Dying Embers (25 page)

“I don't think my partners would go along,” said Finney. He laughed. “They see you as a dependable source of income.”

“That leaves Archer Flynt and the Attorney General's office,” I said and swirled my half cup of coffee into a maelstrom.

“I'll look into it,” said Finney. “And do telephone on the other matter. The sooner the better.” He hung up.

I set the telephone back in the cradle. “I'm impressed. You were particularly decent to Mr. Jones.” I took a slug of Leonard's coffee.

“I don't want you winding him up,” said Shephart, leaning toward me. “Anything happens to Scott Lambert and I'm back on the missing persons
desk until our local nutcase takes another victim.”

“You don't think Scott Lambert is killing hookers?”

“I think his mother still cuts up his meat.”

“You don't think he killed Anne Frampton?”

“Oh, he's good for that one,” Shephart said. He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his lap. “He's taking the fall. I couldn't stop it if I stood under him with a net.”

“Case is that solid?”

“The DNA in the cigar butt and from the hair follicles found in the Frampton woman's hand match Scott Lambert. He's lucky there's no death penalty in this state. The day he keels over dead, I'm declared a hero, the prosecutor a genius, and the guys doing the hookers can walk.”

“Guys?” I picked up my half-a-cigarette and pulled it straight between my fingers.

“Guys!” Shephart picked up my lighter.

“There must be some other DNA samples,” I said.

“Plenty. They're hookers.” He clicked the lighter twice and a flame danced up. “Semen in every orifice—from multiple donors. Except the Frampton woman. Nothing.” He slipped his thumb off the pedal, and the flame went out. “I like a local pimp for a couple of the women. Then there's the nutcase. And maybe a copy cat.”

“The prosecutor is smarter than that,” I said and put the half cigarette in my lips.

“Lambert is O positive. He matches in five cases.”

“So am I,” I said.

“Me too,” said Shephart. “And most of the people we'd see if we looked out the window.”

“DNA analysis?” I beckoned for the lighter.

“Gets complicated, time consuming, and expensive when you have to sort out multiple donors. Also subjective.” Shephart thumbed the flame adjustment on the lighter.

“Prosecutor will let Lambert spend the money,” I said. “And take the benefit of the doubt when the experts start to argue.”

“Lambert's taking the fall,” Shephart said. “And your prospects don't look good.” He slid the lighter across to me.

“So you drove all the way out here to gloat?”

“I'm looking for the same thing I was looking for when I met you in the parking lot.”

“A cup of coffee?” I flicked the lighter twice but got no flame.

“The knife. In the report—about your little donnybrook up on Michigan Avenue.”

I stared at Shephart and his matter-of-fact face. “I'm still looking at some exposure here.”

Shephart's face didn't change. “Guy came at you on the street with a knife. We have a witness.”

“So ask him,” I said. I examined the lighter. Shephart had turned the flame all the way down.

“Guy don't know from a knife.”

“So do a picture drop.”

“Maybe you have some suggestions,” said Shephart.

“Cheese cutter, plastic picnic knife, and, ah, maybe a commando knife.”

“I got a cheese cutter and a plastic picnic knife at the house,” Shephart said. “What's a commando knife?”

“Straight bladed dirk about eight inches long.” I showed him the distance between my fingers.

“Sounds familiar.”

“Maybe that's because there's a lot of them,” I said. “A guy named Brian Hemmings—the Frampton's houseman—down in South Haven had one just like it.” I slid the flame adjustment to about halfway, flicked loose less than an inch of flame, and turned my head sideways to save my nose while I lit up. “The guy your witness mentioned was on my flight to Brandonport.”

“I don't suppose you've noticed any other cutlery laying about,” said Shephart.

I picked up my waste can, rattled it, and parked it on the desk in front of Shephart. “Belongs to Leonard Jones. It's a Marine survival knife. Single edge.”

“How?” Shephart shrugged. “What?”

“I haven't touched it,” I said. “You want to test it or not?”

