The Drowning Pool (4 page)

“Actually, I’ve always thought that like people have a greater tendency to come together,” he responded. “But that may just be the cynical eye of a policeman.”

Bert returned and he rose to his feet.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. McNeill. We may have to call on you again.”

She let out a deep sigh. “I understand.”

Outside the apartment, Gardner turned to St. Croix. “Did you find anything?”

“Except for a lot of expensive clothes that we couldn’t afford on a cop’s salary, no, not one damn thing.”

“And her story? I know you were listening; what did you think of it?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to have all the answers so why ask me?” She began walking away from him. He moved quickly to catch up with her.

“A man keels over at a concert performance. The conductor calls for a doctor who finds the man has died of a massive coronary. From the balcony, a little, old lady shouts out: ‘Give him some chicken soup!’ The exasperated doctor says: ‘Madam, the man is dead.’ The old lady calls back, ‘so what can it hurt?’”

Bert shook her head. “Is that supposed to be funny? What does it have to do with our case?”

“People think differently. Sometimes, the way they think isn’t logical. Take Ms. McNeill for instance. She doesn’t appear to be taking her boyfriend’s death hard. Yet she claims she loved him. It almost seems as if she knew about what happened before we told her.”

“You got nothing there,” Bert said, “just conjecture.”

Gardner felt St. Croix’s quick anger, the way he’d have felt a box cutter blade. “Don’t suppose you’d care to talk about what’s really bothering you?”

Bert narrowed her hard, electric eyes. “I don’t follow you.”

“Look, we can’t work this way. I’m not trying to force the issue. It’s just that when cops aren’t working as a team, it can be dangerous.”

“Maybe I just don’t trust small town cops.”

“If you really feel that way then why did you come out here to work? Why didn’t you stay in New York City? I know you had a good record there.”

“Let it alone,” Bert said.

“You hate it out here?”

“You really don’t quit, do you?” Her eyes blazed.

“What? You haven’t found happiness here in beautiful suburbia?”

“I made a mistake.”

Gardner didn’t know what to say. The shuttered eyes, the clenched jaw, the bitter tone of voice testified to St. Croix’s inaccessibility. Her secrets were her own and she would be a hard person to know.

“It’s all changing and especially here. Plenty of middle-class people of all races are moving into the suburbs. This area is becoming more multi-cultural all the time.”

“I didn’t like the way the captain came on to me with that bogus rap jive about how much I was going to learn from you. I’m not a novice. I don’t need training. I mean, this is a hick town police force in a place where the local industry is sweet shops. I resent the attitude of superiority. I could show all of you a thing or two. There isn’t much I haven’t seen or had to deal with.” She squared her shoulders and set her angular jaw, a handsome woman with skin the color of mocha cream and an aura of determined pride.

Gardner didn’t doubt Bert could handle just about anything. Merely the physical size and power of the woman would intimidate most lawbreakers. Yet Gardner had the feeling she was like a time bomb, just ticking away and waiting for detonation. He had a choice: either figure a way to defuse St. Croix or else stand back and avoid the explosion. The latter would be the sensible, safe course of action, but Gardner knew better than most that all of life was uncertain and entailed risk.

“Are you hurling a challenge at me?” He kept his tone quiet, non-threatening.

“No, just stating facts.”

“Generous of you.”

There wasn’t much point in telling Bert that he hadn’t always lived or worked in the suburbs, that he started his career patrolling the streets of Newark—mean streets that looked a whole lot worse than pictures of Berlin after it was leveled in l945. He recalled a statement of past Mayor Ken Gibson that if you wanted to know where other cities were going, all you had to do was look where Newark had already been. But no, there wasn’t any point in trying to explain.

THREE

Kim slept late, which was unusual for her. She dreamt about her friend Lorette Campbell, whom she hadn’t thought about for several months. It was a strange dream. In it, they were back on campus taking an English class together as they once had done.

Halfway through the lecture, Lorette turned to her. “It’s such a shame we can’t do this anymore. I hate being dead.”

