The Pacemaker
At sixty-two, Orson Roddenberry was now giving occasional thoughts to retirement, but not because he was unhappy with his work as a private investigator. On the contrary, his thirty-seven years at that stint, almost twenty of them with his own company in Southern California, had been satisfying if not exciting. A fan of all TV-PI shows, he enjoyed seeing the myths the public was exposed to when it came to his profession. What a contrast!
Orson had never so much as touched a gun during his entire career. The most serious physical danger he’d ever been close to was when he’d been sideswiped by a drunken driver while on stakeout. Much harm done to the car, none to Orson.
But, then, he’d always been choosy about his jobs. His specialty was investigating insurance scams, and what that required more than anything else was patience. It involved hours of watching the woman who claimed to have slipped and sprained her back on a wet floor at the Safeway, but who had no trouble carrying her TV off to the shop for repairs. And there was that marvelous series of photos he’d taken of the train victim with the “serious leg injury” coming swiftly and gracefully down an Aspen ski slope.
Patience, something Orson had plenty of, was an obvious prerequisite. To that, he added a scrupulous honesty, which he was proud of, and which his regular clients appreciated. “I’ll never make a fortune at this business,” he had said to Vivienne Stowe four years ago, on the day he interviewed her for the job as his assistant, “but I never have trouble sleeping nights.”
Only recently, Vivienne had confessed to him she had accepted the job in large measure because of that comment. He had hired her because she had the gumption to argue that the very nature of surveillance—spying as she called it—required considerable compromises with one’s conscience.
The one problem Orson had envisioned was at least a minor amount of resentment from Lucille, his wife of almost forty years, at the prospect of a young, attractive woman sharing his office space. To forestall troubles from that source, he had invited Vivienne and her “significant other” out to the house for dinner shortly after hiring her. When the other proved to be an equally attractive female, Orson—and best of all, Lucille—knew that no incipient office romances were in the offing.
The intervening years had proven to the two investigators that their joining of forces had been a wise decision, and Vivienne had now become a full partner in the enterprise, with an office which included—as Orson had commented—”Electronic equipment up the yin yang.” They continued to argue, but they complemented each other well—Vivienne with her mechanical, computer and electronic skills; Orson with his long experience at dealing with people, both amateurs and professionals, who specialized in scamming. What they didn’t argue about was the fact that Vivienne carried a gun.
Orson had never seen it—didn’t want to. He recognized that a lone woman on a stakeout at two in the morning was justified in having that kind of protection. As a Tae Kwon Do brown belt, with the ability to render a hefty male unconscious with a blow from the side of her hand, she also had additional protection he’d never even considered for himself.
Today, Kristina Daren was putting Orson’s experience of dealing with people to a test. He had had a brief encounter with her in the past, when one of her employees had developed a severe backache from handling computer-monitors at Daren Electronics. The claim had been quickly, efficiently and quietly scotched by Roddenberry Investigators, Inc., to the satisfaction of the State Board for Workmen’s Compensation, ABC Insurance Associates, and Mr. and Mrs. Daren—though not of the employee.
As Kristina, a matronly forty-five, plain until she flashed her Julia Roberts smile, immediately informed the partners that earlier successful investigation was the reason she was now requesting their services. In an unusual twist, Orson and Vivienne were now confronted with the possibility of having an insurance company on the other side of the fence from them. Orson’s request for clarification from his prospective client produced a far more coherent story than he ordinarily encountered in his line of business.
“You may not have heard about it,” Kristina began, “but my husband died in an auto accident last week. He was on his way home from the shop, and his car crashed through one of those flimsy guardrails along Carnap Gulch and went several hundred feet down into the creek. He was dead when the medics reached him.
“The police are not very forthcoming about the details, except that he was apparently using his cellphone at the time. The autopsy report is unclear as to whether he suffered a heart attack, which might have caused the crash, or the crash caused a heart attack. Frankly, I think his pacemaker failed, and his cellphone may have had something to do with the failure.”
Olson was about to protest that their specialty was surveillance, when Vivienne broke in. “Did the cellphone survive the accident? Is the pacemaker available? Can you…”
Kristina’s attractive smile erupted at the sudden show of enthusiasm and the obvious difference in the partners’ reaction to her. “Perhaps I should explain what I want you to do and exactly why I want you to do it, before you decide whether you can accept me as a client.
