Caught Dead Handed (18 page)

We arrived in Tampa on time. A good sign. TPA is a remarkably efficiently designed place, so moving via escalator and shuttle, I quickly reached the outdoor area designated for picking up arriving passengers. Curbside, searching for the limo that would take me to the veterans' hospital, I removed my jacket, reveling in the soft, warm Florida air caressing my skin like the touch of a friendly kitten.

Spotting a sleek white Cadillac displaying a window sign lettered with my name, I waved. A smiling driver maneuvered the big car into a space right in front of me. Within what seemed like seconds, my luggage and I were riding in air-conditioned comfort across a long bridge spanning the sparkling turquoise waters of Tampa Bay.

“I'm taking you to the VA hospital, right, Ms. Barrett?”

“Yes. That's right.”

“You got family there?”

Oops. How was I supposed to answer questions about my visit to the old soldier? I'd had no prep about that. I didn't even know his name yet!

“Umm . . . not exactly,” I stammered. “I'm delivering some papers for a friend.”

It was sort of true. Anyway, the driver seemed satisfied.

“That's nice. Those vets sure appreciate having visitors. Specially pretty ones like you.” He winked into the mirror. “You from around here? You look familiar.”

I gave him a quick rundown on my stint at the shopping channel and suggested that was probably where he'd seen me. It was, and for the rest of the ride to St. Petersburg, I answered questions about the various movie and television stars whose jewelry, dolls, perfume, and fashions I'd featured on the show.

We pulled into the parking lot in front of the imposing sprawl of hospital and administration buildings. Palm trees and flowering hibiscus gave the place a tropical look.

The driver looked at me expectantly. “Want to get out here?”

“I . . . I need to wait for a phone call,” I said. “My . . . um . . . friend will be calling to tell me . . . uh . . . what building to go to.”

He looked puzzled. “I think they can tell you that at the desk.”

They probably know me at the desk. I've been here so many times with Johnny.

“My friend told me to wait.”

“Suit yourself.”

Tucking my cell phone into my jeans pocket, I opened the carry-on and pulled out the camcorder. “I'm going to get out and take a few pictures while I wait for my call.” It was just an excuse to get away from questions I couldn't answer, but it might make a good lead for the interview.

I focused on a red hibiscus, then pulled back and panned slowly across the main entrance. I walked down a tree-shaded path, showing viewers a small lake where a family of wood ducks swam. More hospital buildings loomed in the background. My cell phone vibrated. I shut off the camera and sat on a nearby bench.

“Hello. Lee Barrett here.”

“Hi, Lee. It's Rhonda. Mr. Doan wants to talk to you. How's the weather down there?”

“Gorgeous, as usual.”

“It's cold and rainy here. Boy, are you lucky! Hold for Mr. Doan, please.”

I hope I'm lucky. I hope I can pull this interview off. I hope George is right and it will lead to bigger things.

“Hello, Lee. Bruce Doan. How was your flight?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“You're at the hospital now?”

“Right outside. I'm taking a few exterior shots for the lead-in.”

“Good.” There was a long pause. “I have the name of the man you're going to interview. The name of the owner of the murder weapon.”

“Yes?”

“Lee, are you sitting down?”

“Yes, I am. Why?”

Another pause. “Bear in mind this may just be a big coincidence. . . .”

“What do you mean? What's his name?”

“Valen. Sergeant Major William Joseph Valen.”

It was my turn for a long pause. An “Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole” kind of pause.

I found my voice. “Valen? No kidding? Have you asked Janice or George about it?”

“No. They know about it, of course. Both of them. Haven't made a peep. Neither have the cops. Not yet.”

“The police have questioned them about it?”

“Sure. Hey, it's probably just some kind of weird coincidence.” He didn't sound convinced. “Anyway, there's a Salem PD detective down there now. He'll find out if there's any connection.”

“Right. Well, then, I'd better get going. It's Sergeant Major Valen, you said?”