Kim woke up with a start. She found herself sweating and at the same time chilled. Such a creepy dream. Lorette was dead, murdered. Probably it was visiting the pool club last night that had precipitated the nightmare.

She felt a sudden longing, a need to talk to her mother. She reached for her cell phone and scrolled down to her mother’s number. The answering machine picked up. It seemed Ma wasn’t available at the moment. Kim left a brief message and clicked off. She didn’t much like talking to machines. Too impersonal for her tastes.

She had the whole day ahead of her and wasn’t certain quite what to do with it. She wanted to be with Mike but knew he was working. Besides, after their discussion last evening, it might be better if she gave him some space, no matter what he might say to the contrary. Too bad about the murder at the pool; she wouldn’t have minded lounging there herself today. Under normal circumstances, she couldn’t think of a better place to relax.

Kim looked at herself in the mirror and decided a haircut might be in order. Her hair was getting long, the dark mahogany falling in thick waves. She usually wore it pulled back in an austere chignon at work, and during hot weather like this, in a ponytail around the apartment.

The phone rang; she assumed it was Ma calling back but it turned out to be Mike.

“So what are you doing on your first day of vacation?”

“Not much of anything so far. I might sit in the courtyard and read a novel for a while. Soak up some sun.”

“How about spending the evening with me? I’d like to take you and the girls out to dinner.”

She smiled. That was thoughtful of him to want to include her. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up as soon as I get off work. The girls will be home from day camp by then. We can all chow down and share our day.”

“You don’t think it might be awkward between us?” she asked in a tentative manner.

“Who says we have to agree on everything. I’m not that insecure. Besides, I intend to be very persuasive.”

“You really think you can change my mind?”

“I know I can. I’ve got plans.”

Funny how just hearing his deep, masculine voice thrilled her straight down to her toes.

So he planned on courting her. Well, she could certainly do with a bit of that!

* * * *

“Where to?” Bert asked.

“How about April Nevins’ apartment?”

But they did not go directly there. It was lunchtime and they were both hungry. They drove out to Route 9, and Gardner fittingly stopped at the La Reine Diner just a mile from the garden apartment development complex. Too bad he couldn’t be with Kim for lunch. Well, he was looking forward to the evening.

The air conditioning provided a welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside. Bert chose the rear booth and slid into the gunfighter’s seat, back to the wall. Gardner, sitting opposite her, smiled at her degree of caution.

St. Croix wasn’t stupid or reckless; Gardner found that reassuring. A heavily perfumed waitress brought them some menus then swiped their table with a few strokes of a dirty cloth.

Gardner caught sight of himself on the mirrored ceiling. He saw his own thoughtful, calm gray eyes reflected back at him. There was nothing exceptional about the light gray summer suit that matched his eyes, or the sprinkle of gray at the temples of his dark brown hair, which made him look deceptively more like an accountant than a cop. Only the hard lines and sharp angles of his face gave him a certain air of granite strength.

After they ordered, Gardner sat back and relaxed in the coolness. The waitress returned quickly with two frosted glasses of iced coffee. About then, Mike heard a commotion in the front of the diner and twisted around to see what was causing the disturbance. There were three boys arguing with a man he recognized as the manager. Then he saw the gun, black and shiny. Bert was fast on her feet. For such a big woman, she could move with surprising speed and agility. She zeroed in on the scene, impressive Smith & Wesson 327 TRR8 revolver drawn.

“I’m a police officer; what’s the trouble here?”

The manager, visibly shaken, glanced at the badge Bert flashed.

“I told these punks never to come back here again. Every time they show up, they buy a lousy coke, then hang around and bother the customers and my waitresses. Now they come here with a gun!”

The boys exchanged looks, the weapon holder giving the other two a cocky smile.

“Drop the pistol, kid.” St. Croix spoke with easy authority.

The boy ignored her and continued to point his weapon at the manager, arrogantly surveying Bert as his two friends moved slightly away.

“What if I don’t like giving it up, bitch?” St. Croix moved toward him. “Hey, keep away, you get me pissed, something bad could happen to you!”