“First, our—or rather my—company sells the cellphone that Arthur was using. Obviously, we have a responsibility to our clients if it did in fact interfere with the pacemaker. I, personally, don’t want to sell such a device if that’s the case. And, of course, I don’t want to open myself to endless lawsuits if someone else should suffer because of such interference. Naturally, my insurance company might be interested in knowing what you find out.
“Second, I want you to check to see if the pacemaker might have been defective. I know that won’t bring Arthur back, but knowing whether or not it was will help to provide closure.” She paused, and her expression changed. “And I must admit it would give me considerable satisfaction to take the manufacturer and their insurer to court if we find the phone was responsible.
“There’s a third reason why I want to settle this matter once and for all. I’m convinced the police suspect that I killed Arthur.”
Vivienne and Olson exclaimed “What?” at exactly the same moment.
Kristina smiled again. “If that sounds farfetched to you, then think how I feel. I really don’t know why they suspect me, but it’s obvious they do. A Lieutenant Riordan is handling the investigation, and he’s done everything short of charging me with causing the accident.”
“Did you request an attorney?” Olson asked.
“No. I have nothing to hide. I told the Lieutenant where I was at the time and, as far as I’m concerned, that ends it. On the other hand, if the police suspect there was foul play, I’d like to have someone look into that possibility. That calls for a private investigator rather than an attorney.”
Vivienne eagerly, Olson reluctantly, accepted Kristina Daren as a client. The door had barely closed behind her when Olson said, “Your work is cut out for you, Vivienne.”
“What do you mean, my work is cut out for me. You’re the one with all the police contacts. Riordan is even one of your drinking buddies. I’ll handle the electronics, you get the scoop from him.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth?”
Vivienne giggled. “You’ve been watching PI shows again, haven’t you—where the investigator looks clients in the eye and can tell immediately whether they’re lying or telling the truth.”
“It sure sounded well rehearsed.”
“Of course it was. She wanted to appear in the best light possible when she came here to hire us, so she went over and over it in her mind beforehand. That doesn’t necessarily mean she was lying.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Olson heaved a sigh. “So where do we start?”
Vivienne picked up her laptop and began typing while she spoke. “I’ll start with that cellphone she’s sending over. Since it’s the same model as the one Daren was using, I can check it out to see if it’s putting out frequencies that might affect a pacemaker. In the meantime, you get Riordan to agree to a test of the one at the crash scene. From what she said, it sounds as though it wasn’t hurt by the crash. Might still have been on, in fact. Find out about that. Get as much from him as you can about why they suspect her—if they actually do. She could just be paranoid.”
“Paranoid? Not surprising if she is. Three hours of interrogation by Riordan would make anyone paranoid. I suppose you want access to his pacemaker, too.”
“Darn right. Find out make and model, and I’ll get one direct from the company. Then we’ll approach the police for a test of the one Daren was wearing. Maybe a company representative in both cases, plus an independent expert, me and anyone else the police want there. And see if you can wheedle the name and address of whoever called in the accident out of your buddy. If he won’t tell you, the medics who were at the scene might be willing to give you that info. Oh yes. Be sure to pick up the newspaper clippings on the accident. Time to start a file.”
“Are we planning on doing anything else besides this case?” Orson asked, wryly.
“There’s nothing pressing. Besides, she’s put up a hefty retainer, so she needs our full attention. Anyhow, this is a lot more interesting than sitting in a car looking at a doorway half the night.”
Orson wasn’t so sure. He had never really minded looking at doorways.
Riordan wasn’t particularly pleased to learn that Orson was investigating the “supposed accident,” as the Lieutenant called it. Grudgingly, and with the warning that the prosecutor would have a hemorrhage if word got out that Riordan had revealed evidence which could get back to a suspect, he passed along what Orson knew was an incomplete picture of the police’s discoveries. Even so, he was grateful for the crumbs and offered to pay for Riordan’s double cheeseburger in return.
