“The LAPD is calling this a homicide?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” she said, as her phone rang. Even though it was now after ten-thirty, most of Mary’s friends would know that she’s up late. But this wasn’t a social call.
“Yes, Detective McCain,” she said to her caller. “… No, no, this isn’t too late! Not at all! As I told you, I don’t usually go to sleep until just before dawn. But I promise you, you don’t need to bring a wooden stake or garlic when you visit. I’m not a vampire.”
She listened, then suddenly looked over at us, frowning. “Yes, I know Irene Kelly,” she said into the phone. “She’s my grandniece. She’s sitting here right now, with her husband-did I tell you he’s a homicide detective, too? Oh, I did. Yes, he’s the one. Well, let me ask them.”
She covered the mouthpiece. “Detective McCain is a homicide detective with the LAPD. He wants to know if he can come over to talk with you.”
4
People who got their ideas about detectives from television probably would have been disappointed in Detective Jim McCain. He was gray-haired, plain-faced, a little thick in the waist, but-we quickly realized- not between the ears. He was of medium height and stood up straight, his posture neither ramrod nor slouched. He didn’t smoke, didn’t wear a fedora or a crumpled raincoat. His shoes had seen better days, but had leather soles, and while his suit wasn’t an Armani, it was still neat and clean. He didn’t look as if he had punched or shot anyone lately. He smiled warmly when Mary opened her door, thanked her politely when she let him in. I decided his voice, soft and low, was one of his assets. It was a voice that invited confidences.
He was still smiling when his dark blue eyes rested on Frank and me, but they widened slightly when Mary introduced Frank.
“Harriman?” he said, with a note of recognition.
“Yes,” Frank answered. I could see him tensing, waiting for the inevitable questions:
Were you the hostage? Just how did that go down? How did they manage to get the drop on you?
Questions he had been asked just about a billion times.
But instead, McCain extended a hand and said, “An honor to meet you. Glad you came out of that okay.”
“Thanks,” Frank said, obviously relieved.
McCain turned to me and shook hands as we were introduced-smiling, polite and sizing me up. What the verdict was, I’m not sure.
Once he was seated and had resisted all of Mary’s offers of food and beverage, he took out a little notebook, turned to me and said, “Ms. Kelly, I assume your aunt Mary has told you that I’m investigating the death of Briana Maguire?”
“Yes.”
“She was your mother’s sister?”
I nodded.
“And when was the last time you saw her?”
“Over twenty years ago. At my mother’s funeral, when I was twelve.”
“Not since then?”
“No.”
“Any other type of contact with your aunt since then?”
“No.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Frank sit forward.
“No phone calls?” McCain asked.
“No. No phone calls, no letters, no contact at all.”
He said nothing, just watched me. I didn’t try to fill the silence, but Mary did. “I explained all that to you,” she said.
He smiled. “Is there a room where I could talk to Ms. Kelly alone?”
“Perhaps she should talk to you another time,” Frank said. “In the presence of an attorney.”
McCain’s smile didn’t waver. “She is, of course, absolutely free to do so, but right now, I’m just asking questions. You know how this goes, Harriman. Lawyers cause unnecessary complications, just to make their clients think they’ve earned their fee. I don’t need that kind of grief, and neither do you. Better this way. None of us would ever get a thing done in this line of work without a little cooperation.”
I knew this last didn’t necessarily refer only to my cooperation with him; I could see from Frank’s face that he got the hint as well-McCain was saying,
You want cooperation from LAPD on any of your cases, don’t screw with our cases.
“I’ll talk to him, Frank,” I said.
“What brings my wife into this?” Frank asked, ignoring me.
“I’ll be happy to tell you in a moment,” he said. “Just a few more questions, Ms. Kelly? In fact, if your husband wants to be present-”
“I get the picture,” Mary said. “I’ll go into the kitchen.”
He thanked her and stood as she rose to leave the room. She laughed and made some remark about courtly manners, then shut the door between the two rooms.
Frank, I could see, was still wary.
