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Authors: David Daniel

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BOOK: The Marble Kite
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So what did I do now?
When you were under threat, you could sit and wait for it to come to you, to make itself known, and just hope that you saw it when it did. Or you could act first. In motion you became a moving target, but you had a chance. I went down to the basement. On top of a beam, swaddled in a towel amid the dust and cobwebs, was the antique sawed-off shotgun that I'd acquired when an old pizza maker named Vito had found it and laid it off on me. I'd had it cleaned up with a cockeyed notion to sell it, but I hadn't gotten around to that yet. And all at once, I was glad. Carrying the bundled weapon like a babe in arms, I brought it upstairs to the living room.
I found a box of cartridges left over from the one time I'd used the old 12-gauge. I loaded two and set the sawed-off on the floor beside the couch. I shoveled a handful of extra shells into the drawer of the end
table. I looked around. What else needed to be done? The unpacked cartons gave me a thought. I opened one that stood in a closet and flipped through my collection of LPs until I found what I was after. I slid the disk from the sleeve, holding it between my spread hands, and blew across the surface—vestigial moves from an earlier day—set it on the turntable and activated the tone arm. I turned out lights except for a lamp in one corner and the ones outside. Without getting undressed, I stretched out on the couch to listen to the Moses Maxwell Quintet, thinking that maybe a barrelhouse blues would energize me, but the first cut was a moody number, faintly familiar as I listened, trying to put a name to it, but in the musicians' unique telling, and with my weary brain, I couldn't quite …
The telephone's ringing woke me, and I saw that the darkness beyond the windows was paling. I scrubbed at my face and sat up. I squinted at my watch. I'd been out for almost two hours. I picked up the phone.
“Mr. Rasmussen?”
The voice was low, familiar, but I was groggy. “Right here.”
“This is Moses Maxwell.”
“‘In My Solitude,'” I blurted. The song title had popped into my head.
“Say what?”
“What you were playing.” I used the silence to knuckle cobwebs from my eyes. For a little while I had forgotten the world, but it all came back now. The police hustle at headquarters, the sawed-off shotgun next to the couch, the lingering presence of an invader in my space.
“Are you straight?” Maxwell asked.
“More than you want to know.”
“Is Nicole with you?”
“Now?” I shook off the last of my weariness. “What's going on?”
A heavy sigh. “She got a phone call a couple hours ago. She didn't say who it was, and I didn't ask. I always give her a little leeway, 'cause with Nicole, you crowd her, she sometimes takes it wrong and gets emotional. Anyway, she left the hotel on kind of a tear. I thought she might be looking for you.”
“Did you call the kennel? Maybe she went to visit the dogs.”
“Tried it. The carnival, too—I'm here now. Nothing.”
“How is Pop handling this?”
“He's still sleeping, so he doesn't know yet. I'm not eager to tell him.”
I thought a moment, then told him to sit tight and I'd get back to him. I checked my service, thinking Nicole might have called while I was conked, but there was only the earlier message from Walt's Getty.
I'd have seen dawn through the east-facing kitchen window if it weren't sheathed with several layers of cloudy plastic. The only reason my stomach didn't feel empty was that the sidewalls were touching each other. Coffee was going to take too long to brew. I poured a glass of chilled tomato juice, tasted it, then fetched a bottle and tipped some whiskey into the juice. A “Hail Mary,” they used to call it at the station house: tomato juice and anything you had handy. It went down smooth and warm as a zephyr. I wrapped the shotgun back in its towel and took it back down to the cellar. In my present state I was more likely to get caught with it than use it. As I unlocked my car, the corn moon was fading into the first pink glow of day, as pale as a ball of melting ice. Phoebe and I had missed it.
At the carnival site there were people up and about. They had unhooked the trailers from several of the tractors, which were running, the diesels burbling throatily in the cool air. I went to Pop's camper, tapped on the little porthole window, and went in. He was awake now, sunk in the chair, looking disheveled. No sign of Nicole. Moses said, “I had to tell him.”
“What're you doing here?” Pop rasped. “Thought you were quits.”
