Death Qualified (32 page)

    "Ah, Ms. Holloway, good to see you up and about."

    She nodded at him and regretted moving her head that way. She took the fourth chair, and Frank put coffee down in front of her.

    "Hungry?"

    "Ravenous," she said, surprised.

    "What day is it?"

    "Saturday," her father said.

    "Four in the afternoon."

    Already? Two days of the mini-vacation gone.

    "Damn," she muttered.

    Sheriff Gray had come to report that there was nothing to report and to see if she had anything to add to what she had said in the hospital. She didn't, and he left again after a few minutes.

    "So," she said after the sheriff was gone, "tell me what they're thinking. And about my car. And what happened in court."

    "Car's a real mess. Two new doors, front end, right and left needs replacing, windshield. It'll take some bickering with the insurance company. I say call it totaled and get a new one." He had gone into the other part of the kitchen and was stirring eggs as he talked. He looked at the eggs in the bowl, not at her.

    "Miracle that you could walk away from it."

    "I'm tougher than a heap of metal and glass. Just goes to show," she said, but she remembered the careening car, and she had to agree that it was something of amir acle that she had not ended up in the reservoir. Mike covered her hand with his and squeezed it slightly. The bastard had not even sent flowers, she thought. But he had spent most of the day in the hospital, and now here he was again.

    "How long have you been hanging around?" she asked softly.

    "Not too long," he said.

    From the stove Frank said, "He got here at noon. I sent him packing twice, but he does a good yo-yo act." He dumped the eggs into a hot skillet and stirred them.

    "The Brandywine video was a good show. Real dragon lady with a brain, the worst kind."

    About the accident, he went on, nothing had been found on the overpass where someone had tossed a twelve-pound rock down at her car. Could have been a kid, a transient, an enemy. Only thing it could not be was an accident, although it was less certain if she had been a particular target, or just any automobile that happened by at the right time. No way of knowing that.

    Frank brought the scrambled eggs and toast, poured more coffee, and sat down.

    "What have you been doing out here all day?" she asked Mike then.

    He told her that he had met Nell and her children and had gone home with them to show Travis a couple of neat programs he could play with. She ate as if food were going out of style, she realized, but that didn't deter her; she buttered another slice of toast and listened. This evening there was a meeting going on at the grange, and probably a fight would start in town. They were debating the spotted owl issue again.

    "Bet Nell and Clive will pass on this one," Frank said.

    He explained to Mike: "He used to cruise, estimate timber, for one of the big companies in the valley, and part of his job, I guess, was to report on the owls if he came across any. Some folks say the company fudged the reports, and Nell accused him of doctoring the numbers. It's like the Civil War, dividing families, friends, making just about everyone sore, no matter which side they come down on."

    "She told me she'd see us at his house tomorrow, if you're up and able to go," Mike said to Barbara.

    "So at least they're speaking. She said the kids were going home with their grandparents this afternoon, coming back tomorrow night. Give them all a little break, and let the parents check on the farm. It's been tough on all of them.

    She's really scared." He seemed to regret that remark;

    instantly he went on to say that the problem with the spotted owl controversy was what they called it, the spotted owl controversy.

    "If they called it destruction of a forest ecosystem, or wildlife habitat, or something like that, they'd win over more people. But it's hard to convince people they should care more for an owl than for a human being and jobs. The environmentalists were outmaneuvered, and it's too late now to change. It'll be called the spotted owl fight, no matter what's really at risk."

    "You think that's going to hold you until dinner?" Frank asked when he removed her plate a few minutes later.

    "Depends. What time's dinner, and what's for dinner?"

    "Good God!"

    "I brought a few things out with me," Mike said.

    "Just in case I got invited to spend the night or something."

    Frank snorted.

    "He asked how many bedrooms we have, and if he could park in one of them for the next couple of days!"

    Mike nodded.

    "I don't have to be in class until ten Monday morning."

    And that was the extent of his manipulative ability, Barbara thought. He would come right out and ask, and then admit it. She wondered if Clive had come out and asked Nell's in-laws to go away and take the kids with them for at least one night. And if he would admit it if he had. She doubted that he would admit to anything of the sort.

    The phone rang, surprising her when her own answering machine took the call. Her father had always said he refused to have such a thing in his house.

    "Reporters," he growled.

    "You made all the news." They listened as the voice floated around them, a local radio station wanting her to call back at her convenience. There were several more similar calls that afternoon, but at six it was Bailey Novell's voice on the machine, and Barbara took his call.

    "Heard you got whacked, kiddo," he said.

    "Tough.

    You okay?" She assured him that she was, and he went on, "Right. Got that info you wanted about the car, and a couple of other things. You receiving callers?"

    "Hang on a second," she said, and covered the mouthpiece.

    "Dinner?" Prank nodded, and she invited the detective to join them at six-thirty.

