The Love Potion Murders In The Museum Of Man Part 14

"Why is life amazing?"

"Why did you become a lab a.s.sistant?"

"It's where the action is, isn't it? I mean the men doing this work are the modern giants, aren't they? At least I thought so. There's a lot of teeny-weenies out there."

"What are your connections with organized crime, Miss Tangent?"

She did miss half a beat on that one. She shook her head.

"You can talk to me, Miss Tangent, or we can involve the Seaboard Police Department directly. I'm sure you know the drill, the interrogation, the fingerprinting, the surveillance..."

A different Celeste looked at me, as though with a loathing that had been there all the time. "What do you want to know?"

"What was Professor Ossmann working on that would interest Moshe ben Rovich?"

"Moe? Big Moe? Moe Rovich? You gotta be kidding. n.o.body's seen Moe in years. They say he sleeps with the gefilte fish."

She was a good actress, but I didn't find her convincing. I had to conceal the sudden excitement of having hit a raw nerve. She overplayed it. She went on, elaborating when she didn't have to.

"Big Moe. Yeah, he used to hang around the Crazy Russian all the time. You'd think he owned the joint."

"He did own the joint, Miss Tangent."

"Really. n.o.body ever told me."

"He also owned the Caucasian Escort Service."

"Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. The guy was always using the escorts, sometimes two at a time."

"You have something in common, then, don't you."

As Mr. Shakur would have put it, she blew her cool at that remark. "Listen, Mr. Little Mustache, I don't have to take this s.h.i.+t from you. I know guys who could buy and sell you all day long and stick you in a hole at the end of it."

I nodded. "Perhaps if you would tell me what guys, we could be of help to you, Miss Tangent."

She stood up. "It's the other way around, pal. Take my advice. Pretend you never saw that little tape you probably keep around for jacking off. Pretend we never had this conversation. I'm doing you a favor. You can regard this as a health warning."

And with that she flounced her admirable behind out of the office, leaving the door open for dramatic effect.

Lieutenant Tracy and I met for an hour in the late afternoon going over each interview in detail. We came up with what might be called "degrees of complicity." Miss Tangent had indirectly admitted, with her threats to me, that something very untoward was or had been happening in the Genetics Lab. We surmised that Dr. Penrood was in some manner implicated, but to what extent we could not quite determine.

At one level we found it maddening that we had no real evidence pertaining to a solution of the Ossmann-Woodley murders, if that's what they are. At the same time, we knew for sure that a conspiracy of sorts existed in the Genetics Lab, and we knew at least two of the princ.i.p.als involved in it. I mentioned Diantha's observation about the potential illegal market for a powerful aphrodisiac. "Exactly," the lieutenant said. "That's exactly what I think is happening."

On another matter, he informed me that the SPD had received a lot of pressure to tell everything it knows about the disappearance of Korky k.u.mmerbund and the reappearance of his column in a way that amounts to a kind of sick parody. Both the SPD and Don Patcher of the Bugle Bugle have kept mute on the subject, leading to wider and wider speculation. I hate to say it, but I'm grateful to both of them that they have kept my name and the museum's out of it. have kept mute on the subject, leading to wider and wider speculation. I hate to say it, but I'm grateful to both of them that they have kept my name and the museum's out of it.

But Celeste Tangent. I must confess that I keep thinking about her. I don't believe I've ever met a woman more palpably s.e.xual. It wasn't just her looks, but a sense that she is, in her hour-to-hour life, a hair trigger away from amorous initiation or response. I have now watched that video clip with her and the two researchers several times, telling myself, of course, that I was looking for some detail that might help with the case.

Just last night, when I knew Elsbeth was asleep and thought Diantha had gone to a movie, I was about halfway through it when the latter came into my old study where we have the enormous television. I hit the STOP STOP b.u.t.ton, and the unmistakable image stayed on the screen. b.u.t.ton, and the unmistakable image stayed on the screen.

She took a long look and laughed, "Oh, wow, a real menage a t.w.a.t menage a t.w.a.t. So you're into amateurs, huh? I do think it's better than the professional stuff, you know, where the bimbos fake like they're really into it."

"Actually, it's evidence," I said, regaining my composure. "The man being f.e.l.l.a.t.ed is Professor Ossmann."

"The one who got murdered?"

"Yes." I hit the PLAY PLAY b.u.t.ton. b.u.t.ton.

