Innocent Bystander (17 page)

Emma stepped from the Leaf and regarded the one-story, faded brick and wood building before her. She’d parked in the rear, alongside her friend Nadine’s Jeep. The small, eclectic clothing store had no security cameras out back. Confident they would be in and out in five minutes, she peered across the top of the Leaf and met Burnett’s quizzical stare.

“We need a change of clothes,” she said, then tiptoed up the five metal steps leading to a door. “Wait next to the stairs.”

He shuffled to the side.

She scanned the vicinity, saw no one, and mentally crossed her fingers. A quick tap on the oak door sent her heart galloping. She needed Nadine to answer. When the door creaked open, she stood face to face with her friend.

Nadine, whose fashion sense would make even the most discriminating witch proud, greeted her with a black and ruby frock and a sad smile. She waved her into the building. Emma entered and stood in a storeroom bursting with everything from men’s suits—pistachio edging out plum in the battle for the most popular shade—to edible lingerie.

“I’m so sorry about Henri,” Nadine said as she hugged her.

Emma forced a smile as her friend stepped back. When Nadine tried to close the door, Emma blocked it with her sandal.

“What’s wrong?”

“Who else is here?” Emma asked.

“Just me and Karen. She’s with a customer.”

Emma leaned out the door and motioned for Burnett to enter. He silently climbed the stairs and stood beside her. The worried frown on Nadine’s face proved she’d seen the news.

“We just need two minutes,” Emma said.

“Are you out of your mind?” Nadine asked.

“Whatever you’ve heard, it’s not true,” Emma said.

“Don’t do this.”

“Two minutes. A hundred and twenty seconds. Then we’ll be gone forever.”

“I could get arrested for helping you,” Nadine said.

“No one will ever know.”

“The police’ll figure it out. They always do.”

“Please.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Someone set me up,” Burnett said. He stepped between them as Nadine attempted to usher Emma out. “Henri’s dead. Someone wanted him dead. And they made me the fall guy. If I go to jail, the real murderer will get away with it. Do you want her to live with that?”

On the verge of tears, Nadine clutched a metal shelf for support. She glanced left and right. “Hurry. I want to help. I really do. I just can’t get involved.”

“You don’t have to,” Emma said and guided Burnett across the cramped storeroom to a clothing rack. She turned to Nadine. “Go back to the floor. We’ll let ourselves out.”

Nadine didn’t move. Emma flashed a grin and nodded to the sales floor. At last she disappeared through a bright orange curtain.

Emma lifted a white and chartreuse checkered men’s shirt from the rack and dangled it in front of him. “Not really your style,” she said, “but it’ll do.”

Burnett rifled through a box of baseball caps on the shelf beside him. “See anything for yourself?”

She grabbed a turquoise blouse from the next rack. “Too small,” she said and replaced it on its hanger. She snatched another blouse and draped it over her shoulders. It was her size and favorite color, beige. She hid behind a stack of boxes and unbuttoned her shirt. She removed it, pulled the beige one over her head, then put her original shirt back on.

When she returned to the rack, she saw Burnett standing with his back to her. A baseball cap topped his head.

“You ready?” she asked.

When he spun around, what she saw made her laugh out loud. She laughed for nearly half-a-minute before settling down. She laughed so hard it brought tears to her eyes. He’d positioned a handlebar mustache above his lip.

As her last giggle subsided, she wondered how he consistently found ways to make her laugh. She knew how grim their situation was; no one knew better than him how grim it was. Somehow he’d still managed to bring a smile to her face.

The one thing in life she loved above all else was laughter. It made no difference whether it was her own or someone else’s. And now, despite her loss, and despite their circumstances, he’d made her laugh. It was the last thing she’d expected and the exact thing she’d needed. Just one more reason, she noted, why it had been the right decision to stay with him.

“Rollie Fingers never played for the Yankees,” she said, noticing the NY symbol on the cap.

“No?” he said innocently and yanked off the mustache.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Bottom of the box. I hope it was left over from Halloween.”

“Thank you,” Emma said.

“For what?”

“Two days ago I thought I’d never laugh again.”

Burnett grinned and adjusted the cap.