“Now, where were we?” McCain said, flipping though his notes. “Oh, yes. Well, let’s skip the family history for the moment.”
He flipped back a few pages in his notebook and said, “You drive a Karmann Ghia convertible?”
So he had run a DMV check on me. And Briana was killed in a hit-and-run accident. Didn’t take a genius to figure out where this was headed. “Yes, I drive a Karmann Ghia. It’s at home in our driveway, without any damage to the front end.”
He smiled again. Now Frank was smiling, too.
“He’s probably got someone over at the house, taking a look at it right now,” Frank said.
He nodded. “And I had a look at the Volvo on the way in. But neither of your cars matches the description witnesses gave of the vehicle that struck your aunt, Ms. Kelly.”
“Which was?”
“Sorry, I’d prefer not to say. It’s an open case, Ms. Kelly, and for the moment we have all the detectives we need on it.”
Polite or no, the guy was starting to irritate me.
“Do you remember what you were doing the morning of Wednesday the eighteenth?” he asked. “That’s two weeks ago.”
“Working. I work for the
Las Piernas News-Express.”
“You were in the office?”
“Yes. Most weeks, on Tuesday nights, I cover the city council meetings. I turn in what I can on Tuesday night, but if the meeting goes later than my final deadline or some item needs a follow-up, I write about it on Wednesday.”
“And you’re certain you were writing about the city council meeting on that Wednesday morning?”
“Yes. Two weeks ago they took the final vote on the sale of some park land. It was hotly debated. The meeting ran late.”
“You don’t get to sleep in on Wednesdays after covering evening meetings?”
“Sometimes. I’ve worked at the paper for a number of years, so I’m not punching a clock. In general, I get to decide how I use my time- provided I meet my deadlines. As long as I continue to produce my stories on time, no one will hassle me much. But that day I needed to contact some sources I can only reach during business hours, so I showed up at about eight that morning. Lots of people can verify that.”
“What brings Irene into this?” Frank asked again. “For more than twenty years, she’s had no contact with this aunt. She didn’t even learn that Briana Maguire had died until a little more than an hour ago.”
McCain seemed surprised. “Your aunt Mary didn’t tell you before today?”
“No.”
“Ms. Kelly, what are your expectations of Ms. Maguire’s estate?”
“Expectations?” I asked, taken aback. “From Briana? Why, absolutely none.”
“But you were a favorite niece, weren’t you?”
“Look, about two dozen years have gone by since I last saw her. There was a family quarrel, even before her other troubles started.”
“Other troubles?”
“You undoubtedly know which ones I mean.”
He paused, then said, “Yes, your aunt Mary has been very helpful. Ms. Kelly, several times your husband has asked me what brings you into this matter. Are you aware that your aunt left a will?”
“No. As I said-”
“Yes, yes. But she did leave a will, Ms. Kelly. A holographic will. You know what that means?”
“A will written entirely in her handwriting,” I said.
“Yes. We found it today, among the papers in her apartment.”
“She died two weeks ago and you just searched her apartment today?”
“Keep in mind that we didn’t know who she was until a few days ago, Ms. Kelly. Our first concern was to find someone who could provide positive identification of the victim and claim her body, someone who could arrange for her burial. Given our caseloads in this division, I don’t think we’ve done too badly.”
“No, no, I’m sorry. So you found a handwritten will leaving everything to her son-”
“Oh, no, Ms. Kelly. Nothing was left to her son.”
“What?”
“Briana Maguire’s will leaves everything to you.”
5
“It doesn’t appear to be much of an estate, I’ll grant you,” he went on. “But we haven’t really had time to check for assets. You know, sometimes you read about these hermits who live very simply, but end up having a million bucks stashed away in a savings account somewhere.”
“Brilliant,” Frank said angrily. “You think this single mother who worked as a file clerk was a millionaire? A woman who was living on disability checks?”
McCain shrugged.
“No matter how much she did or didn’t have,” I said, “I don’t want any of it. And I have no idea why she named me in her will.”