Bert brought the side of her left palm down on the boy’s extended arm, the movement hard and fast. Then she followed up with one sharp kick to the knee. The arrogant expression disappeared from the boy’s face, replaced by one of agony as he fell to the floor and began moaning. Bert picked up the boy’s gun and holstered her own.

“Damn, it’s not even real.”

“It’s just a toy, officer. We were going to play a little joke on the prick manager is all,” one of the other two boys said nervously to Bert, his pock-marked face reminiscent of craters on the moon’s surface.

“Assholes, you got no sense at all. I want the three of you out of here right now. I’ll keep your little toy. Don’t ever try anything like this again, and never come back here.” Her voice softly insinuated all kinds of harm.

“My knee! I can’t walk!”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t your groin.”

The two boys helped their companion to his feet. He was still breathing hard and moving unsteadily but managed to leave fast enough.

“Thanks a lot, officer,” the manager said, a grateful smile spreading across his thin lips. “Anything you want is on the house. It’s the least I can do.”

St. Croix frowned. “I pay my own way,” she responded. “If those kids show up again, call us right off.”

Back at the booth, she shoved the toy pistol across the table to Gardner, who examined it with interest.

“Damn thing looks like a real Luger,” she said with contempt.

“Sure does,” Gardner agreed, turning it over in his hand. His opinion was confirmed: St. Croix was very comfortable in situations that demanded immediate and violent action.

“You never told me, is Bert a nickname?”

“Short for Roberta. My mother favored that name. Had an Aunt Roberta once upon a time.”

* * * *

Bert glanced at her watch when they reached the apartment of the Nevins woman. It was just six p.m. The apartment was located on the ground floor and she could see into the front window, but it was dark inside. She heard voices. The lights went on as soon as she rang the bell the second time. Still, no one came to the door. Impatiently, she rang the doorbell again. Finally, a woman’s voice with a shrill edge called out to them.

“Go away, whoever you are. I’m busy.”

“Police, Miss Nevins, we want to ask you some questions concerning the death of Richard Bradshaw.” Gardner’s statement was clear and concise. He was well-spoken; she would grant him that. He was different from most of the cops she knew in many ways, more of a gentleman, better-mannered.

“Come back some other time.” The voice sounded irritated.

Bert spoke up. “If we have to come back, you’ll be answering questions at police headquarters.” That got results; the door opened a crack.

“Look, I can’t see anybody right now,” the woman said. “I’m not feeling good. Come back later.”

“We need to see you, and it has to be now,” Bert insisted.

“Get a warrant then.” She started to shut the door, but Bert gave it a quick heave with her shoulder and walked inside. Gardner quickly followed.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Nevins shouted.

“We aren’t here to give you a hard time,” Gardner said in a conciliatory, soothing manner. “We just want the answers to a few questions.”

Bert could tell from the way Gardner glanced at her that he was not exactly thrilled with her methods. She shrugged; getting results was what mattered. She began looking around the apartment, which was in the nature of a studio or efficiency. The room they were in served as both bedroom and living room. A convertible sofa was pulled out, and had obviously been occupied at the time of their arrival.

The room was messy, clothes scattered, newspapers and magazines thrown around, accumulations of dust on the furniture. Smells of stale tobacco and burnt coffee permeated the atmosphere, offending her nostrils. Slovenly bitch, this April Nevins.

Her eyes shifted to the woman. She wore a gossamer thin, close-fitting vermilion negligee and nothing underneath. The full swell and hardened nipples of her breasts were clearly defined by the negligee that came open as she moved, revealing firm, well-tanned thighs. She glanced over at Gardner and was amused by the fact that he appeared uncomfortable.

“Look, I can’t help you. I hardly knew the guy.”

“We got a different impression,” Bert said, keeping her tone flat.

“From who?”

April Nevins was shorter than Cheryl McNeill and definitely more voluptuous. Her well-rounded body was that of a woman, not a girl. Bert judged her to be at least thirty—although carefully made up, she could have passed for younger. Tousled, light brown hair was sun-streaked with blond, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors. Looking away from her, Bert caught sight of some articles of interest lying on the floor. The first was a condom, the second a pair of men’s briefs. She called Gardner’s attention to both.