3 Strange Bedfellows (6 page)

"Excuse me, Terry," I called out.

He grabbed the basketball, pulling it tight to his body, and froze. I could practically hear his brain cells screaming,
"Don't talk to strangers!"

"I didn't want to bother your mom this late," I said casually. "Do you know where I can find your dad?"

Terry had an open, honest face. In his confused eleven-year-old eyes, I could see
"Don't talk to strangers"
warring with
"Be polite."

I felt like some kind of evil child mol
ester, but I continued on. "It's just that your dad wanted me to give him something. For tomorrow's vote in the Senate."

Finally Terry spoke. "Dad's not home," he said. His voice broke a little on the last word, and a twinge of sadness crossed his face. What was that all about?

"Is he at a meeting? I could just go and give him this thing."

"No, he's at a hotel."

Huh?
"Which hotel?"

"Holiday Inn. In Halfmoon. He's been there since Sunday."

Then, as if afraid he'd already said too much, Terry hurried away and let himself in the front door.

The Holiday Inn in Halfmoon, fifteen miles north of Albany, was no doubt a hot spot for traveling salesmen on their way up I-87 to Plattsburgh or Montreal. But it wasn't exactly a place where you'd expect to find the majority leader of the New York State Senate fluffing his pillow.

Maybe that was the point, though. Maybe he didn't want anyone to find him.

Myself, I got lucky. I didn't have to bribe someone for a waiter's uniform and then sneak up to Ducky's room pretending to be room service in order to get hold of him. He was right downstairs in the hotel bar, sitting all by himself in the corner with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Two other lone wolves sat in other corners with glasses in their hands, and behind the bar a chubby, dimwit-looking bartender yawned. B.J. Thomas's voice came over some tinny speakers, warbling about raindrops falling on your head. The television set was showing a commercial about how
you can reverse hair loss.

But Ducky, bald though he was,
ignored the commercial. He was ignoring everything except his glass. He sat there staring at it mindlessly as he swirled his drink around and around. I felt sorry for him. I was almost tempted to walk out and let the man suffer in peace.

Then Ducky looked up. His bleary eyes recognized me, and instantly his drunkenness seemed to fall away. He straightened his back, his eyes flashed, and he became once again the man I'd seen on the TV news so many times over the years, b
lasting away at governors, Democrats, criminals, and whoever else was unlucky enough to arouse his fury. He got the ironic nickname "Ducky" not because he resembled that friendly, waddling creature, but because he acted so positively mean and un-ducklike.

"What, are you
stalking
me?" he snapped as I walked up. "I'm calling the police."

"I doubt it," I replied. "I doubt you want anyone to know you're staying here."

That stopped him. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jacob Burns. I'm a friend of Will Shmuckler."

"Yeah, so what?"

I couldn't think of any nifty P.I. moves to pull on him, so I cut right to the
chase. "Did you kill Jack Tamarack?"

He barked out a laugh. "What nonsense. Why would I do that?"

"Because he was blackmailing you."

His hand went involuntarily to his throat, but his voice stayed aggressive. "Where'd you hear
that?"

"Never mind where
I heard it. Where were you Monday night?"

"Jack Tamarack was not blackmailing me. Don't be preposterous."

"Give me one other reason why you'd endorse a lifelong hack, a guy who never even got elected to
dogcatcher,
to run for the United States Congress."

Before, I had believed that Ducky endorsed the Hack to reward him for twenty years of brownnosing; but upon reflection, that now seemed naive to me. You can't brownnose your way to the top, only to the middle.

"Jack Tamarack was a very capable man," Ducky said huffily.

"Yeah, right. The Hack never had an original idea in his life."

Ducky stared at me incredulously. "And you think that's a
negative?
What are you, an idiot? Listen, Burnside, or whatever your name is, the last thing I want is an independent-minded congressman. I want a guy who does exactly what I tell him, whether it's getting tax breaks for some local company or easing pollution regulations or
whatever
. I
wanted
a hack, Burnside, and that's why I got the county chairmen to pick Tamarack."

I almost believed him
. But Hack Sr. had been so absolutely certain that his son was blackmailing this man.

"Now if you'll excus
e me," Ducky continued sarcastically, "I was enjoying a little peace and quiet before you came along—"

"You still didn'
t answer me. Where were you Monday night?"

"None of your damn business."

"Are you separated from your wife?"

He glared at me but didn't answer. Instead he lifted his drink to his lips. It was time to aim a wild haymaker at him.

"Senator, was your wife having an affair with Jack Tamarack?"

Ducky stopped in mid-sip. Then he threw the glass at me. It slammed into my nose but luckily didn't break, just spilled scotch all over my face. Then Ducky stood up abruptly and left the bar.

I took that to mean yes.

6

When I got home, it was almost midnight
—but Derek Jeter wasn't in bed. For a crazed moment, I was afraid some vicious murderer had kidnapped him. But then I found him at the computer, his tired, drawn face looking ghastly in the screen's cold glow. The kid would be a wreck tomorrow. Not good. The first week of school was no time to relax bedtime schedules.

