One of the vandals was at the bottom of the ladder. The other was at the top. Young men, lean and tall, dressed in dark colors. In the approaching headlights a dripping, crooked word painted in brilliant yellow appeared above them.
KILLER
Chapter 17
I shivered again. Perspiration sprouted on my forehead and palms. The vandals who had caused so much property damage in the club area were spray-painting their verdict on John Richard’s house. Or maybe it was something they’d seen. Well, I’d forgotten the cellular phone and couldn’t call the cops. So these guys would have to make their point to law enforcement on their own. I was getting out of here.
I pumped the accelerator, turned the car key. The motor strained, didn’t turn over, died. I’d flooded the engine. I turned the key again, didn’t pump the gas. This time the engine whined and died again. Footsteps thudded across John Richard’s lawn. Dammit all, anyway.
Frantically, I rolled up my window. But I couldn’t reach across in time to close the one on the passenger side. A lanky figure in a black ski mask pulled up the lock, wrenched open the door, and scrambled in. I could smell the sweat on his body. They’re kids, I told myself. Don’t panic. Behind the black mask the vandal’s eyes glared menacingly at me. He grabbed my upper right arm.
“Get out of the car,” he hissed angrily. “And shut up.”
“Let go,” I said evenly, tugging away from him. “I was just sitting here because I went out for a drive—”
His fingers bit into my arm. “Shut up and get out.”
“Stop pulling on me and I will,” I replied in a quiet, nonthreatening voice that I hoped didn’t betray how furiously my heart was hammering. To my astonishment, the figure in black loosened his grip slightly. I shed the tablecloth and hopped awkwardly onto the street.
“Watch her,” Vandal One ordered Vandal Two. In the streetlight I could see Vandal Two was brandishing a tire iron. “I gotta check her van,” the first guy said. “See if she’s got some kind a weapon or night-vision camera in there.”
“That’s ridiculous, of course I don’t,” I snapped. “I’m just a caterer.” I strained to see up the street. The passing car had disappeared without turning down Kells Way. Where was the security man?
“Oh, yeah?” said Vandal Two, a smirk in his voice. He twirled the tire iron inexpertly. “Kinda early for fixin’ breakfast, wouldn’t you say?”
“Listen, guys. The man who lives here, the guy who was arrested? He’s my ex-husband.”
“Really,” said Vandal One. He spat. “What, this guy’s in jail, you’ve got an old key, you figure you’ll go in and pick up a few things while he’s not around?”
“No. That’s not why I’m here.”
Vandal One leered ominously. “Then why are you here?”
When in doubt, tell the truth. “I couldn’t sleep. I went out for a drive.”
Vandal Two’s eyes sparked behind the mask. He raised the tire iron. “You’ll sleep if I knock you over the head.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could pull them back. “Hey, tough guy! I thought you were so worried about the security man driving up!” This warning earned me a rude shove on the shoulder. I stepped back and said, “Why’re you here?”
Vandal Two stabbed a finger at the house. “Can’t you read? We know he did it.”
In the darkness it was almost impossible to see the ugly yellow word. “Ah. Killer. How do you know that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know. We see lots of things.”
I shrugged. But if these two knew anything about the attack on Suz … “How—”
“Wait a minute,” exclaimed Vandal One, “you said you’re a caterer? I read about you.”
I said mildly, “And you are …?” When he didn’t answer, I went on. “So why are you so certain my ex-husband killed her?”
“You think we have time to tell you anything?” erupted Vandal Two. To his compatriot he urged, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I’m married to a cop,” I announced hastily. “If he catches you, he’ll ream both of you out so bad you’ll get a life sentence for shoplifting when this is over. Both of you,” I added, stalling for time. Where in the world was that security guy, anyway? “But if you’ll talk to me about why you think my ex-husband is guilty—”
The guy with the tire iron waggled it in my face. “I know why you’re here. Insomnia, my ass. That doc goes down, I’ll bet you inherit this house. You’re too shy to gloat over your loot in the daylight, but you just couldn’t sleep until you got a good look at your new place.”
