Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  Dear Mrs. Odum,

  You don’t know me. I killed your husband. I want to believe that I had no choice. But that’s a lie. I was a coward and because of me your husband is dead and so is an innocent child. I hate what I’ve become. My life has not meant anything. Except money. Please accept the enclosed cash. Take what you consider fair and give the rest to Marissa’s family.

  With deepest sorrow,

  SB

  I slipped the letter back into the deformed envelope and looked at Laurie Odum. From behind she could almost pass as a naïve young girl. But I knew better—she’d held back the letter to check my account up to this point. And she was too savvy for a happily-ever-after ending. Until now, I hadn’t been entirely satisfied with how I was going to finish off the deal. I’d come to the house with a plan, but the letter gave me a better idea. The underwear and autopsy would ensure that Odum’s death would be ruled a homicide and that she’d collect the insurance money. But I didn’t want the police to follow the leads back to Howard—I’d made the kid a promise to keep him out of this. More to the point, I didn’t want the case being traced to me, given my problematic history and conspicuous lack of a private investigator’s license. No, I needed a way to have the official investigation stop with Sarie. And the letter provided just what I needed. But before I could lay out my plan, Laurie broke from her reverie, leaned her hands on the table, and hissed, “Who is SB?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “I want him dead. Money isn’t going to buy my forgiveness.”

  “So you want to contract a hit? That seems to have all the potential of pulling you into a mess that I won’t be able to help you get out of.”

  “At least I want him arrested. Then he can rot in prison or die in the gas chamber, whatever the system decides.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “I suspect that your husband’s killer is already dead.”

  “I want proof.”

  “If I’m right, I should have something in the next day or two. And remember, my satisfying your lust for vengeance wasn’t part of our deal. You wanted to know if your husband was murdered, as I recall.”

  “Don’t be cute with me.”

  “I’m not being cute. In fact, I’m not even going to be polite. It’s my turn to tell you how this is going to play out.” She glared at me, but the tension in her face melted into a pitiable confusion. Laurie Odum was in way over her head and she knew it. “Sit down,” I said flatly. She settled heavily into a chair, looking bone-tired.

  “I just want it to be over,” she sighed. I could see that she was emotionally wrung out from days of worrying about whether she was the next target of whoever killed her husband. And I suspected that she was also anxious to collect the insurance money for her next crusade to save the dolphins or daisies or whatever.

  “So do I, and here’s how it’s going to happen. First of all, the note came from a woman, not a man.”

  Laurie looked puzzled. “A woman?”

  “Don’t be so surprised. Women’s liberation includes the capacity to murder.”

  “So who is SB?”

  “Sarie Botha. She was Morley’s assistant and became entangled in his drug business. As she indicated, she had options, but it was easier to follow orders. Aside from the money, her letter provides just what the cops need to close the case and put an end to your nightmare.”

  “It does?”

  “Sure, with you providing them a creative but entirely plausible framework to hold the whole thing together.”

  “Go on.”

  “The note doesn’t mention Morley or anything that could get you dragged into an investigation as an accessory to your husband’s plans for blowing up a chemical plant or expanding his drug operation. If somebody didn’t know any better, it reads like a suicide note along with a confession for a killing motivated by greed. So, just go along with it.”

  “That she killed him for money?”

  “Sure. What difference does it make if it means you get on with your life and the work that meant so much to your husband?” I was milking it, but she was coming along.

  “Okay, I suppose. So what do I tell them?”

  “First of all, you give them the poisoned clothing, and they’ll get the corroborating evidence from your husband’s remains. They’ll ask how you came up with the evidence, and you tell them that you found the greasy substance on his underwear just the other day. You decided to do the laundry yourself because you’d given Maria time off after Marissa became sick and died. Right after you touched the residue, you became dizzy, nauseous—and suspicious.”

  “Then what? How does the letter fit in?”

