Randy White - Dead of Night

In the background, I heard a woman’s voice say something that sounded like “Why don’t you just tell him-” before it was muffled, probably by Dewey’s hand.

Just those few words, I recognized who it was. I felt my stomach tighten, a sickening adrenaline flutter. It was a territorial response. Jealousy.

Speaking softly, I asked, “How long has Bets been there?”

Irritated, she replied, “Bets? Not that it’s any of your business, but what makes you think she’s here with-?”

I interrupted. “Dewey. Please don’t.”

Bets, as in Walda Bzantovski-Bets to her friends. I’d once counted myself among them. She was Romanian, an internationally known tennis icon who’d retired a while back but still traveled the world doing clinics, making public appearances-a jet-setter name and face familiar to people who watch TV and read sports magazines.

I’d met the woman years ago when Dewey was still her live-in lover and partner. They would break up, then make up. Happened three times. Between each split, I’d played the role of understudy-pal, and, sometimes, lover.

This time, though, with a child coming, I’d thought Bzantovski was out of the picture.

The phone was still muffled. I heard Dewey say something, then Bets say something, not angry but emotional-the dominant partner-before Dewey said to me, “Okay. You’re right. It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything. She’s here. So what?”

“Tell her I said hello.”

Silence. I waited, seeing Bets in my mind: a woman with tendons and muscles; long arms and longer legs; brown hair brushed back like some old rock singer; lean, European face with dark, aggressive eyes beneath heavy brows.

“Dewey. Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Last Sunday, I tried to tell you. She was doing a clinic in Chicago; called from New York and said she might drop by to say hello. A last-minute deal. But you never gave me the chance.”

I cleared my throat, putting some space between my anger and my intellect. I fought the urge to point out we’d talked several times during the week. She’d had plenty of chances to tell me any damn thing she wanted. That included informing me that her old lover was going to drive a couple hundred miles, Chicago to eastern Iowa, so they could stay together on her isolated farm.

Instead, I said gently, “Good. I’m glad you’re not alone. During the holidays, it’s important for old friends to be together.”

“Are you sure, Doc? I’ve been worried.” Finally, a hint of warmth.

I felt like crawling through the phone. Felt like slamming my fist against the wall-something I’ve never done, never will. I told her, “I’m sure. Winter in Iowa, for Christ’s sake.” I heard myself laugh. “You need company.”

Silence.

“Will she be staying long?”

“I’m not sure. We haven’t talked about it.”

“Sounds like she’ll still be there when I arrive.”

“Stop it! How’m I supposed to know what her schedule is?”

Infuriating.

More silence. Spaced between barrier islands and winter cornfields, satellite towers created a hollow echo.

“Dew…? How’s the baby?”

“She’s fine. She’s happy here.”

“She?”

“My last appointment, I decided to ask so we can get the room decorated. A little girl.”

We.

“Doctor says she should arrive right on time.”

“Punctual, huh? She gets that from me.”

Dewey released a subtle, concessional breath. The sound of nostalgia. “I can’t argue that one.”

“If Tomlinson’s surgery goes okay, I could be there Monday, Wednesday at the latest. That’s three days before Christmas-if you still want me to come.”

She thought about it before saying slowly, “I’ve met some friends here. A nurse and an EMT. A couple. They’re taking us pheasant hunting Wednesday. They’ve got the shotguns, a dog. I’m kind of excited”-I again heard Bzantovski’s voice in the background, quickly muffled-“so Wednesday’s not good.”

I said, “You with a shotgun, blasting birds out of the sky. That’s hard to picture.”

Dewey’s tone became severe. “That’s because you don’t know anything about guns, Doc. I knew you’d be pissy if I told you. But my friends have lots of experience. With them, it’s safe.”

I could hardly trust myself to speak. “I’d like to meet them. Maybe they can give me a pointer or two. On shooting.”

“Maybe. If they have time, but they’re kinda fussy about their guns.” Another long pause. “If you still want to fly up, sure. After Wednesday, come if you want. There’s plenty of room. If… you don’t mind dealing with the snow. And being so far from the ocean.”

Plenty of room? The meaning of that seemed evident.

My phone was beeping-another call. I overcame the perverse urge to hang up; end it with some quick, cutting remark. A couple of years back, Dewey had surprised Bzantovski at a Madrid hotel. Charmed a key from the desk clerk and walked in to find the Romanian in bed with one of the young stars on the circuit, a French girl named Wengo.

A couple of parting shots flashed through my mind: You and Bets will always have Paris. Plus, how many other European capitals?

Instead, I said, “I guess this isn’t a good time to talk. Maybe tomorrow’ll be better. If that’s okay.”

“Sure, Doc. If you want.”

I tried to catch the other call but too late.

I checked the number. It was Jason Reynolds.

He’d left a voice message. I listened to it as I returned to the waiting room.

The cops couldn’t find Frieda’s phone, he said. Maybe I should return to the canal and help the search…

I looked at my watch: 7:23 P.M. I pictured crime scene lights mounted on tripods; water recovery jocks in wet suits, arms locked, wading a search grid.

If what Reynolds had said was true-which I doubted.

I’d find out soon enough.

Serpiente

An hour after she had pushed Dr. Frieda Matthews into the path of the SUV rental, Dasha padlocked the door of the storage garage, then removed the surgical gloves she was wearing.

Aleski’s cousin, Broz, had been waiting for them when they arrived. He’d raised his eyebrows when he saw the SUV’s bumper and windshield. Said in Russian, “What a fat cow you must have hit!”

A clever joke for that slow-witted fool.

Broz was driving one of the numbered Tropicane trucks, which infuriated Dasha, though she said nothing.

Sloppy. Unprofessional. He’s even stupider than Aleski!

Amazing that he’d learned to operate a plane.

The time would come, she suspected, when she would have to kill them both. With Broz, she would make it last. If he wasn’t so damn ugly, maybe even find a way to get some pleasure out of it.

Aleski, though, he’d die quickly, painlessly. The man was her partner, after all. A fellow professional. He deserved respect.

It would happen. Maybe sooner than later.

Dasha had reviewed her mental checklist: wiped the rental vehicle clean of prints, dumped a bottle of Clorox over the interior and exterior. Used Clorox-soaked towels to clog the garage’s vents and airspaces.

Vultures sitting outside a storage garage invite attention. The car would soon begin to stink.

Dasha had decided the woman’s body was too badly damaged to load into the back of the SUV. It would’ve been too time-consuming, searching through the weeds next to the canal, collecting all that needed to be collected. What a mess. A car, she decided, was an interesting way of killing, but not a good way, because it was impossible to manipulate the crime scene afterward.

Unprofessional, like Broz.

Should’ve used the hypodermic loaded with Versed. To hell with Aleski and his recreational games.