Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair (8 page)

“Sit down, why don’t you?”

“I can’t. I’m too keyed up.”

“This Gale that you practically had Derwin running off to the South Seas with? It so happens she’s a he. A Dr. Gale Wright. And, no, Derwin was not attempting to seduce the man—in spite of that ‘funny’
voice and those insincere little chuckles you thought you heard.”

“Gale Wright,” Jackie mused, her forehead pleated in concentration. “Gale Wright. I know that name . . . Of course!” The forehead smoothed out. “Gale used to be Derwin’s next-door neighbor. He has some kind of hair-replacement facility.” Her face was barely large enough to accommodate the grin that followed.

“Naturally Yours Hair Replacements. That’s the place your much-maligned guy’s been calling. He evidently wants to surprise you with a new, improved Derwin.”

Jackie straightened up now, although her palms remained flat on the desktop. “I can hardly believe it. That must mean he’s getting a transplant.”

“Could be. Although they may also do hairpieces there.” This seemed far more likely, considering Derwin’s—I’ll be kind for once and call it “frugal”—nature. I mean, while a good hairpiece isn’t cheap, it’s certainly a lot less costly than a surgical procedure.

“I’d settle for one of those. A decent-looking one.”

I choked back a guffaw. Derwin happens to be the proud owner of a thick silver mop—the instant he dons the world’s most obvious toupee, that is. Yet in spite of this, Jackie’s been known to brag about his great head of hair. I never could figure that one out. It has to do with love or loyalty or something, I suppose.

“I’d better go back to work, Dez,” she said then. “But I can’t thank you enough for this. You’re a whiz, do you know that?”

Modesty induced me to protest. “All I did was make a phone call.”

“Never mind. You saved my sanity, that’s what you did. A hug before I get out of here?”

I stood up obediently and went around the desk, and Jackie—who’s a pretty fair-sized woman—threw both arms around me and squeezed. I guess she put
something extra into that squeeze to demonstrate her gratitude. But anyhow, she knocked the wind out of me.

Another example of no good deed going unpunished.

David showed up at my office at just after six.

Most likely reflective of today’s unseasonable ninety-degree temperature, his suit jacket was slung over his shoulder. Also, his shirt was plastered against him, and the top two buttons were open, his tie peeking out of his jacket pocket. Even the broad shoulders seemed to droop. He looked tired and disheveled—and every bit as handsome as I remembered. I mean, the suit
was
navy and the shirt light blue. And, no question about it, blue was definitely David Hearn’s color.

“How are you, Desiree?” he inquired after taking a seat. He was smiling, but he appeared nervous. Maybe I was projecting, though. After all, he should have been nervous.

“Just fine, David. And you?”

He continued to smile. “Curious. Has something happened that I should know about?”

“Actually, I wanted to see you regarding a couple of matters you’re already familiar with. But first let me get something else out of the way. Would you mind telling me where you were on Saturday at around twelve-thirty?”

“I was home, working on a brief. But if that requires verification, I don’t have any. Why do you ask, anyway? The police haven’t even been around about that one.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say any more just yet, but I’ll be able to fill you in soon. What we should discuss right now is that gambling debt you neglected to mention.”

“What gambling debt?”

I sincerely hoped for his sake that David’s game wasn’t poker. Involuntarily—I’m sure—he had clenched his hands into fists, and this vein at his left temple was bulging.

“Look, I know you owe a substantial amount of money and that you’re being pressured to pay up.”

“Wrong,” David shot back. “I did owe the money. Repeat:
did.
A friend lent me the cash I needed to get those people off my back. But my being in financial straits weeks ago has nothing at all to do with either Edward’s death or the attack on John. And if that was your reason for summoning me here, I have to tell you that I resent it.”

“I can’t understand why you didn’t level with me.”

“Because, Desiree—and I don’t want to be rude—my gambling losses aren’t any of your business. As I said, they’re totally unrelated to your investigation.” And now the David I’d previously responded to so favorably put in a brief, transitory appearance. “Besides,” he said, grinning, “why should I provide anyone with the kind of information that would make me a prime suspect? I may be my mother’s dumbest son, but I’m her smartest, too.”

