But David did. Or at least he wasn't convinced her comments were not boilerplate.
Madame Alice leaned back and, searching the air for words, lapsed into a monologue that included historical data on manuscript writing, cursive writing, calligraphy, Gothic writing, hieroglyphics, Spencerian writing, and what she called, English Round Hand.
David was now convinced. He thanked the lady, forked over a fifty-dollar bill, and considered asking her the cost of a palm reading or, better still, of naming Victor Spritz's whereabouts.
Halfway to Kathy's, he glanced at the persistent lights in his mirror. Well, if it isn't Kermit. Where's he been? He missed a night.
Chapter 18
Kathy's condominium complex-Hollings Hollow-was only a few blocks from police headquarters but insulated from noise and neon by beige baffling on three sides. The fourth side was an elongated cluster of shade trees. One time, David jested that if he had been awarded the contract for the baffles, he could have opened a plush Medical and Detective Bureau somewhere and never drawn a salary for life. "Baffle money" would suffice.
Her corner unit comprised one of the smallest there: kitchen, living/dining room combination, single bedroom with bath. It opened directly on an interior roadway and, to the side and rear, a one-car garage, wooden deck and intervening slice of yard occupied more space than the rooms inside. She and David liked to barbecue year-round on the deck which, attached to the kitchen, bedroom and garage, formed a secluded horseshoe. A rock ledge, half as high as the unit, ran along the driveway and garage, defining her property line on the right. More than once, he had said, "This deck right here is the Hollow, not the whole damned place." They would position chairs and a small table not an arm's length from the gas-fired grill and edge even closer in freezing weather.
That evening, he sipped on a second drink and flipped steaks while she shuttled dishes, silverware and seasonings between kitchen and table. A pie plate thermometer on the garage's cedarwood registered thirty-six degrees, and the air smelled fresh as if everything could start over. They chose not to turn on the mushroom lamps, preferring the glow of the fire and slender threads of moonlight.
David wore a burgundy flannel shirt, tan sleeveless sweater, corduroys and his black stocking cap. He forgot the scarf. Kathy was in stirrup pants and a ginger duffle coat whose fleece lining showed at the collar. They flexed and unflexed their fingers as if trying to unfuse them.
He was about to begin discussions of the Bernie/ Marsha alliance and the excursions of Victor Spritz and both Bugles when Kathy sat down and, gripping her hands together, said, "Nick wants you off the case."
He put down a spatula and said calmly, "He what?" David believed she was joshing for she, too, had consumed a generous drink, yet he looked at her as if sizing up an abstract painting and added, "Now run that by me again."
"He wants you to withdraw from the investigation." David now felt his pulse pounding in his ears but stood there, mute, waiting to hear more.
"I asked him why and he said, `What's he getting done? Nothing.'"
"`That's not fair,' I said. `Neither are we when you come right down to it. He's working full-time on the murders.'" Kathy's face turned placatory.
"Then he seemed to lose it. I was at my desk and he stomped around the office, mumbling to himself. So I just expressed what I believe: `Well, we can't stop him.' And David, he gave me such a keep-your-mouth-shut stare that I was frightened for a second."
"Oh, he did, did he? Then what happened?" David kept his lips pursed with suppressed but building fury.
"He said … said? … he almost shouted … `We can't? Well, let me tell you something: for starters, we can sure stop helping him.' Then he leaned over my desk and said, `And I can sure charge him with interfering with a criminal investigation. Do you know what that means? It means obstruction of justice. Plus, he's making us look bad.' That's when I lost it a little myself. I said something like, `And how will that make us look?' Then, he stormed out."
David pulled a chair next to hers, resisting the urge to drive his knuckles into the table. "That son-of-a-bitching carpetbagger! It wouldn't surprise me if he had something to do with the killings."
Kathy dipped her head as if peering over reading glasses. "You're kidding, of course."
David stiffened. "Kathleen, what do you definitely know about him?" He had a million questions about Nick on his mind but waited for an answer.
"Only what came through official channels. He applied for the job. They said he had good recommendations. We checked with San Diego-that I know."
"Ever see him at one of your conventions?"
"No."
"He ever talk about any of his cases?"
The questioning seemed to settle David down. He rose and checked the steaks with a knife and fork, returned to his seat and covered both Kathy's hands with one of his. "Level with me, Kath, don't you think he acts … well … weird at times? Like now?"
"I can't disagree, but I think you're jumping to conclusions."
"Then, you know, he's friggin' stupid. What's he gain by alienating me? There could be times where he might need me more than I need him."
"There's no doubt about it. And no matter what he says, don't ever think of taking yourself off the case. He'll never file a complaint because it wouldn't stand up. You're too well-liked by the rest of the department and he knows it. The only reason I mentioned his ranting and raving is because you should know where you stand with him."
David pulled his hand back. "Another thing," he said. "How come you and he get along so well?"
"That's hardly the case, believe me."
"Well, you're always defending him … "
"Oh, we've had our battles."
"Like over what?"
"You name it." Kathy got up, circled around David and put her hands on his shoulders. "It seems they always end the same way, too. I say, `Whose side are you on, anyway'?"
"What's he say?"
" `And whose side are you on'?"
"What a jerk." David twisted in his chair and, facing Kathy, said, "And, come to think about it, I can do without Sparky, if that's the help he's talking about."
"Why do without Sparky? Who says you have to deal directly with him? I'm eventually privy to anything he comes up with. And sooner if you need it. "
Kathy's revelation had reinforced David's distrust, if not suspicion, of Chief Detective Nick Medicore. For the rest of the cookout, he tried to put a tolerable spin on a stressful development, but deep down he felt like one possessed because Nick had dared to act up at a time when his own head was still churning over other problems. Once again, he ran the words CARCAN and CANCAN slowly through his mind, trying to pin down a meaning for all four syllables. The last three letters in each word are short for something, right? Maybe not. Maybe they're complete words that start a phrase. Like, for example, "Can do."
Eventually, he brought Kathy current on discoveries that had continued to baffle him.
David had eaten his steak, but never tasted it. He had watched a TV movie with Kathy, but never saw it. Later, sleep came in spells.
At six in the morning, he sprung up in bed. "That's it!" he cried.
He felt Kathy's hand on his forearm. "What's the matter?" she said. "David, what's wrong?"
"The dictionary! Of course. Where the hell have I been? Where is it, Kath?"
"In the bookcase, but can't it wait till later? What's in the dictionary, for heaven's sake?"
He stumbled into the living room, turned on a desk lamp and leafed through a Webster's New Collegiate Edition until he got to "C." A few pages along, he ran his fingers down eight columns of words starting with "can." Nothing caught his attention so he began the process again, this time more slowly. At the midway point, he passed a word, then returned to it as if he had overshot the mark: the finger equivalent of a double take. He slammed the dictionary shut and pumped his fist. The word was "canister." The silver canisters. "Yes!" he exclaimed aloud.