Monkey Puzzle Page 8

  But she hadn’t.

  Sometimes even now, in her dreams, the powerful, swaggering figure of the phantom cop would reappear to chase, capture and assault her. Sometimes she would wake up afraid, sometimes aroused. Seeing Stryker again, in reality, had confused the issue even more in her mind. Now she had a real reason to be afraid of him.

  Looking at her friend now, Liz recognised conflict. ‘So tell me,’ she said, patiently.

  Kate struggled with the unwieldy agitation that filled her – it was rather like trying to fold a balloon full of water. ‘All that was years ago. A lot has happened to me since then. I’ve grown up.’

  ‘That’s your opinion,’ Liz said, acidly.

  ‘Well, dammit, I have. Maybe if I’d met him again under different circumstances . . . but to have him here investigating Aiken’s murder. It’s just embarrassing. And he’s different, too. He’s got grey in his hair, just as I do, and he’s not a spectre, he’s a man doing a job . . .’

  ‘And he still scares the hell out of you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you love it.’

  ‘No, of course I don’t. Yes, I do. Oh, God, I don’t know. It just adds another problem to those we’ve already got on our plate. Don’t you see, Liz? It gives an absolutely ridiculous dimension to all this. It’s bad enough to be suspected of murder . . .’

  ‘But he’s seen you bare-assed and scared,’ Liz finished, with great relish. ‘Oh, Kate . . . why couldn’t he be taller?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wish he was, then you’d take him off my hands,’ Kate said, distractedly. ‘There are other things that make it more complicated – things you don’t know and I can’t tell you, but they all have to do with the past, with that time, when we were all so damned passionate and idealistic, and now we’re middle-aged and worn down and even part of the Establishment ourselves . . .’

  ‘Isn’t it Hell?’ Liz commiserated, her eyes dancing.

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ Kate objected.

  ‘Nope. And neither should you. I told you,’ Liz said.

  Kate looked at her for a long time, and to her horror, the tears came to her eyes and overflowed. ‘Liz – what if Richard did kill Aiken? What if I lied to Stryker and it turns out that Richard . . . that Richard . . . ?’

  ‘Which worries you most?’

  ‘How can you ask that?’ Kate cried. Several heads turned and she snatched up a napkin to furtively dab her face.

  ‘Just wanted to keep things clear,’ Liz said, in a practical voice. ‘Look, the Richard you’re talking about, the only Richard you ever see as far as I can tell, is not the same Richard to whom you were engaged. He served in ‘Nam, didn’t he? That’s changed him. Before he was just weak. Now he’s a mess.’

  ‘You don’t like him. You never liked him.’

  ‘Oh, I like him all right, but I’ve never trusted him. Not since he dropped you flat on your little ass at the age of eighteen without so much as a by-your-leave or farewell my lady.’

  ‘He had problems.’

  ‘We all had problems. He apparently still has them. You can’t go on protecting him, Kate. This Stryker has gotten older, you’ve gotten older, and Richard has gotten older.’ Liz leaned back and smiled, briefly. ‘I haven’t gotten older, of course,’ she said, in a wry tone. ‘The point is, sweetie, that as you just said, this is murder. I admit, Aiken probably had it coming, but not just from Richard. From a cast of thousands. Let’s be clear – if Richard is innocent, he has nothing to fear. And – ’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Kate interrupted. ‘Do you really believe in truth, justice, and the American Way? That innocent people are never put in jail, that guilty people never go free? Come on.’

  ‘So blame it on my youth,’ Liz shrugged. ‘I just find it hard to get away from the feeling one should tell the truth, that’s all. Unless someone asks your weight or age, of course.’

  ‘Honourable exceptions.’

  ‘Exactly. If Richard is innocent, fine, then your lie was silly but harmless. On the other hand, if he’s guilty, how are you going to live with yourself? If this Stryker is a good cop, don’t you think he’s going to catch up with Richard in the end? And where would that leave you?’ She put out her cigarette and picked up the menu. ‘I was wrong. You should be serious, about this part of it anyway. Forget the past, forget everything except that Aiken was murdered.’

