Old Scores

by Scott Mackay

  He grinned, feeling excited about all this. It fit nicely together. As a bonus, it covered Bannatyne’s sex theory, too. He didn’t see a downside. He could detect no bias.

  He pushed away from his desk, stood up, and walked to the window. He had to talk to Judy again. At the hotel. Away from Nowak’s prying eyes. If he could squeeze a confession out of her, he might wrap this case up before Nowak moved against his wife.

  Judy Pelaez had neither hope nor expectation in her eyes when she opened the door for Gilbert.

  “So what?” she said, when he told her they knew about Morningstar.

  “So it’s true, then?”

  “You can believe whatever you want.”

  “Okay,” he said. “In that case, it’s another piece of compelling evidence. It must have been horrible for you. And I understand that…you know…it might have driven you to extremes. But now it’s time to…to fix it all.”

  Her eyes narrowed incredulously.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “You think I killed Glen?” Her lips stiffened. “You’ve gone crazy. Either that or you’re desperate. As for Morningstar, she loves her father as much as I do. Glen didn’t know what he was doing when he did that. And I made Morningstar understand that. It might seem monstrous to you, but let’s not forget, Glen was sick at the time, really sick, with all the drugs and alcohol. He’s a difficult man, I’m the first to admit that. Even so, he knew he had done something terribly wrong once he had sobered up.”

  She turned away, walked to the couch, and sat down. This was going to be harder than he thought. She crossed her legs and gazed at him through her tinted prescription glasses as if she thought he were the most annoying man in the world. He walked to the back of the chair and rested his hands on top of it.

  “Judy,” he said, “why are you making this hard on yourself? And on your kids? Like I say, what Glen did to Morningstar is just one more piece of compelling evidence, especially in the way of motive.” He took his hands away from the back of the chair and squared his shoulders. “Not that you didn’t have a huge motive to begin with. He stood you up, had you come all the way from San Francisco for what was to be your big reconciliation dinner, and never bothered showing up. Then he told you he was seeing another woman. If that’s not enough, he raped your daughter. And it’s not only motive. It’s the physical evidence.”

  “What physical evidence?” she asked.

  “Judy, we’ve already gone through the evidence with you,” he said. “The parking receipt that places you at GBIA at the time of the murder. The restaurant personnel at Scaramouche not being able to tell us that you were actually there. Your history of violence. Why don’t you just give up? It would be so much easier.”

  Her lip curled. “Are you always so preposterous?” she asked. She took off her glasses, and the muscles around her eyes tightened. “I would never kill Glen,” she said. “Look…” She cast around for words. “I don’t know you…and you don’t know me…but I’m a…a widow now, so why don’t you just leave me alone? I hate what Glen did to Morningstar. And I should have done something about it. But I didn’t. I just wanted to…to bring my family together. So why don’t you leave me in peace? I want to bury Glen, that’s all. I want to be a good widow.” A frantic smile came to her face. “Because I sure as hell wasn’t a good wife.” Her smile disappeared. “He…he hasn’t got anyone else besides me. I’m the only one who cares about him. Everything you’re saying is ridiculous. So if you don’t mind…” She pointed to the door. “I’m really tired. I want to drink a sherry, take a couple of aspirin, and go to bed for the afternoon.”

  “C’mon, Judy,” he said, refusing to be put off. “Let’s not kid ourselves. Let me spell it out for you one more time. You have a history of violence. The salad plate you threw at that waiter in Barcelona. The room you trashed in Dallas. Your previous assault on Glen with that guitar during the ‘Lost in Love’ tour. Then Glen stood you up. You came all this way. And what did he do? He threw it in your face. He told you he had another woman. And let’s not forget Morningstar. As for the hard evidence, I have the parking receipt. I have Scaramouches. I even have that tensor bandage around your wrist. You hurt your wrist when you strangled him. Why don’t you just come clean about it, and we can end all this right now?”

