by Leslie Meier
“Cops were here and arrested Rob.”
“Rob? Oh, no.” She had a very bad feeling about this news, remembering Rosie’s fears that Rob hadn’t been truthful when he was questioned. “When was this? And why? Did they say why?”
“Just a few minutes ago; you just missed them.” Phyllis sniffed and bit her lip. “They’re accusing him of murdering Gabe McGourt.”
Murder, thought Lucy, swallowing hard. This was a lot worse than obstructing an investigation by lying to the police.
“What was it like? Did they have guns drawn? Were you scared?”
“Nothing like that. It was Detective Horowitz and a couple of state troopers. They were real polite, told him the charges, and read him his rights. Rob seemed stunned, but he didn’t protest. He let them cuff him, and he walked out.” She sniffed again and pointed to the rolltop desk. “Oh, and they took his laptop.”
For evidence, thought Lucy. They’d want to go through his emails, as well as his notes and the stories he was working on. “Does Ted know?” she asked.
“Not yet. I should’ve called him, but I’ve been sitting here in shock.” Phyllis did look pale—the green hair definitely wasn’t helping—and she also seemed smaller somehow. Her boldly colorful striped sweater and matching reading glasses were in sharp contrast to her shaky, fragile state.
Lucy sat right down at her desk, without bothering to shed her jacket, and called Ted, only to get his voice mail. Wouldn’t you think the man would have call forwarding, she thought, slamming the phone down. She really wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice, but settled instead for a quick text. Operating on automatic, her next call was to the DA.
“Didn’t take you long, Lucy,” commented Phil Aucoin, by way of greeting.
“What’s going on?” demanded Lucy. “Are you really charging Rob Callahan with murdering Gabe McGourt?”
“You know me, Lucy. I follow the evidence, and that’s where the evidence led—right to his door, so to speak.”
“Look, I know he wasn’t entirely truthful about that spat at the roadhouse . . .”
“It was a little more than a spat, I’m afraid. A few punches were thrown . . .”
“He told me there was no fight. They just had words.”
“Well, I’ve got about five witnesses who say otherwise.”
“And you believe them?”
“Why would they lie? These are solid citizens; they don’t even know Callahan, so I don’t think they have any grudges against him. They have no reason to lie.”
“They could be pressured to lie by someone who wants to frame Callahan.” Like maybe assistant DA Kevin Kenneally, but she kept that thought to herself.
“Lucy, that’s a terrible accusation to make against public-spirited witnesses who were brave enough to come forward and say what they saw. If you only knew how hard it can be to get people to speak up in these situations. I have to tell you, it was quite heartening to me that they were willing to open up and relive what must have been a rather frightening situation.”
“Okay, but it’s still only hearsay . . .”
“Nope. We’ve got video showing Callahan near McGourt’s truck.”
Lucy’s heart sank. “You have video of him actually tampering with the truck?”
“Well, not exactly, but we’ve got him in the right place at the right time.”
“But it’s crazy. He had no reason to kill McGourt.”
Aucoin chuckled. “It’s a tale as old as time, Lucy. They were rivals for Rosie Capshaw’s affection.”
“Again, that’s not true. I’ve spoken to Rosie, and she insists she and Rob are just friends.”
“Which bolsters my case, Lucy. He was in love with her, she wasn’t reciprocating, and there was this other guy after her, too. Rob Callahan wanted to eliminate the competition and make sure he was Rosie’s one and only.”
“I don’t buy it,” said Lucy, “and neither will the jury.”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we,” said Aucoin, putting an end to the discussion. “There’s something I’d like you to do for me—well, it’s really for Gabe’s kids.”
“I didn’t know he had kids.”
“Yup. Two boys, nine and six years old. He was devoted to them, made sure they got to Little League practice and karate and all that. He had joint custody with his ex, and nothing made him happier than having the boys for the weekend and taking them camping. He was well liked by his colleagues, you know, and they’re holding a 5K race to raise money for the kids. I can fax over the details for you so you can write it up for the paper.”
