There was a long pause.
“Look, Dev, sorry if maybe I sort of jumped to a little conclusion, you know about you grabbing Emma and all.”
Sexual assault, stalking, predatory behavior, battery, a little conclusion, I thought.
“I understand, Justine. I think under the circumstances I may have done the same. The good news is its working out and people are coming to their senses.”
Another long pause.
“Well, I just wanted to be the one to let you know. Hopefully we can dodge the legal bullet.”
“That would be nice.”
I thought about asking her over for a half dozen beers, maybe try out my shower in the morning, but decided it might not be the best move right now. Besides I’d already downloaded No Boys Allowed.
Chapter Seventeen
I heard back from the cops in St. Louis and Kansas City the following afternoon. I told them about the frozen finger and no DNA match out of Denver. Neither one seemed particularly interested. Amazing they had bigger fish to fry than worrying about what some idiot did to a traveling team who had already come and gone.
I searched online for anything remotely looking like a copycat incident and found absolutely nothing. Justine phoned me late in the afternoon.
I was staring out my office window watching women get off the bus across the street. Thirty-something girls, city or state workers I guessed, finished at four and able to bus to and from work. Perhaps wisely, not a one of them ventured into The Spot. My cell phone pulled me back to reality.
“Haskell Investigations.”
“Hi Dev, Justine.”
“Justine, what’s up?”
“Just got a call from our manager, the last two girls have withdrawn their statements, so it’s just Emma holding out.”
“She’ll stick to her story, but she’s standing all alone if it ever goes to court. My guess is it’s not going anywhere at this stage. If they went to all the trouble of withdrawing their statements, they aren’t going to switch back again in a courtroom. I’m guessing they won’t charge me.”
“That’s a relief,” she said, then waited.
“What’s next?”
“They’re still trying to put together some semblance of a schedule. We might be having a bout in the next few nights just to help them out. I don’t know, seems like everything just sort of up and fizzled.”
“Well, no offense, but I think I’ll watch the next bout from the stands. Keep me posted when it’s happening.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that, well look, I better run.” She waited a moment, giving me time to say something. “See ya,” she said finally and hung up.
I wasn’t ready to ask Justine over and I wasn’t sure I ever would be. I looked absently out the window and debated about getting an early start over at The Spot when my cell phone rang. No doubt Justine calling with some sort of sweet offer.
“Haskell Investigations,” I said, sounding busy, too busy.
“Hey, have you even started looking through those applications I sent you?”
“Andy?”
“Yes Andy, who else gave you a stack of job applications to verify? Don’t tell me you’re screwing up two companies owned by some poor guy with the same name as me.”
“Actually I’ve got them finished, I can get them over to you tonight, if you like.”
“I like. We can’t get anything done over here until we have them. The phone has been ringing off the hook with well intentioned, desperate folks calling to see if they’re getting a second interview.”
“I’ll have them to you in an hour.”
“That would be nice. Any surprises?”
“Actually, no, nothing out of the ordinary. Couple of dates maybe extended but I’d put them down as honest mistakes. No one listed themselves as CEO when in fact they were the receptionist, if that’s what you mean.”
“See you in an hour,” Andy said and hung up.
Chapter Eighteen
It didn’t sound like much fun. Andy was the third generation to run what was still a family business. C. Lindbergh Memorials had been founded by Andy’s grandfather, Carlyle, a stone mason. Carlyle Lindbergh, had the good fortune to start his business in 1926. One year before Charles Lindbergh, ‘Lucky Lindy’ (no relation) set off on his epic flight across the Atlantic. In 1928 Carlyle cleverly added the logo of a plane rising up into the clouds.
C. Lindbergh Memorials started out carving tombstones. Andy’s father expanded the line to include wooden coffins. Andy took the operation big time, handling everything from toe tags and body bags to embalming supplies and mortuary makeup.
I was standing at the receptionist counter when Andy saw me from his office.
“Send that idiot in here,” he yelled.
“He’ll see you now, sir,” the receptionist said. She was a middle aged woman with large front teeth and broad hips that seemed out of proportion to the rest of her body. It was just after five and she stuffed two Tupperware containers into a gigantic purse, then shut down her computer and waved goodbye.
“Any surprises?” Andy said, watching me pull three stacks of applications from a briefcase and place them on his desk.
“No, like I said on the phone, very straightforward. I’ve noted any discrepancy with a Post-It-Note but it was all very minor sort of stuff.”
“Sounds like it was pretty easy on your end.”
“I still had to make the calls. Still had to call back when someone was busy. You’ve got over three hundred applications, three hundred and seven to be exact.”
“Sign of the times, God I’d like to hire dozens, they all interviewed well, but it’ll only be one or two,” he said shaking his head, then looked at his watch. “It’s after five, want a bump?”
“Maybe just one.”
Andy’s expansive office was what I guessed any CEO’s would be like, well, if you discounted the huge painting of tombstones over the couch against the far wall and the oak panels sporting various coffin handles arrayed along the window sill. I always thought it would be funny if Andy’s phone played Taps or Amazing Grace, but kept that suggestion to myself. His desk was covered with files, reports and pictures of his family. I settled into the comfortable leather chair opposite his desk and waited.
He reached around to a wood box sitting on the credenza. The thing was polished burled wood, inlaid with mother of pearl and fancy veneer designs, a gorgeous little bit of craftsmanship. There was a brass plaque on the top of the box with Andy’s name exquisitely engraved. He opened the hinged top and pulled out a bottle of Jameson, then two cut crystal glasses.
“Gee, and to think I knew you when you used to drink beer right out of the tap.”
“Nice, isn’t it? It’s one of our better sellers, gorgeous little thing.”
“You’re selling liquor cabinets now?”
“No, you kidding? It’s an urn.”
“An urn?”
“For ashes, you know, after a cremation. Holds a fifth and a couple of glasses rather nicely, don’t you think?”
“That’s your name on the thing?”
“A little industry humor,” he said, pouring.
We chatted on a bit, catching up on various guys one or the other had lost track of over time. Then I asked Andy, “You follow the news about someone stalking that English Women’s Roller Derby Team?”
Andy took a sip, looked thoughtful for half a moment.
“Just that I think they finally got the guy, didn’t they? Some idiot attacked them down at the Veteran’s Auditorium. Guess he’d followed them all across the country or something. What an absolute whack job. Where do they come from?”
“Well, that’s not exactly right. I think the incident you’re referring to was more of a misunderstanding, some poor innocent actually harangued by one of the women. I don’t think that particular situation was the stalker as much as it was one of the women flipping out and going off the deep end.”
“Going off the deep end? The story I read said some nut case started grabbing and groping those women and they eventually beat the shit out of him. Not enough if you ask me. Someone did that to one of my daughters I’d have him lined up to sample a number of our products.” He followed up with a healthy sip, then reached around for the bottle.