“Yep.”

“Mr. Doan, George told me that they always called their father Sarge.”

“I know. Listen, Lee. You just get in there and get that interview. Friendship be damned. It is what it is. Let the chips fall where they may and all that stuff. I want to know how the hell his straight razor got to Salem. I want to know if one of his kids had it.” I heard a thump, which probably meant he'd pounded on his desk. “And I really want to know how the son of a bitchin' thing wound up in a Dumpster, with a dead woman's blood all over it, wrapped up in a raincoat with
my
station's call letters on it!”

He sounded like the Bruce Doan I'd seen that first day at the station. I pictured his red-faced outrage, remembering the horrible things he'd said about Ariel. When he grew silent and the thumping stopped, I ventured another question.

“Do you happen to know what building he's in, sir? I know my way around here, but this place is enormous.”

He gave me the name of the building and the sergeant major's room number.

“Say, Lee,” he added. “Don't include yourself in the shot while you're doing the interview. I'll have Phil Archer voice over the questions.”

“Really? Why?”

“Think about it. Can't have the viewers mixing up Lee Barrett and Crystal Moon now, can we?”

“I guess you're right,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. So Phil Archer would get credit for my work. I was useful only because I was known to the higher-ups at the VA hospital, who'd hardly welcome an out-of-state, camera-toting stranger bothering one of their patients. George's optimistic idea that this assignment would advance my career was just wishful thinking. Apparently, as far as WICH-TV was concerned, I was only a second-string psychic.

“You sure you can handle this, Lee? I could send Palmer down to take over.”

If I'd had a desk handy, I might have balled up
my
fist and pounded it.

Like hell I want Palmer to take over. Why would I? So he can snatch another job out from under me?

I remained cool. “No thanks, Mr. Doan,” I answered, masking my anger. “Don't worry. I can handle it just fine. I'll send the video this afternoon.”

“Oh, yeah. About the video. You can send it to me. I'm not sure I want George to edit it, after all.”

“I understand. I'll be in touch as soon as I finish here.” Gathering up camera and phone, I headed across the lawn to the waiting limo.

“I've got all the info now,” I told the driver. “You don't have to wait if you have something else to do for an hour or so.”

“Okay. Maybe I'll just drive over to the beach and grab something to eat. Want to take your stuff or leave it in the car?”

“I'll take some of it.” I'd packed a folded WICH-TV bag, which was big enough to hold my purse, along with the camera and the envelope containing the photo of the razor. I tucked the phone back into my jeans pocket, left the carry-on in the backseat of the Cadillac, tossed the canvas bag over my shoulder, and headed for the main entrance.

A gentleman wearing a volunteer's badge gave me a visitor's pass, along with directions to where I might find William Joseph Valen, sergeant major retired. He summoned a golf cart, which was operated by a volunteer who remembered me. After a fast ride to the proper building, I showed my pass to a male nurse at a desk in the lobby. He remembered me, too.

“Old Sarge is going to be so glad to see you, Ms. Barrett,” he said. “We've all missed you and Johnny coming around like you used to. Sorry about him dyin' like that.”

“Thanks. Johnny always loved coming here, talking cars with everyone.”

“Well, old Sarge will be thrilled. He hasn't had a visitor in months, and today he's got two.”

“Two?”

“Yep. You and the cop who's sitting in a chair outside of his room.”

“Outside his room? Why? Is he under guard or something?”

“Dunno. I asked. It's one of those plainclothes detectives. Not local. Anyway, he just said he's part of an investigation. That's all.”

“I hope he'll let me in.”

I'd hate to come all this way and be left standing in the hospital corridor outside the old soldier's room!

“Oh, sure he will.” The man gave a short laugh. “Poor Sarge can't be under arrest for anything. I mean, what could he do? He's eighty years old with one leg!”

