Amanda Matetsky - Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Her jeering tone was making me squirm. Would Flannagan realize that she was mocking him? Would he get mad and give us an even harder time than originally planned? I tried to think of something soothing to say-something that would calm the choppy sea between the surly detective and my irascible best friend-but finally decided it would be safer to just leave things alone.

“Let’s get started,” Flannagan said, showing no more anger (or awareness) than usual. He gestured toward the two old wooden chairs positioned in front of his old wooden desk and muttered, “Sit down.”

We did as we were told. (I don’t know about Abby, but I was glad to get off my feet.)

Flannagan sat back down behind his desk and began shuffling some papers around. While he was getting organized, I took the opportunity to look around his office-or, rather, the large bullpen in which his work area was situated.

Flannagan’s desk was one of seven in the drab, greenish-gray room, one side of which was lined with windows so dirty they barely let in any light. The desks all faced the door and were aligned along the outside wall like cars in a parking lot. A row of tall, beat-up file cabinets stood against the wall opposite the windows, narrowing the aisle running down the center of the office to a width of about four feet. (A rhino might have made it through, but never an elephant.) Except for Flannagan and the rhino-size man sitting at the first desk in the front, there were no other homicide detectives in sight (unless you want to count

me, which you probably don’t).

Flannagan slapped the papers down on his desk and lit up a Camel. His boyish, clean-shaven face was scrunched up in an ugly frown. “Okay, first things first,” he said. “Give me the names of your doctors.”

“What?!” we cried, in unison.

“The names of your doctors,” he repeated.

“Why?!” we harmonized.

“Because I told you to,” he said, sticking out his jaw and crossing his arms over his chest. He not only looked like a little boy, but he was acting like one, too. He was the bully of the playground-the one who would push you off the seesaw and steal your lunch money.

“But may I ask

why you want our doctors’ names?” I said, jumping to take the lead in the conversation before Abby could cause a scene. (One glance at her rigid posture and clenched fists, and I knew she was about to blow her stack.) “It seems such an odd request, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. I’m sure I’m a complete dunce, but I can’t help wondering what our doctors have to do with the murder of Gray Gordon.”

Sometimes it pays to be polite. My courteous and feminine (okay, totally self-deprecating) demeanor had a pacifying effect on Flannagan’s mood. His ugly frown faded, then he uncrossed his arms and removed them from his chest. Retrieving his lit cigarette from the ashtray and taking a long, slow drag, he cocked his head in my direction and tweaked his lips into something resembling a smile.

“I really don’t have to explain myself or my methods to you, Mrs. Turner,” he said, “but since you asked so nicely…” He paused for another puff on his cigarette. “I want your doctors’ names so I can contact them to verify your blood types.”

Oh, so that’s it! I said to myself. They did find more than one blood type at the crime scene. Guess they won’t be needing my bag of bloodstained clothes after all… which was a good thing, I realized, since I’d forgotten to bring the bloody stuff with me!

“After seeing the excessive carnage at the scene,” Flannagan went on, proudly launching an account of his own outstanding powers of detection, “I had a hunch the victim put up a big fight before he died. Which meant the murderer could have been wounded, too. We took blood samples from several different places in the apartment-including the bathroom, where we think the killer took a shower and changed into clean clothes before he fled-and then we rushed the samples to the lab for overnight testing.

“Sure enough,” he continued, “the tests turned up two distinct blood groups: type A and type O. Mr. Gordon, we’ve learned, was type O, so we believe the killer was type A. Therefore, if you two ladies can each swear that you’re not type A, and if your doctors will verify your statements, then we can let you both off the hook.”

That’s when Abby’s stack finally blew. “

Off the hook?!!!” she sputtered, turning red in the face. “We never should have been on the hook in the first place! Your suspicions are so absurd they’re stupid. Can’t you flatfoots tell the difference between a couple of horrified dames in distress and a savage, cold-blooded killer?”

Flannagan’s baby-soft face turned even redder than Abby’s. “The way I see it, sweetheart,” he said, glaring at her through squinted eyes, “you are as cold-blooded as they come.”

Now they were

both acting like children.

And I had to be the babysitter.

“I think I’m type O,” I said, leaping to steer the rocky situation to shore, “but I don’t know for sure. And I don’t have a regular doctor you can talk to, either. I was a patient at Saint Vincent’s Hospital a few months back, though, so maybe you could check with them. I had to have a transfusion, so they must have noted my blood type in their records.” I left out the part about

why I’d needed the transfusion. Revealing that I’d been shot would have just made Flannagan more suspicious of me.

Flannagan gave me a nod, mashed his cigarette in the ashtray, and made a few marks on his memo pad. Then he raised his eyes and aimed them at Abby. “And what about you, Miss Moskowitz?” he said, pronouncing her name as if each syllable tasted worse than the first. “Do you want to cooperate with the investigation or continue to be a prime suspect in the murder of Gray Gordon?”

She didn’t say anything (for once). She just tapped her foot on the floor and rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

Flannagan looked at his watch and vaulted to his feet. “Okay, that’s enough!” he blustered, buttoning his collar and straightening his tie. “I’ve had it up to here with your crap. I’m leaving for another appointment, so you have to decide

now. Off the hook, or on, sweetheart? It’s your call.”

“I’m AB,” Abby said, smirking, enjoying herself to the hilt. “Rh-positive. If you don’t believe me, you can ask my uncle, Dr. Seymour Katz. He’s really hip to hemoglobin.”

AS WE WERE HEADING ACROSS THE lobby toward the police station exit, Abby pulled me to a stop in the middle of the floor. “Hold on a second, Paige,” she said. “I want to talk to that cute officer at the front desk again. I just got a cover assignment from

True Police magazine, so I really do need a new model, you dig? And he would be perfect for the job. I want to see if I can get him to pose for me in uniform.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “And after that, you can see how long it takes you to get him

out of uniform.”

I thought my snippy remark would make her angry, but it didn’t. She gave me a cunning wink and replied, “Just one of the perks of my occupation.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need me to help you plan your perking. Go ahead, Ab. Talk to Officer Longface as long as you want. I’m going home.”

“Okay,” she chirped, obviously glad to be getting rid of me. “See you later, gator.”

I was glad to get rid of her, too. Trying to conduct a serious murder investigation with Abby in tow was like standing under a palm tree during a thunderstorm, waiting for the coconuts to break off and fall on your head.

It was calmer and quieter outside than in. The streets and sidewalks were practically deserted. It was late Sunday morning on a holiday weekend, and much too hot to be out on the move. I turned right at the corner and began the two-block trek to Seventh Avenue, wondering if I could make it that far without a camel and a canteen.