"Too cool. So you're not just getting your jollies."

Or was I? I sat there, my heart in a wringer, reminding myself that Diantha was my daughter, my stepdaughter, it's true, but still my daughter, as she sat next to me on the couch and as l.u.s.t, in all its confusing eddies, swirled around in me.

26.

I have had some good news that's shocking in its own way. Lieutenant Tracy phoned this morning to tell me that Korky k.u.mmerbund, in a state of near starvation and in considerable disorientation, was found staggering along a back road in Worthington State Park, some twenty-five miles north of Seaboard. I called Elsbeth immediately and gave her the good news, although lately she has been in such a weakened state, I'm not sure she understood the import of what I told her.

And what a different human being I found when I walked into Seaboard General, where they took Korky for tests and recovery. He recognized me, lifted his hand to shake mine, and said, "How's Elsbeth?" His concern touched me nearly to tears, and I sat by his bed, rea.s.suring the nurse that I would not stay long.

"You're safe now, Korky," I told him. "The worst is over."

He nodded. "The worst thing was...the music."

"Music? I thought you said it was noise on a loop?"

He nodded, and a look of horror crossed his wasted face. "They played it twenty-four hours a day, over and over."

"What was it?"

He wavered a moment, as though reaching inwardly for courage. "Stockhausen," he managed. Then, "Cage." Then, "And the dodecaphonic works of Schoenberg. Over and over."

"You poor man," I said. "From the unspeakable to the unfortunate."

I was still trying to comfort him when Lieutenant Tracy showed up with Sergeant Lemure in tow. The sergeant scowled at me, but the lieutenant asked me to stay.

He conducted his interrogation with an incisiveness and gentleness I found to be the epitome of investigative professionalism. In a halting voice, Korky told us that he indeed had gone to the White Trash Grill to meet a friend. When asked what friend, he replied, "Any friend."

"You mean a pickup?" the sergeant put in rather bluntly.

Korky nodded.

"Did you meet anyone?" the lieutenant asked.

Korky nodded again.

"Can you describe him?"

"Yes. But I think he was in disguise."

"What do you mean?"

"He wore dark gla.s.ses and a fake mustache."

"Yeah but how big was he? What was he wearing?" The sergeant bulked over the bed.

Lieutenant Tracy waved him back. He asked, "Was it anyone you remember seeing before?"

"I don't think so."

"Then what happened?"

Korky shook his head. His voice was growing weak, as though powered by a fading battery. "I got into his car..."

"Do you remember the make?"

"No. Some kind of SUV...blue or gray..."

"So you got into the car."

"Yes. Then someone in the backseat put a handkerchief over my mouth and held it there. I think it had chloroform on it."

He told the detectives that the room he was kept in was as he had described it in his article. The only distinctive detail he could recall was that during the very infrequent times he was fed, the person who brought him his food was accompanied by one or two large dogs, because he thought he could hear, over the piped-in noise, the clack of their paws on the concrete floor of what he a.s.sumed to be a cellar.

When Sergeant Lemure started to follow up, I intervened, saying I thought Korky needed his rest. The sergeant looked like he wanted to punch me, but Lieutenant Tracy agreed. They would be able to be more thorough later on.

Out in the corridor, we held a brief conference. I repeated to the lieutenant that it might be useful to have someone in the SPD go over Korky's more recent reviews to find out whom he might have offended. At least to the point they would want to wreak this kind of revenge. I didn't want to make obvious the fact that the Seaboard Police should have already followed up.

The sergeant said he didn't have that kind of time and, besides, "It's probably just some kind of f.a.g thing. I mean, they're weird people."

Lieutenant Tracy nodded to his man. "Yeah, and you've got to fly to New York and run down what you can about Celeste Tangent's mob connections."

Still, the sergeant wasn't very happy when I volunteered to call Don Patcher at the Bugle Bugle to have him pull copies of Korky's reviews and send them over to me. I soothed his ruffled feathers somewhat by saying that Korky was a very close friend of my wife, and that I would be doing it as a favor to her. We did agree that we were dealing with someone possessed of a distinctly malicious sense of humor, that we had entered that realm where evil and the darkly comedic batten on each other. to have him pull copies of Korky's reviews and send them over to me. I soothed his ruffled feathers somewhat by saying that Korky was a very close friend of my wife, and that I would be doing it as a favor to her. We did agree that we were dealing with someone possessed of a distinctly malicious sense of humor, that we had entered that realm where evil and the darkly comedic batten on each other.