I was tempted to ask: Just how much of that paint did you inhale, anyway? But there was no telling these two anything. No telling them that, come those circumstances, Arch would inherit. Not that my son would want this enormous place. Not that my son would want anything besides having his parents alive and well and out of jail. But I needed to know if they had seen something Friday night. And where was the security man? Why did no neighbors seem to hear me out here arguing with vandals?
I made a decision. The vandals probably wouldn’t hurt me, despite the pop Vandal Two had given my shoulder. These two were cowards, which was why they defaced other people’s property at night. Still, they were angry young cowards, so I would have to be careful.
I took a tentative step toward my van. “I want to go home. Are you going to tell me why you think my ex-husband murdered that woman? Or do you want the cops swarming all over here tomorrow with their fingerprint equipment? Actually,” I said offhandedly, “they’ll probably do that, anyway. A murder investigation is a whole different ball game from cleaning up graffiti, guys.”
Vandal Two lifted his chin mockingly. “You’re just dying to know, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I am.”
Vandal One pressed forward. “We saw him,” he said, his mouth so suddenly close to mine, I trembled in spite of myself. His breath smelled of potato chips. “The Korman guy left that night in a white Jeep. He’s gone two minutes and then comes back in the Jeep, only slower this time.”
“What time did he do this leaving and returning? Where were you when you saw all this?”
“Oh, bitch, what do you think I am—Rodney King with a videocamera?”
“Rodney King didn’t videotape—”
“Shut up,” growled Vandal One. “The doc leaves in his Jeep. About ten minutes later he drives up again, but the lights are off.”
“What do you mean, the lights are off? And was it two minutes or ten minutes? Are you sure it was Korman? Was it a white Jeep or a silver one? He has one of each.”
“Look, it was a white Jeep. And it happened. He drove away fast and came back slowly, with no lights. He knocked on the side door and what’s-her-name yelled at him a little bit. Then she let him in.”
Vandal Two hissed, “Suck it up, man, somebody’s coming! We gotta split!”
The tire iron clanged to the pavement. The boys bolted. I peered up Kells Way into the glare of headlights. The approaching car was not the security car. The driver stopped, opened a mailbox, and stuffed in a newspaper. This person didn’t bring security; he brought the news. He would be no help. Spooked by some ambushes in Denver, the newspaper delivery folks now wouldn’t stop if you were bleeding your guts out in six feet of snow. But I didn’t need this person’s assistance.
I whirled and peered into the shifting light of the yards. The vandals had vanished. They had found a magical way of disappearing through people’s property. From what vantage point had they watched Suz Craig’s house the night she died? The two guys hadn’t seen me drive down Kells Way. Perhaps they’d been vandalizing the club road signs on an adjoining block when I’d parked.
The metallic slap of mailboxes being opened and closed punctuated the night air. There was no sign of the security man and no sound of a pickup truck or some other vehicle being driven away. Where had the vandals gone? I had no idea.
It was time to boogie.
By the time I drove past
the security car with its still-dozing watchman and arrived home, the dashboard clock read three-forty-five. Time flies when you’re avoiding insomnia. I shivered my way into pajamas, eased into bed, and slid my arms around Tom’s warm body. No use waking him. A reasonable morning hour would be a better time to tell him all that had happened.
But I’d awakened him anyway. He turned over and mumbled, “Where in the world have you been, Miss G.?” I shushed him gently and curled in closer. But he took my cold hands in his warm ones. “I went downstairs looking for you … then I saw the van was gone. Honestly, I’ve been a wreck.”
I wove my cold legs through his deliciously warm ones. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a drive. I wanted to … to time the driving distances over by Suz Craig’s. How long from Suz’s house to John Richard’s, you know. But”—I hugged him tight—“I ended up interrupting a pair of vandals spray-painting John Richard’s house. You’re not going to believe it, but these guys were painting the word ‘Killer.’ So I talked to them—”
“What?” Tom extricated himself from my embrace, threw off the sheets, and turned on the lamp. Soon he was dressed in a terry robe and had one of our zillion leaky Biocess pens poised over his trusty spiral notebook. He said, “Would you care to make a quick statement, Mrs. Schulz?”