“Umm, you also led me to believe you didn’t care too much for Shawna Riley. In fact, as I recall, you had some pretty uncomplimentary things to say about her.”

The mention of his lady love seemed to temporarily mute him; it was a good four or five seconds before David made his unconvincing assertion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come now. I understand the two of you have become a couple.”

“That’s absolutely false.”

“I have statements from three people attesting that they’ve seen you together acting . . . extremely chummy.”

“They were mistaken. Or else they lied.”

Well, nothing ventured . . .

“You’re being very foolish,” I lectured. “How long before the police learn about you and Shawna—if they haven’t found out about it already?”

“Even if we
are
seeing each other—which we’re not—how does that connect to the assaults on Edward and John?”

“You can’t be that naive, David, and I’d like to think you don’t regard me as being that stupid. After all, who has a better motive for disposing of those two men than the person or persons next in line to inherit from Uncle Victor? Right now that would be Shawna and Scott. But if you and Shawna should marry, you’d join them at the top of the list.”

“I would, wouldn’t I?—
if
there were anything between Shawna and me.”

I pretended he hadn’t spoken. “You’d no doubt be the odds-on favorite, too, considering that you’re so much in debt. I’m assuming your friend expects to be repaid.”

“Yes, of course, but he insists that I hold off until my finances improve.”

“I don’t imagine you can depend on those homicide detectives taking this into account, though. So it’s no wonder that you wanted to keep the relationship a secret. Tell me, whose idea was it originally—Shawna’s?”

“We b—” David stopped cold. There was no humor in the brief laugh that followed. “Christ! I was never any good at this kind of thing—this cat-and-mouse stuff.”
You can say that again!
“Anyhow,” he added philosophically, “the truth was bound to come out sooner or later.”

“So it was a joint decision to conceal your involvement?”

David nodded. “We both recognize that I’m in a pretty vulnerable position. Even if the police should accept that my friend isn’t pressing me for the money, they might still peg me as some sort of compulsive gambler. Particularly if they’re aware of my dad’s track record—no pun intended, by the way—which is very likely the case. They’d be wrong, however. I haven’t so much as bought a lottery ticket since I got myself into that bind.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I hope it continues.”

“It will. You can take my word for it. Uh, Desiree? You’re not going to repeat our conversation to the authorities, are you? I’m not quite ready yet to deal with all of this on an official level.”

“Relax. I don’t see any need to supply them with this information—certainly not at the present time. Naturally, there’s always the chance that a situation could crop up that would compel me to tell what I know. But I don’t anticipate anything like that. I should warn you, though, that the investigating detectives may already be one step ahead of me.”

“Yeah, well, maybe not. Maybe I’ll luck out long enough for them to catch the real killer.” And then David looked at me intently. “You can appreciate now why I felt that I had to keep quiet about those things, can’t you? And they honestly
don’t
have anything to do with your investigation.”

I had to concede that in his shoes I’d almost certainly have behaved in the same way. “I not only can appreciate it, but if I want to be fair—and, what the hell, I may as well be—I probably don’t blame you.”

Mumbling his thanks, David started to rise. “If there’s nothing else . . .”

“I think that pretty much covers it.”

He headed for the door, then spun around. “As
long as I’ve suddenly become swept up in this great blaze of truth, I can make a couple of admissions to you that I couldn’t before, admissions that are actually exculpatory, for a change.” Apparently slightly embarrassed, he grinned. “Oops, that was the attorney in me coming out. At any rate, last Monday, when someone took that shot at John, I wasn’t home alone watching Letterman as I claimed. I was at Shawna’s; I spent the night there. I can also provide you with an alibi for Saturday afternoon at this point—for whatever reason I need one. Shawna was at my place on Saturday—she came over at just past noon. We had something to eat at the apartment, and she spent the remainder of the day in the living room reading, while I was closeted in the bedroom with that brief.”

