From the back cover:
"Are You Misunderstood? Nobody is as misunderstood as Dallas police detective Sammy Kidman. From bungled field assignments to a close encounter with his best friend's wife, Sammy lurches from one near-disaster to the next. Even his loyal wife Marni can't understand his participation in a bizarre Vice sting. But when his dad's position as chauffeur to a wealthy socialite changes to that of her boyfriend, Sammy thinks nothing worse can happen—until he's staring down the barrel of his own gun."


CHAPTER ONE

Detective Sammy Kidman eased open the rear door of the building with extreme caution and peered down the corridor. He saw a mob at the foot of the stairs, whispering in bloodthirsty tones. They were out to get him. He had to get past them. Sammy slipped inside, letting the door swing gently closed, then tiptoed toward the elevator. When he came to a broad interior window, he casually raised a hand to cover his face as he sauntered down the hall.

Despite his efforts to slip in unnoticed, a shot rang out: "Way to go, Toadhead!"

Sammy winced and dove for the elevator. Sergeant Luedke boarded with him, staring down at him malevolently from his six-foot-five-inch height. Sammy averted his eyes, then looked back to protest, "It wasn't my fault."

The elevator opened on the second floor for Luedke to get off. Glaring back at Sammy, he uttered, "Bottom feeder."

"All I did was give her his phone number!" Sammy pleaded. "I was paying back a favor!" The door shut on Luedke's unforgiving face and the elevator ascended on to the third floor of the Dallas, Texas, Police and Courts Building, where Sammy worked.

When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, he disembarked and glumly went down the hall to the Targeted Activity office. This large room, decorated in vinyl flooring worn down to the cement and stained acoustical ceiling tiles, was crowded with metal desks, computers, and old secretarial chairs. At a desk close to the door sat Pruett--his best friend Dave Pruett. Sammy hesitated a moment to see if Pruett would join in this lynching.

Sandy-haired, square-jawed Pruett briefly looked up from the paperwork piled on his desk. "Good afternoon, Sambo," he greeted him cordially.

Sammy felt cautiously relieved. "Not much," he muttered on his way back to his desk. "They're all blaming me."

"What, just because you got 'Barbie Doll' Breckenridge, whom every man in the department worshiped from afar, married to an Okie who took her to Oklahoma City?" Pruett asked in mock disbelief as he searched out another form on his desk.

Sammy exhaled. "I didn't get them married! How'd I know Jana would fall for him like a ton of bricks? He got me out of a tight spot and I just promised him a date with her! They did the rest themselves! If you guys are going to be mad at anybody, get mad at him!"

"Not feasible, Sambo--he's too far away. You, however, are eminently accessible," Pruett said, sticking his pen in his mouth to free up both hands for paper shuffling.

Groaning, Sammy turned to his desk. "Well, what are you going to do to get back at me? Whatever it is, I'm asking as your friend to just go ahead and do it. Spare me the agony of waiting to see what you come up with."

Pruett smiled in superiority. His prowess at practical jokes had made him a legend, especially as Sammy was his most frequent target. Being Jana's male counterpart in the department, Sammy aroused widespread resentment over the fact that just a glance of his blue eyes could thaw the coldest female. But his colleagues grudgingly respected his Medal of Honor, earned for taking a bullet in the chest to protect three innocent bystanders.

"The Master does not waste his genius on the village idiot," Pruett said in explaining that he was above taking pot shots at everyone else's target.

"Thank you," Sammy muttered, plopping down at his desk. He paused to pick up the sketch of himself lying atop his paperwork. It was a good likeness--the artist had captured his glossy black hair, his long eyelashes, and his cocky grin over the hangman's noose. The handwriting style of the bold caption at the bottom, "Benedict Arnold," revealed the artist as Pete "Pillows" Burrows, a police artist. His nickname derived from his participation in solving a homicide which had involved the use of numerous bed pillows.

"'Pillows' can really move a pencil around," Sammy said admiringly, studying the caricature a moment before dropping it into his trash can. "Did you see the one he did of Jana?"

"Sure. It's hanging enshrined in the weight room, to remind everyone of your treachery," Dave said, switching on his computer.

