Читать книгу Five-minute Mysteries 3 - Ken Weber - Страница 4
ОглавлениеTo Jack Atkin,
who understands that
a little scotch,
a lot of flowers,
great ladies,
and enduring friendship
are all that really matter.
Memorandum
To: ALL MYSTERY BUFFS From: the author
Mystery buffs know there are only two kinds of people in the world: those that love mysteries and, well, that other kind. A tiny majority, the latter are, and that’s a good thing because they are missing something unique. For only in mysteries can a reader get a charge out of winning or losing.
It works like this. Nothing gives mystery buffs more satisfaction than getting ahead in a story and beating the writer to the punch. They get a special charge out of combining logic, analysis, intuition and insight so that before they turn the last page, they already have the problem solved. Yet – and this is what sets mystery lovers apart – nothing thrills them more than when the mystery defeats them, and when they turn the last page they find a surprise waiting, something they’d missed.
Once again, mystery lovers get no less than forty shots at the fun of winning or losing, in a set of wildly different stories. Every mystery in the book is set up for the reader to solve. At the end of each mystery there is a question: Who did…? or What did…? or It seems the thief made a mistake. How could…? Like that.
There’s great variety. The settings range from city to country, from soccer field to jungle, and from a booksellers’ convention to a theater stage to a Crimean battlefield. There are pickpockets, murderers, con men, and various other crooked characters. You’ll encounter veteran detectives, medical examiners, special agents, a game warden and crime-scene investigators.
There’s also variety in the level of challenge. As you turn the pages of Five-minute Mysteries 3, you’ll notice one, two or three symbols – a dagger – at the beginning of each story. The number of daggers suggests how easy or difficult the mystery is, one being easy, two being a little harder, and three, difficult. (Or, perhaps more accurately, how easy or difficult each one seems to me.) But don’t let the ratings stop you from enjoying all the mysteries! One that I rate “difficult” might be an open-and-shut case for you, while you might be utterly stumped by one I’ve rated “easy.” Try them all.
Finally, all the solutions are at the back of the book, so you can prove you’re a winner or, once in a while, get a kick out of losing. Either way, enjoy.
1
Blowing Up the Mackenzie Building
For eighty years the Mackenzie Building had loomed over Pier 12 like a disapproving spinster aunt. Tomorrow that dominance was to come to an end. At strategic points along the eroding, gray foundation and along the bottom edge of support walls on every one of the six floors, bright red numbers had been spray-painted with great clarity. They were marker points for the dynamite that would be placed there right after the morning rush hour. By mid-morning, the connections would be completed and double-checked. By noon – in fact, before noon, to minimize the lunch hour gawking crowd – Luther Plantz would do a final walk-through, inspect every single placement, and then press a small red disk that, to him at least, both looked like and really was an official seal.
What it would do tomorrow, that red disk, was seal the fate of the Mackenzie Building and everything in it, for it would send electrical instructions in a precise sequence to each placement of dynamite. The building, if things turned out as they always had, would then come tumbling down on itself.
But that was then and this was now, and Luther Plantz was going through his customary period of pre-blow anxiety. It was more than just nervousness, more than just caution, for he always had a high level of discomfort before a demolition. His employees attributed it to the care he put into every job. Luther, according to those in the business who would know, had never had a failure. For a profession that hung right out there on the edge with every undertaking, that was a pretty significant claim, for there was so much that might go wrong. Effectively demolishing a structure isn’t simply a case of combining architecture, engineering and explosives, Luther always said. You must also cope with politics, sentiment and sociology. He had never yet taken down an old, established building without encountering opposition from heritage groups, from street people whose shelter was threatened, and, quite understandably, from next-door neighbors at risk.
Curiously, with all those pressures leaping about in his mind as he walked the ground floor of the Mackenzie Building, what bothered him far more was what he perceived to be the attitude of his oldest son beside him. Although in physique and body language, Bruno Plantz was practically a clone of his father, inside he was ... well, as Luther had said to his wife for the hundredth time just hours before: “He’s good. He knows how to blow ’em up. But he doesn’t understand. It’s like ... It’s like he’s almost got no feelings. I tell him time and again. This isn’t just a business; these are buildings that mean something. Something to the community, or to people. These buildings have a soul. But he doesn’t want to know about that!”
And for the hundredth time, his wife had given her stock answer. “He’s young. Wait a while.”
That dialogue was re-running in Luther’s head as he turned on an old iron faucet that stuck out of an interior wall. There was an instant response and clear water gushed out with enough pressure to make both men step back.
“Now see,” Luther said, as Bruno rolled his eyes, knowing what was coming. “There’s workmanship. That’s why every building has something special about it. This place hasn’t been used for, what, seven years? Power was cut off years ago. All the machinery emptied out. Nothing in here but pigeons and derelicts all that time and here you have something somebody did so well eighty years ago that, even though there’s an idiot down at city hall didn’t do his job and cut the water off, the plumbing still works. That’s what you gotta respect when we take something down.”
Two years of partnership with his father had taught Bruno Plantz to say nothing when the older man was expounding in this way.
“And that tells you something very important. If the plumbers were good, you gotta assume the masons were good, too. That’s why we’re the doing the single stick test one more time.”
Bruno maintained his silence. Deep down he respected his father for a practice that few in the industry bothered with any more: small test explosions to assess the strength of the construction. But at the same time, it stirred up another issue the two had argued over: the best choice of explosives. As though to mirror his son’s thoughts, Luther subconsciously rolled the back of his hand along the stick of dynamite he was carrying. The day was becoming progressively hotter and more humid, and sweating dynamite, even a single stick, was dangerous.
“If we’d use C4 or Semtex, the humidity wouldn’t be a problem,” Bruno couldn’t hold back.
“Huh? What ...? Yes, yes, I know; you and your plastics.” Luther was trying hard not to turn this into a spat. “And you’re probably right. But there’s no art with that stuff. When you take down a building like this, you gotta show some respect. Dynamite ... we’ve been through this before, son, I know, but with dynamite there’s more ... How do I say this? ... There’s more of you and me against those old guys like that plumber and the masons. There’s more game!”
The younger man shrugged his shoulders. It was obvious he was not going to change his father’s view. “Speaking of ‘game,’ by the way, I think we should bring the cops along for the walk-through tomorrow morning.”
“The cops?”
“Yes, the cops. To clear out a ‘spectator.’”