Which alibis, of course, were every bit as reliable as the one Shawna shared with her brother.

After David Hearn left the office I recognized that I was probably in a worse position now than I’d been in before—as far as narrowing the list of suspects, I’m talking about. After all, David’s involvement with Shawna put him a step closer to Uncle Victor’s assets, moving him up a notch to tie the twins for the role of most likely perpetrator. What’s more, like them, he didn’t have an alibi worth a damn for any of the crucial times.

I felt as if I were moving backwards. I mean, by now I should have been able to
eliminate
someone, for God’s sake!

Before going up to the apartment, I paid a visit to my neighborhood D’Agostino’s. I was tired, so I restricted my purchases to the essentials. Your definition of “essentials,” however, may vary slightly from mine. For example, I have always considered appropriate for this category such foodstuffs as Sara Lee cheesecake, pistachio nuts, and, of course, Ha¨agen-Dazs macadamia brittle. Which is not to say I didn’t also pick up a number of other edibles that evening, along with paper goods and cleaning supplies.

When I got home—surprise!—a message from Pop was waiting for me. As soon as I’d established it was that impossible little man—which took all of a millisecond—I put my fingers in my ears. The purpose of
this being as much to guard against a weakening in my resolve to steer clear of him as it was to muffle that whiny voice.

Anyway, once Pop was through with his pitch, I began to think seriously about supper. I was too hungry to wait for the D’Agostino order to be delivered, so I decided to throw a few things together.

There were enough ingredients around—but barely—to fix myself a salad, which I’d be having with my old standby, a refrigerator omelet. This name, courtesy of Ellen, reflecting the fact that the omelet contains practically every morsel that’s in the refrigerator at the time of its conception. Tonight’s choices were especially meager. The best I could come up with were some leftover ham that it’s likely should have seen the inside of a garbage can days ago, a small piece of semislimy red pepper, and a chunk of extra-sharp cheddar cheese that, if eaten in its present solid state, could easily have broken a tooth or two.

Believe it or not, though, the finished product didn’t taste half-bad. But the real test would be whether I woke up the next morning.

I’m pleased to report that I made it through the night. I was, therefore, able to show up at the Twelfth Precinct for my eight-thirty meeting with Tim Fielding.

I entered the arena armed with two cups of coffee and half a dozen donuts—four of them with chocolate icing and walnut sprinkles.

Tim got to his feet when I approached his desk, which was in the middle of a large, dingy room bustling with activity. He greeted me with an expression that bordered on a smile, following which he patted me lightly on the back a couple of times. “Well, well, if it isn’t Desiree Shapiro. I thought maybe I should have asked you to put a rose between your teeth so I’d recognize you. But you look the same.”

He looked the same, too. (Had it really been close
to a year ago?) There still didn’t appear to be an ounce of extra fat on the short, muscular body. And Fielding’s wiry, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair remained more pepper than salt. I quickly placed the bag of goodies on his desk and gave him a nice, warm hug.

“Cut it out,” he told me with feigned severity. “I’m a happily married man—most of the time, anyhow.” Then with an exaggerated sigh: “Well, as long as you’re here, you may as well sit.” He indicated the wooden chair alongside his desk.

Taking the suggestion, I plunked myself down, and he followed suit. But before I had the chance to say boo, someone horned in. “Hey, Tim.”

The man at the desk directly in front of Fielding’s was calling out over his shoulder. “I was wondering,” the fellow said as he turned toward us, “if—” On noting my presence, he stopped abruptly. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he murmured.

Now, the guy was occupying Detective Walter Corcoran’s chair in Detective Walter Corcoran’s space. But unless my eyes and ears were simultaneously playing tricks on me, this was not Fielding’s longtime partner.

“Hold it a minute, Norm,” Fielding instructed, as the policeman started to swivel around in his seat again. “I’d like you to meet Desiree Shapiro, an old buddy—although old nemesis would probably be more accurate. Dez, this is my new partner, Detective Norm Melnick.”

