The Letter Killeth (14 page)

The thing about faking illness, you began to feel sick. So he had lain in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, and stared at the blades of that stupid fan above.

When Laura called again he had actually fallen asleep.

“They found Professor Izquierdo's body in his office.” Laura said it in a whisper as if she didn't want to be overheard.

Larry sat up like Lazarus. “What do you mean?”

“He's dead.” She was still whispering.

He listened to her garbled account, sitting on the edge of the bed. Of all the days not to be at work! The South Bend police had been called, of course, and Larry would bet that meant Stewart. Stewart had liked him, had treated him with respect, and Crenshaw hadn't liked it, but to hell with him.

“I'm coming out,” he said.

“With the flu? You stay right there.”

How could he tell her he was faking? Then she was whispering again.

“I just hope they don't find out you know what.”

“What?”

Of course he knew what. Laura had filched the master key for Decio and gone over there with him. Henry! My God, whenever he thought of opening that door and seeing Henry, dressed all in black, sitting at the desk, the hair on his head would almost lift.

“Yeah. Look, Laura, keep me posted, will you?”

“Of course. But get some rest.”

Are all women mothers? Well, Laura was one big mama, that's for sure.

He showered and shaved, his ear cocked for the phone; he dressed and had a bowl of cereal as if it were morning rather than early afternoon. When the phone rang he flew to it.

“Yes.”

“Larry Douglas?”

“Who's this?”

“Detective Stewart. I understand you're feeling under the weather.”

“It's nothing. I feel much better.” Did Stewart want his help?

“Could we talk?”

“Absolutely. Where?”

“What's wrong with there?”

“Not a thing. Come on over.”

He hung up, looked around the loft, and began to straighten things up. He threw armfuls of clothing into the closet and closed it. He made the bed, more or less. He looked at all the dishes in the sink but decided against doing them now. He spent the time before Stewart arrived pacing the loft. Maybe it was just as well he had called in sick. Crenshaw would have done anything to prevent Stewart from consulting with Larry. He realized he was smiling. He hadn't felt this good since he had come out of that confessional cleansed of his sins.

*   *   *

“Quite a place,” Stewart said, when Larry let him in. Philip Knight was with him, and Larry was certain they were going to ask his help.

“You've heard about Izquierdo?”

He nodded, looking serious. “They called to tell me.”

“How you feeling?”

“Much better. It must have been one of those quick bouts.”

“You're sure?”

They went down to the car, and Stewart put Larry up front with him, while Phil Knight sat in back. The streets were a mess, icy snow, and the day was gloomy again, but Larry felt great. What were the chances of becoming a real cop? Maybe Notre Dame security would be a farm team from which he would rise to the majors. From the backseat, Phil Knight talked about the crime scene. That was where they were headed. Larry was glad he had put on his uniform.

Larry was a little startled when Jimmy just swung onto the sidewalk and glided along to the front of Decio.

“I won't give you a ticket,” he said when Stewart had parked.

A big laugh all around. Larry felt terrific, a member of the team. They had come for him to ask his help! Wait until Henry heard of this.

Up the elevator and down the hall, three detectives on duty. The sergeant stepped aside, but Stewart went past Izquierdo's office and knocked at the next door. He had to knock again before Professor Wack opened. He looked annoyed, he looked frightened, and then he looked at Larry. His eyes narrowed.

“You put that pogo stick in my office!”

Stewart said, “You recognize this officer?”

“Of course I recognize him.”

Larry felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. The memory of that crazy night when he had let himself into Izquierdo's office, when Wack had interrupted him and he had got the excitable professor back to his office, roared through his mind. But it was the expression on Stewart's face that plunged him into the depths.

He had been set up.

3

“God is not mocked,” Armitage Shanks observed the day after the body of Izquierdo had been found in his office. He turned the little flask of his executive martini in its bed of ice, as if he were dialing in the deity.

“Now, now,” Potts said.

“How did he die?”

