The Violet Crow (15 page)

“So what do you think this is about?” quivered Moe, thoroughly whipped.

“I think this is from some guy in Littlejohn's class. He saw my article and that gave him the idea. I'm sure Littlejohn brags about what kind of boxers he wears; that'd be just like him. So the student got a pair online and then masturbated on them. A big joke. Ha-ha. If he can get us to publish the story, then he's committed a deviant act and received public credit for it. He'll be the star of his class and we'll be the laughingstock.”

Jeanine and Moe were nodding in agreement, when Dan Snarrel came back to life. “What's it going to cost us?” he roared.

“What do you mean?” asked Jeanine. “How much is it going to cost, if we're wrong and we don't turn this over to the police?”

“There's no risk,” said Peaches.

“There's always risk,” Snarrel shot back.

“There's no connection between the stained shorts and the kids who were killed in Gardenfield. It's a logical fallacy. That's why I think it's a prank.”

“She says it's proof she's telling the truth,” Snarrel persisted. “If she's telling the truth about one thing, then she's got credibility for the larger accusation. It makes sense to me. How much does a DNA test cost?”

“I read that you can now get a person's entire genome sequenced for 10 grand,” Peaches answered without hesitation.

Jeanine wanted to ask why they'd need the entire genome, but she wasn't sure and didn't want to sound like an idiot.

Moe had no such qualms. “You'd have to get Littlejohn to consent to provide a sample for matching. Either that, or P.C. would have to harvest some surreptitiously.”

“Shut up, Moe. I can get you fired if you keep that up,” Peaches snapped.

“On the other hand, if we turn this over to the police,” Moe shot back, “we have a great story. Illicit sex. Recriminations. A new angle on the Quaker Killer. We could string it along for weeks. It'd sell papers.”

“The advertisers might not like it,” said Snarrel.

“That's true.”

“And we'd have to get the damn lawyers involved, if we're treating it like evidence … how much did you say for the DNA test?”

“Ten thousand.”

“That sound right to you Jeanine?”

“'Bout right, I guess. I can check on it.”

“Let's not waste any more time on it. This is a college prank. An anonymous note with a foul enclosure. Toss the whole thing and get back to work.”

Chapter 30

Quentin Richards hadn't felt so depressed since his time in the military. Now there had been two casualties associated with the school. Why was this happening? Who was behind it?

He walked out of his office on the ground floor of the main building, telling his secretary he was just stepping out for air. The school grounds were peaceful. It was nearing the end of the day. All of the children were inside, in their classrooms, awaiting dismissal.

Master Quentin walked around back toward the playground. Then he strode willfully into the cemetery where the lofty sycamores were just leafing out. In the children's butterfly garden, new blooms would soon be attracting a variety of insects—hungry for nectar, spreading pollen around. All was still and calm. He looked around from the back of the school, across the play field, toward the meeting house and back to where he stood in the cemetery. Everything was right. Everything in its place. Except for the presence of the security guards in their black commando sweaters and berets, he could have pretended that all was well, nothing out of the ordinary at Gardenfield Friends.

But there was no escaping the fact: the guards were there—Quentin himself had asked for them the day following Gussie's disappearance—and all was not well. He put his hand to his collar. Quentin realized he was feeling flushed and anxious. His skin was breaking out in sweat, and cold chills pulsed up and down his frame.

He mopped his face with a linen handkerchief and carefully replaced it in his back pocket. Then he walked quickly back to his office, clutching his suit jacket closed against the chill. He picked up the phone, and angrily punched the keys for the number he'd scrawled on his blotter.

“
Nyew
gaw
den
buyo
-sci-ences. Can you hold please?”

Master Quentin held, dabbing at drops of sweat as he waited.

“How can I direct your
cawl
?”

“I need to speak with Dr. Fischer,” replied Quentin, trying hard not to take it out on the receptionist.

“
Cyanni
tell him who's calling?”

“This is Quentin Richards from Gardenfield Friends School. He'll know what it's about.”

“Hold please.”

