3 Strange Bedfellows (15 page)

"Her fucking the Hack kind of
bothered
you, didn't it?"

"Look here," he said, starting to get up.

But I pushed him back in the chair. "Sit down," I told him. He looked like he was about to either burst out crying or kill me. If only I could get him mad enough to say something he shouldn't . . . "Linda says the only reason she's having sex with you is she's trying to find out if you killed the Hack."

Pierce's eyes jumped again, then he finally found his tongue. "That's a lie!" he shouted.

He tried to get up again, but I slapped him. He was too stunned to fight back. I was pretty stunned myself. I don't think I ever slapped anyone before in my life.

"Listen, you fool," I said. "What did Zzyp have on you? And you better tell me the fucking truth this time!"

"I told you the truth
last
time! I never heard of any guy named Zzyp!"

"Did he know about you and Linda?"

Pierce screamed in frustration, "Will you please
believe
me—"

"Fat chance. When's the last time you talked to Zzyp?"

"Never."

"Tell it to the judge. I saw Zzyp's cell phone records," I lied.

Actually, I was starting to believe Pierce really
didn't
know Zzyp, and I was about ready to give up on this line of questioning. But my last-ditch fib about cell phones worked, and Pierce finally crumpled.

"I swear to God," he said plaintively, "the first time I ever heard of this guy Zzyp was when you mentioned him two nights ago. And the first time I talked to him was yesterday. He called me totally out of the blue."

Aha! "What did he say to you?"

"He said he had information that would help me win the election. He offered to sell it for twenty thousand bucks."

"What information?"

"I don't know. I told him I didn't want it."

"You really expect me to buy that?
Puh!"
I spit out. In honor of Yancy Huggins, the only honest politician (besides Will) that I'd met lately, I borrowed one of his lines. "You'd screw a dead warthog if you thought it would help you win."

"Hey, I didn't say no because I'm a nice guy. You'd told me Zzyp was mixed up in your murder investigation. I didn't want any part of it. That's why I hung up on him."

"You're lying through your gums, pal," I sneered. "Zzyp called you because he had dirt on you. He offered to sell it to you for twenty grand ... or else he'd sell it to Susan Tamarack and your campaign would be as finished as yesterday's fish."

He threw up his hands. "Hey, if you want to find out why Zzyp was calling me, just ask him yourself."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You know why. Because he's dead."

Pierce's eyes did their patented jumping-out-of-the-head maneuver. Impressive. But was he truly astonished by Zzyp's death, or just faking it? Maybe his eye thing was the equivalent of Cli
nton's lip thing—a habitual gesture you make when you're being deceitful.

I didn't get a chance to explore that further, because just then Linda walked in. Pierce turned to her, and his whole face hardened. As for Linda, her jaw was so tight you could have used it for a hammer.

This was one lovers' quarrel I did not want to be in the middle of. Especially since I had started it.

"See you lovebirds later," I said, and stepped out.

14

After spending half an hour with the likes of Linda Medwick and Robert Pierce, I felt like going home and taking a long shower. But that wasn't meant to be. As I walked down the hall, I passed Ducky Medwick's office—and who should come barreling out of there but the quacker himself. Two suits in their late twenties hurried to keep up with him.

I was feeling sorry for Ducky, being married to a ballbuster like Linda, until he opened his mouth
. "You
cretins,"
he shouted at his two aides, "why didn't you
tell
me that bill was coming up today?!"

"I'm sorry, sir," one aide stammered, and the other one whimpered, "We didn't know."

"You didn't know?! What the hell do I pay you for, you worthless sacks of—"

"Senator Medwick," I interrupted.

He whirled, and was about to yell at me too until he saw who I was. Then his eyes filled with impotent rage. At least that's how they looked to me, but after talking to Linda maybe I had impotence on my mind.
"What?"
he snapped.

"We need to talk."

"Talk to my secretary. Make an appointment. I've got a crisis here, thanks to these morons." Throwing them a glare that made them cringe, he walked away from me.

I raised my voice. "Senator, we need to talk
immediately."

"No can do," he called over his shoulder.

With his morons beside him, he was at the top of the steps now, heading down. I stopped him the only way I knew how. "Ducky," I called out, "why did you lie about who your wife was sleeping with!"

That stopped him, all right. Stopped him cold.

But meanwhile, the morons were so stunned they forgot to watch where they were going. Like amateur vaudevillians, they simultaneously slipped on the steps, clutched at each other for support, and tumbled head over heels in tandem down to the landing below. I could hear them yelping in pain.

