Samson's Deal: A Laid-Back Bay Area Mystery (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series) (16 page)

She looked at me peculiarly. Maybe she thought that was an odd question for a reporter to ask. “No. I don’t think I ever saw him angry at all, at anything. Debbi was the angry one. Little bitch, actually.”

“How did Margaret Bursky behave toward Debbi?”

Again that curious look. “She ignored her.” Jayne Doherty’s answers were getting noticeably shorter, her eyes wandering toward the bedroom.

“What were your feelings about Margaret Bursky? What did you think of her?”

She shrugged. “Attractive. Kind of soulful. The mysterious artist type. I imagine that sort of thing turns young men on.” Her eyes wavered once again. Denny was laughing at some old movie. “Older men, too, I suppose. She was all right. But depressive. Very depressive. It depressed me to be around her. She probably killed herself.” Doherty stood up. I was getting my signal to get out of there and let her get on with her evening’s entertainment. My head was throbbing and my ribs were aching, and I thought I might as well leave.

“If I come up with any other questions, may I call you again?”

She looked at me vaguely. “Of course. Any time.” I put my glass down on the coffee table and took my leave.

I must have been tired because I forgot about the dog and damn near jumped out of my skin when it went into its act.

My conversation with Jayne Doherty had given me some gap-fillers and some questions. I’d known that Debbi was jealous of Bursky and Cutter and that she disliked the dead woman. Now I knew that Debbi was in Cutter’s political group and that Bursky, too, had gone to a meeting of
CORPS
.

But all that Debbi and Eddie stuff was just so much confirmation of earlier information and guesswork. What was really interesting was Bursky’s refusal to let Eddie have any of her drawings. I had been assuming that she kept her stuff at Cutter’s so Harley wouldn’t see that she’d been drawing pictures of people who hated him. Now I knew that was unlikely. So how did he get them? And when?

I looked at my watch. It was very late, but I called Debbi anyway. She sounded groggy, yet she denied that she’d been sleeping. I apologized for the lateness of the call. She said that was all right and why didn’t I come right over? I was surprised. She seemed awfully eager to get me over there. Maybe, I thought nervously, Frank had decided to kill me after all. Maybe he was there now, at Debbi’s, waiting. I dismissed the thought. I wanted to see her anyway.

Debbi was alone and she was in worse shape than I was. She looked like the loser in a badly matched heavyweight bout, with a bandage over one eyebrow, a black eye, a purple cheekbone, a grazed and swollen jaw, a cut lip, and a red nose. I figured the nose was red from crying, because it didn’t look damaged. She had a little trouble walking and held her left arm up against her rib cage.

I was remembering three things. Debbi had been involved in
CORPS
, the person that Frank said he’d taken care of was a “she,” and Frank was partial to jaws and ribs.

“So,” I said, “you’re the one Frank beat up.”

She didn’t look surprised that I’d guessed what had happened to her. Her eyes were blank with the special blankness of exhausted fear. She didn’t answer me and she didn’t say anything about my own injuries. I followed her in and sat down.

“How come you told the cops about Eddie Cutter?” I asked gently.

She looked at me, one eye bright with tears, the other half closed, “I didn’t.”

And I didn’t believe her any more than Frank had. “Because you’re in love with him?”

“He’s a rotten bastard.” Somehow, coming out of Debbi’s mouth, the words were shocking.

“Last time I talked to you, you told me you didn’t know what there was between Eddie and Margaret Bursky. That wasn’t true, was it? Were you protecting him?”

She answered indirectly. “It didn’t last long enough to be called an affair.”

“How long did it last?”

“Just a week or so. Then she stopped it. She said it was wrong.”

“How did he feel about that?”

“He was a little angry, but I don’t think he really felt much of anything else. I don’t think he feels anything at all about anybody.” The tears spilled over, and she winced when she wiped them off her bruises.

“When did Frank beat you up?”

“Want some wine?”

“No. Why does he think you called the police about Cutter?”

“I want some wine.”

I could see then that some of her unsteadiness had to do with alcohol. The bottle she poured from was three-quarters empty. She drank her wine in three gulps and poured more, then stayed behind the bar so it formed a barrier between us. She was scared and she wanted company, but she didn’t want to talk about Frank.