“C’mon,” she said, “take your shirt off so you can put the new one on underneath.”

Emma turned around. The grin lingered on her face. It seemed impossible, yet it was true. The hopelessness of their situation crept back into her mind and straightened her smile.

“Our two minutes are up,” Burnett said.

She whirled around just in time to see him stuff the baseball cap inside his shirt. He shoved open the door and held it for her. She paused, reluctant to leave the safety of the store. What if Burnett was wrong and Desmond didn’t have the computer? What if he was right, but they couldn’t prove it? Her doubts sought to overwhelm her, and she had to force herself to step into the sunlight.

The bus stop waited less than half a mile from the store. She considered suggesting they walk. Plenty of side streets would lead them back to the bus stop. If someone had recognized her car, they would likely encounter a roadblock. It was unusual for her mind to be filled with so much doubt. As they reached the Leaf, she struggled to steer her mind from the negative.

* * *

Detective Mayweather studied the image on a monitor, the center screen in a row of five. He and Farrow stood in the security office of a Citibank adjacent to the bus stop. Emma’s Nissan Leaf had been discovered fifty yards down the street. A security camera, positioned to surveil the entrance, provided an excellent view of the bus stop. The ninety-second loop, now at a magnification of 4X, showed Burnett and Emma boarding a Westchester County bus.

Farrow clutched a phone and barked at a secretary from the bus company to put him in touch with the driver. “I don’t give a damn if he’s off duty,” he shouted into the phone. “I want to know where they got off.” Farrow lowered the phone, grumbled to himself, then returned it to his ear. “Connect me to him. Then have him call me the second you reach him.” He deposited the phone in its cradle. “What do you think?”

Mayweather knew they hadn’t left town, not after his conversation with Burnett. “Seems risky. They left the car where we could easily find it. At the very least they changed to a different bus.”

“And you see the way Burnett did a slow three-sixty before getting on.” Farrow motioned to the screen. Burnett had executed a measured rotation, as if he’d been admiring the surrounding architecture. “He wanted to make sure we saw his face. My money says they didn’t go more than a stop or two, maybe not even that far.”

Mayweather trailed a step behind as Farrow exited the security office.

“I want to look at any cameras near the remaining stops of that bus,” Farrow said, and marched across the floor and out to the sidewalk. “This doesn’t add up.”

Mayweather found himself nodding in agreement. Of course it didn’t add up. Burnett would go after the computer.

Farrow stood beside the open front door of their sedan and raised a mic to his mouth. “Go ahead.”

“I just got a call from a woman,” said the female voice. “She was frantic. Said her husband didn’t show up at his work today. She can’t reach him. He’s never done this before. She’s convinced something’s happened to him.”

The two men exchanged an amused look.

“Would you like the number for missing persons?” Farrow asked.

“The missing man,” the female voice continued, “is the chairman of the physics department at SUNY New Rochelle. His name is Dr. Thomas De Stefano. I thought you might be interested.”

It took a moment for Mayweather to appreciate the potential ramifications of what she’d just said. Perhaps it was nothing. The chairman had had car trouble or a tee-time he’d neglected to mention.

Perhaps it was everything.

“Interesting,” Mayweather said.

“He’s your pal Desmond’s boss, huh?”

He assumed Farrow had stated the obvious to give himself a few seconds to decide whether or not to follow it up.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Farrow said. “But I’d like to see his face when we tell him.”

Mayweather smiled inwardly. At last his partner suspected Desmond wasn’t as innocent as he appeared.

Burnett and Emma sat side by side on the chilly concrete floor. She’d just dozed off. His mind raced, as it had lately, often lurching from one cheerless subject to another in seconds.

They had spent nearly four hours huddling beneath the metal staircase. Although the parking garage’s top-floor stairwell had minimal traffic this time of day, he kept the brim of the baseball cap low.

After exiting the bus the first time the driver stopped for a red light, they had made an uneventful half-mile trek to the parking garage to await sunset.

A glance at his watch reminded him that had his life not been turned upside-down, he would have had an exam in an hour in his Western Civilizations class. Had this been a normal day, he’d have been studying right now.
Revolver
or
Abbey Road
would’ve been blasting through his earbuds.

