Suicide Season (24 page)

“I did not say that. In fact, I did not say anything. I do not gossip about faculty members, past or present.”

“I see. Did the professor give any reason for his resignation?”

“You would have to ask the dean that. But I’m sorry he’s not available.”

“Can you tell me of any awards or grants he may have won?”

“You would have to ask the dean about that.”

“How about publications while he was there? Or consultantships?”

“You would have to ask the dean that.”

“Is this a recording?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I’d like a recording of his triumphs and successes as seen by his peers and students. Can you recommend anyone I should speak with? Besides the dean, that is.”

A pause. “Yes, Mr. Kirk, I do believe I can. If this is kept confidential.”

“Of course.”

“Then you might try Mr. Robert Sharabigian. I believe he works for Computer Electronics over in Newark. Good-bye.”

She didn’t wait to hear me say good-bye—too emotional a moment, perhaps. The call to directory assistance was even less helpful and left me with the slight suspicion of having been had: Computer Electronics wasn’t listed in the greater Newark directory. And there turned out to be thirty-five Sharabigians in the New York region, a tribute to the perseverance of the Armenian nation. Nine of them were named Robert. One had not attended Columbia University, another had never heard of it, and the others either weren’t home or weren’t answering their telephones. That left me talking to the hearty quack of Percy Ahern, one of the reasons Kirk and Associates was in the plural.

“Devlin! Is it still snowing out there in Indian country, lad?”

“It’s almost summer, Perce. We haven’t had snow for at least two hours.”

“Almost summer! Well for your sake I hope it comes on a long weekend this year. And what is it you want from me besides entertainment and wisdom?”

The only time Percy had flown out to Denver had been a quick trip one July to check on the investment and borrowing records of a creative financier who had purchased a bank in Albany, New York, apparently using the bank’s own funds to make the down payment. As his plane landed, one of those heavy mountain storms had blown in and hung low and tattered among the skyscrapers and dropped an inch or two of crunchy snow across the city, to give the seersucker-clad Percy a shock that he never got over.

“I’m doing a background check on a Professor Michael Loomis who was at Columbia business school five years back. The only lead I have is one Robert Sharabigian, and I can’t find him. Last address was the Computer Electronics Company in Newark. But it’s not listed. Can you help me out?” I spelled all the names and gave him the numbers of the Sharabigians I had not been able to reach.

Percy would do it because I traded off by looking up things for him in this area—he preferred to stay out East where the seasons could be identified—and also because of the touch of nostalgia we shared for our days in the Service. He asked me a few more questions about Loomis and Sharabigian and when we’d finished telling each other about names from the past, he said he would call back as soon as he had something. “It might take a few days. You know how it goes.”

The routine work of keeping the agency going ate up the next few hours. I logged in the tax-deductible items before they slipped away into unprovable obscurity, checked the mail with its bills and ads and—more importantly—responses from possible clients, had the satisfaction of tallying and mailing the final bill for the AeroLabs project, and began answering the calls on the recorder. Far down the answering machine’s tape was a brief message from Vinny Landrum, “Kirk, give me a call. I got something.”

He wasn’t at his office, but the telephone clicked forward to the next number and Landrum answered.

“This is Kirk. What do you have?”

“It took you long enough, for Christ’s sake. I thought you were so goddamn hot for this stuff.”

“I just got your message, Vinny. You were way down at the end of the tape—sort of the story of your life.”

“Funny guy. What’s it worth?”

“How do I know until I hear it?”

He thought that over. “You said you’d pay a bonus for information. You said that, remember?”

“I remember, Vinny. And if it’s any good, I will. Let’s hear it.”

“It’s good. It’s something the cops didn’t come up with.”

“Or perhaps didn’t want?”

“It’s good! Here it is: on the night that Carrie went up to my office and got herself shot, another female went up there too.”

“A woman? With her?”

“No. Alone. Just after Carrie went up the stairs.”

“You’re sure?”

“Hell yes, I’m sure! I talked to this old guy lives across the alley from the office. A Mr. Svenson, 1650 Pearl. He was sitting on the crapper looking out the bathroom window and he sees her.”

“How did he know it wasn’t Busey?”

