The Drowning Pool Page 10

  Bert was waiting in the squad room when he returned. “Anything new?” she asked.

  “Nothing that helps our investigation. How would you feel about phoning the Baincroft Richardson ad agency in Manhattan? Leave a message. We might find out why Scofield left his job there. Being the possessive husband he is, I would’ve thought he’d want to continue working as close to his wife as possible.”

  “Great minds think alike, or so they say. I already checked on it and found out something interesting. Scofield didn’t quit his job. He was axed. Seems he got into a violent quarrel with a co-worker, a guy who he claimed was trying to hit on his wife. Scofield punched the dude right in the face there in the office. His boss asked him to resign.” Her eyes were thoughtful, two candles reflecting darkly in a mirror. “This Scofield fits a classic pattern.”

  “Think so?”

  “Sure. You still consider Scofield a suspect, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t crossed him off our list.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. “He has a definite motive.”

  “Mainly, there are three motives for murder: love, hate, and greed.” He counted them off on his fingers as he spoke.

  “What about insanity?”

  “Not a motive but certainly a cause,” Gardner observed. “You think Scofield might be insane?”

  “He’s not too tightly wrapped. A few slices short of a loaf. But I’d definitely classify his motive as love. Oh, incidentally, I asked that our inquiry be kept in the strictest confidence.”

  “I agree. It’s best Mrs. Scofield doesn’t find out. She’s got enough on her mind without worrying about that. And it’s also better if Scofield doesn’t know we’re checking on him. We can get more from a suspect if he’s off-guard.”

  In their mutual concern for Mrs. Scofield’s welfare and suspicion of Mr. Scofield as a murder suspect, he and Bert seemed to have struck some sense of solidarity and mutual accord.

  Gardner was just finishing his reports for the night when the telephone rang at ten p.m., jarring him out of his thoughts. He quickly lifted the receiver and identified himself.

  “I need your help!” It was a woman’s voice, shrill, nervous.

  “Miss Nevins?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Sonny’s here where I work. He’s stinking drunk and causing trouble. He came in that way,” she quickly added, probably afraid Gardner might think she’d been serving liquor to a minor in a public place. “He keeps saying crazy things. I’m afraid if someone doesn’t get him out of here soon, I’ll lose my job.”

  “Where are you?”

  “It’s the Galaxy Lounge on Route 9. Know it?”

  “Right. We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

  Bert was eager to be on the move. Gardner was pensive as they drove along the highway. The Galaxy Lounge was a relatively new establishment in the area but already had something of a reputation for a pick-up joint. The locals or townies never went there—too new and fancy for their tastes. The townies liked their watering holes old and disreputable-looking. Their favorite place was Slater’s, a tumbledown tavern with a huge sign that read “Female Dancers” in bold red letters. Every cop in town had been called on at least once to break up a fight at Slater’s. The Galaxy was entirely different. It was strictly a hang-out for the emigrant New Yorkers who inhabited the luxury condos, garden apartments and housing development complexes, and as such, boasted a classy veneer.

  The original residents of the area resented the presence of the city people, resented the term bedroom community, which had been tagged on to their township in recent years. They themselves refused to buy any of the new dwellings or rent the new apartments. Those who sold their farmland were looked down upon with scorn and referred to as “traitors” by the others. The locals were proud of the old sections of Webster where white frame, clapboard houses of another era stood on parcels of land that were still farmed. Many of the locals could trace their origins back before the Revolution.

  Gardner was not unsympathetic to these people, although he was certainly not one of them. He understood their point of view. His own home was between the largest of the housing developments and the old section, actually set off from both. His simple, modern dwelling was a real source of pride. Gardening or mowing in the large yard gave him a feeling of tranquility, no matter how hard a day he’d spent on the job.