  ‘Not by Richard Wayland.’

  ‘If you really believe that, why didn’t you tell the police the truth about last night?’

  ‘Because it was Stryker, don’t you see? Because he made me angry and upset and . . .’

  But Liz was shaking her head. ‘That’s only your rationalisation, Kate. I’m not Stryker. Tell me. Did Richard leave you before midnight?’

  ‘You know he did.’

  ‘And did he have a reason to kill Aiken?’ When Kate didn’t answer, Liz sighed. ‘Apparently he did, whatever it was – equally obviously he could have done it. What’s that you teach – Means, Motive and Opportunity? He had them all, Kate.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Liz waved her menu. ‘Eats first, buts afterwards. Your trouble is an empty head on top of an empty stomach. Tell the man what you want.’

  Kate stared up at the waiter.

  He had a notebook just like Sergeant Toscarelli’s.

  ELEVEN

  After getting the interviews out of the way, Stryker again turned to the problem of the missing briefcase. It nagged at him. He’d never seen a college professor without a briefcase. They clung to them as if they were homes from home, which they probably were for men who constantly had to move from one classroom to the next. He got out the envelope that contained the personal effects found on the body, spilling them out on to the desk blotter.

  After two or three minutes staring, he spoke. ‘Aha!’

  Toscarelli jumped. He’d been tidying up his shorthand notes of the interviews, and Stryker’s loud ejaculation had startled him.

  Stryker reached out and picked up Adamson’s keys. ‘His car. It’s probably in his car.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘His briefcase. There wasn’t one in the office, and that just didn’t add up.’

  ‘So that’s what the thief was after, the briefcase. Big deal.’

  Stryker frowned at him. ‘There wasn’t any thief.’

  ‘Boy, you sure are stubborn, aren’t you?’ Toscarelli grinned. ‘But what if the briefcase isn’t in his car, will you accept then that there might have been a thief, after all?’

  ‘I might,’ Stryker conceded. ‘But what would a thief want with some old sandwiches and a bunch of papers . . . ?’

  ‘What makes you think that’s what he kept in his briefcase?’

  ‘It’s what I keep in mine,’ Stryker smiled. ‘Well, what the hell do you know? He drove a Mercedes.’

  ‘You’re kidding. On a teacher’s salary?’

  ‘Keyring is believing,’ Stryker said, holding up the leather tag. ‘Now, if you were a Mercedes belonging to a professor, where would you be?’

  ‘If he left me on the street, I’d be in a hot-body shop by now,’ Toscarelli said. ‘On the other hand, if he parked it in a garage somewheres . . .’

  ‘Let’s ask Stark,’ Stryker said, getting to his feet.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about his car?’

  ‘Not the car, the briefcase,’ Stryker said. ‘It’s got to be someplace. If not in his office, then maybe in his car.’

  ‘And maybe in some garbage can, where the killer dumped it after taking out whatever he was after.’

  Stryker paused by the door. ‘Okay, have it your way. Which shall we try first – all the garbage cans within a five-mile radius, or his car?’

  The snow was coming down a little more heavily, and the thick clouds were already bringing dusk, t
hough it wasn’t yet three o’clock. The street lights had come on, and crystals glittered randomly from the heaps of old and new snow beneath them. There were only a few cars in the faculty car park.

  A sweep of Toscarelli’s gloved hand over the hood of the third one revealed the gleaming metallic silver-grey finish of Adamson’s Mercedes, as described by Stark. In the distance the whine of engines in low gear told them the salt trucks hadn’t gotten this far out, yet. The atmosphere was muted by the snow, single sounds pierced it, a bell from a church, a voice, a dog’s bark, a car horn. But, for the most part, Stryker and Toscarelli felt isolated and somehow bandaged by the snow-covered bushes that surrounded the lot and the blank loom of the rear aspect of the Science Building.

  Stryker pulled off a glove, fished the car keys out of the envelope. He carefully opened the door on the driver’s side, and slid in behind the wheel. It was dark in the shrouded car, the mantle of snow curtaining the windows. A quick glance over the back of the seat and he had the briefcase.