Ducky paid no attention to their squeals. He made a sudden turnaround and came toward me, seething with that impotent rage I mentioned before. Then he wheeled away from me and strode back into his office.

I followed him. We walked through his reception area, complete with efficient gray-haired secretary, and into his inner office. Then he closed the door.

I looked around. There were photos of Ducky's two kids lining the bookcase, but none of his wife.

He started right in. "So what do you
imagine
that you know about Linda?"

"You said you caught her with Pierce. But really, it was the Hack."

"So what? It wasn't
me
she was fucking, that's all I care about."

"Why did you lie?"

He stomped his foot. "Goddamn it, I've got a gun control bill to kill. You know what the NRA is gonna say if I'm not out there on the Senate floor in less than ten minutes?"

"You can still make it if you cut the shit."

He gave a low growl. "This is humiliating, you know."

"I can't help that."

"You're enjoying every minute of this, you lousy—"

"Hey, if it means anything, I think you deserve better than her." I tried a joke. "Not that I think all that highly of you, either."

That broke the tension—somewhat. Ducky snorted. "Alright, the truth? Yeah, she was fucking Jack. Why'd I lie? So you and the cops won't go around thinking she killed him, in some kind of crazy lover's thing."

"Do
you
think she killed him?"

He lifted his shoulders. "Hell if I know. Frankly, I'm wondering how much I really understand that woman."

I nodded. "Now what about you?"

"What
about
me?"

"Did you kill him in some crazy lover's thing?"

"I have an alibi."

"Yeah, I heard it. Not exactly airtight."

He frowned. "I don't remember telling you my alibi."

"Linda did. She said you were on the phone with her."

He waved his arms dismissively. "That may be
her
alibi, but it's not mine. I was in the hotel bar all night, when Jack was killed. You can ask the bartender."

"So Linda lied to me about that phone call?"

"What, that surprises you? She called me up and asked me to lie, too. Screw that. I'll protect the bitch to a degree, but no way am I gonna mess up my
own
alibi."

I sat silently, thinking. Ducky seemed awfully proud of this alibi of his, but maybe I should check it out anyway.

"You got any more degrading questions for me?" Ducky said. "I have to get the hell downstairs."

"Tell me, why'd you support the widow for Congress instead of Pierce?"

"Why?
Because when I got home that night after catching Linda with Jack, she treated me to a detailed list of every man she ever slept with. Including Pierce. So I'll be damned if I'm gonna support
him
. For all I know he's fucking my wife even as we speak!"

Actually, there was a pretty good chance he was right.

But I didn't mention it.

Dying for a shower though I was, I made one more stop on my way north. I pulled in at the Holiday Inn in Halfmoon and bellied up to the bar.

It was a quarter to four, generally a depressing time to be in a bar, and today was no exception. I was happy about one thing, though: the night bartender was already on duty. It was the same guy I'd seen last time. I took a close look at him. His fat face and puffy eyes made him look like ESPN's Chris Berman, but without the
spark. This guy seemed like someone who spent a lot of his life lying around, scarfing down potato chips and Bud, and
watching
Chris Berman.

"Good afternoon," I greeted him cheerily.

"Afternoon," he answered morosely.

"Samuel Adams, please."

"Yeah," he replied, lumbering over to the refrigerator and getting me one.

I put a fiver on the bar and told him to keep the change. That brightened him up a little. "Thanks," he said.

"Pretty slow today, huh?"

"About like usual."

"Must be kind of romantic, being a bartender at a hotel."

He squinted at me dubiously. "Romantic?"

"Sure. Ships passing in the night and so on. You get any famous people here?"

"Nah. Just salesman."

"Really? I thought I saw Senator Medwick in here the other night."

For the first time,
the bartender's face turned animated. "Ducky's a good guy."

"He's always been one of my favorite politicians. He's hell on Democrats."

"Yeah, he's the best."

I threw a ten on the bar, trying to brighten up the bartender even more, get him loose. "Hey, hit me with a shot of Jack. Get yourself one too, if you want. I sold seventeen computers today."

"Congratulations," he said, and brought out two shot glasses. He hadn't needed much encouragement.

"So you get a chance to talk to Ducky? He's always struck me as a real straight shooter."

And that's all it took. The bartender waved the Jack Daniel's bottle toward me and said confidentially, "Between you, me, and Mr. Daniels, Ducky's gonna hook me up with a state job. Get me out of this hellhole."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"That's fabulous. Why's he doing that for you?"

