Dear Irene (17 page)

“You were right. I heard a rumor that the lieutenant is going for a warrant.”

“He’s already tried it. Judge wouldn’t give it to him. That didn’t improve his humor any.”

“I’m sorry you’re having to take flak off him on my account. Is there anything you can do to avoid his temper?”

“Just ride this out. And try not to give him grounds for any complaints. I know I can trust you not to report our private conversations, but Carlson doesn’t know you as well as I do. So he’s going to assume that anything that’s in the paper came straight from me to you. I’ll talk to you, but you’ve got to keep it out of the paper for now.”

“That’s not going to solve your problem. What if Mark Baker or one of the other reporters hears something from another cop?”

“Look, that could happen whether I say anything to you or not. I just want to have a clear conscience.”

Assured that I’d keep quiet for the time being, he told me what he had spent his day on whenever Carlson wasn’t bitching at him. Frank and Pete had talked to neighbors, to the realtors who were selling the house, and made phone calls to the people who owned the house. There was no sign of forcible entry at the house. They were tracking down anyone who might have had a key. They were talking to anyone who might have had any excuse to go near the house.

Just as Molly had said, the real estate listing on the house had expired three weeks ago, and the owners were considering finding a new agent. The realty company that had listed the property was trying to talk them out of switching. Frustrated, the owners had decided to leave the house off the market until after Christmas; they were planning to fly out in January to talk to other realtors. All of the people who had been contacted by the police claimed they hadn’t been in the house during the last three weeks. The Las Piernas Board of Realtor’s lockbox was still on the house, the key to the house still in it.

“Any of these people know Rosie Thayer?”

“No, at least they say they don’t. Hernandez is still working on cause of death.”

That surprised me. “Is there really any doubt?”

“Yes, there is. Hernandez doesn’t think she starved or died from dehydration. She’s been dead for a while, but with the ants — well, I won’t go into that at the table.”

“Thanks.” When it comes to the coroner’s work, there’s still a big gap between what Frank can stomach watching close at hand and what I can stand to hear him refer to in more than a vague sort of way.

As we finished clearing off the table and started to wash the dishes, something he said stayed with me. I frowned down into the sinkful of suds and scrubbed a plate. “How long is ‘awhile’? More than two days?”

He reached over and stilled my hands, making me realize that I had done a fairly good imitation of Lady Macbeth as a scullery maid. His voice was gentle when he said, “She was dead before you got the letter.”

“You’re sure?” Not too steady. Sort of squeaked it.

“Definitely.” He pulled me into his arms, and even though I was getting lemon dishwashing soapsuds on his white shirt, held me there. “He never really gave anyone a chance to save her — not by sending you the letter, anyway.”

“Why is he involving me in this?”

“I don’t know. Publicity, for one thing. He does things to frighten you, it comes across in your stories, and other people feel afraid. Maybe it makes him feel more powerful to have the whole city running around in a panic because of him.”

I leaned back. “You think I’m helping him? That we shouldn’t publish the letters?”

He hesitated, then said, “It’s a useless question. It’s not up to me.”

I knew that meant he thought we shouldn’t, but figured he’d had all he needed of arguments about the police and the press for one day. I let it drop.

I
WENT TO WORK
the next morning, even though it was Saturday. Like other people at the
Express
who were scheduled to have time off on Monday and Tuesday, which were Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I was trading my weekend for the holidays. The weekend before Christmas is, however, a nearly impossible time to reach anyone by telephone. I wanted to contact officials at Mercury Aircraft, to try to persuade someone to help me look for a link between Rosie Thayer and E.J. Blaylock’s mothers. A couple of phone calls confirmed that I would have to wait until Mercury’s offices reopened on Wednesday — if I made any progress that soon. Corporations that do work for the government are not hasty to let reporters snoop around their plants, let alone ferret through confidential — and legally protected — personnel files. Big companies are often sensitive about their public image, but the fact that two murder victims were children of women who once worked for Mercury Aircraft wouldn’t give me much to push with. Mercury had long been one of the largest employers in town, and my finding out that a couple of local residents had links to it would not scare anyone into giving me an interview.

