“Jimmy Hoffa? D. B. Cooper? Elvis?”
My voice was clear.
“They found a bug.”
His voice was clear.
I listened to the beginning of the profanity. I needed to make a copy.
Sitting in my car, preferring to work out of sight from a murderer, I marked three points on a Portland map.
I made a conference call to Clarence and Ray.
“Manny’s wife,” I said. “That hit-and-run that nearly killed her? It happened on a direct line between the professor’s home and Portland State.”
“Coincidence?” Clarence asked.
“Hundreds of people, thousands, live near that line. But what if Manny learned something and he confronted Palatine about the hit-and-run?”
“You’re not saying that happened?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying.” I told them about my meeting with the chief.
“You really told Lennox you gave us documentation in case you die?” Clarence said.
“You’ve watched too many movies,” Ray said, laughing.
“I was winging it, okay? Somebody’s made a couple of attempts on me. Figured I may as well cover my … bases.”
“You mentioned us by name?” Clarence said. “Couldn’t somebody come after us too?”
“No more than a one in four chance.”
“I didn’t know you’d found Kim Suda’s fingerprints on the bug,” Clarence said.
“I didn’t.”
“You said you did.”
“No. I said, ‘What if I were to tell you that I found Kim Suda’s fingerprints on the bug?’ You made the same assumption the chief did. You both need to listen better.”
After I complimented Rory on the hot pink gerbera daisies floating in a clear bowl, I explained to Jake and Clarence I’d have to cut lunch short because I had to do something back at the Justice Center, then pick up Mulch, who was going to work for me. They asked me to elaborate, but I wanted to keep it a surprise.
“Remember that article Clarence wrote,” Jake said, “about investigating a murder mystery—who killed Jesus?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“I really think you should do it. Investigate who killed Jesus and why. What happened to the body? Why were His disciples willing to die for declaring that Jesus rose from the dead? Think you could handle that case?”
“I’m a homicide detective, not a priest.”
“It’s not a job for a priest. It’s a job for a homicide detective. Apply your professional skills, your honed instincts, to the murder of Jesus.”
“It’ll be tough interviewing two-thousand-year-old witnesses. Might have to repeat my questions. Or do you propose time travel?”
“The historical documents are still available,” Jake said. “Including extensive eye-witness testimony.”
“Yeah,” Clarence said. He pushed his Bible across the table.
“That’s a Bible,” I said.
“The historical evidence is there,” Jake said. “Read it. Then make up your own mind.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll make you a deal. If I solve the Palatine case and catch the killer, I’ll pursue that investigation.”
“Deal,” Jake said, reaching out his hand to seal it. “But try not to die before you’ve investigated what’s waiting for you after death.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
“Seriously,” Clarence said, “you don’t know how much time you’ve got left. You’ve nearly been killed twice. You need to be ready, Ollie. If Daddy were here, he’d tell you, ‘Can’t get on board widout yo’ ticket.’”
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “What’d you say?”
“You can’t get on board without your ticket. When we were kids, Daddy was always reminding us to get on the train to heaven and that Jesus was the only ticket.” He stared at me. “Something wrong?”
“You sure your daddy said that?”
“Said it all the time when I was growing up. You ever hear him say it?”
I shook my head slowly.
The lie seemed preferable to the explanation.
Clarence met me twenty minutes later at the Justice Center.
“Cover me,” I told him as I started toward the opposite side of Kim Suda’s workstation, behind the divider.
“What do I say if someone’s coming?” he whispered.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“What are you doing? What’s in that bag?”
“The less you know the better.”
“Are you putting a bug under her desk? Are you crazy?”
I looked both ways.
“She’s sitting right there,” he whispered. “Wait until she leaves!”
“It’s got to be now. If somebody comes, clear your throat. Loud.”
While Clarence pretended to admire the map of Old Portland on the wall, I got on my knees on the back side of Suda’s cubicle. I crawled underneath and looked at her shoes, no more than twelve inches from my hands. I heard her voice on the phone. I got the goods out of my bag and went to work.
Two minutes later her feet pulled back. She stood and called, “Abernathy! What are you doing? Where’s Chandler?”
I froze, most of me under her cubicle, but a prominent part of me sticking out.
Clarence walked over to her quickly, cutting her off. They were standing face-to-face (actually Suda’s face to Abernathy’s second shirt button). This was my guess since all I could see was their feet.
“He’s working on a project,” Clarence said. “I was just looking at this map.”
I didn’t know how long this was going to last, so I crawled past their feet and over to Tommi Elam’s chair. I slunk up into her chair, and just a moment later, Chris Doyle said, “What are you doing with Tommi’s stuff?”
“Just leaving her a note,” I said.
“I thought you said he was working on a project,” Suda said to Clarence.
“I was. You’d think I was a terrorist or something.” I wrote, “Tommi, give me a call. Ollie.”
“You’re worse than a terrorist,” Doyle said. “You’re a traitor.”
“You going to teach me another lesson, like last time? Sarge says we’ve got a meeting in two hours,” I said, standing up. “See you there. And next time you want to brawl, Doyle, don’t bring a pawn to do a king’s job.”
