The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy (23 page)

We sat there in silence. Lulu came strutting back to us, all rough and tough after her latest triumph over the rodent kingdom. She sat between my feet. I patted her on the head.

“Hoagy?”

“Yes, Arvin?”

“Is it wrong what we did?”

I sighed inwardly. “I don’t know very much about right and wrong. I used to think I did, but I don’t anymore.”

“Are you gonna tell on us?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“But you would if you had to?” he persisted.

“I won’t have to.”

“What if Clethra wants to put it in her b-book?”

“Then I’ll have something to say about it. See, if somebody gets hurt—in this case, it would be you—that
is
wrong.” I patted his jiggling knee. “That much I do know, Arvin.”

“It was a secret,” he said, his voice rising. “I can’t believe she … It was our …” He broke off, his scrawny chest heaving, his eyes filling with tears. It was finally happening. He was finally letting go.

I reached for my linen handkerchief, only I wasn’t fast enough. By the time I’d gotten it out of my pocket he didn’t need it anymore. He’d fought back those tears and he’d conquered them. Arvin Gibbs was one tough customer, all right. Particularly on himself. He would not give in. He would not cry.

We were dressing for dinner when Slawski called.

“Mr. Hoag, this is Resident State Trooper Tyrone Slawski calling from Lyme, Connecticut,” he barked into my ear. “Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very of the New York Police Department is presently on the line along with myself. Per your suggestion, Detective Lieutenant Very called me earlier today so as to interface on the multiple victim scenario as well as to establish lines of mutual interdepartmental communication.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “I knew you two would hit it off.” Just as I knew Very would try Munger first and hate him.

“If you will please hold on a moment,” Slawski continued, ignoring this, “I will expedite a conference call configuration so the three of us may converse in a simultaneous manner.”

The line went dead.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited. I was in no hurry. Merilee was still in the bathtub devouring her new issue of
People
magazine. Thor had made the cover, an old
Life
magazine photo of him on skis alongside Papa Hemingway in Ketchum, both of them looking virile and invincible. The headline read: LAST CHAPTER FOR THE LAST MAN’S MAN.

After a moment I heard Very say, “Hello?” And Slawski say, “Hello?” I chimed in a greeting, just to hold up my end. All three of us could hear each other perfectly, even though Mr. Serenity and I were in New York and Slawski was in Lyme. And to think they say the world is going straight to hell. Well,
they
don’t say it, but
I
do.

“Lieutenant, I would like to bring both yourself and Mr. Hoag up-to-date on the preliminary findings of the state medical examiner,” Slawski began, “which I have, I am pleased to report, managed to obtain through a former teammate who is associated with the laboratory.” Translation: Munger was shutting him out. “The deceased, Mr. Thorvin Gibbs, suffered extensive shattering of the parietal and occipital regions of the skull, which were driven downward with great force into the corresponding lobes of the cerebrum … As we deduced from the visual evidence, the weapon was the six-pound sledgehammer recovered at the scene. There appear to have been three blows, one blow delivered with greater verticality than the others, which may indicate the victim was down on the ground when it was delivered … Blood and hair found on the sledge match those of the deceased. Blood samples found in the woodshed also match the victim’s.”

“Anyone else’s blood found there?” It was Very who asked this.

“No sir. Just the victim’s.”

“Do the blows tell us anything about the killer’s height or weight?” My question.

“At present, they won’t commit to anything more precise than average height and weight, most likely right-handed. A weighted sledge swung high overhead makes a pulverizing wound. We’re talking massive trauma. Serious lab work may tell us more, but that will take several days.”

“Still,” I put in, “his killer would have to be someone strong, don’t you think?”

“Fairly strong,” Slawski conceded.

“Could a woman have done it?”

“I seen it happen, dude,” Very said. “Domestic dispute in Hell’s Kitchen couple of years ago. Woman did her boyfriend with one: Guy was big as a fridge. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds, but she was a natural. Mechanics of her swing were perfect, is what I’m saying. Generated as much head speed at the point of impact as Frank Thomas taking the Rocket Man downtown.”

“A woman could not have hoisted the victim into that cart,” Slawski pointed out.

“True,” Very allowed.

“How about a boy?” I asked.

“Depend on the boy,” Very replied. “Why, you got something on Arvin?”