  She stared him straight in the eye. “Got you,” she said. She took a cigarette from the pack on the table, stuck it in her mouth, and lit it. “My wrist.” She lifted her wrist. The smoke swirled around her head. “Good point.” She sat back on the sofa. She drew her left foot up under her right thigh. She smiled as if she thought he were more ridiculous than ever. “I’ve had my bad wrist since 1985. Chronic tendonitis. I hardly have the strength to brush my own hair.” She leaned forward. Her voice hardened. “Which means I wouldn’t have the strength to strangle someone, would I? If you need proof, I’ll have Dr. Lukow in San Francisco send you the medical notes. Think of him as my expert witness. He runs a special clinic for musicians. The tendonitis is from all the guitar playing. I’m lucky if I can play fifteen minutes a day. I’ll have him fax the notes. Or should he mail them?”

  Gilbert didn’t know what to say. She was right. She was absolutely right. And he didn’t know how he could have missed it. His bias was still so strong, and he was still so determined to clear the case any way he could for the sake of his wife, that he couldn’t see even the simplest things. He hardly had the presence of mind to respond to Judy. His confidence in himself was badly shaken. He couldn’t trust himself anymore.

  “The fax machine is…we’re having a problem with the fax machine right now,” he said, because under no circumstances did he want Nowak to pick up the fax and see what he was doing. “If you could have him courier the notes to me in the morning, that would be fine.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ve got your card. You’ll have them tomorrow. Now…if you don’t mind…I’m tired. There aren’t any little bottles of sherry left in the cabinet. I’ll have to call room service.”

  So he left, broadsided by Judy’s tensor bandage the same way he’d been broadsided by Barcos’s subway transfer.

  As he walked with distracted steps along Jarvis Street to his car, he felt like a ship blown out of the water. This was what bias did to you, he thought. It made you misread things. The tensor bandage. Meant to prove Judy’s guilt, it now in fact proved her innocence. Dr. Lukow would be sending notes in the morning, and that would be the end of it. Judy had an expert witness with documented proof. Strangling a man for Judy was a physical impossibility. Her left wrist couldn’t take it.

  He shook his head. How could he have been such a fool? He kicked a discarded Coke can into the gutter. Maybe he would have to draw up Bannatyne’s proposed list of sex-angle suspects after all, just to keep himself busy, and to make the case stop nagging at him so much.

  Eighteen

  Dr. Anton Lukow’s notes on Judy’s tendonitis arrived in a FedEx envelope just after lunch the next day. Gilbert read the notes with increasing consternation. Judy had indeed developed the condition in 1985, and had suffered from it ever since. Dr. Lukow, in a separately dictated letter, made it clear that the pain and weakness in Judy’s left wrist would make it physically impossible for her to strangle someone. Gilbert gathered up the notes, and, taking a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, left the Homicide Office, went downstairs, crossed Grosvenor Street, and walked to the Coroner’s Building to get a second opinion.

  He found Dr. Blackstein in his office.

  “I wonder if you’d take a look at these notes and tell me what you think,” he asked the coroner. “If her wrist is this bad, could she strangle someone?”

  Dr. Blackstein checked over all the reports and the various dated entries Dr. Lukow had made regarding Judy’s wrist since 1985. He read Dr. Lukow’s dictated letter. When he was done, he sat back and pressed his hands against his desk.

  “Given the extent and severity of her tendonitis,” said Blackstein, “I have to agree with Dr. Lukow
’s assessment. She wouldn’t have had the strength or tolerance in her wrist to strangle Boyd.” The coroner shook his head. “I’m afraid she hardly has the tolerance to pick up a bag of groceries.”

  As Gilbert returned to headquarters, his mood plummeted. The heat was oppressive. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He felt frustrated by his own pig-headedness. He entered the cool, air-conditioned headquarters with a sigh. He felt like he didn’t know how to be a cop anymore.

  Back in the squad room, he found Nowak waiting for him.

  “Barry,” said the staff inspector, “could I have a word with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “In my office?”

  He followed the staff inspector into the office. Gilbert had the FedEx envelope under his arm, and felt conspicuous with it. Nowak walked to his chair but remained standing. Gilbert waited. He sensed he was in trouble.

