Chapter 5

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, I reminded myself, so I was on my way to get more. There was no use having a nephew, one whose hand you’d held crossing the street not that long ago, on the police force if you couldn’t take advantage of it.

I walked the few blocks down Springfield Boulevard, past the high school and the now-deserted groundbreaking site, to the police department, part of the civic center complex along with the city hall and the library. On my way down the street and up to Skip’s second-floor cubicle, I rehearsed.

“You got me involved,” I’d say, reminding him of his phone call alerting me to David’s murder and requesting my help in locating Rosie. Maybe that was too junior high, reminiscent of many such “he started it” exchanges between Skip and my son, Richard.

“I’d like to help” wouldn’t work, since Skip consistently reminded me that the Lincoln Point Police Department had enough sworn officers to take care of business.

“Excuse me?” he’d say. “Do you have a badge?”

“I’m your only aunt and you owe me” might do the trick, but I’d used it before.

I realized I needed some new material.

I always preferred dealing with female LPPD officers, not because of any sexist or feminist leanings, but because usually they were hot for (Maddie’s term; I still preferred the old-fashioned “sweet on”) Skip. This meant that they’d be especially accommodating and nice to me. It didn’t seem to matter that Skip and June, my next-door neighbor, were practically engaged. Maybe even one step closer this weekend since Skip had taken June to Seattle to meet his mother’s boyfriend’s family. Never mind that the weekend was cut off at the pass. His intentions spoke of commitment.

Was every extended family this complicated to talk about?

I was in luck. Lavana Rollins, an attractive member of the almost-thirty crowd, like Skip, was on duty at the front desk. After the hot-weather talk, I got to my point.

“Too bad Skip had to cut his trip to Seattle short,” I said to Lavana.

“Yeah, we got this big case, and so many people are on vacation in faraway places. Poor Skip was close enough to be called back.”

“I just heard the announcement. It’s such a shame about David Bridges,” I said.

“Too true. I didn’t know him, but I guess he was very popular around here during the football heyday at the high school.”

The days Lincoln Point expected to get back with a new stadium. “I had David as a student a long time ago. I hope you’re making progress finding his killer.”

“Ha. They don’t tell me anything. I’m just a uniform,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. I get to carry the evidence.” Lavana’s laugh was hearty, befitting her substantial frame. “The strangest thing came in this morning, though. You’d have found it very interesting.”

I didn’t have to fake my intense curiosity. “Oh?”

“Hey, Rollins.” I heard a deep voice from behind the wide front counter where Lavana stood. “How about those files?”

“Gotta go,” Lavana told me. “Skip should be here any minute. You can go on back and wait.”

That was my hoped-for scenario: that I’d have a few minutes alone at Skip’s desk to reflect. Or to snoop, depending on what you wanted to call it. I did wonder about the evidence Lavana mentioned, but it would have been unseemly to act nosy.

“Thanks, Lavana.” I gave her a grateful smile. “I know the way.”

“You didn’t happen to bring any of those ginger cookies?” she whispered. Apparently if I did, she wasn’t planning on sharing.

As a matter of fact, I had pulled a bag out of the cooler in my car, as an offering to Skip, but I was willing to use them to barter wherever necessary. I opened a small plastic container within the bag and invited her to help herself. It was a small price to pay for a few minutes alone in Skip’s cubicle.

Food as sycophantism. Another time-honored Porter tradition.

I sat in Skip’s office, in the visitors’ chair, facing the cubicle opening and his bulletin board. I had a paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird open on my lap, for effect. I really had wanted to reread the classic, but today it served double duty as a cover.

The beige corkboard was cluttered with business and personal items, including a wonderful photo of a very young Maddie, her father, and me. I remembered the long-ago trip to Pier 39, one of San Francisco’s many fun places for kids. If Skip gave me any grief today, I’d remind him of his loving family.

Maddie looked happy in the photo, next to a life-size yellow cartoon animal of no particular delineation. Unlike now, I mused, when she was probably fuming as much as an eleven-year-old could fume. Maddie was in a prolonged Nancy Drew phase and hated to be left out of any investigative tasks. She was at least in an environment she might like, this time, with someone her own age and a wonderful (I guessed) workshop to browse in.

I saw nothing useful on Skip’s bulletin board. I’d been hoping for a to-do list. Clear Rosie Norman could have been an item. Then, Arrest John Doe. I started a mental list of who John Doe could be. No one had asked my opinion, but I thought the police should be looking into David’s ex-wife, his estranged son, and especially the Duns Scotus employee we all saw him arguing with last night.

I moved my chair slightly, to have a better angle on the desk. Lavana had said Skip would be back “any minute” and I didn’t want to be caught out-and-out snooping. I scanned the clutter for a file labeled Aunt Gerry’s Friend, Rosie. Or, simply, Norman.

Nothing.

Nothing big, that is. But there was something small. Under a few loose sheets of paper, I saw the edge of a hotel key card.

Still keeping an eye on the cubicle opening, I flung my left arm out, felt around for the card, and pulled it out. A Duns Scotus key, like the one in my purse. This one had a slightly different likeness of the Franciscan metaphysician, but it was the Subtle Doctor himself, in his brown habit.

The key cards to the hotel were imprinted with different reproductions of paintings of Duns Scotus; even keys to the same room had different images. I found the same policy at the last hotel I’d been in, in Monterey, where the cards bore a variety of pictures of the ocean. I didn’t see the point, except in terms of exposure to art. The bottom line was that there was no way to tell which key went with which room these days. No more large numerals etched on circles or flat metal keys. All for better security, which was on everyone’s mind.

I didn’t know yet where David had been murdered, but wherever it was, all the sophisticated, increased security in the world hadn’t helped him.

Whose key card was I holding? David’s? Rosie’s, therefore mine?

It wasn’t a good sign if the Lincoln Point police went to all the trouble to go to San Francisco and enter our room. Skip had said they didn’t know where the murder had taken place. If David had been killed at the hotel, then the San Francisco police would handle it. Pangs of guilt accompanied my desire to have LPPD in charge of the case so I could keep track of it.

I was betting on the key’s being for David’s room, probably found on his person. I wondered if it had been reprogrammed or if it would still work. Should I take it? It would certainly help if I needed to do some investigating myself. If Skip needed to get into a hotel room, I reasoned, he could just flash his badge.

What would I do with it? I had a pretty good idea. Was it evidence? No, if it were evidence it would be in a marked bag. It was now LPPD property, however-hard to get around that. Unless it was Rosie’s key card, in which case, it was also mine.

Before I could decide the level of misdemeanor I was willing to risk, I heard Skip. His tenor voice came closer and closer as he greeted his colleagues with a “Hey,” or a “Dude,” or a “What’s up?”