead?

  “What was the gig down here?”

  “Some Triboro shyster’s wife thought he was stepping out on her. She hired Allie to get corroboration. Nothing dramatic-the wife told Allie where they’d be staying and who the brand-X woman was. She’s apparently got a divorce gunfighter cocked and ready. I think she just wanted pictures.”

  “This wife or her husband violent types?”

  “Beats me, Bernie,” I said. “But I don’t think so. Like I said, this was beyond routine. The subjects were staying at that riverfront Hilton, as was Allie. She called in yesterday afternoon, said she had the goods. She said she had to take care of some personal business, but then she’d be back today, late.”

  “So she wasn’t working any kind of whodunnit?”

  “Nope. The lawyer and his girlfriend-I think she’s a lawyer, too-apparently were regulars. Allie said they arrived on schedule, shacked up, and stayed shacked.”

  “So this didn’t require Ms. Gardner to go creeping in bad neighborhoods or anything like that?�
��

  “Negative. She sounded mostly bored.”

  “And she doesn’t do drugs or bet the ponies, anything like that?”

  “Allie? Hell, no. Good cop, solid citizen. No way. Definitely not the substance-abuse type. One glass of wine, she got silly. Two and she went night-night. Drugs would have rendered her comatose.”

  “You understand I have to ask, right?” he said apologetically.

  “Absolutely. Shit. This is awful. But she never worked anything really dangerous for us. Her own ex ran off with some biker bimbo while she was riding patrol in the sheriff’s office, so when she came to work for me, she specialized in helping women who were facing the same problem. She liked her cases interesting, but this one definitely wasn’t.”

  “Is now,” Price observed. “Can you help us with next of kin?”

  I had to think for a moment. “Lemme see,” I said. “I think she said she had one old-maid sister who works in the Defense Department overseas school system. She’s in Turkey or Greece, don’t remember which. I can look her up for you.”

  “In that case, could you possibly come down here, make the formal ID for us?”

  “Well, yeah, sure,” I said, the full enormity of the news finally hitting me. Wilmington was about a four-, four-and-a-half-hour drive from Triboro. “Tomorrow okay?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine, Lieutenant,” Price said. “We’re downtown, 115 Red Cross Street, five streets west of Market Street, which you’ll come in on. I’ll position a parking pass at the front desk.” He gave me his phone extension, voiced the pro forma regrets again, and hung up.

  Well, fuck me, I thought. I told the dogs to stand down and tried to get my mental arms around the news that Allie was gone. She had been one of the original members of our merry little band of snoops when I first started H amp;S. I wondered why homicide had it, and then remembered: It was an unexplained death.

  Running a private investigations firm hadn’t originally been my idea. I’d come off of two decades with the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office under something of a cloud following the cat dancers vigilante case. Sergeant Horace Stackpole, one of the guys who’d worked for me in the Major Criminal Apprehension Team, or MCAT for short, had taken retirement a few months after I had. He and I had gotten together one night to have a drink, and then I had to listen to him bitch about the boring nature of the work he was doing at the time, which was running small-scale investigations for the district court in Triboro.

  The honorable Robes and their swarm of courthouse lawyers had a seemingly unending requirement for people who could retrieve information and documents, develop reluctant witnesses, and execute other odd jobs quickly. Ex-cops knew how to do all of that, and they also had the networks to get at people and information even quicker than the active police bureaucracy could, or would, depending on which judge was asking. Anyway, a third guy joined us and suggested that I form a company, hire only ex-cops, and then we could work as much or as little as we wanted to. I’d suggested that Horace start the company, but, as he pointed out, I was the one who no longer really had to work.

  So I did, and Hide and Seek Investigations, LLC, stood up a month later, with a condition of employment being that you had to be an ex-cop who had retired in good standing with your department. We’d started with six, with the other five doing most of the work while I dealt with really significant management issues, such as sorting the mail. Our first office had been on the second floor of a bail bondsman company in downtown Triboro. It was pretty Spartan, but it had the advantage of being near Washington Street, so the guys could still hit the sheriff’s office and the metro cops’ watering holes for lunch and afterward. Besides Horace Stackpole, Tony Martinelli and Pardee Bell had joined us from the wreckage of the MCAT. None of us worked full-time, and the money from the contracts went proportionally to the people who put in the most hours. Most of them were filling up 401( k)s, while I took a dollar a year and the biggest office, a massive corner suite some twelve feet square and overlooking a culturally interesting back alley.