“Alone. The way we all will.” Not a favorite topic at the Old Bastards' table in the University Club. It was one thing to derive pleasure from the general collapse of higher education and of the culture at large since their own active years, but the destiny awaiting them all was best left implicit.

“He was strangled.”

“I thought he was poisoned.”

Potts glared at Wheeler. “Where did you hear that?”

“The same place you heard he was strangled.”

Their understanding of what had happened to Izquierdo was pieced together from hearsay, the story in the local paper, and what they had heard from Debbie, the hostess. The club was abuzz with recent events, and Debbie picked up bits and pieces from the various tables and relayed it all to them.

“I think the provost hired a hit man,” Potts said with a wicked grin.

“I never met the man,” murmured Tasker, an emeritus professor of English and an infrequent presence at the table. Tasker could have passed unrecognized through the current ranks of his old department. Not to know is one thing, not to be known another. The waters of Lethe had closed over them all and, in lucid moments, they knew it.

“When was the last time a professor was found dead in his office?”

Here was a tangent they could all pursue, dredging up from memory the several incidents of those who had died with their boots on, something they had all once resolved to do, but in the end all had been more than content to enter the ranks of the retired, where at least they were known.

“They took someone from campus security in for questioning,” Debbie told them, taking a chair and resting from her labors. These consisted in leading diners to their tables, giving them menus, and then returning to her desk just inside the door of the dining room to doodle. Once she had been a waitress, something only those at this table were likely to remember, and she kept her hand in, bringing their initial drinks, pouring coffee and water for them, from time to time sitting in on the wake they were holding for the past.

“What do you mean, took him in for questioning?”

“I'm only telling you what I heard.”

“He must have been the hit man,” Potts said.

“Maybe now they'll decide to tear down Decio,” Shanks suggested.

“The donor's still alive.”

So they were back to the doubtful future of the club. It was the consensus that the place would not be pulled down in their lifetime.

“The whole thing is a false alarm.”

Debbie laughed. “Don't count on it.”

“Well, you're pretty cheerful about the prospect.”

“That's what you think.”

“That's why I said.”

“How did Izquierdo die?”

Debbie frowned. “Good Lord, you're ghoulish. They say he was strangled.”

“By someone in campus security?”

“Who knows?”

“¿Quién sabe?”
echoed Plaisance. Once his department had been called Romance languages; now it was modern languages. What might it not be tomorrow?

“Panta rei.”

“Who's he?”

“It's Greek, my dear fellow,” Shanks said. “All things flow.”

The translation had an adverse effect on a table full of old bladders. Most of the other diners had risen and gone. It was time for their own exodus from the dining room, the slow procession up the ramp for the handicapped and on to the men's room beyond. Armitage Shanks brought up the rear in every sense of the phrase and looked with melancholy at the procession of his fellow emeriti.

“I had not thought death had undone so many,” he murmured.

4

Laura was on duty when a hysterical Pauline Izquierdo burst into the office of campus security, demanding to know what had happened to her husband.

“Oh my God! Haven't you heard?”

“Heard what? Tell me. No one will tell me anything.”

She paced frantically from one side of the reception area to another. Laura picked up the phone and buzzed Crenshaw. She couldn't handle this any more than this woman could handle the news about her husband, whatever it was. Crenshaw did not answer. She knew he was in there. Others came into the reception area and immediately did a 180 and got out of there.

“That stupid Hector won't tell me. No one will tell me. They said to come here. Where is my husband?”

Not many women can retain their beauty while screaming hysterically, but Mrs. Izquierdo was an exception. Ringlets of hair pushed out of the black woolen cap she wore. Her ankle-length belted storm coat was of kelly green. Her eyes flashed; her voice ran up and down the scale of anguish. Laura was so fascinated that she almost stopped being angry at Crenshaw for hiding in his office.

