Jack and the Beanstalk (Matthew Hope) (32 page)

“Reason I ask,” Bloom said, “is we’re really eager to find her.”

“I wish I could help you,” Crowell said.

Rawles opened the bathroom door and peeked inside. A big bath towel was on the floor; maybe Lettie
had
come here to take a shower, after all. Without turning from the bathroom, Rawles said, “We figure she maybe killed her brother, is why.”

“You think so, huh?” Crowell said.

“Nice girls you hung around with,” Lettie said.

“’Cause otherwise,” Bloom said, “why would she’ve run?”

“Yeah,” Crowell said.

“The way we figure it,” Rawles said, and turned from the bathroom door and said, “These your panties in here, miss? On the shower rod?”

“My panties are right here under my dress,” Lettie said, and looked at Crowell.

“Wonder whose they are,” Rawles said, and shrugged. “The way we figure it is she went to see him that night...”

“Sunny,” Bloom said. “The night her brother got killed.”

“To ask him for a piece of the pot action,” Rawles said.

“But he turned her down cold.”

“So she knifed him.”

Lettie looked at Crowell again.

“White trash,” Rawles said to her in explanation. “This girl we’re talking about.” He winked at her, as though they shared together a great ancient African wisdom that took into account white girls who murdered people and then left their panties on shower rods. Lettie did not wink back. Lettie was listening very hard to everything that was being said, and trying to understand it, but she didn’t trust Rawles as far as she could throw him. Rawles knew this. So did Bloom. But she was Crowell’s alibi for the hours between six-thirty and eight-thirty last night, and they were doing this soft-shoe dance for her benefit as well as Crowell’s.

“She didn’t come here yesterday afternoon, did she?” Bloom asked.

“Who do you mean?” Crowell asked.

“Sunny.”

“No. I just told you,
Lettie’s
been here since six-thirty.”

“Who said anything about six-thirty?” Rawles asked.

“You said you wanted to know where I was between—”

“Yeah, but who said anything about Sunny coming here at six-thirty?”

“I thought you said—”

“What we said was did she come here yesterday
afternoon
, that’s what we said.”

“You mean
this
afternoon?”

“Take it any way you want,” Rawles said. “You want to keep thinking today is yesterday, that’s fine with us. We’re talking about Friday afternoon,
yesterday
afternoon, August twenty-sixth.”

“Today is Saturday,” Bloom said. “You think you got that?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“So
did
she come here yesterday afternoon, or
didn’t
she?”

“No.”

“Not at six-thirty, and not at any time before that, right?”

“Right.”

“Then what are her panties doing on the shower rod?” Rawles asked. He didn’t know if in fact they were Sunny’s panties or even Queen Elizabeth’s panties, though he doubted Her Majesty wore lacy black bikinis. As a matter of fact, he didn’t care
whose
panties they were. All this bullshit about panties was to put Crowell on the defensive and to alert Lettie to the fact that she wasn’t the only woman using his shower.

“Those aren’t hers,” Crowell said, “Sunny’s. She took everything with her when she left the apartment. Except a bathing suit. I think I already told you that.”

“And she hasn’t been back since, right? Since Tuesday, right?”

“Yeah, Tuesday. I guess that’s when it was.”

“Then whose you think they might be?” Rawles asked. “You sure they’re not yours, honey?” he said to Lettie, and again winked.

“You seen me puttin’ mine on,” Lettie said. “You want another look at them? Make sure they ain’t walked in the bathroom and jumped up on the rod?”

“Maybe later,” Rawles said, and grinned at her.

“Must be some other girl’s, huh?” Bloom said.

“Well, I know a few girls,” Crowell said.

“Did you have another girl in here last night?”

“No, not last night.”

“Night before last?”

“When would that’ve been?”

“Thursday. Two days after Sunny cleared out.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Crowell said.

“Been partying a lot?” Rawles asked.

“A little.”

“Celebrating something?”

“No, just...you know.”

“
I’d
be celebrating too,” Bloom said, “a girl like that walked out on me. Way it looks, she killed both her brother
and
the farmer.”

“Only thing,” Rawles said, “is the alibi.”

