by N. C. Lewis
The case was a way for Nick to get back to some real detective work, but he shuddered at the thought of reporting zero progress. He'd planned to speak with Duke Savage the security guard at Rumpus House, and hoped Amy unearthed a nugget of gold with Lizzie Dawson. Two faint strands of hope, he knew that, but it was better than nothing.
"The lieutenant has a ten o'clock meeting on the sixth floor. He'll be out any moment." Again, Mrs. Edwards glanced at the clock. "The medical examiner's due to call later this morning, I'll pass her on to you."
"Thanks for wiring me into the loop. This place would fall apart without you." Nick meant every word.
Mrs. Edwards acknowledged his thanks. Then added in way of appreciation, "I believe Mrs. Foreman's cell phone was recovered at the scene of the crime. Have you spoken with Dr. Garrison?"
Dr. Amos Garrison headed the police department's digital informatics team. He was the man for anything technology—cracking computer codes, analyzing cryptic messages, unscrambling fried hard disc drives. His office was in the basement of the building and was a tiny operation. Dr. Garrison worked with a part-time employee, Allison Golin, a PhD mature student in artificial intelligence at the University of Texas.
The weakly lit corridor that led to Dr. Garrison's work space was littered with wires, used keyboards, monitors, and ancient computers. Nick headed by the detritus to the office at the end of the passage. He knocked once, opened the door, and peered into the dimly lit windowless room.
Dr. Garrison sat at a 1940s executive desk staring into a gigantic computer monitor. He was of medium build, stooped a little with age with an abundant shock of unruly, white hair. He wore wire-framed eyeglasses with thick lenses which gave him the appearance of a theoretical physicist.
"Detective King, I've been expecting you," he said, his face bathed in the faint, blue glow emanating from the monitor. "I understand you are here to discuss the Foreman case?"
Nick marveled at Dr. Garrison's ability to connect to the pulse of the police department, even though he rarely emerged from his basement work space.
"That's right, Doc," Nick replied in a hopeful voice. "Lieutenant Kostopoulos wants me to work the case. What have you got for me?"
Dr. Garrison drummed his fingers on his desk. "This is very short notice, but then again, I suppose it can't be helped, not with the city manager on the chief's tail."
Nick smiled but didn’t answer. Then wondered if Dr. Garrison got his knowledge from bugging the lieutenant's office. How else could the man have so much inside information?
The doctor watched Nick closely. Then after a moment picked up a little handbell that rested on his desk.
Ding-a-ling. Ding-a-ling.
Before the final ring echoed into the distance, Allison Golin appeared. A wisp of a woman in a blue T-shirt and black jeans somewhere north of thirty-five, she reminded Nick of a puff of white smoke from a vintage steamroller.
"Yes, Dr. Garrison?" Allison asked, slight annoyance ringing in her voice.
"It seems the chief of police has an interest in the death of Mrs. Foreman. Her cell phone is in our custody, alas it contained no fingerprints other than the owner's. Can you upload the phone's files into our diagnostics computer?"
Allison disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. Two minutes later, a ringing sounded from a distant room.
Ding-a-ling. Ding-a-ling.
"Ah, looks like we are ready!" Dr. Garrison typed a few keystrokes on his keyboard and hunched closer to the monitor. "It seems," he said, staring hard at the screen, "Mrs. Foreman took a call at eleven fifteen p.m. That was her last call."
Good news, Nick thought with growing excitement. "Can you tell who from?"
"Possibly…" Dr. Garrison typed furiously on his keyboard. "It is only information, and that is the currency of my business—Miss Information is what everyone seeks, and tonight we shall have her." His face took on the aura of a demented gargoyle as he scrolled through several screens. "You won't get away from me," he muttered as he clicked. "I'll have you in my hands, damn it!"
It was several minutes before Dr. Garrison once again turned to Nick, and with a satisfied sigh said, "I have it! The information is naked before my eyes." He flashed a mad scientist's smile and continued, "The incoming call was from a phone that belongs to a Mrs. Florence Folate."
