3 Strange Bedfellows (13 page)

But then Derek put in his two cents. "Mommy's gonna break into Jeremy Wartheimer's office and return the widow's portfolio that Daddy stole from Rosalyn."

Andrea and I stared at the little twerp. How did he know all this? We'd been careful never to talk about it when he was in the room. Jeez, both these kids had elephant ears. Andrea and I would have to start communicating in French.

Grandma was the first to find her tongue. "Could you say all that again, slower this time?"

So we had to fess up to the whole sordid business. In general, Hannah's a big supporter of mine, and vice versa. She never muttered an unkind word during all those years when I was a struggling artist, consigning her beloved daughter to a life of genteel poverty. But now Grandma had her gloves off.

"You jeopardized
Andrea's tenure?"
she yelled at me. "What were you thinking?"

Grandma waxed wroth for what felt like forever. I was grateful that I had to drive the kids to school, because it gave me an excuse to escape. Hell hath no fury like a Grandma pissed.

After dropping the kids off, I headed for Madeline's to drink in the coffee and the newspapers. I got lucky and found a parking spot right outside, so I could keep an eye on the car. The next time someone messed with it, they might do something worse than slash my tire.

As I got out of the car, I looked around quickly to see if anyone was following. My morning routine of going to Madeline's was pretty well set, and if somebody knew that they could lie in wait for me there. I didn't see anyone, but somehow I didn't feel reassured. I managed not to run into the espresso bar, despite a creepy feeling that someone was aiming at my back. Once inside, I breathed heavily with relief.

My goal that morning was to take yet another stab at collaring the widow alone. But once again I was thwarted. According to the papers, Susan had a morning appearance at some day care center down in Rensselaer County. No doubt she'd kiss a few babies and mouth a few platitudes, and no one would mention that the Republicans are always trying to cut funds for day care centers. Politics as usual.

I thought about heading south to harass Linda and Ducky, see if I could uncover the truth about Linda's whoopee-making. But I decided to work the bribery angle with Zzypowski instead. It was a tough choice: money or sex.

I sat at Madeline's and read the sports pages until it was late enough for the mall to be open and Zzyp to be in his office. Or rather, I
tried
to read the sports pages. Over the years I'd gotten to know a lot of Madeline's regulars, and now they kept coming up to me all morning to gossip about Will's case. Most of them had heard the latest poll results, and I got several offers to help out with the campaign.

Amazing what a good poll will do for you. Before, trying to get people to help Will's campaign was like trying to get my sons to go to the ballet.

But I wasn't ready yet to think about leafleting and canvassing. I left the coffee shop and drove to the mall.

At 10:15 on a mid
-September Monday morning, Saratoga Mall was not exactly a bustling thoroughfare. In the entire wing of the mall where Zzyp kept his office, I only saw one other soul: a bored janitor pushing his broom along in a desultory way. I headed for Zzyp's office in the windowless alcove at the far corner. The door was unlocked, so I walked in.

He wasn't at his desk, where I'd seen him yesterday. Maybe he was in the back room. "Zzyp?" I called out tentatively.

The office seemed different somehow, like something was missing. Then I figured it out. Zzyp's computer was gone.

And another thing: there was an odor, not unpleasant really, kind of . . . earthy. Taking another few steps into the office, I noticed splashes of red paint on the floor behind Zzyp's desk. How odd, I thought
—

But then I realized it wasn't paint.

I staggered backward, then turned around and almost ran out of there. To hell with this private eye impersonation. But I swallowed a couple of times and pushed myself forward, following the trail of blood.

Around the corner in the back room lay Zzypowski. There was a big hole in his chest and pools of dried blood all around him.

Enough already. It was time to get down to the serious business of puking my guts out. The bathroom door at the end of the back room was open, so I lurched over there, hoping I'd make it to the toilet before it was too late.

I made it, all right.
But the toilet was otherwise occupied.

It was filled with electronic-looking
stuff
—busted motherboards and circuits and things. The bathroom floor all around it was littered with broken chunks of hard plastic. These were pieces of a computer, I realized. Someone had smashed Zzyp's computer, stomping the innards and bashing all the bytes to bits. Then they'd thrown into the toilet everything that would fit, no doubt flushing a few times.

I was so surprised I
forgot to throw up. As I've mentioned, I'm not wild about computers myself. But still, this behavior seemed a bit extreme.

Obviously, there was something about Zzyp and his computer that someone had pretty strong feelings about.

