Night Game (18 page)

Esther’s kitchen was small, but efficient. There was a frying pan simmering on the stove, sending out tantalizing smells of garlic. There was also a large pot of water at the boil on the back burner. Esther went to the fridge and took out salad and a big bowl full of littleneck clams in their shells.

“We’re having Spaghetti alla Puttanesca,” she said, with a broad attempt at an Italian accent. “With clams. I hope you like it.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Are you any good at salad dressing?”

“It’s probably my greatest strength in the kitchen,” I admitted. “Some would say my only strength.”

“You’re on. The oil and vinegar and junk are in the cupboard next to the sink. Cal, your job is to set the table. You know where everything is.”

We chatted inconsequentially as we worked, about anything but the two topics most on our minds: murder and paternity. Ten minutes later, we were at her dining-room table serving ourselves spaghetti, perfectly sauced, with the clams just opening in their shells. The food was spicy with hot peppers, anchovies, and olives, and was absolutely delicious. Our only communication was grunts of pleasure until we had wiped up the last remnants of sauce with pieces of crusty bread.

“Coffee?” Esther asked, collecting our plates.

“Perfect,” I said.

“I’ll bring you an ashtray.”

“If you don’t mind,” I said.

“I might even have one myself,” she said, coming back in, with a tray of coffee things. “I indulge myself once in a while, especially after a good meal.”

“Feel free,” I said, pushing the pack towards her.

She took one and lit it, then settled back and smiled.

“Makes my head swim,” she said. “And I love it.”

“What the hell,” said Cal, and reached for the pack.

“You’re a terrible influence,” Esther said.

“Just think of it as being a gracious hostess,” I said. “It is so kind of you both to sacrifice your purity to make me feel comfortable.”

“Right,” Esther said. “Let me just get the coffee, and we’ll get back to the problem at hand.”

When she left the room, I looked at Cal. He had been quiet all evening, without any of his usual energy and humour.

“You okay?” I asked.

He rubbed his hands over his face.

“Not really,” he said. “I guess I’m still a bit in shock. I feel really tired. Exhausted.”

“That’s no surprise,” I said. “Do you want to go home? This isn’t so important it can’t wait.”

“No, I want to stay. Today’s, uh, newsflash, makes what we are doing more important than ever.”

“You know June told me that no one else knew but I wonder,” I said. “If Lucy found out, it might throw a whole new ingredient into the mix. If she told Hank, for example.”

“That might screw his head around pretty good,” Cal agreed. “But why would he want to kill her?”

“Hey, this isn’t fair,” Esther said, coming back into the room with a pot of coffee. “I’m being the serving wench and I’m missing all the good stuff.”

“We’re talking about Hank Cartwright,” I said. “What if he knew he wasn’t Lucy’s dad?”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t make him want to kill her,” she said.

“You’re right,” I said. “But still, I had the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me when I talked to him after the funeral. I missed something, somehow. Maybe something I should have picked up on, a question I should have asked. It’s really bugging me.”

“I think I’ll go see him later tonight,” Cal said.

“Not without me, you won’t,” I said.

“I guess it will be a threesome, kids, because I’m not staying home,” said Esther.

“We can probably find him at that bar near the church,” I said. “He seemed to be a regular.”

“The fabulous Starlite? You’re probably right,” said Cal.

“Coffee first,” Esther said. “I need fortification before taking that place on.”

“Maybe if I see him again, I’ll be able to figure out what he was holding back,” I said. “Something he wanted to tell me. I’d like to find out what it is.”

“I’d just like a bit of action,” Cal said. “All this speculating is making me twitch.”

“But if he knows that you are Lucy’s father, won’t he freak out when he sees you?” Esther asked. “It might interfere. I think Kate and I should see him alone.”

“Forget it,” he said.

Esther and I exchanged a look. An exasperated, men-are-such-jerks-sometimes, kind of look.

“What, we little ladies need your protection going into a rough bar?” Esther asked.

“No, Goddamn it, I don’t mean that,” he said, angrily. “I just don’t want to be left out of this.”

