by John Chabot
"Okay, so now what?" Morris directed the question to Mickie.
She thought about that, turning her glass to make overlapping circles on the tabletop. "I think we need to know a lot more about Brodbeck. He was single, straight, thought a lot of himself. No real ties that we know of. No steady women. No close friends. Where would a guy like that hang out?"
"Bars and clubs," said Morris. "Anywhere he could pick up broads. I beg your pardon—ladies."
Mickie ignored him, turning to Harry. "Were there any pictures of him in the house?"
He tried to give her a wide-eyed, innocent look, but his eyes had long ago lost the ability. "How would I know what's in his house?"
"When you looked through the window."
Morris gave up trying to figure what was going on between them. He sipped his drink and watched.
"Ah, yes, looking through the window," said Harry. "It seems to me I saw one of him standing beside his car. Probably taken when he bought it. It looks new. We can check. We got the court order."
"Great. We can get some copies of that picture and start making the rounds. Somebody must know him. Maybe someone saw him with Tina. He must have had some kind of life."
"Probably a lot of people knew him," said Morris. "Women, anyway." He finished his drink, started to get up. "Hey, I almost forgot. Guess what I did this afternoon." When nobody guessed, he said, "I watched movies."
"Good for you," said Mickie.
"Nah, it was boring. Right up to the end, then it got real interesting." He sat there, enjoying the way they looked at him. "I went to that restaurant in Wilmington Frank Siegert says he had lunch at on Saturday. Know what they have there? They've got a surveillance camera, just like in the banks. You buy a burger, you get to be in the movies. The date and time are shown across the bottom."
"And Siegert wasn't there?"
"Oh, he was there, all right. Bought stuff for takeout—it was in a bag, not on a tray."
"So?"
Morris treated them to his wolfish grin. "He told us he left his office on Saturday between one-thirty and two. So what time did he show up at his house, when you found his wife?"
"Around two-thirty."
"Well, he left the restaurant at 11:34. It's twenty minutes, tops, from there to his house. I mean, how long does it take to eat a couple of burgers?"
Mickie narrowed her eyes, smiling. "I knew it. He keeps lying. I wonder what he'll have to say about this?" She looked around, ready to leave. "Anything else?"
"One other thing," said Harry. He peered into what was left of his beer, then finished it off. "Just a question I thought I might throw out. You met Brodbeck a couple of times. You seem to have an opinion of him, what he was like. When we talked to him at Nutrix, you asked him where he'd gone after reporting the theft of his clothes. He said he'd gone home and stayed there. Remember that?"
Mickie nodded, wondering what was coming.
"Did you believe him?"
"Not much."
"Well, knowing the mood he was in when he made the complaint, what do you think he might have done?" He made it sound as if it made no difference at all. "It's just a question, something to think about."
* * *
The inner voice was firm, insistent, demanding. "It must be done."
"I'm not sure."
"Of course you are. She knows. You can feel it."
"She can't prove it."
"Can't she? She won't quit."
"I know. But when will it end?"
"This is the last."
"And if it isn't?"
"It wasn't so bad. In fact...."
"No! This is the last."
* * *
After Mickie left the bar, she passed up the turn that would take her over the bridge to Wilford and home to her apartment. Instead, she kept on straight until she came to Kurt Brodbeck's street. She pulled up in front of the empty house, but didn't get out right away. She sat thinking about what Harry had said about Kurt.
"You seem to have an opinion of him."
Well, why shouldn't she? The man was a lout. Damned right she had an opinion.
Only one other house on the short street, the one across from Kurt's, was lit. Filtered through curtains, the yellowish glow spoke of warmth, of life, of companionship on a street of gray emptiness. She saw a shadow pass the window, and pictured the old man and his wife getting ready to have dinner together. She wanted very much to go home. She would call Paul. They would be together, at his place or hers. Then she remembered he would be working late, getting ready for the display at Chez Babineau. Oh well, she thought, we both have jobs to do. And what's so special about twenty-six?
She got out and went up the stairs. She rang the bell, hoping someone would answer. She tried the door just to be sure, was almost surprised when it opened, and glanced about guiltily before going in.
The overhead light was still on. She called out as she entered, half expecting to see someone there. She stood just inside the door, looking around, trying to get the feel of the place. Harry had once told her, "Let a scene talk to you. Just be still and listen. It can tell you all kinds of things."
She noticed the couch, the lamp, the chairs, the area rug, the rickety desk in one corner. She judged the furniture to be made of soft pine. All cheap, all worn. Like their owner, she thought. All of them needed to be chucked out and replaced with something decent. On one wall was a cheaply framed print of a country cottage, very nineteenth century, with lots of flowers and a girl in a long dress and a bonnet, probably something that came with the furniture. Long dresses and bonnets weren't exactly Kurt Brodbeck's style.
She went to the hall and looked into the weight room. The equipment was well used, but had obviously been expensive when new. A crack in the padding of the bench press had been neatly mended with duct tape. This room, she thought, was something he really cared about, something he took some pride in.
The bedroom restored her faith in Kurt the Letch. The waterbed was filled less than was recommended, making it squishy, waves starting from the least movement. Lots of motion, she thought. Must take some getting used to if you actually wanted to sleep.