The sound of children exploding from the building after six hours of compression greeted his ear. They were shouting, cheering, raving. Not a care in the world, in spite of everything.

Suddenly he realized he was listening to Fischer's recorded voice. She'd dumped him into voice mail. OK. He'd talk to the machine. “Dr. Fischer, Quentin Richards here. I appreciate the use of your security people, but I have to say their uniforms are totally inappropriate for the school grounds. Can you please have them wear ordinary clothes while they're here? I …” He nearly added a more personal message, then thought better of it.

He stepped out onto the front porch to watch the children leave the schoolyard. Most were getting on the bus. They weren't letting kids walk home or ride bikes anymore, so that meant more parents had to pick up. The street was a hive of activity.

Alison and Icky walked by on the opposite side of Garden Avenue. They were holding hands. They released their grip long enough to wave to Master Quentin. He acknowledged them only with the slightest dip of his chin. He glanced nervously toward the commando from NewGarden, to see if he noticed. Some instinct told him that the less these people knew, the better. Now Alison and Icky were changing direction. They were crossing the street to approach the school. Frantic, Master Quentin ordered them away with a surreptitious shake of the head. It was definitely not the right time for a social call.

One of the last mothers to pick up her child that day was Judy Cohen. She was driving a Lexus hybrid SUV and was running late—mostly because of the baby. Mimi scrambled into the car without greeting her mother. She buckled herself into the seat next to her sister's rear-facing crashproof contraption and announced, “I'm hungry. Let's get Chinese food.”

Chapter 31

Bruno hadn't felt so depressed since his marriage broke up. Watching Judy Cohen run her errands brought back a flood of memories. The good ones made him sad because they were gone forever. The first six years with Sharon—Judy's baby sister—had been OK, despite some of the obvious negatives, such as the unremitting hostility from his in-laws. He wasn't Jewish enough for Mr. and Mrs. Cohen. Judy saw him as a
shlimazl
. And her husband, Bill McRae, William R. McRae, Attorney at Law, always hated his guts, pure and simple. Why Sharon's parents tolerated McRae, who was not just a
goy
, but a dyed-in-the-wool
shaygetz
—a non-Jewish husband, and an arrogant
shmuck
to boot—while they were bothered by his weakness for ham and cheese sandwiches, was something Bruno never understood.

He'd always liked Mimi best. She was a mischievous kid who didn't take things too seriously. Bruno missed seeing her, and he'd never had a chance to meet the younger sister; in fact, he didn't even know what her name was.

But in order for that to happen, Bruno had to reach some kind of understanding with McRae. Thus he'd badgered the Chief to set up a meeting. Bruno realized it was the first time he'd actually come in through the front door of the Municipal Building, and the sinking feeling was unmistakable. The Chief had warned him he'd probably be wasting his time. “Ready to enter the lion's den?” he joked as he led Bruno down the hall to McRae's office.

McRae was sitting at his desk, aligning the edges of a stack of papers, when they entered. He had a stocky build with a barrel chest. Now in his mid-40s, McRae was mostly bald on top, yet he wore his gray-blond hair collar length, along with a mustache, a goatee, and a large gold earring that Mr. Clean would have been proud of. He looked more like a bouncer at a biker bar than an attorney, which is exactly what he intended.

McRae stood up when they entered. He greeted the Chief but only glared at Bruno. Without speaking, he set down the stack of papers he'd been studying and positioned it neatly in a precise location on his desk. Several quick strides brought McRae face to face with his visitors. He raised his right arm; Bruno couldn't tell if his ex-brother-in-law was going to put an arm around his shoulders or punch him in the nose.

McRae did neither. Instead he pointed a finger and shook it angrily. “Joey,” said McRae as if he'd been having difficulty remembering Bruno's name. “Joey Kaplan. I thought I'd seen the last of you after Sharon dumped you. But here you are, in my office, going around with a ridiculous fake name, pretending to have psychic powers and bilking the taxpayers.”

