Blood Crimes: Book One (33 page)

* * * * *

      Captain
M
artin Brady was hanging by Shannon’s desk talking with a couple of the other detectives. As Shannon approached, Brady’s pale blue eyes took him in. “You’re looking a bit gaunt this morning,” Brady said, a thin smile on his lips.

      “I had some trouble sleeping last night.”

      “Not ill or anything, I hope?”

      “No. I just had a little insomnia.”

      Brady’s pale eyes held steady on Shannon for a good twenty seconds before blinking. “Sometimes alcohol can interfere with your sleep. You haven’t been drinking, now, have you?”

      “Not a drop.”

      “That’s good.” Brady inhaled, obviously trying to detect booze on his detective’s breath. Satisfied, he backed away. “Joe’s waiting for you in interrogation room B. He’s with a Kyle Rowley. Rowley’s wife, Janice, never made it home last night. Her car was found this morning in an industrial park off First Street. No sign of her.”

      “That doesn’t sound good. Any reason to suspect him?”

      “There is.” Brady showed his thin smile again, a smile that never made it anywhere near his eyes. “He came down to the station last night around seven to report his wife missing.
M
ind you, she was only an hour late at that point. Sounds like he might’ve been a bit too anxious to set up an alibi.”

      Shannon nodded. “Yeah, it does sound that way.”

      “I’d like to see this wrapped up quickly.” Brady hesitated as a queasy look pushed the smile from his lips. “An abduction is going to scare people here. If it’s the husband let’s get this finished with this morning before the
media
gets a whiff of it.”

      “What about the car?”

      “Forensics is going over it. Talk to the husband, okay, Bill?”

      “Sure.”

      “And, Bill, get it finished with this morning.”

      Shannon gave his captain a nod and then headed off in the direction of the interrogation rooms. He stopped off at the lunch room to pour himself some coffee, and then stepped outside so he could smoke a cigarette. Cambridge had a smoking ban in the work place, and even though over half the cops in the precinct smoked, it was strictly enforced. Getting caught cost you a thirty-dollar fine, and he had already racked up a hundred and fifty in fines over the past three months. If Susie knew she’d be pissed, he thought with a slight smile. When he was done, when his nerves had for the most part settled, Shannon went to interrogation room B and stuck his head in.

      Joe DiGrazia was leaning back in a chair, his eyes half closed, his hands folded on top of his thick belly. Sitting across from him was a man in his early thirties, tall, lean, with a sallow complexion and a day’s growth of stubble covering his face. The man, Kyle Rowley, looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.

      DiGrazia caught Shannon’s eye and gave him a signal that they needed to talk alone. He then turned to Rowley and told him he’d be right back. Rowley nodded dully in response.

      Outside the interrogation room DiGrazia took a deep breath, expanding his chest half a foot. He was built like a bull, about five feet eight inches tall and practically the same width. A short, thick neck, not much hair, and a face like a granite block. He exhaled a lung full of air and made a face.

      “I don’t know about this, partner,” he said. “I think the man’s genuine.”

      “Why’d he report it so early?”

      DiGrazia shrugged. “He was worried.”

      “Tell me about him.”

      “There’s not much. He’s a white-collar type, a software engineer, married four years. They have an apartment near Porter Square. And his wife’s missing. That’s about it . . .”

      DiGrazia stopped, his eyes narrowing as he studied his partner. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

      “I didn’t sleep well last night,” Shannon said.

      “You don’t look too good. Kind of nervous,” DiGrazia observed.

      “I’m fine. Let’s go talk to the husband.”

      They went back into the interrogation room and Shannon introduced himself to Rowley. Rowley seemed only partly aware of it, his eyes searching off into the distance.

      “What time was your wife supposed to be home last night?”

      “Six o’clock,” Rowley said, his eyes drifting towards Shannon but not quite making it. “Janice called me at five and told me she’d pick something up for dinner. She asked what I wanted and I told her to pick up whatever she was in the mood for. She told me she’d be home by six.”

      “And after being only an hour late you thought something had happened to her?”

      “I knew something had happened to her.” Rowley’s eyes met Shannon’s. They had a sickish, jaundiced look about them. “I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I came down here last night, but the officer at the front desk told me Janice had probably just stopped off someplace for a couple of drinks.”

      “Wasn’t that possible?”

      “No.”

      “She’s never been late before?”

      “Of course she has. There have been times when she’s been stuck at work, or she has a hair appointment that’s running late, but not like this. She called before leaving work that she was going to pick something up for dinner and be right home.”

      “Where does she work?”

      “In Watertown. She’s an accountant. Here’s her business card.” Kyle Rowley took a card from his wallet and handed it to Shannon.

      The card had Janice Rowley’s work address and phone number. Shannon put it down in front of him and considered Kyle Rowley for a long moment.

      “How have you and your wife been getting along?” Shannon asked at last.

      Rowley tilted his head to the side, shaking it slightly. His lips pulled into a thin smile.

      “I need to ask you this.”

      “This isn’t anything like that,” Kyle Rowley said, his voice tired. “
M
y wife and I love each other very much.”

      “There haven’t been any problems, no fights or anything?”

      “No.” Rowley’s eyes shifted upwards to lock in on Shannon’s.

      “If we were to ask around we’d hear—”

      “You’d hear the same thing. That me and my wife love each other. That’s all you’d hear about us.”