“What's going on out there?” I asked.
“Some of the crew found out about Nicole, too,” said Moses. “It's the last straw for them. It's personal now. They figure to go into town for a confrontation.”
“When?”
“I'm not sure.”
“I tried to talk sense to 'em,” Pop said. “I ain't got the energy to fight it.”
“And there's this, too.” Maxwell handed over the morning's
Herald
. “Page ten, I think.”
It was page ten, but it wasn't a report about my discharging my weapon, or being rousted last night, or someone burglarizing my place; hardly big city news. Young Scoop Piazza had filed his story, which appeared under the headline “Sleuth at Odds With Cops in Carny Slay.”
Great, that would stoke the fires. But my biggest concern at the moment was for Nicole. I put the paper aside. I motioned to Maxwell, and he and I walked outside together. The sun was fully up now, Friday morning traffic beginning to stream along both sides of the river, which reflected pink cotton-candy clouds. I said, “Can you talk to Pop again? Get him to delay signing the show over to Rag Tyme?”
“I don't know as I've got any bite. Seems like common sense doesn't matter no more. I tried it with them and got nowhere.” He nodded at the dozen or so carnies gathered around the trucks.
“Tell you what—if you work on Pop, I'll give them a try.”
He plucked at his little soul patch. “All right, let's give it a go.”
Which I did, starting with my firsthand knowledge that the cops weren't in a jolly mood and that a clash with the locals wouldn't do Pop or any of them any good. It might result in jail or the hospital—
or even
, I thought but didn't say,
the morgue.
“If someone has taken Nicole, I'm going to try to get her back safely. But touching off a war isn't going to help her. It might put her deeper in hurt.”
“Why?” Tito Alvarez said. “You know who's took her?”
“I can't say just yet, but I've got some ideas. It'd be a help if you could give me a few hours.”
Alvarez and Red Fogarty exchanged a look, and Fogarty signed
something to him. “Okay, man,” Alvarez said, “we'll give it till three o'clock. After that, shit, if Nicole ain't here, I don't think we gonna be able to hold anyone back.”
“And maybe we won't want to,” I said.
Fogarty signed something else with his big, quick-moving hands. I looked at Alvarez for a translation, and he mustered a grin. “He says you said ‘we.'”
 
 
I didn't have a lawyer's coattails to go in under, so I just gave my name to the woman who answered the phone at the courthouse. There was a delay, and the longer it went on, the less I believed it likely that I'd get to speak with the judge. Then a calm voice came on the line. “Yes, Mr. Rasmussen, this is Martin Travani. How can I help you?”
I explained that I wanted to speak with him and would have gone through proper channels, but Fred Meecham had left the case. “Yes, I know,” he said. “Mr. Meecham informed me of his decision last evening. As for the rest, I'm pretty busy here today. You say this is important?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“All right. Then perhaps sooner is better than later.” He mentioned the name of a gentleman's club downtown and said that he was going to be there for a lunch meeting at noon. “Could we get together beforehand? Say eleven-thirty?”
I told him I'd be there. “And Mr. Rasmussen—it probably goes without saying”—he gave a small, apologetic-sounding laugh—“but the River Club requires a jacket and tie.”
 
 
So what did I know? A key question still had to do with Paul Duross. And what about the other officers Danielle Frampton had said sometimes stopped by Viva! off duty? Were there links there? I couldn't very well go ask anyone at police headquarters. Or could I?
I called there and asked for Jill Loftis. All calls were recorded, so when she came on the line, I said, “Are you going to be away from your desk anytime soon?”
“What do—” She got it. “I have to go down to the motor pool to see if I left my gym bag in a cruiser. Figure I'll do that now, before I forget.”
She was standing by the entrance to the motor pool garage when I arrived. “Thank you for calling Ed St. Onge last night,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“It seemed to be in order.”
Her gaze remained inquisitive, so I cut to the chase. “Do you think it's possible that a police officer, or officers, could be involved with the Flora Nuñez murder? Paul Duross, for instance?”
