The Drowning Pool (22 page)

THIRTEEN

Kim was having a busy morning. It felt strange being back at work after a week of doing so little. In a way, it was a relief to be working again. She wouldn’t have to think about her life and where it was headed. Her feelings for Mike Gardner ran deep. Kim meant it when she told him that she loved him. But she still wasn’t convinced that their relationship could or should be a permanent one. They were such different people.

Rita Mosler would be on duty at the reference desk with her most of the day. Rita was an old-timer and somewhat jaded by the job. People rarely went to Rita for help when they could ask Kim or one of the young grad students. Rita was just too sharp-tongued. Her caustic manner frightened students almost as much as her bony, arthritic fingers resembling bent twigs. Her customary expression was that of someone who’d recently swallowed a lemon whole.

As luck would have it, Rita received a phone call from the Mad Movie Fan, as she referred to him. “Take it for me,” Rita said. “I can’t stand talking to that moron again. The man’s impossible.”

Kim got on the line. The old man’s familiar shaky voice greeted her. As expected, he asked her to look up information for him, and she did so as he held on. This time, he wanted the cast list, director and producer of
The Godfather
.

“No big thing,” Kim said to Rita after she’d finished with the call. “I Googled it in half a minute tops.”

“He’s a pest. Calls every day with some silly question. We have more important things to do here. This is a university library.”

Kim shrugged.

“Oh, it’s nothing to you, Miss Magnanimous. After all, you just came back from vacation.”

“Rita, aren’t you due to take some vacation time this month?” Kim hoped that was the case.

Rita harrumphed. “I’m much too necessary around here to take time off.”

“It really is slow right now. Why not take a cruise?” Kim suggested as she went about organizing the materials in the ready reference shelf under the main information desk.

“A cruise? Why I’d get sea sick.”

“They have medication to prevent that.”

Rita harrumphed again, this time louder. “People get all kinds of stomach ailments on board ships. Much too dangerous.”

“All right, what about going to the shore for a few days? Nothing like being near the ocean.”

“I’m too old to sit in the hot sun and fry like an egg.”

Kim was grateful when someone came to the desk.

“So glad you’re back,” Don Bernard said, giving her one of his most ingratiating smiles.

“So am I, I think.”

He cast a sideways look at Rita and laughed. God, the man had a great laugh, deep and full of resonance. “You’re not sure? How can I convince you? I know, lunch today with me. There’s an elegant little bistro that just opened in walking distance.” Don focused on his watch. “And coincidentally, it’s just about lunchtime.”

Kim glanced at her co-worker’s sour face. “I have to make certain it’s all right with Rita if I take first lunch.”

Don turned the full force of his debonair charm on the dour woman. “Miss Mosler, you wouldn’t refuse me a chance to speak with another colleague, would you? I have some Shakespearean research I need to discuss with Ms. Reynolds. I know how truly understanding you are. I would consider it a favor.”

Rita blushed. “Well, of course, Professor Bernard.”

And that was that. Kim doubted many women could resist him. Don had a way with women, even ones like Rita Mosler. Women just naturally found Don attractive. Every time they were together, some female or other would try to flirt with him, students or even other professors. He had a charismatic aura and a clever way with words.

The restaurant Don chose was lovely, with large pots of colorful flowers arranged around the cobblestones that graced the outside and vivid seascapes decorating the interior. He selected a table near the windows so they could look out on the busy street.

They talked about the concert they’d attended together at the state theatre.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” Don said, taking her hand across the table. “The truth is, I would like to spend a lot more time with you. I know you enjoy cultural events just as I do.” When she didn’t immediately answer, he continued. “I’ll be doing a symposium on Renaissance poetry this fall. Perhaps you’ll come?”

“Of course, I will.”

His smile widened. “Good, that means at least I can count on one person attending.”

She realized the statement was disingenuous. “Don, you know very well all those female college students pant after you. You can fill an auditorium by snapping your fingers. You’re so persuasive you could convince a vegan to eat steak.”

He laughed. “I don’t know any such thing.” Then he playfully kissed her fingertips.

When she withdrew her hand, he merely smiled.

