Chapter Eighteen
by Lily Always


Nine a.m. David sat in his cubicle, thinking. He looked again at the small pile of documents which had awaited his arrival this morning. The autopsy report. The full report from the forensic guys. The victim’s last will and testament. He certainly couldn’t complain today about a lack of information. He had read slowly and carefully through each page.

He turned back to continue moving the pentomino pieces he kept in his desk drawer. Almost unconsciously these days, he turned to these when he needed to calm his mind. As he concentrated on shifting the pieces into different configurations, always seeking the rectangle, his brain seemed to approach some kind of quantum state, where every possible combination of facts, conjecture and hearsay paraded past his subconscious for consideration. He smiled to himself as he thought about this. Quantum state? Maybe he was being a bit fanciful there, but the mental discipline sure helped the thought processes.

Had it really been only five days now since he had seen Elaine Jackson holding court in the meeting room? He mentally re-organized the chronology of events, so as to clear his mind:

Day One: He sees Elaine mouthing platitudes about her ex-boyfriend to the press. Later that day he returns home to find her in his flat. She tells him Chevalier is innocent.

Day Two: He asks Kersey to be assigned to the case. Phone calls are traced from Marietta’s phone to the vet clinic/boarding kennels. Dave visits the kennels and meets Amy Curry.

Day Three: Amy calls the precinct. Dave visits the kennels to see the dead dog. The autopsy is performed later that day. Doctor says dog poisoned. Amy rings him later that evening, arranges to meet him at the kennels and finds the pack of poisoned dog food. Much later that night, Amy remembers/decides to tell him about the relationship between Marietta and Elaine.

Day Four: He has lunch with Elaine. He visits Moore – later found to be Hemm passing himself off as Moore. He visits Amy again to challenge her with the alleged aggression of Brogus.

Day Five: Well, here he was on day five, with one aspect of this case echoing a constant in his life. Somewhere along the line, one of these women was lying to him. Correction. At least one.

He thought back to last night with Amy. He had said out loud that he’d been an idiot over the whole thing. He had let Amy believe that he had meant only in not checking the facts re Jonathan Moore. In reality he had meant more than that. He was painfully aware of how much information coming from Amy was not backed up by anyone else. He was also aware that she was, in effect, drip-feeding him with information.

First she had related the alleged argument between Marietta and Elaine, with the reference to a relationship being over. He had assumed that this referred to Elaine’s relationship with Chevalier and Amy had let him work on that assumption. Then, more than 24 hours later, she decides to mention that in fact the broken relationship was between Marietta and Elaine. She had told him only how wonderful Brogus was, electing not to reveal that the dog was a trained aggressor, until he faced her with it. Cute she may be, enjoyable she may be, but straight with him? He didn’t think so. Why was she so certain Brogus had been poisoned--before the autopsy and before even knowing about the toxic kibble? The dog had looked peaceful enough in death; it didn’t appear to have suffered pain. So why would she jump straight to the conclusion that it had been poisoned? Why not a heart attack? Why not anything? Why so definitely poison?

His phone rang, jerking him back to the present.

“Friedman,” he snapped.

“Dave, this is Malc in patrol. We’ve just picked up Hemm. He’s being booked in right now. Found him asleep in the back of his car. Heard you were looking for him, so thought maybe you’d want to come along to the interview room.”

“Malc, I sure do. Thanks. Tell the sonofabitch--sorry, Mr Hemm--that I’ll be right along. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see me.”

Dave stood up, yanked his tie and breathed in. He was going to enjoy this. And he would be dealing with a man--an asshole maybe, but at least not a devious, twisting example of womankind.

The door of the interview room banged open. Dave strode in.

“Mr Hemm.” As he spoke, Friedman turned from ‘Moore’ to the officer by the door. “Sergeant, is there some mistake? I understood we had Mr Jackson Hemm here?”

‘Moore’ cut in before the officer had a chance to reply. “Detective Friedman, I am Jackson Hemm. I--"

“So I understand. And perhaps you would care to enlighten me as to just why you thought it right to lie to an officer of the law. To waste police time. This isn’t a game, Mr Hemm. This is a homicide investigation. And just in case you had forgotten, the murdered victim is your ex-wife.”

“Detective, I was a complete idiot. I meant no disrespect.” Hemm smiled, flashing expensive teeth. “It was just that I heard someone calling out, 'Mr Moore'. I answered yes, thinking that it was to do with the removal of Jonathan's effects from the house. I was overseeing it as a favour to him and it had often been easier when dealing with the removal people to let them think I was Moore, rather than have to explain every time. When you then introduced yourself as from NOPD, I felt too foolish to suddenly say, 'Well, in that case, my name is Jackson Hemm'. Foolish and nervous; I've had one or two run-ins with the uniformed guys and wanted to stay away from trouble. When you said what you wanted, I knew I could give you the information you asked for--I knew Jonathan well through Marietta--so I thought, no harm done. I'm sure you understand.” Hemm smiled again, trying his best man-to-man charm that he had used to such good effect ten years ago in his big movies.