• • •

Lorna stepped in the door, dropped her work on my blotter, and said, “Marg and I are going out to a late lunch. Can we bring you anything?”

“You said something about meeting Matty Svenson.”

“Marg's in kind of a hurry,” said Lorna. “We can talk when I get back.”

Marg loomed in the door behind Lorna. She closed her eyes and made one negative wag of her head.

“Sure,” I said. “Where are you going?”

“Kentwood Station for the buffet,” said Marg. “It's dark and quiet. I've had all the excitement I can handle today.”

“If they do a burger, bring me one of those. Or surprise me.” I locked eyes with Lorna. “No unsweetened iced tea, thank you.”

Mischief wafted across Lorna's face. “Exercise would be good for you.”

They left.

Lorna had totaled out her time sheet. Thirty-seven hours by Thursday—Marg would be thrilled she had saved us the overtime. Lorna had also totaled out her expense record.

Investigation is communication. Lorna's a good investigator and has excellent language skills. Mostly, I just reviewed her work, wrote a summary, and attached billing memos. The job took less than an hour.

I leaned on the cane and made the trek to the restroom. When I got back, I found a foil-wrapped ham and cheese grinder waiting on my desk next to lemonade in a plastic cup. Nurse Gretta could wait for the good news.

Lorna walked in and took the straight-backed chair across the desk from me. “Matty told me to get the hell away from you if I wanted to start my job with the DEA in the fall,” she said.

“Life goes on,” I said. “We agreed at the beginning that you were just filling in until fall.”

“If I walked away now—”

“It's not a question of loyalty,” I said. “I don't have a license.”

“Someone carved 'die bitch' in my windshield,” said Lorna. She leaned toward me and put her hands on the desktop. “I'm not going to walk away from this one, or the next one. If I do, I may as well go and drop my application at Burger Shack.”

“I think you can do better than that,” I said, and unwrapped my sandwich. “What do I owe you for this? All I have is a check from the Sheriff's Department.”

“You owe me a chance to be there when we kick sand in their faces.”

“You're young,” I said, “and life is long. This may not be what you want to do.”

“We've had this discussion before. I took the right decision for the wrong reason. But—”

I showed her my hand. “You're an adult.” I waved the hand once and put it away. “We need background work on the crew from South Haven. Brian Hemmings for one.”

“And Shelly Frampton,” she said.

“And Leonard Jones,” I said, “but Detective Shephart is on that trail.”

“I don't believe for a minute that he would have hurt his sister,” she said and leaned back in her chair.

“Leonard Jones is an operator,” I said. “I need to know if we can trust him. He's an ace at sand-kicking.”

“Like you spoke to my roommates?”

I nodded.

“Cool,” said Lorna. She sprung from the chair. “I'm on it in the morning.”

“I'll ask Wendy to put you on her payroll. She can bill Lambert for your time. You need to be working for a licensed agency to keep your concealed carry permit valid. Until then, you want to keep a low profile—maybe keep the pistol in your trunk.”

“Sure,” she said.

“No. I mean really.” I stripped the paper off the straw and stabbed it through the lid. Lorna walked out. I took a drink of what turned out to be unsweetened lemonade. I had to hold it in my mouth with my hand to keep from doing a spit take on my desk. I labored through a swallow and said, “Auk, Jesus.”

From the front office I heard Lorna say, “I like it tart.” The closing of the front door cut off the sound of her laughter.

• • •

I called the house a couple of times. No answer. I left a message. It seemed like Wendy had to be back since I'd talked to Pete Finney in the early afternoon. I filled in time—changed the bandage on my foot—until the light outside my office window had faded.

The front door opened and I looked up to the monitor. Wendy struggled in carrying two suitcases. I stood, set the cane aside, and walked around the desk. “God, am I glad to see you.”

Wendy set the luggage in the doorway between us. She wore tan sweats and had her hair wrapped in a knot on the top of her head. Her eyes were puffy and hot with rage.

“Don't touch me,” she said.

“What?”