Now what? I better get out of here before anyone found me. As Will's experience had shown, the police tend to get kind of suspicious when you're discovered next to a dead body. And the last thing I wanted was to give Chief Walsh an excuse to act like an idiot at my expense.

But I didn't take off just yet. First I backed out of the bathroom and looked around. A wallet was lying next to Zzyp's left knee. I leaned down gingerly to pick it up, holding my breath so the smell of his blood wouldn't hit me too strongly. Now that I knew what that smell really was, it no longer struck me as pleasant.

I took the wallet to the front room and opened it, hoping for a slip of paper with someone's phone number, or a telltale receipt or something. But all I found were Zzyp's driver's license, P.I. license, credit cards, and cash. Of course, maybe whoever removed the wallet from Zzyp's pocket had also removed any clues that were in there.

But he'd left the cash. An honorable killer?

Fighting off another urge to do the sensitive
artiste
number and run away, I went back to Zzyp's corpse and felt his pockets. I had to shove his body around some in order to get to the pockets in back. But my efforts went for naught. His pockets were empty.

He had two file cabinets in the back room. I stepped over the body, carefully avoiding the blood, and went through the cabinets as quickly as I could. I skimmed through case files from about thirty insurance scams and forty messy divorces, but none of them seemed related to the Hack's murder.

Outside Zzyp's office the mall Muzak started up, reminding me that I was dangerously pushing my luck. I headed for the front room of the office and hurriedly opened the top two desk drawers. Pens, paper clips, staples . . . and, I was gratified to see, Wite-Out. But so far, nothing else.

I was about to open the bottom drawer when I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. Oh, shit. Through the front window, I could see the bored janitor heading straight for Zzyp's office door. I ducked down under the desk and shut my eyes tight, as if that could somehow keep him from seeing me.

Actually, maybe he'd seen me already. I waited for him to open the door. But nothing happened. Eventually I gathered enough courage to poke my head under the desk and check for the janitor's legs outside the door. His legs were gone.

I periscoped my head up over the desk and confirmed that his whole body was gone
—at least temporarily. Then I tried the one place in the whole office that I hadn't tried yet: the bottom desk drawer. I opened it . . .

And found a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey.

Finally
. Something in this godforsaken, Muzak-ridden nightmare of a place that Raymond Chandler would have approved of.

But nothing that would help me solve my murder case. Or maybe now I should say,
cases
.

Discouraged, I headed for the front door. But at the last moment I had a minor brainstorm and came back to the desk. I picked up the phone and pushed the "redial" button.

The phone rang twice, then someone answered.

"Hello?" she said.

Whose voice
was
that? It sounded familiar. "Hello?" I replied.

"Yes,
hello,"
the woman said impatiently.

I slowly put down the phone. I'd heard all I needed to hear.

It was Susan Tamarack.

12

Unseen by the bored janitor or anyone else, I snuck out of Zzyp's office and fled the mall. I put the pedal to the metal of my old Toyota and zoomed off to the widow's house, car engine screaming. How had she gotten back so quickly from the day care center? She must have run out of babies to kiss.

There were four cars parked in her driveway. I strode resolutely to her front door and banged on the door knocker. By God, nothing would stop me from confronting this woman at last.

Except maybe Oxy
moron. He opened the door.
"You!"
he cried out, clenching his fists. "You're fucking asking for it."

"I want to talk to her."

"Tough shit."

He started to shut the door in my face, so I said quickly, "Tell her I know who she slept with last night."

That stopped him. "What?"

"You heard me. Tell her."

Oxymoron stared at me uncertainly, then shut the door.

I stood there and waited. A minute passed. I was about to bang the knocker again, but then the door opened. This time Susan Tamarack herself was standing there. She was dressed in a black suit, sort of a combination campaigning/mourning su
it. Very versatile. She was perfectly made up, her eyes flashed angrily, and she looked beautiful.

"That was you last night?" she hissed.

"That was me."

Without another word, she motioned me inside. We walked past several pairs of curious eyes in the living room. They all belonged to middle-aged men in suits with briefcases at their sides. It looked like the GOP had sent Susan some political consultants to help with her campaign. Did they hear my line about knowing who Susan slept with? I wondered what kind of spin they would put on their candidate's affair with her father-in-law.

I got the feeling Susan was wondering the same thing as we went down the hallway toward the bedrooms. She led me to the very last room, I guess so we'd be as far away as possible from her entourage. It was a guest room. She sat down on a chair and I sat on the edge of the bed.

We eyed each other. A wisp of soft black hair came loose and fell over her cheek. "What do you want from me?" she said, her voice hard.

