Incendiary Designs

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  The watch commander turned out to be Rossi, Thinnes’s nemesis. He listened while Fuego reported on the fire and the possible connection to Banks’s murder, then he turned to Thinnes. “I suppose you want me to authorize this so you can have the OT?”

  Thinnes yawned. “Yup, I love giving up half a night’s sleep to give bad news to some suburban yuppie.”

  Rossi actually sneered. “Glad to hear that. You can call Kenilworth and coordinate with them.” He stalked into his office and slammed the door.

  Thinnes thought, Gotcha!

  “What’s his problem?” Fuego asked.

  “It was heads I win, tails he loses, whatever he decided. Among other things. Let’s get going before he changes his mind.”

  Just before sunup they pulled up behind a Kenilworth squad parked in front of Morgan’s house. The house was east of Sheridan Road and seemed pretty ostentatious—just the sort of place you’d expect to find a Mercedes.

  The reaction of the man who opened the door was right for someone rousted before dawn by the cops. He was in pajamas and robe. His face was puffy and lined with imprints from the pillow he’d been using. His hair was a mess.

  “Dr. Morgan? Martin Morgan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you own a Mercedes 500, S class?”

  “My wife does.”

  “But it’s titled in your name?”

  “I suppose so. What’s this about?” He was beginning to sound worried.

  Because Thinnes’s in-laws lived in neighboring Wilmette, he knew something about the kind of people who lived in Kenilworth. Innocent residents weren’t panicked by a visit from the cops though they sometimes carped about the inconvenience. Most people would’ve bitched about the hour. Morgan was either guilty of something or unusually cooperative for a yuppie.

  “Is your wife home?”

  “My wife?” He actually had to think about it. He half turned and looked behind him, toward the stairs Thinnes could see on the far side of the room. Morgan finally said, “I thought so. But I don’t know. I’ll have to check.” He started to close the door on them, then stopped and said, “Come in.” He waved them toward a white couch with matching chairs in the center of the room. “What’s this about?”

  The Kenilworth cop let them do the talking.

  “Maybe you’d better see if your wife’s home first,” Thinnes said.

  Morgan nodded, then hurried up the stairs.

  “What do you think?” Fuego asked, when Morgan was out of earshot.

  Thinnes looked around. The room was all white—ceiling, drapes, deep plush carpet, and furniture—except for the bright, silk Georgia O’Keeffe poppies on the glass tabletop. “I’d say Dr. Morgan makes a pretty good living.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Thinnes glanced pointedly at the Kenilworth cop and told Fuego, “Too soon to tell.”

  After a few minutes Morgan was back. “She’s not here. What happened? Where is she?”

  “Your car was involved in an accident,” Thinnes said. “The blond woman who was driving was killed.”

  Morgan said, “Helen’s blond,” then seemed to realize the implication and drift away inside his head for a moment. “Where is she?”

  “The Stein Institute,” Thinnes said, using the formal name. It somehow sounded less brutal than the morgue.

  Morgan shuddered. “You’ll need an identification. I’ll get dressed.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Morgan. You can’t identify her. We’ll need to get the name of her dentist.”

  Morgan went white and his eyes opened wider, as if he’d just been shocked wide awake. He said, “Oh,” and rested his forehead on the palm of his hand. He stared at the crook of his arm for a long time. He finally took a deep breath, half hiccuping, the way people do when they’ve been crying. His eyes brimmed with tears that didn’t spill over. He sniffed once and said, “As a physician I’ve had to break this sort of news many times. It’s not like anything I could have imagined.”

  Thinnes tried to imagine what he’d do if someone told him Rhonda was dead. Probably take out his service revolver and put a .38 slug through his head.

  Forty-Eight

  Rossi’d gone home by the time Thinnes and Fuego got back to Area Three. They got themselves coffee, and Oster joined them when they went to report in.

  “The witness was a washup,” Evanger told them. “He didn’t get enough of a look to make an ID. Go over and interview the guy that called it in.”