"So why aren't you mad at me?" Sammy asked with vague suspicion.

Dave shrugged, "She was nice to look at, but I wasn't ever interested. I got a nice situation already."

"Which you have me to thank for," Sammy reminded him. It was true. Kerry Pruett (then Wells) was one of those people Sammy had shielded from the gunfire. Then Sammy had introduced her to Dave.

"Actually," Dave replied, turning, "I happen to know that I am the progenitor of the expected March arrival, and any tasteless hints to the contrary will get your face rearranged." Dave liked to remind everyone, whether they knew or cared, that he and Kerry were expecting a baby in about four months.

Sammy grinned. Then he picked up a slip from his desk and his grin faded. The note said, "Call me! Anne?" and her phone number. Sammy vaguely remembered meeting her--a civilian, a new direct-entry clerk who took officers' reports over the telephone and entered them onto computer. She's new. She doesn't know I'm married, Sammy rationalized as he dropped the note into his trash can. Then he reexamined what he could remember of their meeting, wondering if he had been flirting again. Garrett had been with them at the time, and all Sammy could remember was laughing at Garrett's assessment of a despised lieutenant's potential for fatherhood--

Sammy winced and slapped his forehead. "I gotta be more careful," he muttered. His phone rang and he plucked it up. "Kidman."

"Uh, yeah, Sambo, who all's there now?"

"Just me and Pruett, Mike," Sammy replied.

"Okay, you two need to come to my office so we can hammer out this reporting process the chief's ordered. You can fill in the others when they become available," he said. Mike Masterson was the sergeant in charge of the Targeted Activity Section. It was a new section in the department, operating in a proactive, free-ranging manner to gather undercover intelligence in support of the more traditional bureaus of Crimes Against Persons, General Investigations, Narcotics--whatever required an unconventional approach.

"Will do," Sammy said. As he hung up and rose from his desk, he told Pruett, "Mike wants to cover the new reporting process with us."

"Right," Dave said, closing his computer file and standing. They exited the TAS room and walked up the hall together.

As they came to Mike's door, a scruffy Vice detective paused to ask, "You wouldn't be Sammy Kidman, would you?"

"Yeah," Sammy said, eyeing him.

"I thought so," he said, studying him as one would a rare variety of slime mold before arching a brow and walking away. Sammy glanced at Pruett's half-smile and opened Mike's door.

When they entered, Mike looked up from his haphazardly papered desk. "Okay, Pruett. Kidman. Sit down here and let's make this short and sweet."

While the two drew up chairs, Mike rubbed his bristly face with one bear paw. Forty-two years old, black, he inwardly considered Sammy and Dave his little brothers whom he was responsible for rearing. Sammy, in turn, demonstrated his affection by greeting Mike in the most disgusting terms he could think of, or, at times that was inappropriate, kissing his face. Dave would have disavowed the whole family idea, had he any inkling of it.

"You're the one who got Jana Breckenridge married off, Kidman?" Mike asked dubiously, his hand arrested over his chin.

Sammy rolled his eyes. "I promised the guy a date with her after he helped me with a situation. If you wanna lay blame, look at Pruett. Jana felt so sorry for me after one of Pruett's gags that she agreed to the date. So it's as much his fault as it is mine."

Mike then evaluated Dave, who muttered condescendingly, "Nice try, Sambo, but you really are out of your league here."

"Well," Mike said, refocusing his attention on the matter at hand, "Deputy Chief Gonzales agreed that the reporting process needs to be streamlined, particularly in our area, where we deal with a lot of different categories of offenses. So what we've come up with, now--" His telephone rang. "Masterson," he answered it. Then he quickly looked up at Sammy, who tensed. "He's here. Yes sir. Right away." He hung up and said, "Chief Howell wants to see you, Sammy."

Sammy slowly stood. You never wanted to get called to a lieutenant's or captain's office--it just meant you were in trouble. So then to get called to the office of the Chief--Sammy couldn't imagine what awaited him. A firing squad, probably.

"He found out about Jana," Pruett said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. But even he looked a little pale.

