The Hearse You Came in On (37 page)

“Mr. Davis, would you and your wife like to move to, uh, more prominent seats? I didn’t intend for you to be shunted off into the corner like this.”

Davis glanced over to the … okay, to the VIP section. Alan Stuart was glaring at us. Good.

“That’s okay, Mr. Sewell. I think Beth would find those lights a little uncomfortable anyway. We’re fine here.”

Impulsively I reached out and shook the man’s hand. He responded with a hearty pat on my arm.

“Thank you though.”

I had to fight to keep the swagger out of my step as I headed back up the aisle. Take that! I’ve got Kate Zabriskie
and
I’m getting all chummy with your opponent. I shouldered my testosterone and returned to the back of the room.

Hutch was there. He was yakking with the minicam crew and he didn’t take note of my presence until the priest took his place up behind the coffin, took the nod from me and started into his spiel. Hutch made his way over to me then and leaned in close. It was all whispers now.

“I got your phone message,” Hutch hissed. “You are so far out of line.”

“The truth hurts?”

“You’re in way over your head on this one.”

“What’s this? Two platitudes for the price of one?”

“Alan will bury you, Hitch. You did not choose your enemies wisely.”

“You know what I’ve learned, Hutch? You don’t choose your enemies. They simply show up.”

Hutch glared at me. “We’ll talk.”

He moved off to resume his flack duties. Both Hutch
and
Alan Stuart. What were they planning to do, take me out back and work me over? Maybe I could get them to wait until Lou Bowman showed back up. That way everyone could pile on at once.

I turned my attention back to the priest, who was explaining to a roomful of adults that Jeff Simons would henceforth be lying down with lambs and lions. Heaven as a petting zoo. I don’t know who comes up with this stuff.

There were several eulogies on the docket. The main event of course was Mimi Wigg. If I expected the diminutive newslady to regale us with details of Jeff Simons’s final earthly ecstasies, I was to be disappointed. Instead, the large talking head of Mimi Wigg regaled us with cute behind-the-scenes stories about her fallen colleague. The minicam was recording it all. I realized that the cadaver makeup I had noticed on Mimi Wigg when she arrived was in fact her on-air makeup.

Mimi Wigg had chosen to offer her eulogy in the happy news style that had served her and Jeff Simons so well in their on-air time together. To my astonishment, right in the middle of her happy memories of Jeff, the tiny newswoman improvised. She knelt down and picked up one of the terra-cotta TVs—one with black-eyed Susans sticking out of it—and set the damn
thing on top of the coffin. Suddenly it was Jeff and Mimi again, for one last time. The minicam drank it up: a priceless two-shot, tawdry and unquestionably in bad taste … and great TV.

My tepid admiration of the itsy-bitsy big-headed newswoman’s chutzpah was abruptly interrupted by the loud chirping of a cricket, which I only recognized as a cellular phone when I saw Hutch snatch the plastic thingy off the holster on his belt. It was a short call and clearly one that troubled him. Storm clouds gathered with astonishing speed. Hutch spat a few words, then disconnected. Immediately he dialed another number and then he looked off toward the front of the room. I followed his gaze. Alan Stuart gave a little start then reached into his jacket and pulled something out and looked down at it. From where I was stationed I couldn’t see what it was, but it must have been a beeper, for he turned partway around in his chair and found Hutch. Stuart turned and whispered something to his wife, then stood up and made his way to the aisle. Mimi Wigg lost her place for just a second, but seasoned professional that she was, she managed to turn the interruption into a dramatic pause. She surveyed the crowd with a sugary smile. “Jeff so loved doing zoo stories. He was
wonderful
with animals… so great …”

Alan Stuart hurried up the aisle. Hutch was already into another conversation on his little phone; I heard another chirping and saw one of the news guys down in front taking a call. What should I have done, collected all cellular phones at the door? Mimi Wigg skipped another beat, then her voice raised in strain as she pressed on. I think the woman now realized that she
was missing something. She wanted to wrap it up. Bye, Jeff, nice knowing you. Gotta go.

Alan Stuart reached Hutch and signaled him to cut off his call. He gave his campaign manager exactly one second and then he snatched the phone out of his hand and snapped it closed. Hutch leaned in and spoke in a low tone to his boss. His boss did not respond in kind.

“Shit!”

