Extracurricular Activities (18 page)

Medical technology has become so advanced that I only had my stitches for about a week. Okay, that's only half true: the wound didn't warrant them staying in any longer than that. After I got them out, I had a nice scar on my arm. Talk about street cred. I looked like I belonged in a girl gang. If girl gangs counted middle-aged college professors among their ranks, that is.

Crawford and Champy continued to work the shooting, even though, thankfully, it didn't fall into the “homicide” category. I really didn't think that I was a target for anyone and went with the “innocent bystander” explanation, but that even sounded thin to me. I didn't think any of the Micelis wanted me dead but what did I know about the mentality of any of those people? Maybe Gianna still saw me as a link to Kathy's death and wanted me gone. I didn't dwell on any scenario too long because I was convinced that I would drive myself mad.

Although Jackson and Terri's departure gave me great joy, I continued to ruminate on where they had gone. Nothing makes you look more suspicious than leaving town and not coming back. When I tried to think about where they might have gone I couldn't come up with anything; I really didn't know them. How do you go from accusing your husband of murder to recanting that accusation to disappearing with the lunatic? None of it made sense.

I had called Rick Felter at Jackson's office, but he was as clueless as I was. And I was pretty clueless. He told me that nobody had had any idea that Jackson was leaving, nor where he had gone. He suspected that human resources might have more information but he said that they were especially tight-lipped when it came to giving out details. I thought about that and concluded that I would wait for Max to concoct some kind of lie about why I needed information about Jackson and his whereabouts. She works in a corporation and knows the ins and outs of human resources. But more importantly, she also knows how to lie better than anyone I know.

I lay in bed listening to the rain fall early the following morning. Crawford was working a day tour and then was with his girls for the day; I knew that I wouldn't see him for at least another twenty-four hours. Crawford had given up on trying to keep information from me. At this point in our relationship, he actually had started using me as a sounding board and tossed a few ideas my way every now and again. He told me that he wasn't entirely convinced that one of Peter Miceli's henchmen had murdered Ray, and wanted to look into Jackson and Terri a bit more now that they had done the highly suspicious disappearing act. Right now, all he had was that Jackson was well liked and well respected at work and that didn't really leave him with anything to go on. Terri, he said, was a blank slate.

I could have told him that.

Trixie was lying in the new bed that I had bought her and looked up at me, surprised to see me at this hour. I noticed that she had taken one of my suede pumps to bed with her and that the heel was chewed beyond repair. I gave her a stern look.

“Trixie, what did I tell you about eating my shoes?” I said, giving her a gentle tap on the nose. She hung her head for a split second and then looked up at me again, her tongue hanging out. She looked at me expectantly. “Okay, I'll take you out,” I said, and went into the kitchen. Crawford had nailed a fancy hook inside the back door which held Trixie's leash and a flashlight for nighttime walks. I fastened the leash to her collar and went outside, realizing, too late, that I needed an umbrella.

Between the rain and the fact that it was a little after four-thirty in the morning, darkness enveloped the backyard. I switched on the flashlight and shone it on the spot where Trixie had chosen to do her business. I yawned loudly, looking around to see if anyone else in the neighborhood was awake. I turned toward Terri and Jackson's vacated abode and watched as a dark-clothed individual made his way around the side of the house to the back patio. Trixie peed quickly and stood at attention at my side, waiting to see if the person in the yard adjacent to mine was friend or foe.

I walked toward the hedgerow that separated the two yards and peered over the prickly shrubs. The person in the yard swung around suddenly and trained a very powerful flashlight on me, temporarily blinding me. I put my arm to my eyes. Trixie let out a loud bark, something that I had never heard; she sounded very, and uncharacteristically, menacing.

“Police, ma'am,” the flashlight owner called out to me. He swung the flashlight to the ground and approached me holding out a badge.

I patted Trixie's head. “It's okay, Trix,” I said, keeping the hedgerow between me and the cop. After all, I was still in my pajamas; no need to get arrested for indecent exposure. “What's going on?” I asked him.

He didn't respond directly to my question. “Is there anybody in this house?” he asked, swinging his flashlight in the direction of Terri and Jackson's house.

