3 Strange Bedfellows (8 page)

"Yeah, I might've learned a thing or two," I drawled, then hit them with both barrels blazing. "Jack Tamarack was blackmailing Senator Medwick, sleeping with Medwick's wife, and beating his own wife."

I expected to see all those square jaws dropping, but I was disappointed. Inste
ad all their eyebrows began rising. "Do you have proof for any of this, or is it just gossip?" the chief asked.

"It's not gossip."

"So you have proof?"

"Well," I said defensively, "I'm still, you know . . ."

One of the two lieutenants in the room—a guy I knew and despised from before named Foxwell—cut in. "How do you know he was beating his wife?"

I couldn't very well say, "Because I stole
her portfolio," so instead I hemmed and hawed for a moment. That gave Chief Walsh his opening.

"Listen, Burns," he said, "it's much more likely this whole thing was just a stupid prank."

"A
what?"

Now he lifted his shoulders as well as his eyebrows. "Face it, you piss off a lot of people. I could name about ten guys in this town that would love to take a potshot at you. Hell, there's a few of them sitting right here in this room."

The lieutenants sitting on my living room sofa snickered. I was outraged. "Just a goddamn minute," I said. "Somebody took three 'potshots' at me and my sons. I fail to find that humorous!"

"Hey, we take it seriously and all," the chief said, "but I doubt they were actually trying to
kill
you."

"Thanks, that's so reassuring."

"Look, you were just three feet from the window. If they wanted to kill you, they could've walked right up to the window and put a bullet through your head."

I already knew the flaw in that theory. "But the shooter couldn't have walked up that close without me hearing him. His shoes would have crackled on the dried leaves, and I would've turned around and seen him. Maybe he realized that, so he decided to try and kill me from the sidewalk."

"I don't buy it," the chief said.

"Neither do I," said Foxwell. The other cops sprinkled around the room nodded in agreement.

I glared around at them all. "So what you're telling me is, you don't plan to even
look
for a connection between this shooting and the Hack's murder?"

Chief Walsh shrugged. "Well . . ." he began.

"In that case," I said, "why don't you take your lazy asses out of my house?"

As the chief and his bozos exited my front door, they were assaulted by a horde of reporters and cameramen. We don't get a lot of shootings here in bucolic Saratoga Springs, and I'm something of a local celeb, so the front curb of my house had already become home to three TV minivans. How did they get wind of this so quick? Media people must be descended from buzzards.

I wondered what Walsh would tell them. Probably some fancied up version of "no comment." Several media buzzards saw me watching through the window, and they waved and gestured for me to come outside and talk. But I was beat, so I just closed the shades again.

Meanwhile Dave came back in from outside, where he'd been doing more evidence-hunting on the driveway and sidewalk. Who knows—maybe the shooter left behind a business card by mistake.

"Find anything?" I asked.

He shook his head no. "I'll look again in the morning, but I kind of doubt we'll have much luck. Especially with the media stomping around all over the place."

"But they won't come on the driveway, right? I mean, you put up all that yellow police tape."

"Yeah, but that won't stop them. They'll just see it as an invitation to go under the tape and poke around."

Wonderful. Of course
, having done the same thing myself at WTRO, I guess I couldn't complain. "Hey, thanks for trying. I appreciate it."

He checked his watch. "My shift is over now. You want me to stick around for a while? I know you've had a shock."

"No, that's okay," I said, but at the same time Andrea, coming down the stairs, exclaimed, "Yes, that would be great!"

So Dave stuck around for a couple of hours and watched the 11:00 news with us. It was quite a show. I had a starring role.

What had happened was, various buzzards kept ringing my doorbell and getting Derek and Bernie all riled up. Even Dave couldn't scare them off. So eventually, around 10:15, I'd decided to go outside and hold an impromptu news conference.

The first question came from an ins
ipid-looking brunette with way too much makeup. "Mr. Burns, who do you think shot at your house? Chief Walsh says it was probably someone's sick idea of a joke."

I stood on the top step of my porch and looked out over the crowd. There were about fifteen buzzards and thirty neighbors. "Folks,
" I said, "I have a brief statement to make."

I waited until I was sure all the cameras were focused directly on me. Then I announced, "I am investigating the murder of Jack Tamarack. I have reason to believe that Will Shmuckler was falsely accused. Whoever shot those bullets through my window was trying to stop me from finding the real killer."

