A Killer's Kiss (18 page)

As soon as I could dump Derek off in his North Philly neighborhood, I hied it over to the very last place I should have hied it over to. Julia’s, of course. But I had to go. I wanted to see her, to talk to her, to kiss her and maybe more her. And I had great news. I had solved the mystery of those troubling letters she’d been sent. There was money somewhere, and I suspected I knew where to find it, though it was way too dangerous right now to pick it up myself. And, most crucial of all, I knew who had killed her husband, and why. The only thing I didn’t know was how wrong I could be.

It had been a scene of tears and bitterness in Margaret’s neat little Cape Cod. She didn’t blame him. How could she? He was just being led astray by the emotions conjured by that witch. The way she swished in his presence, the way she touched his arm and lowered her voice when she spoke to him. She had bewitched Dr. Denniston, leading him into ruin, and she had done the same to
her Clarence, all the time reveling in her power, the power women like that had over men, a power Margaret would never know.

“But Clarence loves me in his soul,” she said, and she might have been right, but that’s not where it matters.

The bitterness was etched deep into her features, as if with some brutal awl. The way the fey little girls at dance class got the solos while Margaret was pressed to the back of the chorus. The way the bright, bubbly girls in elementary school got the teachers’ attention and the pretty girls with clear voices got the leads in the middle-school musicals. The designation of beauty in America is remarkably generous—so many beautiful girls walk the hallways of our high schools it can break your heart—but that only makes being on the wrong side of that line ever more painful. For Margaret, life was never so easy, expectations were lowered. The straws had been drawn, and hers came out short, and forever after, everything she held close would be at risk from those who had won the lottery.

The cat came over and nestled against one of her strong calves. She kicked it away.

“He follows her around like a pet,” she said. “He does her bidding. He laughs at her jokes—not even jokes, she doesn’t make jokes. She makes her world-weary little comments, and he chuckles like a fool. Sometimes he stalks after her through the night and spies on her. And other times he does whatever she asks of him. He has become her lapdog.”

“So you sent the letters,” I said.

“I couldn’t help myself. The urge was uncontrollable. It was either write the letters or shoot her dead.”

“Good choice, then. What about the drugs?”

“What drugs?”

“Clarence. How did the drugs start?”

“Clarence? Drugs?”

“No drugs?”

“Of course not. What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I guess I’m confused. But why did you write to her, why not to him?”

“Because it wasn’t his fault, Mr. Carl. She could see it happening, she could have done something about it if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She’s a siren, that’s her to the bone, Clarence couldn’t help himself.”

“No, I suppose not.”

And I couldn’t help myself either, as I barreled through the dark, leafy streets of Chestnut Hill on the way to her house. There were three cars in the driveway, two I recognized: the Dennistons’ blue BMW and a boxy black Volvo. I had seen the Volvo before, at that very spot. It was Clarence’s car. Why should I have been surprised?

I knocked at the door and knocked some more. When Gwen opened it a crack, I pushed it open wider.

“Where is she?” I said.

“Mr. Carl, you shouldn’t be here now,” said Gwen in a hush, barring my way with one strong arm.

“I need to see her.”

“Mr. Carl, please.”

“Let him in, Gwen,” came a voice I recognized from inside the house. “It’s not a party without Victor.”

I looked around Gwen, and there he was, Clarence Swift himself, bent aggressively forward, hands rubbing one the other beneath his insincere smile.

“It looks like I came just in time,” I said.

“Your timing couldn’t be more perfect,” he said.

“Where is she?”

“In the den,” he said. “Hurry. She’s waiting for you.”

“Go home, Mr. Carl,” said Gwen.

I gently took hold of her arm and pushed it away. “It’s all right, Gwen. I can handle Clarence.”

“It’s not him you should be worried about,” she said, but by the time she said it, I was already past her.

“I figured out most of it,” I said to Clarence, who waited unflinchingly as I approached. “The whole deal you created with your pal Wren Denniston to steal Gregor Trocek’s money. Why you plotted against and killed your old friend Wren. How you’ve been working hard to frame me for your murder.”

