An Affair to Dismember (11 page)

Fred brought us into a large room. “You’ll love this. For sure, you’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“It’s a box,” said Mr. Smith.

“It’s a clear box, a glass box,” said the woman.

“It’s the newest in cell technology. It’s for our really big criminals,” Fred explained. “It’s the era of terrorism, ladies and gentlemen, but don’t you fear, because we have this to contain the most dangerous individuals before we send them off to Gitmo or whatever.”

“What is it?” I asked. It was a large glass box set in the middle of the room. I didn’t see any doors, any way in. Actually, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a modern art gallery.

“I’ll show you,” Fred said. “This baby cost eight hundred fifty thousand dollars. It opens with an eye scan at the entrance to the room.” Fred scanned his eye in a gizmo, and the glass box opened up with a whoosh, revealing the hidden door.

“Well, would you look at that,” said Mr. Smith.

“I didn’t even notice the door. I thought it was just a box,” said the woman.

“Show us how it works,” said the other VIP. A tingle went up my spine, a sense of foreboding that I couldn’t shake. I wanted to shout out, “No! Stop!” but I didn’t
want to appear ridiculous in front of Grandma’s friends and clients.

“Yeah, get in,” said the man in shorts.

Fred smiled, no doubt thrilled that the glass box cell was such a hit on his tour. He entered the box, and the VIP shut the door tight behind him. “No!” shouted Fred, his voice muffled by the thick glass. He pounded on the door but to no avail.

“How does he breathe in there?” asked the woman.

“I think he’s wondering the same thing himself,” I said.

Fred pounded on the glass, spinning like a top, trying to find a weak spot in his high-tech, Gitmo-in-a-box wonder cell. His eyes were enormous. The kind of eyes cows have when they know they are about to have their heads bashed in.

The woman halfheartedly searched for the opening in the door, but the box was sealed up pretty tight. The men went to the scanner and stuck their eyeballs in, but that didn’t work, either.

“Maybe we should call someone,” I said.

Fred was really freaking out by then, pulling at his clothes and his hair, his eyes darting back and forth.

“That boy’s going to blow,” said the VIP in shorts.

“Maybe we should stand back,” said the other man.

It was good advice because just then, Fred pulled out his gun and shook it like a maraca.

“Smith and Wesson,” explained the woman. “My husband had one just like it. It can blow a pretty good-sized hole in a person.”

I let that bit of information soak in just as Fred fired off a round. The sound was enormous, even from outside the box. We ducked in terror, but the box held true to Fred’s boast. It was bulletproof.

“Not even a dent,” noted one of the VIPs.

But that didn’t help poor Fred, who was now threatened by a ricocheting bullet hell-bent on killing him.

“That boy is going to get killed six hundred times over,” said the woman, as we watched with fascination usually reserved for pinball games the bullet’s untiring trajectory, bouncing off one wall to the other.

“Maybe we should get somebody,” I said, my eyes never leaving the action in front of me.

I didn’t need to bother. We soon heard the pounding of standard-issue police boots on the marble flooring coming our way at a pretty good clip. Fred couldn’t hear them from inside the box, and his panic increased, sure that he was stuck forever in a claustrophobic nightmare.

The entire Cannes police force stormed into the room and froze when faced with the spectacle of Fred in the box, the ricocheting bullet seconds away from killing him.

Only one cop continued to move. Spencer tackled me from the side, knocking the air out of me. He picked me up in a bear hug and shoved me out of the room. “Get the civilians out!” he shouted.

When we were out of the line of fire, he scanned his eye, and the box opened and the bullet flew out, landing in one of the walls. Free at last, Fred fell in a dead faint on the floor.

“Is he okay? I can’t see a blasted thing,” said Mr. Smith.

“I think he just fainted,” said the other VIP. “They’re slapping him around pretty good now.”

“I can’t wait to tell my canasta group about this,” said the woman.

Mr. Smith whistled. “I wish I had a bet on this. The odds against his surviving had to be astronomical.”

Fred regained consciousness and was being read the
riot act by Spencer. With everyone’s attention on Fred, I decided it was the perfect time to slip out.

I made it right through the police station to Spencer’s office. The place was deserted, and I was reasonably confident that I would hear them coming back in enough time to get out of the office without being caught.

Spencer’s computer was on, but I was distracted by the paper files on his desk. There were files on Peter, Jane, and Christy Terns. I opened Peter’s file. The words “sexual assault” jumped out at me just as my cellphone rang.

“Legs, it’s Uncle Harry. I found Jimmy the Fink for you. You got a pen? He’s in town near the park.”

I jotted down the address. It was what I wanted, what I had been looking for, and it was being handed to me on a silver platter. But it posed obvious problems. Spencer didn’t want me to have the address. He didn’t want me to look up Jimmy the Fink. In fact, Spencer would do everything he could to prevent me from talking to Jimmy the Fink. So, sharing new information with Spencer was out of the question. I reasoned it was best to keep it to myself and get out as quickly as I could before Spencer found me.

I debated with myself whether to take the files and Spencer’s car keys. I decided against stealing state’s evidence, but I had fewer qualms over grand theft auto. I don’t know. Maybe Uncle Harry was rubbing off on me. Maybe it was divine retribution for Spencer kidnapping me. Maybe I was just pissed and that’s why I jacked Spencer’s ride.

I ADJUSTED the seat and the mirrors and turned off the police scanner. Spencer’s car was nice. It had leather interior, a navigation system, and a gun rack, complete with an adjustable-objective rifle-scope-outfitted shotgun. I opened the windows and headed out toward Jimmy the Fink’s.

The ride was smooth, and the fresh air blowing through my hair was intoxicating. I didn’t know what Grandma was talking about. It was a great day for driving, as far as I was concerned.