“You're still chewing on that?” She sent a quick look around, perhaps warning me that there were other people nearby. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Involved how?”
“I'm not sure. Covering up, possibly; suppressing evidence. Last night someone broke into my house when I wasn't there. They might've been looking for evidence they think I have.”
She glanced around again. From inside the motor pool came the whir of a lug-nut drill. “You better be careful with this,” she said. “People are already angry with you. Duross thinks you're harassing him.”
“Or maybe he's nervous because I'm getting close to finding him out.”
“What does that mean?”
“We'll have to see.”
“Do you have evidence?”
I hesitated. “No. I have to admit that so far, everything is circumstantial.”
She didn't look happy with any of this. I debated telling her that I was going to Judge Travani with my suspicions, but it would put her in the awkward position of having advance knowledge. She'd already stuck her neck out for me a lot farther than I had any right to expect. She turned toward police headquarters and stopped. “I can't help you. I'm sorry. All I can say is be damned careful where you go with this.”
I said I would. “Do one more thing for me? And then I promise not to bug you again.”
“What is it?”
“This conversation never happened.”
She looked relieved. She even managed a faint smile. “Are you kidding?”
These days when someone invited you to a gentleman's club you weren't sure whether you were going to sit in a paneled library full of old jaspers rattling the pages of the
Financial Times
or have your porterhouse served with a naked lap dancer on the side. The River Club was decidedly of the former variety, occupying a three-story Georgian brick townhouse along the Middlesex canal, with a lantern-lit entrance and granite hitching posts in front, though all the horses were corralled under the hoods of Cadillacs and Benzes in a side lot. I went through the coffered door into a foyer lit with original long-stemmed gas sconces refitted with electric, the light picking up the gleam of elegant old wood in the floor and wainscoting. A blond man wearing black slacks and a white shirt stood at a greeter's podium. The nameplate pinned to his maroon-and-burnished-gold brocade vest identified him as Duncan. He wasn't even born when the damask silk wall coverings had been hung, but nevertheless he had the snooty, inquisitional glance down pat. “May I help you, sir?”
I gave him my name. “I'm here to see Judge Travani.”
He continued his appraisal of me a moment before he sniffed and said, “If you'll wait here, please.”
I had a feeling this would be a onetime visit for me, so I took in the
sights. Beyond the foyer was a high-ceilinged room with a branching brass and crystal chandelier. To the left, a curved staircase rose to what was evidently a dining room. I could hear the low mutter of conversations over the muted clink of cutlery and smell the lavish aromas of gourmet cooking. On the wall to my right, big bwanas and grand poobahs of decades past gazed from gilt-framed portraits, including a younger Martin Travani, looking as dignified as a man wearing a sequined fez can. At least there weren't any stuffed caribou dangling their beards into the room.
Duncan returned. “If you could walk this way,” he said unctuously.
The high-ceilinged room actually was a library, and there actually were people reading newspapers. It appeared as if someone had cleared out half the state forest for the wood paneling. Martin Travani rose from a reading table and extended his hand, which was soft, though he gripped mine as if it were a gavel. Lines formed in his broad forehead, and his eyes behind the steel frames of his glasses were inquisitive. I guessed my outfit passed muster, as he didn't say anything to the contrary. Duncan faded.
“Thank you for seeing me, Your Honor.”
“I'd have suggested you come to the courthouse, but there's so little time there, and far too many distractions. I'm expecting lunch guests shortly, but I thought we could talk first.”
I said the time was generous and I appreciated his making it for me. He buttoned his suit coat and gestured through a doorway on the right. “We can converse in here.”
It was a smaller chamber, what once would've been called a drawing room. Underfoot was a deep blue carpet flecked with yellow and orange, as if someone had sprinkled it with gold dust and rusted iron filings. We took a pair of antique-looking wing chairs in a corner near a mullioned window that looked out upon the canal. At the judge's invitation I began to lay out my ideas. He listened with an expression that went slowly from concentration to concern, his small, even teeth nibbling at his lower lip. When I finished, he raised his eyebrows. “That's quite some assertion.”