“There was a car right behind Daren’s when he went over. The witness, who was coming from the other direction, seems damn reliable. Even though she can’t identify the make of the second car, she’s reasonably sure it was a woman driving it. And the car she saw just went right on its merry way past the crash scene, never even stopping.”
Orson felt this was scant evidence of anything, but he wasn’t about to throw a wet blanket on Riordan’s surmises. Instead, he filed the information away in his mind as something to ask the witness about—assuming he could find out her identity. He did. Riordan seemed to have no compunctions on that score.
“Are you assuming the driver of the second car bumped Daren?”
“It’s a possibility, though the witness didn’t see that. It could have happened before she came into view. You know, a car hitting you in the rear, even lightly, might prompt a heart attack if you’re prone to one. But there is something the witness saw that might account for what happened. She says the woman in the second car was also using a cellphone.”
“So you figure she somehow triggered Daren’s phone to interfere with his pacemaker…. Is that what you’re saying? If so, you should be able to trace that call. It would have been to the same tower, same time.”
“Oh, we did. We did. It was a call in to Daren’s phone, and it came from that general area, but the phone’s a clone. You know, one of those the hackers rig up, with someone else’s phone number, mostly for drug dealers. They run up a big long distance bill, then toss the phone into the nearest dumpster. The real owner of this particular number is in a convalescent home, his phone sitting on the nightstand right next to his bed. There haven’t been any calls since the one on the clone.
“How much of this did you tell Mrs. Daren?”
“Aw c’mon Orse. You know the answer to that. Nada. Smiley Face got nothing from us. Orson cracked his own smile at the very appropriate nickname, while Riordan continued after a pause for effect. “If you won’t buy the car bumping, then maybe you’ll buy the notion that Daren’s phone was rigged to screw up his pacemaker. And who could do that better than someone who sells those phones?”
Both notions seemed farfetched to Orson, but he said nothing while Riordan, following a long swig of coffee, resumed. “The Daren woman can’t really account for her time. She says she was in the shop. It was Sunday afternoon, and they’d closed early, so she was the only one there. ‘Working on the books,’ Smiley Face says. But she didn’t answer when the police called her about her husband. She claims she just let the answering machine take the message in the other room and didn’t hear it. Sounds kind of unlikely, don’t you think?”
Orson didn’t think so, remembering how many times he, himself, had ignored phone calls while concentrating on complicated bookwork. However, he merely shrugged in answer to the question.
Finally, as they rose and Orson dropped a bill on the table, Riordan came up with a tidbit that Orson knew would require further questioning of his client. “You might be interested in knowing that Mrs. Daren was married before. Strangely, her first husband also died in an accident. An auto accident. A one-car accident.”
“Coincidences happen all the time,” Vivienne commented when Orson came back to the office with a detailed account of Riordan’s information and speculation. “But, at least I have something solid to move on. I’ve already got a cellphone expert lined up for that meeting at the station tomorrow. If the phone is the culprit, it will definitely have been tampered with, because the shrink-wrapped one Kristina sent over is A-OK. No way could that model interfere with a pacemaker. As for the pacemaker, I’ve got one coming in by tomorrow or the next day. This is getting exciting.”
“I’m glad you think so. I can’t think of anything duller than staring at a bunch of chips and transistors.”
“I much prefer them to doorways.”
Vivienne left the office the next morning with a “hooray” and a thumbs up. Not only was the cellphone about to be opened for inspection, but the pacemaker was also going to be checked out. Both Omnivac and Heartways were flying out their experts, obviously to fix blame on their opposite numbers if blame needed fixing. Vivienne would be in her glory. Orson was left with an early appointment to see Kristina at the shop and Vivienne’s suggestion that he drop by the police station afterwards, since the cyber “autopsy” was bound to take hours.
Never having been in the Daren store before, Orson was suitably impressed, if not exactly intimidated by the twenty-first century’s fantastic range of electronic gadgets, ranging from handheld notebooks tying in with satellites, to enormous, flat-screen monitors staring empty-eyed from the shelves. One entire section was devoted to surveillance equipment he might have looked over more closely if Kristina hadn’t immediately invited him back to her office.
Orson assumed there was little to be gained by beating around the bush. Kristina gave him her now trademarked smile when he brought up the previous accident. “I can see I’m already getting my money’s worth. It never occurred to me the police had checked into that, but it does explain why I’m a suspect. I imagine you want the details.