  “Barry,” said Nowak, “it seems we have a problem. I’ve been told by Philip Mayhew in Auxiliary Services that you contacted Nigel Gower and requested information regarding fingerprint identification in the Glen Boyd case.” Nowak paused, his face hardening. “Is this true?”

  Gilbert stared straight ahead. “Yes, Tim,” he said. “It’s true.”

  “I’ve also checked the evidence log,” said Nowak. “You’re on file as having requested the hair, the jar, the plate, and the scarf. You did this after you were pulled from the case. Is this true as well?”

  “Yes, Tim,” said Gilbert. “That’s true as well.”

  Nowak sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “Did I not make myself clear?” he asked.

  “Tim, this is my wife we’re talking about. I can’t stand by and watch it all happen without trying to do something about it.”

  Nowak sighed again, as if he were disappointed in Gilbert.

  “Barry, that’s a separate issue,” he said. “Right now I’m concerned with your insubordination. Philip Mayhew called Deputy Chief Ling about the whole matter. Ling in turn called me. And he was extremely angry.” Gilbert kept his eyes straight ahead. “I’m going to have to insist, Barry. No further interference. You disobeyed a direct order. And that’s serious.” Nowak shook his head. “I wish I could offer you more flexibility on the case, but I can’t. Ling made it clear to me that you’re to stay away from it. The risk of a public relations fiasco is too big. I don’t believe Regina did it any more than you do. And if it goes to trial I’m sure she’ll be acquitted. But in the meantime, we have to make Ling happy. He emphasized that he would punish you if he discovers any further breach. Suspension without pay, or possibly even a transfer from the Homicide squad. You’re on an extremely short rope here, Barry. So don’t pull it too hard.”

  “I’m so glad Judy’s innocent,” said Regina. “I always liked her. Glen should have had the good sense to stick with her.”

  Gilbert and Regina were finishing up the supper dishes together later that day.

  “Glen was never strong on good sense,” he said. He was still feeling rankled by everything. “And I’m glad she’s innocent, too. But it means I still have zip. Nothing I can take to Joe. Meanwhile, Marie Barton is polishing her case against you, and Carol’s drafted your arrest warrant.”

  “You should tell Tim about Judy’s tendonitis,” she said.

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “One more breach, and I’ll be punished. I might be transferred out of the squad. And then I’ll never get a chance to work on the case, not even behind Tim’s back. Tim’s going to have to find out for himself. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. First the subway transfer, then the tensor bandage. I’m a better cop than that. I know I am.”

  After finishing the dishes, he went up to the spare bedroom—a room he had turned into his own personal den—and brooded.

  He sat on the hide-a-bed, an old piece of furniture he and Regina had owned since the 1970s, brown and ratty, starting to fall apart, but comfortable. A swath of green broadloom covered the floor, a refugee from the bungalow on Merritt. He felt flummoxed by the case. His old stereo—a Technics turntable, a Marantz amplifier, and a couple of Koss speakers—sat on a shelf on the wall. His old LPs were packed in milk crates. He really felt he had been straightjacketed on the case once and for all. He didn’t know what to do. He felt tense. He got up and flipped through his old albums. Maybe if he listened to some music he might relax.

  He came to Mother Courage’s 1977 release, Give You My World. Naturally, as he was involved in the Glen Boyd case, he decided to give it a listen. He pulled it out and looked at the cover photo. The band members were all so young. Phil stood off to one side, isolated from the rest, an exceedingly tall, thin man wearing jean cutoffs, a denim shirt opened to reveal a tanned chest, and what looked like a Yankees baseball cap over his long flowing hair. Michelle Morrison, as radiant as an angel in white satin bell-bottoms, gave Phil a sly but coy look. Ted Aver, clutching drumsticks in one hand and a Heineken in the other, looked bored out of his skull.

  Gilbert switched on his turntable, put the record on, scooted back to the sofa, and let the changer do the rest.