  “Name,” Thinnes said.

  Evanger handed him a sheet of paper. “For all the crying they do about the good old days, no one ever mentions how the modern gadgets save our butts. Safety vests, enhanced 911, cell phones, and caller ID…”

  “Yeah,” Oster said. “And junk mail, junk calls from auto-dialers, and—”

  “Quit yer bitchin’,” Fuego told him.

  Thinnes, who’d been half listening as he read the information on the paper, said, “Hel-lo.”

  Oster said, “What?”

  “Edward Limardi. Where’ve we heard that before?”

  The Mercedes-Benz dealership where Limardi worked was small and exclusive. The shiny cars in the showroom were reflected by spotless windows and polished terrazzo floors. The two salesmen wore suits that hadn’t come off any rack. Both had styled, blow-dried hair and neat mustaches. Thinnes would’ve bet money the older one was a poster boy for a hair replacement outfit, and the younger man—Limardi—spent lots of time or money at a health club. Fuego held his star up and said, “I need to talk to you, Mr. Limardi. Privately.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Limardi said.

  The other salesman excused himself nervously and hurried away.

  Limardi pointed to one of three glass-walled cubicles along the far wall of the showroom. “I’ve been expecting you. How ’bout my office?”

  “I’d really rather talk in my office.”

  Limardi nodded. “You traced my call.” When Thinnes didn’t confirm or deny this, he added, “Is Helen all right?”

  To the best of Thinnes’s knowledge, Limardi hadn’t made any attempt to check on Helen Morgan after he’d called 911. Even if she’d only been an acquaintance, that was odd. And the preliminary investigation indicated that they’d been an item. Which made it all the odder.

  “She’s dead, Mr. Limardi.”

  “My God!” Limardi tried to looked shocked, but didn’t pull it off.

  Thinnes held his hand out in the direction of the door. “Shall we go?”

  He put Limardi in the Area Three interview room and let him cool his heels for twenty minutes while he thought about how to proceed. Most of the techniques that worked on novice offenders were probably invented by flimflam artists like car salesmen. And whatever else he was, their investigation of him back in March indicated Limardi was a pretty good car salesman.

  When Oster came back from inspecting the plumbing, Thinnes asked him, “Have we worked out Mrs. Morgan’s itinerary last night?”

  “Yeah,” Oster said. “We got lucky. Her appointment book was in her purse, which got charred on the outside but didn’t burn up. She had a date for dinner with this clown…” He pointed through the two-way mirror at Limardi. “We checked the restaurant. The waiter remembered them—seems he’s a big tipper. Car sales must be good.”

  “What better way to get remembered by the help?”

  “Yeah. Well, the waiter said they only ordered one bottle of wine with dinner, so he was surprised when the woman seemed like she’d had too much to drink. He’s sure they split the bottle. ’Said ‘the broad was all over the guy’—his words—and the guy seemed embarrassed. They left about eleven.”

  Ryan, Swan, and Ferris came into the squad room at that point and naturally gravitated toward the interview room. Curiosity is a common vice in detectives.

  “What’ve you got here?” Ferris demanded. He’d shed his tie and suit jacket; his face and graying hair and shirt were soaked with sweat.

  Thinnes ignored him a
nd asked Oster, “Where do you s’pose Mrs. Morgan spent the time between eleven and when she was torched?”

  “I can tell you that,” Swann said. He, too, was damp with sweat but he was still in “business attire.” He was sipping coffee. It made Thinnes hot just to watch.

  “Well?”

  “With the guy you sent us out to check on.”

  “Limardi,” Ryan added. She’d tied her fire-red hair up in twin pony tails which made her look sixteen.

  “Where?”

  “His place,” Swann said. “He’s got a condo on Sheridan Road.”

  “The doorman saw them go in?”