  The other two of the original “guys” had been women, Allie Gardner and Mel Lindsay. They’d both gone through the trauma of having husbands slide way off the marital reservation, Allie twice, and now did a flourishing business of pre-divorce-court reconnaissance work for outraged spouses. They loved their work, and the rest of us enjoyed their after-action reports, although with sometimes nervous laughter. Of the two, Allie had been the sweetheart. Pretty in a plain way, she arrived every morning with a sunny smile and a positive attitude, which inevitably brightened when she had some stone-hearted, sneak-cheating, low-down, good-for-nothing sumbitch husband in her evidentiary gun sights. She was an expert with photographic evidence and sported a collection of her best pictures in a rogues’ gallery on one wall of her office. She’d bring the prospective client, inevitably an angry woman, into her office and ask: This what you need? It worked every time. She wasn’t a man-hater, per se, but simply one of those women who’d been kicked in the heart enough times by careless men that she no longer cared for their social company. I think the guys in the office were the only men she talked to, and we, of course, didn’t count on her life’s scorecard.

  But not anymore, I realized. I looked out the window at the streetlights coming on in the business park we’d moved to from our Washington Street hovel. I wondered now if I should call some of the original six-five now, wasn’t it-and give them the bad news. I decided not to: no point in spoiling everyone’s evening. I’d call a meeting tomorrow morning before leaving for Wilmington.

  Allie Gardner was dead? Maybe it had been a heart attack, or one of those artery-bombing embolisms I’d been reading about. She’d been an unrepentant smoker, as were about half the people working at H amp;S. So maybe the cancer sticks had done their evil work. But surely not a homicide. I couldn’t think of a single soul who would want her dead, except maybe one of her two ex-husbands. The truth was that we’d never had any indications of an ex coming back at the PI. They were usually too embarrassed at having been caught in the first place. If they were mad at anybody, it was the ex-spouse for hiring a snoop in the first place.

  I’d have to get into her personnel records to find out what family she had left. I vaguely knew about the sister, but Allie had been closemouthed about the rest of her family. I’d gotten the impression that they hadn’t approved of her forgoing college to become a cop in the first place, and that she was estranged from them.

  “C’mon, mutts,” I said to my shepherds, Frick and Frack. “I need a drink. Let’s go home.”

  WILMINGTON

  I met with Sergeant Price the next day right at lunchtime. We went down the street to get a sandwich, and then Price drove us east to New Hanover Regional Hospital, where the Wilmington city morgue was collocated. We checked in at the security desk and then began the inevitable wait.

  “Face up or TV?” Price asked.

  “Has there been an autopsy?”

  “No. If there’s gonna be an autopsy they go to Jacksonville or Chapel Hill. This here is just stage one. Our ME takes a look and signs a toe tag. If cause of death is obvious, say, an MVA injury, or a gunshot to the head, then that’s usually it. Otherwise, off they go to the state pathology guys.”

  “Okay, face-to-face, then.” I’ve seen a cop’s share of dead people, but since it was Allie, I felt obligated to do this in person, so to speak. Price seemed to understand. He went back to the desk and asked for the viewing room, and then we waited some more until the morgue attendant came to get us.

  I made the identification, trying to ignore the stark fact that one of my colleagues was gone. Allie Gardner had never been a beautiful woman, but hers was a familiar and trusted face, and I was grateful not to have to look at the butchery of a pathology examination. She had died with a surprised look on her face, which wasn’t that unusual in my experience, although her mouth looked redder than it should have. I verbalized the ID, and Price nodded to the stone-faced attendant, who rolled the gurney b
ack to the cold storage area.

  We went back out to the administrative offices to meet with one of the hospital’s pathologists, who had performed a brief preliminary exam. He was a large black man, late fifties, wearing spotted scrubs and drying his hands on a huge wad of paper towels. His scrubs smelled of preservative fluids and other things best left unmentioned. He introduced himself to Bernie and acknowledged me with a brief nod.

  “Based on what I saw of her throat, I think she was poisoned,” he announced. “We’re definitely going to want an autopsy on this one.”

  I stared at him in disbelief, and even Price seemed to be surprised. Poison?

  The doctor pitched the sodden wad of paper towels into a biohazard trash can. “Only thing I’ve seen like it was a case where a really angry woman poured a can of drain cleaner down her boyfriend’s throat while he was sleeping. Sodium hydroxide. I didn’t scope her, but they won’t have to. I’m guessing there’s severe esophageal burning as well as damage to the stomach lining. I’m talking chemical burns here, not fire.”

  “You mean, like acid?” Price asked.

  “I don’t have a clue right now as to what it was. I didn’t smell what I smelled with the Drano case, for what that’s worth.”

  “Any signs that she was forced to drink poison?” I asked.

  “And you are, again?” the doctor said, looking for some kind of ID badge on my shirt besides the visitor’s tag.

  “He’s with me,” Price said, leaving it at that.

  “O-o-kay,” the pathologist said with a shrug. “No, there was no bruising of the face or lips, and no evident indication of restraint. But an autopsy may contradict that. My job is to see if I can determine an obvious cause of death. If not, she goes upstate. We’ll transport tonight, get results back in a couple of days if they’re not overloaded up there.”