The White Cliffs of Dover seemed dimmer at night, the buzz of conversation livelier, friendlier. The patrons, mostly men, were more casually dressed than at lunch—windbreakers and work pants, jeans and sweaters. Two plump middle-aged women, lumpy in woolen skirts and sweaters, were at one of the dart boards; they emitted smothered explosions of giggles as they launched high-arched darts.
Ellen smiled at Kate. “Guy says Modern Office people come here all the time for lunch. To relax, play darts. I can see why—it’s so comfortable and homey.”
“Harley Burton invited me for your lunch today.” Kate drank her ale with enjoyment, amused by the women at the dart board. “I was sorry I couldn’t come. I do like it here.” She watched the two women return to their table. A mustachioed man in a navy blue cotton jacket made a mocking gesture toward the dart board; one of the women fondled his graying hair and then patted it back into place. Married, Kate thought; you can always tell.
She returned her attention to Ellen, pleased again by the simplicity of her clothes: the severely tailored dark green jacket, short and without collar or lapels; the matching skirt and pale green blouse tied at the throat by a thin dark green ribbon. Her gaze lingered on Ellen’s throat, drifted down to her breasts. Memory of the feeling and taste of her was interrupted by the shifting of Ellen’s body as she raised her beer mug. Kate looked at her hands: ringless. She remembered the apartment where Ellen lived with Stephanie Hale. Not Westwood or Beverly Hills, but a very good section on the westside. And well-furnished, spacious.
“Have you never wanted to own a house, Ellen? Rent on your apartment must be fairly close to a house payment.”
“I would love to own a house,” Ellen said fervently. “I’d give anything to have a place to call my own. I hate paying rent. You might as well throw all that money out onto the street. But Stephie—she thinks it’s too obvious, two women owning a house together.”
“Why should she care? She’s tenured, isn’t she?”
“She still doesn’t want anyone to know.”
I hate this Stephanie Hale. “She’s deluding herself,” Kate said shortly. “People know. If we really think people don’t know, we’re just kidding ourselves. Straight people with half a brain pick up all the signs. Not how we act, but how we don’t act—how we don’t fit in with all the heterosexual game playing. We put on an act and they all laugh behind our backs. You know it happens, Ellen, you’ve heard the straight people laugh at us. The men especially. When you’re not interested in them they’re only too happy to sneer and call you queer.”
Ellen asked, “They know then…about you?”
Kate chuckled bitterly. “I’ve never pretended to be heterosexual. But I’ve never made any announcements either, and never will. Why give anyone a weapon? And it is a weapon. I’ll give you one possible scenario: Avowed lesbian denies accusation of making sexual advance to female prisoner.”
“Kate…could that really happen? I mean—”
“Yes, Ellen, it could happen. And yes, I’m paranoid. But with good reason. And yes they know about me—without my telling them, and they’re much happier that way. The brass loves me because I don’t call in with problems about my kids, I don’t take maternity leave. And the men love me because they’re convinced any woman who wants to be a cop must be suffering from penis envy and my being a lesbian confirms that. And the men can tell their wives, ‘Yeah, honey, I’m working with a woman but not to worry because she’s a lez.’ And so the men’s wives love me too. So I’m the perfect woman cop. Everyone can respect my work but still be contemptuous. So women can do the job, they tell themselves, but only because they’re pseudo-men. But gay male cops can’t do the job at all—and they’ll prove that if they have to kill them to do it.”
“You can’t mean that,” Ellen said in an appalled whisper.
“Yes, I do mean it. I’m not nearly as bad off as the men, Ellen. All gay male cops are in the deepest darkest end of the closet. You think there’s resistance to women? Think about the fact that being a cop is one of the big macho trips of the western world, the cop is today’s cowboy. They pay you to wear that uniform, all that leather, that gun on your hip. They pay you to control and intimidate. Ever ask yourself why anyone would want to be a cop? The psychological tests screen out many pathological types, but there’s still a whole masculine self-image built up around being a cop.”
Kate stared into her beer mug, rotating it in her hands. Then she spoke with the firm swiftness of utter conviction. “All the straight cops I know hate the idea of gay male cops with a rage that’s simply indescribable. How dare any faggot invade their macho world and think he can be brave and strong and tough? The gay men out on the lines are all in the closet, Ellen, they have to be. You’re a gay man in a dangerous situation and all that has to happen is your partner doesn’t do what he’s supposed to do quite soon enough, the backup you’ve called for doesn’t get there quite soon enough. And you’re one dead gay cop who just wasn’t man enough to be a cop.”
Kate looked up to see Ellen staring at her with stricken eyes. “Straight cops…would do that? They’re all…like that?”
“Not all. But enough.”
“Then why do you stay? Why did you want to be a cop?”
Kate spoke more slowly, remembering, and gathering her thoughts. “After Vietnam, after all I’d seen over there, I felt serious about people, Ellen. I wanted to…help. I joined LAPD in ’seventy-two and worked in juvenile, that’s where most women in law enforcement worked then, it was all we could expect. Then the courts mandated numbers, which was the only way I’d have ever gotten into the more challenging areas of police work. I became fascinated by what I saw, the raw edge of lives I could never imagine. People different from me, and other people just like me, but caught in crosscurrents that turned their lives in directions they never conceived of. All our lives are under thread-thin control that can snap so easily—by something as simple as an oil tanker jackknifing on a freeway.” It was the first time she had freely spoken of Anne’s death, and she was astonished at the calmness of her voice.
