Authors: Jean Lorrah
The woman was clearly impressed with Brandy's logic—so much so that she discussed the conversation, or her version of it, with her friends. Before the police memorial service on Friday, Chief Benton came to the detectives’ office. “Mather!” he demanded, “what is this shit about you telling people we're blaming auto accidents on witchcraft?"
Brandy had completely forgotten the conversation, only recalling as Benton continued, “I've had two calls this morning from relatives of victims of one-car accidents, wanting me to reopen the cases. Claiming ‘one of our female detectives’ said witches made the drivers fall asleep!"
“All I said was that if witches had such powers they wouldn't have to use guns."
“Oh, Jeez. Don't you know better than to feed these yahoos’ imaginations? I got enough aggravation!” He moved into the hall to include everyone in the squad room in his tirade. “Meanwhile, we got nothin'! Two cops dead, and no suspects!"
Benton's face was so red that Brandy actually feared he might suffer a stroke. He was in uniform for the upcoming memorial service—and had obviously gained a few pounds since he'd last worn it. Despite the dressing down, Brandy felt sympathy; it was a service, not a funeral, and he was the one who had to explain to the grieving families why the bodies could not yet be released.
But it was the frustration of the case, leading only to dead ends, that was most on Benton's mind. “We don't even know if the murderer was after Rand and Paschall, and incidentally killed the Andersons, or after the Andersons, and,” he choked over the idea, “incidentally killed the officers.” He slumped, as depressed as the rest of them. “Get yer damn asses to work. See if we can protect the public, even if we can't protect our own."
They were short two police cars now. 108 was impounded as evidence, and it was doubtful anyone would willingly ride in it again. Its whereabouts on the day of the murder had been traced, from its designation at 1:50pm as the transport vehicle to pick-up by Rand and Paschall at 6:14pm. It had stood unattended in the parking lot from the time that Paschall had gassed it up at about 2:30. Although people had been in and out of the lot all afternoon, no one had seen a thing.
By Friday afternoon everyone was exhausted, and the memorial service only increased the emotional burden. When they got back to the station, Chief Benton had a new announcement: the unlimited overtime order was rescinded on the Car 108 case. Budget restrictions again.
Still, there was some relief—their lives could return to what passed for normal. Brandy would have Saturday off, but this week she had Sunday duty.
By the time the memorial service was over, Brandy was wrung out. She wanted to find the murderers, but she was too wired to think straight. She felt sweaty and her hair was squashed from wearing her hat in the heat. She poked fitfully at annoying strands straggling down her neck, trying to stick them back in the twist she had started with.
What she really needed was a good night's sleep, something she had missed for three nights running. Perhaps in the morning she would be able to look at this frustrating case with fresh eyes.
As she cleared her desk, Dan Martin entered the office. Oh, terrific—the folks up front were now treating him as her significant other, no longer calling her to reception.
He had left two messages on her answering machine during the week, but she had gotten home late every night since their evening together had been interrupted—was it only on Tuesday?—and hadn't wanted to make plans. She had even felt a slight annoyance that sometime during the evening he had spent at her apartment he had copied her home number from the phone.
Dan was the last person she wanted to see tonight.
Until he was in the room, and his peculiar magnetism began to operate.
“You've had a rough week, Brandy,” he said. “You look exhausted."
“Gee, thanks,” she told him. “You don't look so hot yourself."
His low chuckle made the moment intimate. “Let me take you home,” he said, adding quietly, “make you some dinner, rub your feet."
“I'll fall asleep,” she warned.
“That's exactly what you need. Come on."
Bemused, she let him drive her home in her car. Once there, he shoved her gently toward the hall. “Go get out of that hot uniform. It's giving me high blood pressure just to look at you."
Instead of the long soak her tired body wanted, she showered to try to perk herself up a bit, looked in the mirror, and decided “clean” was the best she could manage. Combing the tangles out of her wet hair, she exchanged her bathrobe for jeans and a loose shirt. When she joined Dan in the kitchen, he was setting two places, Sylvester observing and commenting from a seat on the counter.