Unluckily for him, though, charm had about as much effect on David Friedman as a chocolate fireguard has on household safety.

“Can it, Hemm,” snapped Friedman. “Just why would Marietta's ex-husband be so concerned to do a favour for her brother? Especially since, as rumor goes, they didn't exactly get along?”

“Detective Friedman,” Hemm continued in his man-of-the-world role, “I'm a middle aged actor. Not something I like to admit to, but there it is. And I need work. I'm aiming for a part in Moore's next movie. He's talking about a remake of some British play, ‘The Sweeney’, or something like that. There's a major part for a man of my age and physique and I want to secure it.”

Dave looked at Hemm. The man was a wreck, physically and probably mentally too, if the stories of drink and drugs were anything to go by. Still,one part of Hemm’s spiel rang true. He was no spring chicken and he needed work. Friedman couldn’t remember the last time Hemm had been a box-office draw.

Hemm coughed uncertainly. “Detective, what I told you about Jonathan living at the house and about Brogus was true. And Brogus did try to run me off the estate once. I truly meant no harm. I don't need any bad publicity.”

Friedman turned to the sergeant. “Get his lawyer if he wants one. Stick ‘wasting police time’ on the charge sheet, with whatever the patrol boys are putting down.” He walked out.

Back in his office, he pulled the autopsy report to the top of the pile. The medical opinion was plain and unqualified. Cause of death was poisoning by ethylene glycol. Friedman didn’t need to ask what that was; he’d come across it only two days ago. Anti-freeze. The rope around the neck had been placed there after death; medical evidence relating to bruising and pooling of blood indicated this. Why, then?

The forensic report was next. They’d crawled over the trunk where the body was found and over Marietta’s house. Her desk diary indicated that she was a methodical and organised businesswoman. Each page of the diary had been photocopied for the report. Dave looked at entries for the week prior to death and for the next couple of weeks. Who had Marietta intended to see? One item caught his eye. The entry was for Thursday next. It said simply, ‘Baxendale and Defty, 11 a.m.’, and 'N.B. the Jackson Pollock in my New York apartment, to A.C. for old times' sake'.”

He flipped quickly to the will. There was a cover letter from the lawyers who had drafted it. Yep, there it was. Baxendale and Defty, 445 Falcon Square. It was signed by Ephraim Defty.

Friedman caught a cab over to Falcon Square. His NOPD badge gained him rapid access to Defty himself. Formalities were short. Defty was obviously well aware of the murder of one of his clients. He replied to Dave’s question instantly. “Yes, Detective Friedman, Ms. Blankenship did indeed have an appointment on Thursday. She'd phoned me only the day before her body was found. Said she need to make an amendment to her will. Mentioned something about a painting.”

“Did Ms. Blankenship make a habit of this kind of thing, Mr. Defty?”

“No, sir, she did not. To my recollection, her will was drawn up several years ago, soon after her marriage to Mr Jackson Hemm. There has only been one other amendment since then, when she and Mr Hemm separated.”

“Mr. Defty, did she say anything to you about who would benefit from this amendment?”

“No, sir, she did not. And I did not consider it appropriate for me to ask her on the telephone.”

“Do the initials, ‘A.C.’, mean anything to you?”

“No, they do not. Wait a moment… A.C. would be the initials of Mr. Anthony Chevalier, who was, I believe, the gentleman who found her. Mr. Chevalier is of course known to me professionally and I have high regard for him. A most unfortunate occurrence.”

Thanking him for his time, Friedman returned to the office. The will as it stood had no surprises. As he had already found with Sadie’s help, apart from various charitable bequests, the bulk of Marietta’s estate went to her brother, Jonathan Moore. Whatever the squabbles between brother and sister, she apparently believed blood to be thicker than water.

Was the potential loss of a Jackson Pollock enough to provoke Moore to murder? Did he even know of the proposed legacy? How much difference would it make to the estate in monetary terms? Maybe there was no connection between the death and the imminent change to her will? Who the hell was A.C.? And what were the ‘old times’ Marietta's diary referred to?

Holy shit! Amy Curry! His thoughts spun. Amy had said Marietta was dumping Elaine. He still did not want to believe that Elaine, with her animal passion for sex with him, had been bisexual. But if Amy’s statement was possible, then he had to admit that it was also possible that any other woman he had shared a bed with could also have been bi, without his being aware of it.

Amy Curry.

A.C.

Suppose it was she who was being dumped by Marietta? A relationship between the two of them could also account for the incredible number of phone calls Marietta had made to the kennels over the last few months. Even a besotted dog owner would not need to call that often, surely?

He thought back to his lunch yesterday with Elaine. Jeez, was it only yesterday? She’d phoned him almost straight away after. He’d challenged her with the sideways glance she’d given him while supposedly crying. She’d pleaded with him to believe her. She was afraid, she’d said. She'd wanted to try to find if there was still any spark of feeling left for her; she needed his help so badly.

David decided he needed help, too. He got up and went to find Hawkins.
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