  It was brown tooled Mexican leather, very lived-in. Unlike Adamson’s own meticulous appearance (before the killer’s perforations had spoiled it) the case was an old and battered family retainer. It looked stuffed full to splitting with every bit of paper he’d ever owned. Handing the case out to Toscarelli, who was shifting from one frozen foot to the other, Stryker did a quick once-over and under, using only his gloved hand. Forensics would scrape it clean, later.

  The back seat was bare. The rear shelf held only a screen-scraper and a can of aerosol de-icer. The glove compart-ment turned up maps, a gas company credit card and a car park card, an empty leather-covered flask, a small notebook containing details of car-servicing, and a hard-porn homosexual picture paperback from Denmark.

  The driver’s seat was pushed forward, for Adamson had been shorter than Stryker. As he felt around beneath it to give himself more leg-room, he touched something soft. He pulled it out and found himself holding a mitten. Red leather on palm and thumb, brown fur on the back. He stepped out and used his flashlight to look under both seats. No – only the one mitten. He struggled out of the car and stood up. ‘That’s about it. The briefcase mystery is solved, anyway.’

  ‘My feet are frozen,’ Toscarelli said, glumly. ‘No mystery about that.’

  ‘Oh, lord,’ Kate said, stopping so short that Liz ran straight into her back. ‘There he is.’

  Liz squinted, seeing no more than two blurred figures at the far end of the faculty car park. ‘There who is?’

  ‘Stryker. In the leather coat.’

  Liz squinted again, then fished in her handbag and produced her glasses. She looked through them without putting them on. ‘Who’s his friend?’ she asked, in an odd voice.

  ‘Oh, that’s Sergeant Toscarelli. His partner.’

  ‘He’s huge,’ Liz breathed, reverently. ‘Come on.’ She grabbed Kate’s arm and propelled her from behind the bushes towards the two men, flinging snow-covered branches wildly aside. Kate held back, but she was no match for a woman possessed.

  ‘No – Liz – what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m taking you over there so you can tell him what time Richard Wayland left you last night.’

  Kate stopped – or tried to. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Then I will – after all, I saw him myself, didn’t I? I’m an eyewitness. They’ll want to examine my testimony, of course. Especially Sergeant Toscarelli, I hope.’ She plunged on. After a moment, Kate slowly and reluctantly followed.

  Toscarelli, sensing movement, turned. ‘Holy Mother,’ he murmured.

  Stryker turned, too, and saw the red-caped figure swooping towards them, blonde hair flying in the wind, eyes sparking. ‘A Valkyrie,’ he announced, and then saw Kate Trevorne slipping and sliding in the wake of the big striding blonde, who was closing in fast.

  ‘Lieutenant Stryker? I’m Liz Olson, I live with Kate,’ Liz announced. ‘She’s been silly and she has something to tell you.’

  Stryker raised an eyebrow and looked around Liz’s shoulder at Kate, who couldn’t seem to make up her mind whether to go red with embarrassment or white with anger. ‘Oh?’ he asked, quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ Liz said, firmly. ‘You see, Richard Wayland didn’t spend the night with her at all.’

  ‘He didn’t?’ Stryker sounded unsurprised.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He left at ten minutes to midnight,’ Liz said, inexorably, glancing uneasily at Kate’s mouth which kept opening and closing like an indecisive letterbox.

  ‘And where did he go?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Liz demanded, startled.

  ‘I just thought you might,’ Stryker said, his face blank but his eyes momentarily alive as he glanced at Kate, then away. She looked so miserable it seemed unfair to stare. ‘And you say you live with Miss Trevorne?’

  Liz’s high dudgeon was waning, and she was beginning to regret the impulse that had carried her forward. Her first impression of Stryker was not at all what she had expected. For a start, he was too real, too solid. After years of hearing about Kate’s Mystery Man it was unnerving to realise he had ears and shoes and everything. She was also unprepared for the sensation of barely suppressed anger that he gave out. She began to see why Kate had reacted as she had. She, herself, began to babble. Beside Stryker, Toscarelli seemed mesmerised by her, and clutched Adamson’s briefcase to his chest like a bulletproof vest. ‘I live downstairs, Kate lives upstairs,’ Liz said, quickly. ‘She called down the laundry chute and I . . .’

