The Drowning Pool Page 18

  Rita blushed. “Well, of course, Professor Bernard.”

  And that was that. Kim doubted many women could resist him. Don had a way with women, even ones like Rita Mosler. Women just naturally found Don attractive. Every time they were together, some female or other would try to flirt with him, students or even other professors. He had a charismatic aura and a clever way with words.

  The restaurant Don chose was lovely, with large pots of colorful flowers arranged around the cobblestones that graced the outside and vivid seascapes decorating the interior. He selected a table near the windows so they could look out on the busy street.

  They talked about the concert they’d attended together at the state theatre.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” Don said, taking her hand across the table. “The truth is, I would like to spend a lot more time with you. I know you enjoy cultural events just as I do.” When she didn’t immediately answer, he continued. “I’ll be doing a symposium on Renaissance poetry this fall. Perhaps you’ll come?”

  “Of course, I will.”

  His smile widened. “Good, that means at least I can count on one person attending.”

  She realized the statement was disingenuous. “Don, you know very well all those female college students pant after you. You can fill an auditorium by snapping your fingers. You’re so persuasive you could convince a vegan to eat steak.”

  He laughed. “I don’t know any such thing.” Then he playfully kissed her fingertips.

  When she withdrew her hand, he merely smiled.

  “There is written her fair neck round about:

  ‘Noli me tangere,’ (Don’t touch me), for Caesar’s I am;

  And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.”

  Kim thought for a moment. She recognized the poem. “Sir Thomas Wyatt I believe. ‘Caesar’ is a reference to King Henry VIII while the doe is Anne Boleyn.”

  Don nodded his head in approval. “I was certain you would know it.”

  “I disagree with your analogy. I don’t belong to anyone but myself,” Kim asserted.

  Don arched an aristocratic brow. “Not to that police detective?”

  “I do care about him,” she said carefully.

  “I want you to care about me,” Don told her.

  “You are a very good friend. I value our friendship.”

  “I know how to be patient,” he told her, caressing her cheek, his voice mellifluous. “‘When I all weary had the chase forsook,/The gentle deer returned the selfsame way,/Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook./’There she, beholding me with milder look,/Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide./Till I in hand her yet half trembling took./And with her own good will her firmly tied./Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild/So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.’”

  No one recited poetry the way Don Bernard did. He had a Shakespearean actor’s voice, smoothly cultured and seductive. “That’s how I see it with us, my dear. I have no doubt. Patience will win out in the end.” He squeezed her hand.

  “You really know Tudor poetry.”

  “It might surprise you just what I do know.” There was a sensual suggestion to his statement.

  Kim removed her hand from his and took a sip of cold water. The restaurant suddenly seemed overly warm.

  “So how did you spend your vacation?” He obviously sensed she wanted to change the topic.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t do very much. Mike briefly involved me in one of his homicide investigations. It was fascinating.”

  Don’s eyes widened in alarm. “He shouldn’t have done that. The kind of work he does is far too dangerous.”

  “He was just asking questions. No weapons were drawn.”

  Don’s fine, handsome features continued to show concern. “Kim, I know how obsessed you became last fall trying to discover who killed Lorette Campbell, but that was an aberration. And it nearly cost you your own life. You’re not the sort of woman who should be involved in such matters. Perhaps you’ll consider it jealousy on the part of a rival for your affections, but I don’t think Lieutenant Gardner is someone you should continue seeing.”

  “Let’s not talk about that anymore,” she said in a firm voice. Kim tried to sound confident, but her feelings were ambivalent.

  * * * *

  They were driving back to April Nevins’ street and not the least bit happy about it.

  “Ever feel we’re getting into a rut with this case? If I were truly psychic, I’d probably be discussing déjà vu,” Gardner said lightly, trying to cheer his partner’s gloomy mood, although he felt every bit as despondent as Bert.

  “If you were psychic, we’d have found Sonny before anything bad happened to him.”

  Unfortunately, he had to agree with Bert about that. After parking the car, they made their way through the brambles and fir trees. The two patrolmen who caught the call stood in a slight clearing that appeared to overlook a jagged ravine.

  “We located your man, Lieutenant. Male, Caucasian, six feet one, two hundred pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, late teens.”

  “And you knew right away it was Sonny Blake?” Bert asked.

  The older patrolman shrugged. “The wallet was on him with I.D. and a paycheck. Whoever nailed him wasn’t a robber.”

  “Where is he?” Gardner asked.

  One of the patrolmen pointed downward to the bottom of the ravine. “Some woman called it in. Her sons were playing over here and saw the body.”

  Bert took the lead and Gardner followed her down. It was Sonny all right; there wasn’t any doubt. He felt a deep sense of regret, of wasted potential, as he looked at the twisted lifeless thing before him. Bert knelt down to examine Sonny’s remains.

  “Neck’s broken. Quite a fall he took.”

  “I don’t see the kind of bruises that would indicate he was in a fight.”

  “No, nothing like that. But he’s been down here a couple of days. No doubt about that.” It was clear that Bert had seen her share of homicides.