“Yeah,” Bloom said.

“We ever find her,” Bloom said, “we’d nail her for both murders if it wasn’t for the alibi.”

“You wouldn’t know where she was the afternoon that farmer got shot, would you?” Rawles asked.

“When was that?” Crowell asked.

“You have a lot of trouble keeping up with the calendar, don’t you?”

“No, but—”

“He was shot Monday,” Bloom said. “The day before Sunny disappeared. She left here on Tuesday, remember? Packed all her clothes and left. Except for a bathing suit. I was here that same night, remember? Miss Holmes was taking a shower.”

“Miss Holmes is a very clean person,” Rawles said, and grinned at her again.

“Thursday was when I came to see you again, remember?” Bloom said. “At the supermarket. You were spraying cabbages—”

“Lettuce.”

“Lettuce, right, you
do
remember. That was when you told me again that you and Sunny were together the night her brother was killed. You remember telling me that, don’t you?”

“I remember.”

“Which is the thing of it,” Rawles said, shaking his head. “She didn’t have that alibi, man, we’d throw the book at her the minute we get her.”

“You’re sure you don’t know where she is, huh?” Bloom asked.

“Positive.”

“Reason we asked about last night,” Rawles said, and touched his nose, “is we had her located at six-thirty, she was staying with this friend of her mother’s, but she left there at six-thirty. And we had her located again at eight-thirty, in a lounge on the trail; showed a bartender there her picture just a little while ago, he’s sure she was the girl. But we don’t know where she headed
after
she left the bar, and we thought if she’d come here first, she might have mentioned—”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Or maybe later.
After
she left the bar.”

“No, she didn’t come here at all.”

“
You
didn’t see her then, either, right?” Bloom asked Lettie. “At six-thirty. She didn’t come here to pick up that bathing suit or anything?”

“I didn’t see nobody,” Lettie said, and looked at her sandaled feet.

“Well, we’ll find her, that’s for sure,” Rawles said, sighing. “Just take a little time, that’s all. Once we get her...you’re
sure
you were with her all that night?”

They had no way of knowing at this point whether Crowell was buying anything they told him. They were trying to sell three things. First, they wanted Crowell to believe that they did
not yet know Sunny’s body had been found; as far as they were concerned, she was still alive, and they were still looking for her. Next, they wanted him to believe they were convinced that Sunny had slain both her brother
and
Burrill. And finally, they wanted him to believe that they had enough on her to convict her—if only it weren’t for that damn alibi.

Crowell was the alibi.

Crowell was also stupid.

They were counting on his stupidity.

They were also counting on the cleverness most stupid people think they possess. They were hoping that Crowell would cleverly think,
Gee, if I take away her alibi, they’ll be
positive
she did both murders.
They were hoping Crowell would not think beyond that, would not wonder what would happen once the police
did
find Sunny’s body. A smarter person might have realized at once that the moment Sunny’s body was discovered in that swimming pool, she would no longer be suspect in either of the murders; she would instead be a third victim. But Crowell was stupid. And stupid people are incapable of planning very far in advance. They take whatever solution seems expedient, and then worry about the next solution when the next problem presents itself. Or so the detectives were
hoping
.

They had offered Crowell a solution.

Break Sunny’s alibi, and we charge her with both murders the minute we catch up with her.

Crowell, if he
was
indeed the murderer and if all of this wasn’t just a pointless exercise, had to have known that the police would never be able to charge Sunny with anything; she was already dead on the bottom of my swimming pool. But if he broke her alibi, and they were convinced that she’d killed her brother and Burrill, then wouldn’t they think she’d got herself into some
other
kind of trouble afterwards? Something that had
led to somebody killing
her
, too? Somebody other than himself, who had Lettie here swearing that she’d been with him from six-thirty on?

He took the bait.

“This alibi...,” he said, and hesitated.

The detectives waited.

“You mean her saying we were together all that night, don’t you?”

“You can’t be in two places at the same time,” Rawles said. “Either she was here with you, or she was out stabbing her brother.”

“Simple,” Bloom said.

