Deception Page 25

  “So ask yourself where the evidence leads when it comes to Jesus,” Jake said. “It’s not about your preference, like choosing between a walnut sticky bun and a chocolate croissant.”

  “Don’t mock me. It was a tough call.”

  “My point is, faith shouldn’t be about what suits our tastes, but about the truth the evidence points to.”

  “So if you disagree with what we believe,” Clarence said, “then try to talk us out of it—take your best shot. We don’t want to believe what’s false.”

  “You guys will get talked out of your faith when hell freezes over.”

  “What is it that holds you back?” Jake said. “Not only from Christ, but from the idea that there’s a God?”

  “The Holocaust. Stalin. The Killing Fields. Idi Amin. Rwanda. Jeffrey Dahmer. What I saw in Vietnam. A couple hundred murder cases. How’s that for starters? People get away with murder. Where’s the justice?”

  “Daddy used to say, ‘Nobody gets away wid nothin’,” Clarence said.

  “How could he say that? After what those dirty cops did to him?”

  “It used to bother me how Daddy would forgive people. It made me think he was weak.” Somebody with green hair, waiting for coffee, heard Clarence’s voice and stared. If I had green hair, I wouldn’t stare at anybody.

  “I couldn’t have been more wrong,” Clarence continued. “He knew God would bring justice, but he was willing to wait. He said to me, ‘They still has time to repent. If they doesn’t, yo’ daddy would sooner be the mule they whip than stand in their shoes before almighty God and be burnt to ashes by the fire of His holiness.’ ”

  “He really said that?”

  “I’ve never forgotten it. My point is, what makes you think God will let people get away with all this stuff? The Bible teaches that He won’t. There’s going to be a judgment for everything that’s been done, good and bad. God promises that repeatedly.”

  “But why wait? I’ve seen parents kill their children, children kill their parents, a teenage boy torture his little brother. Why didn’t God just throw lightning bolts and fry these lowlifes?”

  “I’ve seen evil too, you know,” Jake said. “I was in Nam. I saw Finney and Doc die. They were my best friends. My Carly’s dying as we speak.”

  “My sister and niece were murdered,” Clarence said. “Daddy saw a lot more evil than I ever have, probably more than you. He believed God has reasons for allowing these things that we can’t understand.”

  “I don’t buy it. Sometimes I just want to go out there and save hundreds of people by performing a few executions. You know how many people die because of drug dealers?”

  “So if you were in charge,” Clarence said, “there’d be no mercy, no opportunity to repent? Bad people would all die. But … maybe you deserve to die too. Maybe we’re all worse than you think. That’s what the Bible says.”

  “Don’t try to put me in the same box with murderers and rapists. That’s one of the things that frosts me about you Christians,” I said, standing up. “One of the many things.”

  When I returned to detective division, two attractive women were standing near my workstation. One was dressed in fashion magazine clothes. Her outfit screamed money. The other was Linda Glissan, Jack’s wife. Linda always looks nice, but she and Sharon used to shop for bargains at Nordstrom Rack. Even that can strain a detective’s salary.

  “Hi, Ollie.” Linda hugged me. I don’t get hugged often. “You’ve met Sheila Phillips, Brandon’s wife, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she said, stretching out her hand, which momentarily unnerved me, since her fingernails looked like red-polished Ginsu knives. So this was Phillips’s wife. He’d married her a year ago, eighteen months after his divorce. I’d heard about Sheila. She lived up to it.

  “I brought you some of those chocolate pecan muffins you like,” Linda said, handing me a bag.

  “Thanks.”

  “Jack and I miss you.”

  “Look, Linda, I’m sorry. I …”

  “It’s okay. I miss Sharon too. She was one of my best friends.”

  I nodded, aware of Sheila, who seemed to be studying us.

  “We’ve stopped asking you over because we don’t want to bug you. But when you’re ready, let us know. Or just drop by, okay? You’re always welcome at our house.”