“I understand how you feel,” I said. “But you’ve told me yourself that he can get pretty crazy when he’s drunk. I don’t think he’ll do that with me, but you might set him off.”

“No. That’s final. I’m in this all the way,” he said.

The phone rang. Esther went to the kitchen to answer it. Cal and I looked at each other. He glared.

“You can’t stop me,” he said. “You have no right. I deserve to be there.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe you should be there for the conversation. But what if we went and got him out of the bar. It might avoid a scene.”

Esther came back into the room.

“That was Jenny Wilson,” she said. “The medical examiner. Lucy was: a) not pregnant, b) positive for herpes, and c) sexually active the night of her death. With two different men. There were traces of semen vaginally and orally. The former is probably Dommy’s. The latter is unknown.”

Cal looked pale and upset.

“Find the mystery man, and we’ve got the murderer,” he said.

“You don’t think it’s Hank Cartwright?” Esther asked.

“I doubt it,” I said. “Their relationship was a bit perverse, but I can’t imagine them having sex on the beach. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t track him down and see if he’s got anything else to tell us.”

We went in Cal’s suburban van, listening to a Beach Boys tape on Cal’s stereo.
Pet Sounds
. The man has taste. It gave the outing a feeling of adventure and fun, and took the grimness out of our mission. It was also a bit surreal.

Cal pulled into the little lot and parked. I put my hand on his arm when he went to remove the keys.

“Please,” I said. “Just wait here. Weill bring him right out. I promise.”

He switched the ignition on again without saying a word, turned up the sound, leaned back against the headrest, and closed his eyes as music filled the car. The Beach Boys were singing “I just wasn’t made for these times.”

“Be careful,” Cal said. “And if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming in.”

“Okay, John Wayne, you got yourself a deal,” Esther said. We jumped out of the van and crossed the parking lot. Motorcycles and pickup trucks again, but this time there were more of them.

Inside it was like a scene from a movie of the week about folks on the wrong side of town. The lighting was perfect, in smoky pools and shadows around the pool tables. The people were from central casting: tattooed bikers with beards and big bellies, mean black dudes in funny hats, acne-scarred women in tight pants and tank tops, scrawny middle-aged white guys with squints. The music came from the jukebox. It wasn’t the Beach Boys, and it drowned out the television, which was showing
L.A. Law
. Anne Kelsey was in earnest conversation with Stewart Markowitz. No one in the bar but me seemed to care about their marital problems.

Cecil was in his usual spot at the bar, helped out at this hour by a tired-looking woman, perhaps his wife, who exchanged wisecracks with the customers.

Cecil saw us coming, and walked over to the empty end of the bar. We joined him, aware of the many eyes staring at us.

“Is Hank around?” I asked. Cecil couldn’t hear me.

“Hank Cartwright,” I shouted. “Have you seen him?”

Cecil pointed to a dark corner near the men’s room. I could just make out Hank’s slumped form in the gloom. He sat alone at a table, his back to the wall.

“Is he paid up?” I yelled. “We’re taking him out of here.”

“No problem,” said Cecil.

“Thanks,” I shouted. We crossed the room. The pool players, male and female, made a point of not getting out of our way, forcing us to brush past them, while they grinned like wolves. It didn’t faze me. I had been through the same gauntlet in several visiting locker rooms. I looked at Esther. She had “don’t mess with me” written all over her. There were no worries there.

We got to Hank’s table. He was out of it, oblivious. I touched him on the shoulder. He started and glared at me. It took a moment for him to recognize me. When he did, tears filled his eyes. He spoke. I leaned closer.

“I killed her,” he said. “I killed my little girl.”

“If you say so, Hank,” I said loudly, directly into his left ear. “Why don’t you come with us and tell us about it?”

We helped him from his chair, then led him out of the room. He stumbled a few times, but was steadier than I had feared he would be.

When we got to the car and opened the door, he saw Cal, and began to cry harder. He slumped in the passenger seat, sobbing.

“Cal, my old friend. My baby’s gone,” he said. “I killed my baby.”

