“Then follow them, but don’t get too close.”
The old woman gunned the cart and with yellow light flashing, we beeped our way through the terminal in pursuit.
Nineteen
The State Police office was located down a corridor that led from the terminal’s main concourse and by the time I arrived, Mulvaney and Delcambre had already gone inside.
However, the trooper who’d met us at the curb was waiting for me, holding the door open. I came as close as I ever will these days to leaping from the cart, thanked Thelma for chauffeuring me through the airport, and hurried into the office. Inside there was a tiny lobby with the inevitable bulletproof-glass reception window and an armor-plated door that looked as if it could withstand an anti-tank mis-sile strike. There was a buzzing sound as someone disengaged the electronic lock. The trooper pulled that door open and I followed her through an empty clerical office to a snug roll call room at the end of a short hallway.
It was like every other cop briefing room I’ve ever visited. At the front was a small table where the shift supervisor sat during roll call. A chalkboard was on the wall behind the desk and it bore the underlined message: all overtime must be approved in advance! Beneath it, 210
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some anonymous dissenting cop had scrawled: “Just as soon as I develop ESP and can predict when there’ll be a last minute call, you fool.” The tables and chairs where the troopers would sit were the usual ratty and mis-matched assortment of hand-me-downs and throwaways that inevitably end up at police stations. There was a large blueprint-style map of the airport on one wall, a combination TV-VHS tape player on a table in the corner for watching training videos, and clipboards hanging from hooks loaded with wanted posters from the FBI that no one had ever looked at. The only thing missing were the state police officers; they were all out at work.
Instead, there were Mulvaney, Delcambre, and the foursome of plutocrats I’d seen at the teddy bear show cocktail reception the previous evening. It was warm in the room and everyone had taken off their coats. The Wintle execs were dressed in business casual for the flight home and none of them looked even remotely cheerful.
One of the men was making a big point of studying his platinum wristwatch, which I had no doubt was a Rolex that had cost more than our Nissan Xterra. The man appeared to be in his early sixties with an aquiline nose that looked as if it had once been broken and imperfectly set.
His glossy, perfectly styled hair was the same color as a polished silver dollar, his teeth were white and flawless, and his skin was that golden tone only attainable after many hours in a tanning salon. The only incongruous element was that his fingernails were bitten to the quick.
From the way everyone was watching him, I assumed he was Jeffrey Wintle and Mulvaney confirmed this when she made the introductions.
The other three Wintle suits were the company’s legal counsel, Steven Coburn, Peter Kinney, the vice president of manufacturing, and Carolyn Fielding, the VP of licensing. Coburn was short—maybe five-five—slight in The False-Hearted Teddy
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build and those features, combined with oversized upper incisors, a receding hairline, and cold brown eyes, brought to mind the image of an attack Chihuahua. Kinney was a half-foot taller and older, with hair and a moustache that looked as if it had been dyed with Kiwi brand cordovan boot polish. Fielding was willowy, yet her face was fleshy and heart shaped. Her jaw was a little slack and the skin beneath her eyes was puffy and gray, which led me to believe that she was weary and had been so for some time.
“You aren’t with the police.” Wintle gave me an accusatory look and, although he lived in west Texas, his accent marked him as a transplant from somewhere in the urban Northeast.
“You know me?”
“I’m the owner of one of the biggest toy and stuffed animal companies in the country. It’s my business to know you. Lyon’s Tigers and Bears. Wife is Ashleigh, right? I like her work.”
“So do I. Thank you and I’m impressed.” It was no accident that he’d only commended Ash and ignored my work. I wasn’t offended. In fact, my opinion of his expertise in teddy bears rose slightly and I was relieved that the guy wasn’t going to give me a smoke-and-mirrors show.
“So, how come you’re here with the police?”
“Back before I began to make mediocre teddy bears, I used to investigate murders for a living. I’m helping with this case.”
“Then maybe you can start by telling me what the hell this has to do with us.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, and by the way, you’ve got seventeen minutes.”
“It concerns you because Jennifer Swift was murdered this morning—”
“What?” Wintle gaped at me in disbelief.