  He looked over at Bert and wondered how many of life’s small satisfactions had been denied to her. “We’re off-duty tomorrow. Why don’t you come over to my house? The girls and I usually barbecue outdoors in the summer on weekends. It’s pretty informal, but there’s always plenty of food and we’d enjoy your company. Come around lunchtime”

  “Aren’t you a little sick of my face?”

  “Not yet.”

  She refused at first, but Gardner was insistent. By the time they pulled into the parking lot of the Galaxy, the invitation had been tentatively accepted.

  The inside of the cocktail lounge was very dark, walls black and tablecloths blood red. Tapered red candles were at each table, but only the bar itself was crowded. Soft music was being piped in from somewhere. The only unusual thing was the ceiling: some aspiring Michelangelo had painted the universe there. It was hardly the Sistine Chapel, but Gardner had to admit the artwork made the place stand out from most run-of-the-mill gin joints.

  A number of single men and women were socializing at the bar. Gardner hadn’t forgotten the murder he’d investigated here last year. A woman had been picked up here, never to be seen again. They’d found her raped and mutilated body in a drainage ditch, but the murderer was never caught. The victim left behind a small daughter and a grief-stricken mother. He’d always felt badly about being unable to solve that homicide. In his mind, it remained open and would until he finally did solve it, no matter how long that might take.

  April Nevins had apparently been watching for them. She came toward them almost as soon as they entered and quickly signaled the sequined hostess not to bother trying to seat them. April’s blond highlighted hair was pulled back from her face and neatly parted down the middle. Yet her costume was anything but prim. A black velvet micro skirt barely brushed the tops of her thighs. Her white satin blouse, cut very low, loosely covered her well-endowed breasts and emphasized her bronzed cleavage.

  “He’s in the back. I didn’t serve him anything. Like I told you, he was totally polluted before he got here.” She walked ahead of them with a brisk step; her voice trailed back in a breathy whisper. Gardner realized it was the first time he’d heard her make an attempt to speak softly.

  “Why did he get drunk?” Bert asked.

  “We had a quarrel this evening before I left for work. I wish you’d let them re-open the pool so he wouldn’t come around so much. You’re causing me trouble.”

  “What did you quarrel about,” Gardner asked, ignoring her comment.

  “Rick’s death.”

  “What aspect of it?”

  “What difference does that make?” Her voice was shrill again. “Just get him out of here.” She walked away as soon as they were in view of Sonny. The boy was holding his head between his hands. His pale blue eyes were glazed over. It was obvious he was not used to drinking.

  “Come on, we’ll take you home,” Gardner said.

  “I’m not going nowhere. Go away!”

  “Get on your feet,” Gardner said in a quiet but firm voice. He took the boy by the arm, but Sonny thrust him off with a strong heave. Bert pulled the youth out of his chair, pressing his arms together. Sonny broke free and tried to take a swing at her. Bert was quick. Before Gardner could even step in, she’d handled the situation. Ducking the punch that came at her, she moved into Sonny with a stiff karate blow to the gut. The kid groaned and sat down heavily on the floor.

  “Get up,” Bert demanded in a tight voice. “We’ll help you walk. Any more trouble and we’ll have to cuff and arrest you.” She positioned S
onny between Gardner and herself. The boy, no longer protesting, leaned on Gardner for support.

  April Nevins watched at a discreet distance, but as they marched the boy out, he caught sight of her. “It’s all your fault,” Sonny yelled back at her as they guided him toward the door. She turned on her stiletto heels and clicked away.

  Once they were outside, Sonny quieted down. They seated him in the back of the car, and Bert positioned herself beside Sonny.

  “Where do you live, kid?” she asked. Bert had to ask a second time before Sonny answered in broken, near incoherent syllables.

  Gardner knew the street and took a sharp turn on to Jake Blackwell Road to head toward the old section of town. He didn’t need to use the GPS.

  “Why did you get drunk?” Gardner asked, keeping his eyes on the road to look for street signs.

  “’Cause of her. I tol’ her I want them back. She says she don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.” Sonny’s voice trailed off.

  “What did you ask her to return?”