  “Naw. He doesn’t have a doorman, but the building across from the entrance to his parking garage does. And that doorman hates him. Claims to have lost money on a car deal. Anyway, he said he saw Limardi park a white Mercedes S500 in the bus stop in front of his building at about eleven-thirty and get out with a blond woman, a looker. Approximately an hour and a half later, he escorted the same woman—he thinks—back to the car. She left; he went back in the building.”

  “So our own 911 tape and this guy who hates his guts are Limardi’s alibi. Neat.”

  “Tell us about Mrs. Morgan,” Thinnes said, sitting close enough to be in Limardi’s personal space.

  Limardi pretended not to notice but he was sweating and it wasn’t that hot. “Safe sex,” he said.

  “What?” This from Oster who was sitting across from Thinnes, taking notes.

  “Safe sex,” Limardi repeated. “She was married. You know—MD husband, 1.7 kids, house in the suburbs, nice car, nice dual income. She wasn’t going to give that up for a car salesman, not even a Mercedes salesman. So there wasn’t any danger she’d be expecting me to marry her.”

  “She was getting a divorce.”

  “Yeah, sure. Married men use that line a lot, too. She wasn’t serious.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t,” Thinnes said, “but her husband was. He filed.”

  Limardi shrugged. “Then maybe he decided to save the cost of litigation. You looked into that?”

  “Maybe we’re looking into what the two of you were doing last night,” Oster said.

  “Fucking. What do you think?”

  “Cut the crap, Limardi,” Thinnes said. “And just tell us what happened.”

  Limardi leaned back on the bench and said, “We went to dinner—but you knew that. I’m sure you talked to our waiter, and the maître d’, and half the other customers in the restaurant. Then we went to my place for a little dessert. Then I put her in the car and sent her home. That was the last time I saw her.”

  “How is it you came to call 911?”

  “She called me on her car phone, said there was something wrong with her car. She wanted me to come fix it on the spot. I was in bed already. I was trying to get her to call a tow truck when she started screaming. I hung up and called 911.”

  “So what’d you do then?” Oster demanded.

  “I told the 911 operator what happened and hung up.”

  “And?”

  “There was nothing else I could do. I tried calling her car phone back and got that out-of-service message. So I went back to bed.”

  “You never thought of getting up and going to see what happened?”

  “Yeah. And then what? Hold her hand until her husband showed up to claim her?”

  “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”

  “Look, am I under suspicion here? If I am, I want a lawyer.”

  “At the present time, Mr. Limardi,” Thinnes said, “we’re just trying to establish what happened before our witnesses forget the details. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like you to write down everything, exactly as you remember it, in as much detail as possible. When we get this guy, we don’t want him getting off because of some detail someone forgot.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Thanks.” Thinnes turned to Oster and tried to sound mad as he said, “Carl, could I have a word with you?”

  They went out and closed the interview door. Ferris was still there, watching. “You guys didn’t even make him break a sweat.”

  Oster said, “Don’t you have something to do?”

  “Ferris, why don’t you go get us a couple of Cokes?” Thinnes said, “as long as you’re hanging around?” To Oster he said, “I’ll get him started on his statement, Carl. You go get hold of that 911 tape.”

  “Right.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Thinnes and Oster witnessed Limardi’s signature on the last of the pages he’d carefully filled with details.

  Thinnes said, “Thank you, Mr. Limardi. We appreciate your cooperation on this.” He offered Limardi his hand.

  As Limardi took it, Oster smirked and said, “But like they say in the movies, don’t leave town.”

  Forty-Nine

  Bill Cox had come in to the Area, as requested, and Thinnes took him to the conference room. If he’d looked old the first time they met, now he looked like an ME’s case. Thinnes figured he’d finally come up against a problem he couldn’t solve with the right property.

  After asking him a series of questions about Helen Morgan’s activities the previous day, Thinnes said, “Did her husband have anything to do with why you hired her?”

  Cox looked like a man who’s been caught in a lie. But then, he had given the impression he didn’t know Dr. Morgan.

