Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (23 page)

"I hope you're right."

"Besides," he said, yanking the bags out,
one in each hand, "we haven't seen a note since Monday. I'll bet
all your poking around's scared the sumbitch clear out of the
valley."

I watched Hebert reach the skycap, drop off the bags,
and hold out his arm for Maisy Andrus to take as they disappeared
into the terminal.
 

=19=

"I KNOW IT'S STILL ONLY DECEMBER, JOHN, BUT
YOU'VE GOT TO think ahead. You see, the marathon's like Good Friday:
you'll be on the cross from twelve noon to three. Only for you she'll
be more like four, four and a half hours. Of steady pounding and
chafing. “Think about what to wear. You have to dress warm to go
out to Hopkinton, on account of you'll be standing around for hours
till the race starts. Maybe layers of old clothes that you can just
take off and throw away on the street. If it's raining, get yourself
a trash bag, one of those big green ones. Cut a head hole in it so
you can use it like a poncho, then tear it off with the clothes when
you hear the gun. For the running itself just shoes, socks, jock,
shorts, and a T-shirt. lf it's below fifty degrees, wear a
long-sleeved cotton turtleneck under the T. Remember, usually you
dress warm to keep your heat in against the cold. Over twenty-six
miles, you'll be wanting to let the heat out. Hell, your whole
innards'll be producing heat like a blast furnace. Vent it out
through sweat, and the wind'll wick it off keep you cooler. "Another
thing. Before you put the socks on, turn them inside out and slap
them a few times against your thigh. Got to get rid of all the sand
or dirt particles. Over the miles, one piece of grit can cut through
your toes like a hacksaw.

"Spread some Vaseline around your body. Don't
be stingy, eh?

Really slather it on your feet and crotch, and
don't forget your nipples. I've seen men finish a marathon bleeding
like they'd got arrows in their chest.

“
Finally, don't wear
nothing next to the skin that you haven't been wearing during
training. Something old, soft, and comfortable is what you want.
Don't worry about how you'll look for the camera, neither. No matter
what you do, two hours into the race you're going to look like shit
warmed over."

* * *

Turning at the Western Avenue bridge after two miles,
I felt the wind billow at my back. My joints were a little rusty, the
leg muscles a little stiff. Not from age, I was sure, as much from
running each morning instead of every other. It was hard to think
about a race four months away, but picturing the details of what I'd
be wearing was helping me focus on the early stages of the training
program. Passing Boston University's law school tower, my mind
clicked over to Maisy Andrus. Two nights before, I'd driven the
professor and her husband to the airport. I'd checked in with Inés
Roja the next day, she telling me there was no word from Andrus or
Hebert. Roja had called the airline in New York, however. Their
flight had departed for Sint Maarten on schedule.

In the car I'd told Andrus I didn't have enough
information yet to form any conclusions. I was no further along now.
Neely reported no unexpected prints on the note or the book from
Plato's.

Four untraceable notes, and a rogue's gallery of
people Andrus had offended. Walter Strock. from her politics at the
law school; Manolo and stepson Ray Cuervo. from her actions in Spain;
Louis Doleman, from losing his daughter; Steven O'Brien, from her
stand on the right to die. Even Tucker Hebert. if you didn't believe
he enjoyed being a trophy husband.

Which left Gunther Yary and his skinheads. I hadn't
talked with them after the scuffle at the library. Back from the
river and doing my stretching in the condo, I was thinking about
driving to their "clubhouse" in Dorchester, when the phone
rang.

"John Cuddy."

"John, it is Inés Roja. Can you come to the law
school'?"

"What happened?"

"There is another note."

"What does it say?"

"I — please, can you come to look at it?"

"Twenty minutes."

* * *

Roja was sitting rigidly behind her desk, hands antsy
on the blotter. Seeing me, she opened the center drawer, taking out a
plastic Baggie as though it held a snake.

I took it from her and turned it over to read.

"YOU CAN RUN CU — NT BUT YOU CAN'T HIDE"

When I looked back at Roja, she was dipping into a
tissue box from another drawer.

After she'd blown her nose and wiped some tears, I
said, "When did you get this?"

"I came in as always by eight-thirty. It was not
here then. I went down to the Xerox room, and it was here when I
returned."

"How long were you gone?"

"Fifteen minutes, perhaps more. I had a lot of
copying to do for things I need to send out for the professor."

"These trips to the Xerox machine. You do it
regularly?"

"I do not understand?"

"Do you usually do the copying first thing in
the morning? Predictably?"

"Oh. Oh, I see. No, but the man did not deliver
the note."

"How do you know?"

"It was in this." Roja reached down and
came up with a manila interoffice envelope, about twelve of the
thirty To and From lines already used. The last entry was just a To
Maisy Andrus.

"Could you set it on the blotter?"

"I'm sorry." She complied. "I saw
nothing wrong with the envelope when I opened it. It was in with the
mail and five others of the same kind of envelope."

"Who else would have handled it?"

Roja just resisted touching it again. "All the
people who used it before. And Larry."

"Larry?"

"The mail clerk. But he gets many of these. It
is easier sometimes just to drop off the interoffice mail in his room
on the second floor."

I took out a pencil and tickled the envelope over to
where I could read the earlier names. I recognized only one. Walter
Strock. "Can we use your phone to call Sint Maarten?"

Roja had the card with telephone numbers already on
it. Within minutes we had a connection and a hotel operator with a
lilting voice who would be pleased to ring Mr. Hebert's room.

