The False-Hearted Teddy (20 page)

While we waited for the purse to be delivered, I went to the restroom. I was returning to the office when a 164

John J. Lamb

young uniformed cop in a dripping wet yellow rain jacket slipped past me. He was carrying a rain-spattered brown grocery-sized evidence bag in one hand and my cane in the other.

I said, “Whoa there, son. Ginger Rogers and I are going dancing tonight, so I need my cane.”

The officer handed me the cane and continued on to the office. By the time I got there, Jennifer’s purse was on Mulvaney’s desk and my stomach did the sort of nasty flip-flop that’s like the sudden onset of seasickness. The brown shoulder bag was the one I’d seen Todd Litten reaching into yesterday morning as I’d passed the Cheery Cherub Bears booth. Jennifer’s back was turned to him and her eyes had been closed, so she couldn’t have known he was rifling her purse.

With a start, I remembered something Donna had told me and realized that her words were far more important than either of us could have guessed at the time. When I’d asked her if she knew who the murderer was, she’d replied something to the effect that it was probably someone else that Jennifer had stabbed in the back.

There was only one other person present at the teddy bear show who might fit into that category and I began to wonder if Todd had come to view Jennifer’s refusal to return his love as a stab in the back . . . or maybe, more appropriately, the heart. Then I realized that I’d completely overlooked a pivotal piece of information, but I kept silent until we confirmed that the key card wasn’t in the purse.

Mulvaney carefully emptied the purse’s contents out onto the desk. There was an assortment of cheap cosmetics, a tube of skin lotion, another cell phone, and a maroon-colored leather wallet. Mulvaney went through the wallet, but as I now expected, there wasn’t a key card.

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“Nothing,” she said, tossing the wallet onto the table.

“And the CSI team says that it isn’t in the room either.”

“So, where did it go?”

“Actually, I have an idea about that, but I need to use your phone first.”

Fifteen

Mulvaney stepped to the side and nodded for me to go behind her desk.

I sat down, grabbed the phone receiver, and pressed the number for long-distance directory assistance for the 717-area code, which covers south-central Pennsylvania.

A computer-generated woman’s voice answered, asked me what number I wanted, and I replied, “The Basingstoke Township Fire Department.”

I listened as the artificial voice told me that in the event of an emergency I should hang up and dial 911 immediately, which is always helpful advice in the event your house is aflame. Then the computerized operator began reciting a series of telephone numbers and I jotted down the one for the non-emergency line. Disconnecting, I pressed the new number and a real woman answered this time, saying, “Basingstoke Township Police, Fire, and Rescue Dispatch. How can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Detective Sergeant Richard Delcambre from The False-Hearted Teddy

167

the Baltimore City Police, down in Maryland. I’m conducting a murder investigation and I need some information from your agency,” I said, glancing at Delcambre, who was rubbing his temple as if he had a headache.

“What sort of information, sir?” asked the dispatcher.

“You have an employee by the name of Todd Litten.

He’s an EMT and it’s vitally important that I speak to his supervisor immediately.”

“Has something happened to Todd?”

“No ma’am. He’s absolutely fine. It’s just that he tried to assist our murder victim before she died and we need to follow up on a little information before moving on with our inquiries,” I said, figuring the simultaneously mislead-ing and truthful reply would secure me more cooperation than stating point-blank that Litten was about to become a

“person of interest” in a homicide investigation.

“Let me see. Litten . . .” said the dispatcher. I could hear the quiet clicks of a keyboard being tapped and knew she was consulting a schedule. “He works for Captain Gallagher and . . . and that shift is off today.”

“I know you can’t give me his home phone number, but will you please call Captain Gallagher and ask him to call me at the Baltimore City Police Department as soon as possible? It’s very important.” I waved to Delcambre, shoved a notepad in his direction and silently mouthed,

“Write down the number and this extension.”

“And can I have your name again, sir?” asked the dispatcher.

“It’s Delcambre.” I spelled the name. “I’m a detective sergeant at the Southeastern District Headquarters.”

“And your number?”

