The Prodigal Son (33 page)

“I wish I believed you,” the Commissioner said.

“Why don’t you?” Carmine yelled, exasperated. “I’m not trying to justify Hunter or minimize his deeds, I’m just trying to make you see that Millie at least isn’t a target. That’s the most we can hope for, given her blindness to Hunter’s real nature combined with the fact that we can’t arrest him.”

“I fear for Millie,” Silvestri maintained, unimpressed.

“We
all
fear for Millie, John, but there’s not a thing we can do, so drop it,” said Carmine harshly.

Desdemona sided with Silvestri.

“Millie is definitely in danger,” she said, searing her frying pan with a good OP brandy and watching it hiss and bubble to a brown nothing. She stirred in some home-made tomato sauce, a little horseradish cream, and when they were sizzling, a half-cup of full cream. A quick stir to a bubble, and the sauce was drizzled over two steaks sitting on two plates. The larger was slid in front of Carmine, who added little potato balls simmered in beef stock, and loaded his salad bowl.

“I adore you,” he said, mouth full.

“Never more so than when I feed you, love,” she said with enormous complacence.

“What makes you think Millie is in danger, especially in light of what Hunter had to say about her equal putative guilt? To me, that indicated he has to keep her alive,” he said when his plate and bowl were empty save for the steak fat, and a cup of tea sat steaming.

“I agree that Jim murders from necessity not psychopathia. I also agree that Millie alive is a great protection for him. But if Millie offends him deeply enough, he’ll kill her without missing a step. His ego is even bigger than his brain, but the brain will ensure that if his ego says she must be killed, you won’t be able to prove he did it — and there will be another Millie waiting to step into her vacant slot.”

“A new Millie can’t replace the old,” Carmine countered, “not from the way he talked this morning. Millie’s his equal suspect.”

“Even dead, she can fill that role. And since her substitute will be another slave to Jim, he can create another suspect.”

Carmine gave a Bronx cheer. “That’s stretching it too fine, Desdemona. You make it sound like Hunter has a whole stable of potential slaves and believes he can brainwash them the way he has Millie. Well, he can’t. They were kids together when it all started. I maintain that Millie is unique.”

“A replacement Millie won’t be manipulated in the same way,” Desdemona said stubbornly, “but Jim will make the relationship work for him exactly as he wants it to. Did you ever find the gun used on Mrs. Tinkerman?”

“No. The apartment on State Street and both the Hunter labs were searched, and produced nothing. He could have a locker somewhere, anywhere — a bus or train station — or a safety deposit box in a bank.”

“Then let us hope and pray that the book does everything it’s supposed to. If Millie is strong enough to divert a good proportion of the royalties into her home, they may be all right. Just maybe. If you look at the situation dispassionately, Carmine, Jim has been stealing from Millie ever since she obtained a grant income — that would have been at Caltech in California. Her salary would always have been university modest, but ample for her to buy a few dresses and shoes as well as steak and fish for her table. But no, she’s handed her money over to Jim, who ploughs it into
his
work,
his
facilities. How much of his equipment does Chubb or a grant committee own, versus how much is in his name? There’s no law against it, it’s just that most researchers like to live reasonably and so don’t do it. Jim does, always has. I mean, I know what research is like. No one comes around, even once a year, to check the serial numbers on the equipment. If it’s being sold off for nefarious purposes it will be found out, but if it’s just taken to be used in some other lab of the same institution — who knows? The person who lost it — in Jim’s case, Millie. But is she going to report Jim? No, never! She simply goes to his lab to use what’s actually hers.”

“Keep going,” Carmine said, fascinated.

“Millie is a variation on a very common theme.” Desdemona sounded stern, unforgiving. “I mean the abused wife. Think a
bit about it! She’s not beaten or terrorized, yet she exists at the grace and favor of a man who regards her as his property, as a convenience, as an asset to advance himself, never her. He steals her income, perhaps the fruits of her research, her time, her energy and even her youth. Everything she does is to gratify him because she has no sense of self-worth. He stole that too. His world believes that he loves her madly, but does he, Carmine? Millie believes he does. Well, I don’t. I think that Millie is his property, and he’s proprietorial. He abuses her.”

