The Back of the Assistant Manager's Light Blue Shirt

  To Detective Bebedict the assistant mall manager looked like Oliver Berryhill after a three-hour management seminar. Even with two dead bodies in two weeks time, Eggs felt like he needed to do something to get the young man's attention. He dropped his voice a full octave, allowing the gravel to roll around deep in his throat. "What's the mall's policy about allegations of theft?"

  The assistant manager smiled. "We don't like it, certainly."

  Detective Bebedict stared at the young man. "You don't like theft or you don't like allegations?"

  The young man tried to decide if the detective was asking a trick question. "We don't like either, I suppose."

  "So if a shopper were to report that she'd been robbed here in the mall, say just for example, someone took an expensive piece of jewelry, how would the mall handle it?"

  The assistant mall manager answered as though he were reading from the manual. "In the event that a customer makes a claim of robbery, it shall be the procedure for mall security to write down the customer's complaint and to initiate an investigation."

  "And then?" asked the detective.

  "We investigate, I suppose."

  "Do you file a police report?"

  The assistant manager scratched his head. "I don't think so. No."

  It was the detective's turn to scratch his head. "You don't?"

  "The owners like to handle things quietly, without fanfare. The customer, of course, can go to the police and file a complaint if he wishes to."

  "But," Detective Bebedict's voice dripped with contempt, "doesn't the customer believe that's what they've just done with your security guard?"

  The assistant manager had no answer. Thankfully, he made no effort to contrive one.

  Detective Bebedict knew it was time to push. "You mentioned before that security writes out the customer's complaint. Is that correct?"

  The young man nodded, still saying nothing.

  "Okay, then. Here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna give you the name and date of a report and you're gonna go get me a copy of the written report."

  Eggs watched the assistant manager closely as he tried to come up with a way to say no to the detective. He pulled a packet of breath mints from his pocket, popping one in his mouth, stalling for time. Finally he went with a simple answer. "I don't have the authority to give you that, Detective."

  "If you want to call the owner, you go right ahead young man." Eggs smiled broadly. "But it seems to me, the owner is gonna want to cooperate with the police. Two dead bodies ain't exactly what I'd call good for business. What do you think happens to business if I come back here tomorrow with a search warrant and a news crew?"

  The assistant manager nearly choked on the breath mint. Coughing, he wiped his mouth and said, "I guess if you put it that way, Detective." He walked toward the door. "Please follow me, Detective."

  He led Detective Bebedict to a small file room, just down the hall. He scanned the file cabinets, identifying the one he was looking for and opened the top drawer, rifling through the file folders.

  "Reports are filed by date." He continued looking through the files. "At least they're supposed to be." He frowned. "I'm sorry, Detective. This may take a while."

  "I've got time." Detective Bebedict leaned against the far wall and watched the back of the assistant manager's light blue shirt develop a large sweat stain as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the written report.

  "This is most embarrassing," he said, closing the file cabinet and turning to face the detective. The front of his shirt looked even worse than the back, Eggs noted with some small satisfaction.

  "So let me see if I have this right," Eggs said quietly, slow playing his cards. "Mrs. Bayardi believes, rightly or wrongly, that someone has stolen an expensive bracelet while she is having a chicken Caesar salad in the food court. She comes down here to the office and reports the robbery. A mall security officer makes a written report. The alleged crime is never made known to the police to conduct a proper investigation. And now, what little paperwork the mall is supposed to maintain cannot be found." Detective Bebedict cracked his knuckles and looked at the sweat-soaked manager. "Do I have that right?"

  "You make it sound worse than it is, Detective."

  "How so?"

  "Well, just, the way you say it, it sounds almost, what's the word, conspiratorial."

  Detective Bebedict scowled. "It does seem, let's call it, convenient. Anyone at the mall who was knowledgeable about the haphazard approach to such complaints, well, if he were dishonest, a man might take advantage, don't you think?"

  The assistant manager was aghast. "Surely you're not suggesting that the thief is an employee of the Mall of New Jersey?"