Shrugging, Sammy turned out of Mike's office and took the elevator down to the first floor. Soon, very soon, they were supposed to move into the new police complex in south Dallas, but construction hang-ups kept pushing the move-in date back—most recently, the reflective glass panels on the south side of the building had started popping out. There were only, like, three or four that had come out like that, but people on the sidewalk three stories below tended to get disquieted at the sight of these four-by-six foot panes hurtling down, so—the department was stuck in the old headquarters on Main. Pruett, who had been completely packed for the move, argued that TAS should be allowed to go ahead and transition, since their new offices were on the north side of the building, but—you didn't argue with the Chief. Whose office Sammy was headed toward now.

Along the way he told himself that whatever the chief wanted, it was no big deal. Sammy had already met the chief and knew him to be a fair, decent man. And married. Not the type to care that Jana had moved to Oklahoma City.

Still, Sammy took a breath as he put his hand on the door leading to the Chief's office. He was more nervous about going in this door than any other he could remember, including when he aided his old Narcotics unit in slamming a crack house door last week. He entered, then paused in the outer office while the Chief's secretary, on the phone, gestured him through to the inner office. Sammy nonchalantly opened the door. "You wanted to see me, Chief?"

"Yes, Kidman." Chief Howell glanced up from his desk. He had a sharp, leathery face and piercing eyes. "Come in and have a seat."

Sammy shut the door behind him and ambled over to the chair in front of the desk, hitching up his pant legs as he sat. Chief Howell tossed his pen down and leaned back in his creaking executive's chair. "Tell me what you know about the Threlkeld family."

Sammy cleared his throat. "Well, Chief, they're the closest thing Dallas has to old money. Morgan Threlkeld was something of a pioneer industrialist--he built half of downtown. What with that, the oil, and the real estate, they're worth--I don't know, as much as the Hunts, I bet. You won't see much of him now--he's been bedridden for some time--but his wife Dolly is very active in the arts and philanthropy--"

"Okay, that's the textbook version," Chief Howell said, rocking in his chair. "Now I want to hear how you know them."

Sammy swallowed. "Well, about a year and a half ago, my wife Marni and I worked an undercover assignment at the Threlkelds'. We were supposed to be looking for stolen art. We didn't find any, but what we did find was Dolly being taken in an art swindle. So . . . we got that cleared up--"

"The result being that Linda Threlkeld-Rains and Matthew Threlkeld were tried and convicted of attempted murder—of your wife?" the chief asked.

"Uh, yes, sir; that's correct," Sammy said, uneasily noting the chief's powers of recall. "They, uh, last I heard they were both serving time."

"Go on," Chief Howell said, resuming rocking.

"And then . . . my dad Sam Watterson--not the actor--started working for Dolly as her chauffeur." This was the part that made him uncomfortable.

"Go on," said the chief, still rocking.

Sammy shrugged. "He's still working for her. We see them occasionally. Dolly is crazy about my son, Sam, Jr. He's about ten months old." Sammy started to reach back for the ever-present picture in his wallet, then caught himself.

Chief Howell nodded slightly, looking toward the large window. "I suppose that would explain it," he murmured.

"Excuse me?" said Sammy.

The chief stopped rocking and looked back at him. "Morgan Threlkeld died yesterday. Mrs. Threlkeld has requested a police escort at the funeral, which we will provide. Also, she wants you to be a pallbearer."

Sammy almost stopped breathing. "I didn't know any of that," he said. "She hadn't said anything to me."

Chief Howell swiveled in his chair toward the window and tapped his chin with a forefinger. "This presents something of a dilemma for us, in that the funeral is certain to be heavily covered by the media. With your extensive--and ongoing-- undercover work, I am strongly opposed to placing you in the limelight like this. But the city manager informs me that we are in no way going to tell Mrs. Threlkeld that she can't have what she wants. So, the bottom line, Kidman, is that it's up to you. You tell Mrs. Threlkeld whether you will be a pallbearer or not, and then let me know of your decision. The funeral is tomorrow at ten."

Sammy's mouth hung open for a moment, then he clamped it shut and said, "Uh, thanks, Chief. I'll get right back with you." The chief nodded as Sammy rose from his chair and left.

He went up to the TAS room, which was empty. So Sammy sat at his desk and called home. When Marni answered, he said, "Hi, baby. Have you heard anything from Dolly this morning?"

