by Tony Dunbar
“Sure, if you have your detective bring them over to me.
“I think I can arrange that.” He hung up smiling.
He told Cherrylynn that Dr. Trina Tessier seemed to be smitten by Flowers. He was a little amused by how unamused she was.
She brightened up a little when he asked her to beep Flowers on his cellular phone and see if he could nose around Cletus’s neighborhood some more and recruit a couple of character witnesses.
“I’m going over to Moskowitz lab and try to track down Dr. Swincter again. Can you hold the fort here?”
“Like always,” she said, in a not exactly happy tone he couldn’t quite interpret.
“And please see if you can find Mickey,” he requested. “We could sure use some help.”
“Sorry to intrude,” Tubby said to the doctor he had startled, and who was looking at him fiercely over his glasses.
“I’m rather busy, Mr. Dubonnet. This is really not a good time.”
“I understand, and I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.”
“Are you responsible for this?” Swincter asked, pulling a wrinkled yellow slip of paper from his coat pocket.
“Is that a subpoena? Yes, I’m afraid I am.”
“I have two classes to teach on Thursday. I really can’t be bothered with going to court for this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. A man is on trial for his life.”
“That may be, but you understand I think he’s guilty. I don’t see what I have to add.”
“I’m not sure yet either, Doctor. But I’m trying in a very short amount of time to get an understanding of your colleague’s life and work because I don’t believe Cletus killed him. Someone else did.”
“Any leading candidates?”
Tubby nodded his head. “A couple, maybe. I do have a question for you.”
“What’s that? And I also am short on time.”
“You and Dr. Valentine were to present a paper at a conference in Cincinnati earlier this month.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Swincter took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses on his white sleeve.
“And then, after his death, you canceled the appearance.”
“Yes, that’s right again. The research that was the subject of that presentation was incomplete when Whitney died, and I did not have the time to wrap it up on my own.”
“What was the research about?”
“Nothing that would interest you. It had to do with the metabolic effects of a certain class of drugs. It was really Whitney’s baby, not mine.”
“Yet he was giving you equal credit.”
“Yes, we had that kind of a relationship.”
“That’s unusual isn’t it? I thought academia was a dog-eat-dog world.”
“In the liberal arts maybe, but in the sciences we are far more cooperative than that.”
“Had Valentine written up a report of his experiments?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Surely he must have recorded his data somewhere.”
Swincter put his glasses on again and focused on the lawyer. “I would think so. He used notebooks. And, of course, his computer.”
“All that seems to be missing.”
“I can’t explain that, Mr. Dubonnet. Naturally we’ll try to reconstruct the data when time permits. But why the great interest?”
“It’s just a mystery, that’s all. Did he use animals in his research?”
“Quite a few, actually. He was a great rat slayer. He treated them almost as if they were, what’s the word, vermin?”
“I see you’re titillated by people’s squeamishness where animal research is concerned.”
“Don’t get me started on that debate. I know I’m a monster in some people’s eyes. Now please excuse me and let me get back to my work.”
“Did Dr. Valentine’s research have anything to do with any of your cadavers here? The tourist from Texas, the woman who drove off the bridge?”
Swincter glared at him.
“No!” he said, and turned back to his project, which involved doing something malicious to a small rodent pinned to a dissecting board.
Tubby gulped.
“I wonder, Doctor,” Tubby pressed on, “do you know a young lady named Denise DiMaggio?”
Swincter looked up, lost for a moment. Then he set his narrow jaw.
“I don’t think so,” he said through pinched lips.
“She’s a woman you might have met at a bar or something,” Tubby said.
“I can’t believe this. Are you having me followed?” Swincter demanded. Tubby was slightly nervous about the scalpel in the doctor’s hand.
“I just wondered what you all talked about,” he said.
“This is preposterous. I want you out of my laboratory!” Swincter’s voice was so tight it squeaked.
“Very well,” Tubby said politely, and beat it out the door with as much dignity as possible.
Was that a total waste of energy? he asked himself.
Back at the office, Tubby found Cherrylynn at her desk, staring sadly off into space. She told him that Magenta Reilly had called Dubonnet & Associates to protest the subpoena and had become very upset when she recognized Cherrylynn’s voice.
“I feel terrible,” his secretary moaned. “Magenta was really bent out of shape – like hysterical. I’m afraid she might do something drastic.”
“I certainly hope not,” Tubby said. It seemed to him that this had already been a very long day.
“I’m going to close my door and just try to think awhile,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to anyone on the phone unless it’s very important.”
He had just hung up his coat and sunk down at his desk when Cherrylynn beeped and asked whether a call from Detective Fox Lane was important. He sighed and said yes.
“Hello, Officer Lane. How are you this afternoon?” he asked.
“Ready for a vacation. I have two pieces of information for you. As you know, it is improper for me to communicate directly with defense counsel about a case under active investigation.”
“I don’t think it’s improper, Fox. I just think it may be against your policy.”