I sighed, then told him all about the vandals on Kells Way. I included their rude shove and their nonvideotaped account of how they’d seen John Richard drive away from Suz’s house in his Jeep that night and then return very slowly, lights out. “They thought I was in front of John Richard’s tonight so that I could steal something from inside the house. Or to gloat over inheriting the place.”
Tom tapped his notebook. “You didn’t hear them drive away? But yet you say they were afraid of the country-club security man. Who never showed up.”
“Maybe they hid in their car or their truck,” I offered.
He scowled. “Maybe. More likely, they’re teenagers who live right there somewhere. They probably took off on foot or on bike, figuring they could come back later for their paint and ladder.” After a moment of pondering, he turned off the light and pulled me close.
I murmured, “I’m sorry I worried you.”
His breath brushed my ear. “Please don’t do any more middle-of-the-night neighborhood prowling, okay? Can we get you a prescription for sleeping pills? It’d be safer.”
“No, thanks.” I hesitated. “Tom. It takes almost ten minutes to get back to John Richard’s house. These guys couldn’t tell me if it was ten minutes or two minutes between when he roared off and when he returned. And why would he drive back so soon? He never recovers from a fit of temper that fast.”
“Haven’t a clue. I’m going back to sleep. But I want a promise from you. A couple of promises, actually.”
“Name them.”
“Miss G. You seem determined to poke your nose into this. Maybe you doubt Korman killed the woman. Maybe you’re trying to help Arch. But you’re snooping around. Don’t disagree.” When I nodded, he went on. “Okay, promise me: You won’t go down to that ACHMO office. You won’t break into John Richard’s office and go through his files. You won’t break into Suz Craig’s house or John Richard’s house. We—official law enforcement—will go to the offices and interview the people. We will go through the files, search the houses, all that. Okay?”
“What can I do?”
“Do what you always do. Talk to people. Feed them your great food. And try to stay out of trouble. Promise?”
I sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, cop.”
He sighed too. “Let’s just say I love my wife. And I want to keep her alive.”
The next morning, Monday, I was sleeping so deeply when Tom left that he didn’t bring me coffee. I didn’t even hear Arch go out, although he left me a note taped to the computer saying he’d be back from his friend Todd’s house by dinnertime. I banged around the kitchen making espresso and toasting homemade bread. I started a sponge for the brioche I would use for the doll people’s box-lunch sandwiches. No other catering assignments loomed, so I checked that I had the right smoked meats and cheeses, plus some almonds, lemons, and seedless raspberry jam. I wanted to start experimentation to make my own Linzer tarts. I reread the last line in Arch’s note: You promised to help Dad, Mom.
Right. Help him without visiting the ACHMO office, without breaking into Suz’s or the Jerk’s house, without sneaking into the Jerk’s office to go through files. How about this: I could visit John Richard’s office and not poke into files. Couldn’t I?
I put in a call to Tom’s phone and got his machine. Any leads on the vandals? I wanted to know. Or on anything else? Call me back. After I finished breakfast—crunchy toasted Anadama bread thickly slathered with butter and apple butter—I checked on Macguire. He was sleeping. I felt his forehead. The fever seemed to have broken.
His yellow-flecked brown eyes opened wide when I withdrew my hand and he groaned. “What’s up?”
“Not much. I just wanted to check on you. Any chance you’d want to walk over to John Richard’s office with me in a little bit? ReeAnn will probably be there.”
It’s amazing how energizing infatuation can be. With much groaning, Macguire roused himself, showered, shaved, and dressed. When he shuffled into the kitchen, his white cotton T-shirt and dark jeans hung so limply on his emaciated frame that I found myself begging. After all, it’s my profession to feed people.
“Please, Macguire. Please eat something. Let me fix you some juice and toast. People love my homemade bread and—”
“No. Thanks.” He surveyed the kitchen dispiritedly, then looked at my anxious face and relented. “Okay. I’ll have a little glass of juice and a piece of bread. Don’t toast it, though. Toast is too crusty. Hurts my throat.”