  Sonny didn’t seem to hear him. “Called her a liar. She got mad, real mad. Said I was good for only one thing. She said never to come back. After all I done for her.”

  “What was it you did for her?” Gardner got no response.

  Bert smacked both of Sonny’s cheeks. “What was it, kid?” Her voice was harsh and demanding.

  “I got him in the water. For her. Pull over, I’m sick. Gotta barf. Come on, pull over for Christ’s sake!”

  Gardner drove off the road and pulled the car over on the shoulder. Sonny staggered out and pushed his way through brambles and briars into the woods.

  “Think he killed Bradshaw for the Nevins woman?” Bert asked.

  “Maybe, but a confession now isn’t worth much. He’s too drunk. Even if we read him his Miranda, it wouldn’t stand up.”

  “Advise him anyway,” Bert urged.

  “I suppose we ought to get him to talk regardless, hear whatever he’s got to offer. If it sounds like the real thing, we can pick him up for further questioning tomorrow morning.”

  They waited a few extra minutes. It started to drizzle and Bert walked impatiently up and down the side of the road. “That’s it. He’s had long enough.” Just as Gardner went to get him, Sonny reappeared.

  “Gotta go home. Lie down. So sick.”

  He staggered toward them and they got him back into the car. Sonny smelled foul, so foul that Gardner’s own stomach became queasy. He quickly opened the car windows in spite of the fact that the drizzle was fast becoming a downpour. He did not immediately switch on the ignition.

  “Before we take you home, I want you to tell us everything you did for April.”

  “Don’t remember.” Sonny’s speech was slurred, but he still had a certain amount of control. “Please, home.”

  “Come on, kid. What did you do for her?” Bert insisted. “Tell us and we’ll take you home.”

  “There was blood.” The boy didn’t say anything else and Bert shook him.

  “Who killed Bradshaw? Did April Nevins? Did you do it for her?”

  “So sick. Gotta go home…” Sonny passed out.

  “We’ll get him in tomorrow. Guess he’s more involved in the murder than we thought.”

  “Than you thought,” Bert said.

  “He’s a material witness, at any rate. He obviously saw the body in the utility room after Bradshaw was dead.”

  “I say he’s an accomplice. It was Sonny who moved the body to the pool. Seems he did it for April Nevins. Maybe you were right after all, and a woman did murder Bradshaw.”

  “It’s a real possibility,” Gardner agreed. “But we will need to interrogate Miss Nevins again.”

  “Looks like one of us is going to work tomorrow. There’s no sense both of us coming in on our day off. I’ll pick up Sonny tomorrow morning and bring him down to headquarters.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” Gardner said.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me, a woman of color, to handle this alone? You figure only a white male cop can do it right?”

  “Cut the crap!” Gardner swung the car back into traffic and drove steadily down the dimly lit highway doing his best not to lose his temper.

  “All right, then why should we both be cheated? I don’t have any family. Nobody cares if I work or don’t. Besides, having a day off means a lot less to me than it does to you. And if I need you, I can always reach you at home.”

  “All right, on one condition.”

  “Which is?” She eyed him askance.

  “You make it to my house later for the barbecue.”

  Then Bert did something that really surprised him—she smiled, completely transforming the belligerent expression on her face to one of amity. Had he ever seen her smile before? He didn’t think so.

  Gardner stopped the car in front of the address Sonny had given them. Then he got out and came around the other side to give Bert a hand with the unconscious youth.

  “Damned kid’s heavier than an elephant and smells worse than moldy cheese. Be glad to dump him,” she said.

  Slowly, they struggled up the stairs to a poorly lit front porch. Gardner noticed in passing that the old Victorian style house badly needed a fresh coat of paint. He rang the doorbell and they waited. A middle-aged woman with puffy bags under her eyes answered the door. She saw Sonny and gasped.

  “What’s wrong with my boy?”

  They brought him into the house and deposited the boy on a well-worn sofa.

