Ricochet Page 7

  He wished it were further away.

  So he could work out what to say.

  EIGHT

  It was obvious things were bad, because Kate asked Liz to meet her in the Sundae Shoppe. This was an old-fashioned ice-cream parlour they normally tried very hard to stay away from. It had been at least three weeks since they had last succumbed to its siren call. When Liz arrived, Kate was in a booth with the remaining half of a banana split for company. Feeling strength was called for in the face of adversity, Liz ordered a simple milkshake. ‘Well?’

  ‘He called again.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Kate was near tears.

  ‘Yes you do. Call the phone company. Tell Jack.’

  ‘I can’t. If I call the phone company it will be in the public domain, they will come to the office and do things to the phones. Everybody will want to know why.’

  ‘And if you tell Jack?’

  ‘I can’t tell Jack. He’s all caught up in the Mayhew murder case – you know how he is. I’d only be an annoyance.’

  ‘And you’re afraid to tell him.’

  ‘Yes. Things haven’t been exactly perfect between us lately.’

  ‘I think you underestimate him,’ Liz said, leaning back as the waitress placed the milkshake in front of her, along with a glass of iced water.

  ‘I know you’re right. I’m just so ashamed of being so stupid.’

  ‘Well, it was only the one cheque, right?’ Silence. ‘Kate?’

  ‘Two,’ Kate said in a low voice. ‘I also advanced him fifty dollars for books.’

  ‘Oh, Kate. You . . .’ Liz was momentarily lost for words.

  ‘I think the apt word is idiot,’ Kate said. ‘But he showed such promise

  ‘Yes – for fiction, obviously,’ Liz snapped. She, like Jack, hadn’t liked Michael Deeds either. Too handsome, too arrogant, too ready to accept any favour as his due. Liz hadn’t known what had got into Kate that time, even when Kate showed her the boy’s work. Liz could see he was talented. But to her that excused nothing.

  ‘I brought in a tape recorder and recorded his call,’ Kate said, showing a little spirit.

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Kate was miserable. ‘Evidence?’

  ‘You plan to take him to court?’

  Kate sighed. ‘Obviously not.’ She looked down at the little voice-activated tape recorder beside her on the bench. It was one she had got as an experiment to take notes, but she had been unable to stand the sound of her own voice on it. ‘I guess I wanted you to know how awful he sounded. The things he said.’

  Liz leaned forward and touched Kate’s wrist. ‘Kate, I believe you. I know he is a bastard and that you aren’t guilty of anything except being naïve and rather stupid.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘Well, sorry, but it’s true.’ Liz had a practical and organized mind, and did not much care for prevarication. To her the right thing was the straightforward thing, but Kate was her oldest and dearest friend, and she knew how upset she was. ‘Did he have anything new to offer?’ she asked, sipping her milkshake.

  ‘No. Just the same stuff about how much of a slut I am and how he was going to tell the Dean and that I had to stop poaching students. He’s very angry about that. I don’t know what he’s talking about. It’s not as if I go out into the street and drag students into the building and sign them up.’

  ‘No, but it obviously bothers him. What about dear little Michael. Did you poach him?’

  ‘Not really. It was his own idea. I just told him he had real writing talent and that . . .’

  ‘That he might be happier as an English major?’

  Kate hung her head. ‘Yeah.’ She looked up again. ‘But my creepy caller keeps saying students, plural, not singular.’

  ‘And what was Michael before he transferred?’

  ‘I honestly don’t remember. Maths? Physics? Something like that.’

  ‘I think it’s time to consult the oracle,’ Liz said.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The departmental secretary.’ Liz stood up. ‘Come on, you don’t want the rest of that anyway.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Not as much as you want to end this stuff.’

  They walked over to New State Hall and took the elevator up to the new English department, which took up all of the top two floors. The departmental office was in a glass block in the centre of the topmost floor and there they found Sandy, PA to the head of department.

  Sandy was tall and very thin, with a kind heart but a short fuse, who did not suffer fools gladly. She was, as usual, looking harassed. When Kate said she needed some help, Sandy started to glower, but relented when she saw how worried Kate was.

  ‘I need to know how many students switched their majors to English in the last two terms,’ Kate said.

  ‘What for?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘It’s to settle a bet,’ Liz said quickly. ‘A know-it-all in the library is giving us a hard time.’

  ‘Can’t see it’s any of their business,’ Sandy said.

  ‘No, well . . . could you do it? Do we have those kind of records in the computer?’ Kate asked anxiously.

  ‘I guess so . . . sort of,’ Sandy answered slowly. ‘Do you need it right away?’

  ‘It would make life a lot more pleasant,’ Liz told her.

  ‘Please?’ Kate asked.

  Sandy grinned. ‘You ought to patent that look. Go and have a cup of coffee in the lounge and I’ll do what I can. Shoo!’

  They went down and availed themselves of the coffee machine, settling back on the black leather and chrome sofa with their feet up on the smoked glass coffee table. The decorator who had ‘done’ the department was obviously someone who retained an eighties outlook.

