EQMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  At the station, I handed the cell phone to Sergeant Whisner and told him to go down to Congress Street and into the back bar of Polk's Tavern and call the last number on the phone's screen. “When it rings, arrest that guy and hold him until he gives up Eberheart. He's the car thief."

  "That car was totaled,” Whisner told me.

  "It had a great radio,” I told him. “Take Tyler with you and have him watch the front door."

  Whisner grinned and took off. I was happy to hand it off to him; a favor like this would pay me back for the rest of the year. Besides, I couldn't get the kids out of my head. Garrity came back with coffee. “Let's call it a night,” I told him.

  "Is there DNA in coffee?” he said.

  "Yes,” I told him. “Even before you put your finger in it."

  * * * *

  The next morning, first thing, I went down to our holding cell and talked to young Tony Eberheart, the bruised car thief. He had a strip of white tape over his nose, and his wrist was bandaged. “You okay?” I asked him. “Were you wearing a seat belt?"

  "Yeah, I was. Nothing's broken,” he told me. “Who are you?"

  "I just wanted to know how fast you were going. Did you hit some ice?"

  "No,” he told me. “I went in too fast. I forgot about that corner. I was doing seventy down the lane and I slowed to sixty-five, sixty-eight."

  "You ever take a car before?"

  "No, sir, I haven't."

  "Be sure to tell them that in court,” I said.

  * * * *

  Upstairs, Arthur Johnson's parents were hurting. Jennifer McKinley's parents were hurting. I saw them sitting on the fancy furniture in the CSI waiting room, four nice folks who looked blasted. I could see Kevin and Madison in there laying out the story. Kevin had that look on his face that said everything he was saying was written in the big book in stone. Confidence is great, but that guy bothered me. All he needed was PowerPoint and a laser pen, which, rumor had it, he had ordered. It isn't necessary to admire all your colleagues.

  My fabulous partner Phil Garrity was already into the paperwork, which was going to take us all morning. He had blown up the car photos to eight by ten and chosen the one where his tie was straight and he was smiling like a pirate. “Did you talk to them?” he asked me.

  "No, I did not,” I said. “But I'm going to."

  I waited until the CSI team was finished and then I motioned to Madison. I wanted to ask a stupid question and I did. “How'd they take it?"

  "Tough. They don't believe their kids would do such a thing."

  "But you've got proof."

  "We will by this afternoon,” she said. “I need to see the slides."

  I knew she meant the tissue samples. They'd have wafers under the microscope all day long. It was something to imagine.

  "Listen,” I said. “Madison. You like theories, right?"

  "I'm a scientist, Ben,” she said. “You can look at me. You don't have to look at your shoes. That trick doesn't work anymore. I'm listening. What have you got?"

  A guy hates to have his tricks caught out, but I got over it and went ahead. “I used to live on College Hill, and I have a theory, and I wonder if it would be okay if we went up to the place with the parents."

  "The scene of the crime?” she said, shaking her head. “You gumshoes."

  "Just an hour,” I said. “My theory."

  She leveled a look at me and lifted her BlackBerry.

  I sent Phil Garrity ahead to open the place up and to start a fire, so the place would be warm enough for our visit. The CSI team, Madison and Kevin, drove the parents in a van, and I took our car. When I got to College Hill, I turned on Tenth and went way around to Harrison before turning up. Out of habit, I said aloud, “Go around.” Sometimes the long way is the only sane way.

  Before Garrity left, he had asked me, “Partner, do you want to share your game plan with me?"

  "When I arrive, you go around to the alley and stand by the bedroom window. If you ever lose sight of me, come directly in and say hello."

  "Hello?"

  "Come in and say, ‘Hello, how are you?’ And Garrity?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You were right on with the speed of that Lexus."

  * * * *

  At the alleged love nest, Jen's cottage, we greeted Garrity and crowded into the little place. With the fire going, it was heartbreakingly beautiful. The cozy room made you want to be a student. I wanted to be, anyway. But this time I'd study anthropology and spend my winters in Mexico digging up golden calendars from the ancient pyramids. I led everyone into the bedroom. It was tight in there but I pushed the door partway closed and stood by the window. The four bereaved parents sat on the bed, as uncomfortable as people get to be. It took awhile to sort everyone out and get settled. Jen's mother picked up a pair of her daughter's moccasins and started crying softly.