      Shannon took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, shook one loose, and looked at it for a long moment before pushing it back into place. He noticed DiGrazia staring at him from the corners of his thin, narrowed eyes.

      “Could your wife be seeing someone else?” Shannon asked.

      “No.”

      “Is there the possibility—”

      “No. Janice is not seeing anyone. There’s not even the possibility of it.”

      “What about someone she works with?”

      “I told you she’s not seeing anyone—”

      “But you have suspicions, though.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You had her business card ready for me. You obviously have suspicions about somebody there.”

      Rowley thought it over. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You asked me where she worked. Anyway, I thought it could help to give it to you.
M
aybe somebody saw someone suspicious in the parking lot.
M
aybe somebody heard something. I don’t know. But that’s why I gave you her card. Janice is not seeing anyone.”

      “How can you be so sure?”

      “Because I know my wife,” Kyle Rowley said. “I know how we feel about each other.”

      Something about Rowley being so cocksure of his wife bothered Shannon. Shit, half the cops he knew sooner or later found their wives in affairs. Stubbornly he kept at it. “If your wife is seeing someone I need to know about it—”

      “She’s not seeing anyone. This is not anything like that.”

      “What is this then?”

      Pain pushed through the dullness in Kyle Rowley’s eyes. His entire face momentarily was flushed with it. “Janice was abducted,” he said. “Somebody took her. You realize that, don’t you?”

      “Okay,” Shannon said, “let me be straight with you. What I realize is your wife is missing, either because she wants to be, because somebody did something to her, or because you did something to her. If we can rule you out then we can focus on the other two possibilities. Which means if your wife really was abducted, the quicker we can cross you off, the better the chance we’d have of finding her. Will you give us permission to search your apartment?”

      “It’s not going to help at all—”

      “I could get a warrant, but it would take time. I don’t think we want to waste time right now.”

      Anger turned Rowley’s skin a soft purple. “This is ridiculous,” he started to argue, his jaw muscles hardening, “there’s nothing in my apartment that’s going to help you find my wife—”

      “If you’re involved, you’re doing the right thing by stonewalling us,” Shannon said.

      “I’m not trying to stonewall you,” Rowley said. “Goddamn it.” He shook his head. The color drained out of his face, leaving it the same unhealthy yellow it was before. “Do whatever you want as long as it gets you looking for Janice.”

      “Are you willing to take a polygraph test?”

      “I’ll take whatever you want me to take. Just find my wife.”

      Shannon stood up. “I’m going to get you a pad of paper. I want you to write down any place your wife might have stopped off last night to pick up dinner. Any place you can think of. I want you to also write down anything unusual that might have happened over the last couple months, anything your wife might’ve said that seemed out of place—”

      “Like what?”

      “Like somebody coming on to her at work, or threatening her, anything like that. I also want you to write down everything you did from the time you left work yesterday to coming here this morning.” Shannon hesitated. “Do you have pictures of your wife?”

      “I didn’t bring any. I can go home and get some.”

      “That’s okay. Just give me your keys. While you’re writing down what I asked, Detective DiGrazia and I will search your apartment. I need to get a photo of your wife out on the wire. Do you give me permission to remove photos of her from your apartment?”

      Kyle Rowley told Shannon to do whatever he needed to do and told him where they kept their photo albums. He took a pair of keys off a chain and handed them to Shannon. “Janice’s still alive,” he said. “I know it. I don’t know how I know it, but I do. Don’t let her die. She’s my life. I don’t think I can make it without her.”

      “I’ll do everything I can. I promise. I’ll be right back with that pad.”

      DiGrazia, before leaving, put a hand on Rowley’s shoulder and told him to hang in there.

      Out in the hallway DiGrazia remarked how he let Shannon do all the talking.

      “Yeah, I noticed.”

      “I wanted to give you every opportunity to form an unbiased opinion.”

      “Thanks.”

      “You thought there was something funny about him pointing us towards her coworkers?”

      “No. I just wanted to ask him about it.”

      “So what do you think,” DiGrazia asked, “is he genuine?”

      Shannon thought about it. “What I think is we’ve got a woman in pretty bad trouble.”

* * * * *

      Before leaving the precinct they stopped to talk with Brady. Forensics took a couple of partial prints off the steering wheel, nothing else.

      “Of course,” Brady went on, “they’re most likely the victim’s, but we’ll check them. Bill, tell me about the husband.”

      “He’s given us permission to search his apartment and he’s also willing to take a polygraph. I’ve set it up for one this afternoon. Do you want to be there?”

      “I don’t think that’s necessary. Is he responsible?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “What do you mean you don’t know?”

      Shannon shook his head. “I don’t have a feel yet,
M
artin. I really don’t know.”

      Brady gave DiGrazia a questioning look, but DiGrazia cut him off. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on,” he said.

      “You’re disappointing me,” Brady said to the two cops as they walked away from him.

      Brady stood watching them, shaking his head, a dour look forming over his soft features. “And I’m not at all happy about it,” he said to no one in particular. 
 

Julius Katz (first section)
 

      We were at the dog track, Julius Katz and me. I had finished relaying to Julius the odds I calculated for the greyhounds running in the third race; odds that were calculated by building thousands of analytical models simulating each of the dogs’ previous races, then in a closed loop continuously adjusting the models until they accurately predicted the outcome of each of these races. After that, I factored in the current track and weather conditions, and had as precise a prediction as was mathematically possible. Julius stood silently mulling over what I had given him.