All of a sudden the bartender's face turned dull again. He picked up a dirty napkin from the bar and threw it away before finally answering me. "I don't know, he just is. Guess he liked me."

"Why?"

His eyes narrowed, looking like small black mancala stones inside of his flabby face. "Who are you, anyway?"

I threw caution to the winds. "Is he giving you a job because you're giving him a fake alibi?"

He gulped, and his voice came out in a squeak. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I put my beer glass down on the bar. "You realize you're committing a crime. Obstructing justice, it's called."

"Hey—"

"Ducky'll hook you up wit
h a state job, all right. Pressing license plates."

He opened his mouth, then shut it, then reopened it, and then re-shut it.

And this time it stayed shut.

I held up my palms. "Your secret is safe with me," I said. "Play it straight and I won't tell the cops. Hell, I won't even tell Ducky. But
you
better tell
me:
what really went down between you two?"

The bartender turne
d his back to me and began washing glasses. I harangued him for five minutes straight, about angry cops and crowded jails and the interesting sexual habits of inmates, but he just stood there stoically and kept on washing. Ducky had picked the right guy to back up his alibi, no question.

And there was also no question, at least to me, that his alibi was about as reliable as an astrological forecast.

I would have wandered around the hotel chatting up clerks and maids and so forth, but by now it was already past four o'clock. That shower was calling me. If I cranked up the old Toyota as fast as she could go, I'd make it back by 4:45. That would give me just enough time to grab a few minutes' worth of watery bathroom heaven before the kids came home from their friends' house and I had to take on Daddy duty. Hopefully those precious minutes would help me mellow out from my long day of interrogations. Then I wouldn't find myself yelling at the kids for no reason except my own tension.

The Toyota was in a good mood and I managed to get home by 4:44. Nevertheless, that shower was not meant to be. There were two cops standing outside my front door. One of them was my old nemesis, Chief Walsh. Uh oh. As I pulled into the driveway, Walsh and the other cop, Lieutenant Foxwell, eyed me grimly.

I walked up to them with fake jauntiness and said, "Hi, what's up? You get a lead on who shot at me?"

"May we come in?" Walsh asked, with exaggerated pleasantness.

"Look, I was about to take a shower, and my kids are coming home any minute. What is it you want to talk about?"

Walsh gave me an incongruous wink. "We think you know."

The smug bastard. I was pretty sure I
did
know.

The cops must have found Zzyp's body. And they must have found out somehow that I was there at the scene of the crime.

I kept my cool as best I could. "If you want to come in, be my guests," I said, unlocking the door. "But I better call my friend and ask her not to bring my kids home until you're already gone. For some reason, my kids don't like being around cops. And they seem to have a special loathing for
you,"
I added, turning to Chief Walsh. "I wonder why."

He stroked his chin, as if giving the matter thought. "Who knows?" he said. "Kids are funny."

"True. I mean, just because somebody once tried to pin a false murder rap on your daddy, that's no reason to hold a grudge. Won't you sit down?"

Walsh and Foxwell gave each other a look and sat down. I went into the computer room to get the portable phone. The window that had been shot through was still boarded up; I made a mental note to get the thing fixed as soon as I had time. The way things were going, that
might not be until October. Then the phone rang, before I got a chance to make my call. I picked up. "Hello?"

"Burns, where's my goddamn fax?"

What?
I needed some serious aspirin. Who was calling me, and why? "Fax?"

"Don't play games with me. Your deadline was this morning," said the man whose voice I was now able to place. Jeremy Wartheimer. "You don't get me my fax by five p.m.
—that's fifteen minutes, scuzzbag—and I walk right across the hall to the head of the English Department. Bet Andrea will be real pleased with you when she finds out, won't she?"

I looked over at the answering machine. There were too many blinks to count, meaning I had a lot of m
essages. What were they? Was one of them from my wife, announcing that she'd succeeded in her top-secret assignment and returned Susan Tamarack's portfolio? Or would her message say that her AAA card had let us down and the mission was aborted?

I'd give anything to be able to hit the "play" button on that machine. But how could I listen to Andrea's message about attempted breaking and entering when my two least favorite cops were sitting in the next room? Their lucky day: they had just placed me at the scene of a murder. No doubt they'd enjoy harassing me about breaking and entering, too.

"You hear me, you dickweed?" Wartheimer said.

Hell, you only live once. I decided to have faith in Andrea and AAA and take a chance. "Listen, Jeremy, there's been a misunderstanding
—"

"Yeah? Then misunderstand
this
—"