  "I appreciate your coming out here,” I told them.

  "I just can't believe it,” Arthur's father said. “This isn't something he would do. I know it."

  "People are capable of many things,” Kevin said. “We see some stuff.” This was tough not to laugh at, some kid like Kevin acting world-weary after being on the force almost a year.

  "They are,” I said. “And though we've looked at this from every side, we may never know what happened in this room four days ago."

  "Things were going so well for Jen,” her mother said. “She was coming home for Thanksgiving."

  "You never fought?” I asked.

  "I've been over this,” Kevin said.

  "It's okay,” Madison said. “Let him go.” I could feel it warming in the room and she leaned against the wall.

  "No,” Jen's mother said. She looked at her husband. “We were like sisters.” She looked at Arthur's mother. “She knew we liked Arthur."

  "He had your approval?” I asked her.

  "Always. We thought the world of that boy."

  "What were Arthur's plans?” I asked his father.

  "He was an engineering major,” the man said. I watched him rub his forehead as if struggling with a tight hat.

  "I'm so tired,” Arthur's mother said. “Can we go now? This has all been too much."

  I looked at Kevin and saw what I was looking for. His eyes were at half-mast and he was having trouble hoisting up his arrogance. I hated to let him fall, but if I was going to make my point, he'd have to go down. I was just filling time, so I decided to tell the truth. “Mr. and Mrs. McKinley. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. You had great kids who would never have hurt you. They did not kill themselves. They died in an accident."

  "What?” Mr. Johnson said. His wife had slumped against him now and he held her, alarmed.

  Kevin, for the first time in his life, cooperated with my plans perfectly, and he folded and fell to the floor like a bag of upscale laundry. I stepped over him and crossed out through the sitting room and the smoldering fire and pulled open the front door. The air there was like a rush of tonic.

  Phil Garrity came around and entered, saying to everyone, “Hello. How are you?"

  Kevin was lying faceup and his eyes were open. Madison, kneeling over him, looked up at me and said, “Decent theory."

  "What is it?” Mrs. McKinley asked. “What do you know?"

  "The kids came here to study on the coldest night of the fall, I told her. “They started a fire and went in with their homework. This place is tight as a cigar box, and they didn't notice that the plastic liner of the window, which had been taped up for ventilation, had folded down.” I pointed. “See, it has unfolded. The duct tape had failed and the plastic covered the window, which isn't a problem when there's no fire, but there's no air in this place. They went to sleep. They didn't feel a thing. I'm sorry for your loss.” As a story, it wasn't sexy, but it had something going for it: It was true.

  Mrs. Johnson was crying. “I knew it. I knew it.” She was in her husband's arms.

  Awhile later they loaded up the van. I saw Garrity go to Kevin and ask him if he was good
to drive, and I'll give Kevin credit. He looked, for the first time, like he might hit somebody.

  Madison came over to our car and spoke to me. “Thanks, Ben. Although you could have said it yesterday and we could have happily tested it then."

  "I would have, but I didn't know it yesterday. I'm slow."

  "Well, it's good work. I only resent that our safety valve was Garrity."

  "Never question Garrity,” I said.

  "I know,” she said, speaking loud enough for him to hear as he walked over. “For he is your fabulous partner."

  (c)2007 by Ron Carlson

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BALTIC BAIL-OUT by Andrea C. Busch

  Andrea C. Busch was born in Darmstadt, Germany, in 1963. She has authored one published mystery novel and more than a dozen short stories. She has also edited a series of theme-related mystery anthologies which have been successfully published in many countries. Besides writing and translating mysteries, she works at Darmstadt Technical University, where she pretends to do administrative work while studying human nature.

  Translated from the German by Mary Tannert

  The breeze picked up. I could feel it on my skin. It filled the mainsail, then the jib; the ropes creaked and the yacht began to move. Finally! I looked at the skipper, a silent plea on my face, and he nodded. Gratefully, I bent over and shut off the diesel engine and its noise died away.