“Here? Inside? The Mackenzie Building’s been clear for months! You can see for yourself. No litter, no fires. No filthy bedrolls. No cardboard!”
“Dad.” Bruno Plantz could not resist a patronizing tone. “Someone is still using this building.”
?
How does Bruno Plantz know that someone has still been using the Mackenzie Building?
2
The Worst Kind of Phone Call
“‘Mom, there’s been an accident.’ That’s what she said.” Laura Pascal was speaking to Karen Tarata but kept her eyes fixed on the road as they sped along Milldown Parkway. It was 1:00 a.m.
“So when she said she was all right, it didn’t register at all.” Laura continued. “Not until she told me the third time. You’d think she’d have the sense to start a midnight phone call with ‘I’m OK’ and then tell me. Look at me! I’m still shaking!”
“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Karen asked.
Laura shook her head.
Karen stared out the passenger window for a moment before saying, “At least she called you. If you hadn’t come over to tell me, that call from the police would have been my first inkling. Come to think of it, that’s just how the policeman started too ... ‘Mrs. Tarata, there’s been an accident involving your daughter.’ And, you know, even though you’d already told me no one was hurt, I could feel ice pour into my stomach when he spoke.”
The drive continued in silence, both women reflecting on the accident and on their relationships with their teenage daughters. Laura Pascal was tense, anxious. She held the steering wheel firmly with both hands and continued to focus completely on the space of light the headlights of her car opened before them. Karen Tarata was equally upset, but her nature was more secretive and her body language more contained.
Laura was the first to break the silence. “The car, apparently, is a write-off.” It was the first time either of the two women had mentioned the vehicle. “It ... it ...” Her reluctance to deal with the details was more a factor of her own fears than worry that she might upset Karen. “It rolled twice after going through the guard rail so they must have been going pretty fast. Thank God for seat belts.”
“It was the Maleski girl? Cara? Her parents’ car, right?” Karen spoke without looking away from the passenger window. “I don’t know whether it’s the accident that’s making me say this, but I’ve never been entirely sure about her.”
Laura nodded at the road. “Going to the dance at Milldown High was her idea, but to be honest, Karen, I don’t think our girls needed much persuading. You know ...” For only a second, she broke her driving concentration and looked sideways at her passenger. Laura wasn’t sure whether to continue with her thought. The two women were neighbors, not really friends, but had been drawn together more than once in the past because their daughters “hung out.”
“No matter how I try,” she carried on, “I can’t understand their social pattern, these girls. My Allie, she’s seventeen, and, you know, the grad dance last month was the first time she went on an actual date. You know, where the boy actually knocks on the door. Comes to pick her up. And then brings her home again!”
There was another silence, then, still looking out the side window, Karen said, “Liberation.” There was another pause. “It’s the first stage in liberation. The first thing you do when you’re set free is act like your oppressors.”
Laura turned away from the road again, this time with new interest. Here was a facet of her neighbor that she’d never encountered.
“And because males cluster in groups and take on a group personality, that’s what girls do now, too. From what you told me, that’s probably what caused this whole thing tonight. Your Allie and that Cara, and Jenine – who was the fourth one? The Lotten girl from one street over? – the spat with that group of boys in the parking lot would never have turned into an incident if they weren’t acting as a group. Individuals back down, walk away. Groups fight. Imagine! Girls being asked to leave a dance. There’s liberation for you.”
Just ahead, the lights of Milldown were visible on the horizon. Laura slowed to obey the new speed limit.
“But Allie told me they left without a fuss,” she pointed out. “It was when they were on their way back home – they were about halfway she said – that they saw headlights coming up behind them and recognized the boys’ car. So – maybe it was Cara’s first instinct; who’s got judgment at that age? – she speeded up to get away and ... well ... you know the rest.”
Karen not only turned away from the passenger window, she shifted completely, so that her body was facing Laura. “And you bought that story?” she said.
?
What in Allie’s story does Karen Tarata not believe?
3
A Courtly Gesture
The two insurance investigators were almost exactly the same age. The same weight and build, too, and when the one with the pencil-line mustache wore his black shoes with the elevator heels – which he did every day – they were the same height. In every other way they were as different as could be. The man with the mustache – his name was Aubrey – was precise, organized, methodical, business-like. On alternate days he wore a brown or a gray suit. With the brown suit he wore a forest green bow-tie; with the gray, the bow-tie was maroon with royal blue dots. The shirt was always white. Everyone at the company, superiors, equals, office staff, called him Mr. Beckwith. No one ever called him Aubrey.
Except for the man walking at his side right now. Jerry Fawcett was the only one. Jerry even called him “Aub” on occasion. But that was Jerry, whose real name was Gerard – but hardly anyone knew that. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He was a nickname kind of guy. Easygoing with a ready smile, and blessed, it seemed, with both endless patience and a bottomless well of interest in whomever he happened to be with. Women loved him. Men liked him – even Aubrey, who didn’t much like anyone.
At the moment, the two were walking away from the house they had just visited, and as usual they were arguing. Not vigorously, but with the low-grade and seemingly constant level of disagreement that characterized their unlikely partnership.
“That was a bit over the top, the kissing the hand thing.” Aubrey had a surprisingly rich baritone voice. Most people, at first glance, would have expected something prissy, especially now, for he was annoyed at his partner.
Minutes before, as they stood to leave the house, Jerry had made a sweeping bow to the claimant and, with both his hands, raised one of hers to his lips and kissed it, in an old-world fashion. Although Aubrey would never have admitted it, even to himself, he had been impressed with how natural the gesture had been.
“In fact, way over the top!” Aubrey was warming up to a scolding now. “We’re supposed to be investigating her, not courting her! If she wins the case she could be into the company for – what – millions, maybe?”
Instead of answering, Jerry stopped and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. He was grinning, as though sharing a conspiracy.
“But Aub,” he said. “Did you see the expression on her face? And the little blush on the cheeks? Just in front of her ears? She loved it!”
Aubrey suddenly realized that he had stopped automatically when Jerry did. He wrinkled his nose just a tiny bit at the hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t step back or try to remove it.