Ellen said earnestly, “But you’re so good at what you do. What you do is so important.”
Kate shook her head. “I don’t feel that way anymore. For too long I’ve made the common mistake of all gay people. Believed if I was good enough, being gay wouldn’t matter. Well, being good doesn’t matter, makes no difference at all. Nothing I do makes any real difference to anybody.”
“That’s not true, Kate,” Ellen said softly, “that’s just not true. I think you’re just tired…and maybe it’s time for you to think about getting out of it. Maybe it’s time to do other things you’re good at.”
Kate was silent, thinking of Gretchen Phillips. I’m one of the few women, Gretchen Phillips had said, who could afford to pay Fergus Parker’s price for my job.
Kate looked down at the hands curved around her beer mug. / paid that price too—because of Anne. I no longer have to pay any price for any job.
“You’re right,” she said, smiling at Ellen and raising her beer mug in a toast. “I don’t even have to care about the mortgage anymore.” She took a deep draught of her beer, feeling suddenly light and free. She thought of Wesley Miller, of his promise of other opportunities.
Ellen said in alarm, “You will give it a lot of thought, won’t you, Kate? You need to get a good perspective on things before you do anything. After all the years you’ve given to your work, it’s too important a decision.”
“I will. And you should give a lot of thought to your own life. None of us should surrender our dreams to other people. Anne’s dream was to finish college, get her degree. Anne thought a college degree would confer some magical mark on her.” Kate smiled, remembering; then she looked directly into Ellen’s eyes. “I was the selfish one in our relationship. I kept telling her next year—she had plenty of time. You’re thirty-one. Anne was thirty-two when she died.”
Their food arrived; gratefully, Ellen attended to salting her french fries, tasting her fish. But the somberness of Kate’s face continued to disturb her. “Billie Sullivan,” she said lightly, “that was quite an exit.” She was gratified when Kate chuckled.
“I’ve never met anyone remotely like her.”
Ellen asked carefully, “The case, can you tell me anything about it, how it’s coming?”
“Well, a pattern’s begun to emerge—as it always does in any case of homicide that isn’t random violence.” She took a bite of her fish. “Haven’t you been upset enough by all this, Ellen?”
“I might be useful,” she answered quickly. “Even as a sounding board. I’m getting to know some of these people now. If you feel you can trust me.”
“It isn’t a question of trust—” She broke off. Of course it was. Hadn’t she always told Anne about the cases she was working on? With judicious editing of the grosser detail, of course. How could she not trust Ellen O’Neil?
“There are some problems.” She buttered a piece of hot crusty bread. “We’re still sifting through fingerprint evidence—it’s still the most conclusive proof we can have in a criminal case.” She decided she would not mention Harley Burton’s partial print on the coffee pot. “We have a cigarette butt we picked up on the fifteenth floor, the lab’s lifted an unusual blood type from the saliva. The butt’s of very limited value but I’m certain the killer discarded it in his haste.”
“Why limited value? I’d think it would be an important piece of evidence.”
“It’s presumptive evidence. A defense attorney would argue the butt could be anybody’s—anyone from any floor in that building could’ve dropped it. When we make an arrest we’ll use it of course if we can match up the blood type—it’s unusual enough to be useful. And everything adds weight to a circumstantial case.” She ate a piece of bread. “You never find really good bread like this anymore.”
“Kate, do you know who did it?”
Kate watched two young men begin to throw darts, flinging them with easy expertise; then she looked into light brown eyes wide with concern, and decided to speak the truth.
“The evidence points to four management people, Ellen. From your signed statement, the statements of the two guards, we know within a few seconds the elapsed time from the moment of the killing, we know the essential fact that it took the killer less than two minutes to get all the way down those stairs and mingle with arriving employees. On that basis, I’ve eliminated as suspects Gretchen Phillips and Duane Fletcher.”
She said in dismay, “And included my boss—the one person I admire most.”
Of the four, Kate reflected, Harley Burton was the man she herself admired most. “Unless something unexpected develops, it would appear to be one of them—from the standpoint of opportunity. But when it comes to criminality, there still has to be motive, malice, intent. I’ll concede,” she said grudgingly, “that Guy Adams seems the least likely from a motive standpoint.”
“I knew it, I just knew that,” Ellen said triumphantly.
“He’s still a strong suspect, Ellen,” Kate warned. “There are other problems, inconsistencies. The medical examiner says that blood spurted onto the killer’s hand or sleeve. Gail Freeman and Fred Grayson wore dark suits that day, but light shirt cuffs. And Guy Adams wore a cream-colored jacket. But what do you do about bloodstains when you’ve got only a scant few minutes before police are all over the scene? I’m sorry,” she said as Ellen put down her fork. “This isn’t appropriate dinner conversation.”