“I was right about you from the start, Victor. You are wondrously clever. Only a fool would underestimate you.”

“But what I don’t understand, Clarence, what I’ll never understand, is how you figure a pathetic wretch like you will end up with Julia.”

“Don’t you worry, I know my place.”

“And I know mine—between her and you.”

“You want to know a secret, Victor?” said Clarence.

“Sure,” I said as I stopped right in front of him.

He leaned close and whispered. “You’re not good enough for her.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said, and then I brushed past him, toward the den. I called out, “Julia?”

“Victor?”

I had wanted to hear that sweet lilt of pleasant surprise.
I’m so glad you came.
But that’s not what I heard in the voice. What I heard instead was,
What the hell are you doing here?
But what the hell did it matter? I was there, so was Julia, and maybe, for once, a piece of the truth would be in the room with us.

“Julia,” I said as I pushed open the door to the den. “I’ve got news.”

And there she was, in her chair, in her corner, wearing pants this time, and a loose white shirt, rolled up at the cuffs. Her shirt was buttoned, her hair back, her face scrubbed, she had been crying. She stood up when she saw me and stepped forward on bare feet. So captivated was I by the sight of her that it took me a moment to register that there were others in the room, two others.

My head swiveled back and forth. Hanratty leaned against
the wall behind me. Sims was sitting on the red leather couch by the fireplace. They both seemed quite pleased to see me.

“What are you clowns doing here?” I said.

“We were invited,” said Sims. “By Mr. Swift.”

“I told them Mrs. Denniston was ready to talk,” said Clarence Swift from behind me.

“Talk?” I said. “About what?”

“About her husband’s murder, of course,” said Clarence.

“I told them, Victor,” said Julia as she stepped up to me. Her arms were stretched wide before she wrapped them around my neck. “I told them everything.”

“You have the right to remain silent,” said Hanratty.

“Really?” I said.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

We were back in the Roundhouse, back in the green interrogation room with its familiar mirror and familiar dead-rodent scent. But the room seemed so small now that I found myself struggling to breathe. It was no longer a room, it was more like a closet, or a box, and I was stuck inside, and the lid was slamming shut.

I had been driven to police headquarters from Julia’s house by Hanratty, who kept his impressive jaw clenched the whole ride, but at least he didn’t hit me, which was a step in the right direction in our relationship. Next we would be doing the foxtrot together on
Dancing with the Fuzz.
Sims took my car back to the Roundhouse. I expect he searched the glove compartment
without a warrant while he drove. Maybe he found the twenty I’d lost in there a couple of weeks ago. If he did, that was twenty I was out, but I had more bitter things to think about, like being betrayed by the woman I thought I loved.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” said Hanratty.

“Brigitte Bardot,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Anita Ekberg. Sophia Loren.”

“He’s quoting Dylan,” said Sims, without looking up from the file he was staring at in that room. “He thinks he’s being clever, but as usual he’s being fatuous instead.”

“Do you really think I’m overweight?” I said.

“You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning,” said Hanratty. “If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay what?” said Hanratty.

“You can hire me a lawyer.”

“We are reading you your Miranda warnings, Victor,” said Sims, “because we don’t want you to be under any misconceptions. You are now an official suspect in the murder of Dr. Wren Denniston.”

“At least I’m an official something. Do I get a badge?”

“Shut up,” said Hanratty.

“Now, see,” I said, “why do you need all this Miranda stuff when that’s the only advice a suspect really needs. Shut up. Thank you, Detective, for that sage advice. I think that’s just what I’ll do.”

“Gregor Trocek,” said Sims.

I rubbed my tongue hard across the inside of my cheek, thought about what Julia could possibly have told them. She’d said everything. And more, I’d bet.

“What about him?” I said.

“What is your relationship?”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

“Early supper at an exclusive Spanish restaurant. Friendly drives around town. Let me show you this.” He picked a photograph out of his file and tossed it to me. Gregor and me in the backseat of Gregor’s Jaguar.

“Nice car,” I said.

“Looks like a relationship to me.”

“I’m not that easy.”