In the meantime, my imagination was going wild: I wondered if the two mothers had worked on some secret military project together. But why would Thanatos attack their daughters and not the workers themselves? Why wait until years after the workers had died? And even if Mercury Aircraft turned out to be the link between the victims, how was I linked to them? I was still confounded by the fact that Thanatos had singled me out for his contact with the paper.

I kept hoping Hobson Devoe would call.

I also wondered if Thanatos would call to gloat over all the attention he was getting with the second murder.

I had plenty to keep me busy in the meantime. Fortunately, the political beat had slowed a little as the holidays approached, or I would have been hopelessly behind in my work on City Hall stories. I did some catching up.

After a couple of hours in the office, I noticed that some of my coworkers were avoiding me. Stuart Angert seemed to notice it, too.

“It’s not your breath, in case you wondered,” he said, sitting on a corner of my desk.

“I wondered. Glad you stopped by. So what is it?”

“It’s the letters. Same thing happened with me over Zucchini Man. Only this is much worse.”

“Zucchini Man?”

“Let me tell you the story. We had a couple of slow news days one summer, and Wrigley gets a brainstorm. Decides we should have a contest among local amateur gardeners, see who can grow the biggest zucchini. You ever plant zucchini?”

“Frank has the green thumb, Stuart. If he’s smart, he won’t ask me to do more than look at the garden. If the army had known about me, they could have saved a lot of misery by using me instead of Agent Orange.”

“Me, too. I am the bane of the botanical world. Nevertheless, Wrigley decided this contest should be run from my column. I didn’t like it, but what the hell, he’s the boss.”

“Ever stop to think of how much trouble that phrase causes around here?”

“Plenty. And boy, did I get plenty of trouble. Zucchini, I thought, were these skinny little Italian squash I bought in the grocery store. Six, seven inches long, max. ‘Mail in your entry,’ I foolishly said. We were inundated with them.

“As you probably know — I didn’t, but learned very quickly — left to grow on the vine, zucchini can best be described with words like humongous and gargantuan. People couldn’t afford to mail them; some of them weighed as much as a watermelon. So they’d bring them into the paper, hand-carrying them to the security desk. Geoff was calling me from the lobby every few minutes, asking me to come down and get these three-foot, twenty-pound vegetables.”

“So you became known as Zucchini Man?”

“No, Zucchini Man came on the scene a little later. As you can imagine, I quickly tired of lugging the things around, so I was happy when the contest deadline arrived. I declared a winner as quickly as possible, gave out the check for one hundred dollars in prize money, and prayed I’d never see another squash of any kind. I had become the butt of a lot of newsroom jokes.

“However, this one participant was very unhappy with the outcome. He was certain that he should have won. He kept bringing in zucchinis. They would be accompanied by long, rambling notes that didn’t make much sense. He signed them ‘Zucchini Man.’ Geoff warned me that the guy who dropped them off was wearing a tinfoil hat.”

Stuart did not need to explain the tinfoil hat. They are worn by a small segment of our downtown population, and can be seen in many other cities. To the people who wear them, the hats are not a fashion accessory, but a device whereby they attempt to deflect the radio waves that are interfering with their thoughts.

“And people in the newsroom started avoiding you because of that?”

“No, it was when he managed to get past Geoff one day and into the newsroom itself. He knew me from the picture on my column; headed straight for me. This guy has a huge zucchini with him, probably one of the twenty-pounders. He was carrying the zucchini on his shoulder like a baseball bat. Geoff had already called up to warn me, and he had called the police, but it took them a little while to get here.

“Zucchini Man calmly asked me where his million dollars was, his prize for the biggest zucchini. I kept my cool, told him that we were getting the editor’s signature on it at that very moment, and if he would just have a seat and wait, it would soon be here. Everything was going fine until Wildman Winters decided to play John Wayne.”