I shrugged. “I think they left. There hasn't been anybody there for several days.” Trixie tensed again, and I rubbed the top of her head. “Why?”

“A 911 call came from inside,” he said, a bit perplexed. “But if there's nobody living there, then that's impossible.” As if to punctuate his puzzlement, he took off his hat and scratched his head. “Happens sometimes. The system gets quirky when it rains.”

Well, that's comforting, I thought. I hoped I never needed a cop during a thunderstorm. “Did you look around?” I asked, the rain beginning to soak through my pajamas.

“Yep,” he said. “Nothing going on. Looks deserted. I'll write it up but it must be the system. It gets quirky when it rains.”

So I've heard. Well, I'll keep my eyes and ears open, I thought, not as content with the quirky-system explanation. I looked over at the house. It certainly seemed empty. I watched the cop amble down the driveway, spend a few minutes in his car, and drive away. I looked down at Trixie. “Are you done?” I asked, and she stuck her nose into my butt. I took that as a yes and went back inside.

 

“So, what do you think, Bobby? Bobby?”

Crawford looked up from the stack of papers on his desk and turned toward Champy. “What?”

“Diamond stud earrings. For Patty.”

Crawford grunted. The precinct was quiet at five in the morning on that Saturday and he was hoping to get some of his paperwork done. It was another one of those Saturdays when he wouldn't be with the girls. Christine had taken them to an all-day swim meet somewhere in Connecticut, so he had decided to come in and do some paperwork in peace; once he saw Champy saunter in, all hope of a quiet morning was gone. “Good.”

“Have you heard anything I was saying?” Champy asked.

“Not really,” he admitted. “Did it have anything to do with fellatio?”

“No. She hates Cuban food,” Champy said.

Crawford sighed. “Blow jobs, Arthur. Did it have anything to do with blow jobs?”

Champy smiled. “Guilty as charged.”

“Then I didn't really miss anything, did I?” Crawford said. He stood and refilled his coffee cup from the pot next to Champy's desk. “Did you review the notes on the neighborhood canvass on the Stark case?” he asked, leaning back against the desk that the coffeemaker sat on.

“Nobody seen or heard nothing,” Champy said. “It's Van Cortlandt Park, Bobby. Unless you had some middle-of-the-night lovebirds, or someone cruising on the down low, you ain't gonna get nothing.” He smoothed his tie down. “I'm just saying.”

“You're just saying,” Crawford muttered, and made his way back to his desk. He sat down and looked around for the file for Ray Stark's case.

“Champ, who has the Stark file?” Crawford asked when he couldn't find it.

Champy picked a file out of a giant stack on his desk and tossed it over to Crawford. Crawford caught it before the papers inside came spilling out. He reread the interview with the fencer, Julie Anne Podowsky, and came away even more convinced that she had had nothing to do with Ray's death. He wasn't sure why she came in exactly, but he didn't dwell on that too much. Champy, on the other hand, saw her as a viable suspect and kept bringing her name up.

“So, what do you think about the diamond studs?” Champy asked again.

“They couldn't hurt, Champ,” he said. “Does she like jewelry?”

“Are you kidding?” Champy asked. “She loves jewelry.”

“Then that's a step in the right direction,” he said.

Champy walked over to Crawford's desk and leaned down on it, hovering over Crawford. He dropped his voice to an almost-whisper, despite the fact that they were the only two people present in the squad. “Tell me. How do you get some?”

Crawford wiped his hands over his face and let out a loud sigh. “Some what?”

Champy shrugged. “You know.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down, signaling that the carnal conversation was still in full swing.

“I don't get a lot, Champy, so I'm probably not the right person to ask.”

“You? I can't believe that.” Champy snorted. “You're a big, good-looking guy…what's the problem?” He paused for a moment and narrowed his eyes. “You're not…you're…” he started, dropping his hand at the wrist.

“Gay, Arthur? Am I gay? No, I'm not gay,” he said.

“I'm just saying…”

“Yeah, well, go say it somewhere else,” Crawford said, riffling through the old file, hoping Champy would get the hint and return to work. Crawford kept his eyes on the file, hoping to see something that would pique his interest about Julie Anne. There really wasn't anything there; all they had was a scared twenty-year-old girl who thought her parents would find out that she had slept with a professor if she didn't come to the police first to give a statement.

