Irish Coffee (12 page)

THE FIRST STOP WAS THE
building in which Fred Neville had his apartment, for a confirmation from Santander.

“What is this?” Santander asked over the security chain when he had finally answered the door.

Stewart flourished a piece of paper. “Search warrant.”

“You've already been in Neville's apartment. You're the only ones who can get into it.”

“This is for your apartment.”

Santander's eyes widened in apprehension. Who does not have secrets?

“Open up. We prefer not to break down doors.”

The manager cursed in a language other than English, closed, then opened the door. A girl stood behind him terrified.

“Better get back to work, Teresa.”

She scooted past Jimmy Stewart and Phil and disappeared up the stairs.

“Who's she?”

“One of the cleaning ladies.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

“Let me see that paper.”

“First, a few questions.”

“I don't have to answer any more questions.”

“Would you rather be arrested for questioning?”

More oaths in his mother tongue.

“When was the last time you saw Neville?”

“I told you.”

“Tell me again.”

It was simply Stewart's way of softening him up. After fifteen minutes of hearing again what Santander had already told him, Stewart abruptly shifted.

“Why didn't you tell me that Naomi McTear had been to see him when he was supposedly missing?”

“Who?”

“Naomi McTear. You must have seen her on television.”

Santander was clearly not following this. Stewart asked if he remembered being shown a photograph by Roger Knight.

“The fat guy?”

“Which you identified.”

“I said she was the woman I saw go up to his apartment that Monday.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Why would I lie?”

“How long was she up there?”

“I only saw her go up. I don't keep track of people going in.”

“She just walked in?”

“He had to let her in. You punch a button and the front door unlocks.”

“So he must have been there to let her in.”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“And you just happened to look out your peephole and see her?”

“No. I was vacuuming the hall carpet.”

“Had you ever seen her here before?”

“A couple times.”

“But others could have been let in and you wouldn't know?”

“When I'm watching television I wouldn't hear the buzzer that goes off when the door is unlocked.”

“What do you watch on television?”

“Sports. You know.”

“So you must have seen Naomi McTear on television. She does what they call color. On cable.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe that's why you recognized her.”

Santander shook his head vigorously. “No way. I had seen her here before. I didn't know who she was.”

“You weren't curious about her?”

“What do you think I am?”

“What does Teresa think you are?”

“She's my niece, for God sakes.”

So much for the high moral ground. They left Santander to wonder why he was being subjected to police harassment.

“He's telling the truth?” Stewart said.

“What do you think I am?” Phil was imitating Santander's strangled voice.

“Don't ask.”

 

Scott Frye was on duty at the Hoosier Residences. He nodded when Stewart identified himself.

“I wondered when you'd get here.”

“You prepared to confess?”

Scott's smirk disappeared and his mouth hung open. “Confess what?”

“Your sins. Isn't that what confession is?”

“I'm not a Catholic.”

“Neither is my partner. This is Philip Knight. Another detective. Why did you think we would be coming here?”

“I didn't. I didn't mean that. It was just something to say.”

“Pretty strange thing to say, wasn't it?”

“Yes. Yes, it was. Forget it.”

“Pretty interesting too. Why would we come here?”

Scott was sweating now. He wasn't enjoying this at all.

“I don't know.”

“Tell me what we ought to know.”

“About what?”

“This place.”

Scott seemed almost relieved to tell them about the condos, the apartments owned by wealthy Notre Dame alumni.

“Some rent them when they're not going to use them, but many are just there for when they come for a game. Media people stay here too.”

“Media people.”

“Reporters who come for the games.”

“Television reporters?”

The sweat broke out again. He nodded.

“Like Naomi McTear?”

Bingo, Scott got out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“That's why you expected us, isn't it?”

He nodded.

“Okay, tell us all about her.”

“She's not here now. She left. This morning.”

“This morning?”

“She stayed over.”

“For what?”

“The funeral.”

“What funeral?”

“Oh, come on.”

“I want to know.”

“She had been going out with the guy who was found dead.”

“Fred Neville?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“He stayed in her apartment!”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I know that for a fact.” The impudent smirk with which he had greeted them was back.

“He stayed overnight?”

“That's right. They came in, drunk as owls and went up to the apartment and he didn't leave until morning. More than once.”

“What kind of a place you running here?”

“If owners of condos want to have a friend in, there's nothing wrong.”

“So why are you telling us this?”

Listening to all this, Phil thought that Stewart had a bit of a sadistic streak. He had Scott sweating bullets again.

“You asked me!”