Wildman Billy Winters, a former staffer, was a walking Bad Hemingway Contest. He had none of Papa’s talent for writing, but that didn’t stop him trying to emulate the lifestyle. His successes were generally limited to accolades like “person who made the ugliest scene at the party.” I winced thinking of what he would have added to the situation Stuart was describing. “Not the best defender you could have asked for.”

“Right,” Stuart said. “He tried to grab Zucchini Man from behind, but he didn’t make it. Zucchini Man ducked, then came up swinging. Walloped Winters but good with this great green gourd. Knocked him out cold; Winters ended up in the hospital for a few days. The Zucchini Man was going berserk then, whomping one surface after another with this zucchini. He didn’t try for anyone else, just objects, but it scared everybody and made a huge mess. Pulp all over the place.

“The cops got there about then. The LPPD was smart, sent a couple of guys who knew Zucchini Man. They greeted him like he was an old friend. When he saw them, he calmly set the remainder of the zucchini down and walked out with them. He paused near the door and asked me to send his check to him in the mail.”

“Not to speak ill of the dead, but I’m not so sure that Winters wasn’t a bigger menace to society.”

“I agree. You ask me, a guy like Winters was scarier than a guy who’s proud of his vegetables. But what I was trying to explain to you was that for a few weeks after this event, some of the people in the newsroom avoided me. They sort of blamed me for the guy being here, and for Winters getting hurt. It was as if they thought I might attract other people like this Zucchini Man — standing next to me was like standing next to a bull’s-eye.”

“I see what you mean. If Thanatos is coming by my house, he might visit the newsroom.”

“Right. You’ve already brought him too close. He calls you here. He sends things to you. Apparently watches you now and then.”

“And he’s more dangerous than someone with a large squash.”

“Don’t get too discouraged.”

“Thanks, Stuart.”

He started to walk away.

“Stuart?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened to Zucchini Man?”

He smiled. “He was lucky. Too many people said Winters went after him first, and Winters didn’t have too great a reputation with the cops, so Zucchini Man wasn’t charged with anything. We ran his picture in the paper; turned out his family had been looking for him. They got him on some meds that worked for him, and they make sure he stays on them. He’s still around — he helps out with a community garden program over on the west side of town.”

I
DIDN
’
T GET
a call from Hobson Devoe or from Thanatos. When I got home that evening, I took a nice, hot bubble bath. It was relaxing, but my thoughts kept returning to Stuart’s story about Zucchini Man and Billy Winters. Stuart didn’t need to tell me what had happened to Billy Winters. Everyone on the staff knew about the night when Winters got himself good and lit, drove off in a drunken rage, and died in a head-on collision. The Wildman himself might have thought of it as going out in style, if he hadn’t also killed a family of five in the other car.

I’d rather ride home with someone wearing a tinfoil hat.

A
S
I
GOT READY
for Frank’s office party, I thought that it might be good to take his mind off his troubles at work, and chose an outfit that would have made a mnemonics expert forget what he was about to say. It was a sleek little blue number that accented the color of my eyes — if anyone bothered to look that high. I was feeling devilish, and set a personal challenge for myself: to get Frank to leave the party an hour after we arrived.

He came home and gave me one of those looks that make you want to shout
Vive la différence,
and I had to convince him that we should go to the party in the first place. He got back at me to some extent by looking pretty spiffy himself, and I started to wonder if maybe we should stay home after all. But by now we were both enjoying the sparks that were flying, and we put on our coats and left.

The party, I soon learned, was at Bredloe’s house, which added an obstacle. Bredloe is captain of the Robbery-Homicide Division. Boss to the second power — Frank’s boss’s boss. I glanced at my watch: 7:30, and the damn party was at the captain’s house. This was going to be tough, I thought with a grin. But not too tough.

I had a drink in my hand and all the male attention I could want by 7:32. Frank stuck to me like a Siamese twin, and I started to wonder if I was going to be able to be as effective at such close range. Pete arrived, and I was happy to see that Rachel was back in town and with him that evening. She’s a real stunner, a tall Italian beauty. She ran over and gave me a big hug, and pulled me aside. Pete started yammering away at Frank, who watched us walk away with an anxious look. I loved it.