"No, Sammy. But I heard on the noon news that her husband died late yesterday," Marni said.

"Yeah, so Chief Howell told me. He also told me that she wants me to be a pallbearer!" Sammy told her.

"You're kidding," she said.

"Nope. For real," he said solemnly.

"Sammy, have you talked to your dad?" Marni asked.

"No," he said tightly.

"Don't you think you should?" she asked.

"I hate it when you get logical," he groused.

"Call me after you talk to him. Oh--and we got a lovely thank-you note from Jana Lawdry," Marni mentioned.

"What, for introducing her to her latest husband?" he asked irritably.

"No, for the wedding gift!"

"Yeah, well, the note had better be engraved in gold," he grumbled.

"My goodness, why are you so grouchy? Just call your dad," Marni instructed.

"All right, already," he capitulated. "I love you, baby."

"I love you, Sammy."

Sammy pensively depressed the switchhook, then dialed another number. As he waited, he picked up the framed snapshot of Marni and Sam. It was a good picture--but then, he had never seen a bad picture of Marni. She was so pretty, with mischievous eyes and full, shoulder-length hair. He was glad she defied the Dallas mandate of blond hair. Hers was a natural brown, and he liked it that way.

"Threlkeld residence."

"Uh, hi, Dad," Sammy said, replacing the picture on his desk. "What's going on?"

"Well, I guess you heard that Mr. Threlkeld died," the elder Sam said.

"Yeah, I did. And my chief just told me that Dolly wants me to be a pallbearer. Is that right?" Sammy asked.

"Yeah, Sammy; that's what she said," Sam replied.

"Well, gee, Dad, why didn't she call me? Why did she have to bother the chief about it?" Sammy asked, peeved.

"Sammy, she's so distracted, she just can't even think. You shouldn't blame her. She just told her household manager what she wanted, and left it to her to see that it got done. You'll do it, won't you?" his dad asked.

"Dad, I . . . my job, you know. For me to get out and show my face--"

"She's going to be real hurt if you say no. You're not going to turn her down, are you?" Sam asked, mortified.

Sammy chewed his lip. "No, Dad, I'm not gonna turn her down. I'll figure out some way to do it."

"Thanks, Sammy; I knew you would. You and Marni are supposed to be here at nine tomorrow," Sam said.

"Right. Okay," Sammy said, and hung up. He shut his eyes a moment, then picked up his phone and dialed again. When Chief Howell's secretary answered, he said, "Yeah, this is Sammy Kidman. Please tell the Chief that I'm going to be at the Threlkeld funeral tomorrow, in disguise." He looked at his watch. "Uh, since it's almost three, I'm going to take off to go get ready. Right. Thanks." He hung up, then called Mike to tell him the same thing.

On hearing that, Mike said, "Do what you need to do, Kidman. But I'm going to get real p.o.'ed if you wind up giving somebody target practice."

"You're a sweetheart," Sammy said.

"Pruett'll cover the new reporting procedure with you. Oh, uh, do you think you can be back here at one o'clock tomorrow?" Mike asked.

"One? Sure. Don't see why not," Sammy said.

"Okay, I've got a new assignment for you two."

"Right, Mike," Sammy said, and clicked off. He pensively tapped a pencil on his desk a moment, then got up and took the elevator down to a supply room on the first floor. He turned on the light--a bare bulb in a ceiling socket--and sat heavily on a sturdy box. Then he leaned forward to a chest of drawers and pulled one open to dig through an assortment of wigs and facial hair. With a vague smile, he picked up a long black braided wig and weighed it before tossing it back in the drawer. Then he pulled out one with short, wavy blond hair and smoothed it over his spread fingers.

Abruptly he scooted forward and braced a small mirror on the chest of drawers to try on the blond wig. He scrutinized the effect in the mirror, then dug through the drawer until he'd found the right shade of light brown moustache and tube of adhesive. He glued on the moustache, then sat back and regarded himself in satisfaction.

Thus disguised, Sammy left the storeroom, shutting the door behind him. He walked toward the back door of the building with a slower, more measured stride than usual. He even tested out a limp. Nonetheless, as he passed Senior Corporal Drummonds he heard muttered, "You can run, but you can't hide, Kidman." Sammy winced.

