Stuart Kaminsky - Poor Butterfly

Lorna hadn’t answered the house phone. The killer had probably just given a high-pitched grunt. The killer knew someone was coming up. The killer, in fact, knew that someone named Peters was coming up. I had been announced.

It was time to move. I went from the kitchen into the bedroom, avoiding the living room where Lorna’s body lay. I found the phone, but it had been ripped from the wall.

I was standing there with the dead phone in my hand when the door to the apartment pushed open and a uniformed cop came in with a service revolver in his hand.

“Don’t move,” he croaked.

He was young enough to be my son. I didn’t move.

He looked around quickly. Sweat was building on his forehead.

“What’s going on?”

“Woman’s murdered,” I answered. “In the other room.”

“Against the wall,” the cop ordered.

I moved to the wall, spread my legs, and leaned forward.

The cop came behind me, reached under my arm, and removed my.38 from my pocket.

“Where’s the phone?”

“Busted,” I said, turning part way to show it to him.

“Great,” the cop said.

“Use the intercom,” I suggested. “Doorman can call for backup.”

“Thanks,” he said, and called the doorman.

“I had someone call a Sergeant Preston and an Inspector Sunset,” I said.

“Head down,” the cop said, and told the doorman to call in a murder in apartment 6-D.

The young cop cuffed me, had me sit down on a kitchen chair that hadn’t been busted up, and we waited after he checked Lorna to be sure she was dead. It was more than he wanted to handle. I tried to talk to him but he told me to be quiet. He did what a lot of scared cops do, overcompensated. Basic psych book stuff. He told me to shut up. I shut up. If I didn’t, the psych books say he might have started in on me.

Less than five minutes later Preston and Sunset came through the door.

“What’ve we got …?”

“Brummel. Got a homicide. In there. Found the suspect on the scene.”

“You guys didn’t exactly fly here,” I said.

Preston glanced at me.

“Peters,” Preston said, as Sunset knelt to examine Lorna’s body, “I’ve had a long, bad night, and you’re going to make the day worse and longer. I’ve got a headache and I’m hungry, so if you just want to confess and get this over with …”

“I didn’t kill her,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” Preston said with a deep sigh, looking at the scratches on my bloody cheek.

“Preston,” I said. “I had you called. Would I call you and tell you to come if I planned to kill her?”

“Remember Barnes,” Sunset said from Lorna’s body.

“Gus Barnes,” Preston explained to me. “Few months back. Called. Said someone just called and said he was on the way over to kill his wife. Told the desk man to hurry. We got a car there in six minutes.”

“Five-eleven, Sarge,” said Sunset, standing up. “She’s dead.”

“Barnes killed his wife,” said Preston, nodding and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Messed it up. Your having us called doesn’t prove diddle-daddle.”

“Diddle-daddle?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Hard to be creative on an hour of sleep.”

“Why would I kill her?”

“Hired,” said Sunset.

“Spurned,” added Preston.

“Accident,” said Sunset.

“Wouldn’t pay blackmail,” said Preston.

“Enough,” I said. “Let me make a call.”

“You see a phone?” asked Preston. “I mean one you didn’t tear off the wall?”

“I didn’t do it, Preston,” I said.

Brummel, the first cop, came back. About twelve minutes after that a bunch of cops came in, and I was escorted from the apartment by Preston, who said his wife would make him sleep in the guest room tonight if he ever got home. I told him I felt sorry for him. He thanked me.

The Bayfront Police Station wasn’t on the bay and barely deserved the title “station.” The core of the station was an old red stone building that looked as if it had once been a firehouse. It had been added to over at least three generations, each generation contributing a different color of stone. The wing to the left of the entrance was gray brick, and the right wing a combination of reds, yellows, grays, and even almost-blacks.

A sergeant named Cunningham with red hair, suspenders, and very bad teeth took my wallet, comb, and the lint from my pockets less than a minute after we went in. A half-asleep Amazon woman in a blue uniform took my picture, and then Preston and Sunset led me up a flight of stairs to a small interrogation room with yellow walls that reminded me of my brother’s office in the Wilshire Station back in Los Angeles. Preston and Sunset spoke to me sincerely for about twenty minutes, letting me know I was in very deep diddle-daddle.

“Peters,” Preston leaned over and whispered, “you are nailed. You wanna give us some details so we can all get a night’s sleep?”

“I didn’t kill her,” I said. “I was there to protect her from someone. Stokowski hired me to protect, not murder, remember?”

“You did good work,” sighed Sunset, looking around for something to use as an imaginary bat.

“Who?” asked Preston, wearily drinking something hot from a paper cup. “Who were you protecting her from? Oh, yeah. The Phantom of the Opera.”

“Maybe,” said Sunset brightly, sizing up a rolled San Francisco Chronicle for use as an imaginary Louisville Slugger, “he killed her for the publicity. Phantom strikes. Fill the seats.”

“Forgive him,” Preston said to me quietly.

“He’s forgiven,” I said. “What about me?”

“Not so easy,” sighed Preston. “You didn’t do it, who did? Doorman says she told you to come up. Few minutes later we find you with the body, scratches on your face, phone in your hand ripped from the wall.”

“She said a couple of guys named Rance and Johnson and a woman named Minnie did it.”

“Minnie?” Preston groaned, kneading the bridge of his nose.

“She also said I should ask Miguelito,” I added.

“Miguelito?”

“Her dog.”

Sunset, who had moved behind me, hit me with the rolled-up newspaper. My head jerked forward.

“Sorry,” Sunset said. “Big fly on your head.”

“Cut that shit,” Preston ordered, stepping behind me so I had to turn my head to watch the two cops. Preston was smaller, but older and presumably wiser. Sunset shrugged and came back in front of the table to hit a few imaginary balls through the grimy wall.

“Thanks,” I said over my shoulder to Preston.

He ran a hand through his graying hair and threw his empty coffee cup in the general direction of the overfull wastebasket in the corner. The wastebasket had one of those paper liners two sizes too big for the basket.

“And I want a phone call,” I said.

“Who’s stopping you?” asked Preston, pointing to the phone on the table. “Hey, make two, three calls. No long distance.”

“All you had to do was ask,” said Sunset.

I picked up the phone and called information. I got Lundeen’s number. The phone rang six times before Lundeen answered.

“It’s me, Toby Peters,” I said. “Are you sitting?”

“Whenever I can,” he said with a deep sigh.

And I told him. I’ll give him credit. He didn’t say much. He did groan from time to time, and his voice wasn’t steady, but he said he’d have a lawyer there as quickly as he could.

“Peters,” he said with a tear in his voice, “I must say this. I never really liked Lorna. I didn’t know her well, but I didn’t like her and now … You didn’t kill her?”

“John,” I said, “why the hell would I kill her?”