Poor kid. She was scared to death. And she was under the mistaken impression that whatever she said to the police was kept in the strictest confidence, much like a confession to a priest. Champy had disabused her of that notion, making her the most frightened girl on the St. Thomas campus now. Crawford was sure of that.

Crawford's phone rang. “Crawford. Fiftieth Precinct.”

Champy's voice came over the line, still in a whisper. “Because you know, you could tell me if—”

Crawford slammed the phone down with so much force that a piece of plastic flew from the receiver and onto the radiator cover next to his desk. The phone began ringing again immediately, and although he was happy to hear Alison's voice, he wasn't so happy to hear what she had to say.

I went back into the house and called the Fiftieth Precinct. My plan was to leave a message with one of Crawford's colleagues; I was surprised to hear his voice, sounding cranky, tired, and exasperated. I hoped that my propensity for being involved in murder investigations wasn't taking a toll on our budding relationship, but it had to be getting old.

“Crawford! Fiftieth Precinct!” he screamed into the phone.

“Crawford?”

“Oh, hi. I'm sorry,” he said. “It's early. Is everything okay?”

I described my early-morning walk with Trixie, the cop next door, and the 911 calls. “Is it strange to you that the cop just left?”

“That's a career-ending move if I ever heard one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, in a couple of days, say you smell a suspicious odor coming from the house and the cops go in, only to find a decomposing body with a finger on the phone keypad?” he asked. “Trust me. The captain would fire that cop's ass for not following up on a mysterious 911.”

“Gross.”

“That's the sort of thing you don't blame on a screwy 911 system. That's the sort of thing you break doors down for.” He looked at his watch and then at the stack of files on his desk. “Listen. Don't do anything. I can't come over until late tomorrow. I've got to pick up my girls tonight and I don't want to be late.” He let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Please don't do anything. Please.”

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly.

“Promise me,” he said.

I waited a few beats. “Fine. I'll wait for you.”

I am a lousy liar.

I stood in the kitchen, still pajama-clad, considering my options. I could wait for Crawford, but his estimated arrival time was two days from now. I could focus my attention elsewhere—like the junk drawer in my bathroom vanity—but that would only occupy an hour or two after I threw out all of the old hair twisties and unused mascara samples. The choice seemed simple. I would go and look around the house now, before the sun came up and Bagpipe Kid, faithful practitioner of all things requiring hot air and bellows, began his morning vespers.

I looked at Trixie. “Not one word of this when Crawford comes over.”

She looked at me in adoration.

“Yes, I'm pretty amazing, Trixie, my girl, but you have to promise me. We must make a solemn vow.”

She barked enthusiastically in response.

“I'm not kidding. Any Crawford butt sniffing or whining to indicate that I wasn't true to my word and we're done.” She stared back at me, her head cocked to the left; it was the same look Crawford got when I made a joke he didn't get. I shook my head. “Shit. I'm trying to extract promises from a dog.” I opened the back door. “I need to get laid.”

It was still fairly dark and the mist had changed into a heavier, steady rain. Once again, I was outside with the wrong footgear (slippers) and no coat or umbrella; I attributed this lack of planning on failure to drink coffee before beginning reconnaissance. I tiptoed across the minefield of puddles and pools of mud until I hit the macadam of my driveway. I peered down to the street and was confident that the cop who had been snooping around had returned to Dunkin' Donuts or wherever it was that suburban cops went when there was no action (which was most of the time). I mused on this momentarily, wondering if I should cover my body in powdered sugar to get back in Crawford's good graces, and finally snapped back to reality when I felt the water flowing into my slippers.

I went into Jackson and Terri's backyard and approached the big picture window that exposed their family room, complete with cathedral ceiling and wide-screen television. And there, right where they had left it, was the parasol and toadstool wedding portrait. I shuddered when I saw it again.

They had a classic McMansion and I hated unoriginal architecture; I knew that if I could gain access, I would know exactly where everything was, roomwise. I put my face up to the window and pressed my nose against the glass, leaving a lovely nose print from which some crime scene investigator would be able to get a perfect match, if nose printing was a new form of crime scene technology. I hastily rubbed it off the window, leaving giant, albeit smudged, fingerprints on the glass. Besides the unorthodox and inappropriate outdoor footgear, I really wasn't prepared to be a peeping Tom.