“Floyd and I owned an automobile agency, just outside of Rochester, Minnesota. Let’s see…must be almost fifteen years ago, now. Superficially, the accident in which he died seems a lot like what happened to Art. But, beyond the fact that they were both single-car accidents where the cars ran off the road, they’re completely different.
“Floyd was half Art’s age, he wasn’t wearing a pacemaker and that was before cellphones were virtually standard equipment for a businessperson. Oh, yes. Another difference is that I was nowhere around. I’d left that morning for an auto sales convention, right here in Los Angeles. The police have all that information. But I don’t imagine there’s much point in my telling you that. Knowing what the police know, I’m sure is a major part of your business.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Frankly, I didn’t even think about it. It seemed all so far back in the past. Besides, the police back there said it was clearly an accident and I didn’t make the connection…that the police here would go delving back into that past.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Actually, it does make a lot of sense now to think that they would have questioned me so closely. I imagine if I were a detective, I would have jumped to the conclusion that a woman who’d lost two husbands in mysterious auto accidents might have to do some explaining.”
“Could you fill me in on the details of that accident back east? There’s a limit to what the police will tell me.”
“It’s simple enough. Floyd was going to work and was driving down the steep hill near our home. We had a beautiful view from the house, by the way. That’s why we bought it—though winter driving was something of a chore.”
“This was winter?”
“No. It was a fine July day. No rain. Dry roadway. That’s part of the mystery. The car ran over the bank on a curve and was almost totally demolished, so the police were mostly guessing at why it happened. Brake failure seemed to be the most obvious explanation, since there were no skidmarks. No witnesses, either. That was another difference between that accident and this one.”
The interview nagged at him all the way to the police station. There was something else he should have asked. There was something she’d left out—or put in. The nagging was quickly dispelled by the scene in the conference room the desk sergeant had directed him to.
Along with Riordan and Vivienne, four other men and women were crowded into the room. On the battered metal table were several pieces of testing equipment, along with two eviscerated items—which Orson would never have recognized as a cellphone and a pacemaker had he not known beforehand what was to be scrutinized. These lay neglected, as most of the room’s occupants were standing in front of a blackboard, scribbling incomprehensible graphs and formulas while arguing in loud voices. Vivienne was holding up more than her end as her familiar contralto seemed to dominate the discussion.
Riordan was sitting back in a chair, isolated from the disputants. He greeted Orson with considerable relief. “I think we’ve unleashed the whirlwind, Orse.”
“I take it no conclusions have been reached.”
“Your partner may be able to fill you in, but what’s happened so far is beyond me. Let’s sneak out and get some coffee. We turn out a pretty good brew here, as you may recall.
“So you confronted her with the earlier accident.” Riordan made the statement sound like a question after they’d settled down in one of the conference rooms.
Heaping two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, Orson hesitated before answering. It was one thing to tap the police for information, but that didn’t necessarily make it a two-way street. Carefully choosing his words, he answered. “She thinks that’s why you suspected her.”
“That’s not too far off the mark.”
Vivienne looked gloomy when she arrived at the office shortly before five.
“Long day,” Orson commented.
“Long and disappointing.”
“I take it there’s no connection between the pacemaker and the cellphone?”
“Right you are. The cellphone is confined to just a very narrow transmission band, and with the flea-wattage of power it puts out, you could put it right on top of the pacemaker and it wouldn’t have any impact—even if it were the right frequency. The Omnivac engineer actually did put them back to back. The pacemaker didn’t show the least sign of being affected.”
“And the pacemaker itself was OK?”
“Looks that way. If there was a failure, there’s no evidence of it in what we examined. The Heartways consultant says there’s a warning that goes out to patients and doctors that the wearer should avoid sitting in front of a radio transmission tower, but she insisted that that’s like those long descriptions of side effects that go with any pharmaceuticals. She didn’t use the phrase, but it’s known as ‘covering your ass’ against all possible, and even a few impossible, eventualities.”
“So it looks as though we might as well tell Kristina she can have most of her retainer back. Right?”