"Derek, what are you doing up?" I began, preparing to yell at him for sneaking out of bed. But then he turned toward me and I saw a familiar unfocused look in his eyes. He was asleep.

"How you doing, kid?" I asked gently.

He nodded vaguely, then turned back to the computer screen. I noticed he had a bunch of newspaper articles about Jack Tamarack listed on there.

"Honey, it's time to go to bed." I signed off of AOL—I may be technologically challenged, but at least I know how to do
that
—and lifted the kid up. He protested weakly, then slumped against my body as I carried him upstairs.

Once I lay him down in his own bed, he woke up. "Hi, Daddy," he said. "Was I sleepwalking?"

"Yup."

"What was I doing?"

"I don't know. You were at the computer."

"Oh, yeah. I was helping you solve the murder."

I sighed. "Sweetheart, it's okay, I really don't need help."

"But I don't want you to almost get killed, like last time."

I started to give some reassuring reply, but then I smelled something. Bernie Williams had peed in his bed.

Yes, it's hard to be hard-boiled when you've got two young sprats at home. I put some dry pants on the still-sleeping Bernie, and lay down with Derek until he was asleep, too. I was too tired to deal with Will, so I turned off the ringer on our phone in case he called me. Then I went to bed myself.

The next morning, Andrea and I talked it over and agreed it would be better for our family
—and for Will, too—if I simply dumped the investigation in the cops' laps.

After all, they had infinitely more resources. I figured I now had enough grounds for suspicion against Senator Ducky that the cops would be forced to take my story seriously. So I called up Lou Coates, the African-American, Yiddish-speaking Troy police chief.

"Chief Coates," I said, when the receptionist finally put me through, "Ducky Medwick and his wife are separated. They split up on Sunday."

"Nu?
What am I, a gossip columnist?"

"Jack Tamarack was killed on Monday."

"And the Mets won a doubleheader on Tuesday. So what?"

"So Jack Tamarack was having an affair with Ducky's wife."

There was a silence. Then the chief asked, "You have any evidence, or are you just ringing my
chatchkas?"

Ringing my
chatchkas?
That was a new one on me. "No
direct
evidence, but—"

"But
shmut
. Don't be a
nudnick
. You got nothing. And I got no yen to go on a wild-goose chase against Ducky. 'Specially when we already got the dirty
mamzer
who did it: Will Shmuckler."

"If I can get you proof they were having an affair
—"

"Do me a favor. Go shake your
shlong
at someone else."

He hung up. So did I. Chief Coates had taken some liberties with his Yiddish, but that didn't really bother
me. You're supposed to take liberties with Yiddish; that's what Yiddish is for.

What did bother me was that Chief Coates was clearly afraid to tangle with a powerful state senator. In upstate New York, it seems like everything in public life is about favors. If you want a go
vernment job, or a tax reassessment, or you just want your dried leaves removed from the curb for Pete's sake, you better know the right people.

And if you're like Lou Coates and you already have a government job, and you want to
keep
it, then you better keep the right people happy.

My musings were interrupted by an irate phone call from the one and only "dirty
mamzer"
himself. "Why the hell didn't you call me back yesterday?" he complained.

"Sorry, I did try
—"

"I'm dying here. I got reporters hiding in my bushes now. I open my door to get the paper and they ambush me. I'm scared to go out for orange juice. My campaign events are getting canceled right and left. Give me some good news, I'm begging you."

I began to get worried about the guy. "Do you have people who can bring you food? I'll try to get down there today—"

"Screw that. Just give me some reason to hope."

I did my best. "Listen, Will, do you happen to know if Ducky Medwick's wife was the Hack's secretary?"

"Yeah, she was. Why?"

"You ever hear rumors she was having an affair with the Hack?"

Will figured out the implications immediately. All his frenzied angst disappeared. "Holy shit, that's fabulous! So you think Ducky killed him?"

"It's a possibility."

"Oh man oh man oh man!"

"Hey, don't come in your pants just yet."

"This would win me the election for sure! I'll be an innocent man, set up fo
r a false murder rap by the corrupt Republican machine. Talk about getting the sympathy vote!"

Will's continuing obsession with his moribund
campaign was getting on my nerves. "Susan Tamarack will get sympathy votes, too. Look what happened to Hillary's popularity when
her
husband had an affair."

"Yeah, but it didn't last. And Susan's gonna get hurt by Pierce."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't hear? He announced his candidacy last night."

I whistled through my teeth. "Amazing. He's actually bucking the bosses? Someone must've lent him a new set of balls."

"So now we got two Republican write-ins stealing each other's votes. Jake, we're gonna kick ass. All you gotta do is nail the killer before the election and get me off the hook!"

I sighed. "No sweat. And after that, I'll establish permanent world peace and pitch the Red Sox into the World Series."

"Just humor me, will you? I'm trying to keep my mind off the fact I may be going to jail for the next hundred and twenty years."

I didn't know how to respond to that.

"And Jake?"

"Yeah."

"Don't lose faith in yourself, you're the best. I love you, man."