“Okay,” I said. “Forget it.” I got up to leave.

“You already know, so why ask me?”

I sat down again.

“Who killed Margaret Bursky?”

“I don’t know, really. I don’t know. But I think Eddie did it. Listen, I can’t talk to you. Frank would kill me.”

“No one will ever know you told me anything. If you know too much, they may kill you anyway. If they’re caught, they won’t be able to.”

“Maybe they followed you here.”

“Nobody followed me here.” I was pretty sure of that. Beatings make me cautious.

She shook her head. I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to clear it or whether she was denying something—my reliability, her safety, her willingness to go even further in implicating Cutter or the group.

“Why do you think Cutter killed her?”

“I can’t talk about this. I can’t get mixed up in it. I’d lose my job. You think they want someone who’s mixed up in something like this? They’d fire me if they knew I was in a political group, let alone involved in a murder.” Her panic about her job seemed a bit overdrawn, but I guessed it could be real. As real as her switch from protecting Cutter to accusing him of murder?

“Are you still in a political group?” She shook her head. I tried a different angle. I would make statements, and she would confirm or deny. “So. You called the police and told them Cutter set the fire because he was involved with Margaret Bursky.”

“No!”

“You didn’t tell the police, but you think he killed her?”

“That’s right. I don’t know who told them. Frank was so sure it was me, but it wasn’t.” Maybe she had and maybe she hadn’t. The other half of the question was more important. I repeated it.

“Why do you think he killed her?”

“Look, won’t you have some wine with me? I don’t want to keep drinking alone.”

She was a miserable sight. The respectable young woman, the rising executive. The establishment baby. With her face all marked up. Involved with people who broke the law. And now she was drinking alone, too. I accepted some wine, even though I didn’t think I was up to drinking.

She brought it to me and sat with me again.

“Why do you want to know about what I think? Are you really just a writer?”

“If you have proof he killed her, why haven’t you gone to the police?” I knew the answer but I wanted to push her to talk more.

“I told you. How many times do I have to tell you?” Drink was pumping up her spirit. She was exasperated with me. “I can’t get mixed up in this. I just want to get out of this crummy mess with my job and my life.”

“But you don’t want someone to get away with murder, do you?”

She tried to sneer. It hurt her lip. “Why should I care?” She wasn’t convincing. She had hesitated, and there had been a different kind of pain in her eyes. I wondered if I had, as the therapy addicts say, “pushed a button.” A law-and-order button. Maybe she was a total innocent. Maybe she hadn’t joined that group only because of Cutter. Maybe she had believed that they represented American virtue. I looked at her sadly. She looked at the floor.

I decided to follow the law-and-order line.

“You don’t want to be involved, but you want the crime punished, isn’t that right, Debbi? Those people,
CORPS
, they’re just a bunch of criminals. Maybe they didn’t set the fire, as a group, but they’re protecting Cutter. Frank is, anyway.” I knew the fire had been a group idea, but I wanted to find out if she had anything to add to what I already knew. I waited for what seemed like a long time for her to say something. She didn’t. I went on. “That’s why Frank beat you up. If Eddie killed her, I’d bet Frank knows about it. That’s arson, assault, maybe even murder. You’re a responsible citizen, Debbi. You can’t just let it go.” She didn’t answer. She was still looking at the floor. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll do what I can to see that the right people are punished. Without involving you, if possible.” That made her raise her head.

“I joined that group because I really believed…” She poured herself another drink. “I really did. I thought Eddie was like a soldier, some kind of soldier.”

“Soldiers are for killing.”

She looked at my still-f glass, probably hoping she could refill it. “He was there that day.”

“The day she died? He was at her house?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“He was supposed to meet me for an early lunch. He called to say he couldn’t make it, that he had to go see Margaret.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No, but I thought it had something to do with the fire.”

“She didn’t want him to do it, right?”

Debbi nodded. “You already know a lot, don’t you?”

“Was she in that group?”

“Kind of. She’d started coming to meetings. Of course, no one knew who she was. She would sit there and listen to our plans for picketing the political science department and go along with them completely. She loved it.”