I looked at Sims for a moment and tried to think it through. I had three options to deal with what Julia had done to me. I could lie, I could obfuscate, or I could tell the truth. As a lawyer, of course, I was partial to the first two. Lying and obfuscating are crucial tools of the profession, along with a shameless ability to overcharge. But in that room, with my neck suddenly on the line, I sensed that something else was required, something closer to the third option, maybe not the whole third option, but the third option nonetheless.

“Gregor Trocek is looking for a large amount of his money that is missing,” I said.

“How much?” said Sims.

“One point seven million dollars.”

“In what form was the money?” said Sims. “A check? A wire?”

“Cash,” I said.

“Cash,” said Sims, nodding, as if none of this was a revelation, as if one point seven million dollars in cash floating around was as natural as the sunrise. Hanratty looked at me and then at Sims with a puzzled expression.

“Trocek thought I could help him find the money,” I said. “That was why he treated me to dinner and drove me around town. The latter at knifepoint, I might add.”

“Why would he come to you?” said Sims.

“First, he thought I had an in with Mrs. Denniston and that she might know something, but he was wrong. Whatever she knows, she won’t tell me. Then, because he had received a tip that I might be the guy with the money.”

“And are you?”

“Would I be here if I was? The tip was as bogus as the ones you’ve been receiving about me. But I know where they’re coming from now.”

“From who?” said Hanratty.

“Clarence Swift.”

“Mrs. Denniston’s lawyer?”

“That’s right.”

“What are your future plans with Mrs. Denniston?” said Sims.

“I don’t know. Before, I hoped things would work out between us.”

“Before the murder?”

“Before that, yes. And before tonight, when she betrayed me like a snake.”

“Again,” said Sims.

“Thank you for that, Detective. Before she betrayed me like a snake again.”

“Did you ever tell Mrs. Denniston”—he looked at a notepad sitting flat on the desk and then read the words—“that ‘if it wasn’t for her husband, everything could be perfect’?”

“I might have. I said a lot of things. I was trying to get her pants off.”

“Did you ever tell her you both needed to get him out of your lives?”

“I was thinking more in the way of divorce.”

“Do you remember when we mentioned a Miles Cave to you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“We’re not surprised. As best we can tell, he doesn’t exist.”

“Exactly.”

Sims glanced up from the file and smiled. “There was apparently a partnership between Gregor Trocek and Miles Cave. But it appears that Miles Cave is a pseudonym for someone else. Do you have any idea for whom?”

“I don’t think it was a pseudonym for anyone. I think he never existed in the first place. It was just a way for Wren Denniston to steal Gregor Trocek’s money.”

“Cash money,” said Hanratty.

“Yes. Doesn’t the word ‘cash’ make it sound that much more juicy?”

“Interesting theory,” said Sims as he took out a paper from his file and slipped it across the table to me, “except for this.”

I felt the shivers even before I saw it, because I knew what it was. The letter. From Miles Cave. A copy, of course, because the original I had stolen from the file and burned in my sink. But a copy in the hands of the cops was enough. I hunched my shoulders as the room grew smaller.

“It has your address,” said Hanratty. “And the signature looks suspiciously like the signature you put on your affidavit the first night we met. And funny thing, the original is missing.”

“It seems,” said Sims, “that the original was in a file you were examining at the Inner Circle offices. It’s a good thing they made this copy, isn’t it?”

“Good thing,” I said.

“Do you know what happened to the original?”

“Yes. I took it.”

“So you admit it?” said Hanratty.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what obstruction of justice is?”

“Trying to keep a lie from infecting an investigation is obstruction of something,” I said, “but not justice. I’m being set up.”

“You didn’t steal the letter because you wrote it,” said Sims. “You stole it because someone else wrote it.”

“I took it because I knew I was being framed and I wasn’t sure you guys were sharp enough to see the truth.”

“That’s a nice argument for the judge,” said Hanratty, “but it won’t stop us from banging you away right now until everything else is cleaned up.”

“You’re looking in the wrong direction,” I said. “I’m just an innocent dupe.”