I read it off from the notepad. “And will you please call me back to let me know if you couldn’t contact Captain Gallagher? Again, I can’t stress enough how important this is.”

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“Yes, sir.”

Once I disconnected from the call, Delcambre said in an amused tone, “Before we talk about Litten, I’ve got to know: Do you suffer from multi-personality disorder?”

“No, I just asked the questions that you’d have asked fifteen minutes from now, if we had the time to waste. But if my using your name really bothers you, I’ll be Lieutenant Mulvaney if and when Gallagher calls back.”

“Do you actually think you could do her voice?”

“I’d probably sound more like Kathleen Turner after smoking a pack of Camel non-filters, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

“Can we concentrate on the murder, please?” said Mulvaney. “You’re talking about Todd Litten, the guy who wrote the books that the Swifts sold with the bears, right?”

“I didn’t know you’d met him,” I said.

“He was in the hospital waiting room when we got there and volunteered to tell us what happened, up until the point when you and your wife stepped in.”

“Did he happen to mention where he was while Jennifer was dying?”

Delcambre said, “He told us that he was so upset and angry over people believing Tony’s insinuations about him having a romantic relationship with Jennifer . . . and you shoving him aside, that he went upstairs to his room.”

“To sulk?”

“Basically.”

“Did any of the witnesses at breakfast say otherwise?”

“At the time, we thought Tony was good for the murder, so we didn’t ask about Todd.”

“So he
could
have grabbed the inhaler during the commotion while we were doing CPR.” I began tapping out the bass riff to the jazz-fusion classic, “Birdland,” with my middle finger on the desktop, a nervous habit of mine when I’m excited.

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“You still haven’t explained why you think Litten’s involved,” Mulvaney said.

I pointed toward the purse. “For starters, I saw him reaching inside
that
thing yesterday afternoon—call it some time around one-thirty. I didn’t think it was significant at the time.”

“Where’d this happen?”

“Inside the Cheery Cherub Bears booth at the teddy bear show. Jennifer had her back turned to Todd and was trying to ignore him. My guess is, he lifted the card key then.”

“I hope you have something more than that,” said Delcambre.

“I do and it’s the classic wild card. Todd was in love with Jennifer.”

“How do you know that?”

“I chatted with him briefly last night at the cocktail reception and he thanked me for stopping Tony from clobbering Jen.”

“You’re referring to the incident in the parking garage that morning?”

“Yeah. And while we were talking he had this sad-puppy-dog-I-love-Jody-Foster-so-much-that-I’ll-shoot-the-president look and then he asked me why Jennifer stayed with Tony when he could give her a better life.

From the way Todd was behaving, I thought they were having an affair.”

“Were they?” asked Mulvaney.

“My wife doesn’t think so, and I trust her judgment.”

“But should we trust her judgment, considering she married you?” Delcambre deadpanned.

“One little mistake and she’s tarred for life.”

Mulvaney chopped at the air with her hand in frustration. “Can we please give the Marx Brothers routine a rest for just a couple of minutes? What are you trying to say, Lyon?”

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John J. Lamb

“The one thing we know about Jennifer is that she didn’t have any compunctions about using people. As far as she was concerned, they were nothing more than tools.

So, what if she gently encouraged Todd to think there was a blossoming romance, when in fact, it was nothing more than a convenient scam?”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to make Tony jealous. Maybe Todd actually was her boy toy. Maybe the guy writes a hell of a children’s book. Regardless of the reason, I think something happened to make Todd realize he’d been played for a fool. How did he react when you told him that Jennifer was dead?”

“About the way you’d expect someone would when you tell them that a friend just died.” Delcambre rubbed his chin. “You know: The standard Oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-it.”

“And having been to more than a few death scenes as an EMT, he’d have the shocked reaction down pat. However, we now know Todd considered Jennifer far more than just a friend.” The phone trilled and I snatched up the receiver. “Homicide. Sergeant Delcambre speaking.”