“This woman tells us, Jerry ...” Aubrey glanced back to the house. He knew his voice carried. “She tells us she’s been in that wheelchair since the accident six months ago. Hasn’t been able to walk since. She’s got that crackpot psychiatrist on her side, but our doctors ... they can’t find anything wrong. Not the orthopedic specialist, not the neurologist. The X-rays don’t show a thing. And now, along comes Sir Jerry on his white horse.” Aubrey was really winding up now. This time it was Jerry who looked back to the house. “My partner is supposed to be uncovering fraud, but what does he do instead, he ...”
“Aub – Aubrey! Relax.” Jerry put up his other arm, so that now both hands were resting on Aubrey’s shoulders. “Trust me. I was investigating. The courtly Sir Jerry has learned that she has not been pushing herself around in that wheelchair for the past six months. No way, OK? She’s smooth, that lady. But now that we definitely know she’s lying, it shouldn’t be too hard to shut the case down.”
?
Precisely what did Jerry learn during his courtly gesture?
4
A Dispute on the Ledge
From the bottom of the cliff, toward the north, where the river looped and resumed its flow to the east, the women and children of the tribe could see the two men arguing. The dispute appeared more heated than it really was, for all the two could do was gesture. Neither knew more than a few words of the other’s language. One of the men, the younger, slimmer, and quite a bit taller one, was Taas. He was one of their own. The stocky, powerful man was called The Stranger. Had they known his name, it would not have been customary for them to use it. The tribe spoke only among themselves. Life was safer that way.
Taas and The Stranger were working – and arguing – halfway up an almost sheer cliff, at the mouth of a very large cave. One of the more adventurous single males had discovered it two years ago, and the tribe had lived in it for several weeks. But they’d moved on because it was hard to get to. No fewer than three different ladders were needed on the north side and four on the south to get up from the bank of the river that flowed along the bottom. From the top of the cliff, the cave was completely inaccessible except with ropes.
Still, there were positive features, and had Saan, their leader, been successful in his attempts to build enthusiasm, the tribe would have stayed longer. The cave was dry. It faced east, and thus caught the sun in the morning, when it was most needed. There was no evidence of use by bears or cougars, and a huge, flat ledge jutted out in front of it, making an ideal communal area. Just the type of place where the Red People would choose to build.
The Stranger was one of the Red People. That may or may not have been their true name, but it was the one the tribe used for the people to the west, with whom they traded their woven mats and baskets and cloth for axes and wedges and pestles and the like, fashioned from flint. They were good at flinting, the Red People. They were good at building, too, at carving and shaping and piling pieces of the endless red sandstone, so that a cave on a cliffside, if it were big enough, could be turned into a dwelling with many rooms. Perhaps more important, such a dwelling could easily become a kind of fortress, protection against the dreaded raiders from the north.
The concept of a home as a defensive structure, however, was only a vague one in the minds of most of the tribe, for home to them meant a convenient cave or copse of trees in the cold season; when it was hot and dry, just about any place near water would do. It had been Saan who had convinced them of the value of the cliff site as a permanent home and as a means of protection – a place that could be defended. Saan was the one who led the trading delegation west each spring to the confluence of the two rivers, where other peoples gathered to barter and exchange. Before Saan, his father, Lo-Tov, had been the leader and before that only a few could remember, for the elders were all dead now. Killed, all of them – Saan, too – by the raiders from the north.
Taas had accompanied the trading delegation the previous spring. He was young, and it was his first time. Although he had not been allowed to enter the Red People’s dwelling place, he had seen it from the outside, and despite his youth and limited experience the value of the protection idea had impressed him. So had the discussion between Saan and the elders of the Red People. Not that Taas had understood all of it, but he did grasp the notion that they, the Red People, were the motivators in getting all of the southern tribes to defend themselves. And when Saan later pointed out to the rest of the tribe that if all the peoples in this part of the desert were too strong for the raiders from the north, the raiders would simply stop coming, Taas, along with all the others, had embraced the idea.
But before they could act, there was yet another raid, the one that had taken Saan and all the elders, and it left Taas as the only one in the tribe with more than just a vague idea of what the defense project was all about. That’s why it was he who worked with The Stranger when he came, and why it was Taas, now, who was arguing with him up on the wide ledge that projected from the cave. The two had spent several days piling stones artfully across the front of the cave, so that a half-finished wall with space left for a single entrance now reached as high as Taas’s chest. It was a strong wall, for The Stranger had taught Taas how to use stones that fit naturally and, when they didn’t, how to use the flint axes to change their shape. He’d taught the women and children how to make mortar, which, twice a day, they brought up from the river in the reed baskets they were so good at weaving and pushed into the joints between the stones, although as yet they had no idea whatsoever why this was necessary.
From below, their work to prepare the next batch of mortar was suspended now as they watched the dispute. It made them very nervous. They were unused to dealing with other people, and had watched their visitor’s every movement with wary suspicion. From what they could tell, watching the two gesticulate, the disagreement had to do with the entrance. The Stranger had taken a long, narrow piece of red sandstone, shaped it with his flint axes into a rectangular design and laid it across the entrance. Then he’d begun further construction of the wall across and above it. Taas, who was almost at the point of stamping his feet by this time, would point at the stone emphatically, an expression of complete frustration on his face, and then wave the same hand back and forth over his head, palm down, and parallel to the ledge. He would then stoop awkwardly from the waist several times. In response, The Stranger, too, would touch the long stone and, just like Taas, would stoop awkwardly and raise his hand above his head palm down. But his gesture ended with a hard slap to the top of his head.
Their motions had been repeated often enough now to appear almost ritualistic, but as the mutual frustration mounted, the gestures were becoming progressively more animated. The situation was turning dangerous and needed resolution.
?
The Stranger and Taas obviously disagree about the height of the entranceway. It should not be difficult to understand what Taas is asking for, but what is The Stranger’s reasoning for wanting to top it at its current height?
5
Setting Up the Hit
He didn’t say hello. Just, “You’re late. You were supposed to call half an hour ago.”
She tried to explain. “I got held up at th–”
“You work for me.” The cut off was abrupt and rude. “When I say you’re to call, you call. Doesn’t matter what’s going down, becau–”
“We’re supposed to meet him at 5:00.” She could play this game, too. He didn’t frighten her. She knew the hit wouldn’t come off without her. “It’s now ten to four. Are we going to discuss the set-up? Or maybe you want to make me go stand in a corner someplace until I learn to behave?”
A long pause. The sound of slow breathing into the receiver. Finally he said, “What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“It’s called The Lemon Tree. Corner of Chapel and Max.”