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I continued, “And the motive is more than likely connected with the licensing contract that she and Tony just signed with your company.”
Kinney shook his head as if bewildered while Fielding turned to look at the map of the airport and then down at the floor.
Coburn put a cautionary hand on Wintle’s shoulder.
“Jeff, in light of the fact that this incident is probably going to generate a civil suit, I strongly recommend that you terminate this interview immediately.”
“Mr. Wintle, neither you or your associates are considered suspects in this investigation,” Mulvaney nervously cut in.
“We just want to know some details about the licensing contract,” I added.
“Then I’d suggest you get a
subpoena dueces tecum
because we have nothing more to say. Good day.” Coburn had precisely the sort of high-pitched raspy tone I’d expect from a talking Chihuahua that thought he was one cool and bad hombre. He nodded in the direction of the door. “Let’s go, Jeff.”
“Mr. Wintle, I realize we live in a world full of ambulance-chasing lawyers.” I shot a disdainful glance at Coburn. “And someone might file a lawsuit. But I’m asking you to do the right thing and help us.”
“Jeff, let’s
go
.” Coburn was slipping his jacket on.
“What if it was your wife or someone you loved lying there in the morgue and the killer was free?”
“Jeff.”
Wintle shrugged and wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Sorry.
I’d like to help but . . . well, nothing personal, but this is strictly a business decision.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant?” Fielding asked diffidently.
“Do you or the other detective have a blackjack or a sap?”
Mulvaney was baffled by the request. “No ma’am, The False-Hearted Teddy
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those sorts of weapons are against department regulations. Why?”
Fielding gave me an imploring look. “Then could I borrow your cane for a minute, Mr. Lyon?”
“No, and, again, why?”
“Because I swear to God, if I hear one more person describe morally bankrupt behavior as ‘just business’
again, I’m going to hit them and I don’t want to hurt my hand.” Fielding erupted like one of those old Saturn V
rockets that used to propel the Apollo moon missions into orbit. “What are we, Wintle Toys or
Monsters Inc.
? Jeff, I’ve worked for you for over fifteen years and I’ve kept my mouth shut as you pulled off every sort of rotten legal stunt in the book. I even went along with you when you shifted our manufacturing out of the country to lower costs—and to avoid the child labor laws. But the era of me being a good ‘team player’ is officially done. We’re talking about stonewalling over a murder that we might have helped cause and I won’t go along with that.”
The three men were stunned at her outburst and Kinney began to edge away from Fielding as though he’d suddenly discovered she had some sort of virulently con-tagious and fatal disease. Wintle’s lips were compressed and I couldn’t decide whether his cheeks were pink from shame or anger. Coburn was the first to recover his composure.
“I think it would be best if you calmed down, Carolyn.” The lawyer sounded imperious, yet there was an underlying note of apprehension in his voice.
“And I think it would be best if you kept that sewer outlet you call a mouth shut, you revolting little shyster.”
Fielding’s eyes were brilliant with anger. Turning to glare at Wintle, she continued in a stiffly cadenced voice,
“And you. For God’s sake, Jennifer is dead and the only thing you’re concerned about is damage control and the 214
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corporate profit margin. I had always hoped there was at least some limit to what you’d do for a buck, but I guess I was wrong. And here’s the worst part—”
“Hey, you don’t talk that way to me.” Wintle raised a warning finger and pointed it at Fielding’s nose.
“Yeah, how dare she suggest that you have some obligation to behave like a decent human being?” I sniped.
The CEO shot me a venomous look, but before he could retort, Fielding said, “You don’t like what I have to say? Fine. So, fire me. No, better yet, I quit.”
“Carolyn, you’re overwrought.” Coburn reached out to grab her right forearm, but she snapped it backwards and made as if to slap the lawyer.
“Don’t touch me unless you want your little ass kicked, munchkin.” Fielding turned to me. “I’ll bet I can tell you exactly who you think killed Jennifer. It was Todd Litten, right?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“And you know why?”
“Tony told us part of the story. He basically said that he, Jennifer, and you guys all decided to screw Todd out of any share of the licensing contract. Whose idea was it originally?” I asked.
