Hangman's Root (17 page)

She smiled, proud of herself in one respect, anyway. "Actually, I have a pretty good memory."

"Good luck with this one," I said, as if Rose were a contestant on a quiz show. "What I'm looking for is called Beuthanasia. Has it been purchased lately.^"

"That's easy." Her answer came so quickly that I was sure she didn't know the significance of my question. "Two fifty-milliliter vials were ordered about three weeks ago for Dr Harwick's animals. The shipment arrived early last week." She made a face. "I remember, because I don't like the idea of animals suffering unnecessarily. I was glad he was putting them to sleep."

"I don't suppose you happen to remember," I said offhandedly, "who prepared the purchase order Was it Dr. Harwick?"

"Well, no, it wasn't, actually," she said. Her eyes went back to the letter.

"Was it Kevin Scott?" I asked. She nodded nervously.

"I see," I said. I let the silence hang for a moment. "Is Kevin working today?"

She shook her head.

"Tomorrow?"

She shook her head again.

Cynthia Leeds spoke from the doorway, making us both jump. "You wont be able to speak with Kevin Scott at all. He turned in his resignation on Friday."

"Oh," Rose said. She ducked her head. "Fm sorry," she said to me. "I didn't know." She spoke again to Cynthia Leeds. "Ms. Bayles was asking some questions about Dr. Harwick's—"

"WeVe heard enough about that," Miss Leeds snapped. She sniffed the air and turned, frowning. "What is that horrible smell?"

Rose reached for the diffuser, but Miss Leeds was too quick for her. She snatched it up. "I thought I told you last week. Rose. You aren't to use perfume here. This is a university office, not a boudoir."

"But that was jasmine," Rose protested feebly. "I thought rosemary would be less ..."

Another unfinished sentence. It was my cue to leave.

The pay phone was at the end of the hall, beside a glass case that displayed a grinning skeleton suspended in an eternal danse macabre, every bone labeled for easy reference. When I punched in Kevin s number, I got a not-in-service recording. I tried Information and struck out again. No listing.

I wasn't surprised. Kevin had gotten himself hired by the department back in January, and he'd concealed his address and given a phony phone number. Clearly, he'd been planning the blackmail scheme for some time. Kevin may not have killed Harwick; the man could easily have been compelled to suicide by the fear of having his guilty secret—whatever it was—broadcast to the world. But the boy was no doubt running scared, afraid that somebody might connect him to the death. He might even be running. For all I knew, he was already in Mazatlan or Juarez.

Which left Amy. I didn't know her phone number, and neither did Information. Ruby probably knew it, but she was unreachable. So I got in my Datsun, surrendered my parking card to the surly guard as I left the campus, and drove to the Pecan Springs Mall at 1-35 and Juniper Hills Drive, where Ruby had said Amy worked in a pet store. It turned out to be something called PetPlaza, an upscale pet supermarket that stocks the heart's desire of every animal companion under the sun. It's all there: a

mind-boggling shop-till-you-drop half-acre of fleece-lined doggie beds, kitty toilet seats, high-intensity continuous-acting ultrasonic flea eliminators, and one (only) top-quality, made-in-America brass-trimmed oak doggie casket, white satin blanket and pillow included, marked down to $149.99 for a limited time, sorry, no discount. The casket could have held two dozen guinea pigs.

Amy was on her knees stocking cat toys in an aisle called "Your Pet's Funtime." Vigilant as usual, she spotted me coming, got up, and started to walk away. I cornered her at the end of the aisle between a display of Fabulous Feline Fun Furniture and a bin of Tabby Teaser Toys.

"Kevin Scott?" She shook her head when I asked her, but she didn't quite meet my eyes. "I don't know him." She started to push past me. "I've got to get to work. I have to get that box unloaded before the boss comes back."

I stepped in front of her and looked up. She was as tall as her mother, and the determined set of her shoulders reminded me, painfully, of Ruby. "Of course you know him," I said, softening my tone. "The guy who picked you up on Friday night. The yellow Camaro with a bad case of bashed fender."