I hardly knew where to begin. "How long have you been sleeping with Jack's father?"

She threw me one of those hate-filled looks that I was so expert at inspiring. "You're gonna tell Shmuckler about this, huh? And your friend at the
Saratogian
. You're trying to destroy me."

I steeled myself against the sympathy I felt. "You don't like that question, here's another one. Did you kill your husband?"

She barked out an incredulous laugh. "Why would I do
that?"

I ticked off the possible reasons on my fingers. "He was beating you. You were having an affair with his father.
He
was having an affair. Pick a reason. Any reason."

Actually, after all the conflicting stories I'd heard, I wasn't so sure the Hack
was
having an affair. But the widow didn't dispute anything I said, just sat there with her large eyes growing even larger. Finally the shock wore off long enough for her to ask, "How do you know all that?"

"Never mind how I know."

"I never told anyone about Jack hitting me."

"Why not?"

"He would've killed me."

I raised an eyebrow. Was she setting up a battered wife defense for herself, in case she got busted for her husband's murder?

"Well, he
might
have," she said stubbornly. "And besides, he was running for Congress. If I told people what he did, it would've ruined his campaign."

"So? Why should you care about his campaign?"

"Why should I care? I loved him."

"Oh, really. How long have you been having sex with his father?"

She grimaced. "Don't put it like that. You make it sound so disgusting."

"Why don't you explain it to me?"

She bit her lip—to keep from crying, it looked like. "The man is dying. I love him."

"Pretty liberated love life."

"Look, you have no idea what my life was like," Susan said bitterly, but at the same time something in her voice begged for understanding. "My husband could be very sweet sometimes, but he was a volcano, you know? Getting totally mad for no reason. And when he started running for Congress, he got worse. One night he wanted me to iron his pants and shine his shoes for the next day, and I told him I was too tired. And he hit me."

She bit her lip so hard I was afraid she'd draw blood. "He never hit me before. I knew he was under so much pressure from the cam
paign. Jack was from a poor family. This was all new and scary for him. So I tried to give him a break, you know?"

I nodded as if I did know. But really I didn't. I'm one of those people that, despite my best efforts to empathize, can never quite fully understand why abused women don't just
leave
.

"Jack promised he'd never hit me again. But he did. And then one night he
didn't come home 'til after midnight, and I got suspicious, so I looked in his old e-mail. There was something from . . ."

She faltered, so I tried out a name. "From Linda Medwick."

Susan nodded. So now we had one more vote for a Linda-Hack liaison. Was Linda doing the horizontal hula with both Pierce
and
the Hack?

Meanwhile Susan was saying, "The next night, Jack called me from his cell phone. Said he was sleeping over at a supporter's house in Greene County. I got off the phone and started crying, and Jack's father
—he was over our house that night, helping with Sean—anyway, he asked me what was wrong. So I told him. And he just held me, you know, and . . ."

Now the tears started
falling down her cheeks in earnest, smudging her face with mascara. "George is such a great old man," she said. "Nothing like Jack. And I felt so terrible that George was, you know,
dying
. He's got nothing. Jack was his only child, and Jack was a jerk. So we were holding each other and, well, one thing led to another."

She looked at me defiantly through her tears. "And it wasn't disgusting. It was
love."

That word again. "Did he love you enough to kill Jack?"

"That's impossible," she answered sharply. "George was with me that night."

"Great alibi," I said sarcastically, trying to rile her into tripping up. "So the two of you have agreed to say that about each other?"

"It's the truth."

"You're saying the two of you were . . .
together?"

She blushed and nodded.

"And your son was here at the time?"

She bared her teeth angrily. "No, he was sleeping at his friend's house. Whatever you may think about me, I'm a good mother. Sean doesn't know any of this."

Based on what I'd learned about kids' elephant ears, I doubted she was right. Besides, Sean had been home last night when Susan was with George. But I let it pass. "Okay, so maybe neither of you killed Jack. But what about Zzyp?"

I eyed her closely to see if the name got a rise out of her. But she didn't blink. "Who?"

I tried again. "You know who. Zzypowski."

Still no blinks. "Who's that?"

If she was faking it, she was doing a darn good job. Then again, if she'd managed to keep her affair with her husband's father a secret from her husband, she must have been good at faking things.