Speaking of which, I had another call this afternoon from Mr. Castor of Urgent Productions. He sounded a very conciliatory note, saying that he understood completely my position in regard to the museum as a backdrop to the film they were making. But not only would they treat any setting with the utmost respect, they would also clear any perspective with me personally. He a.s.sured me as well that the film would be sensitive in every possible way.

I demurred again. But in a like conciliatory spirit, I held out some hope to him, telling him I would shortly be taking the matter up with Professor Brauer.

27.

Bobette Sp.r.o.nger called me yesterday around noon to confess something I had suspected all along. In that contemporary, and to my ears graceless, accent, she went on at some length. "I know I like should have told you sooner, Mr. Ratour, but I did use the soy sauce I found in one of those little plastic tubs someone left in the fridge."

"Why," I asked, "didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because like it was against like my diet and I didn't want anyone to know I was cheating. And Mosy like likes it with soy sauce."

"Is there any of it left in the refrigerator?"

"I don't think so."

I rang off and called Lieutenant Tracy. He came over immediately, and together we drove to the library. We met in the nondescript little room where we had talked before, and Ms. Sp.r.o.nger and Mr. Jones gave him a full statement. We were in the process of checking the refrigerator with the help of Mr. Jones, who wheeled around the place with admirable mobility, when the Director of the library, a Mr. Dewey Jackson, arrived on the scene.

Our encounter with him represents an example, I can see in looking back, of the difference between real and fictionalized detective work. In that ethereal realm of Inspector Dalgliesh, for instance, the police show up at a library and are treated with respect, even deference. In reality, Mr. Jackson, thinnish, balding, bristly beard, and stringy ponytail, a child of the sixties, demanded to know exactly what we thought we were doing in his library.

Lieutenant Tracy showed his badge and suggested we retire to Mr. Jackson's office, a request that had to be given considerable thought. Mr. Jackson made it clear he considered the police at best a necessary evil. We finally returned to the stark little room and sat around the table.

Mr. Jackson demanded to know if we had a search warrant.

The lieutenant patiently explained that we were merely trying to ascertain the origin of any soy sauce brought into the building over the past several months.

"Then you are searching for something."

"Mr. Jackson..."

"Dr. Jackson."

"Dr. Jackson, we are only making preliminary inquiries..."

"I don't want you interrogating my staff without counsel present."

"We are only asking some basic questions."

"I think I should talk to the dean about this."

There he was, I thought, h.o.m.o academicus h.o.m.o academicus at his worst - petty, picky, and, despite all the bl.u.s.ter, timid. And what galled me to the quick was the realization that, not so long ago, I would have acted exactly the same way. at his worst - petty, picky, and, despite all the bl.u.s.ter, timid. And what galled me to the quick was the realization that, not so long ago, I would have acted exactly the same way.

Lieutenant Tracy sighed. Then, with an edge in his voice like cold steel, he said, "Dr. Jackson, we can go at this two ways. We, in your presence, can question the staff in a very casual way. Or you can call the dean and the lawyers. I then go and obtain search warrants. I bring in a squad of investigators. We turn the place upside down. We maybe take you in for questioning. The public has a right to know, so we have to issue statements. The media circus starts. People talk. Rumors spread."

Dr. Jackson got the point.

For all that we came up with precious little. A staff party in June had been catered by the Jade Stalk Restaurant. There had been leftovers, including little tubs of soy sauce, which, as everyone knows, have a shelf life comparable to that of salt.

In the end we agreed it was no breakthrough, but another important confirmation of what we already suspected. And there seemed little that we could do in a practical way. Issue a public health warning or a recall of all local soy sauce? That, surely, would only create a panic. Our "lead" had dwindled to a long shot, which the lieutenant said he would follow up.

On the way back to my office, he told me that Celeste Tangent had been seen several times entering the gift shop a.s.sociated with the Green Sherpa during the past week or so. It probably meant nothing, he said. But he suggested that I drop by there some time inconspicuously and get a sense of the place. He had heard the FBI had been interested in its owner, one Freddie Bain, for some time. But then, the feds never tell the locals anything.

I agreed to, but with more a sense of foreboding than alacrity, a sense I couldn't really explain to myself.