Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 03 - Trick Question (20 page)

“What about the last project? The one he was working on at the time of his death?”

“Not a trace. Very suspicious, huh?” Flowers said, and made his eyebrows wiggle. “Good pork chops,” he added.

“Extremely suspicious,” Tubby said, dipping some French bread into his soup. “Let’s concentrate on that.”

“What do you suggest?” Flowers asked. “You like these fried green pepper rings?” he asked Cherrylynn.

She nodded, mouth full.

“We know he had lots of notes,” Tubby said, “and probably a written report. Maybe they’ve all been destroyed, in which case we’ll never know what he was doing, but then we’re no worse off than we are now. Or else they haven’t been destroyed and you have until tomorrow morning to find them.”

“Find them where?”

“Detecting is your job. Keeping you out of jail is mine.”

Cherrylynn looked from one to the other, gave it up, and took a dainty swallow of beer.

“How’s your shrimp?” Tubby asked her.

“Real tasty, Mr. D,” she said.

“They got a nice peanut butter pie, too,” Tubby suggested.

The latest family news, recorded on the answering machine at home, was that Harold had absconded with Debbie’s television, the pearls she had gotten for her high school graduation, and Christine’s jambox. “I’ll have to get her another one if she’s going to the beach this summer,” he thought angrily. No one had heard from Harold for three days.

Some guys with shaved heads had come by Debbie’s apartment asking about Harold, but they left when they were told the truth – Harold’s whereabouts were unknown.

Denise had to use an ice cube and a tissue to stop the flow of blood from her lower lip. With the tips of her fingers on the other hand she pushed the buttons on the telephone. Monique was on another line, so she left a message.

She was still repairing the damage from Baxter’s visit when Monique called back.

Instead of saying hello, Denise just cried into the phone while Monique kept demanding to know what was wrong.

In a minute or two she calmed down enough to tell Monique the story – the theme of which was that Baxter kept confusing lovemaking with violence. Her girlfriend ran through the medical checklist and determined that the injuries were minor. Dump the son of a bitch, she ordered.

“Yeah, I know,” Denise said. “I think I have trouble distinguishing between hitting and caring.”

“Do you like the taste of blood?” Monique demanded, intending to be sarcastic.

“No,” Denise replied, but she had to think about it.

“There’s such a thing as professional help,” Monique told her.

“Did you ever have any?”

“No,” Monique admitted. “I left town.”

“Well, I don’t want to do that.”

“You shouldn’t have to. Just break it off. If he messes with you, get Mr. Dubonnet to put a peace bond on him.”

“I guess,” Denise said, her voice distant.

“I guess, I guess,” Monique muttered. She was so mad she wanted to strangle the girl.

It was not hard to disconnect the regulator on the large propane tank that fueled the gas burners and the specimen crematorium in Laboratory 3. A hundred rats twitched their whiskers and watched the shadowy figure move quickly and carefully around the room, opening the gas jets that released the noxious smell. There came a sudden frightening illumination when the human lit a match and left a candle burning on one of the stainless steel countertops before swiftly opening the freezer closet and exiting through the sliding door.

Flowers walked across the front lobby of the medical center unaccosted. The information desk had been abandoned for the night, and Flowers had watched the security guard take a stroll outside to smoke a cigarette. The place smelled like lemon disinfectant. The detective made it past the elevators, where a tired nurse was leaning against the buttons with her eyes closed. He took a right at a sign that said HOSPITAL PERSONNEL ONLY. A page for “Dr. Smith… Dr. Merrick, you are wanted…” echoed down the empty hall.

The security desk at the approach to Moskowitz lab was vacant, but a cardboard cup of vending machine coffee steamed beside a sign-in log.

Cautiously, Flowers peered around the corner. He could see the security guard at the far end of the hallway. It was not Joe Malouf. The guard was looking with curiosity at the door of Lab 3. He put his hand on the plate that made it open.

With a roar like a cannon discharging, the door of Lab 3 blew out. A ball of green and yellow flame raced down the hall in Flowers’s direction. He was thrown back against the wall, and his head cracked hard on the tile floor. Pumping adrenaline, he scrambled back onto his feet. A quick look told him that the guard had disappeared beneath a pile of rubble and the dust and smoke that filled the hall. Flowers could feel the rain of the overhead sprinkler system but he could not hear the alarms, since his ears were not functioning. He stumbled toward a red Emergency Exit sign.