  I leaned back, tilted my head backward, eyes closed, and let the wind blow across my face. The yacht carved through the water with a quiet gurgle, and the winch clicked quietly as the skipper tightened the jib. We picked up speed.

  "Back then, in November, when we had storm training out'n the North Sea, y'know,” said Heinz-Gunther, tearing me from my reverie. “Those were big waves, lemme tell ya, real big waves. Well, let's just say you never seen waves like that!"

  Robert, the man with whom I had been planning to enjoy this vacation, nodded in understanding, then got up, left the cockpit, and went in search of solitude on the foredeck. Now, I wasn't particularly romantically inclined, even if I did earn my living with the assembly-line production of romance novels, but even so it seemed to me that Robert could have shown a little more manly protective instinct. After all, he was the one who'd lured me away from my cozy cottage in the Orkneys to this boat on the Baltic Sea.

  "I was the only one who didn't hafta upchuck, y'know,” Heinz-Gunther went on, digging a can of beer out of the sagging pocket of his sweatpants.

  Karsten, our skipper, had planted me at the helm of his Maxi 1080 an hour ago, told me the course, and instructed me to “keep an eye on everything that happens around the boat, Rieke. And if there's a problem, just give me a shout.” Somehow I didn't think he meant this kind of problem. And now he'd disappeared into the main cabin with his mysterious shipwrecked pal Knut to talk something over in private. Bernd, the sixth on board, lay in the aft cabin nursing his broken rib.

  It was originally supposed to be a sailing tour for four: Karsten and his wife Evelyn, and Robert and I. On the Swedish yacht Impedimenta. A relaxed week of sailing around Fyn, Denmark's second-largest island. May in the Danish “South Sea.” Instead, I was stuck on board with five men whose first act in the morning after setting sail was to pour themselves a schnapps and tip a sixth into the Baltic for good measure, “for Rasmus,” so that the wind and waves would be kind to us. There was more schnapps when we tied up every afternoon. And one for the Baltic, “for Rasmus,” if the wind and waves had been kind to us—or, if they hadn't been, to show we didn't take it personally.

  "Y'know,” said Heinz-Gunther, after a pause.

  "No,” I replied. I didn't want to, either. I wanted to steer in peace, lose myself in my thoughts, stare placidly at my true love's black curls, and not have to talk to anyone.

  "Y'know, there was somethin’ funny about that boat."

  Back then, in November, when he had storm training on the North Sea?

  He bent over toward me; I could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the dandruff on his blond hair. Then he looked pointedly through the closed Plexiglas down the companionway into the main cabin, where Knut and Karsten had their heads together.

  "Nah, I mean Knut's boat, the Sea Otter, y'know. How Arne went overboard when Knut was ... Somethin’ funny about that. Not right, somehow...” Heinz-Gunther took a large swig of beer and went on with his tale. They'd all gone on board in Neustadt: Heinz-Gunther, Arne, Bernd, and Knut, the skipper. Four men and a boat. They'd sailed out through the Bay of Lubeck, and on the way to Fehmarn Sound, Bernd had fallen through the hatch and broken a rib. They'd dropped him off for treatment at the hospital on Fehmarn, but he'd insisted on coming back to the boat and going on with the others.

  "Would you have preferred it if Knut had broken off the tour?” I asked.

  Heinz-Gunther shook his head. “Well, no, uh, not really. At least, not then. But it's still funny, y'know?"

  I muttered something incomprehensible. Knut, the skipper of the thirty-footer with the incredibly original name Sea Otter, took paying passengers on board occasionally to finance the upkeep on the boat—just like Karsten, our skipper. If he'd turned around that first day, he'd have had to give his passengers their money back. And everything on a boat, right down to the tiniest steel screw, seemed to cost three times as much as the exact same piece of equipment for any other form of transport—a problem sarcastically referred to as the “maritime surcharge.” Which meant that Knut was probably not in a position to refuse the extra income. It wasn't just the purchase price of the yacht, either; he had expensive slip fees in the summer and storage fees in the winter, and frequent repairs to keep the boat seaworthy.