I showed up for the special 3:00 p.m. detectives meeting five minutes late. When I walked in, every eye fell on me.
Mulch led the way, excitedly looking for some place to pee. I yanked his leash.
“What’s going on?” Doyle yelled, jumping to his feet.
“I gave him permission,” Sarge said.
“Somebody broke into my house and planted two police department bugs,” I said. “Mulch was there. They knocked him out with a sedative. They also managed to get their scent on this towel.” I held up the kitchen towel. “Mulch has been smelling it, and now he’s going to see if someone in the room matches the scent.”
There were howls of protest mixed with laughter from Jack Glissan and Tommi Elam, both of whom know Mulch.
I gave Mulch a whiff of the towel, then unleashed him. He ran to the center of the room, sliding on the tile. Nose in the air, he turned a sharp left toward Kim Suda. He went right for her legs, sniffing her unmercifully. She kicked him in the chops, which couldn’t have felt good considering her martial arts skills. He barked at her.
“Back!” she screamed.
“He won’t hurt you,” Tommi said, but Suda wasn’t hearing it.
“It was you, Suda,” I said. “Mulch doesn’t like people breaking in and giving him hamburger mickeys.”
“You can’t do this,” Suda yelled, heading for the door. “Get him off me!”
Mulch chased her, nosing his snout into her pant leg and shoes and latching on. She gave him one last kick, and she was gone.
The detectives were all on their feet. Doyle was steaming.
“She really broke into yo
ur house and planted a bug?” Phillips asked.
“Mulch just gave her a positive ID,” I said.
“You made your point,” Sarge said. “Now get that mutt outta here!”
“I never knew Mulch was a trained police dog,” Clarence said to me fifteen minutes later in the basement of the police parking structure. He looked admiringly at Mike Hammer, who was sitting proudly in the backseat of my car.
“He isn’t.”
“I wrote a story on police dogs. Not every dog can isolate one human scent like that, not in a room with all those people.”
I reached under my seat and pulled out the kitchen towel, then pushed it up to Clarence’s face.
“It smells like … bacon.”
“Yeah. When you were standing guard and I was down on my hands and knees on the other side of Suda’s cubicle? I was smearing bacon grease on her shoes and pant legs.”
“You mean …?”
“Mulch goes crazy at the smell of bacon. And all without special training.”
I opened my stakeout Tupperware and took out four strips of cooked bacon. Three seconds later, they’d gone on to the afterlife.
46
“It is murder, refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. My nets are closing upon him. There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he should strike before we are ready to do so. Another day—two at the most—and I have my case complete, but until then guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 4:00 P.M.
AFTER MULCH’S DETECTIVE DEBUT, I dropped him at Lynn Carpenter’s. It was her day off and she’d agreed to dog-sit so I could get back downtown to face Kim Suda. Chris Doyle insisted on being there. Sergeant Seymour agreed, despite my objections.
“Tell us your story,” Sarge said to Suda.
“I already told you—”
“Repeat yourself. Why’d you come to the professor’s house that night? And why’d you lie about where you parked your car?”
“I didn’t lie.”
Sarge threw down Carp’s photos. “This is both sides of Oak and 22nd Street, taken by the Trib photographer while you were still at the crime scene. Do you see your car anywhere?”
Suda chewed her lips, but inside she was chewing her brain. Finally she said, “No.”
“Is your car invisible, or are you lying?” Sarge asked.
“I was on foot. I don’t live that far away.”
“Yeah,” Doyle said, “she lives just down—”
“Shut up, Chris.” Sarge’s voice was a fist. He turned to Suda. “You suddenly remember you were on foot once we prove your car wasn’t there? Start giving it straight—now!”
Suda looked down, then at Sarge, then Doyle. Not me.
“Here’s another question not to answer,” I said. “Why didn’t you sign the log?”
“I told you.”
“You lied. I say you didn’t sign the log because you were already in the house.”
She shifted, crossing and uncrossing her arms, trying to manage her body language but failing.
“When did you show up at the crime scene?” I asked. “In time to kill the professor?”
She wasn’t budging. I had another card to play.
“You know that strand of hair on the professor, the one that turned out to be yours? I talked to Phil and the CSI techs. They claim that strand was bagged within fifteen minutes of when they arrived at the scene.”
“So?”
“So that was thirty minutes before anybody remembers seeing you there. There’s only one explanation. You were at the crime scene before any of us.”
“Spill it now, or you’re going to regret it,” Sarge said.
“Okay, okay!” Eyes flashing, she put up her hands and pushed back her chair. “Six weeks ago, early November, somebody sent me an e-mail. Couldn’t trace the source. They warned me that the professor was … a ladies’ man, but worse. They said he exploited young women. Sarge, you know I worked three years as a decoy.”
“If you’re telling the truth,” Sarge said, “whoever sent the e-mail knew this would push your button.”
“It did. I hate those kinds of men. So … I followed him and bumped into him at a Starbucks. That’s how we met. We went out a few times. The last one was the same night he …”
“Died?” I said.