At that moment Tubby was standing on a cracked sidewalk, trying to decide which one of a block-long row of shotgun houses he was supposed to go into. The one directly in front of him seemed to be the right decision, so he climbed up the steps and pulled open one of the green-shuttered doors.

Now the question was what room to pick. The living room was empty but for a television set loudly advertising a medicine for colds. The dining room beyond contained a table set for four. The main course sizzled on each plate, but Tubby couldn’t recognize the dish. No, he gagged, it was grilled rat!

He ran into the bedroom and into the arms of two doctors, stethoscopes swinging like live things from around their necks. They tried to wrestle him to the floor.

“Orderlies! Need help!” one cried out.

Tubby broke free and careened back through the house to the street. He jumped into the getaway car and zoomed away. Happily, he realized that it was being driven by Nicole Normande, an old flame. With a smile that had always grabbed his heart, she asked, “Want to come inside for a beer? You need to rest.”

The telephone woke him up. Breathing hard, Tubby picked up the handset.

“Hello,” he grunted.

“This is Flowers. Moskowitz lab just blew up.”

“Say it again,” Tubby demanded, struggling for consciousness.

“It blew up. I was close by. I think at least one man got seriously injured – most likely killed.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at a pay phone on Claiborne Avenue. I got out of the area quick. I figured with so many doctors around, there was no need for one not very straight private investigator. Nobody saw me there.”

“Any idea what caused it?”

“Looked like a gas explosion. There was a big fireball. My eyebrows are gone.”

“Christ, what about all the animals?”

“They might just be out of their misery.”

“I guess we’ll learn more on the morning news. Can you stay out of trouble till then?”

“I’ll sure try. You know where Grits Bar is?”

“Of course,” Tubby said.

“If you need me, I’m on my way over there to get a beer and clean up. And establish an alibi.”

“Okay,” Tubby said, “but I’m going back to sleep.”

He did, but only after tossing around for an hour trying to turn off his brain.

Day two of State versus Busters began just like day one except, alert to Judge Stifflemire’s timetable, no one showed up until nine-thirty. Also, it had clouded up overnight and rain was coming down in torrents. Tubby didn’t feel like parking the Lincoln and wading through puddles, so he took a cab to the courthouse. Cherrylynn remained at the office to return yesterday’s calls and explain that Mr. Dubonnet was in trial. After that she could come to court and watch.

The news media, excited by the explosion at Moskowitz lab, and titillated by the connection to the headless man, were out in force. Tubby brushed past them. For once he had nothing to say. There was a crowd of spectators outside the courtroom, too. A tall man he couldn’t place smiled and said hello to him. There was something familiar about the guy, maybe the overpowering cologne he was wearing, but Tubby had big problems on his mind, and he breezed by.

He was just peeling off his overcoat when the judge took the bench with a swirl of his bombazine robe.

The district attorney must have made impressive threats to Dr. Swincter about what could happen if you ignored a subpoena, because despite the turmoil at Moskowitz lab, he popped right up when Clayton Snedley called his name.

Cletus was in a somber funk and barely reacted to Tubby’s good morning and words of comradeship. He even turned his head away when Swincter walked by. Tubby whispered that he should sit up straight for the jury, but Cletus ignored him. Bad sign.

Swincter promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God, and then gave an exposition of his very impressive credentials.

He had known Dr. Valentine for three years, and they had worked together on many important research projects that had expanded the boundaries of medical science. Dr. Valentine had been a useful and innovative scientist, and his loss would be felt deeply by the entire medical community.

“Did Dr. Valentine and Cletus Busters get along?” Snedley inquired.

“No, they didn’t. Whitney, uh, Dr. Valentine, caught Busters letting research animals out of their cages on one occasion. An experiment was prejudiced thereby. They had quite an argument about it, and I believe Whitney tried to have Cletus fired for it.”

“Did you witness the argument?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did the defendant say anything to Dr. Valentine?”