“Chapel and Max!” He was really upset this time. “That’s right by the Standard Life building! The sidewalk’ll be jammed there at 5:00. All those clerks and secretaries!”
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” She was annoyed now, too. “Look! You said the shooter will be on foot. Those secretaries and clerks you’re so worried about have just put in a day’s work and they’re going to be tired and walking heads down. There’s snow on the way so nobody will be strolling. What do you want already? You want a nice empty street, so the shooter can really stick out? Besides, you hired him. Is he a pro or what?”
Another tense pause. Then, “This Lemon Tree ... Fancy, but not too fancy? And it’s light menu, right?”
Deliberately, she waited just a little bit longer than necessary, and then spoke just a touch more slowly than needed. “It feeds the downtown office crowd. Mostly fast lunches. Upscale wraps, rabbit food, stuff like that. Closes at 7:00, so they don’t even have a dinner menu. Nobody takes your coat and fusses. None of that ‘Hi! I’m your waiter’ blather.”
“But it takes reservations, surely? We need a table at the door, or the shooter walks right on by.”
This time she almost lost it. “Are you nuts! Reservations? You want me to hang a flag on myself or maybe carry a sign so we can make sure the restaurant will remember us?”
“I didn’t get most of that! You’re breaking up.”
Yeah, sure, she thought, but bit her tongue. They hadn’t liked each other from the beginning, but a job was a job and squabbling would get them nowhere.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Traffic’s bad here. Can you hear me now?”
“All clear now.”
“We don’t need a reservation. I’ll be across the street from The Lemon Tree in about half an hour. There are two tables for four right by the door, so when one’s free – that won’t be a problem, guaranteed – I’ll grab it. He’ll be on time – apparently he’s a punctuality freak – so you join me by five to five, right? So we can make sure he sits in the only seat with its back to the door?”
“As we planned,” he replied. His voice was much calmer now, too, as though the need to cooperate had occurred to him at the same time. “And when I see the shooter,” he continued, “I excuse myself and go to the restroom. You get up to find a waiter.”
“Right. That covers it. See you, then, in ...” She looked at the clock on the dashboard, “... in fifty-five minutes.”
He didn’t say good-bye either.
?
The woman in the conversation above provides a clue as to how she and the man she is speaking to will make sure the victim sits with his back to the door. How will it be done?
6
Under the Home Team Bench
With a grimy index finger, Fritz Lang pulled back the tangle of leaves and vines to get a better look at the game but immediately drew back, violently slamming both elbows into his stomach. He was all too familiar with the symptoms of malaria and knew that without quinine there was no way to stave off the delirium that was sure to come. Fritz pushed his arms even harder to squeeze the chill rolling up through his torso. It worked this time, helped along by rapid breathing, but it wouldn’t be long, he knew, before the strange visions would begin, and the dizziness. Then would come the sweats and the blackouts. He needed quinine.
It was out there, he knew, waiting for him just a short distance away in a bag, a tattered little blue canvas sack. On the edges of Fritz’s feverish brain, the last words of the senior agent were playing over and over.
“You’ve got a two-hour window at the airstrip seven days from now. If you’re not there, we go, and you’ll have to get out on the river. There’ll be a cache set up for that, just in case. The canvas-bag routine; you know it. Pesos for bribes. Some bolivars, too, because you’re pretty close to the Venezuelan border, but I doubt you’ll need them. Astronaut food. Quinine. The usual. Once you’re on the river, it should be a pretty quick run to the coast for a jungle man like you.”
That was two weeks ago. Fritz had found the cocaine processing lab they’d been looking for, so in that sense it was mission accomplished, but he’d been too late for the airplane and had had to go to the backup escape plan. Whether it was the extra time in the Colombian jungle, or whether his body was simply due no matter what, this morning Fritz Lang’s malaria had returned full bore.
He leaned forward again into the vines, put out his finger tentatively, and waited. No chills this time. He leaned forward a little more. Still okay. He reached all the way and pulled the vines aside. Now he could really see and hear the crowd. Amazing, he thought, what a filter the jungle is. Only about fifty yards from the edge of the growth where he was hiding, the soccer game – uh, the football game; get it right, this is South America! – the football game had attracted the whole town. Yet he was barely aware anyone was there.
Or maybe it was the malaria. Through the buzz gathering strength in his brain, Fritz could hear the agent again. “Blue canvas bag, the same kind we always use, with a piece of duct tape on it. Our man will put it under the home team bench, if you can call it a bench. The facilities there are about as low end as they come. Soccer’s huge in all these countries – you know they call it ‘football’? – and every little village has a team and a cow pasture with goal posts.”
Another sudden chill grabbed Fritz at the waist and rushed up to encircle his chest. He sat back, hugging himself again, forcing the shakes to stop with sheer willpower. But he couldn’t stop the buzzing; it was like a million tiny insects in his head, insects that were chewing at ... No, not insects! The noise – it was the crowd! They were yelling about something. For the third time, he made a window for himself, wider this time. Somebody score a goal? No ... well, maybe. A tall, extremely thin player was running along the sidelines with both hands in the air. Yes, he was the one the crowd was cheering. The player stopped under the goal posts and pumped a single fist into the air, raising the crowd to a frenzy. Twice, after he’d sat down with his team, he had to stand and salute the crowd before it turned to the game once more.
Now Fritz had a better understanding of something the agent had said.
“Wait till the end of the game,” he’d instructed. “You got maybe ten, fifteen seconds if you play it right. Doesn’t matter who wins or loses, the place’ll go nuts and everybody’ll go out on the field. Could be you’ll even get lucky and there’ll be a brawl. Anyway, chances are about zero that you’ll be noticed if you act like they do. So you get in, get the bag, and get out. From the field you’re not more than five minutes to the river, so ... Now, if worse comes to worst, forget about the bag altogether. You can still make it without the pesos.”
But not without the quinine. Fritz studied the field, trying to take in as much as he could before the next chill grabbed him. Directly in front of him, fifty yards away, were the goal posts where the player had danced a few seconds ago. The crowd was big for a simple village game; Fritz estimated several hundred at least. And it was a shabby place. At the other end of the field, a small red splash on top of a stake suggested that Coca-Cola had once sponsored a scoreboard, but that was long gone now. There were well-worn players’ benches on either side of the field at what would have been the center line had there been one, but no bleachers for the fans, not even seats. A few tattered canvas chairs were scattered about, but they stood empty, for the majority of the crowd milled along the sidelines, constantly on the move with the play, competing for the best view. The players didn’t even have uniforms. Both teams wore a ragtag mix of different colors. Obviously, you had to be local to know which team was which. The paramilitaries were well equipped though. With camouflage suits and the ever-present AK-47s, they patrolled in pairs.