I clipped the visitor's pass to the collar of my blouse and started for the elevator. As soon as I stepped out into the third-floor corridor, I saw the room I was looking for. The number Doan had given me was plainly marked on the wall next to an open door. And just as the nurse had told me, a man, looking uncomfortable in suit and tie, sat in a straight-backed chair just outside the room.

But what nobody had told me was that the cop by the door was Salem detective Pete Mondello.

“Lee?”

“Pete?”

He stood up so quickly, he knocked the chair over. “What are you doing here?” he said as he retrieved the chair with one hand and extended the other to me.

Ignoring the question, I shook his hand. “What a surprise! I heard the chief say he was sending a detective down here, but nobody told me it was you!”

“It was a surprise to me, too. Didn't even have time to pack.” He pulled at his shirt collar. “Is it always this hot here in October?”

I laughed. “This isn't hot. You should be here in August!”

“No thanks. I'll be glad to leave tomorrow. Looks like the real story is back in Salem, anyway. Not much point in hanging around here.”

“The sergeant wasn't any help?”

“Not really.”

“Funny about the last name, though, isn't it?” I pressed for information. He must have talked to the old fellow about the Salem Valens. Or had he?

No answer. Just a raised eyebrow. I knew he wasn't about to discuss police business with me. But, hey, it was worth a try. I shrugged and gave up trying to out cop a cop.

“Well, nice seeing you again, Pete.”

“Nice seeing you, too, Lee. Say, what
are
you doing here, anyway? You know him?” He gestured toward the open door.

Was it okay to tell him I was here on assignment? Or, because the old soldier was involved somehow in a police matter, could Pete prevent me from talking to him? My mind raced as I edged toward the doorway.

Sergeant Major William Joseph Valen himself bailed me out of that particular dilemma.

“Is that you, Ms. Barrett? Where you been? You're a sight for these old eyes. Get your cute little self right on in here!”

With scarcely a glance in the detective's direction, I hurried to the bedside.

“How're you doing, Sarge?” I shamelessly adopted the nickname everybody seemed to use, hoping it added to the illusion that I had some personal connection with the man. And since he obviously recognized me, perhaps, in some sense, I did.

“Doin' fine for a gimpy old fart, darlin',” he said. “Gosh, it's good to see you again. Sorry about your man. Everybody here felt awful about that.” A smile lit up his wrinkled face. “But at least you're back to visitin' us.”

“I moved out of state, Sarge,” I said. “But I'm going to try to get down to see you guys more often.” As I spoke the words, I vowed to make them come true. Johnny would want me to.

“Out of state, huh? Where'd you go?”

“Back to my hometown. Salem, Massachusetts.”

“Oh, oh. Salem's where
he
comes from.” He jerked a thumb toward Mondello, who'd turned the chair so that he was looking into the room. Bill Valen dropped his voice. “You didn't become a lady cop or something, did ya, honey?”

“Nope. I'm still on TV. But I'm trying to be a reporter. They sent me down here to get an interview with you about this old straight razor.” I pulled the glossy photo out of the envelope and showed it to him, then tilted my head in Pete's direction. “I guess he told you what happened.”

“He told me some lady went and got her throat cut with it. That's what he told me. And I told him I haven't seen that old thing in years. Not since I got back from Nam.” He held up his right hand, as though taking an oath. “Honest.”

“I believe you,” I said.

“Oh, the detective does, too. Just can't leave till he gets the say-so from his CO.” He gave a mock salute. “I know that drill.”

I glanced back to where Pete sat, clearly listening to our conversation while pretending to read the
Tampa Bay Times.
He looked uncomfortable and out of place in his dark suit.

Poor Pete.

I reached into the canvas bag and showed the old man my camcorder. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions with my little camera here running?”

“Go for it. If I can help you get the job you want, ask away.”

There was a movable tray table at the foot of the bed. It would make a good flat surface for the camera. I focused the lens on Bill Valen and adjusted the sound.

“How do I look, honey?” He ran a heavily veined hand through thin white hair.