This time I got all the dropped jaws I could have asked for. Finally, when their amazement wore off, another overly made up lady buzzard asked me, "So who do you think
is
the real killer?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted, "but I'll find out." I gave the cameras my fiercest, most macho look. "And let me tell you this: nobody
—but
nobody
—will scare me away. If they want to stop me, they'll have to kill me first."

And they just might do that,
I thought, as I watched myself on TV. A chill went up my spine. I grabbed Andrea's hand.

Then Will Shmuckler came on our TV screen. He was standing on the front porch of his house by the Hudson. I was expecting this; Will had called twenty minutes ago to see if I was all right, and to let me know that his own personal set of media buzzards had banged on his front door, told him the who
le story, and asked him for comments. "I gave them the works," he told me gleefully. "Best campaign speech I ever made."

Having seen him fumble and bumble his way through the Skidmore event just the other night, I was dubious. But when I saw him on TV, I had to agree. The Shmuck had done himself proud. I guess he was feeling more confident that my investigation was bearing fruit and he wouldn't go down for the murder. His confidence showed.

"I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am," he pronounced, looking grave but forceful, "that my friend Jacob Burns and his family have not been hurt. I would hate to see Jacob's two young boys suffer because of their dad's heroic efforts to save me from this malicious, politically motivated accusation of murder.

"I hope that tonight's
terrible near-tragedy will convince the police of what I've been saying all along:
I am an innocent man.
And I hope the voters of our 22nd District will understand exactly what's going on here. The powers that be want to wreck my campaign. So they're destroying my reputation and threatening me with life in prison. I ask you: is this the kind of behavior you want to condone in this great democracy of ours? If you believe in our country, in truth, in
justice,
then please remember your cherished beliefs come Election Day."

Will looked good, better than I'd seen him since the campaign began. His hair was combed for once, and the camera angle made his proboscis a little less imposing than usual. He sounded good, too. It was a powerful speech.

Andrea and I looked at each other, and we were both thinking the same thing.
Was it possible?

Was it possible that my
old college buddy, liberal, Jewish, Democratic
Shmuckler
that he was, would actually get elected to the United States Congress?

8

I tossed and turned all
night long, dreaming about faceless dark figures and large black guns. Every time I woke up and heard a car slink along in the early a.m. darkness, I wondered if it was the shooter coming back for another try.

On the other hand, the kids must have been really knocked out. Derek Jeter didn't walk in his sleep, or if he did, we didn't find out about it. And Bernie Williams didn't pee in his bed, either. We would definitely have found out about
that
.

The boys slept until seven-thirty, which is late for them. Then they came into our bed and cuddled. Happily it was Saturday, so no one had to rush off anywhere. Andrea read the boys two chapters of
Greatest World Series Thrillers,
and I was reading them yet another chapter—they're insatiable—when the phone rang. Probably some early-bird-gets-the-worm buzzard.

I grabbed the phone. "Yeah," I growled.

"This is Jeremy."

Huh? "Jeremy who?"

"Jeremy Wartheimer."

"Oh, right. How you doing?"
And why are you calling me before eight a.m. on a Saturday,
I wanted to ask, but didn't. No sense in alienating Andrea's colleagues. At least, not until she got tenure.

"I was calling to ask if you've read my screenplay yet."

Talk about pushy. "No, but I'm looking forward to it."

Actually, of course, I'd thrown his screenplay away, but there was no way I could tell him that. Maybe the next time he called, I'd simply pretend to have read it
already. I could spew forth all the inanities that Hollywood producers spew when they're pretending to have read something, like: "Interesting work... A lot of good stuff in it… Reminds me of
The Godfather..."

"So when do you think you'll read it?" Jeremy pressed.

I had to fight not to blow up at him. "Hey, cut me some slack. If you saw the TV news last night, then you know I've been kind of busy."

"I never watch TV. When you read my screenplay, you'll understand that I consider television an imperialist tool of the ruling classes."

What a turdball. My kids were wriggling around on the bed, impatient for me to get back to their book. "I have to get off the phone now. I'll read your screenplay as soon as I can—"

"Bullshit. You're not gonna read it."

"Sure, I will."

"No, you won't. I saw you throw it in the garbage in McCracken Hall."

Oh, God. "Listen, Jeremy, I'm—I'm sorry," I stuttered. "It's just I'm under a lot of pressure right now, and, um, look, why don't you give me another copy, I really do want to read it, okay?"

"Skip it. The truth is, I don't give a damn if you read my screenplay or not. I just want you to pass it along to your agent with a note saying how much you loved it."