  It was a lot harder walking up, but he managed it, negotiating the brambles with caution. He began looking around for indications that a struggle had taken place here; there weren’t any.

  “Looks like an accident to me,” the younger patrolman said, voicing his opinion with the certainty of unquestioning self-assurance.

  “Yeah, usually when they’re pushed, there’s signs of a fight,” agreed the second uniform.

  “Unless the victim doesn’t suspect the other person. It’s not too difficult to push someone off a cliff if it’s unexpected, even when it’s a male that size. A woman could manage it as long as there was the element of surprise. She wouldn’t even need great strength.” Gardner realized that he was thinking out loud.

  Bert exchanged a long look with him. “It could be any of them.” She seemed lost in some sort of disturbing pattern of thought, electric eyes moving restlessly back and forth. “Weird, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Louise Scofield accidentally falls down a flight of stairs. Sonny Blake accidentally drops off a cliff.”

  “So what are you saying? Scofield is our murderer?”

  Bert shrugged. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “You think Scofield wasn’t satisfied with killing Bradshaw. He suspected his wife was involved with Sonny, so he killed him as well?”

  “Don’t poke fun at my ideas.” She was clearly beyond annoyed. Gardner forgot sometimes how sensitive she was. “You tell me what does make sense? Even if it was April who killed Bradshaw the way Sonny must have thought, he’d already told us about her. She had no reason to kill him.”

  “There could have been more to it. He might have had a lot more to tell us.”

  “About April?”

  “Or someone else. Who knows?”

  “I don’t think that dumb kid knew who murdered Bradshaw any more than we do,” Bert said.

  “We’ll never know for sure now,” Gardner said. “But don’t forg
et, the kid was on duty the evening of Bradshaw’s death. He might have seen or heard something that didn’t strike him as important but would give the murderer away.”

  “We can forget about finding out any of that now,” Bert said glumly.

  “There could be a way—if we were able to recreate the events of that evening. Maybe we could put it all together.” Gardner was thoughtful.

  “I don’t think it would work,” Bert said skeptically.

  “Ever read about group encounter sessions?”

  “A little. What’s that got to do with this case?”

  “I have a feeling our suspects would very much like to get us off their backs. They might be in a mood to cooperate. Ever see one of those sessions in action?”

  “Never.”

  “Too bad, neither have I. But I think we can handle it. As I understand it, the group turns on its individual members during the course of discussion. Each person is forced to face the truth about him or herself. The group can be very supportive but it also can be merciless. It’s a truth hunt with nowhere to hide.”

  Bert still looked dubious. “Sounds more like a witch hunt. I don’t like it. I think you’re taking your nickname around headquarters too literally. No one should play the part of a psychologist unless he’s qualified.”

  “In my own way, I am qualified. Besides, I’m not out to destroy these people. I only want to find Bradshaw’s killer. Our suspects haven’t faced each other. If anyone is lying, and we have to assume someone is, it’s bound to show up through direct confrontation. There doesn’t even have to be anything specific. It could be just a facial expression or vocal inflection that tips us.”

  “It’s not standard police procedure,” Bert objected. “We could lose control of the situation. Anything could happen. It’s like throwing them into a pressure cooker. Turn up the heat and there’s bound to be an explosion.”

  “Since when are you behaving like a regulation issue police detective? And who was the Machiavellian who told me it’s results that count?”

  She conceded the point moodily. “Who’s going to tell Mrs. Blake that Sonny’s dead?” Bert asked.

  Gardner could see it was something his partner would rather not do. He also knew that talking to Mrs. Blake was not going to be easy. He anticipated a miserable scene with hysterical tears and anguished accusations. At least he could spare Bert that. “I’ll do it myself later this evening. But first, we’ve got to get back to headquarters and issue personal invitations for our little splash party tomorrow evening. A tribute to Richard Bradshaw, you might say, kind of like a wake, only without the kind words and Irish whiskey.”

  “Bradshaw seems to have touched all of them in some way,” Bert observed.

  “More like contaminated them.”

  Several people had gathered to watch with the usual curiosity and sick fascination that mortal beings have for scenes of accidents and deaths. The crowd grew in size as police pictures were taken of Sonny Blake’s body, and crime technicians searched the brush for evidence. An ambulance came for Sonny, and the two patrolmen climbed down the ravine to help the paramedics bring up the body. An assistant county medical examiner peered through thick, black-framed eyeglasses as he gave the ambulance workers authoritative directions for removal of the body after a cursory examination.

  The waste of human life disturbed Gardner deeply. As a policeman, he knew something that the average citizen was spared—the agony suffered by the victims of crime and their families. It was an ugly, unpleasant knowledge he did not dwell upon. But he knew his job involved an obligation to the victims. They came in all sexes, ages, races and religions. Crime, like sickness and death, was egalitarian.

  He guessed the do-gooders were right when they declared that criminals were also victims, but was that supposed to wipe out personal responsibility? He never accepted the notion that criminals were mere victims of bad environment. One killer had even blamed a murder he’d committed on “lousy luck.” Gardner wouldn’t buy that. People were always looking for cop-outs: do what you want then give excuses when you get caught. Blame everyone and everything. Killers never took personal responsibility for their own actions. He might not have liked Bradshaw as a person, but his own duty was clear: Bradshaw’s killer must be found. And now there was Sonny’s death as well, clearly connected. He owed the boy something.

