He Huffed and He Puffed (23 page)

Five after eleven on the nose. She knew because she wanted to go to her room and had been watching the clock.

“So no alibi for Richard Bruce,” Marian remarked when the maid had left. “The fire didn't break out for another fifteen or twenty minutes. If he was in the television room at the time, why didn't he come out and help fight the fire?”

“Maybe he didn't want to get his pretty suit dirty,” Ivan sniffed. “Well, who's left? The gateman?”

The outside security guard did have one interesting thing to tell them. He said he was surprised to learn Ms Gillespie and Mr. Bruce had come back to the house without his knowing about it. They both had left shortly before noon, carrying their bags, and they sure as hell hadn't come back through his gate. And that gate was the only way in.

The only way?

Except for the electronically controlled service gate in the rear. But why would Mr. Strode's guests use the service gate? He'd have let them in the front way.

When the guard had left, Marian said, “Didn't O'Connell say they had trouble with the security system earlier in the day? Bruce and Gillespie could have slipped in through the service gate when the system was down.”

Ivan nodded. “And into the house through the wine cellar? But why?”

“They didn't want to be seen, obviously. But that means they knew ahead of time they'd be able to get in the back way. Do you suppose that ‘trouble' with the security system was caused deliberately? Was McKinstry still in the house at the time?”

“We'd better find out.” Ivan perched on the edge of the conference table facing his partner. “Marian, you've gotta admit it's looking more and more like conspiracy. Those three were up to something today, you know damn well they were.”

“They were up to
something
. It didn't have to be murder. All this was before Strode pulled that little stunt with the knives, remember … and I don't think we've heard anything like the whole story on that, either. But the murder came
after
their ‘something' they were up to failed to end their difficulties with Strode. When their plan didn't get them the results they wanted, one of them took matters into his own hands—or hers—and put an end to the problem. Exit A. J. Strode.”

Ivan shook his head. “It's conspiracy. I can smell it.”

“It's too obvious, Ivan. It's safety in numbers, that's all it is.”

“You're crazy.”

“And you're pigheaded.”

“And you drive too slow.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean, I drive too slow?”

“You drive too slow! You gotta keep up with the flow of traffic.”

“I do keep up with the flow of traffic. I just don't play musical traffic lanes the way you do.”

“That's simply aggressive driving. It's all under control.”

Marian made a noise of exasperation. “What the hell are we arguing about driving for? Are we getting tired?”

Ivan looked at his watch. “It's almost three. Yes, we're getting tired.”

“Dammit, we haven't even scratched the surface yet! We've got those three upstairs still to question, and you know they're going to lie about everything under the sun. They may not even give us their right names.” Her stomach growled. “Sorry. Hungry.”

“So am I, but I was too polite to growl about it. I'll go see if Danielle's still up. Don't go away.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Marian said tiredly to the closing door, and put her head down on her arms and fell promptly asleep.

Ivan was gone twenty minutes, just long enough for Marian's catnap to do her some good. He came in bearing a plate of rapidly cooling toast, two Granny Smith apples, and a quart of milk. “Danielle's gone to bed. I didn't want to raid their refrigerator without asking, but I didn't think they'd mind if we had some fruit and bread.”

“You are a good provider, Ivan,” Marian said, pouring milk into their empty coffee cups. The cold toast and the apple were delicious. “Who's actually in charge in this house now? Castleberry doesn't live here.”

“Mrs. Strode, I suppose, when she gets back.”

“I wonder if she'll live here.”

“She'd be a fool not to.”

“Hmm. But she'd left here, or was made to leave. And her almost ex-husband was murdered here. The place might have too many bad associations.”

“Five bucks she stays.”

Marian thought about it. “You're on.”

When they'd finished fueling up, Ivan said, “Which one do we start with?”

“Not sure. Do you think Richard Bruce is a sort of spokesman for the group?”

“Because he was waiting here for us? He just wanted to get himself and the violinist out of the house.”

