Denton - 01 - Dead Folks' Blues Read online

  Only sometimes it doesn’t rain. Sometimes the sun breaks through and illuminates the landscape in ways you’ve never seen before. That’s how I felt now. The lay of the land was different.

  Not that I knew what to do about it. But all my assumptions were called into question.

  First, there was a side to Connie I hadn’t seen. No matter how he appeared to other people, at least one person saw him as gentle and vulnerable and—how did she put it?—charming.

  Second, and this was the most subtle yet disturbing revelation: I’d assumed Conrad Fletcher was running around at night, sleeping with any nurse who’d have him, laying bets with Bubba Hayes, partying down like a real lech. Now it turned out that what he may have been doing was sitting alone in dark hospital rooms with silent tears pouring down his face.

  Why?

  There was only one person who could answer that question. I hoped that she was still awake. I cut right, a little too closely to the long black limo behind me and to my right, and swerved to hit the entrance ramp to the Four-Forty Parkway. I heard the blast of a horn as I cut the guy off and realized he was veering to follow me.

  Great, I thought, as much as I’ve got on my mind, and I get into a traffic hassle with somebody. This is a bad town for that. In New York City, drivers honk at each other as a way of communicating. Down here, it’s an invitation to a gunfight. And I wasn’t in the mood.

  I laid down on the Ford, valves clattering away like Flamenco dancers under the hood, and pulled away. Around seventy, I checked the rearview mirror and saw that he’d dropped back. Guess the guy figured it wasn’t worth it. He was right.

  I greased onto the exit chute for Hillsboro Road, squealed tires through the horseshoe turn, and melted into the traffic. Up ahead of me, the exclusive Green Hills homes sat darkened, quiet, well-tended, well-guarded.

  I turned right onto Golf Club Lane and slowed. A couple of blocks up, I slowed even further to make the turn onto Rachel’s driveway. The house was mostly dark, except for a few lights in the upper right corner of the house that were still burning.

  I turned into the driveway and geared down to pull the slight hill. I was halfway up the driveway when I spotted it, slammed on the brakes quickly, and doused the headlights.

  There was another car in the driveway. One I hadn’t seen before: silver, looked foreign. Maybe a BMW, perhaps a Mercedes. Too dark to tell. I could just see the tail end of it poking out of the shadow cast across the backyard by the house. I couldn’t see much of it, or read the license plate, but I knew I hadn’t seen it there before.

  Rachel had company. I looked at my watch: 10:15. I sat there for a second, wondering if I should go on up and knock on the door. Probably just a neighbor. But what if it wasn’t?

  No matter what, I hadn’t called first. And it would be unspeakably intrusive, I thought, to drop in uninvited this time of night. That just isn’t done in polite society. Besides, it was probably either her parents or Conrad’s. They might not appreciate an unknown man dropping in on the widow unexpectedly. Might give them the wrong idea.

  After all, Conrad’s funeral was tomorrow. Out of respect, I ought to wait at least another twenty-four hours before moving in.

  What followed was a restless night, full of dreams that shot at me like movie clips, disjointed faces: Conrad lying under me again, the police, the bash on my head, lying on a hospital floor with the young blond nurse kneeling over me, only this time the nurse was Rachel, then she was LeAnn Gwynn, and then finally, Marsha Helms. I woke from the dream when I was lying on an autopsy table with Marsha standing over me.

  I came to in a cold sweat, the sheet twisted around me in knots, the chattering window unit straining to blow cold air on me in my attic apartment. I focused on the clock and discovered it was a little past seven. They were burying Conrad today, in less than seven hours, and I didn’t even have a handle on who he was. I untangled myself from the sheets and stumbled over to the air conditioner. On especially humid, close nights, the damn thing tends to freeze up. I turned it off and pulled off the plastic cover; it was frosted over in white.

  No matter. My cold sweat had evaporated into goose bumps, and I found myself shivering in the morning air. I wandered into what passed for my kitchen, plugged in the coffee, then went for the bathroom.