She shook her head, stubborn. "That was my friend Lou. He was driving his roommate's car."

"I've met Kevin. I've heard him st-st-stutter. I heard him say Ok-k-kay when you got in the car."

I had to give it to her. She was tough. And quick. "Lots of people stutter," she said. "Lou stutters. It's so bad that the only kind of job he can get is one where he doesn't have to talk to people."

It was time to stop pussyfooting around. "Amy," I said quietly, "in another day or so, it won't be me asking about Kevin Scott. It will be the police. Kevin is a material witness to Dr. Harwick's death."

"Material witness.^" Her hazel eyes—Ruby's eyes—opened wide, the pupils dilated and dark. She stood for a moment.

caught. Between what and what? Between what she knew and what she feared? Or—

I watched her, a thought circHng around in my head Hke a demented dog going after its tail. Anybody who knew Kevin's computer code could have walked into the basement terminal room and used it to gain access to the computer. Who had written the letter? Was it Kevin? Or Amy?

"Sorry," she muttered. She was so wired that she almost vibrated. "I can t help you." She stepped around me and went back to the box of furry cat toys she'd left on the floor. She knelt down and began to take small black fuzzies out of the box, eyes down, motions quick and jerky.

I stood looking down at the top of her head, the clipped hair stubbly over her ears, the little red tail at the back of her head poking out over the collar of the blue PetPlaza shirt she wore over her jeans. Amy knew what I needed to know. I had to dislodge her. Tough as she was, I could only do it with scare tactics. Fd hate myself afterward—worse. Ruby might hate me. But the truth had to be jarred out of her.

"Fve seen the blackmail letter," I said.

She froze in mid-motion, her hands full of black fuzzies. But only for an instant. She dropped the toys on the floor and began to arrange them on the shelves, one at a time, paying careful attention to lining up their little black paws as precisely as if she were assembling them for a parade. "Blackmail letter? What are you talking about?"

"The letter to Harwick, threatening to reveal what he did." I paused, giving her anxiety a moment to ripen into fear. "Telling Harwick he'd have to pay the highest penalty. What did the man do. Amy? What crime did he commit?"

A toy fell out of her hand. She didn't pick it up. She didn't get up, either. She crouched, her face hidden.

I had been trained to hone my words sharp enough to slice away

any resistance. I used that training now, ruthlessly. "Dr. Riddle's lawyer is very tough, very aggressive. Her law school buddies called her The Whiz. Perry Mason in drag. She'll pounce on that letter like a panther on a rabbit. She'd be a fool not to use it to get her client off the hook. You know where that puts Kevin, don't you?"

She crouched, still resisting, still silent. The back of her neck looked young and vulnerable. I went on.

"And of course The Whiz will be tickled to learn that Kevin's name is on a purchase order for two vials of the chemical that the medical examiner found in Dr. Harwick, and in his coffee. Which puts Kevin up shit creek. Amy. Without a paddle. Without even a canoe."

It was enough. Amy scrambled to her feet. Her face was torqued tight, body taut, fists clenched. She looked like an out-of-control skier seeing a sheer drop-off dead ahead, tudsting, pulling, but knowing that at the end there'd be nothing but free fall into open sky.

"Kevin didn't do it." She closed her eyes and said it again, harder, the energy of denial charging every word. "He . . . didn't . . . do . . . it."

"The Whiz won't care whether he did or not." I was cold, deliberate. "I know her. I know what a sharp criminal lawyer can do in a situation like this. She'll use every trick in the book to defend Dr. Riddle, which includes digging up any other suspect who might take the heat off. If you're right and Kevin's innocent, maybe he can use his information to gain some leverage with the cops and the D.A. Maybe I can help him do that. But when word gets to The Whiz about the letter and the purchase order, he can kiss that advantage goodbye."