One thing the agent may have underestimated, Fritz thought. Unless he actually ran directly in and out, thereby attracting attention, it would take more than ten or fifteen seconds to grab the sack and get back to the jungle. All in all, this was not a good deal. If it weren’t for the quinine ... Fritz withdrew his hand and allowed the vines to settle over him again. He had to get as much of an advantage as he could, so his next move would be to slip around through the jungle to the home team side. When the game ended, he would have to be as close to their bench as possible. Now, he mouthed silently to himself, which side has the home team bench?
?
Since there are only two benches, one on either side of the field, Fritz Lang has a fifty-fifty chance of picking the home team one correctly, but logic should improve the odds considerably. How can he tell which bench is most likely to be the home team’s?
7
First Impressions Revised
Of the four people at the round conference table, it was not hard to tell that the one in charge was the woman with straight, gray hair, the one with the sharply tailored uniform and the double loop of gold cord on her shoulder. She was a large woman, but the ease with which she carried her body demonstrated her obvious comfort with command. Across from her, two of the others, no milquetoasts themselves, showed their respect, addressing the large woman only as “Chief Voltz.” Not “Chief” or “Ma’am,” but “Chief Voltz,” as if a natural bond connected her title and her name. The two were Detective First Grade Levitt Furst and Chief Medical Examiner Marjorie Schenk. They were in civilian clothes.
The fourth person, like the chief, was in uniform. He was a balding man with glasses who somehow managed to look like he was sitting beside and behind his boss at the same time. The man was as slight as the chief was large and, in an earlier time, would never have made the height requirements for a police force. His title was Office Assistant to the Chief, and his name was Mervyn Rivers, although he was widely known at headquarters as “Miss Brooks.”
The meeting had been going on for thirty minutes already and Rivers had yet to say anything. It looked, too, as if any opportunity to contribute would soon end, for Chief Voltz had just made an expansive terminating gesture with her arm to look at her watch.
“Press conference in five minutes.” She held Furst and Schenk alternately with her gaze. “It could be one of the most important we’ve held in the past several years. Unless I can offer a reason for them to think otherwise, the press is going to have a police scandal to drool over. I don’t have to tell you the headlines: ‘Precinct Captain Handcuffs and Strangles Wife. Then Shoots Self!’ Of course,” she added, bitterly, “the fact that he is – was – the first black captain in the history of the force is icing on the cake. As if that’s not enough, the wife’s white, and – and – she was having an affair! A mess!”
She drew a long, audible breath, then exhaled even more noisily. “Once more,” she said. “Tell me one more time.”
Detective Furst opened his notebook, although he knew the details by heart. It helped him detach his eyes from those of his boss. He began. “The driver waits by the sidewalk at 7:15 this morning, like every other morning. When Max doesn’t show up, he goes to the door. It’s open. Max and Beatty had a small den just off the front foyer. Place for reading, watching TV, and that. He looks in there and they’re both dead. Or look dead, anyway. He calls ... er ... how much detail do you want, Chief Voltz? Do you want me to ...”
“Keep going.” Chief Voltz swept her watch arm round again. “I’ll interrupt if I have to.”
“Yes.” Furst cleared his throat. “I arrived on the scene at 7:48 with ...”
“Never mind who else. What did you see? First impression.”
Furst cleared his throat again. “First impression is murder/suicide. Beatty is on the floor, her back to the door. Of course, the first thing I see is the cuffs. She’s cuffed behind her back.” The detective looked at the chief uneasily. “They’re Max’s cuffs, Chief Voltz. Or at least ... well, they’re our issue, and his prints are on them.”
The chief’s expression did not change. “Keep going,” she said again.
“There are heavy welts and marks around her neck. We found a kid’s skipping rope underneath her. What ... what it looks like ... is he cuffed her and then ... it looks like he choked her.”
“And Max?” Underneath the gold braid, the chief rotated her shoulder slightly, a habit of hers when she was becoming impatient. “Ate his gun then, right?”
Detective Furst was not finding this easy. “It appears he put the barrel in his mouth and ... he was lying a few feet away. We estimate it all happened between about 10:00 last night and midnight.” He looked at Marjorie Schenk for confirmation.
“That’s right, Chief Voltz,” the medical examiner picked up the narrative. “The thermostat was set unusually high in the house and the heat made it hard to be more precise than that.”
Schenk paused until Voltz nodded to go on.
“Everything I found is consistent with the interpretation of events as Detective Furst describes them.” Marjorie Schenk tended to lapse into a witness-box style at moments like these.
“The entry and exit wounds on Captain Winters ... er ... Max ... are consistent with self-inflicted harm. Entry in roof of the mouth. Exit at the top of the skull with significant damage. The top and back of the skull are pretty much destroyed.”
“He used a dum-dum?” the chief wanted to know.
“We found it in the wall, Chief Voltz.” Detective Furst interjected. “Too smashed up to be sure, but it looks like it.”
Voltz sighed. “What next? Now we’ve got an upper-level member of the force with illegal bullets.” She sighed again. “Go on, Marjorie.”
“Except for the cause of death factors, there are no other wounds or marks at all on Cap–, Max. The same is true for the wife. No marks except for the ones on her neck, but they’re significant. Intense pressure applied just below the larynx.”
“Then he didn’t kill her.” The room went starkly silent. It was “Miss Brooks.” The others looked at him and then at each other as if they had heard an echo.
“Miss Brooks” carried on, eyes fixed firmly on the surface of the table. “It’s evident Captain Winters did not strangle Mrs. Winters. In fact, what is more likely is that a third person killed them both, and has made it appear to be a murder/suicide. Perhaps to embarrass the force. That’s only my opinion, of course.”
?
On what basis does “Miss Brooks” conclude – correctly – that Captain Max Winters did not strangle his wife?
8
Collecting a Betrayal Fee
Yesterday afternoon, one of the big double doors to her father’s study had been slightly ajar, and Sophie Andros had slipped in and taken half a million dollars in bearer bonds from the wall safe.