“I'd have spoken with Attorney Meecham first, but that wasn't an option.”
“Do you know which police officers might be involved?”
I hesitated. “A patrolman named Duross, for one. Others, I'm not sure.”
“Have you actual proof of any of this?”
“Not exactly, no, sir.”
“Documentation?”
“No. But there are indications.”
“I see.” He turned his head to the window and sat silent for a time, his brow creased with thought, and I felt I'd done the right thing in coming to him. I was reassured by his wisdom and experience. Even his suit and the crisp white shirt and elegant silk tie conveyed a reasoned competence. He turned back to me. “Do you remember how the planet Pluto was discovered?” he asked. “Back in the last century?”
I shifted forward in the antique chair. “Astronomers guessed at its existence first, wasn't that it?”
“Yes, Percival Lowell, as a matter of fact. Before there were telescopes big enough to actually see it, he posited its existence from the movement of other objects. That seems to be what you're attempting to do here, isn't it?”
“I'm not sure I—”
“You've developed this theory of police involvement in a crime, and a possible cover-up, based on other things you perceive going on.”
My shirt collar felt tight. I shifted again; the chair was as comfortable as a rock pile. “I think the indications call for a closer look.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Well, I haven't any jurisdiction. It's why I've come to you, Your Honor.”
Travani curled a speculative finger under his lower lip. It was warm in the room, as if the overnight cold had activated the building's thermostat, set at a temperature sensitive to the creaky bones and gummy blood-flow of people for whom winter meant Palm Beach. If this and this chair were what the club-dues bought, I wasn't sorry not to be a member. “So you want me to be the big telescope,” he said.
I cleared my throat softly. “I'm hoping that you'll know what to do next.”
Duncan came in, escorting a prosperous-looking older couple. Judge Travani glanced at his watch and rose; I got up, too. “Vera,” said the judge.
“Kostas.” The woman kissed the air an inch from Travani's cheek. Kostas shook hands with him and gave me a faint glance. No introductions were made. Ignoring me altogether, Vera attempted a smile at the judge. Her face had been lifted too high, too often, so the effect was ghastly. “I've got a table—go right on up,” said Travani. “Duncan will show you. I'll join you in a moment.”
When they'd gone, Travani didn't resume his seat. “Mr. Rasmussen, I thank you for coming. Now, I really must go.”
“I understand. Do you want to think about what we've just—”
“Oh, I've heard plenty,” he interrupted. “You should hear yourself Do you know how this sounds?”
“It's speculative, I know, but I think it warrants attention.”
“You do, do you?”
“Judge—with due respect—you implied it yourself. When the astronomers actually looked, Pluto was there.”
“You're standing on shaky legs. Even if you could fill the gaps, unlikely as that seems, jurisprudence imposes a burden of proof, of evidence, corroborating testimony. Those are the foundation stones of our legal system.”
“Your Honor, I know. All I'm asking—”
“Enough!” I was surprised at how suddenly the anger had come. “I see now what you're pulling, criticizing the police, the criminal justice system. Well, you're not going to get away with it. How dare you barge in here making demands! You may leave.”
He turned to go, and my own anger rose. I stepped to block him. His eyes widened with shock, and perhaps a tincture of fear. “Save the lecture for the bench,” I said, my face hot. “I'm no court. It's why I can be quick on my feet, why I trust gut feelings.”
He measured me with a look that was now just outrage. “Well, I feel sorry for you, then. You're a throwback. In your small shabby world of guts and … instincts, you're a sneaky little animal that steals in toward the fire and snatches crumbs and then darts back to the shadows.” He moved his lips back from the small, neat teeth, which I was suddenly sure were a dental plate, into a sneer. “But you never get to bask in the warmth. You don't know the security and community where decent
people live, and where the rule of law protects them.” He pointed his finger. “I know all about you. You were a sworn officer at one time.”
If he knew that, he knew the rest.