“Handsome as ever,” I said and began the interview.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the WICH-TV audience, we're here in St. Petersburg, Florida, at the VA hospital, talking with Sergeant Major William Valen.”

“You can call me Bill, honey.”

They'll have to delete that “honey.”

“The Salem Police Department has traced the straight razor that is believed to be the weapon used in the recent murder of Yvette Pelletier in her Derby Street apartment to the sergeant major. His service number was scratched onto the blade. I believe you've seen a photo of the razor, Bill. Is it yours?”

“It is. I mean, it was. I left it in my old footlocker with a bunch of other stuff after I got back from Nam.”

“I see. What became of the footlocker? Do you know?”

“Nope. Left it at my ex-wife's place in Cincinnati. Don't know what she did with it.”

“Is your ex-wife still there in Cincinnati?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“Marlena? No. She's dead. Been gone near twenty years, I reckon.”

“Perhaps your children know where it is. Do you have children, Bill?”

“Yep. Two of 'em. But I don't know where they are, either.” The rheumy eyes filled with sudden tears.

“Do you want to stop for a minute, Bill? I can turn the camera off.”

“Yes, please.” He wiped his eyes with the edge of a sheet. “Sorry. I don't like to talk about the kids. I should have tried harder to keep track of'em.”

I know where they are. But I'm not supposed to tell you.

I glanced toward the doorway, where Pete sat, newspaper neatly folded in his lap, his attention now plainly focused on me and Bill Valen. He shook his head ever so slightly. I got the message. The police weren't yet ready to connect the Salem Valens with the soldier. And as Mr. Doan had said, maybe it was all just some kind of weird coincidence.

“Sorry. I'm just a silly old fool. Give me a minute. I'll be okay.”

“Take as long as you want to, Bill. I don't have too many more questions.”

That was true. It should be pretty clear to anyone that Bill had no idea how or when his old razor had wound up in that Dumpster. But I wanted to talk about his war injuries. It would be important for the viewers, as well as the police, to know for sure that this old, bedridden veteran could not possibly have anything to do with a murder fifteen hundred miles away.

“It's just that I never should have left them with her. But the judge ordered it. I was away so much, and they were used to her, you know? And I made sure the government sent the allotment check every month. Even after she died, I had them send it to my oldest boy.”

“Your oldest boy?”

“Yep. Georgie. I knew he'd take good care of the young one. But after a while the checks came back. No forwarding address.”

So. His oldest boy is named George. We're well past the coincidence stage now. His Valens and our Valens are one and the same. No doubt.

I glanced back toward Pete. Surely he already knew all this. He was on his cell phone.

“You ready for the camera again, Bill?” I asked.

“Sure, honey. Shoot me!”

I turned the camcorder back on. “Have you ever been to Salem, Bill?”

“Nope. Can't say as I have. Though I hear it's a right interestin' place.”

“It is. But you've been to lots of interesting places, too, during your many years of service to America.”

“I have. To Europe. To Korea. All over the States, too. The place that sucked the most . . . Oops, excuse the language. The only place that was really bad was Vietnam. I guess that's mostly because I left my leg there.”

“You're a hero, Bill. Thank you for your service.”

“Nah. I'm no hero. Got a couple, two, three medals, that's all. They're probably in that old footlocker, along with all the other junk.”

“Can you remember what else might be in it, Bill?”

“Oh, jeez. It's been so long. Probably some old clothes, shoes, boots, pictures of my kids. Just the usual stuff a soldier carts around.”

“And your old razor?”

“That too. Last I knew, it was all back in Cincinnati.”

“Thank you, Bill. It's been good talking to you. If you happen to remember anything else, anything at all, about that razor, please contact the Salem, Massachusetts, Police Department.” I repeated the number.

“You're welcome. Sorry I couldn't be more help.” He waved into the camera and smiled. He had a nice smile. A lot like George's.

I shut off the camcorder and put it back into the canvas bag.

“What does that say?” Bill pointed at the bag.

