Simple (38 page)

Earlier tonight, Boss had said he confiscated one of two bags of garbage. Did he? Because now there were two. She was opening the smaller of them when two figures ran out of the church toward her.

“Did you see him drop anything?” she asked.

They shook their heads. “We missed him. Was it Simon?”

“Yes. Using the truck.”

She opened the bag, moving things around by manipulating the bag from the outside. “Rags,” she reported. “And … oh, my God, Boss, oh my God. Phone. And … wallet.”

She'd never seen Christie explode quite like this. He kicked at a tree. He cursed vehemently. “I should have pulled out all the stops. Used others. And—” He fell to cursing again.

“We didn't use a camera,” Dolan explained. “Still. We have him, Boss. We have him.”

Colleen called Potocki to find out if he'd found and stopped Simon, but she guessed the answer. He said, “Never caught him. I'm near the entrance to the parkway east. In case he goes for home. But I don't know where he is.”

“He dropped the wallet and cell, John. Nobody actually saw him do it. But—just a sec. Something is happening.”

Christie was on his phone. “What?” he exclaimed. And then, “What did they say, exactly?” And then he swore again.

She and Dolan looked at each other, too beat to guess.

Christie came to them. “Well, he's determined, all right. See, 911 just got a call from a neighbor, a concerned neighbor, supposedly, who wants to be anonymous. This neighbor says he saw Cal Hathaway open his door and fling out garbage. This neighbor thinks there's something funny going on with the garbage. Get this. The call came from a pay phone, but the funny thing is—this is choice, this is great.” He laughed harshly. “Thing is there's an earlier call to Headquarters about a man messing with the garbage. From a neighbor. The first call was for real. The man messing was me.”

“There's enough circumstantial evidence to hang him, right, Boss?”

“I have to talk to Hathaway.”

Dolan and Colleen followed a bit behind Christie as he went to the door. He rang the bell and knocked several times before the door was opened by a very sleepy-looking Cal, who said, “I can't get too close to the door. This thing is set to ring the police station.”

“I know,” said Christie. “I know how it works. I need to ask you if you threw garbage out to the curb.”

“No, my mother took it out for me.”

“How about a couple of minutes ago?”

“No. A couple of minutes ago I was asleep.”

“Okay, do you recognize this bag?”

“It's a grocery bag.”

“Do you recognize what's in it?” Christie opened the bags.

“Looks like rags. Are they mine?”

“I don't know. How about the phone and wallet?”

“No,” he said. And then he must have realized what was being asked of him. “Oh, no…”

“These things are not yours.”

He shook his head. “How … how did they get there?”

“We're working on that. I'll send somebody in to talk to you.”

The detectives walked to the curb. “Let's go find Simon,” Dolan urged. “Make him give us some answers.”

“We take him in and he'll get a good lawyer. A great lawyer. I don't want him getting away. I want … details. Dolan, you go into Cal's house and search the house and grounds to be sure, absolutely sure, he didn't throw the garbage.”

Colleen's phone rang again, but it was only Potocki reporting again that he still had not found Simon.

“Just a minute.” She handed her phone over to Christie. He listened and said, “Right. Not your fault. Go back to the house. Park the van as it was. I'll go to the place where the truck belongs. Let's get the whole pattern down.” He grimaced. Colleen studied his fury. Yes, he must have fallen asleep, too.

By the time Colleen and her boss got to Fredericka Lorris's house the truck was back in place and the Saab was gone. Damn, damn, Christie said. Colleen called Potocki to tell him. He said the man and his Saab had not yet returned to Regent Square. It was five thirty.

Christie and Colleen sat in his car outside Fredericka's place, trying to decide whether to drive over to Regent Square or talk to Lorris first, when a sound from the back seat surprised them. “That's a phone,” she said. “It's coming from—”

From the bag of rags, Cassie's cell phone gave off two rings, then nothing. Colleen reached for the back and removed the phone carefully, using the cloths to hold it. Christie wrote down the number of the caller. He dialed Headquarters to find somebody to trace the number, but the offices were virtually empty. “Maybe the same pay phone that made a 911 call,” he explained to the desk sergeant. “See if you can find out for me. And trace it.”