“It’s a valid argument,” Carmine said, his dinner suddenly not sitting well.

Desdemona wasn’t finished. “They’ve been Chubb faculty for over two years. Millie should have been prosperous enough to dress, and the pair prosperous enough to live in a decent place. Now all of a sudden they’ve moved to a good house in a really good neighborhood. Why? Because, I believe, someone told Jim in no uncertain terms that he had to loosen the purse strings. It’s not a subject anyone at C.U.P. would have raised because university presses don’t think in personal terms. Chauce Millstone telling Jim the journalists would think it odd to find him living in a semi-slum with a beautiful wife who doesn’t own a good frock? No! I think Davina Tunbull told Jim, and that makes me wonder how well they know each other.”

“What would I ever do without you?” Carmine asked, awed. “Do you really think that once the dollars pile up, Hunter might see Millie as expendable?”

“I think it’s a possibility,” said Desdemona. “Why not take the dog for a walk? The exercise will settle your tummy.”

The interview kept intruding; after two fruitless hours in his laboratory, Jim Hunter gave up and went home. He was almost to their old apartment on State Street before he realized that they were living in East Holloman now; chuckling quietly at the images of an absent-minded professor that had invaded his thoughts, he drove to Barker Street. When he noticed that a very ordinary beige car also seemed to recollect that it was going to East Holloman rather than Caterby Street, he gave an involuntary shiver. The cops had someone on his tail. His every destination would be noted down, examined. Then, after the shock wore off, he whiled away the rest of his journey in dreaming up things he could do to confuse and upset Operation Hunter. The fools!

An ideal house, he thought, walking up the path to the front porch, and groping in his pocket for the key Millie had given him. Its advent was perfect, and the royalties would buy it, just as they would better clothes for him and Millie, good food on the table — he would miss their pizza meals, the Big Macs. Food to Jim Hunter was just fuel to keep going.

Yes, the timing was perfect. Finally he had the right number of technicians and post-doctoral fellows, all the equipment he could possibly need, and sufficient space. He could afford to let Millie turn from helpmate to housewife, since clearly this was what she wanted; his next grant, a huge one, was in the bag according to a letter in this morning’s post. Knowing it, he had faced Carmine Delmonico more
sanguinely. Chief suspect? No, the big cop was
sure
he was the culprit, purely on lack of evidence! Well, he’d turned that one on its head! The fools! Couldn’t they see that what went for him also went for Millie?

Delmonico must be desperate. First, he’d denied them the hope of demanding a lawyer: to demand a lawyer was an admission of guilt, everybody knew that. Then he’d tossed them Millie as an equal suspect. End of game, stalemate for Delmonico.

The house’s interior reeked of fresh paint — why did people bother with absurdities like a coat of paint? The underlying structure was as sound as a bell, he was engineer enough to appreciate that, and the paint hadn’t even been necessary. No, Millie didn’t like the
color
, therefore she would change the color. This new Millie took some getting used to.

She came flying to land in his arms, kiss his lips, hug him feverishly — poor little love, she was worried.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, meeting her gaze, his own eyes filled with love. “Captain Delmonico has no one to pin these murders on, so he’s picked me because of the tetrodotoxin. It doesn’t matter, honey, honestly! All he can do is speculate. He even had to admit that the killer could as easily be you as me, except that you’re family. Seems to me like a weird way to run a murder investigation, automatically excluding suspects for no better reason than that they’re family, but …”

The tears fell. “Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry! If I hadn’t gone to Daddy and reported the stuff missing, none of this would have happened. It’s all my fault!”

“Sssh, sssh! You were right to report the theft, Millie. The tetrodotoxin
was
used to commit murder, so not to have reported it would have been far worse.” He gave a wry laugh. “I’d bet Delmonico is wishing I was an ordinary black man — I’d be in a cell by now, and the bruises don’t show in black skin.”

Her face grew horrified in a split second. “Jim, no! You can’t say that of Carmine or the Holloman PD! You can’t!”

“Okay, I won’t.” He followed her into the kitchen, where she was obviously making a start on dinner. “This is one of those rare occasions when I feel like a stiff drink,” he said.