  Her invitation reminded me that it was approaching twenty-four hours before my second dinner with Kendra, this time at her home. I was shocked when she’d asked. I wanted to see her again, but if they made body armor for the heart, I’d be bidding for it on eBay.

  I said good-bye to Linda, pretending I had to make a phone call. As I called to check my messages I watched Sheila Phillips out the corner of my eye.

  Why was she staring at me?

  Clarence and I planted ourselves in an empty conference room, where the boxy wooden chairs weren’t comfortable but we could talk more freely than at my workstation.

  “When you have a limited number of suspects,” I said, “you start by eliminating people, one by one. Suppose it’s one of the detectives. Who do we eliminate?”

  “You?” Clarence asked.

  “I hope so,” I said, followed by a laugh I hoped didn’t sound forced. This wasn’t the time to bring up that I couldn’t remember anything between my first half hour at Rosie O’Grady’s and getting the phone call at 3:07 a.m.

  “Manny?”

  “I can’t see a motive. His alibi’s as good as you could expect—home with wife and kids. But I’ll call Maria and worm it out of her, just to make sure.”

  “You’re going to check up on your own partner?”

  “He’d understand. Well, maybe he wouldn’t. But he’d check up on me.”

  “Who else is off the list? Jack?”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, when you called him to the crime scene, he didn’t seem nervous.”

  “Jack’s an old friend. But for now he stays on the list. But do I think he’d do it? No way.”

  Clarence looked at his list. “Tell me about Brandon Phillips.”

  “Efficient, smart, observant. Heck of a poker player. Cleans out guys in the Friday night games. I was losing too much money, so I don’t go anymore. Brandon’s a good detective.”

  “He’s nervous,” Clarence said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Remember at the professor’s house? Said he had allergies, but it seemed like an excuse. He was twitching and seemed anxious to leave. He wasn’t responsive to your questions.”

  “He knew that Dell computer was a mail-order only model. Like I said, he’s observant.”

  “You and Noel both noticed the missing picture on the mantel. Phillips didn’t.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, but I’m not a detective.” Clarence looked at his list. “How tall is Suda?”

  “Five one?”

  “You’ve thought about—”

  “The desk chair adjusted for a short person? Suda can be a pain, and she’s up to her eyeballs in something. But … a killer?”

  “How about Tommi?”

  “She’s a mom—five kids, ranging three years old to high school.”

  “Moms never kill people?”

  “If the professor told her kids not to wear seat belts or breathed on them when he had the flu, maybe.”

  We talked until Clarence had gone through the whole list. “Congratulations, detective,” he said. “You’ve eliminated everybody. Since none of your suspects killed the professor, he must still be alive. Somebody better dig him up.”

  Smart guy.

  I headed home to the old brownstone in the dark. I turned onto 150th, eighty feet from my house, then threw on the brakes. A shadow moved, then disappeared behind my garage. I pulled my car over the curb onto my lawn, headlights pointed where I saw the shadow. I jammed it into park, grabbed a flashlight out of the glove box, and popped out, gun pulled.

  “Police officer! Don’t mov
e!”

  Somebody pulled himself over the wood fence on my side yard. I ran through my neighbor’s side yard, flashlight in one hand, Glock in the other.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  As I passed the window on my right, I saw Donna, the neighbor lady, horrified. When I got past the back edge of their house, I heard a crack and felt an explosion on the right side of my skull. I felt warm blood before I hit the ground.

  Someone wearing a ski mask was on top of me. He had both his hands on my gun. I hit the left side of his face with my flashlight. He stood, staggering, and threw my gun over the fence.

  I tried to stand, then fell back to the ground. I saw him disappear into the hedge at the back of my neighbors’ yard. That’s the last thing I remember until hearing somebody yell, “Donna, call 911!”

  “Did you see him?” I asked.

  “The guy in the magazine?” someone said. “I saw his grump. He was over the fence in a frimbo. I came out when I heard the yardarm. He threw something over the brumbello.”