Still in disguise, Sammy pulled up in the driveway of his new house and hit the opener to the rear-entry garage. He pulled in and parked, noting Marni's Miata. She was home.

Sammy opened the back door into the laundry room. "Marni?" he called. He heard the slaps of his son's hands and knees on the tile floor as he chugged toward his father's voice. Sammy looked around the corner and grinned at the sight of the ten-month-old locomotive. Everyone who said the baby looked exactly like his father was right. "Hi, guy!" He slapped his hands together and held them out.

"Sammy? You're--" Coming from another room, Marni paused at the blond-haired man picking up her son from the floor. The baby made a swipe at the moustache without alarm. The old guy did some weird things now and then, but Sam knew his father's voice and wasn't fooled by a cheap wig.

Sammy straightened with Sam in his arms and said in a cultured east-coast voice, "Forget Sammy, dear. I am Grant Tyler from Rochester, New York."

Marni let out her breath. "You gave me a start, Sammy. Is this for the funeral?" She came forward to gingerly kiss him under the moustache.

"Um. Yeah. Dad said that Dolly'd get her feelings hurt if we didn't come, so I told him we would. We're supposed to be there at nine. You'd better call your mom to see if she can keep Sam," he said, bouncing said Sam while he slapped at Daddy's face. Sam stopped that to work on grasping the moustache in stubby fingers.

"Okay. Be there? Where?" Marni asked, turning to the kitchen telephone.

"At their house," Sammy replied.

Marni paused. "With the rest of the Threlkeld family?"

"I guess so," Sammy shrugged.

"Oh, my. Won't that be interesting," she said in some apprehension, picking up the telephone.

By nine o'clock the following morning, Sammy and Marni were pulling up to the security gate at the entrance of the long, cobbled drive of the Threlkeld mansion. Just for today, they drove with the top up on Sammy's classic '66 lime-green Mustang, to protect Sammy's wig and Marni's veiled hat. (Because of the likely publicity surrounding this funeral, Marni's mother Pam had recommended the veil. Marni had demurred on the grounds that it was pretentious. Pam had replied, "Imagine video on the six o'clock news of you picking your nose." Whereupon Marni rushed out and bought a hat.)

Leaning out of the car window, Sammy pushed the intercom button beside the Threlkeld gate. "Yes?" came the stilted reply.

"It's Sammy and Marni, Hellier," he said, taking off his sunglasses and looking up into the security camera above the intercom.

There was a pause. "Sammy?" Hellier repeated skeptically.

"Yes, Hellier," Sammy replied, turning up the front edge of the wig.

Another pause. "Where is the baby?" the butler asked sternly.

"Hellier, we couldn't bring Sam to a funeral. Now are you gonna let us in or tell Dolly that you turned us away because we didn't bring Sam?" Sammy asked.

A moment later the gate opened on well-oiled wheels, and Sammy drove through, past fountains and sculptured hedges. Due to a remarkable combination of cool temperatures and the right amount of rainfall, Dallas was experiencing a real, honest-to-goodness autumn, with colored leaves and everything. Marni looked across the grounds at a grove of sugar maples dressed out in blazing splendor.

Sammy parked in the turn-around near the mansion's broad steps. Then he reached over to the glove compartment where he kept his service automatic: a Sig Sauer 226. Shifting, he stuffed the gun in his back waistband. Detectives were not supposed to wear them that way, but times that they forgot a holster, or didn't want to fool with it, they resorted to this.

"Sammy!" Marni exclaimed. "What are you doing? Put that away!"

"I never go anywhere without it, Marni," he said. Standing, he came around the car to open her door and offer a hand. She took it, and they ascended the steps to the massive oak doors. Hellier opened the door and nodded gravely, eyeing the wig. "Hello, Hellier," Marni smiled. "How is Mary?"

"In bed with a headache, I'm afraid," Hellier said. "I believe you're to wait in the sunroom for Mrs. Threlkeld and Mr. Watterson," he added, leading them through the vast, marbled foyer. Sammy and Marni glanced at each other, noting that his father had been elevated from "Sam" to "Mr. Watterson."

