/07 Ch. 03-05

3

Wednesday morning two uniformed police were at my door; a guy and a girl, both of them no older than their late twenties.

You know that automatic reaction when confronted by cops? You're suddenly on your guard because you're conditioned to feel guilty of something, even though you know you're in the clear? Well, I had that same reaction when I saw these two on the doorstep, only this time I had good reason to feel 'guilty of something'--specifically, fifty thousand good reasons--and the sudden tightness in my gut was a physiological response to an actual existential problem. I prayed my effort to look nonchalant was more effective than it felt on the inside. I could feel my scalp crawling.

Officers Lovering and Krapke introduced themselves and asked if I was Freddie Puck.

"I am." Voice reasonably steady. A good start, at least.

"We're making some inquiries and your name came up. I wonder if we could ask you a few questions?"

"Uh, sure. Why don't you come in?"

Everyone found themselves a seat in my tiny living room.

"You're an acquaintance of Suzanne Morris?"

This was Lovering, the woman, sitting awkwardly on the edge of an armchair, her utility belt and her hips (and possibly her professionalism) preventing her from reclining fully. The fabric of her uniform pants was tight across her solid thighs. Krapke was along the sofa from me, leaning back comfortably, calf across knee, looking at the ceiling.

Lovering's question, more like a statement with raised eyebrows, landed like a golf ball in a pond. I looked at her for a few seconds, no doubt with a baffled look on my face, because I was genuinely confused.

I'd been expecting a question--at least a hint or a reference--related to Wilmington, Delaware, to a large sum of cash, and/or to several associated corpses.

I replied, "Suzanne Morris?" and tried to find a connection between that name and the Delaware fiasco.

The clouds began to part just as Officer Lovering was reaching into her notebook, saying, "A resident of Orchard Avenue."

"Oh, Suzanne! Yes, I know her. Or, well, I met her for the first time this past weekend." The sudden relief that this was about

something else

was warm and comforting, spreading to my extremities like a first shot of bourbon.

Officer Lovering was holding up a sheet of lime-green paper, about six inches by four. Notepad paper. Of course, I knew what it was. My mobile number was at the top of the sheet and underneath was written, 'Freddie Puck, your neighborhood porn star.'

"Is this your writing?" Officer Lovering asked.

"Yes it is," I said. "How come you have it?"

Krapke answered for her, eagerly, as though he'd been waiting for his moment.

"Miss Morris was found dead in her house on Monday evening. The county coroner's office asked us to conduct preliminary inquiries for possible use in the event the death is ruled suspicious."

The news was like a punch to the gut; there was no air available even to exclaim in surprise. Not that it would have mattered; Krapke had more to say and went right on saying it. Lovering, I noticed, was watching me carefully.

"Miss Morris's neighbor confirmed there was a visitor to the house Sunday morning, introduced to him as 'Freddie,' someone he hadn't met before, and therefore a person of interest to the investigation."

"Investigation?" I said.

"Inquiry," Lovering said, throwing a glance at Krapke.

"What we'd like to know, Mr. Puck, is the nature of your visit to Miss Morris's house on Sunday morning."

"I can't believe she's dead."

"She was alive when you left?"

"What? Of course she was."

And I gave them a synopsis of the events of Sunday morning, eliding the part between bathtime and my exit.

"The neighbor," Krapke said.

"You mean Kevin," I said, with growing irritation at the weasel next door. Weasel and, surprise surprise, snitch.

"Correct. Kevin Booth. Mr. Booth says you were in Miss Morris's house for well over an hour."

"And?"

"You just said you helped her upstairs so she could take a bath. Any reason you would stay so long?"

"I didn't know if she'd injured herself when she fell. She couldn't feel much of anything until her morning meds had eased up. Suzanne said the bath would help the numbness to pass. I'm sure Kevin brought you up to speed on her condition."

I looked from Krapke to Lovering and back and I could tell there'd been quite the discussion with Kevin Booth.

Lovering spoke up then. Her tone was pleasant, conversational, in contrast to Krapke's tough guy. I guess they'd agreed on their approach before they arrived, unless this was their typical routine. It was kind of obvious, but then these were small-town cops.

"You're new to Moundville?" It was another statement-question, but asked pleasantly enough.