McCain studied me for a moment, then seemed to come to some decision; he appeared to relax a little. He asked me a few more questions about my childhood relationship with Briana, then said, “Any idea why someone might want to kill her?”
“No. I don’t know anything about her recent life that Mary didn’t tell me tonight. As I said, I haven’t been in touch with Briana in a long time.”
“You’re certain this was premeditated?” Frank asked.
“Not absolutely. But a couple of things bothered us about it, or I wouldn’t be here,” McCain said, seeming to loosen up a little more. “First, a high rate of speed, coming down a street that isn’t exactly known for drag racing. Second, no skid marks-and yes, maybe the car had antilock brakes, but we’ve got two wits that say the car didn’t stop at all. You and I both know that very few people would accidentally hit someone and never apply the brakes.” He turned to me. “Most hit-and-run drivers are surprised, you might say-they stop or try to stop at some point. Maybe panic sets in or they have some reason for avoiding the police- drugs in the car, car’s stolen, they’ve got warrants out on ‘em, whatever-so they take off after they realize what they’ve done. But they seldom just hit somebody and keep rolling as if nothing’s happened. In this case, no one heard brakes or saw the driver swerve to avoid her.”
“Any chance the driver just didn’t see her?” I asked.
“Your aunt was in the middle of an intersection on a bright and sunny morning, wearing light-colored clothing. The direction of the vehicle’s travel was away from the sun, so nothing impaired the driver’s vision. In fact, the witnesses say that after the initial impact, the driver deliberately drove the car over her after she was down.”
I shuddered.
“The witnesses give you a make on the vehicle?” Frank asked.
“They can’t agree on the make, but between what they’ve given us and some of the physical evidence, we think we’re looking for a Camry.” He paused, then looked over at me. “As I said, the witnesses agreed that it looked deliberate. The vehicle wasn’t out of control-it maneuvered to hit her. The car hits her, knocks her down, rolls over her, and drags her body a few yards. The collision breaks a headlamp and does some other damage to the car, and makes a noise loud enough to bring people running out of a little store on the corner. No brake lights, no slowing, no horn.”
Even though I hadn’t seen her in a long time, it was hard for me to hear this description, to imagine someone doing that to Briana. Frank took my hand. I held on.
After a moment, McCain said, “Any idea where your cousin is these days?”
“Travis? No.”
“Your aunt’s ex-husband?”
“He wasn’t really her husband. But no, I don’t know anything about him.”
He asked a few more questions, then walked over to the kitchen door.
As he opened it, it was clear from both her startled expression and her nearness to the door that Mary had been eavesdropping. She recovered herself quickly though, and I had to admire her regal bearing as she continued on into the living room. “Thank you, Detective McCain,” she said. “It was insufferably hot in that kitchen.”
McCain gave a little laugh. As he came back to where we were seated he smothered a yawn, then said, “Excuse me. I think I’ll call it a night. You’ll be in the area for the next few weeks, Ms. Kelly?”
“As far as I know.”
He took out a card. “Give me a call if you have any questions, or if anything comes to mind.”
“One moment,” Aunt Mary said.
He waited.
“I assume you aren’t charging Irene with any crime?”
“No, as of now, I have no reason to do so,” he said.
“Is there any reason why she can’t visit Briana’s apartment, take things out of there?”
He hesitated, then said, “It’s no longer sealed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I don’t want-” I began.
“Hush!” she snapped at me. “I want you to go over there tomorrow morning and clear her things out. You can keep them in boxes and give them to Travis when we find him. That’s fine.”
“But her furniture-we don’t have room-” I began again, grasping at the first argument that came to mind.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll even arrange to have movers bring the furniture here. I’ll store it for you until we find him.”
“What’s your hurry?” McCain asked.
She folded her arms across her chest. “I drove over to Briana’s apartment the other day. I’m sure one of your men mentioned that to you.”
McCain just smiled.
“Well, he wouldn’t let me in the apartment, but I spoke briefly to Briana’s neighbors. They said up until you and your patrolmen started hanging around, there had been problems with break-ins in that building. I don’t want thieves looting what belongs to Travis.”