Heads turned. But Stuart didn’t care. The crowd in the entrance hall had pressed forward to get a look at Mimi Wigg. Stuart and Hutch were already at the door, trying to work a wedge into the packed crowd and get the hell out. I stepped over.

“What’s going on?”

“Fucking Lou Bowman,” Hutch snarled.

Lou Bowman? My blood turned to ice.

“What about him?”

Alan Stuart lost it. He reached into the crowd and started shoving citizens aside. The voters pulled back. Hutch followed. He barked over his shoulder at me as he and Stuart plunged forward.

“He’s been shot!”

L
ou Bowman was in critical condition at Union Memorial Hospital. His room was under police guard.

So why didn’t I feel safe?

As far as news stories go it might not have been an especially big one, if not for the identity of the suspected shooter.

Kate Zabriskie.

I had my obligations. This was too big a funeral to palm off on Aunt Billie. We were expecting an even larger crowd at the cemetery and there was simply no way I could duck out on it.

We wrapped up the festivities in Parlors One and Two. Jeff Simons’s colleagues from the station—plus an uncle who looked like he might possibly be my next customer—shouldered the coffin and carried it outside to the waiting hearse. Sam was itching to meet Mimi Wigg but, unfortunately for him, the little newslady went left when the coffin went right. Doubtless she was being called back to the station to deal with the shooting of former police detective Louis Bowman. I had grabbed hold of the news guy whose phone had gone off inside. He was the one who told me that Detective
Zabriskie was being sought in connection with the shooting.

Outside, Spencer Davis and his wife came over to me.

“What’s going on?”

“Someone was shot,” I said.

“Who?”

“A guy named Lou Bowman. He was—”

“I know who he is,” Davis said, cutting me off. He looked terribly troubled. “Do they have a suspect?”

I didn’t want to say who. “Not in custody,” I said.

Then Davis hit me with a two-by-four. His quiet, peace-loving wife didn’t even flinch.

“Is it Kate Zabriskie?”

Well hush my puppies and send me off to bed … how the hell did he come up with
that
name.

Davis heard my unspoken question. Probably got it from my slack-jawed face.

“I met with Detective Zabriskie last night,” Davis explained. “I’m up to speed on this thing.”

“You met with Kate?”

“Last night. She phoned my office at the end of the day and said that it was urgent that she see me right away. Among other things, she had, uh, something she thought I should take a look at.”

At that precise moment Amanda Stuart stepped right past without so much as a glance in our direction and got into a black town car.

Spencer Davis gave me a look, then checked his watch. “Look, Mr. Sewell, I wonder if I could ask a big favor of you. I’m going to have to get back to the office and start dealing with this. I feel terrible about leaving right in the middle of a funeral.”

I was going to note that Alan Stuart had expressed no essential grief about pulling out early, but I let it pass.

“Could you see that Beth gets to the cemetery?” He turned to his wife. “You’ll be my representative?”

She nodded.

“Wonderful. Thank you.” Davis kissed his wife on the cheek then turned and gave me another shoulder grip. This was apparently one of his things.

“Thank you, Mr. Sewell. Ms. Zabriskie told me how you’ve been helping her. I appreciate it. I want you to know that my office will do everything we can to help her in all this. But the first thing is to get her safely in. Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Any place that none of the rest of us would have thought of?”

I didn’t right offhand. Or maybe I did, but my brain was going a little spastic at the moment.

“No, I don’t.”

“If you think of something, call me directly. Beth can give you my personal number. Don’t worry about anything, Mr. Sewell. We’ll sort this all out.”

He pounded my shoulder again then gave a head flick to advance-man Bill. The two ducked into a waiting car. Bill shot me a hostile look just before he closed the door. I made a mental note to remove the Hate Me sign that must have been taped on my jacket.

The coffin was loaded. Sam shut the rear door.

“All set, boss.”

I held out my arm for Beth Davis to take.

“Shall we?”

I was a bit distracted at the cemetery. As predicted, the turnout was impressive. Neighboring graves were
indeed being trampled. The news of the shooting of former police detective Lou Bowman had robbed the guest list of some of its heavy hitters. But Jeff Simons’s fans did themselves proud. I went ahead and seated Beth Davis under the canopy, just behind Mrs. Simons. Amanda Stuart was nowhere to be seen. Apparently she didn’t feel the need to make a graveside appearance as her husband’s representative. I introduced Beth to Mrs. Simons. The younger woman’s consolations to the older woman were touching.