I turned it so the logo was plainly visible. “WICH-TV. Those are the call letters for the station I work for. Why?”

“Nothing, I guess. I just feel like I've seen those letters before.”

“We have a good signal,” I said. “But not that good! It doesn't reach Florida. There are lots of similar call letters. I mix them up myself sometimes.”

“Anyway, darlin', it was great to see you, even if it was business. Don't be such a stranger. You going to visit some of the other guys and gals today?”

“Absolutely,” I said, ashamed that I hadn't thought of it myself. “And as soon as I get some time off, I'll be back for a real visit.” I meant it.

“I'll look forward to it. And you might send an old man a postcard once in awhile. Let me know how you are. What you're doing.”

“I will.”

“Good. I love postcards. Got a little collection of 'em there on the bulletin board.”

He pointed to a corkboard mounted on a closet door. “My youngest used to send me one every so often. Never any return address, but at least I knew everything was okay, you know? Haven't had one for a real long time, though.”

I looked closely at the colorful array of postcards. Pete would be interested in this.

“These are nice, Bill. Do you remember where she sent the last one from?”

“She? No, I mean my youngest boy, Willie. Named after me. Didn't have no girls.”

Tumbling a little farther down the rabbit hole! No girls? Then where did Janice come from?

I motioned for Pete to join us.

“Pete,” I said, “these postcards are from one of the sergeant major's children.” I wasn't ready yet to grapple with the possibility that Janice might not even be a Valen. I decided to stick to the mystery of the missing footlocker for now. Mistaken identities could come later. “Maybe there's something here to tell you where the footlocker could have traveled after Bill left it with his ex.”

I was pretty sure Pete already knew about Bill's youngest son. After all, the detective had been here questioning the old fellow long before I'd arrived. I was also pretty sure he wasn't going to tell me a darned thing about what he'd learned.

Pete and I stood together, facing the display of postcards.

“Good work, Lee,” he said softly. “I didn't notice these.”

He turned and faced Bill Valen. “Sir, would you let us take a few pictures of your cards, front and back? Maybe the postmarks will help us figure out where that trunk of yours has been all this time.”

“Glad to help, but like I told her, they ain't really recent. There's years in between some of them.”

Carefully, Pete removed the postcards from the bulletin board. He pulled a small digital camera from an inside suit pocket, revealing, as he did so, a holstered gun. One at a time, he placed the cards on a small nightstand, photographing the front, then the back, of each one. He moved quickly, not stopping to study the illustrations or to read the messages.

“Want to put these back, Lee?” He handed me the stack of postcards.

“Sure.” I turned to the old soldier. “Were they in any particular order, Bill?”

“No. No special way. I take them down and read them once in a while, and then I just kind of arrange them so the colors look pretty. Know what I mean?”

“I'll do my best,” I promised and began a random arrangement of the colorful scenes, tacking them up from left to right. I was beginning the second row when something about one of them grabbed my attention. It was a nighttime shot of a city street, buildings ablaze with neon, a Photoshopped full moon above. It was the pink and violet neon sign on the building in the foreground that had stopped me.

THE PURPLE DRAGON.

I knew right away where I'd seen that name before. It was on the framed nightclub photo on Janice's desk. Turning the card over, I read the message and noted the dated postmark.

I beckoned to Pete to join me in front of the closet door and lowered my voice.

“Did you ever notice the photo that Janice keeps on her desk?”

“The showgirl shot? Sure did.”

“Look at this.” I tapped the postcard.

“The Purple Dragon. Piccadilly Circus, London,” he read, then flipped it over, studied it for a moment, then turned to the man in the bed.

“Could we borrow just one of these cards, sir?” he asked. “I'll personally guarantee we'll return it soon and that it'll be perfectly safe.”

“Well . . .” Valen was hesitant. “Those cards mean a lot to me, young fella.” He looked in my direction. “What do you say, honey? Can this boy be trusted?”

