Free Catch a Falling Knife by Alan Cook Page A

leaving she did say one thing that puzzled me. She said, ‘I should have figured out a better way to do it.’”
    “Do what?”
    “Deal with the harassment, I suppose. Or what she imagined to be harassment.”
    We chatted for a few minutes while I tried to remember anything of relevance that Elise had said. Then I thought of something else. “I should check my messages. I don’t think I checked them after I returned from dinner last night.”
    “In spite of the fact that you might have a message from Mark?”
    “I meant to check them. But you know how absent-minded us old folks are.”
    “Speak for yourself, Lil.”
    I went to the telephone and punched in the code for my messages. A female voice told me I had one message, which had been received last night at 6:17 p.m. I had been eating dinner in the dining room at that time. The voice said that the message was from an unknown number, which meant that it was from outside Silver Acres. It must be from Mark. I felt relieved and played the message.
    “Mrs. Morgan, this is Elise Hoffman. I want you to know that I am dropping the charges I made against Dr. Pappas. Please tell him that. When I see him I’ll tell him myself. I hope that I can undo the damage I’ve done to him. I wanted you to know about my decision right away because you helped me make up my mind.”
    The message ended. I played it again to make sure I had heard it correctly. Then I hung up the phone.
    “Lil, you look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
    “I just heard a ghost.” My hands were shaking. I told Tess about the message.
    “How did she get your telephone number?”
    “I gave it to her…that is she asked for it. I wasn’t sure why. She said she wanted it in case she needed to get in touch with me.”
    “She must have been thinking about dropping the charges even while you were still there. We have to save that for the police.”
    “The police, right. And I want Ms. Priscilla Estavez to hear it.”
     
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    The police arrived sometime after lunch, or I should say one policeman in the person of Detective Julius Johnson. Detective Johnson wore civilian clothes—a suit and tie—but he did have an authentic-looking badge so I let him in. He was fairly small in stature and his dark skin probably helped to make him look more authoritative than if he had been white. He was young, without any hair to speak of. They used to call that a buzz-cut.
    I escorted him inside and introduced him to Tess, who had kept me company through the morning and through lunch while we waited in vain for word from Mark. I offered him a seat on the roomy sofa, beside Tess, but he remained standing so I did, too.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said to me.
    Instead of a southern accent, he had what I would call a universal accent, as exemplified by many of the residents of California.
    “Lillian Morgan.”
    “Good. You’re the owner of this apartment, right?”
    I acknowledged that fact.
    “And Mark Pappas has been staying with you?”
    “For the last few days, yes.”
    “Where is he now?”
    I had to admit that I didn’t know. He asked me when I had seen him last and the other usual questions. After he had determined beyond the shadow of a doubt that I didn’t know where Mark was, he said, “Do you know what this is in regard to?”
“The murder of Elise Hoffman.”
“What do you know about Elise Hoffman’s murder?”
    “What I read in the paper. But I may have some additional information for you because I talked to Elise yesterday afternoon.”
    “You did?” Detective Johnson’s eye twitched. “I certainly do want to talk to you.”
“And Tess can verify what time that was because she was in the car with me. But she didn’t actually see Elise.”
“What kind of a car were you driving?” Detective Johnson asked.
    “An old Mercedes, 1986. Blue.”
    Detective Johnson flipped back a couple of pages in his spiral