“Well, I can vouch for her being here with me,” Crowell said.

“So that’s it,” Bloom said. “Sorry to’ve bothered you, we’ll just have to keep—”

“
Most
of the time,” Crowell said.

The detectives looked at each other.

“She wasn’t here
all
that time,” Crowell said.

“You hearing this?” Rawles said to Bloom.

“Oh, brother,
am
I?” Bloom said. “Are you saying she left here at some time that night?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I’m saying.”

“When? What time?”

“Around nine.”

“When did she get back?
Did
she come back?”

“She came back, yes.”

“What time?”

“Around ten-thirty.”

“Terrific,” Rawles said. “Gave her plenty of time to get over to Stone Crab, do the number on her brother, and crawl back here into bed. Did she say where she was going?”

“Said she was hungry, wanted to pick up some burgers.”

“Did she come back here with any burgers?”

“No, sir, she did not,” Crowell said.

“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Bloom asked. “We appreciate your telling us now, believe me, but it would have made a big difference—”

“Well, I loved that girl a lot,” Crowell said, which was perhaps the biggest lie either detective had ever heard in their combined years of police work. “And I got to tell you, officers, I didn’t think she killed her brother, I mean it.”

“You just figured she went out for burgers, huh?” Rawles said.

“Yes, sir.”

“But didn’t bring any back?”

“That’s right, sir.”

He was “sirring” them to death now. He must have figured he was home free.

“Gone an hour and a half, but didn’t come back with the burgers she said she was going for.”

“Must’ve eaten them there,” Crowell said, nodding.

“You didn’t ask her, though.”

“Sir?”

“Whether she’d eaten them there or not?”

“No, sir.”

“How about
you
, Jackie?” Rawles said, a clear indication to Bloom that they were ready to close in on him; Rawles had used the suspect’s first name, an old police trick designed to make him feel both inferior and intimidated. “Weren’t
you
hungry?”

“No, sir, I was not.”

“Didn’t ask her to bring back any burgers for you?”

“No, sir.”

“Even though the last time you’d eaten was...what time did you say it was? When you took her to McDonald’s?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“And came right back here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And she left at nine, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gone an hour and a half.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jackie,” Bloom said, and hesitated. “Where were you during that time?”

“Why...here, sir.”

“All alone?”

“Well...yes, sir.”

“Nobody with you?”

Crowell looked at Bloom. He looked at Rawles. He must have realized in that instant that breaking Sunny’s alibi was the same thing as breaking his own.

“Well...I was waiting for Sunny to come back, you see.”

“
You
didn’t go out during that hour and a half, did you?”

“No, I was right here.”

“In bed here, or what?”

“Well...yeah. Watching television.”

“What show did you watch?”

“I forget.”

“You got a
TV Guide
?” Rawles asked.

Lettie, who’d been silent during all this, suddenly said, “There’s a bunch of them over on the dresser.”

“I don’t think they go back that far, though,” Crowell said.

Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as they thought he was. He had spotted what was coming. They were going to quiz him on the shows he’d seen. The eighth of August was a Monday night. As Rawles went to the dresser, Crowell must have been trying to remember which shows were on every Monday night. There were three or four old
TV Guides
on the dresser, not quite the “bunch”
Lettie had advertised. Rawles picked one up, discarded it, picked up a second one, checked the dates on its cover, and said, “We’re in luck. August sixth to August twelfth.”

Rawles knew, of course, that McKinney had been murdered on a Monday night, the eighth of August. He also knew that the
TV Guide
listings started on a Saturday and ended on a Friday, each and every week of the year. He had been through this particular performance at least a dozen times before with suspects who’d claimed they were watching television. To Rawles, what he was about to do was as routine as strapping on his shoulder holster every day. To Crowell, it was a brand-new experience, a test of his memory, a test of his cleverness. But he was stupid. He never asked to check the dates on the cover of the magazine, or he’d have discovered that Rawles was holding in his hands a copy of the August 13–19 issue. Moreover, as Rawles flipped the pages, he assumed that the test was going to be as square and honest as those he’d taken in high school before he’d dropped out to become a clerk in the produce department of a supermarket.