“You got a key to the apartment?”

“You want to see it?”

“The key?”

“Come on.”

“Show us,” Stewart said.

 

The apartment was spick-and-span, white carpet, white furniture, undistinguished paintings hanging on its white walls. Even the magazines on the coffee table were neatly arranged.
Sports Illustrated
, the
Blue and Gold
.

“She's a neat girl.”

“The place has been cleaned. That's part of the condominium arrangement.”

“Ah.”

Scott suddenly struck his forehead. “You interested, I can show you what they cleaned out of here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The girls take it out in plastic bags marked with the number of the apartment.”

“Where is it?”

“I'll go get it.”

“We'll go with you.”

“You think I'm going to run away?”

“There's nothing here,” Stewart said.

“Not anymore.”

Phil had checked out the two bedrooms. The beds were made. In the bathroom there was nothing in the medicine cabinet except some toothpaste, a still-wrapped toothbrush, some throwaway razors and a small can of shaving cream. And deodorant.

“Anything?” Stewart asked Phil.

“Clean as a whistle.”

Downstairs, Scott told them to wait in the lobby, he would fetch the plastic bag. Stewart just shook his head. They went out the back door and Scott led them to the Dumpster at the back of the lot, opened the lid. He began to pull out plastic bags, and put them on the packed snow around the Dumpster.

“What's the number of her apartment?”

Stewart had noticed the numbers stenciled on the bags. Scott's voice echoed in the opened bin.

“It's not here,” Stewart said.

“That's all of them.”

“You sure?”

“Take a look.”

Stewart took a look. He turned to Scott. “Her room was cleaned?”

“That's right.”

“So where's the bag?”

“You got me.”

The back door opened and a girl came out. She was going to back in again but Stewart called her. She hugged herself as she came toward them. Stewart identified himself.

“Do you clean the apartments here?”

“Yes.”

“We can't seem to find the sack from number two-eleven.”

The girl looked at Scott. “You asked for it.”

Stewart turned to Scott.

“You already asked for the stuff taken out of Naomi McTear's apartment?”

“It wasn't her apartment. It belongs to the network.”

“What did you do with it, Scott? Why did you want it?”

It was chilly out there but he was sweating again nonetheless. He glared at the girl. Then he tramped to a car, pressing a plastic thing he took from his pocket, and the trunk popped open. He stood aside so they could see the trash bag in the trunk.

“Well, well. My boy, you and the trash bag are going downtown.”

“You're arresting me?”

“That's right.”

The girl followed this with popped eyes. She hugged herself more tightly.

“I'm going inside.”

“Thanks for your help,” Stewart called after her.

THE DISCOVERY OF POISON
in the coffee cup from Fred Neville's apartment had excited even Boswell the coroner. But soon he subsided into his customary weltschmerz.

“It must have been self-administered.”

“He just spooned a little strychnine into his coffee?”

“He put in some bourbon too.”

“You never mentioned that before,” Stewart said.

“I saw no reason to.”

“Anything else you've found no reason to tell me?”

“Let's get going on the bag of trash.”

For this little ceremony Stewart wanted Scott as one of the actors. On the way downtown, Scott had given one unconvincing excuse after another as to why he had put the bag from the apartment where Naomi McTear had been staying in the trunk of his car.

“You kinky or something?”

“Just curious.”

“I couldn't agree more.”

But Stewart was weary of badgering people. It was too easy to make Scott sweat and Santander could be played like a musical instrument. But when they got around to the trash bag, he asked Scott to empty it.

“I wouldn't want to deprive you of the thrill.”

The bag contained what one might expect. You would have thought Naomi McTear had a cold, there was so much used tissue in the sack. But when Scott brought out the little container, Jimmy Stewart held out an open plastic baggie to him. “Just drop it in here. Are your fingerprints registered?”

“My fingerprints!”

“Were you ever in the service?”

That was a diversion, more badgering. Stewart handed the baggie to Boswell, who squinted at it, held it up to the light, turned it to read the legend on the container.

“This is the poison. Strychnine.”

“How did you know, Scott?”

“I didn't. Honest to God, I didn't.”

“How often do you confiscate trash bags and put them in the trunk of your car? More importantly, when did you put this container in the bag?”

That wasn't badgering, only the obvious question. And it gave Stewart an excuse to put Scott in the slammer.

“You got a lawyer?”

“Why would I need a lawyer?”

“You do now. Better get one.”

He booked Scott, let him make a phone call, and turned him over to the turnkey. “Who did you call?”