“So he was speaking for two at least. Let's save him for last.”

“Okay by me. Any preference?”

“No.”

Ivan took out a quarter and flipped it into the air. “Heads, McKinstry. Tails, Gillespie.” It came down heads.

But before they could send an officer to summon Jack McKinstry, there was a quick knock and the door opened. Myron Castleberry stood there, in superficially better shape than earlier. He'd cleaned away most of the smudges left by fighting the fire and donned his suit jacket, but his face looked as if it were collapsing in on itself. “Sergeants,” he said hoarsely, “I must talk to you. Now, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Castleberry, come in.” Marian pointed to a chair across the table from her. “Have a seat. What's bothering you?”

But once Castleberry had taken his seat, he seemed unable to speak. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists nervously.
Whatever it is, it must be a beaut
, Marian thought, and glanced at Ivan. Her partner nodded and said, “Were you able to get hold of Mrs. Strode?”

Castleberry took a moment to focus on the question and then said, “Yes, she'll be arriving here tomorrow afternoon. No … I mean this afternoon—it's already Monday, isn't it? She said she'd try to get in today, it all depended on the flight schedule, she didn't have it memorized after all, but she'd see what she could do and take the first flight she could get on and then let me know so I could meet her at the airport and—” He broke off, as if suddenly realizing he was babbling. He took a deep breath. “Excuse me. The answer to your question is yes, Sergeant Malecki. Mrs. Strode will be returning here as soon as she can make the arrangements.”

“Will she be living here, do you think?”

“Oh yes. Katie put a great deal of herself into this house. I think she was sorrier to lose the house than she was Mr. Strode when they separated.”

Ivan held a hand out to his partner. Marian grumblingly fished a five-dollar bill out of her shoulder bag and gave it to him.

Castleberry didn't notice. He'd stopped clenching his fists and now had his hands palms down on the table, steadying himself. “I just can't do it,” he muttered. “I can't take that kind of responsibility on myself. It's unfair to ask me to. I can't do it.”

Marian waited a moment and said, “What is it you can't do, Mr. Castleberry?”

His head jerked up and he looked her straight in the eye. “I can't keep quiet about what I know. I can't take his money. I'd be living in fear for the rest of my life. And my wife and the kids—what about them? I could be putting them in jeopardy. I just can't do it!”

Marian and Ivan waited.

Castleberry gave a short laugh. “I could be a rich man, do you know that? All I have to do is keep my mouth shut and move to California. Do you know what Richard Bruce was doing in this room when you two first arrived? He was offering me a bribe. He offered me the same salary Mr. Strode was paying me to come work for him, plus the same amount again every year under the table. No taxes. I think he was going to offer something more, but just then the policeman came in and we couldn't talk anymore.”

“You've not talked to Bruce since?” Marian asked, more to keep him going than because she thought it was important.

Castleberry shook his head. “I've been avoiding him. It wouldn't be any too easy to talk anyway, what with police all over the place. But I know what he wants. He wants me in California where he can keep an eye on me. He wants me under his thumb.” He seemed to be having trouble breathing. “I can't work for a murderer! I can't!”

Marian exchanged a quick look with Ivan. “I think you'd better tell us what you know, Mr. Castleberry. Withholding evidence is itself a crime, you know. If you've got anything at all that links Richard Bruce—”

“Not
this
murder. I don't know which one killed Mr. Strode. I'm talking about the crew of the
Burly Girl
, seventeen years ago. Richard Bruce is responsible for their deaths. This afternoon he burned the evidence—Sunday afternoon, that is. And now he wants me to keep quiet about it, about all of it, for the other two as well.”

“Whoa,” said Ivan. “What's this
Burly Girl
you're talking about?”

“It's a ship, was a ship, it belonged to Richard Bruce. He sank it for the insurance money and left the crew to drown so they wouldn't talk. He let thirty-seven men die so he could get away with cheating the insurance company! Thirty-seven of them.”