  Just One More Thing

  Of course, that was exactly what Eggs Bebedict was suggesting. "Is Oliver Berryhill working today?"

  "Not Oliver," squeaked the assistant manager. Their local hero was just about the only bright spot for the mall in the whole holiday debacle.

  "Is he here?" Detective Bebedict was tired of dealing with the assistant manager.

  "Let me check." He poked his head out the door and called to the girl working in the outer office. "Robin, do you know if Oliver is working today?"

  Robin looked past the assistant manager to the detective, asking "Would you like me to have him come down here?"

  "Thank you, yes," Eggs said, nodding respectfully to the daughter of a fallen comrade.

  "Yes, please," added the assistant manager.

  Waiting for Oliver Berryhill, Detective Bebedict could feel the assistant manager's discomfort. Robin, however, had no such problem. She looked at Eggs and smiled. "So is Oliver a suspect?"

  "Robin!" The assistant manager was appalled by her question to the detective. "That's really not appropriate." He would have to put a note in her personnel jacket.

  Detective Bebedict smiled. He liked Robin. If he had a daughter, he'd want her to be like this girl. "That's okay," he said to the assistant manager. Then he turned to Robin. "You didn't really expect me to answer that, did you?"

  Robin shrugged. "Just making conversation."

  Before Robin could make any more conversation, Oliver Berryhill entered the office. "What's up?"

  Robin didn't bother letting the assistant manager answer. "Detective Bebedict would like to have a few words with you."

  The assistant manager looked from Robin to Oliver to Eggs, settling for a moment, on the detective. "Would you like to use my office?"

  "That won't be necessary," Eggs said.

  The Detective turned to Oliver Berryhill. "We can talk down at the station house."

  Robin whistled. She knew what that meant.

  So did Oliver. "Can't we talk here? I'm in the middle of my shift."

  Detective Bebedict growled. "The mall will just have to manage without you." He turned to the assistant manager. "Isn't that right?"

  "Yes. Yes. Of course." The assistant manager's blue shirt was rapidly developing a new sweat stain. "Whatever you say, Detective."

  "Okay then." He looked at Oliver. "Come with me."

  As they left the office, Detective Bebedict turned back for just a moment. "Thank you Robin."

  "I already told you what I know, Detective."

  Eggs ignored Oliver's attempt at conversation as they walked through the mall and out to the parking lot. He said nothing at all to Oliver until they got to the car. "Get in the back."

  "Am I in any trouble?"

  Eggs walked around to the driver's side and got in the car. "We'll talk when we get to the station house."

  Detective Bebedict hummed in the car on the way to the station house. It took Oliver most of the car ride before he realized that the detective was humming the theme songs from classic TV cop shows.

  The interview room was much as Oliver had come to expect from television and movies—a table, a couple of chairs, walls in desperate need of a paint job, a mirror (Oliver recognized it as a one-way mirror, designed to permit observers to watch the interview).

  "Am I in trouble, Detective?"

  "That depends."

  "Depends?" Oliver wondered. "On what?"

  Detective Bebedict trained his eyes on Oliver, knowing that his answer was going to generate a reaction.

  "On whether or not you're guilty of murder."

  Oliver Berryhill did not have a face for poker, or apparently, for interrogation. He swallowed hard, trying to remain impassive. "Not guilty."

  Detective Bebedict pursed his lips in a grim smile. "That part comes later, Berryhill. For now, just tell me what happened."

  "I've already told what happened to Teddy Maciborski."

  "Yes, you did." The Detective nodded, leaning in toward Oliver. "But this would be a good time to tell me what really happened."

  Oliver didn't know what else to do, so he told the detective the truth. "When I walked into the men's room, Teddy Maciborski was already dead."

  Detective Bebedict leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Go on."

  "That's all there is to tell. Except maybe I thought if I made up a good story, I could be a hero."

  The detective considered Oliver's new version. "Or maybe Big Mack was alive. Maybe you struggled. Maybe you slit his throat."

  "No, detective!" Oliver knew he had let this get way out of control. "It was wrong for me to make up a story. It was wrong to take advantage of the dead guy. All's I wanted was my fifteen minutes of fame."