“Would you like me to drop you somewhere?” I asked Beth Davis when the service was over.

She checked her watch. “I normally volunteer at the soup kitchen in Cherry Hill,” she said. “But it’s kind of late.” She added, “Though I guess they can always use a hand in cleaning up.”

“You volunteer at a soup kitchen?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“You’re kidding.”

“There are a lot of elderly in the area. On fixed incomes. Why?”

“Oh. Nothing.” I would have driven the dedicated citizen to the ends of the earth, but she insisted that the corner of Calvert and Lombard would be fine.

“You’re going to take the bus, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

How many times am I allowed to vote?

Arriving back at the office I leaped for the phone, which was ringing as I came through the door.

“Mr. Sewell, this is Detective Kruk.”

“Detective Kruk. Hello.”

“Are you all right? You sound like you’re out of breath.”

“I am,” I said. “Both. I’m … What’s up, Detective? What’s going on?” I slid around my desk and dropped into my chair. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me where to find Detective Zabriskie.” It wasn’t really posed as a request.

“Unfortunately, I can’t. I wish I could.”

“You are aware of what has taken place.”

“I’ve heard that Lou Bowman was shot,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“How is he?”

“He is still in surgery. He was hit, it appears, five times.”

Five times?

“If you know where Detective Zabriskie can be located, Mr. Sewell, you have a legal obligation to tell me. Besides that, it’s best for her anyway. I hope you’re planning to cooperate.”

“Don’t bully me, Detective. I’ ve told you I don’t know where she is. I wish I did.”

“I wish you did too.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“That’s being investigated.”

“Well, then tell me why you suspect Kate is involved in this.”

Of course I knew the answer to that already. And my guess was that Kruk knew I knew. His answer surprised me.

“We have an eyewitness.”

“You do?”

“She claims to know you. Would you like to speak with her? She’s in the next room. Hold on.”

The phone went silent. Twenty seconds later, who should come on the line but my very own ex-wife.

“Hitch? Hey, fellow, your girlfriend’s pretty mean with that pistol of hers, I must say.”

“Julia, what the hell is this all about? Kruk said something about an eyewitness. Did you—”

“Long story, Hitch. The police don’t want me telling it to anyone else just yet.”

“Screw the police! What happened? How did you see it? Where did it happen? Is she all right?” I could have gone on like that all afternoon.

“The detective here will hang up on me if I start telling. He’s eyeing me right now.” She lowered her voice. “Some hair on that guy, huh?”

“Look, Jules, can you get the hell out of there and call me on a pay phone? Or come over. I’ve got to know what’s going on.”

“I’m with Peter.”

“Was he there too?” Damn. Here I’d been burying a dead newsman and all the action was taking place somewhere else.

“We’re at Peter’s house. It happened here.” I heard the phone being muffled and Kruk’s and Julia’s voices garbled in the background. What I could make out was Julia’s voice. “Who
the fuck cares?”
She came back on the line.

“I’ve got to go, Hitch. I think your girlfriend is in big trouble.” Then to Kruk she said, “That’s not a fucking state secret, is it?” Once more then to me. “I’ve got to go. The anti-Kojak is all pissed off.”

Kruk’s voice suddenly sounded. “I’m coming out to talk with you,” he said. “Don’t move.” He hung up.

Don’t move. Where was I going to go? I shoved the papers on my desk to the side and bongoed softly
against the desktop as I tried to sort out what was taking place. Kate had shot and critically wounded Lou Bowman out at Peter Morgan’s estate. How? Who had confronted whom? Had Lou Bowman tracked down Kate and tried to kill her? Or had Kate gone after the man who had accepted money to shoot her husband? I was hoping against hope that it was the former, that Kate had acted in self-defense in shooting Lou Bowman. But a shiver traveled through my body as I involuntarily pictured Kate out there somewhere, a classic double grip on her pistol, the gun bucking in her hands as she fires off one … two … three … four … good Lord,
five
shots. Even as I tried to dispel the image from my mind, I knew the truth. The shooting of Lou Bowman was not going to turn out to have been an act of self-defense. If it was, why wouldn’t Kate have immediately turned herself in? Why was she still out there? And why so many bullets? No. It was time for Lou Bowman to pay for his crime. I could see it in the image that I had conjured up. And I knew it in my heart. Kate was settling scores. It was payback time.