"But I can't do that—unless I really
do
love it."

"Oh, yeah? Either you give me that note, or I tell Rosalyn all about you bre
aking into her office and stealing Susan Tamarack's portfolio."

Talk about stuttering. "How-how-how
—"

His harsh laugh singed my ears. "How do I know? It wasn't rocket science. You were so
obvious
. First you stand outside Rosalyn's door palming a credit card, then you hide a manila folder under your jacket, and then when Rosalyn gives me the portfolios to look at, Susan Tamarack's is missing. So here's the deal, Burns. You're gonna fax me a letter addressed to your agent, signed by you, in which you inform him that my screenplay is the best thing since Fellini's
Satyricon
. That's spelled S-A-T-I-R-Y-C-O-N."

I was pretty sure he had the I and the Y mixed up, but now was no time to get technical. "Jeremy, this is preposterous
—"

"I better get that fax by Monday morning, pal, or your wife's ass is grass. See, I won't just tell Rosalyn. I'll go to the department chairman, too."

"Look, please—"

But he hung up. I just sat there on the bed with the phone in my hands.
Jeez Louise,
people will stop at nothing to make it in Hollywood.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Andrea asked me worriedly.

"Uh, we better talk," I said. "Kids, why don't you go downstairs? Mommy and I need some private time."

"But I don't
want
to go downstairs," Bernie said, and his big brother added, "You're in the middle of the chapter!"

"You guys can go down and play on the computer."

"I don't
want
to play on the computer," Bernie said.

Now this was a first. "Sure, you do."

"No, I don't! What if someone shoots at us again?"

"Yeah!" Derek agreed. "They could kill us!"

"Sweethearts," Andrea said soothingly, "no one's going to shoot at the house again."

"How do you know?" Derek asked.

"And besides, they weren't really trying to kill us," I said, though I wasn't so sure that was true. "They were shooting above us, on purpose."

"How do you know?" Derek asked again.

Clearly this would not be easy.

Eventually we got the kids to go downstairs for some cereal. Then Andrea and I went back to bed, where I told her the whole sordid tale of my dastardly break-in at the English Department. As expected, Andrea was pissed. "First somebody shoots at us
—"

"You mean above us
—"

"
—thanks to your investigation, and now you're endangering my job? What in God's name were you thinking?"

After several minutes of telling her I was sorry, I started getting pretty pissed myself. "Look, I screwed up. Now what the hell do you want me to do?"

"Why not just write that letter to your agent? Then call him up and tell him to ignore it."

I gave that some thought. But as Bernie would say, it was just too
embarrassing
. Andrew, my agent, already thought I was a few chromosomes short of a full mental deck. I didn't want to give him any more ammunition to use against me.

I explained this to Andrea, but she wasn't impressed. "Hey, I'd rather have you look bad to your agent than have me get involved in some scandal that might ruin my tenure chances."

"Come on, do you really want to let Jeremy blackmail us?"

"Of course not. He's t
he biggest ass in the known universe. But what choice do we have?"

"You know," I said, eyeing her thoughtfully, "I could always show you how to use your AAA card."

She wrinkled her forehead, puzzled. But when I told her my idea, she slowly started grinning. Andrea may be the cautious type, but luckily she's got a mischievous-kid streak, too. And even luckier, she absolutely couldn't stand Jeremy Wartheimer.

So we made our pl
an. Tomorrow was a Sunday. Sometime in the morning Andrea would drive to her campus and break into Jeremy's office. Then she'd slip Susan Tamarack's folder back into his pile of portfolios without him even knowing. That would get me off the hook. I had never actually confessed to stealing anything, so I could just tell Jeremy that he'd misunderstood our phone conversation, and he must have misplaced the portfolio himself.

Only one catch: what if the AAA card snapped in half or whatever, and Andrea couldn't break in? What would we do then?

Well . . . we'd cross that Rubicon when we came to it.

The phone started ringing again shortly thereafter—buzzards on the prowl—so we took the phone off the hook. I've found that taking the phone off the hook takes care of a surprisingly large number of life's problems.

At five of nine, freshly showered and breakfasted, I lit out for the widow's house. I figured, this early on a Saturday morning I was bound to catch her. Even politicians
—and Susan Tamarack was now, I supposed, a politician—have to sleep sometimes.