There was a long silence. Long enough for a tear to squeeze out from under Amy's coppery lashes. Long enough for me to remember what it was like to twist the truth for a living, every day of the week, every week of the year, without thinking twice. I was thinking twice now, and I wasn't sure whether the truth I hoped

to wring out of Amy justified the spin I was putting on it right now. Offering absolution and the promise of protection or help in return for full confession is the oldest trick in the book, turned bv parents, priests, psychologists, cops—and lawyers. That doesn t make it clean or good or right, especially in this case, where my offer of help might be the fatal bait that hooked a frightened kid. Two fricrhtened kids. I felt like crving myself.

Amy opened her eyes. 'TU have to ... " Her voice was so low I could barely hear her She swallowed. "I mean I can t just... I need to talk to him."

I fished in my purse for one of my Thyme and Seasons cards and wrote my personal phone number in one comer "If Fm not there, leave a message. Til get back to vou. Do it soon. Amy. He's only got a few hours of clear space until the biolog}' secretary show s the letter to Castle and they turn it over to the cops. After that, I can t help him."

"That's where it is?" she asked. "In biolog\ ?"

I started to say yes and thought better of it.

"Ill tell him," she said, and stuck the card in the pocket of her shirt. I left her there, head bowed, shoulders hunched, red tail sticking out over the collar of her blue shirt. She might be a six-foot woman, but she looked like a little girl. Ruby's little girl.

As I got back in the car and headed for the jail, I found myself thinking that I had left the practice of criminal law because what I did in the name of right was sometimes terribly wrong. Yet here I was, at it again. I wasn't guilty of lying to Amy, but I wasn't w holly innocent of deception.

The best I could hope for was that .\my's information was worth what both of us paid for it.

44 4

The Pecan Springs jail isn't a fancy place. Seeing Dottie meant sitting on a stool in a windowless, green-painted room

about as big as a bathroom and redolent of floor wax and disinfectant, in front of a window with a grid in it. Janette James, who had recently been promoted from meter attendant to prisoner attendant, brought Dottie into the matching room on the other side of the window and seated her in a folding chair.

On the way to see Dottie, I had sorted through the questions surrounding the blackmail letter. Harwick had once been involved in something so awful that its ten-year-old scars had not yet healed. What crime could have left such a legacy of hatred? Was it connected to his death.^ If so, how? To answer those questions, I had to know more about the man.

Dottie felt the pocket of her front-zip uniform jumpsuit and frowned. "Janette, did you remember to get those Salems for me when you went out for lunch?"

"Oh, yeah. Almost forgot." Janette stepped forward and pulled a fresh cigarette pack out of the pocket of her gray polyester slacks. Her bleached hair was a yellow halo around her head, and her fire-plug-red nails matched her lipstick. "Need a light?"

"Of course I need a light." Dottie peeled the cellophane ribbon around the top of the pack. "I guess they figured I was planning to burn the place down. They took my lighter." She tapped out a cigarette, put it in her mouth, and Janette flicked a lighter to the tip. Dottie sat back, inhaling deeply, and Janette disappeared through the door, presumably to stand guard in the hall.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

Dottie shrugged. "How should I be doing? Fm in jail, aren't I?" She frowned. "I wish they'd hurry with that bail hearing. Who's covering my classes?"

"Castle canceled them," I said uncomfortably.

"Canceled them!" She sat up straight. "What a jerk! He can't do that!"

"Calm down, Dottie," I said. "We'll take care of it." I put my

notebook on the shelf under the window. "I need some information about Miles Harwick."

Dottie took another pull on her cigarette. "What kind of information are you looking for?"

I opened my notebook. "When did Harwick first come to CTSU? Where did he come from?"

She stared up at the ceiling, counting soundlessly. "Eleven years ago. No, ten." She frowned and ran one hand through her wispy gray hair "Yeah, ten. CTSU hired him as an associate professor from the UT San Antonio campus. He got tenure after a couple of years and promotion to full prof the year after that." She paused to drag on her cigarette. "The promotion was way early, but Castle was pushing him hard and nobody but me cared enough to object." Her half-grin was ironic. "Nobody but me ever cares. Castle's got the department in his pocket. He makes sure that everybody owes him a favor and he's not shy about collecting."