“Fine,” agreed Lucy. “Any word on the funeral arrangements?”
“Next weekend, I believe. It takes a bit of time to organize these things. Gabe’s fellow officers from all over the country will want to honor him. I’ve heard that a contingent from the California prison system is coming, along with several others from the West and Midwest.”
Lucy was incredulous “All the way from California?”
“Yeah. In the last few years, there’s been a real coming together of the law-enforcement community. When one of us falls, well, it’s as if we’ve lost a member of the family, a brother.”
“Or sister?”
Aucoin was quick to agree. “Right. Or sister.” He paused. “And we all come together to grieve and support each other. There will be a big presence at the wake and the funeral, and, of course, a solemn motorcade to escort Corrections Officer Gabe McGourt to his final resting place.”
“Any idea how many officers will be coming?”
“Oh, hundreds, easily. Maybe more.”
“And the family is organizing all this?”
“Oh, no. It’s Sheriff Murphy. He’s in charge of it all, but with the family’s blessing.” He paused. “It’s really for Gabe’s boys, you know. So they will always remember their dad as the hero he was.”
Lucy was about to choke, thinking this was really a stretch, and her thoughts returned to Rob. It seemed to her that it was going to be very hard for him to get a fair trial after the sheriff was done lionizing the victim. “What bail are you recommending?” she asked, figuring it would be high.
“No bail.”
“Why? Rob doesn’t have a record, he’s employed, he’s a good citizen . . .”
“He’s new to the area, and he’s a flight risk.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’m serious. I’m recommending no bail, and I’m confident the judge will agree with me.”
Lucy didn’t like this at all; it seemed that Rob was not being treated fairly and that his rights were being violated. She’d always liked and trusted Phil Aucoin, considering him a fair and decent prosecutor, and she was saddened and puzzled by this behavior. It wasn’t like him to prejudge a case, and she suspected he was bending to the will of the sheriff.
“I hope the judge sees things differently,” said Lucy.
“I wouldn’t count on it, Lucy; this is a murder charge, after all,” he replied, and Lucy thought there was a hint of cynicism in his tone. “Look, I’ve got another call . . .”
“Thanks for your time,” she said, ending the call.
This was inconceivable, she thought, sitting at her desk in a state of shock. She’d always believed the justice system was fair, although she’d heard disturbing reports about private prisons and innocent people being framed and sent to death row, but those things didn’t happen in Maine. At least, that’s what she’d thought, until now. Her phone rang, and she grabbed it, relieved to hear Ted’s voice.
“Where’s Rob?” he demanded, in an angry voice. “I heard there’s been an arrest in the McGourt case, and I want him to cover it, but he’s not answering texts, phone, anything.”
“Uh, he’s the one; they arrested him.”
“What?” Ted’s voice was so loud that it filled the office, reaching even Phyllis without the benefit of speaker phone.
“I wasn’t here, but Phyllis can tell you all about it. Horowitz and two troopers a
rrested him here at the office first thing this morning.”
“It was just after eight,” said Phyllis, activating the speaker feature.
“Where is he now?” demanded Ted.
“In custody, probably at the county jail,” said Lucy. “Aucoin says no bail.”
Ted was incredulous. “No bail?”
“Rob’s not local, so he’s considered a flight risk.”
“This stinks.”
“You said it.” Lucy sighed. “What can we do?”
“The TRUTH Project has a legal defense team, but I never dreamed we’d need it. This is so outrageous . . .”
“Unless it’s not,” said Phyllis, in a quiet little voice.
Lucy turned her head and gave her a sharp look. From the phone, Ted roared, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe he did do it. Maybe he’s guilty.”
There was a long silence as they considered the possibility. Then Ted spoke. “I’m calling the TRUTH Project folks right away.”
“Good idea,” said Lucy. She wanted to believe with her whole heart that Rob was innocent, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he really was consumed by jealousy and tampered with Gabe McGourt’s truck, sending him to a fiery death.