“Let’s hold off for a couple of days. The pacemaker I ordered should be here tomorrow morning, and it would be nice to check it out without someone looking over my shoulder. I keep having the feeling that it might have failed, in spite of the line that was being fed me.”
“O.K. Let’s hold off until after the weekend. That will give me time to figure out how much we’ve spent, and you can work up an invoice. I’ve got a few other items to take care of, including going out to see Dad.”
“How is he?”
“Mentally, he’s fine. Ornery as ever, and regularly complaining about the nursing home. But he’s pretty much confined to a wheelchair these days.”
“Give him my best.”
“Will do.”
Wilton Roddenberry wheeled down the hall to meet his son. Orson didn’t expect a greeting and got none. In a way, that made their relationship that much simpler. No protocol. Wilton immediately launched off into the events of the week, ranging from an especially bad dinner of several days ago to the vapidness of the summer reruns. While he talked, they worked their way back to his room.
Before sitting, Orson passed his father the usual half-pound of liqueur-filled chocolates. Wilton slipped the contraband under the blanket covering his legs and gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement. The monologue slipped into the usual reminiscences, most of which Orson had heard many times. He didn’t mind, however. There was actually something pleasantly comforting about sitting and letting his mind wander while the old man rambled on.
The nursing home, far from being the wretched place so often described in exposés, was actually quite cheerful. The attendants were efficient, patient and seemingly devoted to caring for their charges. That the costs were high was not surprising, but a combination of railroad pension, Social Security and Medicare made it possible for Wilton to spend his last years in considerable comfort.
“It must be some kind of fever machine.”
“Fever machine?” Orson had lost the thread, but somehow what his father had been saying had broken through his reverie.
“Yup. Like I said, the static on my radio gets awful sometimes. I’ve told that flaky attendant, but he just says the radio’s getting old. I know better. It’s not the radio. Something’s causing all that interference. Did I ever tell you about Bill and me rigging up an old Model-T magneto to get even with Mrs. O’Shaugnessey? That brother of mine was something else again.”
Orson began to listen in earnest, and Wilton seemed to warm to the subject, perhaps encouraged by the now obviously attentive audience. “Mrs. O’Shaugnessey was an old nosey-barrel. Always watching us from behind her curtains and complaining when we played bat-the-cork because she was afraid we’d break one of her windows. I don’t know where Bill got the idea, but he was the one who thought it up. Dad was still driving a Model-T back then, and did most of the work on it himself. He had a shed full of parts left over from his repair jobs.
“Well, Bill and me made a wooden box for one of the old T’s magnetos Dad had lying around, and he added a crank to rev it up. Come seven at night we’d get it going. That was when she was listening to Amos ‘n Andy. You wouldn’t believe how many times she had the repairman come out to work on that old Philco of hers. She was sure one mad Irishwoman.”
By this point, Orson was completely alert. “How far away from her house were you?”
Somewhat startled by this sudden display of interest, Wilton said, “Across the street,” then broke into a chuckle. “It wasn’t until weeks later that we found out the whole block was affected. That repairman should have paid us kids a commission.”
There were times when Vivienne’s enthusiasm overwhelmed him, and the following morning was one of those times. “That’s it! That’s it! She did kill him. It all fits.”
“Whoa, Dobbin! Nothing fits. There are blanks all over the place. How would she know about magnetos? You admit you never heard of them used this way, and you’re the electronics expert. And, remember, she was in her office miles away from the accident scene.”
“So she says.” As she spoke, Vivienne snapped open her laptop and started typing furiously. “Let’s start filling in the blanks. I’ll test out the pacemaker that’s coming in today with a magneto to see if I can cause it to fail. You call Rochester PD and find out all you can from them about the accident back there. And then call the witness to the accident here. We’ll go out and talk to her. Then…”
“Witness! I knew there was something she said last time I talked to her that sounded wrong. She said that, unlike this accident, there had been no witnesses to the Minnesota accident. But Riordan said he didn’t tell her anything. If he didn’t tell her, how did she know there was one? I sure didn’t mention any witness to her.”
“See. You’re already filling in the blanks. Let’s get started.”