After examining all I could from my position on the back lawn outside the family room, I ascertained that all looked well in that part of the house although I wasn't sure what I was expecting to find. I walked around the perimeter of the house and was unable to see into any of the other rooms; Terri was big on ornate, elaborate window treatments and they obscured my vision of any of the other rooms.

I went back around to the backyard once I was content that the perimeter was secure. I didn't have the clothing or ability to be a second-story man, so I walked far back into the deep backyard and looked up at the second floor of the house where, presumably, the bedrooms were located. Staring up, my face turned into the falling rain, I focused on where I suspected the master bedroom might be; a garden window next to a bank of windows suggested the master bath. It was only a flicker, a moment, but I thought I detected a shadow moving among the darkness of the bedroom. I turned to stone.

I remained on the lawn, my slipper-clad feet sinking deeper and deeper into the muddy sod. I continued to look at the window but didn't detect any other movements; my neck became stiff and I finally changed positions. I pushed my wet hair off my face and thought about my options for the second time that morning. I decided that calling Crawford—despite the consequences—was my best course of action. If the cop that had answered the 911 call earlier was any indication of the caliber of officer on the crack DF police force, I was in trouble.

I gingerly made my way back to my own house, kicking off my muddy slippers when I entered the back door. Trixie came running and took both slippers in her mouth, her tongue rolling around them like they were a fragrant and delicious foie gras. I called Crawford again.

“Fiftieth Precinct. Detective Arthur Moran speaking.”

“Good morning, Detective. This is Alison Bergeron. Is Detective Crawford available?” I assumed that I was speaking with my old friend, the infamous Champy. Now I knew why Crawford was so cranky when I called earlier; Champy got on his last nerve.

“I believe he went to see a man about a horse, Ms. Bergeron.”

Huh?

“The latrine, ma'am. He's in the head.”

“Oh, okay.” This guy was on another planet.

“He didn't take his newspaper, so I don't expect he'll be long.”

Yuck. Talk about too much information.

“Would you like to hold?” Moran asked.

This would be a great time to get some information. “Uh, no. We can chat,” I said sweetly. “What's going on with the case?”

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Not too much. But we did meet one of your students from St. Thomas.”

“Oh, really? Who?”

“Julie Anne Podowsky? Know her?”

Know her? Sure do. “Uh, a little.” But I call her Miss Blurry Tattoo Ass.

“Came in on her own. Seems she and Dr. Stark were doing the horizontal mambo.”

The what? Ohhh. I played along. “Really?”

“Yep. And guess what else?”

“What?”

“She's a fencer.”

I think I had heard that once but had forgotten that little detail. I wasn't entirely sure what it had to do with anything, not really picturing someone hacking off someone's hands with a long fencing sword, but Moran seemed to think it had merit. Had he noticed that she could probably crack walnuts with her thighs? That, to me, was more compelling.

When I didn't reply, he spelled it out. “Swords?”

I tried to sound convinced. “Right!” I wondered who was going to tell him that foils and épées aren't sharp. But he sounded elated at this new development and who was I to ruin his good mood?

“So, anyway, that's where we are. Hey, can I put you on hold for a minute? I've got another call coming in.”

“Sure.” I sat chewing the skin on my thumb until Crawford came on the line, about thirty seconds later. He startled me with a gruff greeting and I tore off a thick patch of skin from around my nail, blood erupting on the surface. “Hi,” I said. “Everything come out okay?” I asked, using a joke my father used to love.

“What?” he asked.

“I hope I didn't get you at a bad time.” I put my thumb in my mouth and attempted to stanch the flow of blood.

“It's always a bad time when a special someone is around,” he said, sotto voce. “If you get my drift.”

I cut to the chase. “Crawford, there's someone in that house.”

“And you would know that
how
?” he asked, irritation creeping into his normally calm voice.

“I went over there.” I took my thumb out of my mouth and wiped the blood onto my pajama pants. “I didn't break in or anything. I just did a survey of the perimeter.”