  ‘Laundry chute?’ Stryker asked, quietly.

  Kate was engaged in assessing the height of the Science Building. It looked like developing into a lifelong obsession. She spoke in a tight voice, without turning her head. ‘My house is divided into two flats. There is a laundry chute that goes down to the basement. We keep bells by the chute. If we know the other one is alone and we have something to say, we open the door and ring the bell, and the other one comes, and we talk, or I go down or Liz comes up. I don’t know what time Richard left, I didn’t look at the clock.’

  ‘Well, I did,’ Liz said, ‘seeing as he slammed the door so hard it made my television blink. I thought Kate might like to have a chat, and she did, so she came down and we drank coffee and talked until about three this morning,’ Liz said, flatly. ‘And that’s that.’ She turned to Kate, and sighed. ‘I know you’re angry with me, but it’s stupid to lie to the police. This is murder, and they need all the help they can get.’

  ‘Amen,’ murmured Toscarelli, and was rewarded by a blinding smile from Liz that nearly made him drop the briefcase. His feet were no longer cold.

  Liz was still looking at Kate. ‘When you feel like forgiving me – if you ever do – my laundry chute is always open,’ she said. When Kate didn’t answer, she sighed again in resignation. ‘I did it for you, sweetie, since you wouldn’t do it for yourself.’

  Kate turned, looked at her and then glanced at Sergeant Toscarelli. ‘Oh, really?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Olson,’ Stryker said. ‘I’m sure when Miss Trevorne realises you’ve given her a solid alibi, she’ll feel much better – ’

  ‘I’m glad everyone knows how I’m going to feel, it saves me so much trouble, doesn’t it?’ Kate flared. She flounced off, got into her car, slammed the door and, after a few sputtering attempts, drove off with a skid that nearly took the rear light off the Mercedes.

  ‘Ooops,’ Toscarelli said. He grinned at Liz. ‘You did the right thing, coming forward.’

  ‘Oh, I know I did,’ Liz said, sadly. ‘And don’t think I feel all virtuous about it, because I don’t. She’s her own worst enemy, sometimes.’

  Toscarelli’s eyes slid sideways, and lit on Stryker, who had taken a few steps away from them and was staring after Kate’s car. ‘Some people are like that,’ he agreed. He settled the briefcase more comfortably on one
hip. ‘You a teacher, too?’

  ‘Yes, French.’

  ‘No kidding.’ They regarded each other with pleasure.

  ‘Come on, Tos,’ Stryker said, turning back to them with a determined air. ‘Let’s get that stuff down to headquarters. Thanks again, Miss Olson. If we need a statement, later on, we’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Don’t you want my address and phone number?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Sure. You get it, Tos.’ He nodded, gave a flicker of a smile, and moved away, his hands jammed in his pockets and his head down.

  Toscarelli shifted the briefcase, got out his notebook, and took down Liz’s phone number. The address he knew – same as Kate Trevorne’s. ‘French, hey? I took Spanish at school, myself.’

  ‘Spanish is a very nice language,’ Liz said, approvingly.

  ‘Not like French, though.’

  ‘There are some differences.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ They stood facing one another, smiling.

  ‘Come on, Tos,’ came Stryker’s voice from beyond the bushes.

  ‘Right. Well – see you.’ Tos nodded and moved off.

  ‘Especially if I see you first,’ Liz whispered to herself. Then the smile left her face and she went to her own car, to follow Kate home.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Toscarelli asked, as they drove downtown.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About that Olson woman and her alibi for Trevorne. You think she made it up, or what?’ Toscarelli spoke like a man doing duty as devil’s advocate and hating every minute of it.

  ‘No, I think it’s probably the truth.’

  Toscarelli grinned, in relief. ‘Me, too.’

  ‘It leaves Wayland wide open.’

  ‘Why should she lie for him?’

  ‘Because she’s afraid he did it, of course,’ Stryker said, his chin stuck on his chest as he slouched down in the seat and glared out at the snow-bound traffic.