“I buy the dupe part,” said Hanratty.

“You need to find the guy who drafted the agreement between Gregor Trocek and the mythical Miles Cave, the guy who has been throwing out false tips and manufacturing false evidence, the guy who had the most to gain from Wren Denniston’s death, the guy who committed the murder.”

“And who is that?” said Sims.

“Clarence Swift,” I said.

“He is so full of it,” said Hanratty. “Look, his tongue is turning brown.”

“Why would Clarence Swift kill his best friend?” said Sims.

“For love,” I said. “He’s got the hots for Mrs. Denniston, always has. And for money, Gregor’s money. He knows where it is and had to get rid of Wren Denniston to keep it.”

“Love and money,” said Sims.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Love and money. That’s your answer.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“No, we like it fine,” said Sims, closing the file and smiling up at Hanratty. “It’s like clockwork, isn’t it?”

“Happens every time,” said Hanratty.

“What happens every time?” I said.

“A little psychological tic,” said Sims. “In the distorted mind of a murderer, the reason for the killing becomes so prominent he can’t imagine any other. So whenever be tries to blame someone else, he always imparts the very motive that drove him to kill.”

“Love and money,” said Hanratty. “That’s why you did it, isn’t it, baby?”

“I didn’t do it. Clarence Swift did it. I’m sure of it.”

“He’s sure of it,” said Sims.

“He’s a sure one, he is,” said Hanratty.

Sims took another photograph from the file and spun it toward me. It was grainy, black and white, a distorted picture of Clarence Swift, with his high forehead and bow tie. He was looking down, fiddling with something. It was a photograph from an ATM, with the date and time imprinted. The date was the very date of Wren Denniston’s murder, the time was 8:37 p.m.

“This was taken in Center City. Based on what the medical examiner concluded as to the time of death, there wasn’t enough time for Clarence Swift to have made it from the ATM to the Denniston house to have committed the murder.”

I stared at the photograph, at the date and time. “There must be something wrong. This can’t be right.”

“Oh, it’s right, baby,” said Hanratty. “We checked and double-checked. The bank’s records are precise.”

“He’s in the clear,” said Sims. “Which leaves us with you.”

“Love and money,” said Hanratty.

“When you get right down to it,” said Sims, “what else is there? Except maybe just money.”

The photograph didn’t make any sense, it couldn’t be right. Clarence was the enemy, I knew that with complete certainty, which meant he must have killed Wren Denniston. But if the picture was true, then it hadn’t been him. So who could it be? Not Julia, she had an alibi. Not Margaret, because the motive was all wrong. Not Clarence and not Gwen and not me. So who?

I didn’t have an answer, but suddenly I realized I had a clue. And a question. And someone who might have an answer, if I could only get out of that damn closet so I could ask him.

“Let me book him now,” said Hanratty. “He admitted to taking the letter. That’s clear obstruction. We can hold him
forty-eight hours just on that. It will keep him from slopping around in our evidence until we get enough to finish him off.”

Sims looked back at the file, rearranged some papers, closed it, gently clasped his hands together. “That’s all, Victor,” he said. “Thank you for coming around.”

“That’s it?” I said.

“That’s it,” said Sims.

“As always,” I said, standing quickly, “it was as pleasant as a root canal.”

“What are you doing?” said Hanratty.

“Keep out of trouble, Victor,” said Sims.

“Wait a second,” said Hanratty. “This isn’t procedure.”

Sims reached into his pocket, pulled out my jangle of keys, slid it across the table. “Your car’s parked in the back lot.”

Hanratty strode to the table, leaned over Sims like he was leaning over a suspect. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “Either he mucks up the evidence or he runs. My bet is he runs, but either way we’re screwed.”

“You’re not going to muck up the evidence or run, are you, Victor?”

“No, sir,” I lied.

“Let me talk to the captain before we let him walk,” said Hanratty. “Give me a few minutes at least.”

“Toodle-oo, Victor,” said Sims. “Don’t leave town.”

I didn’t hear what Hanratty said next, because by the time he could continue his angry complaint, I had grabbed my keys and was out the door.