  I don’t usually shower first thing in the morning. I like to wake up slower than that, ease into the day with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. But this morning, I needed a bigger jolt than caffeine could handle. The hot water ran over me and felt marvelous, warming me up, bringing color back. Then for the last fifteen seconds, I twisted off the hot water faucet and let the cold sling down on me like a shower of needles.

  The outside door to my apartment led onto a rickety metal landing, with a flight of rusting stairs down to my landlady’s backyard. I walked down and grabbed my paper off the front lawn, then trudged back to get my coffee.

  There was a short article on the front page of the Metro section headlined SLAIN DOCTOR BURIED TODAY. There was nothing in the story about the cause of death, so I hoped that meant the autopsy results weren’t in yet.

  The more I thought about it, the more I thought all hell was going to break loose when the autopsy results came in. If Marsha’s suspicions were on target—and I knew from years past that they usually were—then this investigation would blossom from almost no official suspects to a truckload of them. The drugs Marsha suspected, one would assume, could only be obtained in a medical setting. That meant virtually anyone at the hospital could be guilty: James Hughes or any other medical student; the exceedingly lovely Dr. Collingswood or the infatuated Dr. Zitin or any other resident; or any nurse Conrad ever hit on, including LeAnn Gwynn, the one who loved him.

  LeAnn Gwynn’s story, which had seemed so convincing last night, didn’t hold up so well in the hot light of the day. I believed every statement she made except the last. Maybe she didn’t kill him. But if she did, she wouldn’t be the first person to kill a lover. Maybe he’d decided to end their affair. Murder’s been committed for less.

  And what was that business about spanking? Was she kidding, or did Conrad, besides everything else, have a kinky side?

  I picked up the phone and dialed the morgue. It was probably too early for Marsha Helms, but I knew my old buddy Kay Delacorte would be there. The shifts changed at seven, but she always came in at least a half hour early to make sure everything was under control.

  “Forensic Science Center,” she said.

  I deepened my voice. “Hello, darling.”

  “Well, if it ain’t Conway Twitty.”

  “In the flesh, my love,” I said, back to normal.

  “Yeah, but whose flesh?” She laughed out loud. “Bad joke to make at the morgue. Too early.”

  “You got that right. Listen, Kay, I’m looking for Marsha. She in yet?”

  There was a long, tense pause over the phone. Kay was messing with me again.

  “Business or pleasure this time?”

  I thought for a second. “Maybe both.”

  “Yeah? In which order?”

  “Definitely pleasure. Pleasure’s always first whenever I see you guys.”

  “You slick bastard, you. Hold on, I’ll ring her.”

  A second later, Marsha picked up the phone. Her voice was too bright and cheery to be fully real; either she was glad to hear from me or she wasn’t awake yet.

  “Morning, Harry. How are you?”

  “Great, babe. How you doing?”

  “That’s Dr. Babe to you. And I’m fine.”

  “You going to Conrad Fletcher’s funeral today?”

  “I hate funerals,” she said, voice fluttering with horror at the thought. “They’re so morbid.”

  “And doing autopsies for a living isn’t?”

  “Hey, that’s just business. Besides, you get used to it after awhile. It’s like playing with jigsaw puzzles.”

  “I’ve never seen a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces would squish through your hand when
you tried to pick them up.”

  “To answer your question, Mr. Smart Guy, no. I’m not going to Conrad Fletcher’s funeral. If I went to the funeral of every stiff that came through this door, I’d be a professional funeral goer-toer.”

  “Good point. Well, I’ve got to. I not only knew the guy; it’s business for me.”

  “So have fun. Sing a hymn for me.”

  “Listen, Marsh, I got to be at the funeral home at two. Thought maybe you’d like to get lunch before. What do you think?”

  There was more silence from her end. “So what are you looking for this time?”

  “Nothing,” I said, which was at least partly true. “I just remembered what you said the other day. About calling you. What do you say? C’mon, you gotta eat.”