    As much as she wanted to, she knew better than to ask for any details, or to ask the most important question until she saw him. Was Brandywine sniffing the bait yet?

    TWENTY-TWO

    "she's interested," bailey said cheerfully a little later.

    Frank handed him a glass filled to the brim with mostly scotch. How such a little man could drink so much with no apparent effects was a mystery to Barbara. Funny metabolism she had decided a long time ago, but was no more satisfied with that explanation now than she had been then. And he ran marathons! A single ice cube looked lonesome in the drink; the trickle of melting water was not enough to change the color.

    "We're holding all conferences in the kitchen," Frank said.

    "Because I'm cooking Shoot."

    Bailey cast a speculative glance at Mike, whom he had just met.

    "He's one of the gang," Barbara said. Mike looked so much at home in that kitchen that it was as if he always had been there, had always been part of the gang.

    Bailey shrugged.

    "If you say so. I got the tracker, Roy Whitehorse, to call her, and he played it just fine. He heard she was looking for something and he had found something, only not papers. Then he clammed up. She wanted a number, and thirty seconds later called him back.

    Cagey. Wanted to make sure the call was coming from Redmond, where he lives, not from this side of the mountain. Anyway, he wouldn't say another word, and she said very little, very, very little. She'll be in touch."

    Mike was looking totally bewildered. Barbara grinned at him.

    "We need to get her in the state to serve the sub poena. And she did lose something. She'll find out that her testimony was presented and think she's in the clear by now. I hope. Go on," she said, turning back to Bailey.

    He consulted his notes.

    "This Kendricks pulled a vanishing act back in 1982, and not a trace of him turned up again until he walked into that Denver store back in June and bought the computer with cash."

    Barbara made a sound, then said, "Never mind. It'll keep."

    Bailey grunted.

    "Whatever. Anyway. Car bought in Denver September 1980, co-signed by Nell Kendricks through the mail, four-year loan. Paid off with a cashier's check November 16, 1982. Insurance canceled about the same time. Registration expired the last of December, same year. Nineteen thousand miles on it."

    Barbara narrowed her eyes in thought.

    "November 1982.

    Isn't that when Emil Frobisher was killed?"

    "Yep. November fourteenth." Bailey glanced over his notes again.

    "Here's the whole of it. Kendricks was registered in the graduate housing unit that fall, special assistant to Dr. Emil Probisher. In November his telephone was disconnected, his car was paid off, and he closed out his checking account. Little over four thousand in it. In January his apartment was registered as being occupied by a Tom Mann, or Manning. It's down both ways. No for warding address was recorded for Lucas Kendricks, and Tom Mann didn't have a telephone, or anything else that I can find. He lived in the apartment until June, under the special care of Dr. Ruth Brandywine. His occupation was listed as maintenance personnel."

    "Wow!" Barbara breathed.

    "They killed Lucas Ken dricks in 1982! What kind of paperwork can you round up by Tuesday?"

    Bailey looked incredulous and drank deeply of his scotch.

    "Wednesday, at the very latest," Barbara said, paying no attention to his expression.

    "I probably can stall that long. I may have to faint in court, or something, but I'll manage that."

    Bailey was saying he would do what he could, and, in fact, he already had a couple of things, when Barbara interrupted

    "When he bought the computer, it could have roused suspicions, paying cash. See if they kept a record. And if his bank kept a record when they closed his account, you know, fifties in a series, that sort of thing."

    Bailey nodded and made a note.

    "But not by Tuesday," he grumbled.

    "Don't be silly," Barbara said.

    "Of course you can."

    She stood up as she said, "Let's see what you've already rounded up." Even she could hear how strange the words sounded, and she swayed with sudden dizziness.

    Mike was at her side, holding her arm almost instantly, and from across the kitchen at the same time Frank yelled, "Catch her."

    "I'm all right," she said, but she let Mike push her back into her chair without resisting.

    "You're pale as a ghost," Mike said.

    "I've got a right, I guess," she said, "considering I was damn near murdered." And there, having said the words, she realized that that was exactly what she believed.

    That someone had tried to kill her, not just a random driver. Frank banged down a pot and she jumped at the sound.

    "Maybe I need something just a bit stronger than your good wine," she said to him.

    Bailey finished his scotch hurriedly and held up his glass.

    "I second that. Fainting women give me the creeps."

    Frank brought the bottle and two glasses to the table.

    Mike shook his head, and Frank poured for Bailey, and Barbara, and then a third glass, which he kept.

    "You pull that stunt in court Tuesday and the judge will give you an extra week or more if you ask for it," Bailey said to Barbara.

    "I'll get the stuff for you." He patted her shoulder as he passed her chair on his way to retrieve the briefcase he had left in the living room.

    "Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Mike asked.

