The Sundown Speech (10 page)

“I left the country club to go home and have a drink. I had several. If you've ever attended a political fund-raiser, you know why. I can't stomach those people. They have all the fixed convictions of a human kaleidoscope.”

“Did anyone see you go home?”

“Why would they? I'm invisible.” He almost spat the word.

I was close to losing him. I took another tack. “Did Marcus ever mention someone named Les?”

The change of subjects struck him dumb. He'd been all set to pull the plug on the interview. “Les? I don't—”

“Your wife said he referred to him as an associate.”

“Heloise is computer illiterate. I prepare the press release whenever the university makes a technological breakthrough, so I have a working layman's knowledge of the industry. LES is an acronym, not a person. It stands for Laser Electronic Substitute. The laser part's hogwash, and of course it's electronic.
Substitute
is the operative word. It means there are no human actors in his film; they're all computer-generated.”

“You mean like in video games? They looked genuine to me on his own computer.”

“There's something eerie about the movements, like when a silent film is played back at the proper speed, not herky-jerky like the Keystone Kops; some people like that. It's a brand-new program, and expensive. That was where our money was going, according to Marcus, the single biggest outlay of the venture, hence the biggest share of the profits. It excited Heloise. Like most people who know nothing about computers, she thinks they're a miracle of science and not just another office machine no one ever gets full use of.

“That's the charitable viewpoint,” he added bitterly. “My wife is the kind of greedy anticapitalist who wants to squeak through the golden gate and yank it shut behind them.”

His hands plucked at the fibers of his blanket; they seemed to be working independently. “Later, when the buzz wore off, the implications hit me. Are we so willingly plunging headlong toward making the human race obsolete? No professional actor will ever sit still for being replaced by a bunch of pixels. The Screen Actors Guild would go to court and make sure
Mr. Alien Elect
never saw the light of day.”

“You should be less invisible,” I said.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It's the quiet ones who do the best thinking.”

“An active brain isn't worth a damn thing when it comes with a cowardly streak. Are you married, Walker?”

“No.”

“If you ever do, make sure she isn't stronger than you.”

“Let's talk about how your car wound up in front of Jerry Marcus' house on Thompson.”

I'd sprung it, catching him by surprise. He forgot to be angry.

He wrestled with the answer, or with the headache. He lost on both counts. “I saw him driving one day in that ridiculous yellow sports car. We hadn't heard from him, and I was beginning to suspect we'd been gulled. I followed. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. People who know me would tell you I'm incapable of spontaneity. But no one really knows anyone, does he?”

I let that one drift as a rhetorical question. I'd never heard anyone say “gulled” out loud before.

“I lost him,” he said; “or he lost me. I don't know if he saw me. Anyone can lose a Volvo. I drove around, looking down side streets and in driveways, and just as I was about to give up I saw it, parked next to the house. Would you mind?” He tilted his head toward the nightstand.

The water tumbler and aluminum pitcher were inside his reach, but I poured him a drink. When he took it in both hands and still managed to splash some over his chin, I knew why he'd asked me. His Adam's apple dipped down and up twice. I took back the glass before he could drop it and returned it to the table.

“I don't handle confrontations well,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was just going to ask how the production was coming along. Maybe he'd say something about our money. The front door was open, so I went inside.”

He fell silent. I tensed up. The world took a couple of turns before he spoke again; when he did, it was like someone ringing a loud bell.

“I lost my nerve,” he said. “I stood in that shabby little living room five minutes and nobody showed. I thought about going upstairs; thought about it so hard I was surprised to find myself still standing in that room. You know, like when you're sleeping and you're cold and you dream you reached down and pulled the covers up to your chin, then wake up and you didn't. When I realized I was never going to climb those stairs, I left.

“I had no idea Marcus was outside, photographing my car.”

There was still water in his glass. I drank it. I'd caught his headache.