“It’s not that, it’s all right…I was just thinking…” She said slowly, unwillingly, “Harley Burton doesn’t wear a jacket in the office. And he rolls up his sleeves.”
Kate nodded, pleased with her. “Yes, I noticed that. And that makes Harley Burton a very strong suspect indeed. But there’s still a problem—”
A shout went up from the dartboard; Kate looked over to see three darts crowded into the bullseye. “Nice shooting,” she said. “There’s the one element that just doesn’t make sense, Ellen. No sign of struggle. How could Fergus Parker let Harley Burton or anyone else come at him with a knife? It doesn’t make sense. How could he just allow himself to be stabbed?”
She ate a french fry, thinking that she would not describe to Ellen the unusual nature of the stab wound. There was another shout from the dart board; she glanced over and then sat utterly motionless, staring at the dart that had thudded into the bullseye and still quivered from the impact. In dawning comprehension she turned and met Ellen’s eyes, wide with shock and staring into hers.
“He threw it,” Ellen whispered.
“Yes. Of course. Exactly.” Kate put down her fork and looked again at the dart board and said wonderingly, “That’s just not done. It’s not. Not in this day and age. Except in Kung Fu movies…and the odds against a fatal wound… I’ve never even heard of a case…”
She stared down at her dinner knife, sorting through and fitting images together. A well-crafted, well-balanced knife could be thrown with deadly effect—especially by someone who was accustomed to throwing objects—like darts—with accuracy. And if thrown with velocity… A knife striking Fergus Parker squarely and with force…causing him to fall heavily backward…
Ellen’s mind was filled with images of Gail Freeman, Guy Adams, Fred Grayson, and Harley Burton at lunch, at the dart board. It couldn’t be Gail—not the way he threw his darts, the delicate flip from behind his ear. And not with that ironic toast at lunch; he could never have killed and then made a boastful toast…But Guy, the way he threw his darts—swiftly, with skill and confidence… But dammit, Kate Delafield could talk for a hundred years about meek little men who were monsters, Guy Adams was not capable. Then she remembered Fred Grayson sighting along his darts as if they were weapons…the powerful thuds of Harley Burton’s darts into his target. She shuddered, and glanced at Kate; she was picking at her food, eyes distant with thought. It might very well be Harley Burton. Too bad. It was simply too bad anyone had to be punished for killing a creature like Fergus Parker—Fergus Parker was the monster, not his killer.
Kate ate automatically, her mind absorbed. “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly realizing that considerable time had elapsed.
“I understand perfectly,” Ellen told her, smiling.
Kate absently buttered another piece of bread. “I just need to go over my notes, all the details again. And look at the facts—” She looked at the knife, touched her forefinger and thumb lightly to the butter on the blade, held the knife in a clean area as if to throw it; then she inserted the knife into her bread and drew it out, staring at the smeared glossy surface.
“I won’t keep you much longer,” Ellen teased, watching the fine lines of concentration again deepen between the light blue eyes.
Kate glanced at her watch. “And vice versa. I’ll let you get home.”
“Kate, if you find out something important from all this…Will you call me later?”
“Of course. I’d be glad to.” She added, “To know if you feel …okay. Safe.” She should be careful, not have Ellen think she was moving in on the UCLA professor’s territory—even if she was.
After Ellen left, Kate displayed her shield to a bartender in shirt and pants of matching red plaid, who gave her permission to use the phone on the bar. She called Joe D’Amico at the lab, covering one ear; noise had increased with the progression of the evening.
“I hear from the background the big butch cop is out there risking life and limb,” D’Amico growled.
Kate grinned; obviously D’Amico was alone in the lab. She jammed the receiver to her ear as a chorus of moans and boos went up from the crowd around the pool table. “Joe you sweet thing, do me a favor? I’ll buy you a lovely new apron for Christmas.” D’Amico, a burly and snarling presence in his lab, was a gourmet cook who created dishes of lightness and delicacy, a reflection of his true nature.
“How can I resist, dear heart? I’m so tired of the twelve aprons I have. What do you want?”
She cupped a hand around the mouthpiece of the receiver as the noise level rose again. “The guy yesterday, obese, about five-nine—”
“Parker, yeah. Lardass. Took up two slabs.”
D’Amico’s voice had dropped into its usual gruff toughness; someone had come into his lab.
“The very one. I need a test on the weapon. I need it now.”
There was a burst of cheering and applause; a ragged chorus of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow rose from the pool table. Kate ground the receiver into her ear. “What, Joe? Can’t hear you!”
“—fucking kind of test do you want?”
“Screening for any foreign material present,” Kate shouted.
“—set up a chromatography—”
Kate shouted, “I’ll be at the station in half an hour! That okay?”
“—fucking thing as soon as I can and no sooner.” D’Amico hung up.
Kate glanced at her watch. Eight-ten. She was only minutes away from the station. She settled herself at the bar, happy in the realization that no one in this place had taken the slightest note of her presence. She ran a hand pleasurably over the rough-grained wood of the bar, signaled for another ale, and relaxed and watched the dart games, listening to the buzz and shout of conversation, allowing warmth and conviviality to flow over her.