“That’s a fine distinction, but anyway, here’s what I have for you, confidentially. First, the other doctor who worked with the decedent, what’s his name, Swincter?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Beats me.”
“Anyhow, he has a large bank balance, like half a million dollars.”
“Where did he get it?”
“I have no idea. Lieutenant Porknoy didn’t think it worthwhile to follow up. Actually, the only way he found out about it was, he did a routine request to the university credit union about your client Cletus Busters’s accounts, and they screwed up and gave him a printout of the entire department.”
“How recently did the money go in?”
“No idea. All Porknoy got were balances.”
“That could be anything, I guess. But thanks anyway. What did Cletus’s account show, by the way?”
“About three hundred dollars.”
“Figures. You said you had two things for me.”
“Yeah. Number two is, Mrs. Valentine has an arrest record.”
“Really? What for?”
“Assault on her husband. Almost two years ago. He was the complainant. Then the case was dismissed.”
“That’s very interesting. Do you have the file and the police report?”
“That would be in the warehouse somewhere.”
“And Officer Porknoy didn’t think that was worthy of following up either?”
“How’d you guess? Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for you. Trial is when?”
“Jury selection starts the day after tomorrow.”
“Well, if your man did it, I hope he gets the death penalty, but at least he ought to have a fair shake.”
“Yeah, thanks. You’re a pal.”
He hung up and
leaned back in his chair, eyes toward the ceiling. “Now let’s think this thing through,” he said out loud.
But it was not going to be that way. The intercom beeped again.
“Collect call from the jail,” Cherrylynn reported. She knew he took calls from the jail.
He picked up.
“Tubby, it’s me, Mickey.”
“What’s wrong, man?”
“I got pulled over for DWI.”
“Aw, shit.”
“Yeah, I know. Can you get me out of here?”
CHAPTER 23
“Open the door, Harold,” Tubby yelled while he clanged the knocker on the wood. He was at Debbie’s apartment building. It was a place with lots of palm trees and a pool. He knew if he kept pounding, heads would peek out up and down the hall. “It’s your old brother-in-law, Tubby.”
Finally the door swung open, and Harold, unwrinkled and sandy-haired, flashed his lustrous, innocent smile and emerged into the light.
“Come on in, Mr. Tubby. It sure is good to see you. I was just about to call you for a job reference. I’m trying to get hired at that shoe store, High Top Heaven -”
“You’re looking peaked, Harold,” Tubby interrupted, staring past him into the gloom of Debbie’s apartment. “Don’t you ever open the blinds or turn on the lights?”
“Well, I just got up. I was feeling real sick last night and couldn’t sleep.”
“Harold,” Tubby said. “Please sit down.”
They both sat. Harold was posed at the edge of the sofa, clenching his hands between his knees.
“You were supposed to stay in Hawaii, Harold. Why didn’t you?”
“Well, actually, Mr. Tubby, I ran out of money. I got the check you sent me, and I had an apartment and everything. But there was a fire in the building, and it completely cleaned me out. I had a real nice job, too, making these Hula Balls, which are like Hawaiian snowballs, down on the beach, but this hellacious storm came through and blew over the snowball stand and just about everything else over there. You might have read about it.”
“No. No, I didn’t. Do you have any plans, other than to stay here in Debbie’s apartment?”
“Sure, I’m planning to get a job and get back on my feet just as soon as I can.”
“Why are you here, in the dark, Harold?”
“I told you. I just got up.”
“Look, is anybody after you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, is anybody after you? Anybody you may have ripped off? Are the police looking for you?”
“Mr. Tubby, would I be staying here with my niece, your daughter, if that was the case?”
“Yes, you probably would. Have you ever been in treatment?”
“For what?”
“For drugs. Let’s not bullshit here. For marijuana or crack or whatever you’re stringing yourself out on.”
“Hey.” Harold looked insulted. “I drink a couple of beers, but I’m off the drugs now.”
“Because there are lots of programs. Hell, New Orleans is full of them. I could even help you a little bit with the cost.”
“I would definitely appreciate a loan to tide me over,” Harold said earnestly.
“You are not getting my drift.”
“I’m off the crack, truthfully, Mr. Tubby. I’ve even been thinking about volunteering for one of those counseling programs where they go to the high schools and stuff and tell kids about the evils of dope, you know.”
“You can’t stay here, Harold.”
“I’m not going to be around long, Mr. Tubby.”
Tubby glared at the carpet and around Debbie’s apartment. It was sparsely decorated with girl things – a color TV, a wicker chair, some flowers in a vase, a macrame wall hanging. He saw a hair dryer he thought belonged to Christine, but he did not pause to examine the implications of that. When Debbie was home, the room looked sweet and cheerful. With Harold there in the dark, it looked exposed and cheap.
“How about the Army, Harold? Have you ever thought about that? Get a skill. They pay for your education when you get out.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely thinking about that if this shoe salesman deal doesn’t work out.”