  “Simple. You tell the cops that Paul was interested in buying Mexican art. That’ll be an easy story to sell, given how your house is decorated. He found out that an anthropologist on campus, Sarie Botha, could provide some beautiful pieces. That element of your account will fit nicely with her research travel. You’ll also want to suggest that their relationship might’ve been more than business. That angle will match up with the romantic betrayal that led to Morley’s apparent suicide. The cops will figure her for something of a campus femme fatale.”

  “But why should I make it look like Paul was having a fling with her?”

  “Because that’ll explain how she had access to his underwear. Otherwise, things get complicated.”

  “All right. But how does the artwork come into the picture?”

  “Sarie Botha was, in fact, shipping pieces to her father, who is an art dealer in South Africa with connections to the black market. You’ll tell the police that your husband had revealed to you that he had evidence proving that Miss Botha was engaged in a lucrative smuggling ring, and he was planning to report her to the authorities. That provides motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “Do you think they’ll buy it?”

  “Sure. It matches the physical evidence, including her sumptuous apartment. And it fits an established pattern. Plus, there’ll be nobody to contradict your account.” At least if I was reading Sarie’s message right. That was the only wild card. But I was confident that she’d finally decided to play her hand on her own terms, rather than blaming others for what she’d been dealt. Too bad she’d chosen to fold, but at least she’d made the choice for herself.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I know from experience. There’s nothing better than a clean—but not too neat—story to close a homicide case.” I took a satisfied swig of sangria. “Just give me a day to confirm Miss Botha’s departure. Then you can call the police with the evidence and your account of events.”

  “I trust that you’re right. Cops have never impressed me as the smartest of the Man’s puppets. I hate associating Paul with that woman, but he would’ve wanted to keep me out of the legal entanglements so I could continue our work on behalf of Mother Earth.” The afternoon sun combined with the wine had a soothing effect. Laurie Odum closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  “So, we’re square?” I asked.

  “If by that you mean that you’ve fulfilled your end of the deal, yes. And I know what to do in order to meet my half of the bargain.”

  As I got up to leave, she took my arm and leaned against me as we walked into the house. I thought she’d had enough sangria that she needed some support. But she had more in mind. Once inside, Laurie turned and pressed herself against me. She reached behind my neck and pulled my head down to her waiting mouth, her pelvis pushing against my thigh. She moaned softly at the end of our kiss. Things were primed to develop quickly given the urgency of her grasp. As much as I would’ve enjoyed a desperate tangle of naked bodies on her overstuffed couch, I just didn’t want Laurie Odum. I derived much more satisfaction from deciding not to be her means of satisfaction. She was too used to getting what she wanted. When it comes to power and sex, it’s usually the man calling the shots—as Carol would hasten to point out.

  And for the first ti
me in a very long time, I found that the chorus to one of Carol’s beloved pop songs made sense. We’d briefly found common musical ground nearly a year ago when I realized that this song opened with London’s Bach Choir—a group founded in 1876 for the sole purpose of performing Bach’s Mass in B Minor. Of course, she’d fawned over Mick Jagger’s voice, rather than the choir.

  I gently pushed Laurie away. “As good as it’d be,” I said, “you can’t always get what you want.” Then I kissed her on the cheek and left. The drive back in late afternoon traffic was tedious, and it didn’t help that KDFC was playing classical guitar. Tense and tired, I skipped dinner and headed to the gym.

  It took a full hour on the heavy bag at Marty’s before I sweated out last night’s booze, worked off today’s food, and wore out my lingering libido.

  CHAPTER 48

  While Gustaw poured my coffee, I opened the Chronicle and scanned the headlines. After scowling at the softness of my belly in the mirror that morning, I had promised myself I’d limit myself to Ludwika’s pastries no more than once a week. But given the last few days, one of her paczkis seemed justified. The sunlight coming through the bakery window was filtered through wispy clouds and the weather was looking a bit unsettled. The gloriously sunny days of fall were coming to an end. And San Francisco’s dreary, wet winter wasn’t far behind. Sarie Botha had chosen a good time to call it quits.