"Yes, it'll be two months on the first."

"You rent this place?"

"It so happens I do. Is that relevant?"

"Not specially. It's a small enough place we typically hear when there's someone new in town. Renters we hear about later than buyers. We hadn't heard about you yet."

"Kevin told you I'm renting?"

It was a shot in the dark but I felt the stirring of a hunch. I noticed Krapke's head swivel quickly towards Lovering but she was already nodding.

"He did. He thought it might be relevant."

That was a hell of a leap, I thought, but I let it pass. "So what happened? With Suzanne, I mean."

"Mr. Booth found her on Monday evening. He heard the dog barking for an extended period and went over to see what was wrong. Miss Morris was dead in her living-room armchair. We're waiting for test results to determine the cause."

"She told me it was some sort of blood condition. Had it for many years, she said."

"How was she when you left on Sunday?"

"She was resting. She told me she felt fine beyond the usual discomfort. Nothing to worry about."

"And where did you move from?" This was Krapke again.

"Kevin didn't fill you in on that, too?"

"He said Delaware but wasn't more specific."

Well, well.

"Wilmington," I said. That was specific enough. "Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

The two cops exchanged another glance. Lovering raised her eyebrows as she looked up at the ceiling; the corners of her mouth turned down, then she began shaking her head.

"Don't think so, not at this stage. And we might not need to contact you again, but--"

"Wait a minute."

Krapke. He reached out a hand towards Lovering. "That note you left Miss Morris," he said to me. He made a 'gimme' motion to Lovering with his hand and then, surprisingly, began to snap his fingers. The look of utter fury in Lovering's eyes could have scorched a cornfield.

Krapke continued to hold out his hand until Lovering had retrieved the green memo sheet from her notebook, which she had already returned to her uniform pocket. She unfolded it very deliberately and handed it to Krapke.

"This note," he said again, "would you mind explaining the significance of the phrase 'neighborhood porn star'?"

He looked at me then with what I'm sure was intended to be a penetrating, accusatory gaze. I wanted to laugh, but channeled the urge into a beaming smile, which I directed at Officer Lovering.

"How well did you two know Suzanne?" I said. "Miss Morris, I mean."

Krapke shrugged but stayed silent, waiting for my answer.

"I knew her a little," Lovering said. "She wasn't around town much, for obvious reasons. We'd say hello, how you doing. That level."

"I knew Suzanne for an hour or two," I said. "But I learned she had a sharp sense of humor and a cynical but somehow upbeat outlook on life. She asked me my full name and when I told her she said it 'sounds like a porn actor' or something like that. My note was a nod to that, obviously. Good-natured. An inside joke, like friends tend to have."

Krapke sniffed but otherwise didn't react. Lovering's eyes were twinkling.

After a few seconds of silence I said, "So, if there's nothing else?" and Krapke and Lovering finally shuffled out, leaving their Moundville Police Department cards on the hall table.

I spent most of the rest of Wednesday thinking of things I should have asked them, even contemplating getting in touch with them again (Lovering, anyway) but thinking twice about it when I realized I didn't know exactly where they were going with all this. Preliminary inquiries? Possible investigation? What, in the end, was there to investigate? Whatever condition Suzanne had suffered, I'd seen with my own eyes how debilitating it was for her. It wasn't hard to see a major complication in her future: stroke, heart attack, embolism, aneurysm, the possibilities were numerous and horrific and all potentially life-threatening. Why the suspicion that something unnatural might be indicated?

And what was up with Kevin Booth? Clearly he'd been the guy to point the cops my way in the first place, suggesting some sort of 'foul play,' as they say in the papers. And all based on an encounter with me that took all of, what, sixty seconds? What exactly is your

problem

, Kev?

This was what I really wanted to know, and I felt again the urge to get in touch with the cops.

Maybe tomorrow.

Something one of them had said made it obvious I couldn't have had anything to do with Suzanne's death. But is that something I'd go to the police with directly, when they were most likely building a case? Is that how this sort of thing works? My past experience had taught me that some cops can be crooked and plant evidence, and prosecuting attorneys have no problem bringing charges if they think they can win a conviction.

Should I be thinking about finding a

lawyer

? This was already sounding ridiculous.

Sleep on it, maybe.