The two detectives were stunned. “And he burned some evidence, you say?” Marian asked. “What evidence was that?”

“A letter, an affidavit, private investigators' report. We had something like that on all three of them—”

“All three? You mean Joanna Gillespie and Jack McKinstry as well? What did they have to do with the
Burly Girl?”

“Nothing, nothing—oh, it's all so complicated. Mr. Strode had something on each of them, you see. Separately. No one of them was connected with the others. As far as Mr. Strode was concerned, they were three separate targets for, uh …”

“Blackmail,” Marian and Ivan said together.

“Persuasion,” Castleberry amended. “But this afternoon, yesterday afternoon, I mean, they got together and forced me to open Mr. Strode's vault. That's what the knives were for, to threaten me with. Richard Bruce even nicked my chin.” He thrust his chin out so they could see the small cut. “They burned the evidence, right there in Mr. Strode's office. And then they stole some other papers—”

“Shit!” Ivan exploded. “You mean you had evidence that Richard Bruce killed thirty-seven people—
and now it's gone?”

“Well, not completely.” Castleberry was sweating now. “It's in the computer. All I have to do is print it out.”

Both Ivan's and Marian's faces lit up. “In the computer!” the former said. “Then they didn't really solve anything by burning the papers?”

“No. But they don't know that yet.”

“There is a God,” Ivan grinned.

“Unfortunately, the original of a letter incriminating Richard Bruce is gone—burned. But we did keep copies, of course.”

“Of course,” Marian agreed straight-faced. “Mr. Castleberry, I think you'd better start at the beginning—the
very
beginning. Tell us everything that happened and tell us in the order in which it happened. One thing followed by another, in sequence. Can you do that?”

“Certainly, that's what I came to do.” He paused a moment to get his thoughts in order. Then he took a deep breath and began. “It all started with a company called House of Glass …”

8

It was daybreak when the two police detectives assigned to investigate A. J. Strode's murder called a temporary halt. Nearly two hours of listening to Myron Castleberry recite the odyssey of A. J. Strode's pursuit of the ever-elusive House of Glass had left all three of them numb. When Castleberry told them Richard Bruce, Joanna Gillespie, and Jack McKinstry were all successful murderers, his two interrogators gazed at him with frank skepticism. Rather than go into detail about what Strode had on them, Castleberry instead recounted their close call with the collapsing crane at Los Angeles harbor and Strode's conviction that Richard Bruce was behind it. When pressed, Castleberry reluctantly admitted their detective had been unable to find any connection between Bruce and the crane operator.

But there were lots of other nasty bits to chew over and spit back out before the case would be closed. The detectives asked for printouts of the evidence Castleberry maintained was stored in the office computer. Ivan Malecki said he needed time to assimilate what he'd heard. Marian Larch said she just needed some sleep. Castleberry left for A. J. Strode's office to get them the evidence they wanted.

“I've got to crash,” Marian told her partner, “even if it's only for an hour. Wake me when Castleberry gets back?” She went into the television room and collapsed on the sofa there, leaving Ivan to find his own place to nap.

There'd been a time when Marian could stay up all night and still put in a full day's work the next day. But at thirty-five her staying power was slipping away, along with a few other things she didn't care to think about. Her partner could probably outlast her, if it was ever put to a test; but then Ivan was younger than she was. By almost a full year.

An hour and ten minutes later Ivan woke her with the news it was time to get back to work. “Couple of men from the fire marshal's office are here. And the captain just called, wants to know our progress. He was mad as hell when I told him we hadn't questioned our three primes yet.”

Marian winced. “You shouldn't have told him that.” She sat up reluctantly; she could have done with another three or four hours.

“Had to—he asked me. He's just grumpy 'cause he didn't get much sleep. Anyway, he's made a statement to the press. He says Strode's murder made the front page of the morning editions.”

“Terrific. Any word from Castleberry?”

“Not yet.”

“How much of what he told us do you believe, Ivan?”