He swallowed less than a quarter-cup of juice and nibbled a third of a slice of crustless homemade bread. At least it was something.
When we walked through the door of John Richard’s spacious, all-beige office fifteen minutes later, ReeAnn Collins was in a state, and it wasn’t a good one. Holding the lengthy phone cord in front of the marble counter, she paced across the deep-pile carpet, complained into the receiver, and gestured furiously with her free hand. Her buxom figure was shown off to splendid advantage by a size-too-small white T-shirt and clinging black biking shorts. Her curly black ponytail and long, pouffed bangs bobbed as she bent from time to time to whack at magazines that spilled from the beige-painted tables.
“First Judy calls in sick. She’s a nurse, but she can’t tell me what kind of sickness she has. So here I am, left to do everything, and then the sheriff’s department calls and says don’t touch anything. They’re on their way.” She nodded us distractedly toward the waiting-area chairs. “Then ACHMO calls,” she continued into the phone, “and says don’t give anything to the sheriff’s department.” I sat down and wondered, as I always did, how hugely pregnant women could ever extract themselves from these deep, soft couches once their appointment time arrived. ReeAnn stormed on. “ACHMO says the files belong to them, and if I give the sheriff’s department anything, I’m in deep yogurt. So then they say they’re on their way.” She set her heart-shape, usually quite pretty face into a pout as she listened to the advice from the other end of the line. She examined her black-and-purple-painted nails and sighed. “Okay. Bring your bike rack. Noon.” She slammed the phone down and examined us bitterly. “What do you want?”
Macguire tucked his chin into his neck and gabbled something unintelligible. Poor kid. Aside from ReeAnn’s plentiful figure and pretty face, I couldn’t figure the attraction. Maybe it was the black-and-purple nails.
“ReeAnn,” I reassured her, “we’re here to help you. You see, I talked to somebody from ACHMO after church yesterday, and after what happened to Ms. Craig—”
She stabbed a dark fingernail at Macguire. “Are you the one who told the cops I didn’t like Ms. Craig? Because they came to my place yesterday, you know.”
“Er, I, no—”
Macguire stammered. “I guess I—”
Before he could continue his feeble protests, ReeAnn pointed the fingernail at me. “Uh-huh. And you, Mrs. Ex-Korman Number One, exactly how’re you going to help me? My boss is behind bars and the cops think I hated his girlfriend? What’re you going to do, hire a temporary nurse to come in and help out? Call all the expectant women and recommend other doctors to them? You going to loan me some money from your catering biz when I don’t get paid this week?”
“ReeAnn, you’re upset. Please call me Mrs. Schulz. Or Goldy.”
“I know,” she said spitefully. “You’re here about money. That’s what Mrs. Ex-Korman Number Two is always calling about.”
I replied calmly, “I’m not interested in money, or at least only marginally. Listen, do you know why the ACHMO people are coming today?”
She sighed dramatically and looked away. “I never know. One week it’s ‘Let’s see how you’re billing ultrasounds.’ Then they pull out ten records of women who’ve had ultrasounds. If one of the patients happened to say, ‘Oh, my, I’d like to have an ultrasound because I’m worried about the baby,’ and the doc writes that in the woman’s file, you can kiss your reimbursement good-bye.”
I said, “Hmm.” Chris Corey had explained that the HMO came in to the doctors’ offices to check billing, but I still didn’t know the reason. “Why does what the patient says about the ultrasound matter?”
“Be-cause,” she supplied impatiently, “if you want to be sure ACHMO is going to pay for the ultrasound, there has to be a medical reason for the test. And the ultrasound has to be the doctor’s idea, understand? Even if it’s the patient’s idea, we have to dress it up like the doctor figured her life was in danger if she didn’t have an ultrasound. Otherwise, ACHMO doesn’t fork over the money for the ultrasound. Understand? Welcome to the world of managed care, Mrs. Ex-Korman Number One.”
This was going to be fun, I could tell. The phone rang. ReeAnn dealt with the problem—a woman seeking an appointment—by referring her to another doctor. Then she turned back to us.
The Grilling Season Page 18