“Do they know what time Thor was killed, Trooper?”

“Not precisely, what with him being in that cold pond water. They estimate between eleven and eleven-thirty.”

“Was there a struggle?”

“No preliminary evidence of one. Victim’s hands showed residual bruising consistent with the fight at Slim Jim’s on Saturday. But he had no fresh scratches, nothing under his nails.” Slawski cleared his throat uneasily. “Mr. Hoag, there was one other finding of possible significance …” I heard a slow intake of breath. “… to do with the victim’s pancreas.”

“What about it?”

“He had a malignancy. Man was terminal. What I mean is, he had six, maybe twelve months to live. His estranged wife says she knew nothing about it. Neither did his doctor, who last saw him two years ago, at which time he was pronounced in perfect health. Did you know, Mr. Hoag?”

I didn’t answer him right away. I couldn’t. For some reason, learning this about Thor had made him come back to life for me again. Fragile, painful life. “I did not,” I replied quietly. “I wonder if he did.”

“Dude’s got six months to live, he
knows
,” Very declared.

“Not necessarily, Lieutenant,” I countered. “They call pancreatic cancer the silent killer—people often don’t know they have it until it’s way too late.” Still, if Thor had known, it explained a lot. Such as why he was pushing himself and everyone around him so hard. Did it explain Clethra, too? Did it explain why he’d run off with her?

Slawski was talking again: “There were no fingerprints on the weapon. His attacker wore gloves. A thread got caught in the handle of the garden cart. Common cotton work gloves, available anywhere. No prints on the garden pruners either. Traces of the victim’s blood and tissue were found on the blades.”

“Was the penis severed post-mortem or ante-mortem?” That was Very speaking. I don’t use words like ante-mortem. Or at least I try not to.

“Post,” answered Slawski.

“Is there any way of knowing if the same person committed both acts?” That was me.

“At present, there is no evidence to support the theory that multiple perpetrators were involved.”

Very said, “What about shoe prints?”

“Investigators are still on mud detail,” said Slawski. “But I ain’t optimistic. They got dog and cat prints, ducks, raccoon, deer. They got the garden cart coming and going, the baby buggy. They got a light but steady rain falling before they sealed the area. They do got a few partials so far, which they’ll be looking to match up with Mr. Hoag, Miss Nash, their hired man and so forth. But mostly what they got there is a real mess.”

“I apologize, Trooper,” I snapped. “Next time someone dies there I’ll make sure I drag a rake across it beforehand.”

“Chill, dude,” Very cautioned me.

“I wasn’t casting any aspersions,” Slawski said crisply.

“I know you weren’t,” I said, running my hand through what was left of my hair. “I was out of line. Anything else?”

“Yessir,” he replied. “Lieutenant Munger has officially eliminated the crew from Slim Jim’s. Kirk Bennett and his posse were out on a charter boat catching blues at the time of the homicide. Left New London at six in the morning, came back at two in the afternoon. Got dozens of people can vouch for ’em. So the lieutenant won’t be stumbling down that particular alley no more.” Slawski didn’t say how unhappy this particular development made him. He didn’t have to. “We can cross off your hired man, too.”

“You’ve been checking out Dwayne?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

“We had to,” Slawski said. “Matter of routine. But you can set your mind at ease—he was helping his mom around the house all morning. Nice lady. Still think she got a bum rap.” He coughed and went silent after that.

“It doesn’t sound as if you have very much to go on, Trooper,” I concluded.

“We’re still in the preliminary stages. We have a great deal of evidence to compile. Numerous alternative leads to pursue …”

I tried it again, louder this time. “It doesn’t sound as if you have much to go on, Trooper.”

“We got shit,” he admitted. “And that’s no lie. Lieutenant Munger is requesting that Ruth Feingold, Barry Feingold and Marco Paolo return later this week for formal questioning.”

“What the hell kind of name is Marco Paolo?” Very wondered.

“A fake one,” I told him.

“Her boy Arvin’s coming too,” Slawski added. “You’re welcome to sit in, Lieutenant Very.”

“I’m there,” Very said.

“I didn’t know you ever left the city, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, sure. I’m cool as long as I’m safely home on the streets by nightfall. Check, that Ruth Feingold practically shot my ears off this afternoon. She’s some kind of pistol.”

“I’m down to that,” Slawski agreed.