  The article was on page B-2, alongside a story about a psychic claiming to have a new lead on the Zodiac Killer. I’m sure my pals at the station appreciated having their investigation trumped by a crystal-ball-gazing nutcase. The headline for Sarie proclaimed, “27th Jumper Takes Fatal Leap.” According to the story:

  A twenty-six-year-old woman that police have identified as a scientist at the University of California Berkeley leapt to her death off the east side of the Golden Gate Bridge. The woman, Sarie Botha, was associated with a faculty member who killed himself earlier this week over a failed romantic relationship. Police were called to the scene, just past the San Francisco tower at 4 PM on Thursday. Eyewitnesses said that Botha sat on the railing and placed a small Indian doll beside her. Then she stood up and calmly stepped into empty space.

  The story went on about a politician calling for a barrier to be built and a sociologist contending that more people commit suicide during tough economic times. What I couldn’t get out of my head was the doll. Sarie had brought along the kachina I’d left at her apartment. Kokopelli, the trickster. She’d managed to fool almost everyone in her life, until she could no longer fool herself.

  I walked down the hill to work. Carol was looking as perky as ever and her music was as inane as ever, with some guy asking what’s wrong with singing silly love songs. The song itself seemed to provide a more than ample answer. I told Carol that my project was complete, which seemed a great relief to her. She was always concerned that my outside ventures would get me killed or jailed. Maybe she was right to be worried. Like I’d told Sarie, the best we should hope for is to get what we deserve. I gave Carol a kiss on the top of her head on the way to my office.

  After closing the door, I called Laurie Odum and told her to contact the police and tell them that she had evidence that her husband had been murdered. I made her go over the story with me, much to her annoyance, but I wanted to be sure she wasn’t going to mess up an open-and-shut case for the detective assigned to the investigation. When she asked about Sarie, I said she could pick up the Chronicle if she wanted confirmation that her husband’s killer was dead. There was a long pause and she said softly, “So you and I are really done, eh?” I’ll never understand women.

  I spent the rest of the morning and into the afternoon reading through job applications. It’d only been a few months since we’d hired Isaac, so I figured that most of the applicants were probably still looking for work, given eight percent unemployment in the city. I was reading the resume of a guy who’d done everything from mopping floors at a nursing home to selling used cars, when there was a tentative knock. Before I could answer, the door opened. I looked up and there was Isaac, looking embarrassed as a schoolboy buying condoms.

  “Come in,” I said, leaning back and gesturing for him to sit. He carefully cleared the catalogues off the chair in the corner and took a seat. “I’d been told you quit, so what brings you back?”

  “I came to collect my last paycheck. I wasn’t even going to come into the building if I saw your truck parked in the back.”

  “I walked in this morning, so I guess your detective skills need a little work.”

  He smiled weakly and said, “Well, I was still going to slip out without you seeing me until Carol shared the story you told the guys about quitting.” He paused, hoping that I’d fill the silence. I didn’t. “You know, the one you told the other night at the pub. The one about how you quit that boxing match when you were younger. About how you respected the other guy and kept your dignity.”

  “Okay. And so?” I was making it rough on the kid for a reason. I wanted him to remember this day.

  “And so I decided that I needed to come to you and quit. To your face.” He hesitated. I sat there waiting. “Like a man.” He started to drop his eyes but then caught himself and looked right at me.

  “But I’m not your opponent, Isaac. I didn’t beat you.”

  “No. Well not directly. I was beaten by the work, by being too weak to keep going.”

  “What do you mean? You were doing fine.”

  “Not after that warehouse fumigation. I just couldn’t get it out of my head how much sealing that building and releasing the gas was like the stories my grandfather told about what the Nazis did to our people. Riley, they called the Jews ‘Ungeziefer’—vermin.” He shook his head and rubbed his temples, as if he couldn’t get a picture out of his mind.

  “Sounds like you were beaten by your own history and imagination, Isaac. Maybe that’s why being an artist is the right thing for you.”

  “It’s more than that. I don’t have what it takes to kill, even grain beetles. I’m weaker than Larry or Dennis. I’m the sort who pays others to do what I’m unwilling to do myself.”