“You dated him?” Chris asked.
“Well, he thought it was a date. To me it was a sting. I was ready for him to try something; then I was going to take him down. Teach him a lesson.”
“On what legal basis?” Sarge asked.
“I was off duty. As a private citizen I have a right to defend myself against a man who’s pressuring me, don’t I?”
I nodded. For once, I was liking Kim Suda.
“You dated him?” Chris repeated.
“I met Bill—Palatine—for dinner at Salty’s. He behaved okay, for a jerk.”
“Bill?” Chris said.
“Yes, Bill!” Kim said. “Anyway, I followed him to his house.”
“His house?” Chris said.
“One more echo, Doyle, and you’re outta here,” Sarge said. “Got that?”
“Soon as we’re at his house, he gets a phone call. Suddenly he’s upset, tells me I need to go. Says he’ll call me back later that evening. He didn’t.”
“Maybe he just wasn’t attracted to you,” Doyle said.
“Thanks, Chris.”
“I mean, I work with you and I wasn’t attracted to you for a long time.”
“Yeah, well, that was tough on me because I was always so crazy about you,” Suda said. “Anyway, fast-forward to 11:20. I’m at Chris’s house and I get a text message on my phone, from Bill. He says, ‘I need to see you right away. Come to my house. Urgent.’ ”
“Those were the exact words?” I asked.
“Close enough.”
“You told me you needed to get home,” Chris said. “You lied to me.”
“Anyway, I show up and see a broken window. Lights out. Didn’t feel like a burglary. Dark and heavy. I peeked in a window and saw his right arm. No movement. I drove off, thinking I’d call 911 anonymously. But then it hit me. He’d rushed me out of there, and I’d left my coat. No ID in it, but odds and ends in the pocket. And of all things, whoever was investigating this crime would be somebody I work with, who’d recognize my maroon coat. Even men might figure that out.”
“We might,” I said. Or not.
“So I decided to go back for the coat. But I had to get rid of the car—couldn’t let anybody see it at a murder scene. I drove to my house, then ran back and entered a gate to the backyard. Door’s unlocked. I go in with a flashlight and find the body. First time I’ve seen a murder victim I was dating ninety minutes earlier.”
“Dating,” Doyle muttered. Sarge stared him down like he was squashing a bug.
“I find my coat and suddenly see lights in the driveway. I’m peeking out the broken window at patrol. I don’t think I’ve been seen, but there’s no way out. So I get in Bill’s closet and push back through the clothes and stand on a plastic storage box while they search the house. They’re at the far side of the place, so I call Chris on the cell, ready to cut it off if they come my direction.”
“That’s why you were whispering,” Chris said. “You said you were with your mother. That she was sleeping.”
“I lied again, okay?”
“You’re the one she called to lie to,” I pointed out to Doyle. “That makes you special.”
“You said you called because you were sorry you had to run off,” Doyle said.
“I was sorry. But also … I was trying to … well …”
“Establish an alibi,” Sarge said.
“Right,” I said. “Why else would you risk being heard?”
“I was scared. I needed to talk with you, Chris. Really. Anyway, I disconnect when one of the officers comes down the hallway. He
enters the bedroom, turns on the lights, and looks around. He opens the closet door, bends over, sees nothing. He didn’t pull back the clothes to see if someone was standing on that plastic box.”
“I’ll send a memo,” Sarge said.
“So I stay there for what seems like an hour. At first I just hear the patrol guys. Then there’s some commotion, and I hear one of them yelling out front. Then I hear someone else in the house, in the kitchen, I think. I hear a clank, like a glass or a bottle. Then someone walks in the bedroom but doesn’t turn on the light. He … or she … I don’t know, stands by the window, then shines a flashlight, like he’s looking for something, on the floor, the bed, everywhere.”
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“No clue. I was looking through clothes, then through a door crack, into a dark room. Who was it? Do you know?”
I shook my head. I thought it was the killer, but I didn’t have a name, and I wasn’t going to let Suda think I didn’t consider her the killer.
“What next?” Sarge asked.
“I’m wondering where the patrol guys are and why they let this other person in. I think maybe they’re just standing outside, but no, I hear them again, arguing. Then people start arriving one or two at a time. Now the lights are on and they’re coming in and out of Palatine’s bedroom. Including you, Chandler. You were talking with Abernathy, by the window, then down on your hands and knees and taking pictures. I’m peeking at you through the crack. I shift my feet just a little, and next thing I know the plastic box under me cracks. Thought I was toast.”
“I remember the noise.”
“Fortunately,” she said, “you checked the right side of the closet and just pointed the flashlight to my side.”
Sarge glared at me. “Memo.”
“Hey,” I said, “there couldn’t have been more than four feet between what I could see at the bottom and top of the closet.”
“I scrunched down,” she said. “That shrunk me a foot. It’s all I needed.”
“So if criminals are short enough,” Sarge said to me, “you’ll miss ’em?”
“You were stupid not to check,” Suda said.
“You, on the other hand, were brilliant, so here we sit.”