The name surprised Nick. He rubbed his chin. So, Auntie Folate was the last person to speak with Mrs. Foreman. He made a note to speak with her about their conversation. Maybe there was a clue, a nugget, that might point to the killer.
Dr. Garrison was back at the keyboard. Fingers moving swiftly as if he were a classical pianist playing Schumann’s Toccata in C Major. He thumped hard on the return key, paused a moment then looked at Nick.
"Ah ha! Very interesting." He was smiling, eyes shining like a scientist who had cracked one of nature's secrets.
"What is it?"
Dr. Garrison leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and smiled.
"It appears the recording app on Mrs. Foreman's cell phone was active at eleven thirty-five p.m. for approximately three minutes."
Nick placed his hands together as if in prayer. "Can you play the recording?"
Dr. Garrison typed hard on the keyboard. There was a sharp click, and a low hissing sound crackled through a speaker high on the wall.
"Let us hear, shall we." Again, the doctor leaned back in his chair, head tilted to one side listening.
For the first fifteen seconds the only sounds were the low rumble of background noise. Then came the sharp clack as if the cell phone had fallen onto the floor. There was a grunt, another clatter, a woman's scream followed by an audible voice—"It's for your own good. It's for your own good. It's for your own good."
Nick jumped to his feet. This was the break he needed, the chink of light that could lead to the killer. It was the voice of the mysterious Speakeasy, he felt certain of that. But he couldn’t figure out whether the voice was male or female.
"Play it again," he ordered, opening his notebook and scribbling furiously.
They listened to the audio five more times until Nick had memorized everything about the voice, the tone, intonation, and accent. Still, it wasn't clear whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman.
At last Nick sat down. "Can you email me a copy of the audio?"
Dr. Garrison clicked something on the screen. "Done!"
Nick's mind was processing the information, putting together the pieces of the puzzle. The solution was within his grasp now; he could sense it. Leaning forward, hands spread wide on the desk, he looked Dr. Garrison directly in the eyes. "What do you make of it?"
Dr. Garrison took off his spectacles, cleaned them with a piece of cloth, then furrowed his brow. "I can't tell whether the voice is that of a man or a woman. However, there is a significant probability it is the voice of the killer, but then again, maybe Mrs. Foreman had another visitor before the murderer struck. It all hangs crucially on her time of death, and for that, you must speak with the medical examiner."
Chapter 22
Officer Chambers loosened the belt on his gray plaid polyester pants and held out a large, white paper bag toward Nick. "I brought you twenty-four donut holes, a variety of flavors. I figured twelve wouldn't do it, not after your urgent meeting with the lieutenant."
Nick held his palm up but didn’t speak. His mind was still in the basement with Dr. Garrison, going over the new information contained in the audio recording. If he could find a way to identify the gender of the voice, he would be halfway home, have some fodder for Lieutenant Kostopoulos to contemplate.
"Boss, I get it," Chambers said, interrupting Nick's thoughts. "Difficult to talk about, eh? Try a donut hole, you'll feel better—the sugar high never fails."
To illustrate, Chambers opened the paper bag and popped four of the donut holes into his mouth. Crumbs scattered across his double chin like raindrops dribbling down a windowpane.
"Only twenty left, better hurry before they're all gone
!"
He handed the bag to Nick.
Nick opened it, pulled out a donut hole—chocolate. He held it between his thumb and forefinger inspecting it as if it were a precious stone, then popped it into his mouth and munched. "Not bad," he managed between bites. "Gooey, but not bad."
Chambers nodded his head in agreement. "From Dougal's Donut Shack on Congress Avenue. The owner says they craft each donut hole from a secret recipe of sugar, spices, and flour." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Boss, what did the lieutenant say?"
Nick's cell phone rang.
"Detective King… Hi, Dr. Wyrick... Just kicking off, but still early days… No… died around eleven thirty? Uh-huh... Asphyxiation... Uh-huh... Extreme physical strength… I guess… Okay. Uh-huh… When?… I know… I know… Okay… Bye."
Chambers listened with a growing sense of anxiety. It wasn't a social call. Dr. Wyrick, the medical examiner, was a busy woman. Still, he thought hopefully, it's probably not related to our lollipop work. "Everything okay, boss?"
