Cold Pursuit

"Can I go in?"

The landlord stared at McMichael. "Sure."

McMichael stood in the living room, looked at the small, sunblasted kitchen. He walked down the hallway where they'd scared Sally Rainwater half to death, past the closet where they'd found the evidence hidden by Patricia and Garland, then into the bedroom. The louvered windows were open, the two faulty panes replaced by new ones with the stickers still on them. He tried to picture what the room had looked like with the bed there and Sally in it. It was easy.

On his way out the landlord told him the rent was fifteen hundred but he'd knock off a hundred if a cop wanted it. McMichael said he'd ask around.

He found Victor in his room at the Horton Grand, watching cartoons on TV. Victor told him he could come in, took a bag of potato chips off a chair so McMichael could sit.

"Have you seen SpongeBob SquarePants?" Victor asked.

"A couple of times."

"I like the way the bubbles come up. But I think if fish talked, there'd be more bubbles."

"Me, too. How are you, Victor?"

Victor shrugged. "I miss Pat and Gar. Were you the other guy in the car?"

"Yeah, that was me."

"Pat always drove way too fast. Gar would yell at her."

"I remember that about her, too. Do you need anything, Victor?"

Victor looked at him blankly, then back at the screen. "Like what?"

"Help with paperwork, or someone to drive you somewhere, maybe?"

"No, thanks. They found Angel."

"I know."

"I don't get why someone would kill her. She was really nice."

McMichael said nothing to that. He could see no reason to tell Victor who had killed the angel in his life, or why. For a hummingbird made of jewels.

"I guess you'll have a lot of money coming your way soon," said McMichael. "When they get the estate straightened out."

"Yeah," said Victor. "And I still got my job. Charley's a good guy."

"I'm going to leave one of my cards here on the table," said McMichael. "You call me if you need anything."

Victor looked at him. "I called the police to find out when they're going to bury Angel. They wouldn't tell me."

"I'll find out. I'll drive you if you want."

"Cool."

"Later, Victor."

Just after the opening kickoff McMichael's home phone rang. It was a desk officer calling from headquarters saying that Henry Grothke Sr. was in the lobby demanding to show something to McMichael.

"He refuses to leave it, or even tell me what it is. But it appears to be a tub of ice cream, sir. Fudge marble."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

McMichael hobbled toward the civilian entrance of police headquarters. He saw Old Grothke's van pulled into a no-parking zone, saw Derek smoking a cigarette as he leaned against the vehicle.

Inside, Old Grothke sat in his wheelchair facing the door, hands clasped over an ice cream carton resting on his red blanket. He wore a blue suit with a gray tie and matching handkerchief. The suit was marked with what appeared to be dried ice cream. There's always vultures in the ice cream.

His clear blue eyes locked onto McMichael's face as he approached.

"Detective McMichael," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Grothke."

"Look- proof of my sanity."

McMichael balanced his armpits over the crutches and accepted the ice cream carton. It was wet and warm and left a gooey semicircle on the old man's blanket. It was in fact marble fudge. He pulled off the top and looked inside. It was half full of melted brown sludge. The upper half was packed with letter envelopes locked inside a plastic freezer bag.

"Pete's letters, as promised," said Grothke. "I forgot where I put them."

"Odd place to put business correspondence," said McMichael.

"They searched my whole place and couldn't find them."

"Who searched it?"

"My son. And Pete Braga's granddaughter. Derek even helped them and he's supposed to work for me."

McMichael touched the ice-cream-smeared freezer bag. "I'm going to have to take these somewhere else to open them. You're welcome to come upstairs with me if you want."

Grothke smiled. "I can't explain how happy I was to remember where I'd put these. I didn't just open the freezer and find them. I remembered perfectly where they were."

"Let's go read them, Mr. Grothke."

He put the carton back on old Grothke's lap and they took the elevator up. It took McMichael three phone calls from his desk to get the lab open, this being an American high holy day. Finally he reached Arthur Flagler at home, who gave an okay to the watch commander, who ordered one of the desk officers to open up examination room three.

McMichael got one of the Team One detectives to roll Grothke up to an exam table. McMichael set his crutches aside, snapped a length of white paper towels off the roller to one side, and laid the paper on the tabletop. Set the carton at one end, gloved up and sat down.

"I'll need a pair of those, too," said Grothke. "I wanted to be a detective when I was young."

"Sure."

He helped the old man get the latex on. Grothke held up his ephemeral, gloved hands and stared intently at them.

McMichael checked his tape recorder, then turned it on and placed it out of the way to his right. He unlocked the freezer bag and used tweezers to pull out one of the two envelopes. Pete Braga's name and home address were embossed on the back. The front was hand-addressed to Henry Grothke Sr., personal and confidential, at the firm's downtown address. The text appeared to be typed. McMichael stated the time and date, had Grothke identify himself and confirm them, then read the letter out loud.

December 16

Dear Henry,

Since your crew seems incapable of keeping track of correspondence, I'm writing you again with specific instructions on how to change my will. As I explained in last month's letter (November 8), which you have apparently lost, I wish to eliminate that portion of my estate which will go to my granddaughter, Patricia Hansen, and to her pathetic husband, upon my death.

Her and her husband's attempts to get control of Pete Braga Ford were childish. Her secret meddling with my real estate and stocks has become dangerous. (I assume you still have the documents she forged my signature on. I suspect she has faked more than just my signature on others.) She is duplicitous and untrustworthy. She can scream at me all she wants but that garden hose beating hurt for weeks (I assume you have the earlier pictures I sent). Things are missing from the house but every time I change the locks she comes up with new keys. I believe she has discovered the combination to my floor safe. I believe she has poisoned my fiber drinks but I can't prove that, yet. She's trying to turn Victor against me, telling lies, scaring him, playing tricks on his undeveloped mind. I've had enough. Cut her out of the estate.

I want the rest of Patricia's former share to go to Sally Rainwater, my nurse. She's a wonderful girl, wants to be a doctor someday, and could use some opportunity in her life. Beautiful too.

Tell neither of them anything about this. I don't want to incur any more of the Braga wrath. Living with my own for eighty-four years has been enough. And Sally would fight me on it for sure. She's an old-fashioned girl.

Call me as soon as you have something for me to sign. I'm not in a big hurry, Hank, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't lose this letter too.

Sincerely,

Pete