“But not the fire. She didn’t love the idea of the fire.” I didn’t ask how she herself had reconciled arson with law and order. Whatever her reasons had been, she didn’t seem to have them anymore.

“No. But Eddie thought he could convince her because they’d been, well, lovers in a way. A one-week stand,” he added scornfully.

“And he still didn’t know who she was?”

She shook her head slowly, as though it hurt. She was far from sober and she was beginning to look pale.

“When did he find out?”

“When everyone else did. After she was dead. Excuse me.” She stood up abruptly and lurched to the bathroom. I could hear her being sick.

I was remembering his notes. He had known before that. He hadn’t been able to understand why she cared, why she wouldn’t want to help with the fire. And he had gone on in a diatribe against infidelity. He had known she was Harley’s wife. But he hadn’t told anyone. Why had he kept her secret? Loyalty to her? After all, that bit of intelligence might have increased his standing with the group, and he was certainly interested in that. He had wanted to be left in charge.

So he had been the dead woman’s lover, however briefly. She had broken it off. She had disagreed with the plan to set fire to her husband’s office. He was half crazy, judging by his written ravings. He had gone to see her the day she died. Pretty good case. On the other hand, he hadn’t told the group who she was. Also—and this seemed important to me—he may have been half crazy, but he hadn’t helped Frank beat me up. And it was Frank, not Eddie, who’d gotten to Debbi. Finally, I had only Debbi’s word that he had been on Virgo Street the day of Bursky’s death. How good was her word when she had reason enough of her own to want Bursky dead? And why would he tell her where he was going if he planned to kill the woman?

What about the drawings? How had he gotten them? And was he crazy enough to kill someone and display her artwork on his apartment walls afterward? It dawned on me then that I had actually done the guy a favor by stealing everything in his apartment that connected him with Margaret Bursky. The police must have been there the next day to question him. If they’d gotten into his place, they could have seen for themselves that he knew her. Well, there was nothing I could do about any of it now. I didn’t even have the damned drawings anymore. Frank did.

Debbi returned, looking a little better. I stood up, preparing to leave. Maybe I could get to Cutter before the police grabbed him again. I needed to find out if he’d told them about my burglary.

Debbi looked scared. “You’re not going, are you?” She was pleading.

“I have to, Debbi. I still have things to do tonight. Work,” I said lamely. It was after twelve. She didn’t believe me. Writers don’t work after twelve.

“Please. Don’t go. I’m afraid to be alone.” She was all messed up, drunk, crying, scared half to death, but she still had some dignity. “He might come back. He might decide to kill me.” She had taken hold of my shoulders. If she had looked pathetic, I might have been able to go. But she didn’t. She looked like a frightened woman. Frightened for good cause and asking my help. I glanced with some misgivings at the couch. It didn’t look comfortable, and the way my body felt, that was a big consideration. She caught my look.

“No, not there,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

I didn’t feel much like sleeping with her. I guess I didn’t seem too enthusiastic because she blushed and let go of my shoulders.

“I don’t mean anything by it. I’m not asking you to do anything. I just want someone near. I couldn’t, anyway.”

So I decided to go along with her. Maybe I wasn’t too eager to be alone myself that night. I would try getting to Cutter early in the morning, before the mail was delivered and the cops picked him up again.

Debbi took a nightgown out of a drawer and disappeared into the bathroom. I stripped down to my shorts and climbed into the queen-sized waterbed. It felt good, like the womb. Warm, firm, and soft, like flesh. I wasn’t used to sleeping in my shorts. I wasn’t used to sleeping in anything. But I was drifting peacefully when she came back. The nightgown came to her knees. It had short sleeves and was buttoned up to her neck. She stumbled on a throw rug, caught herself, and got in beside me. The minute she lay down and relaxed, the tears came again. I could feel her shaking with sobs. I reached over and patted her shoulder. She came close and pressed against my side, crying on my upper arm. Then she lifted her right leg over my thigh. Just cuddling, I thought. I could feel the hem of her nightgown. It was moving up as her thigh slid over mine. It moved all the way up until I felt her pubic hair brushing against me. She was not crying anymore. She was biting my neck. Her grip tightened and her hips began to move. Then she reached down and touched me.