There was a bedside table with a three-way lamp, still on, casting only a dim glow over the bed. Harry had said it was set to the lowest setting. Probably Kurt's idea of the ultimate in romantic. In the table drawer she found a good supply of condoms—what else?—and a pair of pajamas. When did he get around to wearing those?
She checked the closets, found fewer clothes than she had expected. The shirt with his name on the pocket was on a hanger with a dark pair of pants. One dress shirt, a few sport shirts, two other pairs of pants, a jacket. One pair of very beat up sneakers. Tina had taken his good sneakers, so he must have only one other pair, whatever he was wearing. Was this all? Not the clotheshorse she had imagined. But then, how much did he make? Did he own this place or rent? What kind of expensive vices might he have?
Back in the living room, she found the picture Harry had mentioned. It was one of four framed snapshots ranged along the back edge of the desk. She opened the back of the frame and slipped it out. It had been taken to show off the car, but it was good of Kurt, too. Blown up, it would be a fine ‘Have-you-seen-this-man?’ photo. She wondered if the court order covered removing personal objects. Well, she'd bring the original back.
She studied the other pictures. There was one of an elderly woman in a polka dot dress, smiling self-consciously, the sun in her eyes. Beside it was one of a younger couple, close together, his arm around her waist. From the style of their clothes, she thought it must be about thirty years old. The last picture was more familiar. It was of the woman in the polka dots, younger now, perhaps in her thirties, in a skirt and blouse. On one side of her was a boy, a nine year old Kurt. On the other side a younger girl clung to her skirt. The kind of pictures you might find in any home.
Mickie sat down and opened the single desk drawer. There wasn't much. A blue, lined notepad, several NUTRIX ballpoints, a deck of
cards, a book of stamps, paper clips, rubber bands, and all the assorted junk that winds up in any desk drawer. On one side was a set of half a dozen check registers held together with a rubber band. Beside it was a stack of letters, also rubber-banded, and a checkbook with a balance of thirty-four dollars and change.
The registers went back several years. He had used checks to pay the utility bills and very little else. She found no recent payments to credit companies, and remembered seeing only one credit card in his wallet. A man who paid cash whenever possible. There had been monthly payments to a finance company, but those had stopped the previous year. Car payments, she thought. The only ones that caught her interest were noted in the register only as 'Edna'. Each was for two hundred dollars, and there was one each month for as far back as the registers covered. Now who, she wondered, is Edna? And what does she know about him that's worth two hundred a month?
She picked up the stack of letters, still in their envelopes, and knew immediately who Edna was. In the upper left hand corner of each envelope was a return address sticker. Edna Hall, with an address in Erie, Pennsylvania.
One of Mickie's failings as a detective was that she wasn't by nature a snoop. She had as much curiosity as anyone, but digging into someone's private life made her feel nasty, like a sneak. Once, on a stakeout with Harry, she had felt like a peeping tom. It was possibly some failure in the way she was raised.
Okay, get on with it, she told herself, and opened the first letter. It was several years old, the writing shaky and forced, as if the writer had difficulty holding the pen. Edna thanked him for his generosity, saying he'd never know how much she appreciated the checks he sent. It went on to give news of mutual friends, made a passing reference to Edna's problem, whatever that was, and closed by thanking him again.
The letters were dated every three or four months. Mickie read them all, her squeamishness vanishing as she got to know more about this woman. And about Kurt. Putting together offhand references and remarks scattered through the letters, she gathered that Kurt's parents had been killed in some kind of accident, that he and a sister, Sarah, had been raised by Aunt Edna. Something unspecified had happened to Sarah, so Edna was now alone. Nowhere in the letters did Edna complain, only saying once that the doctor was kind, but there wasn't much he could do. The handwriting grew steadily shakier as the letters became more recent. Mickie found the last one, dated six months earlier, nearly illegible. The last thing she could make out clearly was that Aunt Edna was so grateful that she'd had the opportunity to know Kurt and Sarah.
Mickie sat very still, reflecting that she'd had to relearn, yet again, that there are at least two sides to everyone. She thought of the weight room and the care he had taken in setting it up, the bedroom with its big-action waterbed. She remembered his arrogance and condescension. And she thought of Aunt Edna.
So who are you, Kurt Brodbeck? And where have you gone? Back to Erie, Pennsylvania, or running for your life?
* * *
Mickie swore as she cruised by her apartment. Some clod had taken her assigned parking place. Fat chance of finding any of the others empty. She drove to the end of the row, her headlights showing cars in every space, then out to the overflow parking area where visitors were supposed to park, but often didn’t. Even there, there were more cars than usual. She pulled into the first space available, switched off, feeling the beginning of a headache at her temples. Hang on, she thought, the day is almost over. She picked up the plastic bag beside her. On the way home she had stopped for a carton of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. Damned if she was going to spend her birthday alone without some consolation.
Crossing the lot to her apartment, she noticed what she thought was the last straw. Her door was in a recessed area, and the light beside it was out again, throwing the whole space into deep shadow. It had been replaced not two weeks ago. She thought, Where do they get these bulbs? Probably the apartment manager's brother-in-law has a way to buy seconds. Her headache kicked up a notch.