There was a metallic buzzing, once, twice, three
times. "Tuck Hebert."

"Tuck, this is John Cuddy."

"Shee-it, John! The hell can be so important,
you got to bother us on our first morning here?"

"I'm sorry, Tuck, but I'd like to speak with
your wife."

"Try me first. What's the problem?"

I didn't see that insisting was going to be much
help. "There's been another note."

"Well, he's still sending them, he still thinks
we're up there."

"That's not the point, Tuck. From the note, he
knows about you two taking a trip."

"Read it to me."

I did.

"Lordy, John, all that means is he saw us going
with you and some luggage. We already knew he's found out where we
live, what with that note in the mailbox and all. Now it seems like
he's staking us out. I don't like it much, but I don't see where
we're any worse off than before."

"Tuck. Listen to me, will you? Within about
thirty-six hours of your taking off, he knew you two were gone and
got a note to circulate through the law school's interoffice routing
system. I want to talk with your wife and with the tournament and
hotel security people."

"No go, John. Folks down here were nice enough
to think of inviting an old has-been like me. I'm not about to get
everybody into an uproar over a few nut notes."

"Tuck — — "

"I'll tell Maisy about it when I figure she's
rested up enough to hear it. I'll be with her until the tournament
starts, and then I'll tip a guy I know can watch over her when I'm
out on the court. Now, that's it."

"You realize — "

"Signing off, partner. Just remember, sticks and
stones can break my bones . . ."

I heard a click and static.

Roja took the phone receiver back from me and
replaced it very carefully, as though the console might explode.

Then she looked up at me. "What can we do?"

I was thinking about that
when a familiar, if not particularly friendly, voice said, "Now
that the scintillating Professor Andrus has flown the coop, I wonder
if you could come see me about a complaint I'm composing for the
Board of Registration of Private Investigators?"

* * *

When I followed Walter Strock into his office, the
blonde from the library debate was sitting in one of the visitor's
chairs. She wore a one-piece wool dress, robin's-egg blue, with a
sash.

Strock said, "John Cuddy, this is Kimberly
Weymond."

Weymond took about a minute getting to her feet. I
was noticing her moist lipstick and heavy eye shadow before it struck
me that her dress was a twin for the outfits Maisy Andrus wore.

"Kimberly is my research assistant. She will
stay as fair witness to what you and I discuss."

Weymond's hand felt more manicured than callused.
"Mr. Cuddy." She smiled in a your-place-or-mine way.

"It seems you misrepresented yourself to me on
Monday, sir."

I turned from Kimberly to Strock, who was dropping
into his big swivel chair. Weymond resumed her seat. I took the other
captain's chair, arranging it so I could watch both of them.

"Tell me, Professor, just how?"

"I rather think I'm a better judge of that than
you, sir. Now, more to the point, I believe that when you were here
on Monday, the specific false pretenses you asserted consisted of —
"

"Why don't we cut the shit and call the cops,
Strock."

Weymond just aborted a laugh. Strock stared at me as
though he were wondering what I could have said that would have
sounded like "cut the shit and call the cops."

"I beg your — "

"Try Area A. Ask for Detective William Neely.
He'll remember you, I think."

Whatever words were climbing up Strock's throat lost
their footing before reaching his mouth. I had the impression that he
was desperately flicking through his data banks, trying to find the
incident I was talking about.

"Let me refresh your recollection, Professor. It
was the time you got sick after that school party, and you had that
difficulty on Beacon Hill. Down toward Cambridge Street? An
apartment, I think — — "

"Kimberly!"

His voice was so shrill, she jumped a little.

"Yes, Walter?"

"You're excused."

"But — "

"Please."

Weymond looked from him to me just once. Standing
again, her panty hose rustled. She left the room without another
word, probably trying to play back and file away what I'd already
said. When the door closed behind her, Strock said, "How dare
you! I can have your license — "

"Strock, I can have yours too."

He shuddered once, and suddenly the acerbic academic
devolved into someone a lot older and grayer. "What do you
mean?"

"I know all about you and the student that
called the cops. Now, you're going to answer every question I ask,
and politely. Otherwise, the student newspaper gets to play
Washington Post to your Dick Nixon. We understand each other?"

His lids lowered halfway. "Yes."

"How did you find out that I wasn't straight
with you on Monday'?"

"The girl that I didn't pick as my research
assistant."

"Nina Russo?"

"Yes."

I started to get up. "Sorry. Strock."

"No! Wait, it's true. She was pissed off royally
that I picked Kimberly over her. The stupid cu — Russo should have
been amazed that she was even in the running, with her looks. She —
Russo — was in a bar near here, complaining about me. When Russo
said you talked to her about it, one of the male students overheard
and later told Kimberly."

That seemed reasonable. It didn't take much to
picture male students trying to play up to Kimberly.

"How did you know about Maisy Andrus being
away?"

"The dean."

"Fill in the blanks, Strock."

A deep breath. "Maisy told him about some
threats or whatever she'd been getting. Said she needed some time
off. He told her he understood, even told her she could cancel her
special session course. Then he became concerned as he always does
about how that might play with the rest of the faculty. So he came to
me for counsel." Strock mustered a wan smile. "He may be
weak, but he is politic."

"When did he come to you?"

"When? Yesterday sometime. Yes, yesterday
evening, just before my seven o'clock. I prefer my classes start on
time, you see, and I recall being a bit testy that he was staying so
long."