  * * * *

  Back at headquarters, Gardner phoned the hospital first to find out if Mrs. Scofield had been released and learned that she would be allowed to leave the hospital on the following morning.

  “Wish we didn’t have to bother her,” Bert said.

  “She’s part of it,” Gardner responded.

  Bert shook her head in a gesture of denial. “I don’t think she killed Bradshaw, and she couldn’t have murdered Sonny.”

  * * * *

  They divided up the calls between them. Everyone was at home except for April Nevins, and Bert located her at the Galaxy Lounge. As they finished, Captain Nash came toward Gardner.

  “You and Croix in my office now. Someone wants to talk to you.” The Captain looked tense and irritable, making Gardner suspect that they were on his shit list again.

  “Mr. Page, this is Lieutenant Gardner. He’s in charge of the Bradshaw case.”

  Gardner considered Page thoughtfully. The land developer had the look of a shrewd businessman. He was middle-aged, average-looking, with olive skin, brown eyes and black hair, oily enough to skid on. He wore a blue summer suit that looked conservative but expensive. Gardner judged his height to be about five foot seven, maybe even shorter since he was obviously wearing lifts in his shoes. Page looked in good physical condition, not the kind of man who was content to sit still behind a desk for very long, but no one would have guessed from his appearance alone that he was the richest and most influential person living in Webster Township.

  “Mr. Page would like to know, Mike, how we’re coming along with the investigation on the Bradshaw case. He’s here to get a first-hand report. I’ll just let you talk.” Nash hastily left them alone, shutting his office door behind him.

  Gardner realized that he’d been put on the defensive, but he wasn’t about to respond too quickly. He intended to turn the situation around if he could. Sure enough, when Gardner made no effort to speak and sat simply staring at Page, the builder became uneasy and started squirming in his chair.

  “What’s going on with this Bradshaw investigation?” he demanded finally, his voice like gravel.

  “Nothing much to tell at the moment. We will be allowing the club to reopen day after tomorrow.” He assumed that’s what the builder was most concerned about. He had no intention of telling Page anything relevant to the case.

  “About time the place reopened,” Page grumbled in a raspy voice. “This damned murder happened on my property. It makes me look bad. I got a right to be informed of what you’re doing to solve the crime.”

  “The homicide is getting our full and careful attention.” Gardner’s tone was placating. “We just don’t have anything to report right at this moment.”

  “Does that mean the murder will go unsolved?”

  Was it possible? Gardner thought he detected a certain degree of guarded hopefulness in Page’s question; it puzzled him. He studied Page speculatively. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. We have some very strong leads. It’s just that we can’t talk about them as yet. You can appreciate that, I’m sure.”

  Page fidgeted noticeably. “Listen,” the builder said in a voice that was suddenly almost a whisper. “I know what you guys make a year. This case is important to me. I’ll give you a nice healthy early Christmas bonus if you report back to me personally on what you find out. Just give me a rundown on everything you uncover.”

  “As it happens, I don’t spend a lot on Christmas,” Gardner said, “so I won’t be needing your money.”

  “Hey, everybody cuts himself a piece of the pie when it’s offered. You wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.”


  “I’m on a diet. I’m definitely off pie.”

  “Wise ass, huh? Well, you’ll be sorry. I’ll have a word with your superiors.”

  “Then I’d be forced to go public with the fact that you tried to bribe a public servant.”

  “Make it ten large apiece. How’s that for an offer?”

  Gardner exchanged a meaningful look with Bert then shook his head adamantly.

  “I get it—you thieves want me to up the offer!”

  “Up yours,” Bert responded with an appropriate gesture. “Put your offer where the sun don’t shine.”

  Page rose to his feet, his face drained of color.

  “Just take it easy,” Gardner said. “Detective St. Croix may lack subtlety, but she is correct in implying that your offer does not interest us.”

  Bert stood over the man, looming ominously. “You weren’t getting the message.”

  “We’ll be gathering together all the people who were involved with Mr. Bradshaw. It’s scheduled for tomorrow evening at the swim club. Maybe you would like to join us? Then you could get your information first-hand. And it won’t cost you a dime.”

  Page curtly refused and abruptly left the office. Gardner glanced at his partner. He could tell by the questioning expression on Bert’s face that she was having similar suspicions regarding Page. The builder’s concern seemed to go far beyond business. There was nothing to directly connect Page to the case. Still, Gardner was left with nagging doubts, wondering if he could have maneuvered Page into coming to the pool club the next evening had he been a little more clever.

  “What he’s so afraid of?” Bert mirrored his own thoughts.

  “Does make a person wonder,” Gardner agreed.

  FOURTEEN

  Kim had just arrived home when her telephone rang in the apartment.

  “How was your first day back?” Mike asked. She’d know that deep baritone voice anywhere. It always served to send a rush of excitement through her.

  “It was fine.”

  “You see Bernard?”