“Then isn’t it lucky I started a bar in case we had housewarming visitors?” she asked, smiling. “Bourbon? Club soda? Or Coke? The new freezer makes its own ice cubes and tips them into a tray, isn’t that neat?”

“Hit me,” he said, sitting down on a good-looking chair at a good-looking table.

In answer she brought him the bottle, a bowl of ice cubes and a can of Club soda. “I went to Marciano’s butchery and got us some real lamb chops for dinner — New Zealand, can you imagine? He told me it’s better than ours because ours is raised on grain and theirs on grass — makes ours taste muttonish. I can’t make my own French fries yet, so they’re frozen, and the vinaigrette is out of a bottle, but I’ll improve. There’s a lot of you to keep up, James Keith Hunter.”

“I’m putting thirty thousand in an account in your name, Millie,” he said, drinking gratefully. “It’s payback time. Chauce says C.U.P. is happy to advance against royalties at this stage,
and Vina says you should be wearing better clothes. Good quality make-up. French perfume. My fame will rub off on you, and you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He poured another drink, this time diluted with Club soda. “I have to find a tailor and have some clothes made for my own back — no more hired tuxes.”

“Call Abe Goldberg, he’ll tell you where to go.”

“Millie, are you sure you want to stop your research?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you know why I love you so much?” he asked as the warm glow of liquor coursed through him.

“Tell me again,” she said, fussing at the counter.

“Because you’ve never believed for one millisecond that I stole your tetrodotoxin,” he said, and smiled. “The latest in an endless line of selfless loyalties.”

The wonderful trill of laughter she could give when utterly overjoyed erupted; her eyes went shyly to his, face beaming, cheeks flushed. “Have I really got so much money?” she asked.

“You will tomorrow, about noon. First National on the Green, and ask for the manager. He’ll do the paperwork.”

“I’ll make you proud,” she promised. “For eighteen years the world has stared at us for nothing more than our color, but in future color will be the least of why it stares.”

TUESDAY, MARCH 4
until
THURSDAY, APRIL 3

1969

TUESDAY, MARCH 4, until FRIDAY, MARCH 7, 1969

F
or once the judicial system had hustled. The trial of Miss Uda Savovich for the first degree murder of Mrs. Emily Ada Tunbull came on in near record time. Anthony Bera handled his share of jury selection shrewdly; when it was empaneled the jury consisted of six men and six women — four African-American and eight Caucasian-American. Their occupations ran from unemployed to a house cleaner to an accountant. Like all jurors, they were pleased at having drawn an interesting case, and as jury pay was atrocious, they were also pleased that it bade fair to be a short business.

Uda made no effort to improve her appearance. She wore the same grey uniform dress, no make-up, scant reddish hair pulled back. Unprepossessing, yes, but also quite harmless looking. Benignly damaged. To Carmine, she seemed subtly more crippled than she used to be, but if it were an act, it was so well done that he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what and
where the changes were. Maybe, he was forced to think, the strain of this whole business had worsened her naturally?

The office of the District Attorney ran a simple case that made no reference to any other murder than Emily Tunbull’s. The woman had died of a rare and almost undetectable poison, she was vaguely related through marriage to and in fairly close geographical proximity to the Defendant, who had both a full and an empty vial of the poison concealed on her premises. There was a long history of dissent between the Victim, the Defendant, and the Defendant’s twin sister, Mrs. Davina Tunbull. Only one ultimate source of the poison existed, a person known to all the Tunbulls, and therefore also to the Defendant.

Evidence was given by the Medical Examiner’s witnesses that Emily Tunbull had died of tetrodotoxin orally administered in a carafe of water that stood in clear view on a shelf in her sculpting studio, a shed in the backyard of her home. The padlock securing its door was one of seven similar padlocks having the same key. Therefore to enter the studio and add the poison to the water was not beyond the Defendant’s capabilities.

Millie was called to testify that she had manufactured the poison in her laboratory, and had reported the theft of a significant amount to her father, Holloman County’s Medical Examiner. Born teacher that she was, she explained tetrodotoxin to the jury on a simple, understandable level. Incredibly lethal!