3 Strange Bedfellows (20 page)

But now that it looked like Will would actually
win,
people just couldn't get enough of him. He'd taken that quantum leap from glasses-wearing nerd to BMOC. I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn't the only one asking him for a job that day.

I waved hello to him over the crowd, then ordered some coffee and found a table. After several minutes, Will tore himself away from his admirers and came over.

My first good gander at him threw me for a loop. Gone was that haunted, coffee-addled, lone-liberal-in-the-conservative-wilderness look I'd seen in his eyes ever since he started the campaign. He was transformed. He was positively beaming.

"Hey, Shmuck-man," I said, "you look great."

"I feel great. Listen, I only have a minute, it's incredible what's happening, Jake. I've got an interview with the
Saratogian,
then a photo session with the
Times Union,
then a meeting at City Hall, then drinks with the Rotary Club, which is actually going to endorse me if you can believe that—"

"I can't."

"Neither can I, but it's true— Hey, thanks. Don't forget to vote," he said to a gorgeous young woman who had come up to wish him luck.

"Now that you're famous, does that mean I can't call you Shmuck-man any more?"

"Damn straight. From now on, you have to call me The One and Only Shmuck-man."

"Okay, Mr. One and Only, I got something to say. I want to be your legislative aide down in Washington."

Will smacked his palm against his forehead in a show of mock irritation. "Oh, God, not you, too," he said, but then broke into a grin. "Just kidding. Consider it done. We'll put your writing talent to good use."

"Excellent, that's just what I was thinking."

"Shmuckler and Burns, together again." He clapped me on the shoulder and stood up. "Listen, I'm running late for the
Saratogian,
I gotta roll on out of here—"

"One more thing. Check this." Feeling like a magician pulling rabbits out of his hat, I pulled the photographs from my pocket and spread them out on the table.

He stared at them and frowned. "What the hell is this about?" he said.

"Guess who the guy in the ski mask is?"

"Who?"

"Ducky Medwick."

He sat down, stunned. "You're kidding."

"Nope." Then I told Will about my growing conviction
that Hack Sr.'s confession was false and the real killer was Ducky.

"Awfully far-fetched," Will pronounced doubtfully.

"Not when you really think about it. These photos gave Ducky all the murder motive he needed. He was covering up something that would've wrecked his career and landed him in jail."

"But I can't believe Hack Sr. would falsely confess to murder to protect somebody. Does he really like Susan that much?"

You have no idea,
I thought, but said nothing. Meanwhile Will asked, "And how can you be sure this guy in the mask is Ducky? If you show that photograph to Chief Walsh, he'll laugh in your face."

Will had a point. "Here's what I'll do," I told him. "First I'll go to Sarafian, get him to admit this is Ducky.
Then
I'll go to Walsh."

"I don't like it," Will said.

"Why not?"

"Look, my campaign
is going great now, with everybody thinking Susan's father-in-law committed the murders. Why muddy the waters?"

"You really want to let Ducky Medwick get away with killing people?"

He put up his hands. "I'm just saying go easy until Wednesday, when the election's over. That's only four days away. It won't hurt your investigation to wait that long."

Before I could make a snappy rejoinder, Judy Demarest walked up. "Afternoon, gents," she said. "Thought I might find you here."

Will stood and shook her hand. "Thank you for all your coverage, Judy. That story you wrote really shook this district up."

"My pleasure," she said. "Sure beats writing about the county fair. Guess what?"

"What?"

"Our editorial board just voted to endorse you."

"Wow, that's terrific," Will said, beaming.

"It sure is," I agreed, then patted him on the shoulder
and got up. "I'll go leave you two important public figures alone. Time to head home and take care of the kids."

"What are you up to later?" Will asked. "Wanna come by the Parting Glass tonight, hang out with the Rotary Club?"

"Sounds like a wild party. But we're hitting Grandma's for dinner tonight. Gonna sleep over and do some leaf peeping tomorrow."

At the time, that was my intention. But as I drove home, I changed my plans. It hit me that we might not get back from Grandma's until late tomorrow night, and I couldn't bear the thought of waiting that long before confronting Sarafian.

But I also couldn't bear the thought of telling Andrea and the kids I was back to work on the murder cases. I didn't want to ruin our family's newly acquired calm. So I made up a little white lie—actually, a medium-sized white lie.

"Honey, I'm so sorry," I greeted Andrea when she came home, "but I can't make it to your Mom's house until later."

She stared at me, not sure if she should be worried or angry. "But—"

"I know, I know, I promised. But I forgot I have a tournament game with Dima tonight."

Dima—short for Dmitri—is an old Russian guy who's in the Saratoga Knights Chess Club with me. We were in the middle of a long-running club tournament.

"Since when do you play your tournament games on Friday nights?" Andrea demanded. Anger had won out.

"We had to schedule a special makeup day. Don't worry, Dima will probably beat me in no time flat. I'll be at your mom's in time for dessert."

In truth, Dima usually does beat me in no time flat. For a seventy-nine-year-old codger who barely made it out of World War Two alive
—he claims the only thing that saved him from freezing to death at the Battle of Leningrad was a bottle of homemade vodka he'd stashed in his gun belt—Dima packs a mean wallop in his King's Gambit Opening.

But tonight I wouldn't be facing that killer gambit. Instead I waited until Andrea and the kids were safely on their way, then stopped off at Madeline's for a quick prosciutto and brie on a bagel. This was my third time at Madeline's in one day, I noted; I was getting awfully predictable.