“Come on,” she said. She came around her desk, took the woman's hand, and pulled her down the hallway to Crenshaw's office. Of course the door was shut. Laura opened it and led the hysterical woman in. Crenshaw had been on his feet. He retreated to the window and looked with terror at the two women.

“Mrs. Izquierdo,” Laura said. “No one has told her her husband has been murdered.”

Laura pulled the door shut after her, then stood listening to the aria of anguish in Crenshaw's office. She hurried back to her desk to call Larry. What a day to call in sick.

Larry didn't answer the phone. Dark thoughts went through her mind. If he wasn't in his loft, where had he called from? Her phone rang and she snatched it up.

“Larry?”

“Get Detective Stewart out here,” Crenshaw said in a strangled voice. Mrs. Izquierdo's wailing was twice audible, from down the hallway and, more piercingly, over the phone. “And you come in here. Now!”

Throughout the next half hour, Laura was registering everything in order to tell Larry. She managed to calm down Mrs. Izquierdo, more or less, but Crenshaw was determined to get the banshee out of there. No one downtown knew where Jimmy Stewart was.

“Laura will take you down there,” Crenshaw said. “You shouldn't be alone.”

Mrs. Izquierdo was in phase two of her confused grief. Laura got into her coat; Crenshaw actually helped her.

“Take my car,” he urged, pressing the keys into her hands. Laura took them.

With relief in sight, Crenshaw in shirtsleeves helped her get the woman out to his car. There was a Hummer parked in the middle of the street, its motor still running.

“Who the hell put that there?” Crenshaw roared.

“That's mine.”

“No problem. I'll take care of it.”

When she was in the passenger seat, Crenshaw slammed the door and then stood there hugging himself with the stupidest expression on his stupid face. Laura started the car and, even before she left campus, turned on the siren. It was either that or face the woman's questions.

“You said he was murdered.” She looked at Laura as if she had confessed to the crime.

“The police will explain everything.”

“The police. You're the police.”

Laura turned up the volume of the siren and with lights flashing sped downtown, ignoring the icy streets, liking it as cars pulled off to the side to let her through. There was a near miss as she tore through a red light when a car braked and then began to slide sideways through the intersection. Laura went into a slide herself but regained control. This had the effect of subduing her passenger.

When she pulled into the parking lot downtown, she had trouble bringing the car to a stop on the icy surface. It slid slowly into a snowbank and came to a halt, killing the motor. The siren kept going and she had trouble stopping it. When they got out of the car, Mrs. Izquierdo was more or less under control. Laura led her like a zombie inside.

“Homicide,” she announced to the cop on duty. How did a fatso like that pass the physical? She pushed the thought away. “This is Mrs. Izquierdo, whose husband was found in his office on campus.”

It was the new widow's cue to begin shrieking again. That was okay with Laura. She felt a bit like shrieking herself.

The next half hour or so was a confusing period. No one seemed to know of the murder on campus. Laura asked if they knew Detective Stewart. Of course they knew Detective Stewart. Well, this was his case, and this woman wanted someone in charge to tell her what had happened.

A tall man in a corduroy jacket with a Burberry coat over his arm, lining displayed, rose from a chair and became the voice of reason. He spoke soothingly to Mrs. Izquierdo; he stopped Laura when she headed for the door.

“Wait. I want to talk to you.”

She waited. Finally the chief showed up. He knew less of what had happened than Mrs. Izquierdo, so Laura had to explain it to him, and to the man in the corduroy coat, while the horrified widow listened in.

“Where the hell is Stewart?” the chief demanded. “Get hold of Stewart.”

Minions fled to carry out this order. The man in the corduroy jacket took Laura back to the reception area, got her seated, and brought her a cup of coffee. When he sat, he was holding a tablet. He licked the tip of his pencil.

“From the beginning.”

All this was bearable because it was a story she was going to tell Larry. It was a strange interview, full of the oddest questions. Tell him all about Professor Izquierdo. Was he the campus atheist? Yes, yes, and the other day someone set his car afire. Her interviewer took this down eagerly.