“I never told Heloise about that visit,” Dante said, “or anyone else. It wasn't my finest moment. When she suggested we hire a professional, I thought whoever it was wouldn't have any trouble walking up a simple flight of stairs.

“Don't tell her I chickened out,” he added. “It's just what she needs to finish the job.”

 

THIRTEEN

Coming back along the winding scenic stretch of Huron River Drive I had to slow down behind an orange dump truck waddling along like a fat dog. For once I didn't mind. It gave my tired brain time to turn over. I watched a leaf here and there begin to show yellow, a deer bounding among the trees, flashes of brown coat and white tail, and replayed the rest of the conversation in my head.

“You risked a murder rap because you were afraid of what your wife would say if she found out you went to see Jerry Marcus?”

“Of course, I didn't know our car would show up on video. By the time the police told me the reason I was being held, it seemed too late. I'd never been to jail. I hope I never have to go again. It's worse than I ever dreamed.”

“It doesn't get better with repetition.”

“I don't claim to have thought it through. The idea of me killing
any
one was such a ridiculous notion I expected them to let me go right away. When that didn't happen, I made up my mind to tell the truth. But then Suiz got me out.”

“The only reason you're off the hook now is Marcus threw the cops a curve. He killed someone in his place and found a way to rig the DNA evidence so he came out the victim. He might've gotten away with it if he hadn't gotten obsessed with leaving behind a witness.” I'd told him then about his taking a shot at Holly Zacharias and getting his mitts all over the car he'd used.

“You can't falsify DNA,” Dante said; “I've as much as said that in print. Unless the samples got switched.”

“Not likely. I think the detective in charge of the case is straight. I know he's nobody's fool. Anyway, the hoops an outsider would have to jump through once those slides are in the system would incriminate him even worse.”

We'd been speaking low. At that point his voice had dropped to a murmur. “As bad as it was, jail was the first vacation I've had from that witch in thirteen years.”

“It may be the making of you.”

He'd looked at me quickly, then decided I wasn't poking his cage.

“I suppose I put both of you in danger. If the police weren't concentrating on me—”

“They can't be everywhere. Let's remember who's to blame. Right now there's a young woman packing to blow town because Marcus—or whoever he is—missed. We can't count on his aim not improving next time. We'll all be better off when we know the name of the stiff the cops pulled out of that cupboard.”

“Do you have a theory?”

“Not even a harebrained one. The dead man sure looked like the man in the picture you gave me from the paper.”

“It was the man I gave the check to, I'm sure of that.”

“If it means anything, you weren't the only fish he hooked. He paid for an empty safe-deposit box, which I'd bet anything wasn't empty until at least Saturday. That's when he set up this double to take his place on the slab and skedaddle with the swag, as we law enforcement professionals say. Except he dropped the ball.”

“What sort of ball?”

I told him about the box with the hole in it.

“That's not much.”

“It's getting to be; anyway, he seems to think so. Since everyone thought Marcus was murdered, the cops timed the death after Holly saw him with the box. Medical evidence of time-of-death is rarely precise. It can wobble an hour or more this way or that, depending on temperature and humidity and a bunch of other things the techs can't quite corral. Now it looks like Holly saw him fleeing the scene after the murder. Probably had another car waiting nearby, maybe the Crown Victoria he drove this morning and tried to torch later. His luck was still running sour; a county cop put out the fire before it could burn away his fingerprints.”

“An empty box with a hole in it. Sounds like something from Poe.”

“Who said it was empty? Holly said he handled it as easily as if it was, but also like he was afraid something would spill out the hole.”

“The money? Our money? The investors', I mean.”

“Any killer who's smart enough to fake scientific evidence is too smart to carry tens of thousands in cash in a box with a hole in it. I found something else in Marcus' room I'd forgotten about. I didn't think much of it at the time, but it's starting to look like that nail that lost a war.”

“What did you find?”