  “Where you want to go?”

  “Make it easy on you. Someplace close to the hospital. Maybe that sushi bar on Second Avenue.”

  “You want to take a forensic pathologist to a sushi bar? You’re a sick puppy, Harry.”

  I laughed. “Okay, that restaurant across the street from you. What is it this week, Thai or Korean?”

  “Korean, I think.”

  “Great. How about noon?”

  She exhaled deeply into the phone. “I’ll probably regret this, but okay. Noon it is.”

  I’d never seen Marsha Helms outside work before, but I knew her well enough not to be surprised when she pulled into the parking lot in a black Porsche 911 Turbo Carrera convertible with a vanity plate that read DED FLKS. All I could do was put my head down on the table for a moment and think: great, I’m having lunch with a woman who thinks autopsies are cute.

  I looked up just in time to see her bend over to lock the car door. Bizarre sense of humor aside, Marsha was attractive and growing more so by the day. Unlike some very tall women I’d seen in my life, she didn’t try to hide her height. She wore clothes that looked as if a tailoring genius had designed them just for her. She tended toward dark colors, but they were bold and vivid, not muted. The Addams Family came back to me again. I couldn’t help it; I wanted to be Gomez to her Morticia: Marsh, you spoke French.…

  She walked into the restaurant carrying herself high, a zest to her footsteps that belied her grim work. Maybe dealing with death makes you appreciate life all that much more. Come to think of it, since this business with Conrad started, I’d found my senses sharper, keener. Images were more distinct, voices were clearer, more piercing, flavors more intense. As grim as this whole business was, for the first time since I entered this line of work, I was enjoying myself. I’ve always tended to go from one obsession to another, which helped make me a pretty decent reporter. Maybe the skills were beginning to transfer. Maybe someday, I’d be able to make a living at it.

  And maybe I was flattering myself. After all, I was no closer to figuring out who killed Conrad than I was the night he was murdered. I just had a sense of how many people might have wanted to. No matter how hard I tried, though, I couldn’t stop racking my brains. So many questions remained, not the least of which was the big one: why would Conrad lie there without a struggle and let somebody jam a syringe into his leg?

  My seemingly endless mental monologue was interrupted by the elderly restaurant owner accompanying Marsha to the table. I stood, smiled at her appreciatively, and found myself strangely tongue-tied as she took her seat.

  We exchanged pleasantries as she unfolded a cloth napkin and spread it across her lap. We were seated at a large window overlooking Hermitage Avenue, the noontime traffic passing in an endless stream. The morning cloud cover had burned off; the sky was a bright blue. It was turning into a gorgeous day.

  “Funny,” I said. “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Me, too. I’ve never seen you outside—”

  “Yeah. Say, love your car.”

  She grinned sheepishly. “I’ll let you drive it sometime.”

  The waiter came. We ordered a couple of glasses of an Australian chardonnay, an unusual indulgence for both of us, and a couple of Korean dishes I’d never heard of. Lunch is seldom an adventure for me, but I was delighted to have it turn into one. We made small talk and swapped stories, just as people do when they’re on what amounts to a first date. I swear; I’m nearly forty years old, married and divorced, and a decorated veteran of the relationship wars, but I still get nervous when something starts feeling like it’s about to happen.

  On the other hand, I’m also old enough to enjoy the nervousness, to celebrate that someone can still give me butterflies, even if just for lunch. And maybe I was seeing something that wasn’t there. But, hey, she seemed to be having a good time.

  “By the way,” I asked, as we were finishing our coffee, “whatever happened to the tox report on Fletcher?”

  She looked over the top of her cup, her eyes darkening. “Well, I was wondering when you would get around to it.”

  “Now wait a minute, Marsh. That’s not why I invited you to lunch.”

  “Oh, it isn’t?” She put the cup down hard. This little voice in my head muttered an obscenity, and I figured she really was steamed at me.

