“Sharon had just died.”
“Anyway, what were his habits?”
Manny turned up his palms. “We were on two stakeouts.”
“You must have missed my stakeout wit and charm.”
“Phillips keeps his mouth shut. I like that.”
Manny and Clarence looked at each other, Clarence nodding. Glad to give them this bonding moment.
“He must have drunk a gallon of coffee,” Manny said. “And he ate a half dozen granola bars.”
“Granola bars? Soft or crunchy?”
“Who cares?”
“I’ll bet they’re crunchy.”
I walked out the door to Phillips’s desk. He was out. I looked at his keyboard closely, with the light on my keychain. Down between the keys I saw yellowish-brown particles. I looked both ways, then opened two of his desk drawers. At the back of the second, I found his stash—six Nature Valley pecan crunch granola bars. I took one and shut the drawer.
I showed Manny and Clarence my discovery. They weren’t impressed. I decided not to explain. Nero Wolfe holds things back from Archie, like Sherlock Holmes did from Watson, so at the unveiling of a crime’s solution, his deductions seem more brilliant.
Manny took off, and Clarence and I settled down at my workstation. I pulled open a file drawer between us. Clarence spotted a file in the front. He pulled it out.
“The Bacon and Cheese Murders?” he asked. “Wait … it says Ollie Chandler. You wrote this?”
“It’s my first fiction.”
“You’ve written nonfiction?”
“Just that article I gave you the other day.”
He flipped through it, then read aloud: “Frankie the Knife tried to shake me, but I stuck to him like a mustard plaster. Frankie was hog ugly, face like a bucket of mud. Walking down Broadway, he was as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake. When I jumped him on Alder, the streetlight showed the vein in his forehead beating like a ragtime drummer on bathtub gin. Next thing he knew I was slapping him around like a pinball machine with body English.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I’m speechless,” Clarence said. “A pinball machine with body English?”
“Pretty cool, huh? Raymond Chandler was the greatest writer of hard-boiled detective stories. Lots of people ask if we’re related, but I’ve never found a link between my Chandlers and his.”
“You think about crime, you read about crime, apparently you even write about crime.” Clarence stopped, appearing to weigh his words. “Off the record, could you have killed the professor?”
“I’m capable of it, if that’s what you mean.”
“Really?”
“So are you. Suppose somebody murdered Geneva and got away with it. He was cleared, but you know for a fact he did it. And suppose you know he’ll kill someone else, even your own kids. He’s threatened to do it. So tell me, would you just turn the other cheek? I’m not saying I’d kill him. But if no justice was coming and more people were in danger? I’d consider it.”
“I’d take him out in a heartbeat.” It was Manny, who’d suddenly reappeared at his desk. Manny has no future in politics.
“I’d like to believe I’d leave justice to God,” Clarence said, “not take it into my own hands.”
Manny groaned, putting his hand on his rib.
“With your family’s lives on the line?” I said. “The first question about these homicide detectives is, are they smart enough to kill and have a good chance of getting away with it? In each case, given their experience and knowledge of murder investigations, the answer’s yes. Second, are they bold enough to do it? And third, are they motivated enough? You can’t answer the last question until you figure out what that motivation could be. If it’s revenge for something horrific or prevention of future crimes, that might be enough.”
“What if two detectives were in on it together?” Clarence asked.
“What are the chances of two homicide detectives working together who are both cold-blooded murderers? Okay, they might rough somebody up. But plan a murder?”
“Have you talked about how to kill someone?” Clarence asked.
“Sure.” I looked at Manny. He nodded. “But pharmacists probably discuss what drug they’d use to kill someone. And mechanics probably say if they were going to sabotage a car, that’s how they’d do it. But few of them actually do it. Especially not together. If I were going to murder someone, I wouldn’t let anybody in on it. Nobody would see me do it.”
“Nobody but God.”
Clarence has this way of ending conversations.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 6:20 P.M.
I talked with McKay Kunz, the night shift’s head custodian at the Justice Center, about timetables and procedures for dumping garbage. Then I headed for the parking garage to bail out my car.
“I finally got around to checking out the six phone numbers from the backs of the professor’s books,” Ray Eagle said as I crossed the bridge and negotiated the ramp onto I-84 in a rainy rush hour. “Two are nonworking numbers, two belong to someone else now, and two to the original owners. But I linked up the old ones to past owners. In four cases I confirmed numbers belonging to women who at one time knew the professor. Two had been in his class; two others had dated him. One remembered him fondly; two sounded pretty cold. One ice-cold.”
“Why didn’t he put names next to the numbers?” I asked.
“For fear someone would see it? Maybe he didn’t want to have to explain why he had their numbers. But how could he remember who the numbers belonged to?”
“Probably thinking one at a time,” I said. “The girl was on his mind, and he figured he wouldn’t forget. Years later he wouldn’t care. He always had a book with him, so books were his scratch pads. Fountain pens and love letters aside, to the professor women weren’t much more than numbers anyway.”
By 7:30 Mulch was walking me through his day. I usually don’t grasp the details, but his general points come through. He’d had a good day, barked at a number of joggers, but missed me. And was thinking about bacon.