“I need to discuss it with Lieutenant Karyl before anyone else. It's just the sort of thing cops get jealous about. Somehow I don't think it will be a surprise. He's like you: short on speech, long on brains.”

He'd asked more questions, but when he saw they weren't any use wondered why I still cared about a case that should have been closed when he was released from jail.

“I'm off the clock where Suiz is concerned. I'll send him a bill. Meanwhile there's some collateral damage that needs cleaning up. The wrong person's on the run.”

“The Holly girl? But—” He'd fallen back against the pillow then, closing his eyes. “We underestimated you. You ought to charge twice as much.”

“I'd wind up with half as much work and twice as much trouble. What are you going to tell Heloise?”

“The truth. She'll enjoy that.”

I took that as a curtain line and said good-bye to his wife at the front door. I'd miss the Gunnars the same way I miss mosquitoes in winter.

 

FOURTEEN

In a party store I spent some more change calling my answering service. I still had one then; I'd still have it now if all the outfits hadn't gone into some other line of work. Now, every time someone hangs up on the machine, I figure I've lost a client. The ones who are too shy to record a message are usually upset enough not to haggle over my fee.

I was popular again. There were three messages: Hernando Suiz, the Gunnars' attorney, wanted a full report, and Lieutenant Karyl wanted to talk. Barry Stackpole had called just two minutes ago, asking me to call him back on his cell. I let them wait and ran the gauntlet of roommates to reach Holly Zacharias. She'd called her father, who'd bought her a seat on a Northwestern flight to Chicago leaving from Detroit Metropolitan Airport at 6:00
P.M.
I asked who was taking her to the airport.

“Shuttle from the Campus Inn. It leaves at three-fifteen.”

“That doesn't give you much time to pack.”

“I don't have much to pack. I'm not into material possessions.”

“Me neither, but the choice wasn't mine. I've got a car, such as it is. The driver doesn't accept tips.”

“If you're offering a ride, I'm accepting. I get sick riding in buses.”

I arranged to meet her at four, then called Barry.

He was driving, working the clutch and shifter on the Dodge Charger he'd had customized to accommodate his artificial leg. A slight echo told me he had me on speaker.

“That number you had me look up came with a name,” he said. “The name showed up on the news. Still think there's nothing in it for me?”

“I didn't know it was a murder then. I can get all the abuse I want on someone else's dime.” I slid a cigarette into the notch in the corner of my mouth.

“Give me something useful and I'll sing your praises to the angels.”

“I may have something, but I have to run it out. That's why I called. Same favor as yesterday, new number.”

“Shoot.”

“Not one of my favorite expressions today.” I gave him the number that had showed up on Jerry Marcus' redial. It didn't matter if Barry was doing ninety and had both hands on the wheel; he'd switched his photographic memory to digital while Kodak was still discussing the pros and cons.

“I got an exit coming up,” he said. “Call me back in five.”

I hung up and bought two bottles of The Glenlivet from the Sikh behind the counter and kept the receipt. If the Marcus murder turned out to be nothing more than the usual run of mayhem, I'd owe Barry for his time.

His engine noise was missing when I called back. He'd parked. He drove like a maniac, but always with both hands on the wheel. “I put everything on my iPad,” he said. “Searching, searching; wait.” He snickered, a sinister sound coming from him. “What business can you have with Alec Moselle?”

“Don't know yet. I never heard of him until a second ago. Who is he?”

“You ought to read something more than
Fact Detective.
” He gave me an address on Washtenaw Avenue in Ann Arbor.

I wrote it down. “How about a hint?”

“Bring along plenty of sunblock.” He laughed and broke the connection. If he weren't my only friend I wouldn't like him at all.

*   *   *

I moved Alec Moselle to the bottom of the stack of mysteries for the time being and returned Karyl's call; I didn't feel like talking to a lawyer. I never feel like talking to a cop, but he was smack dab in the middle of the case that had put Holly on the run.