I thought back to the corpse I'd just had the pleasure of meeting. Now I'm no expert on morbidity, lividity, and all the other gross stuff that forensics experts use to figure out the time of death. But judging by the dryness of the blood, Zzyp had been killed before this morning. On the other hand, judging by the relative pleasantness of the blood smell and the unrottenness of the body, I figured Zzyp hadn't been dead for longer than a day. So that put the estimated
—
very
estimated—time of death as yesterday. Which was a Sunday.

Why had Zzyp come into his office on a Sunday? Did he put in a call to Susan's house, and then wait in his office for someone to show up?

"Where were you yesterday?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Humor me."

She shrugged. "I'm doing all the stuff Jack scheduled for his own campaign. Yesterday I had breakfast at the Glens Falls Rotary Club, then lunch at the Silver Bay Elks, then something in Saranac Lake. I don't remember it all, it's just one thing after another." She checked her watch. "Right now I'm supposed to be in Ballston Spa at noon. My new campaign manager is already there, he's gonna kill me. I should've left ten minutes ago."

"So you were gone from home all day yesterday?"

She gave me a belligerent but bewildered look. "Yeah. So what?"

"Who was at your house?"

"George. He was taking care of Sean."

"You left them alone together all day? Even though George's health is so bad?"

"Oscar stopped by to help out."

"Oscar?"

"The guy who let you in just now."

"Oh." Oscar the Oxymoron. Had a nice ring to it.

"Look, I don't understand all these questions you're asking, and I really do have to go." She stood up and, with an airy toss of her head, said, "If you're so horrible and sleazy that you have to tell the whole world about my love life, go ahead. But in the meantime I have a campaign to run."

I didn't say anything. I was trying to square this feisty campaigner with the frightened waif who stayed silent while her husband beat her.

She tapped her foot impatiently. "You speak English? I'm saying
scram."

I stood up, too. Then it hit me that with all the hot sex and other excitement
going on, I'd forgotten to pursue the lead that Geronimo Owens had given me.

"One more thing," I said. "Before I go, I need a copy of the opening statement Jack was going to make at that debate, the night he got killed."

"Why?"

"Come on, the quicker you give it to me, the quicker you can get to your stupid Chamber of Commerce lunch or whatever."

"Yeah, but I don't know where a copy would be. Jack did his speechwriting at the office—along with everything else he did there," she added sourly, probably a reference to his shenanigans with Linda Medwick.

I couldn't resist one final question. "Why didn't you leave him?" I asked.

"Why don't you get out of my face," she answered, and stalked out.

I guess she knew I wouldn't really understand.

I got back in my Toyota, and drove far enough away from the house that I wouldn't have to worry about Oscar the Oxymoron jumping me. Then I parked the car, leaned my head against the seat, and collected my thoughts.

Zzyp called Susan's house yesterday. Then he got killed. Had that phone call set his murder in motion? And why did he call Susan's house in the first place?

Wait a minute. Maybe Zzyp was trying to sell Pierce's photo to Susan, the same way I figured he'd sold it to the Hack. Then Susan could use it to scare Pierce out of the race.

But why would Susan—or her faithful henchmen, Hack Sr. and Oxymoron—want to
kill
Zzyp, if he was just trying to sell them useful information?

I snapped my fingers. W
as it possible that Pierce somehow got wind of Zzyp's plans? What if Zzyp called Pierce before calling Susan, and hit him up for hush money?

And then Pierce decided that instead of paying Zzyp to hush, he'd be better off killing him . . .

I was so excited by this new theory that I almost flooded the car when I started her up. I guess the old girl felt she had already done enough zooming in one day, thank you very much. It took some gentle sweet talking and careful gas pedal fluttering before she would consent to go anywhere.

After the car and I got our relationship straightened out, I realized I had a problem: I didn't know where I was going. According to the morning papers, Pierce was spending today campaigning in Lake Placid, two hours north. If you look at a map of the 22nd Congressional District, it resembles a gian
t lizard. The legislature gerrymandered it that way to keep out all those nasty urban voters from Albany and create a nice, safe Congressional seat for Republicans. It's highly convenient for them, but highly annoying for amateur sleuths who have to run all around the district trying to solve a murder.

I decided to call Pierce tonight and schedule another rendezvous at his house. For right now, maybe I should try to find out once and
for all what that opening statement of the Hack's was going to be. Like Geronimo told me, that was an avenue I should have followed a long time ago. Ah, well. Did Philip Marlowe ever feel as incompetent as I often did?

Who knows, maybe that's why he drank.

Susan said the Hack did his writing at work, so maybe his old computer at the State House would still contain his statement. I pointed my Camry toward Albany, and fifty minutes later found myself inside the Capitol building.