  "But the thing is, Arne was always kind of a weird guy, y'know?” said Heinz-Gunther.

  A freckled hand pushed open the Plexiglas hatch, retreated, and then reappeared holding a mug of coffee. This was followed by a tousled blond head and a pair of very blue eyes. Was that from colored contact lenses? The men in my novels always had eyes that were naturally brilliant. Then came the rest of Bernd, moving very gingerly on account of the broken rib, which gave me plenty of time to look. My schooled romance-novelist's glance could immediately discern the athletic body under the sailing attire.

  "Karsten said to bring you a cup of coffee and ask whether you want to be relieved."

  "The coffee's great, but I can manage a while longer, thanks."

  "See, I gave up drinkin’ coffee years ago, ‘cause it's really bad for you,” said Heinz-Gunther.

  Bernd rolled his eyes in exasperation, and Heinz-Gunther pondered the last few drops at the bottom of his beer can. Then he got up and climbed reluctantly down the companionway, presumably in search of replenishments, and Bernd sat down in the vacated seat.

  "You doing okay?” he asked.

  He was obviously looking for conversation as well as playing the role of coffee bearer. Robert was still on the foredeck, apparently lost in thought, because he made no move to rescue me from strange men sharing confidences. What was the point of being married, for Pete's sake?

  Luckily, the sea was reasonably calm, the wind blew with a gentle three Beaufort astern, and the sun was fighting its way through the thick clouds. I was standing at the wheel of a thirty-six-footer listening to the gulls scream, the wind blow, and the water gurgle, and it could have been so wonderful if it weren't for—

  "It was nice of you to let us come along,” said Bernd.

  "Don't thank me,” I mumbled. Nobody'd asked me what I wanted anyway.

  "How well do you know Karsten and his wife?"

  "Why?” I responded, startled by the question.

  "Oh, just wondering."

  Men didn't “just wonder.” He was after something. Not that it interested me.

  I looked around me, checked the log, compass, and wind direction, and was satisfied with the result. The wheel was steady under my hand, the bow sliced cleanly through the waves, and little flecks of foam tumbled over each other in the steely blue
water. To starboard I could see the Danish peninsula, to port the island of Fano. The places we were passing had names like Gammel Albo and Sonder Stenderup. I could just make out the campground at Stenderup Hage, and then we were past it and Lillebelt spread out before us. The shore seemed to recede; houses, streets, and piers moved backward and the water took center stage. The waves were already a little higher.

  "Have you sailed with Karsten a lot?” Bernd asked.

  "No,” I said. Behind me I could hear Heinz-Gunther rummaging for something in the aft cabin. And through the Plexiglas I could see that Knut and Karsten were still deep in their conversation.

  "But you've known him a while?"

  "No."

  Why was Bernd forcing this conversation on me? I spent my days professionally stringing words together and the evening reading them aloud to myself to make sure they sounded right. Or I listened to the words Robert had spent the whole day stringing together. So I like to imagine my vacations as wordless as possible: I want to feel the wind in my hair, breathe in the salty air, and take in new images. And get my true love in the sack a lot, which was made impossible by the overcrowded yacht.

  Bernd pushed shut the hatch, which Heinz-Gunther had neglected to close completely, and looked at me pointedly. “And how did you get on board?"

  "I climbed aboard at the bow."

  "Just quit bullshitting me, would you?” he burst out, and then began to complain that women were normally so open and communicative, but the only one on board this shitty boat had to be me, of all people, who was tighter than a clam, and anyway you couldn't get a decent conversation started with anyone on this scow. If only his best friend were here, she'd talk to him, and if only he hadn't listened to his therapist, who'd prescribed a dose of male company. “You see what happens when men are by themselves?” he said, working himself up to a fever pitch. “Murder and mayhem!"

  "An accident's not a murder."

  "Accident? That's nonsense!” he snorted.

  Crime fiction is actually Robert's specialty, but he had chosen not to participate in this conversation. I wondered whether the wind was carrying scraps of it down to where he lay on his back on the foredeck, his bony knees in the air.