“He didn’t know who it was, but she was wearing a tan coat like a raincoat, and a hat that came down around her face. Did Carrie have a hat? Tell me, smartass, did Carrie have a hat?”

No, she didn’t, and her coat had been a dark, short one. “Why didn’t he tell the cops this?”

“They asked him if he saw a woman go up the stairs at about that time. He said he did. But, man, the woman he saw wasn’t who the cops were asking about. It was this other one.”

“Did he see her face?”

“No, just the light brown coat and hat. That’s why he remembers. The hat. Nobody wears a hat no more.”

“What time was it?”

“A couple minutes before seven.”

“How’s he so certain about the time?”

“He watches this program at seven. He was getting in his after-dinner crap before his program comes on.”

That fit the time of death. “He saw her enter your office?”

“He saw her go up the stairs. He can’t see my door from that angle, but she didn’t come back down. So it figures she went in.”

“But he didn’t see her come out later?”

“No. He was at the TV. And he didn’t think much of it anyway. When the cops asked him if he’d seen a woman go up the stairs at about that time, he said yeah. They thought he meant Carrie, but, man, he meant this other one. I asked him what’d she look like and he told me. I knew, man—that wasn’t Carrie. So I went around to this other witness, the one who told the cops she saw Carrie, and had her describe the one she saw and it was Carrie. No hat and that dark jacket she had on. And this other witness figures the time at about quarter to seven. I figure this other one had a meet with Carrie for seven and then offed her.”

“That’s good work, Vinny.”

“I know that, Kirk. I’m a damn good p.i.—the best. Now, what’s it worth?”

“I
DON’T KNOW
who it was, Devlin. But I was terrified. It was no accident—it was deliberate!” Margaret’s voice still had the tense, quivering note of fear and anger that verged on tears.

“Are you all right? The children?”

“Yes, we’re all fine, thank God. We had our seatbelts on, and Austin and Shauna were in the back seat. I still don’t know how we got out of it.”

“You’re at the police station now?”

“Yes. The officer said someone would give us a ride home.”

“Stay there—I’ll be right over.”

Margaret’s call had caught up with me in the Healy and I angled across the lanes crowded with six o’clock traffic and turned south. What she told me had been fragmented and disjointed, but I pieced it together to understand that a van had forced her car across the road toward incoming traffic on one of the high-speed arteries that sliced through the southeast corner of the city. Somehow she had managed to avoid the cars screaming toward her and skidded across both lanes to spin to a halt on the edge of the road, sitting in almost numb shock and trying to calm the now terrified children. The car’s right front wheel was broken and the right side scraped and dented where the van had side-swiped them. It had disappeared somewhere during the frantic seconds she fought the steering wheel, and everything had happened so fast that all she saw was the black wall of steel and the heavily tinted glass of the driver’s window.

District Three police headquarters was just off I-25, a flat-roofed, one-story building that had solid white walls and several parking lots scattered around it. One was reserved for visitors, and a walk led around the side of the building to the silvered glass of the main entry. A woman police officer sat behind the chest-high bench and glanced up as I came in; Margaret and the children were at one end of the oblong room.

“How are you doing?”

“Devlin!” She held me tightly and I could feel the quiver still in her body. Austin and Shauna, silent with eyes wide, sat side by side on the chairs drawn up to a small table where Margaret filled out the accident report form.

“You sure you’re all right? You checked the children for bumps and bruises?”

“Yes. The officer … I was just sitting there—I couldn’t believe it—he told me to look them over. They say they’re all right and I didn’t see anything.”

I took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the tight feeling that must have clamped my lungs since Margaret’s call. “I’m glad you’re safe. All of you.”

“We had an accident,” said Shauna. “A big one!”

“This truck came right at us. I was scared. Shauna was too—she cried.”

“I’d have been scared too.” I knelt and wrapped my arms around both small bodies and held them close for a moment, their warmth like fragile birds against my ribs. “I was scared when I heard about it.”

“We were all scared,” said Margaret. “And I’m still angry. The more I think about it, the angrier I get!”

I glanced over the long form with its sections for vehicle ownership information, insurance coverage, diagrams, and narratives. “Did the officer give you a ticket?”