Chapter Thirteen
The rest of the day passed in a blur as the depleted staff struggled to compensate for Rob’s absence. Ted put Pete Popper in charge over at the Gabber office and took over the big story—Rob’s arrest and the charges against him—squeezing in interviews and pounding out a paragraph or two between numerous, lengthy conference calls with the TRUTH Project’s legal team. Lucy was given the job of writing up Rob’s biography, based largely on his résumé, and also got stuck completing his unfinished school budget story. She found it difficult to concentrate on the tasks at hand, however, as she struggled to reconcile the Rob she knew, who she had to admit was rather conceited and even obnoxious, with the allegations against him. Maybe he wasn’t her favorite person, but she would never have believed he was capable of murder. And the delightful Rosie Capshaw liked him, which Lucy found somewhat surprising but had to admit was a point in Rob’s favor.
When she finally hit the SEND button on her last story, she was mentally and physically exhausted. “I’m done,” she announced, pushing back her chair and grabbing her bag.
“Thanks, Lucy,” said Ted, who was hunched over his keyboard. “Try to get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
She knew he was referring to the arraignment, which was going to attract media from the entire region, maybe even the national networks. No doubt, white satellite trucks would surround the courthouse, and reporters would be attempting to interview anyone who was breathing.
“Do you have a plan?” asked Phyllis.
“I’m gonna be first in line at the courthouse; that’s all I can do. I don’t think I can expect any special treatment, not in this case.”
“No. You’ll be public enemy number two, right after Rob,” said Lucy.
“Yup. Keep your phone on. I may need you.”
“Will do,” said Lucy, who was shrugging into her jacket.
“And, Phyllis, I don’t need to tell you that you should firmly discourage any requests from the competing media. Don’t give out any information, and don’t let them in the door, not even to use the bathroom.”
Phyllis chuckled. “You can count on me, boss.”
“Well, I’m off,” said Lucy, pausing to give Ted a pat on the shoulder. “Take your own advice: get some rest.” She sighed. “Remember the immortal advice of Doris Day: ‘Que sera, sera.’ ”
Ted looked up at her. “I gotta say, I was not prepared for this. This came out of left field.”
“Look on the bright side,” offered Phyllis. “You’ve got the inside scoop on a really big story.”
“Yeah,” admitted Ted. “So why does it feel so rotten?”
That was the word for it, thought Lucy, as she drove home. Rotten. This whole situation was rotten, no matter how you looked at it. It was rotten if Rob was actually guilty, if they’d been working alongside a cold-blooded killer, sharing coffee mugs and advice and trying to develop cordial working relationships. On the other hand, it was even more rotten if Rob was being set up by the sheriff in an attempt to cover up the truth—a truth, Lucy realized, that must involve others in the department. A conspiracy to protect the sheriff’s power and those who were privileged to share it.
Just thinking about it had given her a headache, she decided, as she turned into her driveway. What she needed was a couple of painkillers and a cool washcloth on her forehead in a quiet, dark room. After that, she’d deal with dinner and whatever issues the girls were having. But first, twenty minutes of peace. That’s all she asked, twenty minutes to concentrate on absolutely nothing but breathing in and out, in and out.
As soon as she opened the door, she realized it was not to be. Zoe was standing in the middle of the kitchen, waving a piece of paper, and Sara was beside her, clearly upset.
Lucy really didn’t want to know, but she had to ask. “What’s going on?”
“We got a cease-and-desist order from some lawyer,” exclaimed Zoe.
“Cease and desist?” Lucy was puzzled. “What exactly are you supposed to cease and desist doing? Going to college? Driving? Wearing lipstick?”
“Dancing! We’re supposed to stop dancing,” explained Sara.
“Yeah. The letter is on behalf of Eileen Clancy, who claims that we’re making unauthorized use of copyrighted dance choreography, which we intend to present in a—get this—‘so-called multi-ethnic, all-Inclusive Irish Festival.’ ”
Lucy took the letter, then, on second thought, put it down on the kitchen table and poured herself a glass of chardonnay. She gulped down half the contents of the glass, then sat down to read the letter. “Is this true? Are you using her choreography?”