“‘A survey of the perimeter'?” he asked. “Leave the crime scene talk to the professionals.”

I rolled my eyes. Will do, Detective Pissy Pants. “Do you think I should call the Dobbs Ferry police again?”

“Uh, yes,” he said, as if I were a complete moron. “I told you not to go over there, didn't I?”

“You did, but—”

“But what?”

“You know what? Go back to work. You're cranky and I can handle this myself.” I sucked on my bloodied thumb again. “Call me when you're in a better mood if you want to know what happened.” I began to put the receiver back on its cradle but heard his voice calling me.

“Wait!” he said.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I'll come over later. I'll bring the girls with me.”

I looked at my thumb, blood still pooling around the cuticle; this was going to hurt like a mother later. I hoped one of his kids was premed-bound because I'd be comatose from loss of blood by the time he got here. I walked over to the back door and peered out; the rain was still falling and the sun didn't seem to want to make an appearance. All seemed quiet next door as I half listened to Crawford blather on about the schedule of events for his day. I fixed my gaze on the door of the detached garage of Jackson and Terri's house.

“…and that's if we don't catch any cases,” he said.

“What?” I asked, realizing I had missed his entire monologue about a day in the life of Detective Crawford. Scintillating stuff. I focused on the window of the garage door, seeing movement behind the glass.

“I was just…”

“There's someone in the garage,” I said.

“…and that's if we don't catch any cases,” he repeated. He paused. “What did you just say?”

The door to the garage began to rise slowly and I stood in the window, mesmerized by its slow and steady progress. A plume of smoke emerged from the car idling behind the half-closed door. “There's someone in the garage.” I squinted in order to get a better look. “Someone's in that garage and the door is opening.”

“Stay in the house, Alison, and just tell me what you see,” he said.

But I had other plans. I hung up without saying good-bye and went searching for a pair of shoes, decided that I didn't have any on the first floor of my house, and stole my saliva-soaked slippers from Trixie's mouth. I ran back into the kitchen in time to see a small red car exiting the garage, slowly, in reverse. I grabbed my keys from the counter, letting out a little shriek as the phone began ringing—Crawford, I presumed—and left the house, running across the sopping grass of the backyard. I hit the key pad and unlocked my car doors, at the same time trying to get a look at who was driving the car. The rain and darkness conspired against my making an identification, so I contented myself with backing down the driveway at fifty miles an hour, hoping to catch the car, which had picked up speed on the straightaway of my block.

I spied my cell phone on the passenger's seat next to me and I turned it on. Moments later, it began ringing.

“Hello?” I said, making a left turn onto Broadway, keeping a safe distance from the red car. I'm sure whoever was driving knew that I was tailing them because when we approached Route 9 the driver ran the red light at the corner and took a hard left.

“What are you doing?” Crawford asked, none too pleased. “You're not doing what I think you're doing, are you?”

“Crawford, whoever this is, I'm not letting them get away.” I sped up as we approached the light at the Stop & Shop and sailed through as the light went from yellow to red. I couldn't drive like Jeff Gordon and talk to Crawford, so I put the phone back on the passenger seat and both hands on the wheel. Ashford Avenue led straight to the Saw Mill River Parkway, winding through a residential and business area; I continued behind the red car, speeding along, hoping that I wouldn't lose whoever this was once we hit the highway. I looked at my speedometer and saw that I was going sixty miles an hour in a thirty zone and hoped that all of the cops were either asleep at the station house or getting their morning coffee. If I got pulled over I would (a) lose the driver in the red car, (b) get a hefty summons, and (c) be exposed as being dressed only in pajamas. I sped up and was now tailgating the red car, still unable to identify anyone at the wheel.

We approached the light at the Saw Mill and the red car surprised me by blowing right by the highway and driving straight, heading down the hill toward the next light and the center of Ardsley, the town next to Dobbs Ferry. I stayed with whoever it was, in the center lane, until the driver took a sharp right and headed toward the thruway. We headed south on the thruway, and the red car blew through the toll plaza's E-ZPass lane, not slowing down (as recommended) to the fifteen miles an hour posted. I did the same, not noticing the state trooper waiting for me on the shoulder.