“
There is written her fair neck round about:

‘Noli me tangere,’ (Don’t touch me), for Caesar’s I am;

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
”

Kim thought for a moment. She recognized the poem. “Sir Thomas Wyatt I believe. ‘Caesar’ is a reference to King Henry VIII while the doe is Anne Boleyn.”

Don nodded his head in approval. “I was certain you would know it.”

“I disagree with your analogy. I don’t belong to anyone but myself,” Kim asserted.

Don arched an aristocratic brow. “Not to that police detective?”

“I do care about him,” she said carefully.

“I want you to care about me,” Don told her.

“You are a very good friend. I value our friendship.”

“I know how to be patient,” he told her, caressing her cheek, his voice mellifluous. “‘
When I all weary had the chase forsook,/The gentle deer returned the selfsame way,/Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook./’There she, beholding me with milder look,/Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide./Till I in hand her yet half trembling took./And with her own good will her firmly tied./Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild/So goodly won, with her own will beguiled
.’”

No one recited poetry the way Don Bernard did. He had a Shakespearean actor’s voice, smoothly cultured and seductive. “That’s how I see it with us, my dear. I have no doubt. Patience will win out in the end.” He squeezed her hand.

“You really know Tudor poetry.”

“It might surprise you just what I do know.” There was a sensual suggestion to his statement.

Kim removed her hand from his and took a sip of cold water. The restaurant suddenly seemed overly warm.

“So how did you spend your vacation?” He obviously sensed she wanted to change the topic.

She shook her head. “I didn’t do very much. Mike briefly involved me in one of his homicide investigations. It was fascinating.”

Don’s eyes widened in alarm. “He shouldn’t have done that. The kind of work he does is far too dangerous.”

“He was just asking questions. No weapons were drawn.”

Don’s fine, handsome features continued to show concern. “Kim, I know how obsessed you became last fall trying to discover who killed Lorette Campbell, but that was an aberration. And it nearly cost you your own life. You’re not the sort of woman who should be involved in such matters. Perhaps you’ll consider it jealousy on the part of a rival for your affections, but I don’t think Lieutenant Gardner is someone you should continue seeing.”

“Let’s not talk about that anymore,” she said in a firm voice. Kim tried to sound confident, but her feelings were ambivalent.

* * * *

They were driving back to April Nevins’ street and not the least bit happy about it.

“Ever feel we’re getting into a rut with this case? If I were truly psychic, I’d probably be discussing
déjà vu
,” Gardner said lightly, trying to cheer his partner’s gloomy mood, although he felt every bit as despondent as Bert.

“If you were psychic,
we’d
have found Sonny before anything bad happened to him.”

Unfortunately, he had to agree with Bert about that. After parking the car, they made their way through the brambles and fir trees. The two patrolmen who caught the call stood in a slight clearing that appeared to overlook a jagged ravine.

“We located your man, Lieutenant. Male, Caucasian, six feet one, two hundred pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, late teens.”

“And you knew right away it was Sonny Blake?” Bert asked.

The older patrolman shrugged. “The wallet was on him with I.D. and a paycheck. Whoever nailed him wasn’t a robber.”

“Where is he?” Gardner asked.

One of the patrolmen pointed downward to the bottom of the ravine. “Some woman called it in. Her sons were playing over here and saw the body.”

Bert took the lead and Gardner followed her down. It was Sonny all right; there wasn’t any doubt. He felt a deep sense of regret, of wasted potential, as he looked at the twisted lifeless thing before him. Bert knelt down to examine Sonny’s remains.

“Neck’s broken. Quite a fall he took.”

“I don’t see the kind of bruises that would indicate he was in a fight.”

“No, nothing like that. But he’s been down here a couple of days. No doubt about that.” It was clear that Bert had seen her share of homicides.

It was a lot harder walking up, but he managed it, negotiating the brambles with caution. He began looking around for indications that a struggle had taken place here; there weren’t any.

“Looks like an accident to me,” the younger patrolman said, voicing his opinion with the certainty of unquestioning self-assurance.