No. Better to get out front with it. For the ninth or tenth time that day I went to the front hall and contemplated the business cards with the contact information.

There was a mobile number for Officer Lovering.

4

"You know, I'd thought about stopping by again, anyway. I felt bad about how things went earlier."

"Felt bad why?"

"Dan comes off as a real, uh... Well I guess I'll just say it: he can be an asshole sometimes. I mean, this is Moundville, for God's sake, it's not like we're working Philly or Pittsburgh."

"Dan? You mean--"

"Krapke."

"Ah." The cards they left had shown surname and initials only.

Officer Lovering--Kim, as she insisted I call her while she was off duty--was seated in a lawn chair out back on the tiny square of brick patio. I'd offered her a seat in the living room again but she was dressed in tight and stretchy workout gear and told me, with a charming blush pinking up her face and neck, that she didn't want to sweat on the upholstery. She came by the house around six-thirty on Wednesday evening, on her way home from the gym after finishing her shift.

I was halfway through a can of beer. Kim hadn't touched the one I'd brought out for her.

"He definitely took his bad cop role pretty seriously," I said. "What bothers me, the reason I called you, is that I don't see a good reason for there to be any suspicion at all. Suzanne was sick with some sort of blood disease. Chronic, pretty serious from what I could tell. Who knows what kind of complications there might have been."

"That's true."

"I don't know how much you can talk about it, but what's the justification for treating it as suspicious?"

"Oh, I can talk about it, other than some personal details. Like I said earlier, there's no investigation, yet. The questions are to figure out whether there needs to be one."

"But something had to have been suggested in the first place, for there to have been this 'inquiry' at all."

She tipped her head back and drew a long breath, as though she needed to marshal her thoughts before replying. In her tight leggings, which ended mid-calf, her muscles were even more pronounced than they were in her uniform pants. She had one ankle up across the opposite knee, a masculine posture, I've always thought, and similar to the way Krapke had slouched on my sofa earlier that day. I could see the dark sweat marks migrating down her inner thighs from her crotch and butt, which naturally made me speculate about her crotch and butt.

"You're right, there was," she said, "and something tells me you already know who might have put forward the suggestion."

"My buddy Kev next door, of course."

"Bingo."

"Did he give a reason?"

"He said he didn't know who you were or what you were doing with Miss Morris. When she turned up dead--sorry--when she died soon after, he wondered if there'd been something gone wrong between you. That maybe you'd gone there deliberately."

"Seems kind of thin."

"Yeah, I kind of thought so, too. Anyway, Dan thought Booth might be onto something and it didn't take much for the coroner's office to be persuaded to start the inquiry. They operate on the better safe than sorry principle. It's really not that unusual."

"Okay, well maybe that's the case, but I know for a fact Kevin saw Suzanne alive at least once after I left her place on Sunday."

"And how do you know that for a fact?"

"He had information he couldn't have known unless Suzanne had told him, meaning she was still alive when I left."

"Huh. Okay. Information such as?"

"He told you guys I rent this place, right? I never told him that. I told

Suzanne

I was renting, and had only been here six weeks. So she must have talked to him since I left her Sunday morning. And," I said, remembering, "he knew I came from Delaware. How else would he know that but from Suzanne?"

She nodded as I was speaking, then said, "Yup, that sounds legit. She must have been alive when you left."

"Well, then," I said, spreading my arms wide. "Nothing else to say about it, is there?"

She regarded me for a moment, eyes locked on mine, but I could tell she wasn't looking at me. Her focus was elsewhere, internal, as though she was having a discussion with herself. That morning her mostly blonde hair had been gathered tightly behind her head in a pony tail. Now it was bunched up on top of her head with a scrunchie, the tresses falling any which way. It was a good look; her neck was well worth showing off to the world, especially with those wild and damp curlicues of hair at her nape.

"Something else Booth said, not something we could use necessarily, I should say, but he kind of implied, or speculated..."

"Yeah?"

"Well, he seemed to think you and Miss Morris slept together."

Now she was looking at me; I mean looking

at

me. She seemed to really want to hear my response.

"I knew her less than

two hours

. In total. Where on Earth would he get that idea?"

"I guess he said he thought you had scratch marks on your face that weren't there when you first showed up."

