“You know, of course, we'll have to arrest you.”
“I know. Which is why my office phone forwarded this call to my cell. I'm on my way out of the country. Edward paid me enough to lay low for a while.”
“One hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars.” I remembered the number from the empty bank account.
“No, not nearly. Edward lived very well for the last month of his life. He spent a lot of money. And good for him—what good is a life savings if you can't have some fun with it?”
“Not much,” Herb said.
I shushed him.
“Can I assume, Lieutenant, that you've figured everything out? Found all the clues? If you know everything, I'm supposed to give you a reward. Edward has this list of questions. Are you ready?”
Not knowing what else to say, I agreed.
“Okay, question number one; how were the doors locked from the inside?”
“You removed the entire door and frame while the door was already locked. Edward, or you, used a reciprocating saw to cut around the door frame. Then one of you glued new trim to the inside of the frame. When the door was pulled back into place, the trim covered the inside cut marks. Then you nailed the frame in place from the outside, and put more trim around the edges to cover the outside cut.”
“What gave it away?”
“Sawdust on the outside matt, a receipt from the hardware store, a new electric saw in the basement, and extra trim in the closet. Plus, the door didn't open all the way.”
“Edward purposely left all the clues except that last one. The door was heavy, and I couldn't fit it back in the hole perfectly. Question number two; how did it appear Edward jumped to his death in his living room?”
“He'd been drawing his own blood for a few weeks, using the catheter in his arm, and saving it in the refrigerator in mason jars. Then he used a turkey baster to fill a super soaker squirt gun with his blood, and sprayed the living room. I assume he read enough mysteries to know how to mimic blood spatters. He even faked the bounce that happens when a jumper hits.”
“Excellent. How did the carpet fibers get on the body?”
“He visited Charlie's Bungee Jumping Emporium in Palatine and did a swan dive onto a pile of carpet remainders. We found carpet padding in the basement, but no remainders, and usually the installers give you all the extra pieces. A clue by omission.”
“Very good. Question number three; where did the gunshots come from?”
“The stereo upstairs. That was also a new purchase. The stereo faced the window, so you must have hit the PLAY button from the street, using the remote.”
“I did. The remote is in a garbage can next to the payphone I called from, if anyone wants it back. Did you find anything else interesting?”
I explained the suicide note, the Clue game, and the puzzle magazines.
“How about the Swedish Fish candy?” he asked.
“We have no idea what that means.”
“That was Edward's favorite clue. I'd tell you, but I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. Anyway, there's a surprise for you in John Dickson Carr's book The Three Coffins. Don't bother calling me back—I'm throwing away this phone as soon as I hang up. Good-bye, Lieutenant.”
And he was gone.
We found the Carr book without difficulty. In the pages were a folded cashier's check, and another flash card. We played the card on Herb's computer.
Edward Wyatt, standing atop a large bungee platform, smiled at the camera, winked, and said, “Congratulations on figuring it out. In order to make absolutely, positively sure that there's no doubt I'm doing this of my own free will, without assistance or coercion, I give you this proof.”
He jumped. The camera followed him down onto a pile of beige carpet remainders. I winced when he bounced.
“So that's it?” Herb whined. “We spend our entire afternoon, without any food, on a plain, old suicide?”
“I don't think this one qualifies as plain or old. Plus, a twenty grand check for the KITLOD Fund is a nice return for our time.”
“I think I'd rather be killed in the line of duty than forced to go through one of these again. And he didn't tell you the reason for the Swedish Fish?”
“No. It doesn't seem to fit at all. Almost as if...” I began to laugh.
“What's funny?”
“Don't you get it? Wyatt planted a box of little red candy fish, knowing it would confuse us. It was meant to throw us off the trail.”
“I still don't get it.”
“You need to read more mysteries, Herb.”
“So, you're not going to tell me?”
“You'll figure it out. Now let's go grab that Chinese food.” I smiled, pleased with myself. “Preferably a place that sells herring.”
Epitaph
I've been a longtime David Morrell fan, so when he co-founded the International Thriller Writers organization and asked me to join, I complied even though I'm not much of a joiner. I'm glad I did, because they published an anthology called Thriller, edited by James Patterson, and I won a wild card spot among the many bestselling authors in the collection. This story was later nominated for a British Dagger award, but what excited me most was to share the covers with F. Paul Wilson's Repairman Jack, Phin's literary ancestor.
There's an art to getting your ass kicked.
Guys on either side held my arms, stretching me out crucifixion-style. The joker who worked me over swung wildly, without planting his feet or putting his body into it. He spent most of his energy swearing and screaming when he should have been focusing on inflicting maximum damage.
Amateur.
Not that I was complaining. What he lacked in professionalism, he made up for in mean.
He moved in and rabbit-punched me in the side. I flexed my abs and tried to shift to take the blow in the center of my stomach, rather than the more vulnerable kidneys.
I exhaled hard when his fist landed. Saw stars.
He stepped away to pop me in the face. Rather than tense up, I relaxed, trying to absorb the contact by letting my neck snap back.
It still hurt like hell.
I tasted blood, wasn't sure if it came from my nose or my mouth. Probably both. My left eye had already swollen shut.
“Hijo calvo de una perra!”
You bald son of a bitch. Real original. His breath was ragged now, shoulders slumping, face glowing with sweat.
Gang-bangers these days aren't in very good shape. I blame TV and junk food.
One final punch—a half-hearted smack to my broken nose—and then I was released.
I collapsed face-first in a puddle that smelled like urine. The three Latin Kings each took the time to spit on me. Then they strolled out of the alley, laughing and giving each other high-fives.
When they got a good distance away, I crawled over to a Dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. The alley was dark, quiet. I felt something scurry over my foot.
Rats, licking up my dripping blood.
Nice neighborhood.
I hurt a lot, but pain and I were old acquaintances. I took a deep breath, let it out slow, did some poking and prodding. Nothing seemed seriously damaged.
I'd been lucky.
I spat. The bloody saliva clung to my swollen lower lip and dribbled onto my T-shirt. I tried a few steps forward, managed to keep my balance, and continued to walk out of the alley, onto the sidewalk, and to the corner bus stop.
I sat.
The Kings took my wallet, which had no ID or credit cards, but did have a few hundred in cash. I kept an emergency fiver in my shoe. The bus arrived, and the portly driver raised an eyebrow at my appearance.
“Do you need a doctor, buddy?”
“I've got plenty of doctors.”
He shrugged and took my money.
On the ride back, my fellow passengers made heroic efforts to avoid looking at me. I leaned forward, so the blood pooled between my feet rather than stained my clothing any further. These were my good jeans.