“Not really,” said Zoe, seating herself at the table. “We did take a couple of classes from her, years ago, but didn’t like it.”
“That’s when we started riffing on it; you know, we’d do a couple of the traditional steps, and then we’d start goofing around,” said Sara, who was leaning her hips against the counter.
“It’s only a minute or so of the traditional steps, since we only know two or three moves, just beginner stuff. I wouldn’t call it choreographed. It’s like a singer doing scales to warm up, that’s all. Then we start throwing in our own stuff, modern jazz, hip-hop; it’s kind of a mix.”
“But we wear those really stiff skirts and the clunky shoes; everybody who’s seen us rehearse absolutely loves it.”
“It’s really clever, and funny, if I say so myself,” admitted Zoe.
“I’m sure it is; that’s probably the problem,” said Lucy, draining the glass and getting up to refill it, noticing that the level in the bottle had been dropping fast lately. “I wonder how she even knows about it.”
“She must have spies,” said Sara. “Undercover operatives at the festival rehearsals.”
Lucy felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and it wasn’t from the chill air emitted by the refrigerator. “You’re right,” she said, unscrewing the bottle cap. “The sheriff and the Hibernian Knights are doing everything they can to wreck the festival. They want to make sure their parade is the only show in the county.” She filled her glass and replaced the bottle in the fridge. “They’ll stop at nothing,” she concluded, sitting down with her untouched wine.
“So what should we do?” asked Zoe. “Drop out of the show?”
“No way!” protested Sara.
Lucy took a sip of wine. “I don’t see how she can stop you,” she said, speaking slowly. “Not if what you say is true. I think basic dance steps must be like book titles. I don’t see how any one person can copyright them. You can’t copyright first position, or whatever the step-dance equivalent is, or nobody’d ever be able to dance a ballet.”
“That’s a really good point, Mom,” said Sara.
“I’ll check with
Bob Goodman, see what he says.”
“And I’ll show our tape to the dance professor at Winchester; maybe she’ll write a letter or something for us,” said Zoe.
“That’s a good idea, too,” said Lucy, realizing she was now pain-free. Who knew chardonnay could cure headaches? “Any ideas about supper?”
* * *
The next morning, Lucy stopped by attorney Bob Goodman’s office on her way to work to show him the cease-and-desist letter and get his advice. She knew he liked to get to the office early, before court went into session.
“Ignore it,” said Bob, handing it back to her. “Throw it in the trash. It’s not worth the paper it’s written on.”
“Why did Eileen Clancy bother with it then?” she asked.
“Intimidation, pure and simple. A lot of people get an official-looking letter from an attorney and get scared.” He furrowed his brow. “I never heard of this outfit, Smith, Smith, and Jones, and I’ve been practicing for a long time. For all we know, she made the whole thing up.”
“Do people do that?”
He grinned. “Oh, yeah. I tell you, Microsoft Word has a lot to answer for, giving people all those fancy fonts. Nowadays, anybody with a printer and some résumé paper can produce a good facsimile of almost any legal document.”
“Or a DNA report?” asked Lucy.
He nodded. “You bet.”
“Well, thanks,” she said, folding the letter and putting it back in her bag. Stepping outside, she noticed a woman was exiting the adjacent law office, which was occupied by Linda Sparrow, who concentrated on family law. Since the two offices shared a walkway, she smiled a polite greeting at the woman, whom she recognized from the wedding photo in the Pennysaver’s photo file as Gabe McGourt’s ex-wife, Rosemary McGourt. She had a head of unruly, bleached-blond curls and had stuffed her excess poundage into a pair of tight workout pants.
“Hi!” exclaimed Lucy, “You’re just the person I’ve been looking for.”
Rosemary ducked her head and began walking faster, forcing Lucy to trot after her. “Honest, this will only take a minute. I’m Lucy Stone . . .”
“I know who you are,” muttered Rosemary out of the side of her mouth, not missing a step.