“Something smells wonderful,” Brandy observed as she scratched her cat under the chin. “What in the world did you find to cook?"
He had concocted a casserole out of instant rice, cheese, and frozen broccoli with some bacon strips on top, and a salad from what little crisp part was left of the lettuce, along with leftover carrots. Now he pulled her “lite” French dressing from the refrigerator door, eyed it doubtfully, and put it back, going instead to the spice rack. As Brandy watched, he located vinegar, olive oil, and a cruet, and concocted his own salad dressing. “It would be better with fresh herbs,” he said, “but this is still better than that artificial stuff."
Another good smell made itself known, and from the oven Dan produced a pan of buttermilk biscuits. He must have found those on the refrigerator door. As they looked and smelled perfectly fine, Brandy didn't ask if he had checked the expiration date.
The food was amazingly good—or maybe it was the company. It revived Brandy, and she realized she wasn't going to be able to relax easily. Dan was spinning stories of his students—amusing stories when she could focus on them, but her mind couldn't let go of the Car 108 case. It didn't take Dan long to realize that she was not giving him appropriate responses.
When they finished eating, he said, “Go lie down on the couch while I do the dishes."
“Men aren't supposed to act like that,” Brandy observed.
“Oh? How are men supposed to act?"
“Nice, when they want something. I've known men who can cook before, too, but the only men I know who do dishes are married or gay."
“What—you've never met a straight man who lives alone?"
Brandy wanted to answer, “Of course I have!” but had to stop and think. Single men in Western Kentucky tended to live at home, maybe staying in the college dorm or an apartment with some other guys till they tired of the frathouse lifestyle. Then it was back to Mom's home cooking and laundry until they got a wife to take care of them.
So she said, “I didn't say met. How would I know the lifestyle of every man I've ever met? I said men I know well enough to have been in their home or had them in mine. And I was wrong. All men wash dishes when there are no clean ones available; they don't usually do what you're doing, wash up one meal's worth and leave the kitchen clean. The men I know who do that are married, gay, or divorced."
So quietly she almost didn't hear him over the sound of water filling the kitchen sink, Dan added, “Or widowed."
“Oh,” Brandy said, caught flat-footed. “Oh, I'm sorry."
He looked up, blinked, and said quickly, “I didn't mean me. I haven't been married—in this life."
Brandy's instincts picked up something in the way he said that. She couldn't quite tell if he was lying—yet it didn't make sense to lie about something like that. All that mattered if their relationship were to go anywhere was that he wasn't married now.
“I'm not,” he answered her thought again. “And yes, I hope our relationship goes somewhere."
“After this week?” Brandy asked. “Most men would have given up on me by now."
“Because you've had to cope with an emergency? Police officers don't get murdered every day, at least in this part of the world.” He rolled his sleeves up and began washing dishes with the skill of long practice. When Brandy reached for the dishtowel he said, “You're supposed to be resting. Besides, it's more sanitary to let them dry in the rack."
Somebody had domesticated this man. That wistful note of sadness in his voice when he had said, “Or widowed,” had to mean something—perhaps a tragic love affair? But she could not ask, not yet. When she got to know him better—if she got to know him better.
When he had finished the dishes and dried his hands, Dan turned to Brandy. “Shall I carry you to the couch?"
“I have to warn you,” she replied, “I know karate."
“And you also carry a gun. I love dangerous women.” He took her hand and led her into the living room area. Brandy did not resist when he sat at one end of the couch and drew her comfortably against him. “The offer of a foot rub is still open."
“Sorry,” she replied. “I don't do feet."
“You've got it backwards."
“No, I haven't. I don't accept what I don't want to return."
“Okay,” he agreed easily, “I'll rub your head.” He put a throw pillow on his lap and drew Brandy down, gently rubbing the tenseness out of her scalp. It was only too easy to succumb to the delicious sensations.
At some point Brandy experienced the guilty thought that she had forgotten all about the Car 108 case.
Then she was asleep.
* * * *
Brandy opened her eyes to the sight of a woman, half lying, half sitting, hands folded in her lap, face wearing a serene smile. It took her a moment to recognize her reflection in the mirror that faced her bed.