“I didn't bilk anybody, Bill. The Chief called me up and hired me to do a job. I just located that poor kid's body …”

“You sure did. You found it in record time. I wonder how you managed that? Just like always: setting up your tricks in advance to make yourself look good. Did you kill Gussie yourself, Joey, or did you just work with the people who did? How much are you going to charge us to cough up the name? Or are you going to murder somebody else so you can try to run up your bill?”

McRae's face was bright red. He was shouting, every muscle straining with tension, his lips within six inches of Bruno's face. Chief Black stepped between them. He tried to pull Bruno away, but the psychic held his ground. He sidestepped the Chief so he could look McRae in the eye. “I need to see Mimi,” he said quietly. “I can solve this case, I just need a few minutes with her.”

McRae exploded. “Who the fuck told you she was involved? That was supposed to be confidential. Was it you, Buddy? 'Cause if it was I'm going to kick your ass.”

The Chief walked up to McRae and put his hands on his hips. “Go ahead, Bill. Take your best shot.”

McRae seemed to deflate physically as he sized up the Chief's lanky strength. “I can sue you, Chief, and fine you. Nobody was supposed to give out her name.”

“He was working on the case, Bill,” the Chief said with a hint of menace. “He needed to know.”

“Well that was a big mistake, and I won't tolerate any more indiscretions,” hissed McRae, jabbing a finger past Chief Black in Bruno's direction. “You do not have my permission to go anywhere near my daughter. You're not working for the Borough anymore, so you have no business hanging around. If you go within 20 feet of my house or any member of my family, I'll have you locked up …”

“You can't say that, Bill,” the Chief interjected. “We're not locking up Bruno.”

“If he harasses my family …”

“He's not threatening anyone with physical harm. He's just requesting an interview. That's not a crime.”

“I don't want him around my house. He's a suspect …”

“He is not a suspect. The newspaper does not get to decide who's a suspect and who isn't.”

“The Mayor says he's a suspect.”

“The Mayor is a politician. He's not the law in this town and neither are you. Now why don't you go collect some overdue property tax bills and leave us to solve this murder? You'd really be doing me a favor if you'd let Bruno talk to your daughter. I'd guarantee …”

“You'll do nothing of the kind. I guarantee that if I find him—Joey Kaplan—anywhere near my house or family, I will deal with it personally. I'll kick your ass like it's never been kicked before, Joey. I'll rip your face off. I'll break every bone in your body. I'll bury you, you dickless weasel.”

“That sounds like a threat,” said the Chief. “Maybe you're the one who needs a restraining order, Bill.” And he reached for his radio to call for help. It took Gary and Michelle about 30 seconds to come upstairs. Chief Black told them to keep an eye on McRae until he calmed down. Then he hustled Bruno out of the office.

“You can't do this, Black,” McRae ranted. “I'll have your badge. If anything happens to my daughter I'll hold you responsible. That man is playing you for a fool. If you won't lock him up, at least you better keep him under observation.”

“Don't worry Bill. We're way ahead of you.”

“I
am
worried, Buddy, which means you better worry too. You better make sure you keep tabs on this jerk. Cause if you don't, your ass is mine …”

McRae's threats melted into incoherence as the Chief led Bruno down the stairs to the police station. “Bill's a real asset to the town.” He grinned. “When he litigates, he never loses. He either wins or gets tossed out for contempt. When he negotiates, we usually get sued. But we never lose.”

“How satisfying.” Bruno tried to match the Chief's jaunty tone without success.

“I'm serious now. Biff's going to be watching your every move to make sure you stay away from Mimi. So don't you even try.” The Chief gave Bruno one of those direct looks that are supposed to confirm an agreement.

“I'll do my level best,” replied Bruno, meeting his gaze head on.

“Make sure you do.”

Chapter 32

After an hour of tailing Bruno, Biff felt he was about to go out of his mind. Bruno had come up with a bike somewhere, which made him extremely difficult to follow. Biff couldn't keep up on foot and, when he used the prowl car, Bruno would duck into alleys or cut across parking lots to make it difficult for him.

Eventually, he called the Chief for advice. “Hey, Chief, can I impound his bicycle?”