“Yeah, usually when they’re pushed, there’s signs of a fight,” agreed the second uniform.

“Unless the victim doesn’t suspect the other person. It’s not too difficult to push someone off a cliff if it’s unexpected, even when it’s a male that size. A woman could manage it as long as there was the element of surprise. She wouldn’t even need great strength.” Gardner realized that he was thinking out loud.

Bert exchanged a long look with him. “It could be any of them.” She seemed lost in some sort of disturbing pattern of thought, electric eyes moving restlessly back and forth. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“Louise Scofield accidentally falls down a flight of stairs. Sonny Blake accidentally drops off a cliff.”

“So what are you saying? Scofield is our murderer?”

Bert shrugged. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“You think Scofield wasn’t satisfied with killing Bradshaw. He suspected his wife was involved with Sonny, so he killed him as well?”

“Don’t poke fun at my ideas.” She was clearly beyond annoyed. Gardner forgot sometimes how sensitive she was. “You tell me what does make sense? Even if it was April who killed Bradshaw the way Sonny must have thought, he’d already told us about her. She had no reason to kill him.”

“There could have been more to it. He might have had a lot more to tell us.”

“About April?”

“Or someone else. Who knows?”

“I don’t think that dumb kid knew who murdered Bradshaw any more than we do,” Bert said.

“We’ll never know for sure now,” Gardner said. “But don’t forget, the kid was on duty the evening of Bradshaw’s death. He might have seen or heard something that didn’t strike him as important but would give the murderer away.”

“We can forget about finding out any of that now,” Bert said glumly.

“There could be a way—if we were able to recreate the events of that evening. Maybe we could put it all together.” Gardner was thoughtful.

“I don’t think it would work,” Bert said skeptically.

“Ever read about group encounter sessions?”

“A little. What’s that got to do with this case?”

“I have a feeling our suspects would very much like to get us off their backs. They might be in a mood to cooperate. Ever see one of those sessions in action?”

“Never.”

“Too bad, neither have I. But I think we can handle it. As I understand it, the group turns on its individual members during the course of discussion. Each person is forced to face the truth about him or herself. The group can be very supportive but it also can be merciless. It’s a truth hunt with nowhere to hide.”

Bert still looked dubious. “Sounds more like a witch hunt. I don’t like it. I think you’re taking your nickname around headquarters too literally. No one should play the part of a psychologist unless he’s qualified.”

“In my own way, I am qualified. Besides, I’m not out to destroy these people. I only want to find Bradshaw’s killer. Our suspects haven’t faced each other. If anyone is lying, and we have to assume someone is, it’s bound to show up through direct confrontation. There doesn’t even have to be anything specific. It could be just a facial expression or vocal inflection that tips us.”

“It’s not standard police procedure,” Bert objected. “We could lose control of the situation. Anything could happen. It’s like throwing them into a pressure cooker. Turn up the heat and there’s bound to be an explosion.”

“Since when are you behaving like a regulation issue police detective? And who was the Machiavellian who told me it’s results that count?”

She conceded the point moodily. “Who’s going to tell Mrs. Blake that Sonny’s dead?” Bert asked.

Gardner could see it was something his partner would rather not do. He also knew that talking to Mrs. Blake was not going to be easy. He anticipated a miserable scene with hysterical tears and anguished accusations. At least he could spare Bert that. “I’ll do it myself later this evening. But first, we’ve got to get back to headquarters and issue personal invitations for our little splash party tomorrow evening. A tribute to Richard Bradshaw, you might say, kind of like a wake, only without the kind words and Irish whiskey.”

“Bradshaw seems to have touched all of them in some way,” Bert observed.

“More like contaminated them.”

Several people had gathered to watch with the usual curiosity and sick fascination that mortal beings have for scenes of accidents and deaths. The crowd grew in size as police pictures were taken of Sonny Blake’s body, and crime technicians searched the brush for evidence. An ambulance came for Sonny, and the two patrolmen climbed down the ravine to help the paramedics bring up the body. An assistant county medical examiner peered through thick, black-framed eyeglasses as he gave the ambulance workers authoritative directions for removal of the body after a cursory examination.