“Just us three gees spitballing, though, I’m liking Barry for both killings. Solid motive for taking out Gibbs—father protecting his daughter—plus he’s super-vague about his whereabouts when it went down.”

“And his motive for killing Tyler?” I asked.

“Dude trashed his daughter. Payback time.”

“I understand you have your own medical examiner’s preliminary findings, Lieutenant,” said Slawski.

“You understand right.”

“That was fast,” I said.

“We’re talking high-profile case here. Rich kid dies in his room at Columbia he goes right to the head of the line. Not that I’m gonna dish
you
word one, dude,” he said to me, as laid-back as can be. “Not until you give me some. First you gotta give me some.”

“Why, Lieutenant, whatever do you—?”

“With this guy you gotta trade,” he explained to Slawski. To me he said, “Gimme.”

“As you wish.” I gave him Barry’s ex-lover, the one who was his supposed alibi for when Thor was killed. Which means I also gave him the HIV angle. Very promised he’d be discreet. I knew I could count on it. I did not give him Arvin and Clethra and what Tyler knew about the two of them. It was Barry he liked for it. I gave him Barry. “Satisfied?” I asked him.

“For now,” he replied, with that new and unnerving chuckle of his. “Okay, I got me a strangler with an average-sized pair of hands—”

“Average for a man or for a woman?” I broke in.

“Ruth could have done it, if that’s what you’re tripping on. Victim was a twerp—five-feet-six, a hundred and thirty pounds, almost no muscle tone. Ruth outweighed him by a good hundred pounds, and she’s got a helluva grip on her. I made sure—I shook her hand.”

“She’s no shrinking violet,” I concurred, wondering again about my teenaged celebrity. Could she have strangled Tyler with those soft, pudgy little hands of hers? “Trooper, did the man guarding the farm today mention anything about Clethra going out?”

“He said she didn’t. Why?”

“Just curious. Please continue, Lieutenant.”

“Time of death,” Very went on, “was somewhere between seven-thirty and eight o’clock this morning. Our three prime suspects all claim they were home at the time … Ruth was home alone working on a speech.”

“Arvin had left for school?” I asked.

“Correct. He left the house at seven-twenty, arrived at the Dalton School by subway in time for class at eight … Barry and Marco swear they were still in bed asleep.”

“Is it possible one of them was and one of them wasn’t?” Slawski asked.

“Very,” I said.

“Yeah, what is it, dude?” he asked.

“I’m saying it’s very possible,” I explained wearily.

“Mucho possible,” he agreed. “It’s also possible, we end up with nothing but
bupkes,
we can maybe pry them two lovebirds apart. But as of this minute, they’re sticking together.”

“Wait a minute, Lieutenant,” I pointed out, “Tyler Kampmann couldn’t have been murdered between seven-thirty and eight o’clock.”

“Why not?” A testy little edge crept back into his voice for the first time. It made me downright nostalgic for the old Very.

“Ian from across the hall spoke to him at a few minutes before nine,” I replied.

Right away Very started breathing in and out, in and out. “Ian must be mistaken,” he said gently.

“I don’t see how he could be, Lieutenant,” I argued. “He was on his way to a nine o’clock class. He pounded on Tyler’s door to see if Tyler was coming. Tyler said no. They’d been out partying late.”

Very stayed calm. “Okay, I can’t explain it, dude,” he conceded blandly. Damn, it was strange. “Coroner might be off. It happens.”

“Did anyone else on Tyler’s floor see or hear anything?”

“No one saw him all morning. And no one saw anyone who didn’t belong there. Security guard downstairs swears no one could have sneaked by him.”

Slawski sniffed. “Man’s bound to swear that. Job’s on the line.”

“Agreed,” said Very. “I’m going back up there to show him a photo of Ruth. Barry and Marco, too. You never know.”

“I’d show him a picture of Clethra as well,” I suggested.

“Why?”

“You never know.” I sat there on the edge of the bed, mulling it all over. Merilee was running the shower now, her bath completed. “Is it possible that these two murders aren’t related at all?”

“Possible,” Very admitted. “But not likely.”

“But why mutilate Thor and not Tyler?”

“Matter of being practical,” he offered. “Small dorm room, crowded floor. Perp had to make it quick and quiet.”

“Okay, but why go to the trouble of hiding one body and not the other?”