“A ticket? What for? That van pushed us across the road—it wasn’t my fault, Devlin!”

“I didn’t say it was. I only asked if he gave you a ticket.”

“No. He just made sure we were all right and brought us here.”

“Did you get his name?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been on the telephone—the insurance company, a tow truck, you. And then filling out this damned form!”

“Mama said another bad word!”

“Okay—finish it up. You guys want a soft drink?”

They glanced at their mother and she nodded. I tumbled some quarters into the machine at the other end of the long room, the lounge end that held a few nondescript and tired-looking seats and couches scattered around a low table. I brought one to Margaret, too, who thanked me and drank as deeply as the kids. They were thirsty from the fright and nervousness, and I could see them relax as they drank. While Margaret finished the narrative, I went to the desk officer, who looked up with an official smile.

“Can you tell me the officer’s name who brought in Mrs. Haas and her children?”

“Officer Dean.”

“Is he around?”

“He’s on patrol. He should be back at the end of the shift.” She glanced at the large clock. “About eleven tonight.”

“Do you know of any witnesses to the accident?”

“No, I don’t. I haven’t seen the report yet.”

“How about the black van? Did you put out a pickup on it?”

“We put out an alert.”

I gave her one of my cards. “If anything comes in on it, would you call me? Anytime.”

She glanced at it, the official pleasantness hardening slightly, and tucked it somewhere under the shelf that formed the top of the bench. “We’ll try to remember.” She turned back to the mound of paperwork that cluttered her desk. From the dispatcher’s office came the steady rattle of radio voices. I went back to Margaret, who was finishing the last section of the form.

By the time we left the police station, the streetlights were just coming on, their glow a part of the sky’s lingering twilight and almost invisible. Austin and Shauna, firmly anchored in the jump seat of the Healy, were telling me about their ride in the police car. Margaret sagged, drained now of the nervous energy that had buoyed her. With her head back against the seat, she watched the traffic flicker past.

I had a good idea who had been driving the black van, and between half-aware comments on Austin’s story of what he saw in the police cruiser—a radio, a nightstick, even a big gun—I had images of Susan sitting in her fleece-lined wheelchair trying, with the help of a therapist, to recall the names of her friends and family as they went once more through the photograph album that Mrs. Faulk had brought from Des Moines. Now it could as easily be Margaret. Or the children. And it might not be a hospital they were lying in.

It wasn’t until we had reached Margaret’s home, and Austin and Shauna had buried their recent fright and excitement under the warmth and familiarity of dinner and the evening routine, that Margaret and I had the privacy to talk.

“Can you tell me anything at all about the van?”

“I’ve told you all that I can remember. It happened so fast, and once he hit us, I was trying to steer the car and all I saw were those other cars coming past us.” She drew a shaky breath. “I don’t think I had time to be frightened. And then I was too angry to be afraid. Now I’m scared.”

“Too late now—it’s over with. You missed your chance.”

“Oh, Devlin! It’s not funny.”

“There’s no sense dwelling on it, Margaret. It’s like a bump in the road—you got past it and it’s behind you. There’s no sense hitting it over and over again.”

“Is that what you do? In your line of work?”

“When it happens. Which isn’t often.”

She sipped her wine and smiled wearily. “I understand. What I don’t understand is why. It was deliberate, Devlin, I know that. He had a clear road and he pulled up and swung over into my car. Not just once, but twice—hard. He was trying to kill us.”

“Okay—one last time, and then I want you to forget about it. Just close your eyes and tell me what you see. Try to remember exactly what was there, exactly what happened. Anything and everything—just let your memory go.”

She did, and as I listened, I watched her profile with its symmetry, the dark of her lashes pressed toward the smoothness of her cheeks, the fullness of her lips as she spoke, the glimpse of white, even teeth. Her eyes blinked open, feeling my gaze, and the instant of puzzlement in them changed to warmth as she smiled slightly and turned her face to mine. We kissed with a hunger spurred by the knowledge of how close death had been, and fed by the comforting—and then exciting—familiarity of our bodies pressing together. When Margaret finally leaned away to search my eyes with her own, she said, “I’m really frightened, Devlin. Why should someone want to kill us? And what if he tries again?”