“I'm sure he can,” I told him.

Pete had already slipped the postcard into his pocket by the time the old soldier answered.

“Okay. If you say so.”

I finished arranging the bulletin board display, then stepped back to get the effect. Bill nodded his approval.

“It was sure good seein' you again, doll. Don't be such a stranger. Come back soon. Y'know, I ain't getting any younger here.”

“I will, and I'm sorry I stayed away so long.”

“Aw, we understood. Losin' your man and all. Now, don't forget to stop and say hey to some of the others.”

“I'll do it right now,” I promised and gave him a quick hug.

“Made my day, babe!” he said, waving as Pete and I left the room. “Take good care of her, young fella!”

Pete took my arm and guided me toward the elevators. “I'm off duty. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, “but I want to visit a few of the other patients. I promised. Anyway, the station provided me with a limo. The poor driver has been cooling his heels outside ever since I got here.”

“Nobody's cooling anything out there!” Pete wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. “It's damn hot!”

“You need some Florida clothes, Pete.”

“I know. Want to take me shopping?”

“I'd like to,” I said, “but after I do my visiting, I have to figure out where I'm going to stay tonight.”

“I lucked out with a nice place right on the beach,” he said. “I'll bet they still have some vacancies.”

He mentioned a motel Johnny and I had stayed in once or twice. He was right about it being a nice place. “Thanks. I'll check it out.”

“Good. Maybe I'll see you later then. When are you going home?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Three thirty on Delta. Have to be back for the late show.”

“Three thirty? Looks like we're booked on the same flight.”

The thought was not unappealing.

I kept my word to Bill Valen and was glad I had. The veterans were happy to have company, and I promised myself that I'd fly south to see them again soon.

The Cadillac was parked exactly where I'd last seen it, the driver patiently listening to a Santana CD and reading the
Wall Street Journal.

“Have a good visit, Ms. Barrett? I'll bet your friend's friend was glad to see you.” He sprang from his seat, held the back door open, and tucked the canvas bag neatly next to the carry-on.

“He was, thank you, and I stopped to see a few of my own old friends. I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. Did you get some lunch?”

“Sure did. A grouper sandwich. Where to now?”

“I guess I need to find a place to stay.” I mentioned the motel Pete Mondello had suggested. “Let's check it out and see if they have room for me.”

“You're the boss.”

There was a vacancy, and within a half hour, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, I was settled in a spacious beachfront efficiency with a refrigerator, microwave, big flat-screen TV, and a comfortable king-size bed. If my mind hadn't been busy trying to make sense out of the overwhelming jumble of information I'd stuffed into my brain since George Valen had picked me up at four in the morning, I'd have felt as though I was on an all-expenses-paid Florida vacation.

I was sure now that the Valens at WICH-TV were closely related to Bill Valen. At least George was. But if Bill had no daughters, who was Janice? Did Bill's ex-wife have a little girl he didn't know about? That didn't seem likely. And what had become of young Willie, who'd kept in touch with his father over the years with a series of postcards? Did the Purple Dragon postcard mean that Willie and Janice had been in London together?

Where was the footlocker? Who had taken the straight razor? When? Why? What did Yvette Pelletier have to do with the Valens? How did Ariel fit into the puzzle? And O'Ryan? Why would anyone want to harm the yellow cat?

The thoughts spun around like some macabre carousel. I tried to shake them off. Hooking up my laptop, I downloaded all the video I'd shot at the hospital and sent it to Mr. Doan, just as I'd been instructed to do. I knew he'd be disappointed. Especially if he'd been hoping I'd find some crazed vet who'd sneaked out the hospital window, traveled to Salem, and murdered an old girlfriend with his razor.

I called Aunt Ibby, told her I'd arrived okay. I told her, too, about the Valen connection. “Want to put on your research librarian hat and do a little sleuthing for me?”

“Absolutely. What can I do?”

“You said that one of your Facebook friends was a policeman in London?”