After my sandwich met its destiny, I headed out the door to my car. As I got in, I noticed Chief Walsh walking into Madeline's. I was surprised to see that; Walsh wasn't an espresso bar kind of guy. I wondered briefly if he was looking for me. But I had no desire to speak to him until I had firmer evidence against Ducky in my pocket. I started up the car and headed for Sarafian's place.

It was already past seven by the time I got there. I was hoping he'd be in his apartment upstairs, and not out on a date with one of the bevy of beauties he liked to surround himself with. At this hour on a Friday night I never expected to find him still in his office. But that's where he was. I guess when you're a shill for Global Electronics, you lose not only your soul but also your weekends. I could see Sa
rafian through the window, talking on the phone and gesticulating. There didn't seem to be anyone else there.

I got out of my car. The sky was a dark twilight blue and a couple of stars were already out. The street was quiet except for the lonesome sound of one chirping cricket. I guess he didn't realize that spring and summer had already come and gone and his chances of finding a mate were pretty nonexistent. Well, you couldn't fault him for trying. I walked
into the building without knocking, entered the deserted reception area, and observed my quarry through the gauzy curtains.

"Listen," Sarafian was s
aying, "forget this Pierce business. We've got something much more important going on. We're putting it out next week. I can't give you the details just yet, but it's gonna make the EPA and all the rest of them shit in their pants. So if I were you, I'd just sit tight for a while and not run any anti-Global El editorials—unless you want to end up with egg on your face."

Egg on your face, shit in their pants . . . Sarafian was making some pretty messy threats here. But maybe he was just pissing in the wind. He got off the phone just as I walked in. He eyed
me, startled. Then his face reddened with outrage.

"The hell are you doing here? How many times do I gotta tell you people: Robert Pierce and I did nothing wrong! Jesus, I've got the cops hounding me, the media, now Global El is getting on my case
—"

"I'm not here about Pierce."

He raised his eyes to the heavens in mock prayer. "Well, hallelujah."

"I'm here about Ducky."

He stared at me. "Ducky Medwick? Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"I don't have a clue."

"Maybe this will refres
h your memory," I said sarcastically, and threw the photos of Sarafian and the masked man on his desk.

He picked up the photos, then gave me a strange look. He opened his bottom desk drawer and reached inside.

And like a cold cream pie in the shnoz, it hit me: what if I got this all wrong?

What if the man who killed two people to cover up his bribes was none other than Dennis Sarafian?

And what if he has a gun in that drawer?

My veins turned to ice. But all Sarafian took out of his drawer was a cigarette. He lit it. Then he asked, "What makes you so sure it's Ducky Medwick inside that ski mask?"

I'd anticipated this question, so I had a lie all ready for him. "Because I have Zzyp's surveillance notes. He followed Ducky home from the meeting."

"He did, huh? That's very funny." Then, as if to show just how hilarious it truly was, he threw his head back and burst into laughter. His mouth was open so wide, I could have dropped a baseball in there.

"I'm glad you're amused," I said pleasantly, then got up, reached across the desk, and grabbed a fistful of Sarafian's tie. He stopped laughing in a hurry. I shoved him back against his chair. A part of me stood back and watched myself in amazement. The rest of me was having a ball.

"Listen, wise ass," I said, "you better can the bullshit or I go to the cops and the media all over again. Wait 'til I tell them about you bribing Ducky. Global El will drop your ass like a hot potato. So will all your other accounts. When I'm through with you, you'll be on food stamps."

Sarafian regarded me with surprising calm. "I suggest you don't tell anyone I was bribing Ducky."

I narrowed my eyes. "Are you threatening me?"

"No, just suggesting. I'll let you in on a secret. That's not Ducky in those photographs."

"Like hell it's not."

His lips curled into a cheerfully vicious sneer. "You sure you want to know who that masked man really is?"

I nodded uncertainly but tried to keep my voice tough. "Yeah," I growled.

"It's your pal. Will Shmuckler."

I sat back down without even realizing it. "What?"

His lips curled even further as he pointed at one of my photographs. "You see that big envelope the masked man is giving me? I had a friend of mine from the FBI take fingerprints off that envelope and run them through the computer. They matched up with Shmuckler's prints from twenty years ago, when he was arrested at an anti-nuke demonstration."

Maybe this was all some elaborate lie. But I didn't think so. I remembered that demonstration. Hell, they would have busted me, too, but the police wagon was too full.

"I don't understand," I said, in a voice that had suddenly turned very small. "What was in the envelope?"

Sarafian took a puff of
his cigarette, enjoying my discomfort immensely. "Information."

"What kind of information?"

He made a big show of thinking it over, then gave a magnanimous shrug. "Oh, I guess I can tell you, since we're releasing it to the press next week, anyway." He opened his drawer and handed me a bound copy of some kind of long, official-looking report, about a hundred pages thick. It looked strangely familiar. Then I read the title—
On the Efficacy of Dredging Major Waterways for Settled PCB Contamination
—and realized where I'd seen this report before.

I'd seen it in that box of the Hack's personal effects.

"Look pretty dry, doesn't it?" Sarafian said. "But trust me. It's dynamite."

"How?"

He put his feet up on the desk, drawing out the moment. "This is a scientific study, commissioned by the Hudson-Adirondack Preservation Society. The outfit Will works for," he added.

I nodded, my head feeling almost too heavy to move, and Sarafian continued. "They thought it would help them prove that Global El should pay to dredge the Hudson. Imagine their shock when their own study showed that in reality,
dredging the Hudson is the absolute worst thing to do, environmentally speaking. When you dredge, you stir up the sludge and release all the chemicals. It's much better for the river if you let the PCBs just lie there undisturbed and gradually disintegrate.