Call it a betrayal fee, Daddy. For what you did to me and Mom. I just wish she were still around to enjoy this.
Sophie wasn’t sure she believed in God anymore, but she had to admit that the door being open yesterday suggested a force of some kind trying to tip things in her favor. Oh, she’d planned to do something if she ever got back into this house. Just what she didn’t know, but yesterday everything happened so naturally and so easily, and she hadn’t even had a plan!
To begin with, she’d shown up at the house for the first time in twenty-four years, and nobody had answered the front door.
OK, so I wasn’t expected until today. But see, I knew Aspen would be out. You could be taking your last breath, Daddy, but she wouldn’t miss her spa day, would she? And what the heck! Twenty-four years! I wanted to prowl around a bit.
She’d stood in the cavernous foyer for the longest time, taking in all the remembered sounds and smells.
Not the sights, though, Daddy. Not a thing here I remember ever seeing before. “Decorator Queen,” Mom used to call her. I can see why.
When there was still no response, she had walked around the wide, sweeping staircase and down a dark hallway to where a huge pair of oak doors with brass knobs in the shape of lions’ heads marked the entrance to Constantine Andros’s study. The door on the right was open, and she’d gone in.
And there you were, Daddy. In the same chair you were sitting in when Mom took me away that day. I was crying so hard. Mostly because I didn’t understand. All I knew was Aspen was in and Mom was out. Like trading in a car for a newer, shinier model. Do you even remember, Daddy? You didn’t know me yesterday, but then you don’t know anybody anymore, do you?
Constantine Andros had been sitting at his desk yesterday, his back to a fireplace scoured of its carbon and ashes. Like the rest of the study, it had a look, not of neglect, but of disuse. Like a no-touch diorama in a museum, where the curators had succeeded in capturing and holding a moment in time. Constantine was part of the display. No movement. An empty stare. Only the shallowest of breaths. He’d been placed in the chair by a curator of his own, a nurse who, as though to confirm Sophie’s sense of a mysterious, balancing force, was suffering from stomach cramps and had left the old man to goto the bathroom.
How I used to love that room! You let me go in there – the only one allowed to, because I was your favorite. You were my favorite too, Daddy. And it was such a room! All the books ... books from floor to ceiling, that big, ugly moose head over the mantel, and great big chairs. And the smells – leather and sherry, the fireplace. The bay window ... my spot! I’d lie there on the window seat with the morning sun in my face and watch the birds feeding in the gazebo. You knew the name of every bird, too, didn’t you? Do you know any of them now?
Sophie had walked slowly around the study, touching this, feeling that. She went over to the bay window and looked out, shaking her head slightly. The yard ... it had seemed so huge when she was little. Had it shrunk? Did backyards get smaller in twenty-four years? Her father had certainly shrunk. The strokes had seen to that.
You didn’t even move when I opened the safe, Daddy! Remember how you taught me? It was our secret! Left 27, right 14, left 45, right 6, right 20. I remembered it all these years. And you know, as soon as I saw the room, as soon as I saw it was the one spot in the house that Aspen didn’t touch, I knew the combination wouldn’t have changed either. So ...
She had left as undetected and unnoticed as she’d arrived and now Sophie was here again. This time for her expected, official visit. The nurse answered the door before she’d even put her finger to the chimes. Now Sophie stood in front of Constantine Andros’s study again. This time the double doors were closed. Sophie thought she heard voices inside, but couldn’t be sure, although she knew Aspen was in there, and Kimberley, the half-sister she’d seen only once, and the lawyer. Him she knew.
“Stavros the Mortician,” Mom always called him. He’s been around forever. Before Aspen, even before Mom. He’s the one I have to watch out for. If anybody knows the bonds are gone, it’s him. And if anybody is going to suspect me ... him again. Just be cool, Sophie. Remember, you haven’t been in this room in twenty-four years. Don’t give them any reason to think otherwise.
With one knuckle extended, Sophie tapped very timidly on the door.
“Come in! We’re waiting!” Stavros’s gravelly voice came through the doors.
Sophie tugged hard several times at the lion’s head on the left door.
“The other door!”
Good start! It’s obvious I don’t know which of the doors is used.
Greetings followed under a thin veil of politeness.
Aspen spoke. “It’s a wee bit late for it, but I was just about to make our afternoon tea, Sophia. May I include you?”
“Please.”
For heaven’s sake, don’t mumble! Be confident!
“Recognize anything, little Sophie?” Stavros asked.
Sophie bit her tongue. He was trying to be polite.
OK. Now be a bit overwhelmed. The memories are flooding back!
“The old moose ... is it still ...?” She turned almost a full circle. “Why, there it ... Was it always over the mantel? I thought it used to be ... no ... I’m not sure. This is so ... so strange.”
Keep looking around. Slowly, slowly. Stare a bit. Whatever you do, don’t stare at the A.Y. Jackson painting. The one that hides the wall safe.
“Ah, little Sophie, everything in here has been the same for thirty years or more. It’s got your father’s stamp.”
“Er ... where is my ... he?”
“Nurse is taking him out to the gazebo,” Kimberley explained.
“Nurse”! “Nurse” for heaven’s sake! As if this were a Victorian manor!
“We aren’t sure, but we think he still rather enjoys the birds.” The half-sister continued with more speculation on Constantine’s likes and dislikes, but Sophie wasn’t listening. As though she couldn’t resist the temptation, she went over to the bay window, perched sideways on the edge of the window seat and looked out to the gazebo, shading her eyes against the lowering sun to see better.
Yes, but does Nurse (“Nurse” ... gawd!) identify the birds for him. That’s what would make him really happy.
“... Before the most recent stroke a couple of years ago,” Kimberley was still talking as Sophie came back to the chair that had been set out for her, “he had the gazebo moved to the other side of the yard to get away from the traffic noises. There’s a lot of traffic now that the city opened the ...”
Why she’s as nervous as I am, prattling on like that. This is going to be easier than I thought, so just stay cool.
It was not until she saw Stavros staring at her that Sophie realized her mistake.
?
What did Sophie do that made Stavros realize she has been here more recently than twenty-four years ago?
9
Nobody Hides Forever
From the south, a nondescript brown sedan came into view on the two-lane highway and then eased off onto a lightly traveled secondary road forking to the east. Soon the car entered an area of thick forest and turned right again onto a narrow laneway leading up to a squat, gray building made of concrete block. The building was even more nondescript than the sedan, its monotony only slightly relieved by a metal garage door and, above it on a second floor, a window of thick plate glass.