As they entered the sunroom, Sammy told Hellier, "I need to talk to the new household manager--what's her name?"

"That would be Mrs. Pace," Hellier replied.

"Okay. Would you ask her to come on back here?" Sammy said, straightening his wig in a Louis Philippe gilt-framed mirror.

"Certainly, sir," Hellier said, backing out, and Sammy glanced at his formality.

A few minutes later a woman in a blue business suit entered the sunroom. She wore her brown hair in a simple, straight pageboy, no makeup, and an apprehensive expression. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Kidman?"

"Yeah," Sammy said, extending his hand. "I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Grant Tyler from Rochester, New York. That," he nodded toward Marni seated on a rattan glider, "is Mrs. Tyler. You've never seen Sammy Kidman and you've got no idea what he looks like. Okay?"

She stared at him a moment, then blinked. "You're the police detective," she said slowly.

"Kidman is, but you don't know anything about him. I'm Grant Tyler of New York. Are we clear on that?" he asked. As he was really trying to be cordial, he had no idea how thoroughly he was intimidating her.

"Yes, certainly, Mr. Kidman," she said anxiously.

"Mr. Tyler," Sammy said slowly. "But you can call me Grant."

"Certainly--Grant," she said with slightly raised voice.

"Very good," Sammy nodded. He turned to sit on the glider beside Marni, but Mrs. Pace continued to stand like stone. Sammy looked out over the pool and grounds contemplatively. When Marni saw that the woman was waiting, she nudged him. He looked at Marni, then up at Mrs. Pace, still riveted in place. "What?" he said generally.

"Will that be all, Mr.--Grant?" she asked.

"Just Grant. Sure," he said. She nodded quickly and left the room.

Sammy eyed Marni for a moment, then asked, "Do you get the feeling that we're being treated with kid gloves all of a sudden?"

Marni opened her mouth, but at that moment Jessica Threlkeld, Dolly's granddaughter, bounced into the room. For the funeral, she had selected an off-the-shoulder black dress and rhinestone-studded hose. "Sammy! You're here!" she exclaimed, plopping into his lap to kiss his cheek. The glider rocked so far back that it banged against the wall.

"Hi, Jess," he said, glancing involuntarily at his wife. Marni smiled slightly and looked away in unconcern. Her tolerance at times like this made Sammy's life a lot easier. "Say, Jess, they must be feeding you real well at Radcliffe," he hinted broadly, just to get her off his lap. She wasn't overweight, just healthy, with the best profile money could buy and painstakingly highlighted brown hair. (After experimenting with the full spectrum of hair colors available, she had come to the sound conclusion that her natural brown was most becoming. So she dressed it out with subtle highlights and embarked upon other rebellions.)

She quickly slid off his legs to sit beside him. "Well, it's so boring there's nothing to do but eat. What's this?" she asked, ruffling the wig.

Sammy reached up to smooth it back down. "I'm Grant Tyler from Rochester, New York. A family friend. Got that, Jess?"

"Oh, yeah," she said slowly. "Yeah, I heard that CNN is covering the funeral," she added. Sammy nodded tensely.

"Will your uncle Wes be here?" Marni asked her. Wes Threlkeld was Dolly's oldest son.

"I dunno. Nobody's even heard from him for a few months. He was real bummed out after Mom and Matthew got sentenced. Imagine seeing the two most important people in your life get put away for attempted murder," Jess said with the detachment of a theoretical exercise. "Anyhow, Stan and Bobby are here," she went on, referring to her father and brother, "and, of course, Mr. Watterson. Hey, you know he is cute, even though he's older than Da--I mean, Stan. But he is bummed out about him," she said significantly.

"Who? Is bummed out about who?" Sammy asked uneasily.

"You know," Jess teased, playing with his wig.

Sammy brushed her hand away. "If I knew, I wouldn't ask," he said testily.

"Stan's mad that your daddy's sleeping with Grandma, silly," Jess said.


See In the Library review.

Buy Sammy: Little Misunderstandings.



In researching Sammy, Robin toured the Dallas fifth-floor jail
where Lee Harvey Oswald was held. See that tour here.


© 2006 Robin Hardy

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