Catherine Coulter - The Edge

Laura was staring at Cal like she was two boards shy of a floor. Then, slowly, she turned to me. "What do you think, Mac?"

"Cal's a good artist," I said.

"No, do you think I've got a great body?"

"Yes, and Cal's still a good artist."

"Okay," Cal said, rubbing her hands together. "We can set up a time for next week. About us, Mac, we can talk about it another time, since you say you're so busy. Oh yeah, I got some of those French condoms, you know, the ones that are real slippery and ribbed?"

I thought I'd be smart and not say a single word to that. I don't think I even breathed for at least ten seconds. I watched Cal leave the cottage, heard the soft roar of the BMW's engine.

"Well," Laura said, eyeing me, then the toast crumbs all around Cal's plate. "I guess that took care of my idea of actually questioning her."

I grinned at her, grabbed her, and jerked her into my arms. I was kissing her when Savich and Sherlock walked back into the room.

I kept kissing Laura until I saw that she was laughing. "Good," I said, and rubbed my hands down her arms. "I barely knew you, Laura. It just happened. Okay?"

"No, it's not at all okay, but I won't break you into parts about it just now."

"What sort of punishment do you have in mind?"

She laughed again and poked me in the belly.

I said to Savich, "Why didn't you guys stay out here to meet Cal?"

"You had a great dynamic going there, Mac. If we'd come out, everything would have changed."

"Thanks for the entertainment," Sherlock said. "You guys just keep enjoying your own jokes," I said as I dialed Ted Leppra, the M.E. up in Portland.

A minute later, Ted Leppra, boy wonder, told me it was indeed a blow to the head that had killed Charlie Duck. "He survived maybe ten to twenty minutes after someone hit him," Ted said in his smoker's hacking voice, "and bought it, I was told, on the floor of the local doctor's house. It was a pretty fast bleed into and around his brain. His brain was crushed by blood, if you prefer a more colorful description." "You're sure?"

"Oh, yes. Funny thing though, Mac. As you probably know, the old guy was a former cop from Chicago.

One of the detectives was cruising through here during an autopsy and we got to talking about him. Do you think there's a tie-in? Someone out for revenge after he got out of the can?"

"Could be," I said, all neutral. "The local sheriff is looking into all of that, naturally." "Hey, you don't sound happy, Mac." "No, I'm not. I was hoping there was something else involved here."

Ted coughed, holding the phone away while he hacked. "Sorry," he said. "I know, I've got to stop smoking."

"You of all people have seen enough smokers' lungs," I said mildly.

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, maybe there was something else." Hot damn, I thought. "Hang on a minute, Ted. I'm going to put you on speaker. There are some other folk here who need to hear what you've got to say."

"Okay. Mac, you were right about that. We found some sort of drug in his system. It appears to be an opiate or related to an opiate. At least it tested positive on the opiate screen. I haven't been able to identify it yet. It's maybe some sort of drug we've never seen before. Weird, huh?"

"Not really," I said. "It's very possible it's a brand-new drug that isn't on the market yet. When will you be able to give me more information, Ted?" "Give me a couple more days. Call me on Friday. If I find out anything sooner I'll let you know." "Stop smoking, you moron." "What did you say? I can't hear you, Mac." I hung up the phone, turned, and looked at everybody.

"Charlie was on to them. He had some sort of drug in his system."

"He either found out about it and wanted to see what it was, or someone forced it down him," Laura said. "Remember what he said when he was dying-'a big wallop, too much, then they got me.' "

Savich was scratching Grubster's ears. "Or maybe lots of people around here want to try it and damn the side effects."

"More likely he discovered something and that's why he wanted to talk to me. But he didn't think it was all that urgent."

"He was wrong," Laura said.

"Yes, the poor old man," I said. "Now we know that they killed Charlie Duck. The drug in his system pretty well proves that. Damn, I wish I'd collared him that first day, but you know, I just thought he had some fishing stories to tell me. I was an idiot."

"He did try to tell the doctor what had happened," Laura said. "It's too bad he couldn't say more before he died."

I picked up the phone again. "Just maybe he's got some friends he still talks to in the Chicago Police Department." I identified myself to three indifferent people at the Chicago Police Department, in three different departments, including Internal Affairs, and finally ended up in Personnel, where I identified myself to yet another indifferent person. Finally, I got hold of Liz Taylor. She was a real charmer, no sarcasm, she really was.

"Nope," she said cheerfully, first thing off the bat, "I'm no relation at all, so you don't have to wonder.

Now, you say you want to know about Charlie Duck?"

"Yes, please. I understand he was a detective with the CPD until about fifteen years ago?"

"Yeah, I remember Charlie well. He was a homicide detective, sharp as a tack. It's funny, you know?

Usually, the bosses want the old guys to retire just as soon as they can plunk a gold watch on their wrist and push them out the door. But not Charlie. Everybody wanted him to stay. I bet he could have continued here until he croaked, but he wanted to leave. I'll never forget on his sixtieth birthday, he gave me a big kiss and said he was out of here, no more dealing with scum bags, no more weeping over plea bargains that let criminals back out on the streets faster than it took the cops to catch them. He didn't want any more winters in Chicago, either. They aged his skin, he said. He was gone by the following week. Hey, who are you anyway? I know you're FBI, but why do you want to know about Charlie?"

"Charlie's dead," I said. "He was murdered. I'm trying to find out who killed him and why."

"Oh no," Liz Taylor said. "Oh no. I got a Christmas card from him just this last December. Sweet, sweet old Charlie." I heard her sniff.

"Tell me about him," I said. "I heard he wasn't exactly the trusting type."

"That was Charlie," Liz said, sniffing some more. "Some people didn't like him, called him a snoop and a son of a bitch, and I guess he was. But he'd never hurt you if you hadn't done anything wrong. He had the highest homicide clearance rate of any detective in the department. In fact, he still holds the record. Poor Charlie. I'll tell you, nothing could stop him if he smelled something rotten."

Not only had he been a detective, he'd been in homicide. He was smart and relentless. It had been a deadly mix for the old man.

"I need the names of friends he's still close to in Chicago. Some other cops. Can you give me some names?"

"Wait. Is that what happened? He smelled something rotten? And that's why someone killed him?"

"Probably," I said. "Do you know of any family or friends he still kept up with? Maybe confided in?"

"No family left," she said. "His wife died before he left the force. Breast cancer, poor woman. He went out west somewhere when he retired, to live with his parents, somewhere on the West Coast. In Oregon, right?"

"That's right," I said, my jaw nearly locked with impatience. "Liz, any friends?"

"Just a couple of older guys still on the force. But I don't think they've spoken to him in years. I can ask around, see if any of the old guys have spoken to him recently."

"Yeah," I said, "I'd really appreciate that." I thanked her profusely, gave her my phone number at the cottage, and hung up.

"Interesting," Laura said. "Too bad she couldn't give you anything."