    "He'll be back in Denver by tomorrow," she said.

    "I'm okay. Really."

    "Okay is not the word I'd use," he said shaking his head.

    "Formidable is more like it."

    Bailey came back with a folder, and as they went over the papers he had collected, she told him which ones to have certified, witnessed, all the while aware of Mike's gaze on her. Reflective, alarmed, bemused, puzzled, a mixture of all those things, as if he only now was becoming aware of who she really was. She was not certain at the moment that the person he was now perceiving was the person who had attracted him in the first place, or, if he reached that same doubt, how he would settle it.

    They were having dinner at the kitchen table again; Barbara's materials were still strewn all over the dining room.

    Tonight Frank had made a leg of lamb, with a thick crust of garlic, rosemary, coarse black pepper, served with a mars ala sauce.

    Mike took his first bite and said, "Can I move in?"

    Frank laughed.

    "Maybe. Might set conditions, though."

    Barbara glared at both of them.

    "There was this time in court," Frank said grinning, "Old Judge Tap Toe was reigning. Called him that because if he got impatient with the way the case was going, he'd start tapping his toe.

    Didn't ever seem to be aware that he was doing it, and most of the time no one else could tell. Little jiggle in his robe now and again, about all you could see. Now, Old Judge Tap Toe was getting a bit hard of hearing and he had an amplifier set up so he never missed a word. But he couldn't hear what was going on under the bench, you see.

    And this time in court someone had taken away a heavy rug they always put in place for that restless foot to light on. So you could hear old Tap Toe when he got going.

    Anyway, the prosecution brought in this whole family of Doolittles. Papa Doolittle, Mama Doolittle, the kids, and their kids, and cousins and uncles and aunts and the like.

    A real crew of them. Said they were having a family re union the day a neighbor house got robbed, having a feast out on the patio when this fellow showed up and entered the next house over. They described him just fine, and picked him out of a lineup, and things were going swell for the prosecution. But he overdid it by having them all testify; one after another they got up to say yes sir, that's the guy. And pretty soon old Tap Toe starts tapping, and that rattles the prosecution some, and there's some in court who are nodding in time to the judge's foot, and that rattles everyone some, and the judge never does catch on that he's setting the pace. He just taps harder. Now the defendant maintains that he didn't do it, that he was out with his girlfriend, probably doing things he shouldn't have been doing. And she says that's right, but there's one of her, and one of him, and there's a passel of Doolittles, eleven, twelve of them, and things are looking bad indeed."

    Frank was laughing softly by now. He sipped wine and continued.

    "So there's the foot tap, tap, tapping, and witness after witness saying the same thing, and the defense attorney asks Uncle Doolittle what they had to eat that day.

    That sets up a row of objections, but the judge isn't having any more nonsense and he says let the witness answer, just to get some variety in the testimony, probably, and the uncle says fried chicken and potato salad and blackberry pies, biscuits, corn on the cob, real reunion food for a summer day. And defense asks what the feast was in celebration of since it was late July, not the Fourth or any thing, and uncle says it was to celebrate Mama Doolittle's successful surgery for gallbladder. Defense keeps looking at the bench where that tapping is coming from, and the witness is looking, too, and he begins to add things on his own. He remembers they had homemade ice cream on the pie. Defense asks what time he and his wife got there, and what time others arrived, and so on, and uncle is moving his head in time to that foot, and he says four, five, a little later. And defense say? you mean poor Mama Doolittle, just out of the hospital, had to fry chicken for twelve people, and make potato salad for them, and all the rest of it? She must have started cooking the day before. Wasn't she too weak for all that work? And uncle says in time to the foot that mama was still too weak. Papa must have made the dinner. Now papa jumps up, back there in the middle of the crew of Doolittles, and says that's a damn lie. He never cooked a meal in his life."

    They all laughed, and then Mike asked, "And what happened? How did it come out?"

    "Oh, they all cooked it up, all right," Frank said happily

    "Got to calling each other names and the bailiff had to clear the court, and when the dust settled the case was thrown out, the defendant was excused, and the crew of Doolittles was charged with breaking, entering, burglary, the whole works, including perjury. When court resumed the little rug was back in place and Old Judge Tap Toe never did know that he'd hypnotized the witnesses. Uncle could have been led anywhere in time to that foot."

    Later, Barbara realized that Frank must have had conversations with Mike while she slept; someone had told him that Mike didn't cook, and that someone was not she.

    The thought pleased her in an obscure way, even though it annoyed her also. What else had they talked about?

    Bailey left immediately after dinner; Mike did the dishes, while Barbara began to read through the transcript of Ruth Brandywine's testimony, not in a serious way, but to refresh her memory. She found that she remembered very well what the woman had said.