“Judge—wait.” I was trying to rein in my frustration, to get us both back to a rational place. I needed him. “What I'm trying to say is—”
He swung his hands in a scissoring motion. “You violated the public trust, yet you want me to listen to you? There are men and women in this city who put the welfare of the public above their own—even above personal safety, and yet you're ready to malign them. Ridicule the system that protects you. No, I was wrong. I don't know you. I don't understand you. I'm trying very hard not to feel utter contempt for you, sir. Now, just go, while you're free to.”
The desk man came over. “Judge,” he said, but he was looking closely at me. “Is there a problem?”
“No, Duncan, it's fine.”
“Do you want me to—”
“Beat it,” I said.
The man straightened, tugged at his brocade vest, then about-faced, his blond mop wisping, his heels clicking determinedly across the parquet.
“That was rude,” the judge said.
“He's rude. Everyone in here seems to be. You'd find better manners in any dive bar on Middlesex Street. But I guess that's what you pay the heavy dues for,” I said, “a place to come and be as rude as you please.”
“He'll be back.”
“With people who can handle problems. Dues must also cover the salary of a former marine commando or two.”
“Just get out. You repulse me.”
Before you could say floorwalker, Duncan was back, escorting a medium-height fellow with a firm jaw and a bristling gray haircut. He wasn't large, but he looked like he'd be as adept at handling nonmembers as Kid Sligo was at expelling rowdy drunks from the Silverado Lounge. He wouldn't be rude; he'd be rough. Still, I might be able to take him, but it would involve busting up some antiques, and it would also mean charges being brought, maybe a lawsuit, and publicity, and I already had
more than I wanted. We all stood there in silence a moment, like a museum diorama display.
“I have pity for you, sir,” the judge told me, smoothing his tie. “And I find your presentation wanting. Frankly, I find
you
wanting. There's nothing more to say. Gentlemen, please see Mr. Rasmussen to the door.”
In my car, I hermetically sealed myself inside, AC on full, radio loud. I drove with one hand and used the other to wipe sweat from my brow, which was hot as a baked brick. After a few miles I turned the music off, then the AC, and opened the windows. I used my cell phone and called the courthouse.
“Hello, Ms. Ouellette's line,” said a brisk female voice.
“Is Ms. Ouellette there?”
“No, she's not. She didn't come in today.”
“She's a no-show?”
“What?”
“Thanks for your time.”
 
 
The way the state patronage system operated, Carly Ouellette could be gone from her desk six months before anyone thought to dock her pay or wonder why. I found a parking spot on Tenth and climbed out and looked for the woman's little gold Mazda but didn't see it. I crossed the street and went into her apartment building and rang the buzzer for her unit. Apparently she was a no-show here as well. I located the button for the building superintendent and pressed it. After a time, a mop-haired party in a tartan robe and bare feet appeared, looking like I'd dug him out of bin Laden's cave.
“I was hoping to talk with Ms. Ouellette in apartment seven,” I said.
He yawned. “What about?”
“A routine inquiry.” My PI license got his attention, but the twenty I dangled was the tongue-loosener.
“I seen her going out late last night with suitcases,” he offered, pushing at his frizz. “Vacation, I gather.”
“Any idea where she was headed?”
“La-La Land for all I care. I asked her did she want a hand loading them into that little rice burner she drives, and she told me where to go.”
His face darkened with suspicions. “Why? You know something I don't?”
I gave him the twenty. “Do you have a key to her unit?”
The place didn't appear to have much beyond the furniture, which the super said belonged there, and trash tied in vinyl bags. He could choose to imagine she was on vacation, but I was pretty sure she wouldn't be back. Nothing personal had been left behind, nor anything that couldn't be more easily bought anew someplace else. The clincher was the telephone. When I picked it up, the line was dead, as though service had been cut off. Crumpled beside the phone was a three-by-five card with a phone number on it. The number had been lined out, but I recognized it as the general business line for police headquarters. I smoothed the card and put it in my pocket.
“She ain't a bad-looking head, but she's got this pissy personality,” the super extemporized when we were back in the lobby, “like everything is out to annoy her personally. I'll see her in the hall and say hello, and it's a crap shoot whether I'm gonna get a scowl or be ignored altogether.”
BOOK: The Marble Kite
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