Norm got up and came over to shake my hand. He was young—not much more than thirty, I estimated—and medium-tall, with light hair and clean-cut, boyish good looks. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Shapiro.”

No,
I reassured myself,
this was most definitely not Walter Corcoran.

“Call me Desiree. Please. And it’s nice to meet you, too.”

“Desiree’s a PI,” Fielding elaborated, “and you have to watch out for her. Someday she’s liable to come here with coffee and
your
favorite kind of donut. And while she’s plying you with sugar and calories, she’s going to worm whatever she can out of you. And she’s good at it, too. So my advice is, if she ever puts one of these on your desk”—Fielding tapped the paper bag—“beat it into the men’s room and don’t come out until you’re sure she’s gone.”

“I’m partial to Krispy Kremes, the glazed kind—and without the jelly,” Melnick apprised me. And laughing softly, he returned to his desk.

Well, regardless of his initially addressing me as ma’am (which, just as soon as I could check myself out in a mirror, would have me counting my wrinkles), Norm Melnick was certainly an improvement over his predecessor. And I told Tim so.

“Don’t give me that.” He dug into the goody bag and pulled out the Styrofoam cup with the “B” on the lid. After which he reached in again to extract a donut. “I’ve always known you harbored a secret crush on Walt,” he teased.

“Geez, Tim, I was positive I had you fooled.” I got up then and carried the bag over to Melnick. “There aren’t any Krispy Kremes,” I apologized, “but I’ll keep your preference in mind for next time. Meanwhile, have one of these.” Melnick settled for the strawberry, which was my choice, too. Being he was the
un
-Corcoran, however, I couldn’t possibly begrudge it to him.

The instant I redeposited myself next to Fielding I put the burning question to him. “So tell me before curiosity does me in, what happened to Corcoran?”

“He accepted a big position in one of those private security firms—executive vice president, no less. I have his card if you’re interested in getting together with him.” His eyes were twinkling.

“I’d rather get together with an ax murderer,” I
rejoined, before helping myself to coffee and a jelly donut.

As you’ve no doubt gathered, Walter Corcoran and I were friendly enemies—only without the friendly. The man really got under my skin. And apparently I was equally successful in crawling beneath his epidermis. I mean, to give you an idea, a couple of his least offensive appellations for me were “world’s A-number-one pain in the ass” and “Miss Chubette,” which was delivered with the appropriate sneer. I’ll tell you, even the room here suddenly looked brighter now that I realized Corcoran was no longer in it.

Fielding licked some chocolate off his fingers. “Listen, I’ve already taken more time with you than I can spare. So why don’t we get down to business, huh, Shapiro?”

“Glad to. Why do you suspect John Lander of murdering his cousin?”

“I have my reasons,” he responded enigmatically.

“You’ve got to be aware that there are other people who also stand to benefit from Edward’s death—that is, if anything should happen to my client. And somebody’s already taken a couple of stabs at seeing to it John won’t be breathing long enough to claim his inheritance.”

“Precisely what is it that’s supposed to have occurred this second time?”

I filled him in on Saturday’s almost-hit-and-run.

“I don’t imagine there were any witnesses to this latest incident, either.”

“Well, the whole thing happened so quickly.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Listen, Desiree, that guy’s life is in no more danger than my aunt Tillie’s.” And with this declaration Fielding served himself another donut.

“Why are you so certain he made up the attacks?”

“Let’s start with the critical fact that Edward Sharp stood between Lander and piles and piles of dough.” He didn’t pause long enough for me to voice a protest.
“Trust me, those ‘attacks’ are nothing more than a lame attempt to persuade us to look elsewhere for Sharp’s killer.”

“You can’t possibly know for certain that John’s lying.” I was so frustrated I was almost shouting the words. “Why won’t you at least
consider
that one of the other relatives in line for the money might have tried to get rid of him?”

Being at his most pigheaded just then, Fielding answered with an extremely irritating, “Because they didn’t.”