“Yes, this is Captain Darryl Gallagher. You asked me to call?” In the background, I could faintly hear voices from a TV. I listened more closely and recognized them as belonging to Joseph Cotten and Trevor Howard and realized I was missing
The Third Man
on Turner Classic Movies.

“Yes, sir, thank you for calling back so quickly.”

“Before I answer any questions, is Todd in trouble?”

“No, sir, not at all. In fact, he did his best to save a woman’s life earlier this morning. You should be very proud of him.”

“That’s not surprising. He’s one of our very best people. So, how can I help you?”

“I just have a couple questions. Your department spon-The False-Hearted Teddy

171

sored a community safety fair back in September and Todd was one of the presenters, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what topic he covered?”

“Of course. It was a class that he gave to a bunch of high school kids on the dangers of huffing inhalants. You know: spray-paint, toluene—”

“And superglue?”

“That would have been one of the chemicals. Sure.” In the background I could now hear a zither playing.

“Did Todd have any special qualifications to teach that class?”

“Absolutely. He’d taken a course at the State Fire Academy over in Lewistown and was nearly an expert on the subject.”

“I think that’s all I need, so I’ll let you get back to your day. Thanks for everything, Captain Gallagher. Oh, and I almost forgot, should we send Todd’s letter of commendation to you or to the fire chief?”

“The fire chief, definitely.”

“And can you do me one more little favor?” I injected a large dose of warmth into my voice. “Please don’t call Todd and let him know that we’re doing this. He was really embarrassed and said he was just doing his duty when we told him what a great job he’d done. We’d like this to be a nice surprise.”

Delcambre put his hand to his mouth and puffed his cheeks out, pretending he was on the verge of being violently ill, while Mulvaney shook her head in reluctant admiration. However, I wasn’t feeling particularly clever.

“I sure won’t,” said Gallagher.

“And again, thanks for your cooperation.” I hung up the receiver, slouched back into the chair, and massaged the bridge of my nose. “Just so that we’re all clear on this: I’m a freaking idiot. Earlier this morning, I Googled everybody involved in this mess. Among other things, 172

John J. Lamb

that’s how I learned Donna Jordan is a high school chemistry teacher and I wrongly assumed that her specialized knowledge made her the logical suspect. However, while I jumped on that piece of information, I completely missed the real clue.”

“Which is?” Mulvaney asked.

“Litten is an Emergency Medical Technician, which means that along with all his other medical training he’d also be acquainted with—”

“How inhalants work, too.” She finished the thought for me.

“Exactly. And then, a couple of minutes ago, I remembered an article on the Internet about Litten that I’d seen on the local newspaper’s Web page. It said he gave a seminar at a community safety fair, but it didn’t mention the topic and I was way too interested in being brilliant and rushing to wrongly accuse an innocent woman of murder to bother to check my facts,” I said with a sigh.

“And?”

“And Litten took a specialized course on inhalants at the Pennsylvania State Fire Academy. He’s apparently an expert on aerated poisons.” I gave Mulvaney a chastened smile. “By the way, I sincerely apologize for acting so arrogantly. My performance in this investigation hasn’t been any better than yours. In fact, it’s been far worse, because I had more information to work with than you did, yet made the same errors. So, just say the word and I’ll happily excuse myself from anything else having to do with this inquiry.”

It got so silent in the room I could hear the electric clock on the wall quietly humming and the distant grumble of traffic from outside. I reached for my cane and prepared to leave.

As I pushed myself to my feet, Mulvaney said, “You may have been wrong and there’s no arguing the fact that The False-Hearted Teddy

173

you’re an utter know-it-all, but you’ve gotten us this far.

What would you recommend we do now?”

I discovered that I’d been holding my breath. Relax-ing, I replied, “A couple of things. First, did your front desk really receive an anonymous call? If so, was it a male or female voice?”

“Male,” said Delcambre.

“And the call wasn’t made to nine-one-one, where the phone number would have shown up on the caller ID

screen and been recorded. What does that suggest?”

“That the informant didn’t want us to know his identity—”

“And that he was someone acquainted with how an emergency dispatch center operates,” Mulvaney cut in.