“He spoke to me on the stairs,” I said. “The question is, is he going to get away with killing Debbie Whitten?”
“He didn’t do that,” the chief said flatly. “That’s really not his style. He doesn’t know karate, and he never deals with anybody, man or woman, indoors. That’s another one of his hangups.”
“If he’s not involved in Debbie’s death, what the hell did he try to kill me for?”
“I don’t know, Cobb. I’ll have the guy picked up, if I can. You be careful in the meantime.”
I called Eve, then picked up a paper to read while I waited for her to come and get me. It was more of the same. This time they’d asked some psychiatrists why Dan wouldn’t be able to get off, even with an insanity plea.
I mentioned it to Eve as she drove us toward Route 17.
“I know,” she said, “I read it this morning. I think Mr. Whitten is really being foolish about this. He wants Dan convicted without delay, but every time he prints something like this, he gives me another excuse to get a change of venue on this case. And more cause to get one. Any judge would have to concede that it’s impossible for Dan to get a fair trial in this town.”
“Even the ones the old man got elected? The ones who owe him?”
Eve completed the interchange, merging with the eastbound lane with caution and prudence before she answered. “Even those. If they let the trial take place here, a guilty verdict is almost certain to be overturned on appeal, especially if I’m denied a change of venue in the first place. No judge likes to be reversed, especially on something like that.”
I had mixed emotions about it. It was nice to think that Dan would be able to go somewhere and get a fair trial, but we were talking about the prospect of months, or even years, with no guarantee of a favorable outcome. I hated to be crass, but Dan and I put together didn’t have the money to finance something like that.
Then I got to thinking about Mr. Whitten. “I think he wants to believe he’s doing it himself,” I said.
“What’s that?” Eve had been watching the traffic.
“The old man. It was his daughter who’s been murdered. He wants Dan’s head on a sharp pole, but he’s too civilized just to lop it off. So he’s going to do it symbolically, going to destroy Dan in the minds of all the people who’ve ever liked or respected him. And a lot who haven’t even heard of him.”
Eve nodded and said that made sense to her. “But there’s one thing I wanted to tell you. Okay, the trial is supposed to start Thursday. But the first thing I’m going to do is ask for a change of venue. If I get it, there’ll be a delay of at least three weeks while they find someplace else to hold the trial—I’m going to ask for Plattsburgh or Massena, as close to Canada and as far away from Whitten’s media influence as I can get.
“If I don’t get the change, I’m going to make this the most tedious, nit-picking, contentious jury-selection process in the history of New York State jurisprudence. Every time I see a juror I don’t like the looks of, I’m going to challenge for cause and make Wernick fight it out. I’m going to hoard pre-emptories like diamonds, and I’m going to get every instance of a venireman’s being exposed to Whitten-controlled media propaganda into the record. Every single one. It’ll take at least three weeks.”
I wanted to kiss her. “That’s the spirit,” I said. “I’d applaud if I could.”
“I’ll take the wish for the deed. Anyway, Matt, I wanted you to know that you’re not on any tight last-minute deadline.”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
She shook her head; her red hair bounced prettily. “Matt, I just explained to you—”
“That’s not it. There’s an old political proverb that applies here, too: ‘If you throw enough mud, some is bound to stick.’ That’s the whole idea behind the change of venue, isn’t it? The concept of it? If people are told enough times someone is guilty, read it in the newspaper, hear it on TV and radio, they believe it, no matter what evidence comes out in court. I don’t want my friend to go around for the rest of his life known as the one who killed that girl and got away with it. Every day I fail to clear him brings that closer to happening.”
Eve kept her eyes on the road. “You know, Matt, you aren’t God. You shouldn’t try to be.”
I had a flash of anger. I turned on her, about to ask her if she expected me to be content with things the way they were. Then I decided to hell with it, she was probably right.
Time for a little levity. “Why not? My mother always wanted me to be ambitious.” It wasn’t a great line, but it worked.
When we finished laughing, I said, “Eve, you know you saved my life last night don’t you?”
“Don’t be stupid. I wanted you.”
“I needed you. I didn’t even know it. Thank you for knowing it.”
“Anytime,” she said. She showed me a small smile. “Tell me again why we’re going to Elmira.”
“We are going to Elmira because this karate stuff has been driving me nuts. I’m going to talk to the guy who runs the karate school where Dan goes to keep sharp.”
“In Elmira?”
“It’s the nearest one to Sewanka. Besides, I hear it’s quite good. The guy who runs it just happens to like it there.”
“Well, it’ll be a new experience for me, at least. I’ve never visited a hojo before.”
I started to laugh. “What’s so funny?” Eve demanded.
“A dojo. A karate school is a dojo. A ‘HoJo’ is a restaurant with an orange roof.”
“One letter off, big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Look at the difference between ‘acme’ and ‘acne.’”
She conceded the point. We listened to the radio and discussed trivia for the rest of the trip. I suspect she led the conversation in that direction to keep me from brooding, which was damned nice of her, only it didn’t work. When I want to brood, nobody can stop me.
