Act of God

techs in surgical masks started their macabre rituals. Then we left her partner with them and moved up to Traci Wickmire’s apartment. Cross had me sit on the floor in the hall outside as she interviewed Wickmire and I assumed Myra as well. While I waited, another detective from Homicide arrived and started canvassing the neighbors. Given the basement location of Teagle’s apartment, I didn’t have high hopes for that.
    After half an hour, Cross came out with some keys in her hand. “Let’s go downstairs.”
    “I doubt the air’s much better yet.”
    She looked at me. “Darbra Proft’s place.”
    I stood. “Hope you like eau de cat.”

    “Christ, Cuddy, you weren’t kidding.”
    “I doubt anybody’s changed the litter.”
    “So this is the way you found it?”
    “This is the way Wickmire showed it to me, except for what I handled and what the cat might have moved around since.”
    Cross bent down to scratch Tigger behind the ears. “Ms. Wickmire seemed awfully touchy about her sexual preference.”
    “I got the same impression.”
    “You think it could have anything to do with this here?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t even know about her preference until an hour ago.”
    Tigger started purring and nudging his head hard into Cross’s hand. She said, “Poor little guy.”
    “He may be eligible for adoption.”
    She looked up at me. “You figure this Darbra Proft is dead.”
    “The last link I can find with her being alive was Teagle.” Cross stood, went to the antique cherry table, and sat down. “Tell me.”
    I summarized my talk with Frank Utt at Jolly Cholly’s. She lowered her pen. “So, our ‘foxy lady’ makes a big deal about people knowing she’s there, then doesn’t bother to say good-bye.”
    “And whatever was in the motel sink, it doesn’t look like it went on the convertible.”
    “We’ll impound the car, run it through, and find out for sure.” Cross fixed me with that good, intimidating stare. “So, what more do you have on this?”
    “Nothing that makes any sense.”
    “Let’s give it a try anyway.”
    We did.
    She nodded, but more from resignation than agreement. “Generally, you get a killer finds a way that works, he sticks with it.”
    “The poker, you mean.”
    “Pokers.”
    “Granted, but why kill Teagle even if he did kill Darbra Proft?”
    “I don’t get it. Seems neither of your clients would’ve done it. Shit, the brother Proft’d pin a medal on him, maybe even split the insurance if Teagle’d just show the adjuster where the body was. And the widow—if Darbra was punching the husband?—old Pearl ought to have kissed Teagle, avenging her honor, so to speak.”
    “Cross, I think you have a warped view of human relations.”
    “It’s the job, Cuddy. Makes you lose touch with the brighter side of life.”
    “Okay if I still look into Proft’s disappearance and the Rivkind killing?”
    Cross closed up her pad. “Give us a day first, let my people and me talk to these folks. Tomorrow’s the Fourth. Take some time off, celebrate the founding of this great country of ours.”
    I wasn’t going to argue with her.

21

    “I think I’m mimosa comatosa.”
    “Have to learn to nurse them, counselor.”
    “But then all the bubbles go away.”
    “Life is compromise.”
    Her head resnuggled itself against the right side of my chest. “But not today, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    We were lying on an old comforter Nancy had found in the back of her hall closet. The grass under us was short and sweet, the Parks Department having mowed it for the
    holiday.
    More resnuggling. “It was a great idea, John, staying in
    the city like this.”
    The pleasure craft were politely jockeying for position in
    the Charles River in front of us, the MDC patrol boat herding them away from the dormant fireworks barge like a Belgian shepherd tending its flock. Three Hispanic kids were learning how to fly a kite with their father, the tail of the kite in red, white, and blue. A double date of college students roller-bladed by us, one couple expert and waving small American flags, the other awkward and holding hands to keep each other up. A fortyish guy in a beard, blue jeans, and no shirt strummed a guitar and sang old folk songs, mostly to himself until he noticed he’d attracted a gaggle of listeners and raised his voice a bit. He reminded me more of my squandered youth than Rush Teagle’s curtailed one but it was enough to make me turn back toward the boats!
    I