Even with the loud music, he likely would have nodded off midway through a review page. Western Civilizations was the most boring class he’d ever had to sit through. He’d added it because, for reasons beyond his comprehension, the curriculum required him to take one history course. Many students considered it the most fascinating class they attended. Burnett found it as interesting as watching snails race.

At that moment, however, he would have sacrificed ten years of his life to be reviewing his notes. With his best friend dead, and no straightforward way out of his predicament, even the best-case scenario left much to be desired.

The rumble of a car engine boosted his blood pressure. Every thirty or forty minutes someone would park on the top floor, just to make their lives more exciting.

Footsteps approached the stairwell. Burnett climbed to his feet. As a precaution, they would relocate to the basement level. He observed Emma sleeping with her head angled against the cracked cement. She hadn’t slept at all last night, and he couldn’t bring himself to wake her.

He bent over, then slid his arms beneath her. With a minor grunt he lifted her and descended the first two steps.

Her eyes fluttered open.

He flashed a quick grin. “It’s okay.”

She offered him a weary, heart-melting smile and shut her eyes.

A dizzying array of emotions filled his body. Guilt, lust, and fear led the parade. When Henri was alive, it had been so easy with her—playful, almost innocent flirting that had zero chance of leading anywhere. With Henri gone, every word, every gesture, every moment of eye contact took on a whole new meaning. The safety net had vanished. Now if he fell, he would get hurt.

Professor Desmond steered the jet-black Mercedes into the center bay of his three-car garage. Briefcase in hand, he exited the car. He strolled to the rear of the car and popped the trunk. The setting sun flickered through the red oaks and silver maples beside his house.

At that moment he had focused his mind on locating the ideal paper in Henri’s computer. He had little concern that someone might discover the chairman’s body. Ryder, he knew, had disposed of it in such a way that no one would unearth it for at least a century.

Finding the right paper would be no simple task. Henri’s hard drive had proved to be an exact replica of his mind—bits and pieces of brilliance amongst the chaos. It would take time, but he saw no alternative.

He needed a paper Henri had been working on, one a couple notches below the time travel paper. Preferably something incomplete. That way he could feel confident Henri had not submitted it in another class. He needed the ideal paper to bridge the “gap” between his previous work and his future work.

Little guilt accompanied referring to it as his own. His student’s writing had been, to say the least, clunky. He had taken Henri’s theories, organized them, and presented them in a professional manner. Without a professional presentation even the most brilliant of ideas would get lost in the jumble. This insight, and others like it, soothed any guilt that snuck up from his unconscious mind.

Regrettable that my rightful place in history should be delayed. But how long do I wait?

Far too much commotion existed at present, and it would no doubt continue for some time. Combined with the chairman’s disappearance, many questions loomed on the horizon. This realization sought to dampen his mood, but he reminded himself that a place in the annals of history was worth the wait. Plus it provided time to find the perfect paper and hone it.

Then there was Burnett. If he had any smarts, he would have left town by now. From what Farrow said this morning, the cops had just missed him last night.

Desmond felt reluctant to speculate on how much Burnett knew. If caught and convicted, his rants would not carry a great deal of weight, but they would carry some. Over time they would likely be forgotten, especially if he met with a timely accident in prison. He made a mental note to contact Ryder and find out if that could be arranged.

Should have killed him right away.
Things continued to slip out of his control, each one further delaying the release of a journal article the world would never forget.

Goddamn that Audrey. If she had only followed directions. Directions a five-year-old could have followed
.

He acknowledged that his need to make Henri suffer, and suffer intensely, could lead to his undoing. His mind veered onto the boulevard of self-blame. He caught it, and summoned a roadblock.

To his right, he noticed a dark sedan roll into the driveway. It stopped behind his Mercedes. His palms moistened as Detectives Farrow and Mayweather exited the sedan.

They’re no doubt here to ask me about De Stefano’s disappearance.
He could not understand why they didn’t just call or speak to him in his office. They had a maddening habit of showing up at the most inopportune times.

The two detectives strode up to him.

Desmond banged the trunk closed. “I hope this will be brief. I have a large number of exams to grade this evening.”

“We know what a busy man you are,” Mayweather said.