“I don’t see how you can be so quick to discount that someone could have been bent on taking both men out of the running. I mean, once the first murder is behind you, it’s not nearly as difficult to commit a second.”

“No kidding. And where did you get that?”

“From Hercule Poirot.”

“You and your Agatha Christie!” Fielding muttered. But for a moment a little smile played at the corners of his mouth. After which he told me soberly, “Look, don’t think we just zeroed in on your client and left it at that. We questioned everyone who might have had a reason, however remote, for wanting Sharp dead. And this is in spite of our having pretty strong evidence from the very beginning that your guy was the perpetrator.” He took a sip of coffee before adding, “And since then new facts have surfaced that make us more convinced than ever that John Lander did his cousin in.” He folded his hands across his chest. “And that’s all I intend to say.”

“What’s your idea of ‘pretty strong evidence’?”

“You got ear trouble, Shapiro? Didn’t you just hear me? The well’s run dry. I’m not about to divulge any more than I already have.”

Which, I didn’t bother to point out, was practically zilch. But, at any rate, it seemed a pretty safe assumption that it was John’s Air Force wings that had
initially implicated him in Edward’s death. Still, I couldn’t be positive of this. It was conceivable, I supposed, that they hadn’t been planted at the crime scene after all and that Fielding was referring to something quite apart from the wings. Or—and this is where the situation got tricky—it was also conceivable the killer
had
placed the pin there for the police to find, but being so small, it had simply been overlooked. In that case, of course, the last thing I wanted to do was provide my old friend with the information that would impel his return to the victim’s home to search for it. I had to proceed very, very carefully now.

“Uh, this alleged evidence of yours. Would it be something of a physical nature?”

“What is this,
Twenty Questions
?” Fielding bellowed. I glanced around, expecting that everyone in the place would be staring at us. And they were. Moments later Tim was shaking his head slowly from side to side, a look akin to awe on his face. “You’re some piece of work, Shapiro. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“You have. Frequently.”

“Good for me. Anyway, listen very closely. You’re not going to get anything more from me on the Sharp homicide. I mean zero,
nada.
And incidentally, I won’t even bother to ask about the stuff you claimed
you’d
be imparting this morning.”

“I’ve already told you about the second attack on John.” I fortified myself for the retort with another bite of jelly donut.

“Yeah. And I don’t know how to thank you for sharing that invaluable bit of crap.”

“Umm, would you mind confirming one thing for me?”

“What?” He spat out the word.

I had just concluded that the only way of learning what Tim had on my client was to take the plunge. Or at least get my feet wet. “This . . . umm . . .
evidence you have. It’s something you discovered at the scene of the crime, isn’t it?”

Fielding’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”

“There’s an explanation.”

“Go ahead.”

“I have to be sure we’re speaking about the same thing.”

“You want me to tell you exactly what, if anything, we turned up there before you’ll commit yourself, right? Well, that ain’t gonna happen.” He stood then. “I hate to throw you out, Shapiro, but I’m afraid I’ll have to overcome my reluctance, because that’s exactly what I need to do. I’ve got a lot of work waiting for me.”

“Give me two minutes,” I pleaded, trying for my most pathetic expression. “Okay?”

Fielding sat back down. “Two minutes, that’s all—and I’m not kidding. I should have ‘sucker’ tattooed on my butt,” he grumbled.

I had no choice; I moved to the edge of the diving board. “It was a small item that you came across, an item you believe to be the property of my client. Am I correct?”

“You might be.”

I jumped in the water. “Was it a pair of Air Force wings?”

“Jee-sus!”
Fielding exploded before the grudging admission. “All right. Yes, it was.”

“Well, those wings disappeared the week before Edward was shot,” I explained, “when the entire family was gathered at the uncle’s house.” I went on to relate how they’d either fallen off or been deliberately removed from the lapel of John’s jacket. “Obviously, when the killer shot Edward, he left that pin behind for you to find, don’t you see?”