It was morning. She was in her own bed, still in the jeans and blue shirt from last night. Dan must have put her to bed, but she didn't remember. He had not removed the decorative pillows, but just laid her against them, covering her with the blanket that had been folded at the foot of the bed. She did not normally waken to the sight of herself in the mirror.
But as she lay gathering her wits, Brandy suddenly realized why that reflection was so familiar. Her image lost its serenity as she recognized the position and the facial expression, identical to those of Professor Everett Land, and the four victims of Car 108.
Chapter Five—Day Off
Sylvester, who had been asleep at the foot of the bed, scolded Brandy for disturbing him. Funny he hadn't wakened her, she thought until she looked at the clock: 6:18am.
It couldn't have been much after 9:00pm when she had fallen asleep. She shook off the disturbing image in the mirror. It didn't mean anything—unless her subconscious was trying to send her a message. Something to do with the frustrating Car 108 case, obviously. But what?
On the kitchen counter was a note:
Call me when you wake up. Perhaps we can go somewhere tomorrow where you can't be reached on your day off. D.
And that gave her the connection. She fed Sylvester, ate some cereal, dressed, and coerced her unset hair into a French braid. The stitches in her forehead would be removed Monday. If they had been anywhere but on her face she would have left them uncovered, but they were just too Bride of Frankensteinish, so she covered them with another flesh-tone band-aid. Finally, at 8:00am, she allowed herself to dial Dan Martin's number.
He didn't sound as if she woke him. After the usual pleasantries, he asked, “What would you like to do today?"
“Dan, what happened to Everett Land's computer?"
“What?"
“Dr. Land's computer. After the police decided it wasn't evidence in a crime. Where is it now?"
“I have it,” he replied.
“You have it?"
“It belongs to the university, so it came back to my department to be assigned to somebody else."
“Have you done that yet?"
“No. Brandy, what is this about?"
“Were there any more messages? What about Land's correspondents? Anything connected to his identity change? Any remote connection to Chase or Jenny Anderson?"
“Brandy, are you saying you want to spend your day off—my day off, too, I might add—with Rett's computer?"
“Aren't you curious? How can you stand to leave him appearing out of nowhere in Oxford, Mississippi? Please—help me with the computer this morning and then we'll go out to the lake this afternoon, for swimming and a picnic."
There was a moment's silence. Then he said, “A trip to the lake will reveal one of my weaknesses."
“What—you've got weaknesses? How refreshing. Want me to meet you at your office?"
“Yes, since I have to walk. I left my car at the police station last night. See you in about half an hour."
Dan met Brandy at the door to Callahan Hall. Today he wore jeans and a loose shirt, baseball cap and sunglasses.
He took her into his office, saying, “We don't need to set up Rett's computer just to read his mail, or responses that came to my ID. I haven't deleted anything from his hard disk, though, so if there's something on that—"
“Not today,” she said, “but please warn me before you delete anything, just in case."
“For now that computer's a spare. The university shunted Rett's students into other courses and sections. He won't be replaced until next semester. His computer will only be needed if someone else's breaks down."
“Okay. Let's see what's in the mail."
Dan turned on his monitor and with a few keystrokes entered the mail facility. There were several replies to the messages Brandy had sent last week, all saying they were sorry to hear about Land's death but offering no clues to the man's mysterious past.
There was another cryptic chess move: “Pawn to King's Knight four."
“Is that from the same person as the first one?” Brandy asked.
Dan compared ID's. “No. He must have had two games going. Funny—Rett wasn't in the campus chess club. If he was enough of a chess fanatic to play by mail, why would he ignore local sources of a game?"
“Two possibilities,” said Brandy. “One is that these are not chess moves, but code for something else entirely."
“That's a nice mysterious theory. What's the other?"
“A clue to Everett Land's former identity."
“How do you figure that?"
“Something Church once told me, from his work in Chicago's Organized Crime Division. When criminals take on new identities, it's not names or dates or jobs that make it possible to find them. It's hobbies."