Desmond flinched, uncertain what, if anything, the detective had implied. He could feel Mayweather’s eyes bore into him. Even Farrow looked at him differently.

He could imagine what had happened at the university earlier. It was completely out of character for De Stefano not to show up at the school. Frantic calls had been made, countless texts exchanged. Rumors had spread. It surprised him that he’d heard nothing from the other instructors in his department.

Alive, De Stefano would have proven a major obstacle to his dream of immortality. Dead, the man could prove far more problematic. Desmond recognized he had been impulsive in killing his former department chairman. He demanded of himself never to act so recklessly again.

His inability to get a decent night’s sleep had been the primary culprit; he knew that. His thinking was nowhere near as sharp as it normally would be.

The dampness of his palms alarmed him. Better, he decided, to be candid, within limits, than appear to be hiding something. Ask questions, show concern, and most important, don’t sound defensive. “Is this about Dr. De Stefano not showing up at the university today?”

“In part,” Farrow said.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Mayweather asked.

“Yesterday. At the staff meeting.”

“You haven’t seen him since?” Mayweather asked.

Desmond’s eyes narrowed. The detective’s questions had an unwelcome hostility. “We had an appointment to meet at his office before my first class. He never showed.”

“His wife said he left at 5:30 for his usual jog around the reservoir,” Farrow said. “So far there’s no indication he ever got that far.”

“That’s odd,” Desmond said.

“How well do you know him?” Mayweather asked.

“Not very,” Desmond said. “We have what I would call a courteous professional relationship.” He stopped for a moment. He’d almost said “had.” “We occasionally see each other outside of work.”

“He ever give you any indication he was unhappy?” Farrow asked. “In his work or at home?”

“Never. He’s devoted to the university. And, from what I understand, to his wife.”

“Any idea where he might have gone?” Mayweather asked. “Any place he might go if he felt overwhelmed by the pressures of life or the school?”

Desmond pretended to think, then shook his head.

“One more question,” Farrow said. “You think there’s any connection between Dr. De Stefano’s apparent disappearance and the crimes Mr. Burnett is suspected of?”

“How would I know?”

“Okay,” Farrow said. “A lot of people are very concerned. From what we’ve heard, he’s not one to just take off like this.”

“I’ve worked with the man for years. The university’s his life.”

“If you hear from him, please let us know,” Farrow said.

Desmond nodded. “Any news on Burnett?”

“He has us a bit puzzled,” Farrow said. “We found a Nissan Leaf abandoned near a bus stop on Palmer Avenue.”

Farrow must have spotted the confusion on Desmond’s face because he spoke faster. “Do you know a Miss Blankenship? Emma Blankenship?”

He did not recognize the name, yet something about it sounded vaguely familiar. “I don’t think so.”

“She was Henri Laroche’s girlfriend,” Farrow said.

“Now I remember. I may have even met her once.”

“It’s her car. And we believe she’s helping Mr. Burnett.”

Desmond felt his eyebrows rise.

“We have video of them boarding a bus,” Farrow said. “The bus driver remembers them getting on—they were the only two at that stop—but couldn’t recall where they got off. We think they may have changed clothes and possibly gotten off between stops.”

“Why?” Desmond asked. He immediately recognized how foolish the question must have sounded.

“An attempt to trick us into believing they left town,” Farrow said. “Throw us off their track.”

“What time did they board the bus?”

“About 10:45 this morning,” Farrow said. “He still may be planning to pay you a visit. We’ve doubled the number of cars patrolling this area. We can have an officer stay in your house if you’d like.”

“No, no, that won’t do,” Desmond said. He thought quickly. Burnett almost got caught last night, yet he waited more than twelve hours to grab a bus out of town.
He’s coming, and he’s coming tonight.
“I’m having someone over this evening. I can’t cancel. Maybe after they leave.”

Farrow returned Desmond’s gaze with a puzzled look.

“I have an excellent security system,” Desmond said. “No one can get in if I don’t want them to. As long as you have police cars in the area, it should be fine.”

“You own a gun?” Mayweather asked.

“I don’t believe in violence of any kind.”

“I see,” Mayweather said. “Michael Burnett is suspected in two deaths. He’s considered extremely dangerous. Aren’t you concerned about your safety? Your wife’s?”