Fielding grimaced and swiped at some strands of hair that had fallen into her line of sight. “Jennifer’s. She told us that Litten had forced his way into their original part-nership and that he had nothing coming.”
“Carol, let’s go.” This time Wintle reached to take Fielding’s arm.
Delcambre swiftly moved between the CEO and Fielding, saying, “Ma’am, do you want any of these guys to touch you?”
“No.”
“And you
do
want to tell us what happened, right?”
Delcambre asked.
“Very much.”
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“Then we’ve got a new set of rules here, gentlemen.”
Delcambre put his hands on his hips and gave defiant stares to Wintle and then Coburn. “From now on, if anybody does anything to try and stop Ms. Fielding here from giving us a witness statement about this homicide, I’m going to arrest him for being an accessory after the fact to murder. Touch her and I’ll add a count of battery.
Do we understand each other?”
“You’d never get a conviction,” said Coburn.
“Maybe. You might beat the rap, but you won’t beat the ride, counselor . . . the ride being in the backseat of a cop car to the police station in handcuffs. Right, Lieutenant?” asked Delcambre.
“There’s nothing I’d like more.” Mulvaney waved dis-missively at Wintle, Coburn, and Kinney. “You three are free to go, if you want.”
“We’ll stay for now,” Wintle grumbled.
“Fine, but no more interruptions. Brad, go on with your questioning.”
“Thanks LT.” I turned to Fielding. “When did Todd find out that the Swifts were in negotiations with Wintle?”
“Not until yesterday. Jennifer insisted that everything be kept a secret from Todd until after the contract was signed.”
“How did he finally hear about the deal in progress?”
“He learned it from me.” Although Fielding was speaking to me, her eyes were on Coburn and her lower jaw jutted out. “I went to the Maritime Inn yesterday morning, because I’m a fan of the books—which we were about to lawfully steal—and I wanted to meet the author.” Fielding looked back at me. “It turned out that Todd had driven down from Pennsylvania the night before. He was sitting there in the exhibit hall, waiting like some dumb, loyal, patient dog in the empty spot where the Cheery Cherub Bears booth was going to be.”
“And you liked him,” I said.
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“He was a refreshingly decent change from the people I work with.”
“I’ll bet you could tell he was in love with Jennifer.”
“Of course.” Her voice was bittersweet.
“And that upset you, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it bothered me. The poor guy was about to not only be swindled out of his share of something he’d helped create, but also have his heart broken.”
“So, what did you do?”
“What I thought was the right thing . . . at the time. I told him about the licensing agreement we were about to sign. But maybe if I hadn’t said anything . . .”
“Jennifer would still be alive? I can understand why you feel that way, but don’t. It’s a waste of emotion and energy. Todd killed Jennifer, not you.”
“I suppose.” Fielding ran her fingers comblike through her hair.
“So, during this first meeting, how much did you tell Todd?”
“Initially, only that the contract was about to be signed and that he needed to talk to the Swifts.”
“How’d he react?”
“Surprised over the contract, but mostly like an idiot in love. He told me that he trusted Jen implicitly and was certain she would never do anything to hurt him.”
“Unless it was convenient.”
“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but you knew her. Both she and Tony were sneaky crooks.” Fielding glanced at the trio of Wintle execs. “And water always finds its own level.”
“But Todd obviously came to a different conclusion later on. I saw you talking to him at the reception last night. What did he say?”
Fielding shook her head and said sadly, “He was dis-tressed and didn’t know what to think. He said that he’d asked about the licensing deal and that Jennifer had told The False-Hearted Teddy
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him she’d simply ‘forgotten’ to mention the contract negotiations, but not to worry because she’d taken care of him.”
“Which was the truth, although not the way she meant it to sound. What happened next?” I asked.
“I couldn’t stand it. The contracts had been signed earlier that afternoon and somebody had to break the news to the poor sucker. I told him that the Swifts had completely leveraged him out of the deal. He looked like he was going to faint and said that Tony must have forced Jennifer into signing.”