"Lieutenant Kostopoulos has asked us to investigate the murder of a woman by the name of Mrs. Chloe Foreman."
"No!" Chambers involuntarily squawked, catching himself changing words at the last moment. "Murder?"
"That's correct: strangulation. Dr. Wyrick's report will have all the details. It will arrive this afternoon."
"What about our lollipop liaison work? There is so much to do." Chambers said, hoping he could remain at his desk while Nick ran around playing detective. "We've got that big meeting at the Berger Center next week, and we are already behind."
Nick looked away. Chambers, lazy and insolent, grated hard against his perception of a police officer, but he was all Nick had, and he would have to do.
"You're right." Nick was thinking fast.
"Thank you," Chambers replied with rising hope. "One of us will have to stay at home base to keep things moving. Since you're the detective, I'll keep the phones manned here."
"Won't be necessary."
"Eh?" Chambers rubbed a hand through his hair.
"The good news is the lieutenant wants something by Thursday, that won't delay our regular work too much. We are both working this case."
Chambers blew air through his cheeks, and his shoulders slouched like a man who knew he was beat. "Who's the stiff?" The words were spoken with the apathy of a condemned man ordering his last meal. "I suppose I ought to know a little about the person."
"Her name was Chloe Foreman," Nick replied, trying to hide his annoyance. "Mrs. Foreman ran a dog grooming parlor on Domesticated Row."
"Guess she was a big shot, gave plenty of dough to city politicians?"
"No. Mrs. Foreman was a regular citizen."
Chambers lifted his chubby hand and slapped it hard on the desk. "There was a time when the police department in this city would have swept the death of Jane Doe under the carpet, or maybe picked up a street bum and charged him with the killing. A good cop only took time to investigate if it was part of a serial killing. Life was simpler back in the day."
Nick ignored Officer Chambers' outmoded attitude to policing and pulled out his cell phone. Scrolling through the screens he found the item he wanted—the audio from Mrs. Foreman's phone.
"Chambers, please listen to this. It was taken from Mrs. Foreman's cell phone." Nick tapped his pen on his notebook, his stomach churning as the audio file began.
Moments after it finished Officer Chambers rubbed his chin. "Chilling! That eerie voice makes my blood run cold." He grabbed at the paper bag, shoveled a handful of donut holes into his mouth and munched thoughtfully. Then he shook his head as if the changing times were just too much for him to bear. "So, Mrs. Foreman's murderer is a woman?"
Chapter 23
The late morning sky was a swirl of fluffy, white clouds when Amy and Danielle stepped onto the trail that led to Rumpus House. The temperature was in the low seventies with a cool breeze blowing from the west. Benches and trees lined this part of the trail, and young people sat on the grass reading or chatting in small groups.
"There ain't nothing to lose in going to Kitty's Café. If Mrs. Clawfoot's there, great, we'll get to talk to her. If not, we'll look around then grab lunch at Jenny's Crab Shack." Danielle enjoyed seafood, and in Austin that meant Jenny's.
Amy, a little out of breath trying to keep up asked, "Do you think Mrs. Clawfoot did it?"
Danielle clucked her tongue. "I've never met the woman. So I don't know."
"Slow down Danielle," Amy huffed. " I'm not as young as you. My thirties were almost a decade ago!"
Danielle slowed her pace a little. "With a name like Kitty Clawfoot, the story would make a great newspaper headline! Anyway, you heard what Lizzie said. The woman had a bad case of the green-eyed monster, and Mrs. Foreman was about to take over her business. If that's not a strong motive, I don't know what is."
Amy knew Danielle had a point. How often had she read a newspaper article about a murder being committed out of jealousy? Or a business partner being killed to reduce competition? But on the other hand, Amy wasn't quick to judge. "There are always two sides to a story. I'd like to hear Mrs. Clawfoot's point of view."
The entranceway to Kitty's Café was eerily quiet. A small note tacked on the door, handwritten, explained the business was closed. There was no sign of customers, no sign of activity. It was as though they were a thousand miles away from the hustle and bustle of the trail, on the threshold of a ghost town where only tumbleweed and lost souls ventured.