  About fifteen minutes later Sandy appeared in the doorway with a printout in her hand. ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘Not as difficult as I thought.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Sandy, you’re a sweetheart,’ Kate said, accepting the printout. Liz grabbed for it and began to read.

  ‘What’s this all about really?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘Guy says you’re poaching students,’ Liz muttered.

  ‘Oh, one of those,’ Sandy said knowingly. Kate and Liz looked at her in surprise. Sandy shrugged. ‘We get it all the time from the other departmental secretaries, how we’re the biggest single-subject department because we’re luring students away, but you know as well as I do we’re overloaded as it is.’

  ‘Too true,’ Kate agreed. Several of her freshman and sophomore classes were too big for comfort.

  ‘Is that all?’ Sandy asked, obviously curious.

  ‘That’s all,’ Liz assured her.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Sandy,’ Kate said again.

  Sandy waved and went back down the hall, leaving them to peruse the printout.

  ‘Science,’ Liz said. ‘You got four from science, two from art, one from history and one from social studies. That’s only eight. What the hell is he on about?’

  ‘Michael Deeds was a pre-med student,’ Kate said slowly. ‘So was Janet Linley – I’d forgotten her. I don’t know any of the others. Oh, wait a minute – the one from social studies I had in a class too. He was hopeless, didn’t even belong at university.’ She sighed. ‘So are you saying this damned caller is from the science department because we had four transfers, including Michael?’

  ‘It looks possible,’ Liz said.

  ‘But it’s an enormous department, with all kinds of subsections, chemistry, biology, physics . . . there must be at least a hundred on the faculty. And mostly men, too.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Liz rolled the printout into a tube and began to tap it on her knee.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I’m thinking, I’m thinking,’ Liz
said. Her eyes fell on the tape recorder Kate had put on to the low table in front of them. ‘I’m thinking.’

  Maria Sanchez was a very handsome woman, tall and stately, with glossy black hair caught up in an efficient French pleat. She was dressed with care and style in muted colours. Her desk was set into a corner and was rather larger than some of the others. And neater.

  She had known they were coming up, because she had been notified from downstairs, but when she actually saw them her face drained of colour. However respectable the family, the police rarely bring good news. And Tos’s face said it all.

  ‘Who?’ she asked.

  ‘Ricky,’ he replied without thinking and reached out to grasp her arms as she wavered slightly before regaining her balance.

  ‘He is hurt?’ she said almost hopefully. ‘I didn’t see him this morning – he must have come home late last night . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s been killed,’ Stryker said gently. ‘We’re so sorry, Mrs Sanchez.’

  Her face went blank. ‘You’d better come in here,’ she said, turning to lead them into a small conference room. Inside, she sat down abruptly on one of the chairs that encircled the central table and waited.

  ‘He was found in an alley off French Street,’ Tos said.

  ‘And?’ she prompted, when he cleared his throat.

  ‘Somebody hit him with something,’ Tos managed finally. ‘It was very quick, from behind. He was robbed of his wallet, watch. He was wearing his hospital identity tag. It might have been some addict after his keys.’

  ‘Madre de Dios,’ she said, crossing herself. ‘First Leo, now Ricky.’ Her face stayed calm, but tears overflowed. She was obviously a woman of great self-control and Stryker, standing back, thought she seemed both intelligent and efficient. No wonder her desk was larger than the others. ‘At least with Leo we knew,’ she continued, her voice unsteady but still under control. ‘Is it a curse on our family? I am not superstitious, but—’ She looked up beseechingly into Tos’s face. ‘I cannot really take it in, you know? You spoke out there. You speak here. I hear you, but I don’t hear you. It is very strange.’ She was beginning to come apart as the truth sank in. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said in a half-whisper. Then the shaking began. Suddenly she let out a wail and collapsed sobbing on to the table, her head sunk into her folded arms, her shock and grief completely overwhelming her.

  Tos stood helplessly beside her, patting her shoulder, near tears again himself. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he kept saying. ‘So sorry.’

  It was the worst part of the job. Normally a woman police officer would have been sent, but they had gone themselves out of respect for Pinsky and his involvement with the family.

  Stryker waited patiently until the woman regained some vestige of control. It took a while. He looked out of the window – they were high up in the municipal building and gulls wheeled past, providing movement in the vista of tall and small buildings that made up the downtown area. During the day the many offices were busy, the streets were filled with bustle, but when darkness fell a change occurred. Grantham was trying to rebuild its inner city, but it was taking a long time. Most people still stayed away from downtown after business hours. And it was strange, because it looked so normal in the daylight: clean, modern, in a way even beautiful.

  It was only at night that the rats came out.

  Mrs Sanchez was getting herself together, but her chest still heaved with deep, uneven breaths that caught in her throat. ‘Will I have to identify him?’ she asked. She had learned the routine the hard way, when her husband had been killed.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Ned Pinsky gave a preliminary ID,’ Stryker said. ‘He sends his condolences. He was very fond of your son.’