There’s an old joke that goes, “My hometown is so small, the Mafia is Swedish.” Well, there are a lot of towns in New York State smaller than Elmira, but nonetheless, the Elmira Karate School was owned and operated by Stan Lundqvist. The martial arts, I learned rooming with Dan, are remarkably free of prejudice as to what kind of person should be teaching them. Stan was a former national champion, and his belt was black enough to please anybody.
Except for his outfit, he was the stereotypical Swede, big, rugged, blond, and blue-eyed, with a square chin and a loud laugh. When he found out I couldn’t shake his hand, he bowed, and it seemed so natural, I bowed back. He shook Eve’s hand and told her how beautiful she was, the way somebody else would comment on the weather, that is, as if it were a self-evident fact.
Lundqvist saw my bandages and immediately jumped to a conclusion. “If you want to sign up for lessons, mister, don’t do it in anger, or because you want to get back at somebody. Go home, wait until you’re all better, and decide with a quiet heart that you want to study karate.” He pronounced it the Japanese way, kah-rah-tay, equal stress on all three syllables.
I reflected that if I waited until my heart was quiet, I’d be too old to move, let alone learn anything. “No,” I said, “it’s not that.” I introduced Eve and myself, and told him I’d like to talk to him for a little while. He said that was fine with him, as long as we didn’t mind tagging along while he watched his class.
We marched into the main room. On a wall-to-wall mat, sixteen housewives were bouncing around sixteen other housewives. When Lundqvist told them to, they went at it the other way round I couldn’t help noticing that every exercise ended with the tosser poised to finish off the tossee with a shot to the throat.
Without looking at us, Lundqvist began to speak about Dan. “I used to warn him about his temper, you know. He has a very bad temper.”
“I know that,” I said. “I used to share an apartment with him. He told me he took up martial arts to control it.”
Lundqvist nodded. “That’s a very important part of the discipline. Dan was very devoted—he was a
better pure stylist than I am, to tell you the truth—and I thought he had his anger licked. Apparently not.”
“I don’t think he killed that girl.”
Lundqvist turned to look at us for the first time. His eyes were very blue, very cold. “That doesn’t really matter, unless the newspaper accounts are wrong when they say the police placed him on the scene of the crime by proving he smashed part of a stair railing.”
“No, that much is true.”
“Well then. He lost his temper and destroyed something in anger. Once he’d gone that far, I’m surprised he only hit the girl once.”
“If he did it,” Eve added. I looked at her in surprise—that was my line.
“If he did it,” Lundqvist echoed. “I have mixed feelings about that. It doesn’t seem possible anyone else could have, does it?”
“Not at the moment,” I said.
“And yet, knowing Dan’s style as I do, I’m surprised he would use shuto—”
“What’s that?” Eve asked.
“A blow with the side of the hand,” I said. I’d picked up something living with a karate expert for four years. “The kind that killed Debbie.”
“Exactly right,” Lundqvist said. “I was surprised he used that blow instead of gyaku zuki, which is a direct strike with the knuckles, like so.” Without a pause, the karate expert dropped into a crouch, extended his left arm, then pulled it in, at the same time extending his right. The whole thing took maybe an eighth of a second, and I could almost hear the air move aside with the force of the blow.
I just hoped I’d never be on the receiving end of one of those things. I asked Lundqvist if he had ever heard of a martial arts person who would mess people up for hire.
“You mean like a ninja?”
“I guess so. Yeah. The ninja came into being to do things the samurai were too honorable to do themselves, right?”
“That’s right. But why do you ask? Have you heard of someone like that?”
I had to admit I hadn’t.
“I didn’t think so. Not in this country, at least. Don’t let the martial arts movies fool you. This is too difficult a discipline for the sort of person who thinks an easy way to make a living is to beat people up.”
That made sense to me. Why study for five years to learn a way to terrorize innocent people when you could get a gun and do it in five minutes? If terrorizing people is what you want to do, I mean.
I had mixed emotions about this news. On the one hand, it soothed my fears concerning my theoretical Mad Karate Killer. On the other hand, it shot down one of the few theories that would have cleared Dan.
Lundqvist asked if there was anything else he could do for us. Eve asked if a person who had no skill in martial arts could just happen to hit a person the right way by luck. Lundqvist’s answer was a flat no. That seemed to cover it, so we thanked him and left.
Eve drove us back to Sewanka. She dropped me off at Dan’s place. “Can you work the keys?” she asked. I reminded her I’d locked up behind us this morning.
“Besides,” I told her, “I’ll have Spot do it if I can’t.”
Spot gave me a dirty look. Eve said, “Okay, Matt. I’m going to the office. I’ll be back here around six.” I said that was fine, but it was way better than fine.
“Did we learn anything in Elmira?” she asked.
“Not unless you did,” I said.
“I learned what shuto and gyaku zuki are.”
“See? Nothing is ever wasted, is it?”
“No, of course not.” She put her arms around me and kissed me. “Be careful, Matt,” she whispered. “Somebody is beginning to like you a lot.”
Then we kissed again. She got in the car and drove off.
CHAPTER 22
“... So here he is, America’s Top Trader, TV’s Big Dealer ...”