Danielle reached out, turned the door handle and pushed.
"Amy girl, it's open!"
Inside, the room was cool and dark with heavy curtains drawn across the windows, the only light coming from a gap where they didn't meet. There was a door at the far side, from beyond which came the sound of heavy scraping.
The two friends stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the gloom.
"Where's the light switch?" Danielle asked feeling along the wall.
There was a rusty screech followed by metallic clanging, then the door at the far side swung open. The silhouette of a figure, female, hands on hips, was all the two friends could make out.
"Who are you?" the figure demanded. "And what are you doing in here?" The questions jabbed the still air like a boxer working a punching bag.
"We are looking for Mrs. Clawfoot," Amy replied, twisting her wedding ring, "Do you know where we might find her?"
There was a click. The lights turned on.
"I'm Kitty Clawfoot," said the figure, now bathed in light. "The café is closed for the present." Heavy makeup did little to cover the deep red scratches under her left eye." If you give me your contact details, I'll be in touch when we reopen."
The woman looked like she had been in a fight. Amy decided to get straight to the point. "Mrs. Clawfoot, I'm Amy King, and this is my friend Danielle Sánchez. We are looking into the unfortunate death of Mrs. Foreman."
"Unfortunate death? Ha-ha. I only wish she had croaked sooner."
Amy gasped, wrinkling her nose. "Do you know Mrs. Foreman was murdered?" She was hoping for a reaction, something to tell her this wasn't the killer.
"Who cares."
Now Amy knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the woman facing her had a heart of ice. Even though she was with Danielle, she'd have to be careful. But there was a question she had to ask.
"Any idea who would want Mrs. Foreman dead?"
Kitty balled her fists. Deep scratch marks lined both hands. "Police officers, eh? I'm not saying anything without my lawyer present."
Amy raised her hands, backing away with a shudder. Was this the face of Mrs. Foreman's killer? Maybe so, in which case was she about to confess?
"Mrs. Clawfoot, there is no need for a lawyer," said Amy in a soft voice. "We are not police officers."
"Not police officers?" Kitty blinked several times. "Get out! I'm not answering any questions about that woman. As far as I'm concerned, she got what she was due."
Amy touched her cell
phone; this wasn't going as she'd hoped. The woman was hostile, aggressive and had something to hide. As she was considering her next move, the outside door flew open.
In strolled Mr. Sartain.
"Amy King!" He extended his hand, apparently without surprise, and nodded at Danielle. "I don't believe I've met your friend."
Amy made brief introductions then Mr. Sartain turned to Kitty.
"Mrs. Clawfoot, you've got until five p.m. today to clear out your stuff." His voice was hard, ice cold, all business.
Kitty placed her hands on her hips, her voice little more than a high-pitched screech. "Mr. Sartain, my café was about to turn the corner into profitability." She stamped her foot on the floor. The sound echoed like thunder off the wooden boards. "Forcing me out and renting the space to Chloe Foreman was wrong!"
Despite the coolness of the room, beads of sweat appeared on Mr. Sartain's forehead. "This is my property, and I can do what I like."
Kitty exploded. "Why did you end my lease?" The question was asked as a savage scream.
Mrs. Clawfoot had serious anger management issues, Amy thought, her finger hovering over Nick's speed dial. She edged toward the exit, eyes fixed on Kitty, but eager to hear Mr. Sartain's answer.
"You were behind with the rent on your week-to-week lease," Mr. Sartain replied. "I'm running a business, not a charity." Rivulets of sweat dripped off his chin.
"But why give Mrs. Foreman my unit when you have two vacant units at the end of Domesticated Row?"
He shrugged. "Mrs. Foreman wanted Kitty's Café. She offered three months' rent in advance and a quarter-by-quarter lease. I can't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially with those two empty units losing money and you behind in your rent."
Kitty waved her hand nonchalantly as if she needed no further explanation. It was almost as if she was a balloon now deflated. "Mr. Sartain," she began, her voice dropping to its normal pitch, "I'd like to do a deal."
He folded his arms, eyes shining with interest. "What do you have in mind?"