  “Just too much to drink,” Gardner reassured her. “He’ll be fine in the morning except for a headache.”

  Sonny’s mother wrung her hands anxiously. Gardner studied her. Sonny had inherited his blond hair from his mother, although hers was paler, substantially invaded by white so that the original color had faded. She was tall, had washed-out blue eyes and was thin to the point of emaciation. Her checked cotton housedress hung listlessly from her frame. Everything about her suggested yesterday.

  “Was he with that horrible city woman again? I know he’s been keeping fast company. A whore has corrupted him with her evil ways, forced a young, innocent boy like that to drink and fornicate.” The woman’s face became unnaturally flushed. “That harlot will burn in the fires of hell. Don’t think she won’t! And just who are you?”

  “Police officers, ma’am,” Gardner responded courteously. He showed her his shield.

  “Did Sonny get into some kind of trouble tonight? If he did, it was her fault.”

  Gardner ducked the question. “Detective St. Croix will be back here to talk with your son tomorrow morning. Please see that Sonny remains here and waits for her.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said in an alarmed voice.

  “Nothing to be upset about,” Gardner said. “But there are some questions Sonny has to answer related to the Bradshaw homicide at the pool club. You heard about it?”

  She patted down her short, thin hair. He recognized it as a nervous gesture.

  “Sonny told me about the murder, and there was also an account in the newspaper. Well, I suppose I should thank you for bringing my son home.” But the woman didn’t appear grateful; if anything, she looked frightened.

  As they left, Gardner had a premonition that Bert would not have an easy time tomorrow, and it worried him. Yet he realized there really wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  NINE

  Mike Gardner yawned and relaxed after having spent the morning marketing with the girls and doing a few needed home repairs. The sun warmed his back and he felt like a lizard resting on a rock. His nose told him it was time to inspect the barbecue. Reluctantly, he lifted himself off the chaise and walked the few steps from the grass to the well-shaded patio. The charcoal was finally turning white, and there was no longer any flame. This was the kind of even heat he considered perfect for cooking. Although the coals looked deceptively ash-like, in reality, the hibachi was experiencing its greatest intensity of heat at this time. Everyone raved at the
perfection of his barbecuing skill, but he knew himself to be no great chef; it was all a matter of patience and subtlety. With care, he arranged steaks and burgers on the grill, setting hot dogs aside for later use.

  “Hey, Dad!”

  Gardner looked up as his younger daughter, Jean, splashed him. She was with her two cousins, Mark, nine, and Jerry, twelve; the three got along well together. They were still young enough to enjoy the above-ground pool he put up some years ago, which was in reality little more than an over-sized bathtub. He found himself thinking idly of the beautiful pool at La Reine Gardens with its magnificent Olympic size. He let out a deep sigh. Swimming was a sport he enjoyed but had little time to indulge in.

  “Dad, give me a hand with these.” Evie, as usual, was carrying too many things at once. She tried so hard to act like a grown-up that it made his heart hurt.

  He relieved her of some items and helped set down buns, potato salad, pickles, relish, ketchup and mustard on the long, redwood picnic table.

  “I put up corn and I’m fixing vegetable salad. You want beer as well as soda?”

  “Bert might want it. I’m not certain of her tastes.”

  “You’re sure she’s coming?”

  “No, but she hasn’t phoned, so I guess she’ll be by.”

  “What’s she like?” Evie tilted her head.

  Gardner shrugged. “Different from anyone else I’ve ever worked with, but she’s a pro. Why should I say anything? You can make up your own mind—you always do anyway.”

  Evie eyed him narrowly, putting her hands on her slim hips. “Is anything wrong with her? She’s not chasing after you, is she? I bet Kim wouldn’t like that.”

  He laughed and gave his daughter a reassuring hug. “Nope. Bert’s only got to the point of tolerating me. Try to be friendly and avoid snarling. Bert’s the sensitive type, although she doesn’t look or act it.”