–Jay Stewart, “Let’s Make a Deal” (ABC)
I GOT THE DOOR open with a modicum of trouble and a tolerable amount of pain. As soon as I’d unlatched it, Spot pushed his way in, scooted into the kitchen, and sat looking up at the cupboard with his tongue hanging out.
“All right, all right, I get the message,” I said. Lucky for him, Eve had thought to buy him a box of dog food instead of the canned stuff he usually got. This way, I could take the box in both hands and pour. He would have starved otherwise.
For an aristocrat, Spot eats like a slob. He sucks it in like it’s the only meal he’s ever had or is ever likely to get, and he makes little pig grunts the whole time.
I loved him anyway. Still, it usually is a lot better for my own appetite if I don’t watch him eat. This time, though, I watched him because he bothered me. He’d been bothering me ever since I’d had that dream. There was something I ought to be remembering, something right in front of my face ...
I thought I had it for a split second, and maybe I did. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember what the damned thing was when the split second was over. That kind of thing drives me nuts, because the more I think about it, the farther away it gets. But I can’t stop thinking about it.
Spot didn’t care, the insensitive wretch. He just cleaned out the bowl, then looked up at me with big cow eyes in a shameless attempt to get seconds.
You have to be firm with him at times like that. “No,” I said. “Too much ash in this stuff. It’s bad for you.”
Spot didn’t care about ash content but he caught on he wasn’t going to get anymore. He shrugged, as if to say it was worth a try, then ran off to the living room to play on the mat.
And I stood there like a dope trying to remember what it was I wanted to remember. I shook my head. Rick and Jane Sloan had spent thousands of dollars for attack training and obedience training for that pooch. Why couldn’t they have invested a few more bucks and taught him how to talk?
I was saved from this, and from thoughts even more foolish, by the telephone. It’s not difficult to pick up a receiver with both hands, but it does take a certain amount of concentration, and that cleared my head very nicely.
“Cobb?” I admitted it. That established, the voice went on to demand, “Where have you been all day?”
“Poisoning squirrels in Whitten Park. Who is this, Grant?”
“Yes. I want you to—”
I make it a rule never to let myself be bossed around by my adversaries. Unless they have a gun pointed at me or something.
“I want you to be a little polite,” I told him. “Start by explaining why it’s any of your goddam business where I’ve been.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m calling from Mr. Whitten’s office. He’d like to talk to you.”
“What about?”
Grant sighed deeply. Mr. Patience. “I don’t know, Cobb. I would guess that it concerns the murder. Will you come here, now?”
“Right now?”
“That’s right.”
This news brought with it a whole new set of foolish thoughts. What does the old man want with me? There was, of course, only one way to find out.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be there shortly, since you’ve asked me so nicely. Good-bye.”
I called a cab and crossed to the south side of town, where the headquarters of Whitten Communications stood next to an enormous shopping mall. More accurately, it was part of the mall. Back in the mid-sixties, when he decided to put his TV, radio, and newspaper operations under one roof, A. Lawrence Whitten had had the clever idea of letting some of his land pay for the rest of it. The mall and his headquarters building went up at the same time.
They looked the same, too. Both were huge rectangles of pinkish concrete, with bits of mica mixed in for shine. The afternoon sun was glinting off them now, making the whole place look like a temple of truth.
I went in and told the receptionist who I was, and that Mr. Whitten was expecting me. She pressed a few buttons and confirmed it, then gave me a clipboard and a pen, and told me to sign in.
I grabbed the pen with my thumb and proceeded to produce a specimen of my signature th
at Spot could have written. It seemed to satisfy the receptionist, though, and soon I was being led through the building by a long-haired intern from the college.
I was a little surprised at the big man’s office. The Network had led me to believe that everyone above a certain level in the communications industry—above my level, I hasten to add—gets to have as an office his favorite room from the place at Versailles.
Mr. Whitten had the fishbowl, or one of them—that glassed-in kind of office that most modern city rooms have. This particular city room had about seven of them; executives had the workers surrounded. Either Mr. Whitten liked to keep an eye on all his people, executives included, or he had been a big fan of “Lou Grant.”
Needless to say, Mr. Whitten had the biggest fishbowl with the cleanest glass. That’s all the sign on the door said, by the way: “Mr. Whitten.” If you didn’t know who he was, you had no business in the building.
The kid opened the door for me (which was nice of him) and scurried away, as though he were awed to be in the company of Greatness. I stepped inside and greeted the great.
Grant looked at me and said, “Cobb.” I told him his name was Sewall, and Mr. Whitten his name was Mr. Whitten. This little bird-behavior bit of territorial display taken care of, I was invited to sit down.
The old man looked as if something sour had grafted itself permanently to his tongue. He worked his tongue around his mouth as though trying to dislodge it. Finally he said, “Cobb, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Listening to someone who, I was told, wanted to talk to me. Waiting,” I added, “for him to say something.”
“Be your age, Cobb,” Grant said. For the first time since I’d known him, Grant didn’t look as if he’d been molded from plastic. He had some lovely purplish circles under his eyes, and he seemed to be squinting against the harsh fluorescent light.
Killed with a Passion Page 14