Holding the ice cream and purse in one hand, she dug out her keys as she approached the door. Without the porch light, it was hard to see which one was which. She stepped back to get the little light there was from a distant street lamp. As she held up the keys, she heard the popping sound, then found herself falling hard to the concrete landing. Confused, she lay there, wondering why she had fallen. Then the pain was there, turning her left side to fire. Oh God, she thought, what did I do?
Somewhere in front of her she heard a soft shuffling, someone slowly approaching from the darkness. She tried to focus, knowing by now she needed assistance. "Could you help me? I think I fell."
A light came on, directly into her eyes. She tried to shield her face, and was sorry she had. Pain stabbed into her side as soon as she moved.
"Please."
The light moved down to her side, then back to her face. It came a step nearer.
Somewhere, she heard the crack of a door opening, then voices, several voices, laughing, talking too loudly, coming toward her. The light went out, leaving her blind in the dark. She heard the shuffling steps, hurrying now, moving away. The voices settled down and she heard car doors slamming, engines starting, the rev and roar as they backed out and left. Silence settled in.
She lay quietly, too afraid of the pain to move, then realized she must. She couldn't stay there all night. She would have to get inside, but that meant she would have to stand up. She wasn’t sure she could.
Suck it up, Wilder. Don't be such a wimp.
She closed her eyes and pushed herself to a sitting position, leaning against the door. She had to stop there, letting the fire die down a little. As it did, she noticed that it hurt whenever she breathed. Every intake brought a stab. She tried to relax, to breathe as shallowly as she could, but it didn't help much.
Okay, now up onto your feet.
No, not yet! First, find your keys.
She was surprised to find them still in her hand, the apartment key between thumb and finger. Thank God for that.
Getting to her feet was not as bad as she had feared. It hurt like hell, but she found that as long as she didn't move her left arm, she could handle it. She had trouble getting the key into the slot, and realized she was beginning to lose it. She got the door unlocked and open, careful not to fall as the door opened away from her. Reaching carefully to her right, she flipped on the lights.
There were faces there. Lots of faces, laughing faces, shouting faces. What were they shouting? She couldn't quite tell. Something about a surprise? She thought, Why are they surprised? I live here. Her mother was there, and her father. Over to one side stood Harry and Karen. What were they doing there? Even Morris was there, which made no sense at all. Then she understood. It was a dream, of course, and dreams weren't supposed to make any sense.
She saw Paul coming toward her, but he wasn't smiling, and she wondered what was wrong. He was looking at her side. She looked down and saw the blood staining the left side of her blouse. It would be ruined. She'd never be able to get the blood out. And besides that, her mint-chocolate-chip ice cream was melting out on the porch.
CHAPTER 16
AFTERSHOCK
Mickie associated wheelchairs, not with disability, but with old age. The last time she had seen her grandmother had been in a wheelchair. Nana had been eighty-three, had sat awkwardly, her frizzy gray head bent forward, shoulders stooped, her arms bent crookedly on the rests. Mickie remembered the gown and the hospital slippers, the pale pink wrapper spotted with buds. She remembered thinking that Nana, once so strong, so to-be-relied-upon was now too frail and tiny for life, that she had outlived her life and was impatient to be gone.
When the elevator doors hissed open, she felt a push from behind and rolled out into the main lobby. The drizzle of yesterday had passed. Ahead of her she saw midmorning sunlight beyond the front windows, and thought, Thank God, I'm almost out of here.
She felt completely stupid being wheeled like a baby in a stroller, sure that e
veryone was looking at her. Passing a little girl and her mother, she noticed the younger one staring frankly, while the mother's eyes avoided her, being polite.
“Mama?”
“Don’t stare, Dear, it’s not nice.”
On the whole, Mickie preferred the wide-eyed curiosity of the child.
Through the big glass doors she saw Harry's dark green Bug parked by the curb, Harry just opening the door. As soon as the wheelchair came to a halt, she slid out as gracefully as she could, trying to make it perfectly clear that there was no need for the chair. Even so, she could push herself up only with her right arm, and couldn't help wincing a little as she did.
She grumbled getting into the passenger seat. Harry said, "So what's your problem?"
"Being treated like an invalid."
Harry grinned. "You deserve it. I don't know anybody who can screw up a surprise party better than you. That was quite an entrance you made. Besides, it's hospital rules."
"They're a bunch of old ladies. There's nothing wrong with me."
"You were shot."
"I was hit in the rib. It took out a little flesh."
"And broke a rib."
"Cracked! Cracked a rib. There's a difference."
"Not a whole lot. I'll bet they've got you taped up like King Tut."
"That shows how out of it you are. They don't do that anymore. I have a few stitches and a bandage. I'm fine."
"You're just full of painkillers. Wait till they wear off. And by the way, we found the slug. It's a .22 short."
"Not exactly heavy artillery."
"Placed right, it can be effective. You were lucky. Also, your porch light hadn't burned out. Someone had unscrewed it."
She thought about that. "When? Didn't you notice it?"
"It was on when we got there. Must have been done just before you came in."