  Detective Bebedict resisted the urge to laugh. "What's that expression? Be careful what you wish for."

  Oliver Berryhill had been thinking just that. "You've obviously been giving this some thought, Detective, so answer me this. Why would I want to kill Teddy Maciborski?"

  "Ah, yes. Motive. I must admit that was troubling me, even before, when I knew you were being less than honest. What would lead you to murder Teddy Maciborski?" Detective Bebedict stood up and walked around the small interview room. "Tell me, Oliver, do you know a Pamela Bayardi?"

  "Pamela Bayardi?" Oliver tried to place the name. "No, I don't think I do, Detective. Should I?"

  "She shops at the mall."

  "Surely you don't think I would know every shopper."

  "No," Eggs said. "Not every shopper. Pamela Bayardi recently made a report to mall security of a stolen bracelet." Eggs approached the interview table. "Did you take that report, Oliver?"

  "I don't think so, Detective. Anyway, what does Mrs. Bayardi's bracelet have to do with the death of Teddy Maciborski?"

  Detective Bebedict ignored Oliver's question. "But you've taken other reports from time to time, right Oliver? Reports of stolen property?"

  "Of course. I'm a security guard. It's my job."

  "That's right, Oliver. It is your job. So tell me," continued Eggs, "what happens after you take a report of stolen property?"

  "Well, we file the report in the manager's office. Sometimes, we investigate."

  "Do you file a police report?"

  "Do you mean me or the manager?"

  "You. Or the manager."

  "No. The mall owner likes us to handle these things quietly."

  "So most of these complaints of stolen property go unsolved?"

  "Yes."

  "And a security guard would know that, wouldn't he?"

  "Of course."

  "Thank you, Oliver."

  "You're welcome, Detective. Is that all?"

  "Just one more thing." Detective Bebedict reached for Oliver's arm. "You're under arrest for the murder of Teddy Maciborski."

  White Chocolate Raspberry Ganache

  "It was a helluva long day, I suppose, but productive," Eggs said, stabbing the penne arabiatta with his fork, and looking across the table at Cassie. He took a bite of the penne and smiled, enjoying his non-date with Cassie (that's what he called it when he phoned her up and asked her to dinner, a "non-date"). He topped up her wine glass from the bottle of pinot noir and signaled the waitress to bring another beer for himself. Eggs sat back in his chair, utterly relaxed.

  "So you've solved the case then?" Cassie wasn't sure if she had accepted the last minute "non-date" dinner invitation because she wanted to hear about the case or because she thought dinner with Eggs would be fun. Perhaps, she allowed, it was a little of both.

  "Well. I did make an arrest."

  "But you only charged him with one of the murders?"

  "One was enough." Eggs took another bite of his penne. "This is good."

  "Enough?"

  "Yeah. Enough to get him talking." Eggs grinned. "How's the fettuccini?"

  Cassie glared at Eggs. "The fettuccini is wonderful. Now, tell me what happened!"

  Eggs remembered that moment when Oliver realized he was being arrested. There's nothing like the threat of incarceration to get the weak ones to start talking.

  "At first he talked a lot about Teddy's son, Augie. It seems Little Mack was determined . . . is determined to avenge his father's death."

  "So Little Mack doesn't think his father's death was an accident?"

  Eggs ate a bite of penne, wiping a touch of red sauce from his mouth with his napkin before continuing. "I don't think it matters to Little Mack. His father is dead. Someone's gotta pay."

  "So when Oliver made himself the hero of the story . . ." Cassie said.

  "Little Mack went after Oliver," Eggs said, finishing for her. "That's when Oliver began to understand there was a downside to being the local hero. That's when he told Little Mack the same story he eventually told me about walking into the men's room and finding Big Mack's dead body in the stall."

  "Did Little Mack believe him?"

  Eggs wasn't certain what Little Mack believed. "I don't know. But this much I do know. If Little Mack believes Oliver's story, it means Oliver's not the thief."