But no one was home at her place. Either that or they were avoiding me, because I rang the bell twice and banged the door knocker three times to no purpose. Bummer. Leaning against one of the Corinthian columns, I was debating my next move when a post office van pulled up and the driver popped out. He reached in the passenger's seat for a large box, then came up the front walk toward me.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," I replied. That box looked oddly familiar, and then it hit me: I'd seen Linda Medwick filling up this same box with the Hack's "personal stuff."

The mailman set the box down on the porch. "Could you sign for it, please?" he asked, holding out a clipboard and pen. Obviously he assumed I lived in the house.

I was tempted to sign the clipboard and abscond with the box. But I'd already gotten in enough trouble just for ripping off Jeremy Wartheimer. Imagine how much trouble I'd get into for ripping off the post office.

I mean, if there were two things I learned as a kid, they were: don't tear the tags off of mattresses, and don't mess with the U.S. mail. No way would I even consider fooling with the
federales
—

"Sir?" the mailman said
impatiently, thrusting his clipboard and pen at me.

"Sorry, I . . . I . . ."

He eyed me questioningly.

"Never mind," I said, as I grabbed the clipboard and pen and signed,
"Michael Jones."

"Thank you," the mailman said, and as soon as he drove out of sight, I grabbed the box, stuffed it in my car, and hauled ass to a secluded spot.

I know, I know, it was dumb. What can I say?

The secluded spot I chose was the far end of a Price Chopper parking lot, in the midst of a sea of abandoned shopping carts. I hopped in the backseat, tore the box open, and got down to work.

At the top of the box were loose odds and ends: key chains, wrapping paper, tea bags... all very innocuous, from what I could tell. It seemed funny that the Hack's mistress had been so conscientious about sending his stuff back to his wife.

Beneath these loose odds and ends, I found more loose odds and ends. And then more. I tossed them impatiently onto the seat. I found s
ome long, official-looking documents—a sales tax analysis, an environmental study, and a report on HMOs—and leafed through them without finding anything of interest. Linda probably should have left them in the office for whoever took over the Hack's job, but I guess in her grief she just threw in a bunch of stuff without thinking.

Then I came across two items that looked promising: the Hack's personal
appointment calendar and his address book. I examined them hopefully, searching for some magic notation like:
"Sept. 6, 8:45 p.m.: go to WTRO to get whacked by Ducky Medwick."
But no such luck. If there was a clue hidden away inside all of these names, dates, and numbers, it eluded me.

I worked my way down through the box, burrowing past a yo-yo and three bags of M & M's, until I came to a couple of framed 5X7 photographs. The first photo featured little Sean in a T-ball uniform. The other photo was the same one I'd
seen on the Hack's campaign brochure. It showed Susan gazing up adoringly at her husband while he gazed adoringly at the camera.

He looked smug, arrogant, and Republican. I stared into his eyes, trying to see if those were the eyes of a vicious wife beater.

Susan, for her part, looked waifish, obsequious, and a bit too much like a sweet little
wife,
if you know what I mean. But was she also an abused woman who lashed out at last and killed her abuser?

One thing was certain: no matter what this photograph
seemed to show, Susan Tamarack wasn't just a sweet little wife. Her seizing opportunity by the horns and running for Congress proved that.

I sat in my Toyota studying the photo and scratching my head, trying to reconcile all the contradictory aspects of this person. Then suddenly I noticed something. There was a second photo under the Plexiglas, hidden right behind this one. I could see one edge of the bottom photo barely sticking out.

I slid the Hack-Susan picture out of the way, and here's what greeted my puzzled eyes: a photo of some well-dressed man I didn't recognize handing a white envelope to Robert Pierce, of all people.

What the heck was
this
about?

Pierce was seated behind a desk. It looked like he was in his office, presumably at the State Assembly. The photo had been shot through the office window and looked grainy, like it had been enlarged. The two men seemed very serious and businesslike, but not antagonistic.

I couldn't see what was in that envelope. But I had a strong suspicion.

I mean, hey, a secret hidden photograph of a politician taking an envelope from someone . . . that thing had to have money inside. And not just cab money, either.

What was the Hack doing with this photograph? And where did he get it from?

I learned the answer to my second question easily enough, when I turned the picture over and saw the words "Zzypowski Investigations" stamped on the back. Then I took out the Hack's address book and found an address and phone number for somebody named "Zzyp." Maybe Chief Walsh was right, and I'm not the world's smartest sleuth, but at least I'm savvy enough to guess that Zzyp is short for Zzypowski.