Jimmy lived in a decrepit motel turned condo complex. It was blue with white trim, one of those places where you park right in front of your room. It was two stories, and Jimmy was on the second floor, apartment 213 at the end.

I dabbed on some lipstick, ran my fingers through my hair, and adjusted my boobs in my bra to make them pooch out a little more. I didn’t look half bad in my red dress and wanted to make the most out of it. I wasn’t totally clear on what I was going to ask Jimmy the Fink, but I had a hunch it would come to me when I met him. Though he was old enough that I wasn’t frightened for my safety, I tucked Spencer’s can of Mace into my purse, just in case.

I walked down the long balcony to Jimmy’s place. I knocked on his door for a while, but there was no answer. The curtains were drawn, making it impossible to peek inside. I had stolen a cop car to speak to a known criminal about a murder, and the guy wasn’t even home?

Hmph
. The guy wasn’t home. Since I had already spied on confidential papers in the chief of police’s office, I didn’t see the harm in spying on an average citizen. A man below was sweeping the parking lot and whistling “Camptown Races.” It was the super. Perfect timing.

“Yoo-hoo!” I called, imitating Lucy. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? My, oh my.” I ran down to him.

“What do you want?” he said, clearly unimpressed by my beauty and charm. He smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a long time, and his clothes looked like they had been slept in.

“My uncle Jimmy,” I said, changing tactics from flirty to no nonsense. “I need to get in to give him his medication, but his door’s locked, and I forgot my key.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so? Here.” He handed me the key, making me promise to return it later.

I strutted back up the stairs. I was starting to sympathize with Randy Terns and his cronies. A life of crime was easy to get into. You just sort of slipped from one thing to another.

“Do you realize how much trouble you’re in?”

I jumped three feet in the air. Police Chief Spencer Bolton stood in front of Jimmy the Fink’s door. His five o’clock shadow was growing in nicely.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“My job. Harry called me with Jimmy the Fink’s address.” Spencer blinked. “What am
I
doing here? What are
you
doing here?”

“How’s Fred?” I asked.

“Never mind Fred. You stole a police vehicle.”

“No, that’s not correct. You said it was just a normal car. I just stole a normal car.” I tucked Jimmy’s key behind my back.

“You can get a lot of years in prison for stealing just a normal car, woman.”

“Yeah? And how about kidnapping? How many years do you get for kidnapping? I wouldn’t have needed a normal car if you hadn’t kidnapped me. I could have taken my own car,” I pointed out.

“For what? To knock on the door of a dangerous criminal in your little dress and high heels and ask him if he happened to have murdered Randy Terns?” It was a good guess. That was exactly what I had planned to do.

“I don’t care for your tone,” I said.

“My tone? How about my gun? You like my gun?” He pulled back his jacket to show me his sidearm.

“Big bad policeman.” I pulled out the Mace.

“Is that my Mace?” Veins popped out on his neck, and his nostrils flared.

“Maybe.”

“You stole my car and my Mace?”

“I borrowed them. Don’t be so dramatic. I would have taken the shotgun, but it was locked.” I was baiting him, but he deserved it. He was stomping on my territory.

“You are impeding a police investigation,” he said.

“What investigation? I thought Randy Terns’ death was an accident. Besides, nobody’s home.”

“I know that. I’m waiting for a warrant.”

“Well, while you wait, I’ll go in to take a look around.” I waved the key under his nose. “The super gave it to me. So, it’s not technically breaking and entering.”

“I don’t know what Harry was thinking, dragging you into this. Your legs aren’t that great.”

“I’ll ignore that, but I might Mace you later.”

Spencer followed me in. The apartment was stuffy. A game show played low on the television, and there were take-out containers scattered around. It was a one-room deal. There was a bed, a table, and two chairs, but what really got our attention was the body lying on the floor in a heap. It was a man, and he wasn’t breathing.

I swayed and saw stars.

“Stay with me,” Spencer said, catching me. Once I was steady on my feet, he pulled me behind him and took out his gun. “Stay here,” he said. He checked under the bed, then took the man’s pulse.

“Is that Jimmy the Fink?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t know him personally, but I would say it’s a good bet this was Jimmy. He’s dead.”

I shivered. “I don’t feel so well.” And then everything went black.

I woke, sitting in a chair at the table. Spencer was on his knees, holding my hands and blowing gently in my face. “There you are,” he said. “You went out for a while. I’d get you some water, but I don’t want to destroy evidence.”

“Oh.” A wave of nausea hit me. Spencer caressed the fleshy spot between my thumb and forefinger and spoke softly.

“You’re just fine, Gladie. Your reaction is completely normal. Breathe deeply. You’ll feel stronger in a moment.
Don’t look over there. Look at me. That’s right. That’s it.”

Spencer’s eyes were big, filled with concern for me. The Al Qaeda of penises had a sensitive streak after all. I had the strongest desire to nestle my head in the crook of his shoulder and let him pet all of me. “I’m fine,” I said.

I dared a peek at the corpse. “He doesn’t smell,” I noted. “I thought they’re supposed to smell.”

“I figure he’s only been dead a few hours. I have to call this in. Don’t touch anything.”

I focused away from Jimmy the Fink’s body while Spencer called the coroner’s office. I couldn’t help but notice the stack of mail on the table. Jimmy wasn’t talking anymore, and he probably wasn’t Randy Terns’ murderer, since he had been murdered himself. Perhaps my only chance of gleaning insight into the murders and the whereabouts of Chuck Costas was in Jimmy’s mail. The envelopes were open, so, it wouldn’t technically be a federal crime if I borrowed them. Besides, Jimmy the Fink didn’t need his mail anymore. I was really doing a service for the cleanup crew, I figured. I slipped them into my purse a second before Spencer whipped around to face me.