“Do you have any idea what we've been through?”

“I talked to Ben. I talked to Pete Finney.” I shrugged. “I was in the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah. I called. You were asleep. Goddamn it!” Tears started down the edge of her nose. “They dragged us through shit. And where were you? Asleep! You were asleep, you asshole.”

“I asked for something. I thought they gave it to me because I was in pain.”

“It's always all about you. You made this mess with the crap you had in your office.”

“Just a minute! Thirty-three years! Tell me what you believe.”

“I saw. They showed me. God, it was so sick!”

“Get out,” I said—calm and surreal—like I heard someone else say it. “Leave the bags and get out.”

She left. The room swam. I held onto the desk, hand over hand, to get back to my chair. I racked a round into the chamber of my old friend and punched the magazine out.

“G
O AHEAD,” SAID A MAN WITH A HOARSE VOICE
.
“Save me a lot of work.” He leaned in the door, hovering over the luggage that Wendy had left, and showed me the business end of the twelve gauge shotgun. “Wouldn't have missed this for the world,” he said. “You ruined my singing voice and broke three of my ribs.”

“I had a busy day,” I said. “Don't take this personal, but …” I shrugged.

He reddened. “That's right, piss me off.” Using his right hand to cover me with the shotgun he flipped the baggage behind him with his left. “Frosting on the cake.”

He wore a white T-shirt and black cut-off jeans. The Velcro tabs of a ballistic vest showed through the fabric of the shirt.

Fidel/Andy. He'd shaved his beard and his head. A narrow three-inch bruise tattooed his right eye into an expression of continued surprise. Road raspberries held high season on his left arm and leg. I looked up to the monitor. The front door to the office stood open, blocked by the janitor's gray canvas trash cart.

“El Guitmo,” I said.

“Who?” He stepped through the door and got both hands on the street sweeper.

“El Guitmo—famous international terrorist.”

He laughed. “Too cute by half. Somebody from the Bureau tell you that?”

“Matty Svenson.”

He shook his head.

“Special Agent.”

“Whatever.” He pointed the shotgun at my pistol and shoveled the muzzle toward my head twice. “Busy, busy,” he said. “In the mouth. Improves the aim.”

“You know,” I said, and tried to make it sound like a revelation, “you can still come in. Tell them what you know. Hell, they'd probably give you a medal—save the Bureau the trouble and embarrassment of a prosecution.”

“They really didn't tell you shit, did they?”

I let the pistol fall onto the desktop.

“What are you doing?” he croaked, and looked from the pistol back to my face.

“Like to leave a note. Mind?”

“Keep it personal,” he said. “Too bad you don't have a computer. I do suicide notes that bring a tear to the eye.”

I took Lorna's expense report and turned it to the blank side. “I'm a street detective,” I said. I picked up my red editing pen.

“Shame,” he said. “We could have left a lot of dirty pictures on your hard drive—you never would have skated the pornography charge.”

“Where did you get that crap?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Write.”

I looked at him and said, “Post Office.”

“Right you are.” He tilted his head to one side. “You should thank us for that. You had friends. They wanted to take you out without having to kill you.”

I wrote a couple of words and lay the pen down.

“Write.”

I picked up the pen. “Who was it wanted to do me the favor?”

“What's it to you?”

“I'm planning to haunt the bastard,” I said.

He laughed. “Old bureau type named Cameran. He had a friend who was a postal inspector.”

“Intelligence Research Associates?”

“He said you snaked his client and thought planting the books was hilarious.”

I wrote another word and looked up. “What's this to him?”

“He's doing the patent complaint for some battery outfit.”

“You, too?”

“Write,” he said.

I started another word.

“Just business,” he said.

“They said you were a terrorist.”

“These days everybody is a terrorist. Makes the job easier. Besides, who told you terror wasn't a business?”

“Guess I'm old school,” I said. “Enlighten me.”

“Religion is politics. Politics is business. It's all the same. It's about who's the boss. The boss gets the tight women and the fresh cuts of meat.”