Not five minutes later, Cassie's phone rang again. This time it was a different caller number.

The desk sergeant called back saying no, it wasn't the same as the pay phone, which was located in Oakland.

The phone rang again, the first number.

“I get what he's doing,” Colleen said.

“Yeah. He wants it to be found. Interesting fellow,” he said.

Christie called Dolan to find out that Cal's place had yielded no evidence of packing or tampering with garbage. Since things were looking tame there, he told Dolan about the ringing phone and the location of the pay phone. “He isn't likely to be hanging at the pay phone, but drive by and watch for a while, just in case.”

Dolan was saying something or other. Colleen could almost hear it. Christie answered him, “You're right, you're right. If there's nothing doing at the pay phone, you might as well get over here, join us.” When he hung up he told Colleen, “Dolan is betting these new numbers calling and hanging up are prepaid cells and they won't be traceable. Still, we will run them.”

Cassie's cell rang again. Christie grabbed through the plastic to answer it this time, but it had stopped by the time he got it.

“What were you going to say?”

“Something like”—he lowered his voice—“‘This phone ain't in service. Sorry!' But I'm a poor actor, so it's just as well I didn't have to play a happy garbage collector.”

Colleen smiled. “I would have liked to see that performance.”

“My wife auditioned for a play called
Dead Man's Cell Phone.
Something about the guy dies and his phone keeps ringing.”

“Spooky.”

“Come with me. We're going to wake up Fredericka.”

“No need.” Colleen pointed.

A woman in overalls and a T-shirt came out for the newspaper and went back in.

She and Christie hurried to the door. “Ms. Lorris. Police. May we come in and speak to you?”

“What is this about?”

“This is a homicide investigation.” They showed their ID.

“Yes. Of course.” She let them in. She still held the paper, folded. “Please. What can I do?”

“You can tell us about Todd Simon. You know him?”

“Yes. He's … he's a friend.”

“A friend. He used your truck last night.”

“To cart a bureau.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Yes. He didn't?”

“He didn't. No bureau.”

“Would you … like some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Christie said, which irritated Colleen. She really wanted a cup. Surely the smell emanating from Lorris's kitchen was killing him, too, but he was a stickler for not blurring lines. “Just a few questions. And would you jot down name, address, phones for our records. Do you work somewhere?”

“I'm an independent contractor. I have a card.” She got up and went to her handbag sitting on a handsome side table. “I do renovations. Houses.”

Colleen thought she looked okay, this woman, like a sensible hard worker. Fredericka seemed truly puzzled as she handed over a business card to Christie, who tilted it and read it.

“Ah. I see. What sorts of things do you do?”

“Everything.”

“Can you rip out old plaster?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That's a lousy job. Sure you're up for it?”

“I did it in a Highland Park house not long ago.”

“Messy job, too. Tell me, do you ever wear those painter suits? What do they call them—coveralls?”

“My God … Is this about me? Are you asking about me?”

“I'm asking if you lent your car—the black Chrysler—to your friend, Todd.”

“The car? No. Yes. One Saturday he wanted to try it on a trip. It was Saturday, yes, a week and a half ago.”

“Did you ever lend him one of your coveralls?”

“No. Please. Tell me what this is about?”

“Yes. I'm getting to that. Just think back. Two nights before that. The night of August 13. It was a Thursday. Did you lend him your car?”

“I … remember that night. There was a Steelers game. I didn't get to see much of it because we were in Big Jim's and the TV was behind me. We had a sort of date. We took my car. He wanted me to drive. I did.”

“What time was this?”

“Eight o'clock. Nine o'clock.”

“He was with you that night?”