I did this interacting with Mulch in my office so whoever was listening to the recording on the chief’s behalf would know their bug was still working. When Mulch had gotten everything off his chest, including his guilt in the confiscation and mangling of a Zero candy bar I’d left on my desk, I opened my Picasa photo program, called up the Palatine murder scene pictures, and turned on the slide program. As hundreds of slides appeared for three seconds each, I looked, hoping to see something new.
I’d taken six pictures of the hallway, and the last of those showed Kim Suda, at the far end, coming out of the professor’s bedroom, talking with a criminalist. I hit the space bar, pausing it, studying the picture. Something seemed peculiar, but I wasn’t sure what.
I hit the escape key, called up the picture for editing, and enlarged Suda’s face about six times. She looked different. In particular, her hair was mussed. Usually it’s perfect. Yeah, she’d come in from the cold, but Suda’s the type to find a mirror. But there was more. Suda seemed … something about her face. She looked … nervous.
In the darkness of December 23, I gave in to Mulch’s begging, forgave him for the Zero bar, and took him for a walk. A light snow fell, swirling in the streetlights. I opened my mouth and caught snowflakes on my tongue. Mulch barked and jumped up, mouth open, and caught some flakes himself. I laughed and Mulch strutted happily beside me. He’s fascinated by the outdoors each time, like he’s never seen it before. I was that way as a kid. Snow was magic back then. Usually magic has no hold on me anymore. But the snow drew me out of myself and into something beyond me, an enchanting greatness.
There’s something about fresh Oregon air. It gives me an electric charge to the little gray cells. That’s what happened at 8:23 as we walked by the yellow house with the yappy dog who’s always on his fourth espresso. When lightning struck inside my head, I stood still ten seconds, then turned and ran toward the old brownstone
, dragging Mulch on his leash. He thought it was a grand romp.
I charged in the front door, went to my office, and pulled out one of the three thick files from my briefcase. I flipped through papers.
Finally I found what I was looking for: my copy of the crime scene log sheet, signed off by officers Dorsey and Guerino. I examined it to see exactly who had been granted entry to Palatine’s house that night.
Nowhere in the log was the name Kim Suda.
33
“You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 8:00 A.M.
YESTERDAY HAD BEEN A LONG ONE. After my discovery that Kim Suda wasn’t in the crime scene log, Mulch and I had driven back to the Justice Center to meet with McKay Kunz, head custodian. I told him I needed something a suspicious character had tossed in the fifteenth-floor lobby garbage can.
Unfortunately, Kunz said, and he thought he’d made this clear to me when I called earlier, all the trash from the floor had been dumped into two giant bags at 8:00, so now I’d have to sort through everything from that floor to find what was in the lobby trash.
Wearing plastic gloves, I found what I was looking for after thirty minutes, put it in a plastic bag, joined Mulch in the car, and headed home.
This morning I called the patrol sergeant at 8:00 a.m., hoping to meet again with Dorsey and Guerino. He said they couldn’t be accessed until 1:00 p.m., and then only if it was absolutely necessary since this was Christmas Eve day, for criminy’s sake. I assured him it was absolutely necessary.
I was going to have to wait five hours to hear their story about Suda. I called Jake and Clarence and told them I’d have to leave by 12:30, so we met for lunch at 11:30. In honor of Christmas, Rory had six long-stemmed red roses and six white lilies at our table. Only one problem with this festive setting: Rory was wearing an elf hat. I’m all for civil liberties, but I draw the line at grown men wearing elf hats. He offered us complimentary hats, but we declined, though Jake and I tried to get Clarence to try one on.
We were deep in discussion when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Ollie! Merry Christmas!”
I cringed. What was Karl Baylor doing at my restaurant? I looked up at him. He was wearing an elf hat.
“I’ve heard you talk about this place,” he said. “Thought we’d try it today since we start fixing Christmas breakfast tonight.”
“Noting the ‘we,’ I turned further to see a smiling young woman.
“Ever met my wife, Tiffany?”
I paused a moment too long. “No.”
“Sweetheart, this is Ollie Chandler. I’ve mentioned him.”
I saw the glimmer of recognition. “I think we’ve met.”
“Maybe at the detective dinner last spring,” I said, knowing I’d skipped those dinners since Sharon died.
“Seems like recently.”
“I was working undercover as your mailman.”
She laughed. “That was it. Nice to meet you.”
Karl removed his elf hat and held it in his hands while he talked with Clarence and called him “brother” and introduced him to Tiffany. She seemed impressed to meet Jake, another columnist she enjoyed. I was glad to have her occupied with anyone besides me.
Rory pointed the Baylors to a booth fifteen feet away. They sat down across from each other. Fortunately, Tiffany faced the other direction.
“The Baylors seem nice,” Jake said. “I was expecting a couple of terrorists.”
“I’ll take a rain check on laughing.”
After a few minutes, the Baylors stood and switched sides. Tiffany stared at me. She looked away only when I glanced at her. Every time this happened, I scooted a few more inches into the booth. Soon I was out of her line of sight.