"He couldn't have seen me for more than a few seconds when I left."

She shrugged. "Was your face scratched?"

Normally, I don't have a problem denying things when they're no one else's business. It's a fine line between lying and maintaining privacy (think about it for a minute). But this was police business, and for some reason I couldn't yet articulate--though I sensed it pulsing dangerously just beyond my conscious awareness--I felt denying it would have been a wrong move. Possibly a disastrous move.

Kim's eyes had widened as I put off responding to her question. Her expression was a curious mix: superficially her face was blank, a mask of noncommittal professional restraint, but her eyes flashed almost lasciviously.

She decided to push.

"Matter of fact," she said, "Kevin Booth came right out and said he thinks you might have raped Miss Morris."

"Okay, I did

not

rape Suzanne. Absolutely not. That fucking little weasel. I will sue the shit out of him."

Kim patted the air for me to calm down.

"There's nothing on the record. It was said in passing. There's no accusation, let alone a charge."

"But it was enough to get you guys 'inquiring,' right?"

"It wasn't the only thing. In fact," she said, looking away to the tiny yard behind my rented house, "and this is off the record, okay? The main reason I wanted to come see you again is because there's things you probably don't know about Suzanne Morris, and Kevin Booth making accusations like that set my alarm bells ringing. I actually came here to warn you."

"Warn me? About what? And why would you do that? You don't know me."

She reached for the beer can on the rusting glass-topped table and popped the tab. She took several long gulps, her gullet pumping like a heron scoring a fish in the creek.

Eventually she said, "I'm not from Moundville, originally. I'm a farm girl, grew up way outside town. When I was little this place felt like big news to me. Ha, the idea. But that's beside the point. The point is, as far as Moundville natives are concerned, I belong here about as much as you do. And it's been home for six years already."

"You're going to have to spell it out for me, Kim."

"Well, I'll be going out on a limb here. Pretty far out, so I guess before I go on I'm going to need your answer to my previous question."

"About Suzanne? Jesus."

I wasn't embarrassed about what had happened between me and Suzanne; quite the contrary, in fact. For a long time now it hasn't been my way to nurture relationships with women--I seem to function more successfully with a series of encounters--but I'd found myself eagerly anticipating hearing from Suzanne, looking forward to getting together again, should that be our fate; and from there, who knows? It was the faint stirring of feelings long since buried, and while I wasn't in a hurry to exhume them, I still felt a curiosity about where they might lead at this slightly more mature stage of my life.

But that turned out not to be; so not to be that, ludicrously, the object of those fledgling feelings had actually gone ahead and died. A sign from the cosmos, delivered via crackling lightning bolt.

And my reluctance to answer Kim wasn't because I felt queasy speaking of the recently deceased. I had no qualms about decorum, per se. I guess what was getting my back up is that what happened between me and Suzanne was, in the end--and as I've said--

nobody's fucking business

.

"Kim, I don't get it. What possible bearing could it have--"

"I need to know I can trust you, Freddie, but we don't know each other well enough for trust. Second best is I need some information about you that gives me cover."

"Blackmail material?"

"Not really. Call it leverage. It'll be mutual, I promise."

I shook my head, not so much to deny her as in sheer bewilderment.

"I don't get it."

"I think they might be setting you up."

"Who, Kevin? For what?"

"I can see the scratches on your cheeks, Freddie. You haven't shaved in a couple of days but it doesn't take a genius. And it looks bad for you."

"For Christ's sake. Yes, we slept together.

Consensual

sex. Are you gonna arrest me?"

"

I'm

not."

"What? All right, you better go ahead and tell me what you think is going on here."

She wiggled her beer can.

"You got any more of this? It's going down nice and easy."

I left her there on the patio and went in for more beers. On my way back I rummaged in a kitchen drawer and fished out an old pack of Marlboros. There were seven cigs in the box, along with a Bic lighter I'd shoved in the gap.

Out on the patio again I said, "I haven't had one of these in two months. Tonight I start again."

"I'm sorry," Kim said, accepting the beer I held out to her. "I hope I'm doing the right thing."

"So far you've succeeded in making me very nervous. You want one?"

"I don't smoke."

"More for me. Good. Now, please tell me what you know."

"I'll keep it short, if I can."

She popped her can and took a swig.