  As he listened to the first side, he continued to brood. Barcos was off the list. So was Judy. Nothing physically linked Phil Thompson to the crime scene. All this necessarily strengthened Marie Barton’s case against his wife. It removed any doubt a jury might need to acquit her. He considered the concept. Doubt. He had a sudden notion that his wife might be guilty after all. Compelling evidence linked her to the scene. She was strong enough to physically perpetrate the attack, what with her muscle-training classes. And she was eminently capable of keeping a secret, as Marseilles had so amply demonstrated. If he were a complete outsider, would this be the way he would be thinking? Would this be his unbiased assessment of the case?

  His brooding quickly ended as the last cut on the first side of Give You My World started.

  The tune, called “Stacy,” was sung by Phil Thompson. Just as Roger Daltry sometimes let Pete Townsend sing, so Paul Harding had given Phil a chance.

  As Gilbert listened to the lyrics, he felt he had stumbled across a lucky break, one that might exonerate his wife.

  Stacy, you’re so spacey,

  And you rock like AC/DC.

  You’re my Sunshine and my K.C.,

  You’re everything to me.

  Stacy, this is crazy,

  ’Cause in love I’m kinda lazy,

  And I never thought I’d need you

  Like I do.

  The first two verses rolled along with a honky-tonk feel, lots of piano, and slide guitar.

  Then came the chorus. It was the chorus everybody remembered, three simple words, but never a greater hook.

  Yes, I do,

  Yes, I do,

  Yes, yes, I do.

  He remembered how in the dozen or so weddings he’d attended in the 1980s, “Stacy” had always been the wedding-band song of choice. The words “I do” made it real wedding material.

  As he continued to listen, he pondered Phil’s relationship to Stacy Todd.

  Stacy, you’re my Beatles,

  Don’t need no grass or needles,

  Don’t have to boogie all night long,

  Just have to sing this song.

  Stacy, you’re the only one,

  I think that we can have some fun,

  And I never thought I’d want you

  But I do.

  When Phil sang the chorus again, his voice soared with passion. Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Yes, yes, I do. Gilbert remembered the photographs of Phil and Stacy on Phil’s vanity wall, the one in the French Alps and the other one in the Caribbean. He was certain the Stacy in the song had to be Stacy Todd. Did Phil have a thing for Stacy, then? Because that might work. Especially because Regina had told him Boyd had a thing for Stacy as well. He recalled Regina’s exact words about Boyd and Stacy. He’s half in love with Stacy Todd. Might that be the triangle he was looking for, a love triangle, that sometimes quintessential shape of murder?

  As he p
ondered the possibility, he remembered his first visit to Stacy’s apartment two days after the murder. He tried to recall whether he’d seen any evidence of Phil: photographs, clothes, or other possessions. He remembered the GUITAR SUMMIT ’99 coffee mug Stacy had been drinking from. That might indicate Phil’s presence to a certain extent. Was it possible, then? Should he trust this? Or was this just another gut feeling gone awry?

  He needed corroboration, he decided. Gut feelings were fine in certain situations, but when it came down to it—and especially in light of his proven bias in this case—he needed hard, solid evidence. He needed someone who could verify Phil’s relationship to Stacy, someone outside the case, someone who wasn’t liable to mention it to Nowak, and someone who would have the right information.

  That meant Ted Aver.

  Ted Aver lived on Maple Street in south Rosedale in an old renovated mansion two blocks away from the Rosedale Ravine. As Gilbert crossed the footbridge over the ravine, he stopped to admire the view. Lofty maples soared from the depths below him. A cardinal flitted from branch to branch in the nearest maple. Cars, looking as small as Tonka Toys, meandered along the winding Rosedale Ravine Road.

  Ted’s teenaged children were out. His wife was at work. Ted was alone in his wheelchair, sitting at his computer, tracking some of his many investments when Gilbert knocked on his door.

  “I read about Oscar Barcos,” said Ted. “Thank God you got that maniac off the street.”

  They went into Ted’s living room, an open-concept affair with the walls painted white and the second-floor staircase exposed at the back. A drum set, rigged with all Ted’s handicap contrivances, stood in the corner. A fresh pot of dahlias sat on the large oaken table in the bay window’s recess.