Ed Gorman - Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

“Well, Cliffie thinks Ross killed her. You say Carlson killed her. And I’m sure somebody’ll tell me they think Mike Hardin killed her. Your name’s bound to come up sometime.”

“Well, I didn’t and I can prove it. I was in a poker game till almost two o’clock. And I was drunk enough that I had one of the other guys give me a ride home.”

“He got a name, this guy?”

“You’re a jerk, you know that, McCain.”

“You want me to help Ross, I’m helping Ross. I’m trying to find the killer.”

“I’m not the killer.”

“I need the name of the guy who drove you home.”

He sat back. He seemed to shrink. He aged by a few years. He looked embarrassed. “I was making that up about the poker game.”

“You got any other alibis? Shacked up with Jackie Kennedy or something like that?”

He stood up. “I was home. Watching TV and pretty drunk. The wife was upstairs asleep.”

“So you don’t have an alibi.”

“I was home.”

“You could always leave home.”

“I was drunk.”

“So you say.”

“This is all because of that sewer thing, isn’t it?”

“A good part of it, anyway.”

“I don’t vote for sewer improvement so you’re going to hang a murder rap on me?”

“You even voted against extending services to the people down by the river. Of any kind. That’s pretty shitty.” I leaned forward on my elbows again. “I’m not going to hang anything on you that doesn’t fit. But it wouldn’t break my heart if it turned out you killed those two people.”

He walked to the door. Started to say something. Got all red-faced again. And then left.

I spent the next hour working on my notebook list. I hadn’t been kidding when I said that I expected to hear from Peter Carlson and Mike Hardin. They’d be implicating one of their friends just as Wheeler had. The panic had crazed them. It didn’t matter who was ultimately blamed as far as their reputations went. They were already destroyed merely by association with the dead woman and her brother.

The phone rang.

“What time you coming home?” The beautiful Pamela Forrest said.

“I don’t know. Another couple hours. Why?”

“We, uh, wondered if we could make you a business offer.”

“‘We’ being?”

“We being Stu and me.”

“What kind of business offer?”

“Well, we’re still at your apartment. And we started talking. And—well, we wondered if we paid you motel rates, could we stay here?”

“You mean sleep there and everything?”

“Yes. You could take the couch. And it’d only be a few nights.”

“Why don’t you just get a motel room?”

“Because somebody’d spot us for sure. And we’re not ready to face up to everything yet. It’s going to be terrible. It’s going to be like the Salem Witch Trials. And guess who’s the witch?”

“Oh, man, I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to worry about the sex. I mean we kinda caught up during the day today.”

“That’s nice to know. I’m glad I’m not in love with you any more. I mean, if I was, that’s not the sort of thing I’d want to hear.”

“Well, you told me you weren’t in love with me so I’m taking you at your word.”

“Well, maybe I’m still in love with you a little bit. A smidge. An iota.”

“Well, I took that into account. That’s why I didn’t go into any details. You know, tell you how many times we did it or anything.”

“That was very nice of you.”

I could hear her getting a cigarette going. “Stu’s not here right now. He took the back road into Iowa City. He’s getting groceries. He’s going to fix dinner for all three of us. He makes the best steaks I’ve ever had.”

“You know, I used to hate Stu. And now he’ll be sleeping in my bed. And with you.”

“Well, he used to hate you, too. In fact, I think he still does in a small sort of way.”

“Well, since we’re being honest here, I think I still hate him in a small sort of way.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“Have what?”

“You’re even up. He still hates you in a small sort of way and you still hate him in a small sort of way.”

“I want a new bed.”

“What?”

“Before you leave, I want $75 for a new bed. I know where I can get a good one for that.” I’d been planning on replacing the lumpy bed I had. And here was a chance to get a new one for free.

“I’ll have to ask Stu.”

As we hung up, I tried very hard not to picture Pamela and Stu in my bed. You really never can predict life’s twists and turns. And that’s what makes life so exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. And if you don’t believe me, just ask the Three Stooges. Curly almost never knows when Mo’s going to hit him.

For two hours I canvassed the apartment complex where Karen Hastings had lived. The three buildings were red brick with a central section between that held a swimming pool and flagstone-floored social area. It was getting cold for outdoor activities. Most of the residents were in their twenties, single, and worked in either Cedar Rapids or Iowa City. Several of the apartments were rented by small groups of young women who couldn’t afford the address otherwise. It was all piss elegant. Striving is the correct word here. It strove to be fancy and big city and sexy but it didn’t quite make it because the design was strictly Apartment House 101 and the workmanship was terrible. Joints didn’t fit right. Door handles were loose. The indoor carpeting was already worn thin. And pieces of the hall trim had already fallen off and not been replaced.

Two of the young women were stewardesses who flew out of Cedar Rapids. Joan Cawlings was the one I talked to. Her roommate was in the shower the whole time I was there.

Joan was a slight blonde with enormous blue eyes. She wore a U of Illinois T-shirt. She had very merry, happy little breasts that looked as though they’d be a lot of fun to play with. She wore a pair of jeans that fit her wonderfully as only jeans can. Her small feet—pert as baby rabbits—were bare.

“I think I talked to her once in the seven months I’ve been living here. Everybody said that she was almost hostile. A lot of people thought she was a prostitute. Different men were always coming here.”

I described them.

She nodded. “Yes. Those men and one other.”

“Could you describe him?”

“He looked like a boxer. Not mean or a crook or anything like that. But his nose was sort of flattened and just the way he carried himself—he was probably in his forties but one of the guys I was seeing said ‘That’s somebody to walk wide of.’ I remember his exact words because they sounded like something from a cowboy movie. Walking wide of somebody, I mean.”

“How often did you see him?”

“Well, when I first moved in, I didn’t see him that much. With my schedule, it’s hard to say. Maybe he came a lot when I was working. But the last couple months, I’ve seen him a lot more often.”

“Anything different you notice about him?”

“His Corvette.”

I wrote that down in my notebook. “What about it?”

“He had one of those little things you put on your license plate. It says ‘MD.’ You know, medical doctor. That’s why he always struck me as interesting. He sort of looked like a boxer but he was always dressed in very good suits. And he drove this black Corvette. And you could tell he took very good care of it.”

“How’s that?”

“You never saw a speck of dust on it. And it always looked like he’d just gotten done shining it.” Then: “God, when I heard her name on the radio this morning—and heard how those four men had set her up here—I’m from Cleveland so I guess I always thought of this area as kind of hicky if you know what I mean. And no offense if you grew up here or anything. But I’ve never heard of anything like this even in Cleveland. You know, you wouldn’t be surprised if it happened in Paris or Hollywood or some place like that. But here—”