Lunchtime would be fine. That was the word from Mrs. Louise Altman, who was at work downtown. Orson set off for the interview after leaving the office phone number with the Rochester PD, hoping they would make the effort to run down the information on an accident that had occurred fifteen years ago. He wasn’t terribly sanguine about that possibility, but was resolved to keep bugging them if need be.
Mrs. Altman proved to be the kind of witness the police must pray for. There were no fanciful elaborations. She was telling it like it was and, despite Vivienne’s doubts about the possibility of knowing whether or not someone was telling the truth, Orson was convinced the description of the accident the woman across the lunch table was giving him was exactly as she had seen it.
“There’s a hill coming up to where the car went off the road. I was just coming up to the crest when I saw him weave. He’d been heading toward the double yellow when he seemed to overcorrect and went right through the guardrail. I can’t be sure of his speed, of course, but the limit is forty-five along that stretch, and I don’t think he was going faster than that. As the car turned, I saw he had a cell phone in his hand.
“There was another car behind him. It was probably fifty yards or so back. Believe me, I didn’t get more than a glimpse at it. My attention was caught up with what was happening to his car. All I saw was someone in it, also using a cellphone. Really, I can’t tell you any more than that.
“Was it a man or woman driving?”
A head shake. “I have the vague feeling it was a woman, but I would never swear to it, especially these days with men having their hair done in beauty salons.”
“Any idea about the make of the car?”
Again, a shake of the head. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at telling one kind of car from another. It seemed to be compact size, but I wouldn’t even want to testify to that.
“Color?” Orson was thinking of the white Daren van with the lightning stroke logo on the side.
“Dark. Beyond that I can’t say.”
Vivienne’s comment as he finished telling her about the results of the interview was, “That means more work. Maybe Riordan’s done it already. If not, you can alert him to it.”
“What’s it?”
“Check all the auto rentals for a lone woman coming in on the day before the accident. Car out for just one day. Simple.”
“Simple! Do you have any idea of how many rental outlets there are within twenty miles of here? And, if she rented one, she’d never have used her own name or her own ID.”
“That’s Riordan’s problem. We’ve got our own fish to fry. I talked to a police clerk back in Rochester. She’s going to fax us the accident report—if she can find it.”
The morning sped by quickly for both of them—Orson catching up on other cases, Vivienne tinkering in her office with the pacemaker that had finally arrived, and also with what she had insisted to Orson was a magneto brought up to date.
It was just minutes before usual closing time when the fax machine coughed out the accident report, with Orson looking over Vivienne’s shoulder as the document emerged.
Orson was the first to comment. “It looks like mechanical failure. Tie rod got loose and broke an oil line.”
“Geez!” Vivienne exclaimed. “It’s no wonder his car went off the highway. Even back then a ‘39 Chevy was an antique.” She paused, repeated the word “antique” and reached for the phone. It took several calls to finally locate the auto dealership formerly owned by Floyd and Kristina Hansen. At that point, Vivienne pushed the speaker button.
The disembodied voice said, “Sure. That’s what we are. An antique-car dealership. Business has been here for over forty years. And we have two beautiful Model-T’s right here on the floor. Lots of spare parts for them in case that’s a concern.”
When they were finally able to break away, Orson said, “I guess it’s time to level with Riordan. We don’t have any proof, but the evidence is piling up.”
Vivienne was stuffing various pieces of equipment into a briefcase. “I’ll get proof. Call Kristina at her office and tell her you want to discuss the case with her. Have her come out, and stall her. As soon as she pulls up in front of the building, give me a ring and let me know.”
“You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do, are you?”
“I’m shocked! Do you think for one moment I’d do anything illegal?”
Before he could stop her, Vivienne gave him a four-finger wave as she was closing the door.
“This is a bad, bad idea, Vivienne.” Orson’s face reflected his concern as he spoke into the office phone. “With all that electronic equipment she sells, she’s bound to have a burglar system at home.”
“Piece of cake. I’ve already checked it out. It took only minutes to tape in a by-pass. If I missed anything, the security company should be by long before I go in. At the moment I’m sitting a block away with the house in view. No action yet, and I really don’t expect any. Is she on her way from her office?”
Orson could see the answer to the question pulling into the office parking lot. “She’s here. For God’s sake, be careful!”