  “What?” I tried to say.

  “You’re the car, right? My mother the car.”

  That’s what it sounded like. In retrospect, I think he must have said, “My neighbor the cop.”

  Patrol arrived, then the EMTs in an ambulance. Despite the objections of the good-hearted Obrists, who’d brought me into their house, I staggered out the back door to point out things for the officers to look for. I told them they needed to find footprints and fetch my gun and make sure nobody contaminated the crime scene. They seemed to think they didn’t need my advice.

  Next thing I knew, the uniforms were escorting me back into the house and telling the Obrists not to let me move. Donna had just fixed me tea, Earl Grey, which is what Jean-Luc Picard, my favorite captain, drinks on Star Trek: The Next Generation. I’d never tried it. It was awful. But she was so attentive that I kept thanking her for it.

  The EMTs thought I had a concussion and insisted on taking me in. I insisted otherwise, telling them I didn’t need a doctor—it was only a little crack in the skull and I get a couple a week. No brain fluid leaking out my ears, so no big deal.

  Manny showed up and seemed almost concerned. I should get cracked in the head more often. I told him I wanted to check out signs of entry at the old brownstone. We went to my back porch. I was more light-headed than I let on, grabbing on to a tree limb and a fence post to keep me up. Mulch looked out the sliding glass door at Manny, showed his teeth, and barked like crazy until he saw me and began his doggy dance of joy.

  I unlocked the back door, and next thing I knew Mulch was licking my head wounds.

  “Give me a minute,” I said to Manny, going into the bathroom. Mrs. Obrist had wiped off most of the blood before the EMTs got there, which made it easier to call them off. But there was still wet blood in my hair. Red puffiness was working its way over the right side of my face.

  I put my head in the sink. After the water drained, the sink had a reddish stain. I dried my hair with a bath towel, then walked out when I heard Mulch’s growling and a string of Hispanic swear words. Between Manny and Mulch I wasn’t sure who was doing more growling, but when I thought I heard Mulch swear at Manny in Spanish, I decided it was time to sit down, take it easy, and avoid Earl Grey.

  When you’re a detective and also the victim, you want to question yourself, put the pieces together, and solve the crime. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. Manny, apparently, was doing the thinking for me. He had me sitting on my recliner and even took off my shoes and brought me my slippers.

  An hour later, my face was experimenting with new and different colors. Having abandoned a pinkish brown, it had settled on a puffy purple.

  I heard Mulch barking again. Next thing I know, Jake and Clarence are in my living room. Sue Keels showed up and tried to talk me into going to the emergency room. She said a concussion was possible, that my eyes didn’t look right. I was a Klingon warrior who’d been assimilated by the Borg, and she was worried about me going to sleep. Being a man and a cop, naturally I refused. Bart Starr, who was feeding pineapples to my kangaroo, agreed with me. Since Sue’s an emergency room nurse, I figured she could take care of me even without all those machines. She messed with my head and did stuff that made it feel worse at first and better later.

  Finally Sue said, “Looks like you guys are ready for a men’s night,” and took off. Jake and Clarence and I hung out for a couple more hours. They made popcorn and dug out the cookie dough ice cream I’d bought the day before at WinCo. I try to eat ice cream within two days; no point risking freezer burn.

  Sergeant Seymour called and ordered me to stay home the next day. He said that if he found out I’d conducted interviews or done surveillance, he’d suspend me. He also said something about the Nebraska Cornhuskers taking the Space Shuttle into Lake Michigan to find the lost city of Atlantis, but after that he stopped making sense.

  Jake and Clarence and I talked and laughed. There were lots of stories, the best ones about Clarence’s daddy. It reminded me of Vietnam, how hard you laugh when you’ve lived through an attack.

  Occasionally I nearly forgot my head was about to explode.

  21

  “There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.”

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 5, 10:00 A.M.

  I WOKE UP with a jackhammer beating on the little gray cells.