“He called Valentine a name which I took to be ‘blasphemer.’ I wasn’t completely sure because Cletus doesn’t speak that well.” Swincter gave a little sanctimonious snort and took off his glasses to polish them on his shirt.

“Did Valentine tell you anything else about Cletus?”

“Objection, hearsay,” Tubby interrupted.

“Excited utterance, Your Honor. The statement was made by Dr. Valentine during a heated argument with the defendant.”

“Overruled. You may answer the question.” Snedley turned toward the jury and nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Whitney accused Cletus of taking drugs from the lab. You see, some items had turned up missing.” Swincter put his glasses back on his nose.

“What in particular?”

“Phenobarbital.”

“No more questions,” the DA said.

“No questions for Dr. Swincter on cross-examination, Your Honor.” Tubby felt Cletus straighten up next to him. “I do however plan to call him as a witness for the defense on direct.”

“Very well. You may step down, Dr. Swincter, but you remain under subpoena.”

Swincter made no effort to conceal his irritation as he left the stand.

“That’s the state’s case, Your Honor. We rest.”

And before you could say “Have mercy,” Judge Stifflemire had asked whether the defense was ready to commence.

“Yes sir,” Tubby responded robustly, but that was not how he felt. This trial was moving much too quickly. And where the hell was Mickey O’Rourke? Couldn’t he at least lend some moral support? Rarely had he had such a feeling that his quiver was so empty.

Tubby turned around to survey the prospects again and saw Cherrylynn enter the courtroom. She waved encouragingly and sat down near the back. The grieving widow, chiropractor Bennett, and Magenta Reilly all glared at him from their lairs here and there. Dr. Auchinschloss was chewing his nails.

Mentally, Tubby flipped a coin. “As its first witness, the defense calls Mrs. Ruby Valentine,” he announced.

The widow, dressed in a tight cobalt-blue suit with gold buttons, rose and walked down the aisle. She moved with dignity, nodding demurely at the judge as she approached the witness box.

“Mrs. Valentine, my sympathies on your loss,” Tubby began. She just stared at him coldly and did not respond.

“Yes, ahem. Mrs. Valentine, how long were you and your husband married?”

“More than two years.”

“You were a nurse when you met him, right?”

“I still am.”

“At Moskowitz?”

“No, at St. Doloroso General.”

“Did you ever go into Moskowitz lab?”

“I used to, occasionally.”

“To see your husband?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you have to ask directions to find his workplace?”

“No, I knew my way around.”

“Right,” Tubby said, smiling at the jury. “Mrs. Valentine, would you say you and your husband were happily married?”

“Objection!” Snedley cried indignantly.

“What’s your purpose, Mr. Dubonnet?” the judge asked.

“To show other possible motives to kill the decedent.”

“I didn’t kill my husband,” Mrs. Valentine wailed, and began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Mrs. Valentine, please,” the judge comforted. He frowned at Tubby and shook his head. “Take a minute to compose yourself.”

She kept crying.

Tubby stared at the wall above her head and then dared to glance at the jury. He saw disapproval written on their faces. Quickly looking away, he saw Mickey O’Rourke slipping in the door and sliding onto the back bench beside Cherrylynn.

“Mrs. Valentine,” Tubby resumed when she gasped for air, “who is Ira Bennett?”

Boo hoo, boo hoo, the witness continued.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Tubby told himself.

“Isn’t it true that you and Ira Bennett had an affair that was going on at the time of your husband’s death – and is still ongoing?”

“Yes, you vile man, but I didn’t kill Whitney. I loved him. He was just a hopeless philanderer,” Mrs. Valentine shrieked.

“Your Honor,” both lawyers were yelling at the same time.

The jury, thinking she had described the victim of a terrifying blood disease, grumbled among themselves.

Stifflemire pounded his gavel until everybody shut up.

Tubby saw Magenta run out of the back of the court room. He sank down beside Cletus, who was staring at him in disbelief.

“No further questions,” he said, exhausted.

“None here,” District Attorney Snedley agreed.

“Five-minute recess,” Stifflemire announced. “Bailiff, help Mrs. Valentine back to her seat.”