Tubby left after that. He guessed there was nothing to be done until Debbie, or maybe Christine, decided to kick Harold out. It was her house, not Tubby’s, but he could happily handle the eviction.
In the Upper Pontalba Building, two men stared at each other over a crystal vase of red camellias on the coffee table.
“I think he’s getting too damn close,” Mr. Flick finally said. “The risk of him running around loose is too great!”
“So what are you telling me to do?” Walter asked him.
“Take him out of the picture.”
“Permanently? Or do you want me just to put him in a coma for a while?”
“Either one would be fine. Whatever you think is best, Walter. It would be in everyone’s best interest if this fellow Dubonnet, or whatever his name is, were sidelined. So to speak. But it should be an accident, of course – routine street violence, perhaps.”
“I can handle that.”
“You’ll do it personally?”
“That’s what I get paid for, boss.”
“Take care of this and you’re due for a raise.”
Walter took one of the camellias from the vase and smelled it.
“Odorless,” he said. The crooked twist his pretty lips took might have scared a child.
“Not to me it’s not,” Flick said.
* * *
Cherrylynn parked her slightly ratty Datsun across from Magenta Reilly’s apartment on Jeff Davis Parkway. Distressed as she was, she didn’t even get mad at herself for dragging her car’s tender sidewall along the ragged granite curb.
She hurried across the street. The lights of a passing car caught her, and some teenagers yelled something she didn’t want to hear. She rang the bell but no one answered, so she rapped on the door.
Footsteps came down the hall, and a voice asked, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Cherrylynn,” she replied. “We met at the laundromat.”
“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you,” Magenta said.
“Please let me apologize. I feel terrible.”
“Go away right now.”
“Please. I know you’re mad at me, but I do want to say I’m sorry. Could you at least let me do that?”
The door opened a crack. A slice of Magenta’s face appeared, and she had been crying. Cherrylynn offered a big, miserable smile.
“I really do apologize,” she said. “Could I come in for just a minute? I’m not a bad person.”
“I suppose,” Magenta said.
Cherrylynn stepped quickly inside.
“I shouldn’t have fooled you last weekend. I know it was the wrong thing to do.”
“Who are you really?” Magenta demanded.
“I’m a legal secretary for Mr. Tubby Dubonnet. He’s the lawyer for Cletus Busters.”
“The man who killed Whitney?”
“Mr. Dubonnet doesn’t believe he did it, Magenta. We’re trying to find out who really did. And I guess I was just playing at being detective when I talked to you. I’m not very good at it.”
“I’m sure you found out everything you wanted to know about me.” Magenta pouted.
“Yes, I did. I found out that you are a very nice person, and not the sort who would kill anybody. You didn’t really tell me anything confidential.”
“What exactly were you trying to learn?”
“Look, may I sit down?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Thanks.” Cherrylynn plopped down on the sofa.
“See, there’s a real detective working for Mr. Dubonnet. His name is Flowers. Anyway, Flowers found out somehow – don’t ask me how – that you and Dr. Valentine were having a relationship.”
Magenta gasped.
“That’s not true,” she squeaked.
“It probably doesn’t really
matter anyway,” Cherrylynn continued. “We were just trying to find out who else besides Mr. Busters would have a motive to kill Dr. Valentine, and so Mr. Dubonnet, and Flowers and me, were talking to everyone we could think of.”
“I could never have killed Professor Valentine.”
“Oh, I can tell that. Mr. Dubonnet also investigated Mrs. Valentine. And you know what? She was having an affair too – with a chiropractor.”
“That woman is such a witch,” Magenta said bitterly.
“Why do you say that?” Cherrylynn asked.
“She made his life a living hell,” Magenta said.
Cherrylynn leaned forward and nodded her head.
“You don’t have any coffee?” she asked.
At that moment Denise unlocked her apartment door. The lights were on inside, and the TV was blaring.
“Baxter?” she called.
“It’s me,” he said, getting up from his chair in front of the television.
He spread his arms, came to her, and kissed her hard. He had poured a beer or two.
He pulled her head back.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Baxter, but let go of my hair,” she began.
He slapped her across the mouth.
“Papa’s home. You should be on time.”
“Stop that,” she cried.
“That’s no way to talk to Coach,” he said and pressed her roughly against the couch.
“I love you, Baxter.” It was a complaint, or a question.
He grabbed her jaw in his hand so that her lips were squeezed together and her ears hurt. “So, you should do what I tell you to do,” he said fiercely.
But why should I? she screamed inside.
“Ow!” she protested.
CHAPTER 24
“You don’t have any coffee, do you?” Flowers asked Tubby.
“I just put a pot on,” Cherrylynn said. “It’ll be done in a minute.”
The morning was gray, and it seemed even grayer from the forty-third floor, where you could see the river, the lake, and the sky all competing for dreariness.
Tubby was still groggy from dealing with Central Lockup, springing O’Rourke from the drunk tank, which had taken until the wee hours, and Flowers looked discouraged. Only Cherrylynn seemed wide awake and full of pep.