So much for the theory that he knew about Lucy’s paternity. I looked at Cal. He was staring at Hank, astonished. So was Esther, who hadn’t heard what Hank said to me in the bar. I shook my head at them.

“Cal, I think we should take Hank home and hear him out,” I said. “Do you know where he lives?”

“You still behind Rita and Tom, Hank? Over on Cypress?”

Cartwright nodded his head. Esther and I jumped into the back. We rode through the empty streets, past block after block of tidy bungalows, lights all out, before turning right on Alternate Highway 19, the old shore road. The only sound was Hank Cartwright, snuffling and muttering. A mile or so farther, we turned up a street that quickly became a dirt road, past ramshackle houses and an auto body shop. There wasn’t a cypress to be seen.

“Which house is it?” Cal asked. Hank indicated a driveway to the left, next to a house with the lights on and the sound of music and voices arguing inside. We got out. A dog barked.

“Shut up,” Hank shouted, heading towards an old trailer up on blocks at the very back of the large untended yard.

We followed him, picking our way through weeds and garbage to the cinder blocks that served as his doorstep. Hank fished the key out from under a flower pot filled with dead plants, opened the door, and turned on the lights.

The place was surprisingly neat, if under-furnished. The fake wood-panelled walls were bare, and the floor was of shabby brown and white marble-patterned linoleum, worn through in spots. There was a two-seat booth with a table in it in the kitchen area, and a day bed and rocking chair in the living room, which also had a stand with a small black and white television set on it, and brick-and-board bookshelves filling one wall. Half held books, the other half records and tapes. The stereo system ran along the top ledge. A hall led to what was probably the bedroom and bathroom area. I could see more bookcases through an open door.

Hank headed for the rocking chair, obviously his favourite place. There was a standing lamp beside it, and a shelf close to hand, with an ashtray, matches, and rolling papers.

Cal went to the day bed and sat down. Esther went to the sink and filled a kettle.

“See what you can find in the way of coffee or tea,” she told me. I looked through various canisters and found old cookies, baggies of drugs, and, finally, some ancient-looking tea bags of assorted sizes.

“It’s probably herbal,” I said, handing her the can.

“That’s okay, as long as it’s not alcoholic.”

I sat next to Cal on the day bed.

“Let’s talk, Hank,” I said. “Why do you say you killed Lucy? I don’t think you pulled the trigger.”

He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“I might as well have,” he said.

“You got her the gun she gave Dommy. Domingo Avila,” I guessed. “Is that what you mean?”

“I didn’t know he was going to use it on her,” he shouted. “I didn’t know he was going to kill her!”

“He didn’t, Hank,” I said, gently. “Believe me, it had nothing to do with that gun.”

Esther brought him a cup of tea. He looked at her for the first time.

“Who are you?”

“Esther Hirsch,” she said. “I’m a lawyer.”

I interrupted before she could tell him who her client was.

“She’s a friend, Hank. You can trust her.”

He put the mug down on the ledge next to him.

“Anyone got a cigarette?” he asked.

I handed him one. He tore the filter off. I lit it.

“She’s right, Hank,” Cal said. “We think that it was another gun that killed Lucy. Her killer just planted it in Avila’s apartment.”

“Where did you get the gun, Hank?” I asked. He shrugged.

“Off a guy.”

“The guy have a name?” Cal asked.

“Sonny, down at Cecil’s place. Big guy. Beard.”

“Where did he get it?” Esther asked.

“Didn’t ask him,” Hank said, sipping on his tea. He made a face and put it back down. “Stole it, probably. I heard him talking about it. Lucy asked if I knew where to get one, so I bought it off him.”

“With whose money?” I asked.

“Lucy gave me a couple hundred bucks. That guy’s money, I guess. Avila.”

“What kind of a gun was it?”

“Police Special.”

“Did it have a serial number?” I asked.

“No. It was filed off.”

“When did you give it to Lucy?” Cal asked.

“Last time I saw her,” he said. “The night before she got killed.”

He mopped his eyes with his sleeve, then looked at Cal. His cigarette was burning down between his fingers.