  “No. Listen, I’m interested, and yes, I need to know. But you got to believe me. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”

  She softened a bit. The wine, along with a sinfully good meal, had taken the rough edges off both of us.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll believe you if I give you the poop and then we wind up doing this again.”

  “If that’s the deal, I’ll take it.”

  “That’s the deal.” She smiled and leaned across the table, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The report came in last night. I was right. Protocurarine. I forget the blood concentration, but he was packed to the gills. Whoever did it wasn’t taking any chances. Bombed him good.”

  “Where would it come from?”

  “Well, Sam Spade, since he got whacked in a hospital, I’d say that’s an excellent place to start.”

  “Would the stuff be locked up?”

  She thought for a second. “I don’t know. Probably. It’s certainly a narcotic. But it’d be held with the other anesthetics. Outside of putting somebody way under, I don’t know of any other medical use. It certainly wouldn’t be routinely kept in a drug locker.”

  “Has the report been released to the cops?”

  “Oh, yeah. First thing this morning. Homicide’s holding a press conference late this afternoon. They figured they’d wait until after the funeral as a sign of respect to the family.”

  “Damned decent of them,” I said. “They’d probably like to keep it under their hats altogether.”

  “It’d never work. Too big a story. The media’d bust their chops.”

  I looked down at my watch. Conrad’s funeral was in less than an hour. I pulled out my credit card, the one least likely to be maxxed out, and laid it on top of the check. Then, on impulse, I leaned across the table and kissed her. Nothing heavy, no slobbering passion at lunchtime, but a kiss. A forreal, unmistakable, not-just-a-friendly-peck-on-the-cheek kiss.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “Anytime.”

  Conrad Fletcher picked a beautiful day to be buried.

  The silver hearse and two black limousines were already parked on the side of the funeral home, with rent-a-cop security cars on either side of the parking lot. The television stations were there as well. Conrad’s murder was considered particularly intriguing and juicy by the media vultures, and they didn’t even know the whole story yet.

  The back lot was filling up fast. I parked the Ford between two larger cars and sat there, discreetly watching the proceedings. I recognized several doctors, some other people who looked vaguely familiar from the hospital, and groups of younger people who were probably Conrad’s students. I wondered what the proportion of mourners to rejoicers might be, then decided that kind of speculation was not called for.

  Inside the funeral home, the crowd resembled spectators at a dull trade sh
ow or convention rather than a group of souls lost in sadness. People milled about, gossiped, made the idiotic small talk that’s been the grease of human interaction since humans gave up grunting and shaking sticks at one another. Occasionally, a too loud voice would break forth in laughter, then just as quickly hush. I wandered around the outside fringes of the throng, then slowly began working my way toward the front of the funeral home. Conrad’s coffin had been moved into the chapel to accommodate the larger crowd. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, even inside the chapel itself there was little in the way of melancholy. I found myself hoping that when I crossed over, at least a few acquaintances would look like it bothered them, even if they had to fake it.

  I retraced my steps to the lounge. The tiny room was packed with visitors and thick with blue cigarette smoke. My eyes burned, and it seemed as if the opposite wall was barely visible. Next to the soda machine, can in hand, stood Walter Quinlan in a black suit.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said, walking up to him and sticking out my hand. He looked stressed, not at all the happy exuberance I’d seen the other day.

  “Hi, Harry. How are you?”

  “I’m hanging in there, man.” He shook my hand tightly. “I’m glad to see you. I was wondering if I’d run into anybody I know.”

  “Don’t worry. They’re all here.”

  “You seem strung out, my man. What’s the matter?”

  “All this, I guess. I hate funerals.” There was a redness in his eyes. Had he been crying? Didn’t seem likely. Walter wasn’t the type. More likely, he’d had a few drinks and a lousy night’s sleep.

  “You been here long?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe an hour.”

  “Seen Rachel yet?”

  “Oh, yeah. I came by the other night, too. Sorry I missed you.”