“No.”

“You’re not worried that he risked everything to stay in the area, do research on you, and may try to get in touch with you again?”

“You see, I don’t believe he killed Henri Laroche. And I don’t believe he killed that girl who was found in his trunk.” Desmond savored the surprised expressions that spread across both detectives’ faces.
Keep them as confused as possible.

“Then you believe he’s been set up?” Mayweather asked.

“I’ve known Michael Burnett for some time. I had him in another class two years ago. And there is no way he could kill anyone. I’ve had other students whom I would have believed capable of such a thing. Not him.”

Farrow and Mayweather stared at each other, speechless.

“Now,” Desmond said, “I am certainly glad you have increased your patrols so someone can be here quickly in the event he does show up. But while waiting for your men to arrive, I would like to ask him what his interest is in me.”

Farrow’s expression graduated from confused to dumbfounded. “Okay, Professor. It’s your call.”

Farrow returned to the sedan, but Mayweather lingered.

“I admire your honesty,” Mayweather said. “And I know we can count on you to do the right thing if he does show up at your door.”

* * *

Detective Farrow eased the black sedan to the side of the road several hundred yards from Desmond’s house.

“What do you make of that?” Mayweather asked.

“I’m not sure he knows anything about his chairman’s disappearance. But he knows Burnett’s coming.”

“He wants him to. Burnett breaks in. Desmond kills him in ‘self-defense.’ The truth dies with him.”

“Perhaps,” Farrow said, not sounding convinced.

“If he hasn’t left town.”

“You really believe that?”

“We missed him by minutes yesterday. If he had no safe place to go, he might.”

“Maybe they’re in it together,” Farrow said, shaking his head. “Each one trying to confuse us about the other’s involvement.”

First, Farrow had proven he suspected Desmond was not as innocent as he came across. Now, he’d even floated the possibility of the professor’s involvement. Mayweather debated for a moment, then decided to push harder. “What if it’s Desmond alone?”

“Why?” Farrow asked. “Show me one scrap of evidence against him.” He paused, obviously waiting for a reply.

Mayweather had none.

“You keep coming back to him,” Farrow said. “I’ve no problem with your having a different opinion than where the facts point. But if you’re going to keep pushing this guy as a suspect, give me something. Anything.”

Mayweather remained silent and motionless. He refused to engage his partner’s stare. The man was right, yet Mayweather felt he could not be more wrong.

“I want an unmarked car at the end of the street,” Farrow said. “Until I know otherwise, I’m going to assume Burnett’s still in our back yard.”

He nodded, still deep in thought.

“Right now, though,” Farrow said, “there’s someone else I want to speak to again. Someone who’s not been entirely honest with us.”

Mayweather barely heard the statement. He’d made the difficult decision to do nothing to prevent Burnett’s attempt at Henri Laroche’s computer. Common sense told him to reconsider. All his training insisted it was a mistake. He was risking people’s lives and he knew it.

His gut, though, insisted he give Burnett one chance to prove his innocence. Something far more powerful than logic, and infinitely more potent than reason, had grabbed hold of his mind: emotion. Burnett had nobody in his corner. He deserved one shot.

* * *

Desmond stood in the kitchen, a phone clenched in his fist. He jabbed at a key and slammed the phone to his ear.
He’s going to save me the trouble of tracking him down. And he’ll give me the perfect excuse for having him killed.

“Yeah?” Ryder’s voice snapped.

“It’s Desmond.”

“My caller ID works.”

“Thank you for your help this morning,” Desmond said, trying to ease the tension pouring through the speaker. Although Ryder had a sense of humor, at least that’s what he had heard, most of the time he was just a self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch. But he was a self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch who was damn good at what he did.

“Thank me after you get my bill,” Ryder said.

Desmond assumed he was trying to be funny, so he chuckled. Silence followed on both ends.

“You were right,” Desmond said. “We should have killed Burnett right away. Now we might have another chance.”

He waited for a response. None came.

“The police,” Desmond said, “thoughtfully informed me that Burnett has been reading up on me. Then he tried to convince them he had left town. I believe he’s coming to the house. Tonight.”