“A friend.”

“Is he a lawyer?”

“He'll know what to do.”

They took Scott away. Stewart went back to Boswell and Phil Knight. Boswell said, “You really think he did it?”

“I don't think. I'm a cop. The man had the bag, the bag contained the poison, what's to think about?”

“Dinner?” Phil said.

“Good idea.”

“I'll call Roger.”

So dinner was arranged at the Knights' apartment. Phil went on home and Stewart said he would be there as soon as he could. He wanted to see who the friend was that Scott had called.

It was Anthony Boule, Fred Neville's assistant at the Joyce Center. That was a bit of a surprise, not that Stewart showed it.

“You his partner or something?” he asked Anthony before they brought Scott from his cell.

“I know him,” Anthony said carefully.

“He had one call and he called you.”

“He's not thinking clearly.”

“You know any lawyers?”

“Is he going to need one?”

“Let him tell you.”

 

Roger had made lasagna and Phil opened a bottle of red and they spent the evening talking about where they were. Roger was wearing a huge white apron and had a baseball cap on his head. The servings he dished out were king-size of course, but he had made enough lasagna for three such servings apiece. It was a mystery that Phil did not weigh as much as his brother, eating as he did.

“It is a relief that no one can now think that Fred took his own life,” Roger said.

“Boswell said he might have self-administered the poison.”

“As did Socrates.”

Jimmy Stewart and Phil observed a moment of silence. Such enigmatic remarks were best not responded to.

“Of course he knew he was doing it,” Roger added.

“Fred?”

“Socrates.”

“Ah.”

“Now we know we are looking for the one who killed Fred. What motive would this fellow Scott have?”

“He's a friend of Anthony Boule.”

Roger found this interesting. “Who was not satisfied playing second fiddle to Fred.”

“The removal of an impediment?”

“But Scott himself drew attention to the trash bag. Would you have thought of it otherwise?”

“No.”

“Unless he is blowing the whistle on Anthony.”

“And called him to make sure we would see the connection?” Phil said. “The trash came from the apartment Naomi McTear had been in,” Stewart reminded the brothers.

“God knows she had a motive.”

Phil spelled it out, relying on what Roger had told him as well as what Stewart would already know. The case against Naomi was certainly strong. She had been identified as the woman who visited Fred in his apartment the day before the body was found. That accorded with the coroner's guess on the time of death. The container of poison had been found in the trash taken from her apartment. Motive? Fred was trying to give her the heave-ho and she was resisting. Her claim to be engaged to Fred seemed well-founded.

“The Nevilles accepted her as such.”

“Are they still in town?” Roger asked.

“Mrs. Neville said they would stay until their son was actually buried.”

“No need to put that off any longer, is there?”

Stewart shook his head. “There never really was any need to do that. I had hoped it might smoke out whoever had done it.”

“So you never thought it was suicide?”

“It was or it wasn't. If it wasn't I didn't want whoever did it to think that it was all six feet under.”

Phil said, “So where is Naomi?”

Jimmy Stewart said, “I'll find out. Her employer should know.”

“What do you think, Roger?”

“I think she's in Chicago.”

“I meant what do you think of Naomi as a killer?”

“Anyone can do anything, of course.” This was Roger's rock-bottom theory. He dismissed all talk of criminal types, as if wrongdoers were a special breed. In his view anyone could, in the proper circumstances, and with slow antecedent weakening, do anything, no matter how horrible. Why else do those who knew serial killers describe them as choirboys?

“So Naomi could have done this?”

“She could have, yes.”

“But you don't think so.”

“Scott could have done it. Anthony could have done it.” His voice dropped. “Mary could have done it.”

“Oh, I doubt that, Roger.”

“So do I. And I doubt that Naomi killed the man she wouldn't let go.”

This led to a free-for-all discussion in the course of which both Stewart and Phil became more and more convinced that Naomi had done it. She could not let Fred go and she could not keep him either. The prospect of Mary Shuster walking Fred down the aisle was more than she could handle. She snapped.

“If not me, no one,” Phil summed it up.

Roger pursed his lips. “Maybe.”

When Stewart left he told Roger, “Until you can come up with a plausible alternative, it's Naomi as far as I'm concerned. Top priority is to find her and have a long talk.”

 

The following morning, Jimmy Stewart called. “Do you get the
Trib
, Roger?”

“The local one?”

“Is there another?”

“It's probably on the Web.”

“Anyway, we now know where Naomi McTear is.”

“Where?”

“In Fred Neville's apartment. Dead.”