  Sometimes you’re the dog; sometimes you’re the fire hydrant. I wasn’t fond of being the hydrant. I couldn’t have managed three eggs, five strips of bacon, and two English muffins without Mulch’s help.

  Later Manny dropped by my house and left me forty-one pictures of the professor’s living room, which he’d collected from Palatine’s family and friends. I quickly eliminated thirty-eight of them, then looked under the magnifying glass at the other three, examining the professor’s mantel. One photo showed nine pictures on the mantel, with one dead center, four on each side, evenly spaced. I focused in on the second picture from the right. I could tell only that there were a few people in it, like most of the other pictures. I assumed one was the professor.

  I picked up the phone and called Lynn Carpenter at the Tribune.

  “Lynn?” I asked. “Can I call you Lynn?”

  “Give it a try and see what happens. I’m calling you Ollie. Clarence said you had an eventful evening. I’ve been worried about you. You okay?”

  “No permanent damage. Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  An hour later a courier picked up a pile of photos. I’d taken photos of the photos with my Olympus, for fear they could be sucked into the Tribune’s black hole, never to see the light of day unless it was on the front page. Carp assured me no one else would even see them. But I’ve heard too many assurances from journalists to believe it. Even if they like double cheese and they’re worried about me.

  Jake and Clarence had promised to help me get through an entire day away from investigating. A little late for that, but they said they’d bring over lunch from Lou’s, and who was I to argue?

  By the time they arrived at the old brownstone at twelve thirty, the jackhammer had mellowed to a bass drum, and I had an appetite.

  “Rory insisted lunch was on him,” Jake said. “He threw in onion rings, extra fries, extra sauce, and—you’re not going to believe this—an orange malt.” He pulled it out and held it up for me.

  “But Lou’s doesn’t make orange malts.”

  “They do now. Rory went out and got the mix. When he found out you’d been two-timing him at Dea’s, it lit a fire under him. He said, ‘Only the best for Mr. Ollie.’ ”

  I grabbed the metal container—Rory had gone all out—and pressed the cold against the right side of my face.

  “Food from Lou’s again … almost makes the assault worthwhile.”

  What followed was a feast that food critics—who prefer French meals consisting of small, wet animals y
ou try to exterminate in your garden—would raise their noses at, but that real people love.

  “Did you know I’m having dinner with my daughter tonight?”

  “Terrific,” Jake said. “At Lou’s again?”

  “No. Her place. She invited me. Probably regretted it the second she did it, but I said yes. I think we’re both bracing ourselves. The gloves always seem to come off when we talk privately.”

  “Just getting together is progress,” Clarence said.

  “Between the two of us, we’ll find a way to ruin it.”

  My cell rang just as I was polishing off the onion rings, dipping them into the last bit of horseradish. It was the professor’s brother, returning my calls. Finally.

  “I’m scheduled for surgery, so let’s make it quick.”

  “I haven’t been doing squat myself. Just eating burgers with my homeys. You know how it is—the cop’s life. Okay, here’s my question. Did you ever drink with your brother?”

  “What makes that your business?”

  “Was he a wine drinker?”

  “Wine was all he drank.”

  “What kind?”

  “Mostly merlot and cabernet sauvignon. The merlot was Beringer Brothers. Not sure about the cabernet.”

  “Are those … red wines or white?”

  He laughed. “Red.”

  “I’m a beer drinker.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Name three beers made by Anheuser-Busch, besides Budweiser.”

  “Uh … I’m not sure.”

  “Obviously.” Wine snob. “Okay, what white wine did your brother drink?”

  “None. He didn’t like white wine.”

  “But … there was residue of white wine in two glasses in his house. The lab hasn’t confirmed it officially, but one tech said it smelled like a Riesling.”

  “I can guarantee you Bill wasn’t drinking it. Unless he was out of reds.”

  “There were two bottles in the rack and more in the garage. All red.”

  “They’re waiting for me in surgery.”

  “Knock ’em dead.” I sucker punched the red key to hang up before he could.