Behind the window, Norm Upshur lowered the binoculars he had been using to follow the progress of the car. He watched intently as a very large man in mechanic’s coveralls got out of the back seat of the sedan on the passenger side. A frail man with tousled white hair got out right after him, followed by another large man in coveralls. The small man wore brown plaid trousers with a brown check. He had on a plaid shirt under a thin, two-tone windbreaker, and cheap running shoes. Old man’s clothes. At the sound of the garage door opening, the three men disappeared into the building, and the car went back down the dirt road into the forest.
Norm set the binoculars on the window ledge. “So that’s Lazlo Bovic?” He stared out at the trees for a few thoughtful seconds before turning behind him to a man sitting on an upturned crate in front of a makeshift desk. “Hard to believe that little old man is the Butcher of Vojvodina. In fact, Harland, now that I’ve seen him, I have to tell you I’m even more unconvinced.”
Harland Stohl had the kind of face on which a smile would look out of place. True to form, he scowled and said, “That’s Bovic. And he’s been living in this country since 1947. According to our data ...”
“Your data, Harland, with all due respect, have gotten us into trouble more than once.”
“Then take a look for yourself.” Stohl was unperturbed. “Start with this photograph. We have others, taken since he came here in ’47, but this one is earlier. From his days in Croatia during the war. The only one we know of. We got it from an old woman in Bosnia.”
“See, Harland, there we are to start with. That old woman who gave you the picture ... she’s actually a Bosnian Serb, isn’t she? That makes her no friend of the Croats, I’ll grant you, but then she’s no friend of ours, either! What does she have to gain by exposing him? The Serbs committed war crimes of their own!”
Stohl carried on with no sign of impatience. “The Balkans,” he said, and shrugged as if that explained everything. When Upshur didn’t respond, he added, “Serbs and Croats have been fighting each other for a thousand years, but every once in a while they let bygones be bygones and get together to gang up on Bosnia. Maybe her motive is some political one we don’t understand yet.”
He shrugged again. “Or maybe it’s religious. The woman is a Catholic like Bovic, but she’s Orthodox; most Serbs are, those that aren’t Muslim. Bovic, like most of the Croats, is Roman Catholic.” He sighed very softly, as though he’d had to slog through this explanation many times before. “Usually, in the Balkans that’s all the reason you need, but in this case I think she’s turned him in because she’s a dyed-in-the-wool communist, an old partisan. Probably has something to do with the war. World War II, I mean. They’re about the same age, her and Bovic.”
Norm bent over slightly, trying to look into the other man’s eyes as if they held the key to sorting out his uncertainty. “And old Bovic downstairs,” he said, “if he really is Bovic, was a leader of the ustashi, poster boys for the Gestapo and the SS. For the ustashi, slaughtering communists – partisans – was almost a religion.”
Harland shrugged a third time. “People on this side of the Atlantic have no idea how bad it was. They know over there, though. And they never forget.”
He turned the photograph around so that Norm Upshur could see it right side up. “Here. Just take a look. Our people say it was taken about 1943.”
Norm Upshur glanced at the tattered photograph for only a second. “He’s shaving, Harland, for heaven sake!”
For once Harland Stohl showed a bit of spirit. “You were expecting a cigarette ad, maybe? Why not shaving? Or eating? Or drinking? Or sitting on the toilet! Think of it. Bovic’s a key player in the ustashi in a country where there are any number of factions all trying to kill one another, where nobody trusts anybody – they still don’t! – so this had to be with a hidden camera. What better time than when he’s shaving?”
“Makes sense, I suppose.” Norm agreed with more than a little reluctance. “This the scar?”
“Precisely in the middle of the forehead. And precisely where there’s one on the old boy downstairs, as you’ll soon see.”
“The medal on that chain around his neck ... Says I-H ... Can’t make out the ...”
Stohl handed Upshur a magnifying glass. “An ‘S.’ Catholics all over the world wear that. Stands for in hoc signo. Means ‘in this sign.’ Refers to the cross where Jesus was crucified.”
Norm handed back the glass and returned to the window, where only a few minutes earlier he had watched the approach of the car. He was still very troubled. “I don’t know, Harland. A forty-year-old photograph and an old commie woman with a grudge … and, wait a minute! Let me see that thing again! Yes! He’s shaving with his right hand!” Norm came around to Harland’s side of the desk. He tapped the photograph with an insistent index finger. “What that means ... what it means is – in a mirror – what it means is he’s left-handed! Now the old guy downstairs ... is he right- or left-handed, because ...?”
“I know what you’re getting at.” Harland Stohl shook his head. “One of the first things we looked at, but it doesn’t apply here. You saw that yourself.”
?
Why does Norm Upshur assume that Bovic is left-handed, and why, as Harland Stohl says, does it not apply here?
10
The Initiation
Thirty-two years I been at this. Went into narcotics right out of the academy. Undercover. Traffic after that – talk about a switch! Then I did bunko, vice for three years, and before I turned private I was in homicide. Made sergeant. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t bragging. I just want you to know I been around the block. Seen it all. Every con artist, beater, dipper, shooter, weirdo, and just plain dumb crook there is. That’s what I thought, anyway. Until Mrs. Kumar-White.
Oh, she wasn’t weird or anything. Better get that straight right away. In fact, she was pretty classy. A looker and a real sharp dresser. Not flashy either. Tasteful. Made you look twice. Sure turned heads in the building where I got my office. We don’t get her type down there. I got to tell you that made me suspicious at first. You see, I do a lot of husband chasing. It’s bread and butter in my business. And women like her – they usually phone. Look you up in the yellow pages or get a referral from one of their friends. But her, she just shows up at my office. No appointment, nothing.
’Course I bring her in right away or she’d have drawn a crowd out in the hall. And she sits down and starts right in.
“My husband,” she says.
Now, it turns out to be one of your standard I-think-my-husband-is-playing-around cases, but most women, they dance around the subject first. Like they don’t actually want to say it? Or else they want to know about my fee. Stuff like that. Not her.
“My husband,” she starts. “I think my husband is being kidnapped.”
You can see already, can’t you, this is weird? “Being kidnapped”? Oh yeah. I should tell you right up front here that the whole thing was good old-fashioned infidelity. The guy – White – he was having not one but two adventures on the side. But the weird part is how this all played out.