“What’s to be careful? She’s there, twenty minutes away, and I’m here. I’ll leave my phone on. Just call me when she leaves. In the meantime, I’ve got a lot to do. Ciao.”
Orson knew he should have mapped out more carefully what he planned to tell Kristina, but Vivienne’s scheme had unnerved him, perhaps even more than he had originally envisioned.
“I take it you have something significant to report,” Kristina said as soon as she sat down.
“Yes and no. Vivienne sat in with the experts. That particular make of cellphone couldn’t possibly have interfered with the pacemaker.”
Kristina seemed to be digesting that information before she asked, “What about the pacemaker, itself?”
The phone rang at that moment. Orson excused himself, actually grateful for the interruption.
“Hi, Riordan here. Got some news about your client. Something she’s not going to like to hear.”
Orson said nothing. Riordan paused, as though expecting a question. “We lucked out on that tip you gave us. Of course we’d been planning on checking, anyway. A woman matching her description rented a car the day of the accident. Phony name. Phony license. Paid cash, then abandoned the car a few blocks from Daren Electronics. She wore dark glasses, but there’s a nice set of fingerprints on the receipt and a signature that could be used for a writing match. Kristina Daren has a lot of questions to answer about that car and the accident. Of course, I still haven’t the foggiest idea as to how she did it, but I’m sure she did do it, and she’s scheduled for a long interrogation.”
Another pause. “You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Well here’s a bonus piece of information. Kristina Daren also has a boyfriend. He’s the owner and manager of Meckler’s Gun Shop.”
Yet another pause from Riordan’s end before a, “Hey. What’s going on?”
Orson looked across his desk at the woman who was waiting patiently for the end of the conversation. “Smiley Face.”
“What? You mean… Oh, oh! Got it. Keep her busy, I’ll get the local patrol there in minutes. I’m on my way.”
The usual smile greeted the end of the call, and Orson did his best to explain how there might have been something faulty about the pacemaker, that Vivienne would describe the problem in greater detail on her return from a trial run with it up in the vicinity of the accident, that just generally they were on to something.
It wasn’t until a defiant Daren had been herded into a patrol car and Orson was attempting to explain her modus operandi to Riordan, that a call came through from Vivienne. Her amusement was obvious. “Get in touch with Riordan. Tell him to get a warrant and to look for electronic equipment in the garage. Kristina was nice enough to have it all set up on a workbench, pacemaker, clone phone, and a magneto brought up to date. And there’ll be another surprise waiting there for him. I’ll see you at the station because I’m sure the police will need statements from us.”
It wasn’t until Vivienne and Orson were leaving the station that he got the whole story. Vivienne was still amused. Orson was appalled.
“You have to give Kristina credit. It was all very well planned. She had the magneto rigged up to a battery to do the cranking for her. I’ll bet your Dad would have approved of that innovation. So she followed her husband in that rental car. Waited until he was at the most dangerous spot on the road, called him on the cell phone and as soon as he answered punched the button on the magneto. His pacemaker must have jolted the hell out of him.”
“But why the cellphone call?”
“Greed! Turns out Art didn’t believe in insurance the way her first husband did, and Kristina wanted more than to just get rid of him. She was hoping to pin the liability for the accident on the cellphone company or the pacemaker company, or both. That’s why she hired us, hoping we could at least muddy the waters enough for our investigation to make a case for her in court.”
“Ugh!”
“Fantastic. By the way, did you see the look on Riordan’s face when he was describing how they found Meckler bound and gagged in the garage along with all that equipment.”
“I clean forgot about Meckler,” Orson said. “And I never imagined he’d be visiting Kristina while you were there.”
“I didn’t exactly expect a visitor, either. But it was after business hours, he had a key to her house and was stopping by. I heard him come in and was ready for him. Good thing I was. He was packing.” She lifted a hand shoulder high. “I’m a bit out of practice with my chop. I’ll have to go back to breaking two-by-fours. But it did work. He never knew what or who hit him.”
“I suppose she was planning on marrying him,” Orson mused.
Vivienne guffawed. “Do you think she had any plans laid out for her third husband? Just think how much easier it will be with this one if she somehow beats the rap. From an auto dealership, to an electronics shop to a gun store, no less.”