    They sat in the living room, where the fire was burning softly, chuckling to itself now and then, muttering with a show of sparks now and then. When Barbara glanced at Mike he was jotting his squiggles on a yellow legal pad, and when she caught him glancing at her, she was jotting notes on a different yellow pad.

    "Could I have a look at the computer?" he asked a bit later.

    "Not the portable. I'll load the program I gave Travis, to create Mandelbrots."

    Frank yawned and stretched.

    "I'll show you and then leave you to it. Bedtime for me."

    Barbara watched them walk out together. Mike looked more muscular than ever next to her father, who, she realized with dismay, was looking old. At her insistence he finally had admitted that he had had a very minor heart attack, of absolutely no significance, with absolutely no aftereffects.

    She listened to the murmur of their voices coming from his study, a chuckle, a snorting sound, the murmur again.

    When the silence that followed stretched out too long, she got up to join them. She ached abominably, but her head was not hurting, and that was what they had told her to watch for. No more dizziness, no headache or fuzzy vision.. ..

    Her father and Mike were together at the computer, watching the monitor, where a rainbow of colors was forming.

    "I'll just be damned," Frank said absently, peering at it.

    "Look, there's that same little hook."

    Mike saw her in the doorway and grinned.

    "Nice computer. Not quite as fast as the one Travis has, but pretty good. I told Frank to leave it on overnight, with the monitor turned off, and by morning it will be finished."

    "You put that same program on Travis's computer? He must love it."

    "Not the same. I thought I could just load it here, but Travis's drive used the old floppy disks, and this one takes the three-and-a-half size. I keyed it in. Needs a little tinkering with to get out of it, but I'll do that after Frank goes to bed."

    Another line of the emerging pattern was completed, and a new one started. Already half an inch of the pattern was visible. Frank leaned in closer, drew back, but he did not take his gaze from the monitor. Barbara watched for another few seconds before she returned to the living room, something nagging at her. Her laptop and her father's computer were compatible; she had not bothered with a printer because she could print out from his using her disks. The salesman had told her emphatically that the old floppies had become obsolete and were being phased out as fast as people upgraded. So why had Lucas bought a big expensive computer that used them? She frowned at the diminishing fire.

    Because he had worked as a maintenance man for the last six years of his life, she answered herself finally. He bought a computer that was as nearly like the last one he had used as possible. That simple? Maybe, she admitted.

    Maybe it was.

    Mike returned then and sat on the floor by her chair, leaned against her legs.

    "And this is what domesticity is like," he said softly.

    "This is it. You like it?"

    "I do for right now. But how long? That's the question, isn't it?"

    She put her hand on his head.

    "That's the question, all right." His hair was crisp under her fingers.

    "I like your old man quite a lot."

    "But you think he's pushing?"

    "He pushes. And he's shrewd as Solomon. He called me at home at one in the morning. I got to thinking about that later on. You weren't in danger, no skull fracture or anything like that. He didn't think of me until his anxiety was something he could handle, but then he called. Said he thought mathematicians stayed up all night playing with numbers, and that he thought I'd want to know."

    She gritted her teeth and tugged his hair slightly.

    "Push back. I learned thirty years ago that you have to push back."

    "I'll have to bone up on my pushing act." He tilted his head to look up at her.

    "You want to hear a thought that crossed my mind while he was playing with the Mandelbrot

    "Tell me." "I began to wonder why Lucas Kendricks spent nearly four thousand on a computer. Your laptop is around fifteen hundred; Frank's is about twenty-five hundred, and they're both more than adequate for what you do with them. Glorified typewriters, that's what you bought. But why did Kendricks spend that kind of money unless he intended to work with it? I mean really work with it. And that made me wonder at what."

    "You think he intended to continue the work he was doing with Frobisher years ago? From what Nell says about him, I doubt that he was capable of doing it alone. She could have misjudged his abilities, I suppose."

    A second later his hand pressed hers, which was still on his head; she realized that she had been patting him while her mind took the thought and played it this way and that. Slowly she said, "He bought the kind of machine he was familiar with, but you don't have to be familiar with the newer ones; they work the same way. What if he had disks that ran only in that drive? They were after disks!

    I'd bet anything!"

    "It's too easy to get data transferred from one size to another, from one language to another."

    "But was it seven years ago? His knowledge of computers could have stopped back in 1982, remember. Maybe it never even occurred to him, or maybe he didn't dare risk taking them to a shop anywhere. He knew people were after him." Her hand had started to play with his hair; he pulled it away, kissed her palm.

    "I have to call Bailey," she said suddenly, and started to get up.

    "Hey, have a heart," he said, shaking his head.

    "You know what time it is? After one."

    "Damn. Tomorrow. You're a genius, you know?"

    "I know, but I just stated the obvious. I still don't know why you're excited about it."

    "You gave me the ammunition I need to get Brandywine up here. She'll come for disks. Want to bet?"