Caught in the Middle by Gayle Roper Page A

in the east end of town. Apparently Gershowitz was a welder there. In fact, he was the welding supervisor.”
    Suddenly Sergeant Poole sneezed loudly in my ear, and I jumped like I’d been shot at. Again.
    “Sorry,” he said, sniffing. “I’ve been out in the cold rain too often recently.”
    I refrained from pointing out that he had sat in my warm living room drinking coffee while his compatriots secured the crime scene in the rain.
    “So this Gershowitz is the one I should be afraid of?” I asked.
    Poole sighed again. “I don’t know, Miss Kramer. I really don’t. Even if Gershowitz is the one who killed Marten, I cannot imagine for the life of me why he would want to hurt you.”
    I nodded to the phone. “I know exactly what you mean. I can’t figure it out, either. But there’s got to be a reason, because there’s a hole in the windshield of my rental car and no side window at all.”
    “So what do you know that you aren’t telling us?” Sergeant Poole asked.
    I frowned. “Believe me, Sergeant, if I knew anything, I’d tell you as quickly as I could.”
    Sergeant Poole sniffed and swallowed, though he was polite enough to move the phone away from his mouth so it wasn’t quite so loud. “Think back to that evening when you picked up your car. Go over it again minute by minute.”
    “There’s nothing to go over,” I said. “We drove up to Taggart’s. My car was parked outside the garage, waiting as Mr. Taggart and I had agreed. I got out of Jolene’s car and into mine. She drove away. I drove away. That’s it.”
    “You didn’t see anyone running away or hiding or…”
    “No skulkers,” I said. “Honest.”
    “Well, I recommend you don’t go out alone until we get this guy safely tucked away.” And on that happy note, he disconnected.
    Almost immediately the phone rang.
    “You ready to come over and see my show? Come right now, and you can see it before the doors open.”
    “Curt!” I looked at the clock on the wall. It was four-thirty, and I still had the Marten interview to write up. “Give me about an hour and a half, and then I’ll walk over.”
    There was a small silence, and I guessed that he was unhappy, maybe feeling slighted. But I was reading him incorrectly.
    “You can’t walk over here alone then. It’ll be dark, and with the snow the visibility will be very limited. It’ll be too dangerous.”
    “Come on,” I said, last night’s fear lost here in the bustle and busyness of the office. “It’s only across the street to City Hall.”
    “By way of the back parking lot. I’ll come for you,” he said.
    “You will not,” I answered. “You can’t walk out on your own party. I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. Now go have fun.” I could give orders every bit as well as he could.
    I punched off and stared at my keyboard. Concentrate! Or you’ll never get out of here!
    I began to type.
“Murder kills more than the victim. It kills his family and friends too.”
With these words Elizabeth Marten, mother of murder victim Patrick Marten, tried to explain the inexplicable pain of the violently bereaved.
    I wrote for some time, wrapped in the Martens’ pain. Suddenly the emotion of the story got too heavy for me, and I pushed back my chair abruptly.
    “Yo, princess, watch it!” Mac Carnuccio said as I caromed into him. He grabbed my chair and rolled me back to my desk.
    “I’m sorry, Mac.” Here was as big a change of pace as I’d ever find. “Where’d I hit you?”
    He laid his hand on his chest. “Right in my heart, beautiful. From the first moment I laid eyes on you.”
    I grinned at him and shook my head. “You can’t help it, can you?”
    He grinned back, eyes alight, and asked innocently, “Help what?”
    “The flirting,” I said. “It’s as natural as breathing, isn’t it?”
    “Been doing it since I was in diapers, or so I’ve been told.”
    “And nobody’s slapped you down yet?”
    “Plenty have, believe me. But most enjoy the