  “No, you’re a different sort, Isaac. You know who you are and what you can’t do. And you admit it. There’s no shame in recognizing and owning up to your limits.” I half-believed this myself. At least the part about figuring out what you’re capable of doing, although I wasn’t sure that Isaac had taken himself to the limit.

  “I didn’t want to disappoint you. I know there were lots of other guys you could’ve hired.” He nodded toward the applications that I had spread across my desk.

  “I appreciate your sense of duty, kid. That’s an admirable trait. But in the end, it’s about not disappointing yourself.” I grabbed a few of the applications from my desk, stood up, and led Isaac down the hall to the front office. Carol looked up and smiled approvingly.

  “I see that things have cleared up a bit,” she said, taking the applications from me and handing Isaac an envelope with his last payment. “I just know that you’ll do great in art school,” she gushed and gave Isaac a hug. I couldn’t stand all this sappy nonsense. In all likelihood the kid would never make a dime painting pictures, but at least he’d made the decision for himself. It didn’t guarantee that the world would pat him on the back. He’d probably end up spending his nights waiting tables and wasting his days on Fisherman’s Wharf, sketching caricatures of tourists with cartoon silhouettes of the Golden Gate Bridge in the background or pastel portraits of honeymooners adorned with little hearts and streetcars to evoke Tony Bennett’s god-awful song.

  “And when you’re famous, Isaac,” I said, “you can come back and draw us a logo that doesn’t look like a cross between Satan and Billy Goat Gruff armed with a sprayer.”

  “Riley!” Carol scolded. “My friend Dwayne designed that for Goat Hill Extermination and everyone but you likes it.”

  Isaac and I shook hands and he headed out the door. I turned back to Carol. “Hey, doll, you got a min
ute to look over some of these applications with me?”

  “Depends on whether you’re going to apologize about our logo,” she pouted.

  I said I was sorry and we worked our way through a half-dozen of the files. We ended up debating the merits of two applicants we’d interviewed earlier. There was an Italian kid who Dennis had thought was too scrawny—which was saying something—but Larry thought the guy had grit. And there was a dyke who Larry figured could kick his butt, but Dennis had reservations about her reliability. All I cared about was that whoever we hired would deliver an honest day’s work.

  “So, who would you hire?” I asked.

  “Neither of them today,” Carol answered. “It’s five o’clock on a Friday and we can let the decision sit until Monday morning.” She got up and started turning off lights and shutting down for the weekend. I went back to my office and put away the leftover files, checked the warehouse to be sure that Larry and Dennis had locked up, and met Carol at the front door.

  “You know,” she said, turning the deadbolt, “if you’re worried about who to hire, we can run it by the guys tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Think, Riley, it’s the last Saturday of the month. I know you’ve been frazzled with your project, but that won’t get an Irish boy off the hook if he forgets his mother’s family dinner.”

  I shook my head and offered my everlasting thanks. She smiled and patted me on the cheek with something between pity and understanding. Carol had saved me from being in the doghouse for weeks. I watched until she’d pulled out of the back lot, then I locked the gate behind her and headed up the hill to my house. The clouds had thickened to a gray matte. A stiff breeze was coming off the Bay.

  As I walked, I found some solace in playing out how tomorrow night was likely to go. It would be just like every other dinner for the gang at my mother’s house. Dennis would be there early and Larry would bring Jackie if things really were getting serious. If all went as expected, my mother would tell Carol that she’s so pretty and personable that it’s hard to believe she hadn’t settled down with a good man. Carol, knowing the concern was heartfelt, wouldn’t turn my mother’s world upside-down by explaining that lesbians and marriage don’t mix. So she’d once again offer the excuse that she was just too busy at work. This would cause my mother to scold me while Carol smiled slyly over her shoulder. Larry and Dennis would find all of this hysterical, but hide their mirth from my mother. She’d ask about “that nice Jewish boy” and we’d have to tell her that he decided to go to art school, which would make her happy because art and music are callings almost as virtuous as becoming a priest.