“Yes.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Could he have taken your car out at, say, three in the morning?”

“It's funny you ask that. I thought it. I mean, I was asleep, but the next time I used my car, I thought he must have driven it, but I really don't know why I thought that.”

“Try to think why.”

“I couldn't identify it. I figured it was the seat position or something. Please tell me. I'm getting scared. I spent time with him. Two days. That was when … a woman he knew was killed. I can figure that much. Is that what you're asking about?”

“Yes. He's a suspect.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “This is … this is horrible.”

At that point, there was a knock at the door, and Colleen, seeing it was Dolan, went to let him in. Dolan introduced himself quickly. “Do I smell coffee?”

“Would you like some?”

“I need some.”

“I do, too, actually,” Colleen hurried to say.

Christie made a slight shake of his head, and even as Lorris went to pour the coffee, he kept questioning her. “So, to be clear, now, he
could
have gone out in the middle of the night without you knowing it?”

“Could have. Yes. It occurred to me maybe he went out for a new pack of cigarettes. He was up smoking when I woke. But I don't know. He could have had the new pack with him.”

“And your coveralls? Were they missing?”

“I have several pairs. The one … was folded differently. I keep them in the garage.” She put down two mugs on the table. “It might be kind of strong,” she said.

“All the better,” Dolan saluted her. But he was already wide-eyed with what he was hearing.

“The coveralls. Where are they?” Christie asked.

“I used them and then I tossed them. I'm sorry.”

“We're going to need to have a team look at your car. And the truck. And the garage,” Christie persisted.

“Of course.” She sank down into the sofa. “I had a lot of work scheduled today.”

“We can let you go to work. Do you have someone who can get you there?”

“Yes, I do. I have someone I can call. I'm stunned. I don't think Todd could do what you're saying. But you've put the idea in my head.”

“I have a few more questions. He carried some sort of plant over here last night. Can you tell us about that?”

“Yes, well, I found him digging in my backyard. He said he'd brought something for me. A peace offering.”

“Peace?”

“I think he just wanted my truck.”

“Before we leave, can you show us what he brought?”

“Yes.”

“Now if you had to appear in court, you would answer that you can't provide an absolute alibi for the night in question?”

“I was with him. We went to dinner. We went to bed. He could have gone out.”

“And … he could have borrowed your car and a set of coveralls?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Could we see the kind of coveralls you use?”

They went out the back door to her garage, where they saw that she had obviously ordered a boxful of the deluxe version of coveralls, with boots and a hood. Dolan, still sipping his coffee, murmured, “Amen,” inclining his head toward a shelf that held a large box of ordinary latex gloves.

“Those gloves?” Christie pointed.

“Ancient. I've had that box for about five years. Maybe more. I started using different ones when I need light gloves. I keep the newer ones in the truck.”

“We'll need to take a sample of these.”

“Be my guest.”

“I'd like to ask you to avoid him,” he said. She nodded. “Would it surprise you to hear that he gave another alibi completely, another friend, a person who lives out of town?”

Fredericka drew herself up with dignity. “In personal terms, I knew he was completely unreliable. I made a mistake in thinking I could keep a light relationship going. It was unsatisfying. When he called me on that night … August 13 … I thought I'd give it a try with him. I think now I don't know who he was. If he did this thing, if he did, I hope you make him pay.”

“What is it you liked about him?”

“He was entertaining. Upbeat.”

“I see. We won't keep you much longer. Show us the plant he brought—which one it is. We'll have the lab look at it when they scrape your truck and car.”

They walked around to her backyard. Christie and his detectives looked at the struggling dahlia she pointed to. He thanked her for being cooperative and forthright.

On the way back to the car, Colleen whispered, “You didn't ask about the mosquito—though I couldn't figure out how you could do that.”

Christie slapped at his face as if to wake himself. “I'm tired. I'm too tired.” He went back to the house, but there was no need to ring the bell. The woman was standing at the door, watching.