  “It’s true,” he said, “that I hired Helen because her husband was a doctor, and I thought she might persuade him to invest in real estate. That’s why I hired her. But I kept her on because she was good. She grossed more her first year than either of my most experienced salesmen.”

  “Had she been having trouble with anyone lately, a dissatisfied customer, or maybe someone who asked her out and wouldn’t take no for an answer?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But then, I doubt she would’ve confided in me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’d have been worried it would get around.”

  “So?”

  “It would be—Ah…my sales people are quite competitive. Of course they wouldn’t give anyone an advantage by admitting there was something they couldn’t handle, if you see what I mean.”

  “Just how competitive are your sales people?”

  Cox’s eyes widened as he considered the implication of the question. “Nothing like that!”

  “I’ll need their names anyway, and addresses and home phone numbers. You can fax them to me here.” He wrote the Area fax number on the back of his business card and handed it to Cox.

  Cox said, “She was being sued for divorce.”

  “We’re looking into that.”

  “Her husband seemed decent enough, the one time I met him, but…Those who’re closest know which buttons to push, and Helen could be difficult. And who knows what a man has in his soul.”

  Fifty

  Oster and Thinnes were halfway through a hurried lunch when Thinnes’s pager went off. When he answered it, Evanger told him to beat feet back to the Area. They had an irate citizen chewing the ears off the community relations officers. Thinnes’s case. “Which one?” The Morgan murder.

  When he walked into the community relations office, the cop on duty, a veteran female, looked relieved. She didn’t sound at all sarcastic when she thanked him for getting there fast. Before she could introduce him to her visitor—a woman sitting near the door—she jumped up and said, “Martin Morgan killed my daughter! I’m sure of it.”

  “Who?”

  “Helen Morgan.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Helen’s mother. Eileen Kerrigan Seely.”

  “I see.” He did see. If they put a photo of Helen Morgan in the computer and aged it the way they did with missing kid pictures, it could be the spitting image of this woman. “Maybe we should go talk about this in private, Mrs. Seely. Would you please come with me?”

  That took some of the wind out of her sails. She followed him meekly upstairs, and through the squad room—where h
e took Oster in tow—into the conference room. Before they took up where she’d left off, she accepted a seat and declined coffee.

  “Do you have any evidence to support your accusation, Mrs. Seely?” Thinnes said. He hadn’t bothered to bring Oster up to speed. He was a quick study.

  “He was the only one who would benefit from her death.”

  “That you know of.”

  “He was divorcing her!”

  “And?”

  “He wanted her dead.”

  “That’s not the same as killing her.”

  “Did you check where he was?”

  “He said he was home, asleep. We don’t have any evidence to contradict that.”

  “Have you looked?”

  Oster cut in. “If Dr. Morgan were implicated in his wife’s death, Mrs. Seely, wouldn’t you be first in line to get custody of his kids and control of her estate?” Bad cop.

  “I resent that implication!”

  “What implication?”

  “That I’d unjustly accuse Martin to get the children.”

  Thinnes said, “What can you tell us about your daughter’s business?” Good cop.

  Seely seemed pacified by the change in tack. “She was doing very well. She was a superb saleswoman.”

  Oster said, “Mightn’t she have stepped on a few toes on the way up?”

  “Nonsense!” She looked at Thinnes. “Martin loathed her. He hadn’t slept with her in years.”

  Thinnes raised his eyebrows. She reminded him of his own mother-in-law, Louise Coates. He couldn’t imagine Rhonda telling Louise something as intimate as how long it had been since they made love. But then, Rhonda wasn’t Helen Morgan.

  Seely seemed to realize she’d gone too far. She blushed. “He had her heavily insured,” she said less adamantly.

  Thinnes nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Seely. I know it won’t bring your daughter back, but we will get her killer. You have to let us do our job.”

  She wavered but her eyes stayed dry. What had Rhonda said about women who can’t or won’t cry? A hard woman?