“What am I going to do?”

“I’ll take care of you, buddy,” Cal said, getting up and taking the cigarette away before it hurt him. “Right now, you’d better try to get to sleep.”

He led him into the bedroom. Esther and I sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the murmur of their conversation. Hank sounded querulous, Cal reassuring.

“I’m tired,” I said.

“Me too.”

“It’s not even that late,” I said, looking at my watch. “It’s only nine-thirty.”

“It feels like midnight.”

“I’ve been thinking,” I began.

“Lucky you. That must mean your brain is still working.” she said. “Mine has shut down, fresh out of solutions.”

“I think I’ve figured it out, believe it or not. A lot of things are starting to make sense. But I’ve got couple of things to check at the players’ condo. I can phone Gloves.”

“What have you got?” Esther asked, excited. “Come on! We’re in this together, right?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ve been thinking about a crying baby and spare keys.”

“Huh?”

Cal came out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

“He’s out for the night,” he said. “I’ll just stop and speak to Rita on the way and see if she’ll check in on him in the morning. I feel kind of guilty leaving him this way.”

“I imagine this is a pretty normal night for old Hank,” I said. “Come the morning he will probably have forgotten everything.”

“Maybe, but I’ll still check in on him,” Cal said. “Are you two ready to go? I should get home pretty soon.”

We turned off the light and left the trailer. Cal went to the house while we got in the car. The dog barked.

“I’ve got to get to a phone,” I said.

“Let’s go back to my place,” Esther said.

Cal got into the car and started it up.

“Where to?”

“Esther’s,” I said. “For now.”

“I think Kate has a theory,” Esther explained, “but she isn’t letting us in on it except by telling me riddles.”

“I need to ask a few more questions, first. I have to use her phone.”

“Let’s go to my place, then. It’s closer, and I’d like to see if Beth is okay.”

“Good idea,” Esther said.

“If you don’t think she’ll mind,” I said. “I’m not sure she needs to have a stranger around right now, though.”

“No, really, she’s fine,” Cal said.

Cal’s place was only five minutes away from Hank’s trailer, but it might as well have been on another planet. It was a big, rambling house with screened verandas on a large, treed lot. It looked welcoming, with a light burning on the front porch.

Inside, it was my kind of place, cluttered and cozy, full of stuff. Books and magazines were piled on the coffee table, there were paintings and posters on the wall, and curious objects filled all available surfaces. One cabinet was full of old windup toys; a chest held a collection of boxes of various types; straw, carved wood, ceramic, and lacquer; there was a jumble of beautiful baskets in a bay window. The floors were gleaming wood in wide planks, covered here and there with different kinds of rugs, some of them skewed by the excitement of a large dog of no apparent pedigree, who was trying to knock Cal over in welcome. A fat orange-and-white cat sat in the most comfortable-looking armchair and watched us all with feline disdain.

“This is beautiful,” I said. “Can I move in tomorrow?”

Cal laughed.

“Any time,” he said. “If you can stand the kids and animals. There’s a phone in the kitchen. I’ll just go check on Beth.”

He went up the stairs, softly calling her name. Esther showed me to the kitchen and sat at the table, while I stood at the counter and dialled Gloves’s number.

“Am I disturbing you? I know it’s late.”

“No, everyone’s still up,” he said.

“Is Axel Bonder around, too?”

“I saw him half an hour ago.”

“Good. I may have to come over in a bit to talk to him and some other people. Can I use your place?”

“Sure, why?”

“Put it this way,” I said. “If I’m right, Dommy should be in uniform by the weekend.”

“You’ve done it? That’s great!”

“Just answer me this,” I said. “Who lived in Alex and Dommy’s apartment last year?”

He told me.

“I’ll be right over,” I said, and told him who else to invite.

Cal came into the kitchen as I got off the phone. He was laughing.

“She was in bed,” he said. “Reading a book and eating apples and cheese. She isn’t worried or mad. She just sent Esther her love and told me to be careful.”

“I’ve just got one more call to make,” I said. “What’s the number at the police department?”