I needed to get back for Dorsey and Guerino, and Jake was taking off early for Christmas Eve, so we parted, wishing each other Merry Christmas. They invited me to join their families, and I said no. Kendra and I were going it alone.
“See you at the Tribune at 3:00?” I asked Clarence.
“Need to be home by 4:00. Sure it can’t wait?”
“Positive. Doesn’t anybody put in full days anymore? Carp’s expecting me. You can leave by 3:30.”
Afterward I sat in the parking lot, finding in my briefcase the typed notes of my interview with Rupert Bolin, fountain pen aficionado. I glanced at his business card and called him as I drove back to the Justice Center.
“Remember telling me about the different reasons people use fountain pens? You mentioned love letters.”
“Oh, yes, it’s so romantic. Women love the old-fashioned ways. It’s not like scratching out something with an ordinary pen. Or, heaven forbid, sending an e-mail. Every letter written with a fountain pen is an original. Sometimes I write a saucy one to my wife, with the finest pen and ink money can buy.”
“I’m sure she’s overcome with excitement,” I said.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied. “We have several special pens and superior stationery that I highly recommend for you to write exquisite letters to that special woman who has captured your heart.”
“I don’t have …”
I stopped. I wondered how the phrase “double cheese, double pepperoni” written in fine fountain pen ink on a superior stationery, might move the heart of Lynn Carpenter.
I opened the official crime scene log from Records, so it’d be ready for Dorsey and Guerino. They arrived at 1:05 p.m.
“What’d we do this time?” Guerino asked.
“You guys know Kim Suda, right? She’s standing by the watercooler, but don’t stare, okay?”
They both stared, then nodded.
“Do either of you remember her coming into the professor’s house that night?”
“She was there,” Guerino said.
“I know she was there. I’m asking if you remember her arrival.”
Dorsey shrugged. “Must have been when I was talking to the gawkers.” He looked at Guerino. “You signed her in, right?”
“I don’t remember her coming to the door. But I went inside a couple of times to point stuff out to the criminalists. You must’ve been there when she came.”
“Nope.”
“Here’s the logbook,” I said. “Check it out. Neither of you signed her in. Her name’s not there.”
“But … one of us was at the door at all times,” Dorsey said. “That’s SOP.”
“Not leaving the scene’s SOP too.”
“You say the words ski mask once,” Dorsey said, “and we’re going to duke it out right here.”
“Forget that. Now think, guys.” I looked at the log and pointed name by name. “Remember the ambulance, the two paramedics coming in? Two criminalists? Then me and Clarence? Hatch, the medical examiner? Lynn Carpenter, Trib photographer? Then Manny, the grouch. And three uniforms named Nick Goin, Chris Warren, and Alex Helm, who you let in for reasons I don’t understand.”
“It was because—”
“I don’t care. I only care whether you remember them.”
“Sure,” Dorsey said. “I told Guerino you’d have a cow if we let them in.”
“It was a pretty big cow,” I said. “Okay, then there were two more criminalists they called for, after I left the scene. They were the last two you signed in. Remember them?”
“A wiry guy.” Dorsey looked at the log. “Carlo Failla. And a young gal, red hair … Kristin Wennerlind.”
“Okay,” I said. “So you’re telling me you remember every single one of these people who logged in? Now, I’ll ask you again. Do you remember Kim Suda arriving?”
They both shook their heads.
“But we know she was there,” Guerino said.
Their faces showed they didn’t understand what it meant.
I did.
34
&nb
sp; “My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1:50 P.M.
I HAVE FOND MEMORIES of Christmas Eve day as a kid. My brother and my buddies Gary Swan and Wayne and Lynn Kim and I, and my black lab Ranger, would gather at the Kims’ house, sleds and saucers in tow. I had a hot pink saucer that, on the snow, could be seen from Mars.
We’d spend the day sliding down any slope within walking distance and make it back, fingers frozen, to Mom. She thawed us out with Ovaltine while Bing Crosby sang “White Christmas” on the big old 33 album platter, back when our RCA record player let us choose between speeds—33 or 45 or 78. We loved to switch them to the wrong speed so Bing sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks.
I could still taste the chocolate malt of the Ovaltine and remember looking longingly at all the presents under the Christmas tree, a bunch with my name on them. Before the night was over, I’d unwrap those treasures.
Now, forty-five years later, this was Christmas Eve day too. But my life was no longer spent dreaming dreams. My job was unraveling nightmares. Still, truth is, since my childhood dreams of being an astronaut or a pro-wrestler or Green Lantern hadn’t materialized, I couldn’t think of any way I’d rather spend the day than solving a murder.
I phoned the chief’s daughter. “Jenn Lennox?”
“Yeah?”
“Detective Chandler.”
“What do you want?”
“When you were at the professor’s house … that was just two and a half months ago?”
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks after the first class.”
“According to records, your class started in late September. That would put the get-together mid-October?”
“I guess.”
“When you were at Palatine’s that night, did you have your cell phone?”
“Always.”
“You didn’t take any pictures with your phone did you?”