  "In which case," Cassie suggested, "whoever Big Mack was meeting at the mall becomes the prime suspect in his murder."

  "If we can figure that out, Little Mack sure as hell can too," said the detective. "But here's where it really starts to get interesting. Oliver claims that Little Mack expects him to settle the score."

  Cassie stopped picking at her fettuccini. "To settle the score? How?"

  "Oliver told me if he doesn't dispose of Big Mack's killer, Little Mack is gonna leave him for dead somewhere deep in the Barrens."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah. Oh."

  "So did Oliver tell you who he's supposed to kill?"

  This part of the story troubled Eggs. "Oliver says he doesn't know yet. And if Little Mack knows, he hasn't revealed the name."

  Cassie was skeptical. "Do you believe Oliver's story?"

  "I believe Oliver believes it. Why else would he go to Woodbine to buy a gun from Louis Feldman?"

  "What!" Cassie forgot all about her fettuccini. "When did Oliver do that?"

  Eggs gulped down his beer. "He was in Woodbine, same time we were."

  Cassie was having trouble making sense of the timeline. "But Louie was already dead."

  Eggs admitted he had been troubled by the timeline, too, until he looked more closely at the sequence of events. "Louis was already dead, but Oliver didn't know that. He knew someone had died in the break room, but he didn't know who. Remember, it was just an unidentified body at that point, dead of a gunshot."

  Cassie nodded, remembering. "But by the time we drove to Woodbine, we knew it was Louie."

  "Yeah, we did. But we hadn't released the name. So there was no reason for Oliver to think that Louie was dead. He was surprised to find the pawnshop closed." Eggs paused, for the effect. "Even more surprised, apparently, to find us standing there, out front, talking."

  A busboy cleared their plates. Cassie sipped her pinot noir and waited for the busboy to depart. "This just gets curiouser and curiouser."

  Eggs knew the conversation was about to be more difficult. He looked at Cassie. "You haven't heard the strange part yet."

  "Would you like to see the dessert tray?" Cassie was startled by the waitress and was inclined to send her away, but Eggs answered in the affirmative.

  The waitress returned quickly with her samples, like a restaurant spokesmodel, using her free hand, gesturing to highlight each selection. "The white chocolate raspberry ganache is my favorite," she said. "The macadamia nut cheesecake is also very good. We have a carrot cake, apple pie and I think we still have a serving of bananas foster. I'll have to check on that if you're interested. But, like I said, the ganache is my favorite."

  "I'll have an espresso," said Eggs. Turning to Cassie, he added, "Would you like something?"

  "Just coffee."

  "Regular coffee?" asked the waitress.

  "Yes, please." As soon as the waitress left the table, Cassie returned to the story. "What's the strange part?"

  "When you and I left Woodbine," Eggs said, waiting for Cassie's reaction, "your friend Morris stayed behind."

  "What do you mean, 'stayed behind'? Don't you remember? He drove home in that ugly green Buick of his. Why he loves that car, I'll never know."

  "No, Cassie. I mean, I guess he did drive home eventually, but it was later, much later. Would you like to know what Morris did in Woodbine after you and I left?"

  Of course Cassie knew exactly what Morris had done. Morris had phoned her up and told her. "What did he do?"

  "According to Oliver, your good friend Morris broke into the pawnshop." Eggs waited for Cassie to say something. When she sat there and said nothing at all, Eggs continued. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"

  Still, Cassie said nothing. Eggs continued. "It was Morris told you about the jewelry."

  Finally, Cassie responded. "I told him it made him look guilty of something."

  "Breaking and entering for starters," Eggs said. "But that's not what you meant."

  "No," Cassie agreed. "I told him you would think he broke in to destroy evidence."

  "Would it make you feel better if I told you that I don't think your friend was destroying evidence in the pawnshop?"

  Something in Eggs tone of voice told Cassie not to feel good about anything. "Should it?"

  "No, I guess not," admitted Eggs. "I don't think Morris broke into the pawnshop to destroy evidence. I think maybe he broke in so he could plant evidence."

 

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