“These guys won’t be working at the Comedy Store any time soon,” he said.
We studied the words on the first note: “In this day and age it is hard to imagine someone being crucified. Paul Klein died in the City of Angels. When he was nailed to the tree, Klein looked down below and said, ‘Hey, I can see my house from here.’”
The second attempt at humor wasn’t any better: “This young man’s death was a tragedy. My condolences go out to his friends and family. When I heard how he died, I was quite cross.”
At first read, the third note seemed legitimate: “What a terrible, senseless death! My thoughts and prayers go out to those that knew and loved Paul. As most of you probably know, the family has asked that all donations should go to the Arbor Day Foundation.”
The last attempt at comedy was a double entendre: “In the midst of the mourning woods, Paul Klein died. Last night I wept with the willows; at daybreak I contemplated my own morning wood.”
Not everyone was a comedian. Some writers were purely spiteful. One wrote, “Maybe his daddy will make a film on his son’s murder and call it
The poison-pen e-mail that interested me the most read, “Some say Paul Klein’s death was tragic. Those that knew him would say it is karma.” Unfortunately, I didn’t claim the note fast enough. Martinez grabbed it and said, “I want to talk with this guy.”
We divided up the work, and then Gump gathered all the printouts. Even though our case was a priority, it helped that he knew someone in Computer Crimes that he claimed owed him a favor. If we were lucky, by day’s end we would have the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of the writers.
I was talking on another line when Jason Davis rang my cell. Ten minutes later I listened to his message.
“This is Jason,” he said. “I’m assuming you still want those names so I went to the office. It wasn’t Sophie Gabor but Soshi Gabay, which is spelled g-a-b-a-y. If that’s not right, don’t blame me. I got it from the office secretary, so call her.
“And it’s not Laura Barrel, but Helena Beral. Her last name is b-e-r-a-l. And Danny wasn’t Marxmiller’s first name. The lady at the office said it was his middle name. His real first name was David.”
There was a pause, as if Jason was thinking of saying something else, but he chose not to. Instead he closed his message by saying, “I hope we’re done here.”
I saved his message and muttered to myself, “I wouldn’t count on it.”
I wrote the corrected names down and brought the amended list over to Martinez. “You want help running down these names?” I asked.
“I might as well just finish it up,” he said.
As I started back to my desk, my cell phone rang. When I saw who was calling, I made for the hallway where I answered the phone. My heart was pounding, making it hard to hear.
“Thank you,” Lisbet said.
“You’re welcome.” I tried to think of something to fill the silence. “I am sure it’s an ugly-looking plant. The florist wasn’t sure he could find one, and said if he did it would look like a weed.”
“Someone once defined a weed as a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”
“I think they said the same thing about me.”
“I want you to know I love my plant, and I love the poem that came with it.”
“I can’t take credit for the poem,” I said. “The florist told me he’d find something nice.”
“Everything was perfect. You didn’t need to send me anything, but I am glad you did because it gives me the opportunity to say I am sorry. Since yesterday I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that without sounding pathetic.”
“You’re not the one that needed to apologize. I am. And in case you hadn’t figured it out, that weed I sent was my way of an apology.”
“It is not a weed. You’ll need to see it in person. It has the most delicate blue flowers.”
“The florist was afraid it wouldn’t even be flowering. That’s why he tried to direct me to a different selection. But I went with music over his floral aesthetics. That was my inspiration for sending you the forget-me-nots.”
“I’ve always loved that song. Now I love it even more.”
“Look, I’m tied up for a bit, but what are your plans tonight?”
“Now that I no longer have to keep vigil by my phone, I have no plans.”
“How does dinner out sound? And is eight too late?”
“Eight is not too late, but dinner in at your place sounds better to me than going out. Do you know a good pizza delivery?”
“I have three on speed dial. How is that for a confession?”
“You have me beat by one.”
“What do you like?”
“Just about anything as long as it doesn’t have anchovies, olives, or green peppers.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“What’s your address?”
I gave her my address and heard her repeat it. After a few seconds of clicking in information, Lisbet said, “Okay, it’s programmed in my GPS.”
“If the satellite breaks down, call me.”
And then I told her that my house would have the porch light on and that I’d be waiting for her.
At six thirty I was glad to see Gump getting ready to call it a day. I hadn’t wanted to be the first to leave, but there was a lot I needed to do before Lisbet came calling. Computer Crimes had come through with the names and addresses of the poison-pen writers, but so far nothing had panned out. Martinez wasn’t yet ready to give up the hunt, though.
“I have a few calls in,” he said, “and I might as well get the case notes in order while I wait to see if they call back.”
“Ka-ching, ka-ching,” Gump said. “That’s the sound of Martinez collecting overtime pay.”
“Not all of us are ready for early retirement,” he said.
I didn’t let Gump or Martinez know I was in a rush, or even the reason for my need to hurry. Unless you enjoy constant speculation about your love life, you don’t let other cops know you have a date. When I was safely out of sight, I began running to my car. Even if the traffic wasn’t bad, by my calculations I’d have six months of cleaning to do in sixty minutes.
Sirius was waiting for me in the car. Usually I don’t leave him there for more than an hour, but dogs aren’t welcome in the Police Administration Building. As I tell him, it’s just as well, because I wouldn’t want Sirius to get fleas.
He gave me my usual hero’s welcome, the same welcome he’d given me three times that day when I’d visited to give him walks.
“Strap in,” I told him. “We got to get home pronto.”
The traffic gods apparently disagreed. It was a stop-and-go ride almost all the way home, which gave me even less time to clean.
My partner watched my mad dash around the house. I vacuumed, mopped and swept. I took on dust, dog hair, and clutter. There were bed sheets to change-it didn’t hurt to hope-and bathrooms to be cleaned. There was calcified toothpaste that had to be scraped away that must have dated back to Jen’s death. Her hand had been sorely missed in the cleaning of the house; her arms around me had been missed much more.
“A lot of this mess is yours,” I told Sirius. “The least you could do is offer a paw.”
My partner apparently didn’t do windows, but judging from his wagging tail he was pleased by my efforts, or at least my running around.
There had been no fire in the fireplace for years. Jennifer’s death had something to do with that, as well as my not wanting to build a fire for just one, but the biggest factor for the cold hearth was my night of fire walking with Ellis Haines. Sitting in front of a roaring fire no longer comforted me. Once burned, twice shy. Still, the night was chilly and Lisbet would likely welcome a fire. Besides, a little smoke in the house might help with the lingering scent of eau de dog. I tentatively gathered the makings of a fire and found a pack of wooden matches to ignite the