’Course I tell her she should be seeing the police if it’s a snatch, though I can just hear the guys cracking up as soon as she tells them “being kidnapped.” But then she explains. Says it’s like a cult thing.
“He’s always been a joiner,” she says. “It’s like he was disappointed when he got too old for Boy Scouts. He’s a Shriner. He belongs to the Rotary Club. He’s a Mason. He especially likes the secret ones with the special handshakes and the ceremonies and the funny clothes.”
So far I’m not hearing a thing that interests me and if it weren’t that she was the best looking client I’ve had in that office for longer than I can remember, I’d have been looking for an escape hatch. But then what she does is, she reaches into her purse and brings out a wad of hundreds. Counts out ten of them.
“Will one thousand be a sufficient advance?” she asks.
I don’t tell her that most of the time I have to squeeze to get a couple of hundred out of a client, so she’s got my attention.
OK, so now I’m interested, and then she says, “I want you to become a member of the Simon Pure Society, like my husband. And tell me how I can get him back, before they take him from me completely.”
Now here’s where it goes right off the track. Seems this Simon Pure Society – oh, there really is one; that’s the first thing I look into – it’s full of these nutbars playing head games all the time. You see, every member is either a total liar, never ever tells the truth – Simon Pure, get it? – or else they swing the other way, tell the truth every single time no matter what. Different kind of pure, see? And to be a member you got to be one or the other; can’t be both! Look, don’t quit on me here, I’m not making this up!
Anyway, to make a long story short, I go visit this Simon Pure Society. They got a spot down by the lake, just off Carrick. Mrs. Kumar-White gets me a referral – I’m still working out how that happened – ’cause you can’t just walk in off the street. I make them think I’m interested in joining and I pay a fee so I can take the initiation. Three hundred bucks, so maybe not all of them are nuts!
It’s set up for the next afternoon and I show up early. A habit of mine, good one, too, ’cause I got to see White, the husband, with these two chippies all over him. Got a coupla pictures so that was the end of that. Last I heard he had joined the Eternal Alimony Society. The Mrs. saw to that. But let me finish on this Simon Pure thing. By now I’m really into this weird deal. Want to see if it’s for real.
So they take me into a sort of lounge. This was no saloon by the way. Very posh. I’m taken to a table for four and then in come these three, a guy and two women. They sit down at my table, don’t say a word to me, and a waiter comes, takes orders for drinks. I order soda water. Got to be clear for this.
Now I should explain – and stay with me, I thought this was nuts, too, when I first heard it: Like I told you, if you join Simon Pure, you got to go one way or the other full time, so you choose to be either a Fabrican or a Veritan depending on whether you want to lie all the time or tell the truth. Fabricans are the liars and ... well, you can figure it out. Everybody’s dead serious, by the way. They got this system of increasing fines, for example, if you’re caught out of character. You only get three strikes before you’re tossed out for a while. All part of the game. You see, everybody knows what everybody else is, so the big thing is to catch someone saying something the wrong way.
Anyway, what I have to do in the initiation is figure out which one of my three testers is the Veritan, because there will be only one at the table. Each of them will speak once and only once. And then I get one shot only; my first answer is my final answer. So we sit there for the longest time. They don’t say anything and I’m getting a little nervous. There’s this really awful music playing. Loud, too, very distracting.
After a while I can’t take it anymore so I ask, “Which one of you is the Veritan?”
Again there’s this long silence, then suddenly one of the women speaks. No warning, no smile – no frown either – no body language. Doesn’t even look at me, and says, “I’m the Veritan.”
The others don’t react. There’s a pause again, and now the drinks come. Just as the waiter starts to set them down, the guy – he’s across from me – says his bit. But I don’t hear him ’cause the waiter drops the tray! All I hear is “I’m the ...” So now I figure I’m in a fix, but then the other woman turns to me. She’s actually quite friendly. Smiles a bit, not like the other two. Touches my arm just a little, like she’s sorry about what happened with the tray.
And she says, “I’m the Veritan. Perry just told you that he is, but you shouldn’t believe him.” And she points to the first one. “Her either,” she says.
And then just like that, they all get up and leave. Did I tell you this was weird or what?
By the way, even though I scored in the initiation – it really wasn’t all that hard to pick the one Veritan – I never did join the Society. It’s a nice place and all. That lounge was something. But the annual fee is fifteen hundred bucks! In my business I get to hear liars every day. For nothing!
?
Who is the one Veritan, and how did the narrator make his selection?
11
Taking Over the Thomas Case
The words of the chief prosecutor were scarcely five minutes old when Kirsten Oullette heard the promised tap on her door.
“I’ll send up one of the paralegals with the Thomas case,” he’d said. “This kid Loy has been helping Harry on it.”
That was after a lame apology for dumping her into the stream so quickly. “I know you’re brand new,” he’d put it, “but with Harry’s coronary you’re the only assistant DA with space for his cases. You should be able to get up to speed without too much problem. Only Thomas that’s urgent. Harry’s had two continuances already on that one. If we ask for another, it’ll get tossed for sure, so ... We’ll get you help if we can, but for now we’re just going to have to make do.”
A second, more insistent knock brought Kirsten back to the present and she called to her visitor to come in.
“Peter Loy from downstairs, Ms. Oullette.” He pronounced it oo-lit, leaning hard on the first syllable. Normally Kirsten made people rehearse the French pronunciation until they got it right, but she decided this wasn’t the time.
“CP said to bring you the Thomas material?” He stood hesitantly just inside the door. “And go over it with you? If you want?”
Kirsten’s first thought was “he’s even greener than I am,” but she was still stinging from the chief prosecutor’s unconscious insult about making do and was determined to work with what she was given without asking for help.
“Sit down,” she said. “Yes, go over everything. From the beginning.”
Grateful to be given some purpose, Peter Loy quickly settled himself and then pulled a large brown envelope from the stack he’d been carrying. It was full of photographs. “These are CS shots of the vic,” he said. “Thought that would be a good place to start.”
“C ... S ...?” Kirsten wrinkled her nose.
“Crime scene.”
“Oh.”
If Loy sensed her unfamiliarity, he didn’t show it. “Now, here’s the vic as he was found,” he said as he put a photograph on the table. “Name’s Velasquez, Martin Velasquez. Forty-two-year-old white male. Married, no children. Currency trader.”