  ‘Yes, and Ricky liked and respected him,’ she said almost formally.

  Stryker waited a moment. ‘There will have to be an autopsy because . . .’

  ‘I know. I understand,’ she said resignedly. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Go home, Mrs Sanchez,’ Stryker said gently. ‘We’ll take you . . .’

  ‘No, I have my car,’ she protested. ‘I will need my car in the morning to come back to work.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll understand if you take some time—’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘There is much to do. I can do it best from here.’ Where she could not break down again, where she had to keep her head high. Where she was respected.

  ‘But you must go home now,’ Tos said firmly. ‘I’ll drive you home in your car, Lieutenant Stryker will follow us. We’ll get someone to stay with you, to tell your children when they come home from school . . . please, Mrs Sanchez. For their sake.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Yes. All right. Thank you.’ Slowly, she stood up. She glanced at Stryker, who had pretty much stayed in the background, and then turned back to Tos. ‘Ricky had no enemies; people liked him. He worked hard, he had ambition. He was not a bad person.’ She reached out and touched the lapel of his jacket. ‘You will find out who did this?’

  He nodded, his face grim. ‘We’ll find out.’

  Kate and Liz drove to the address the music department secretary had given them. Liz had come up with an idea. It was wacky and strange, and maybe even impossible. But she knew a man who could tell them and perhaps help them, too. Liz felt protective of Kate, as was often the case. Kate was a strong woman, there was no question about it, but she had weak points and Stryker was one of them. If Liz could help Kate straighten this out quietly she would. Only one more person needed to know about it.

  She parked and they got out to walk up the drive. It was a pleasant home on a tree-lined street. When they reached out to ring the bell it sounded before they could make contact, making them jump.

  ‘One of David’s little gizmos, I guess,’ Liz said.

  The door was opened by a young, slim girl with dark hair and huge eyes. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi, I’m Professor Olson and this is Professor Trevorne. We arranged to see Professor Waxman.’

  ‘Of course.’ The girl smiled. ‘Come on in. I’m Abbi. David is stuck into something at the moment – would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Great,’ they said together and followed Abbi into the large kitchen. The kitchen was classic and very lavish – butcher’s-block work surfaces, beautiful glass-fronted cabinets and stainless-steel equipment. A well-stocked spice rack showed that somebody loved to cook. Abbi saw they were impressed and laughed. ‘Ill-gotten gains,’ she explained. ‘David bought me a new kitchen with the proceeds of a score he wrote for a documentary about building a hydroelectric dam in South America. My ambition is to earn enough to redecorate his study for him. So far I can only afford to paint the closet.’

  ‘What do you do while your husband makes music?’ Kate asked, as Abbi filled the coffee machine and got down some big mugs, including a special one obviously destined for her husband.

  ‘I was a copywriter in a big agency – but now I freelance. We’re hoping to start a family, and with me at the office or flying everywhere to client meetings and so on, it wasn’t practical. I like being at home. This place is wired like Cape Kennedy for computers, thanks to David, and it’s easy for me to concentrate here. That’s my excuse, anyway. Really, I just like being near David.’ A large, sonorous ‘clang’ filled the air and they all flinched. ‘Well, most of the time, anyway,’ Abbi added with a chuckle.

  ‘Does that sort of thing happen often?’ Liz asked. She’d never heard anything quite like it.

  Abbi laughed. ‘Occasionally. He’s working on something oriental at the moment, a score for a travelogue. You should be here when the Tibetan horns start up. It sounds like the plaintive wail of a dying buffalo stuck in the mud.’ There was a rush of tinkling bells. Abbi cocked her head at the sound. ‘Those aren’t so bad . . . as long as he doesn’t do them over and over again. It’s worse here in the kitchen – let’s go back to th
e living room. He’s more or less soundproofed that.’

  The living room was not as perfect as the new kitchen, but it was very comfortable. No two items of furniture matched, but they all blended and some of them were obviously classics of their kind. A planter’s chair in one corner, a chaise longue, a deep leather chesterfield sofa made the room seem like a gathering of friends. When they were settled, Kate smiled at Abbi. ‘You look very contented,’ she said. ‘Obviously marriage suits you.’ Kate didn’t meet many married couples these days – Abbi seemed to her an interesting oddity, someone young and settled, as opposed to the students she dealt with day by day who were always suffering from some kind of personal or academic crisis.

  ‘I’m pretty happy,’ Abbi admitted. ‘Aside from the clangs, bangs, bongs, tinkles, twitters and clatters, David and I get along great.’

  ‘How did you two meet?’ asked Kate, always curious about other people’s romances.

  ‘I met him when he came into the agency with the score for a particularly weird television ad I’d written . . . it kind of went from there. He’s very clever – but mostly I overlook that. He’s just a really, really nice person.’ She grinned. ‘And sexy, too.’

  ‘We need his help on a project,’ Liz informed her. ‘A pretty weird project.’