Yeah, yeah, I love you, too,
I thought as I hung up the phone. But my life sure would be a lot simpler if I'd just gotten a different college roommate. What was I supposed to do now—

Answer the doorbell, that's what. It was ringing. So I went to the door and opened it.

Standing there in front of me was the bleached blonde bombshell.

I'd never seen Linda Medwick in sunlight before. With her soft skin and light smattering of freckles, she turned out to be one of those women who look even better in
the daytime. Her low-cut, tight white T-shirt and short pink gym shorts didn't hurt her looks any, either.

"Come in," I said.

I held the door open for her, and she brushed against me as she walked past into the living room. For a second I wondered if it was intentional, then decided I was imagining things. She sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs.

"Can I get you something?" I asked.

She shook her head, her mane flying around as she did so. She'd done something extra to her hair this morning, and she looked like the second coming of Farrah Fawcett.

"My husband says you know about my affair with Jack," she said.

I perched on the chair across from the sofa. "Yes, I do," I answered.

"Why do you care about it?"

"You have to admit, it does give your husband a good motive."

She looked puzzled. "For what?"

"For murder."

She stared at me
a moment, then threw out an unhappy laugh. "Ducky wouldn't kill anyone over me. He doesn't even
like
me. We're getting a divorce."

"When did he find out about you and the Ha
—you and Jack?"

I didn't expect a straight answer, but she proceeded to actually give me one. Something smelled fishy here. On the other hand, if she was willing to spill the beans with so little effort on my part, who was I to complain?

Her answer was: "Ducky found out about us last week. It was
horrible
. I forgot to lock the door to Jack's office, and Ducky just walked in." She put her head in her hands. "Oh God, I'm so embarrassed."

Suddenly she burst into tears. I'd have suspected they were fake, except that she was crying for real when I caught her unawares in the Hack's office yesterday.

She gazed up at me with her moist hazel eyes. "I loved Jack, and now he's gone. I don't have anyone. I'm so lonely."

She sobbed some more, and I got up to give her a Kleenex. When I handed it to her, she gently took hold of my wrist. "Thank you," she said softly. "God, you don't know how much I need a little kindness right now. I'd give anything to just forget my troubles for a while."

She looked at me, her lips parted. I looked back, and I couldn't help myself: I got that old familiar tightening in my jeans.

Hey, you probably think I'm a chump, falling for such a corny pickup line. But what can I say? Having a Farrah Fawcett lookalike in a skimpy white T-shirt suggestively stroking my arm just took my breath away. I never knew wrists could be so erogenous. And on top of that, it sure would be a kick to fool around with the wife of State Senate Majority Leader Ducky Medwick.

I guess men are just plain dogs.

But I guess I'll never know exactly
how
doggish we are. I like to think I would've resisted temptation, but I can't prove it, because just at that moment the phone rang. It broke the spell, and Farrah the Second let go of me.

"Excuse me," I said, blushing, and practically ran to the kitchen, where I grabbed the phone and said, "Hello?" Actually, that "Hello?" was more like a shout. I didn't quite have control of my voice yet.

"Is something wrong?" my wife said over the phone.

"No!" I shouted again, and then fought to rein in my volume and act normal. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, because you're shouting. And you sound out of breath."

"Oh, it's nothing. I just came in from outside. So what's up?"

"Bad news. I got a flat."

"What a drag."

"I made it to Matt's Garage, but it'll be a while before they get around to fixing it. Would you mind terribly giving me a lift to school? I have a class in forty minutes."

The trip would seriously eat into my day's sleuthing. On the other hand, it would give me an excuse to get away from the vixen in the other room. "Okay, honey," I said, "I'll be right there."

I hung up and headed back toward the living room. But Farrah the Second was already at my front door, on her way out. She turned back to me.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to come on to you like that."

Yeah, I'll bet
. "Linda, why
did
you come here?"

She bit her lip and gave me a shy, scared-little-girl look, and in spite of everything, my jeans tightened again.
Dogs
.

"Jacob," she said tentatively, "could you keep my . . . you know . . . private? Would it be too much to ask?"

"I'm investigating a murder here."

"But my affair with Jack had nothing to do with his death, I'm
positive
. The night he got killed, I was home. And Ducky was at the hotel."

"How do you know he was at the hotel?"

"Because he called me from there. We fought on the phone for an hour."

"Exactly what time was this call?"

Her eyes darted around nervously. I got the impression she was trying to remember when the Hack had been shot, so she could give an answer that would clear Ducky.

"I think around eight o'clock," she said.

Not exactly the world's most airtight alibi.

"If you won't do this for
me,"
she went on plaintively, "what about my children? Do you want them to have to read in the newspaper all about their mom's sex life?"

I flashed on Linda's gangly eleven-year-old son. He'd seemed so vulnerable last night, cradling a basketball in his arms as he told me about his father staying at a hotel. The divorce would be tough enough on the poor kid, even without his mother's promiscuity becoming a major regional news story.

But now was no time to get all sensitive. I've always believed that Democrats need to learn to be just as cutthroat as Republicans. "Listen, you want something from me, then give me something. What dirt did Jack have on Ducky?"