by A. D. Miller
“Which you think is me.”
“Not necessarily. But I think there are things you haven’t told me. Such as why Alana came all the way up here to see you.”
Putting half the cupcake on a plate, she pushed it over to Nyman. “I know you won’t believe this, but I never actually saw her in person. Here or anywhere else.”
“You talked to her, though?”
“I heard from her, but I never responded. She sent an email to my old Meridian account, saying she knew I was one of Michael’s students and I was mixed up in Merchant South.”
Nyman took the notebook from his pocket. “When was this?”
“That she sent the email? It would’ve been Monday or Tuesday, I think. Of last week.”
“So two or three days before she was murdered.”
“Yes. I think that’s right.”
“What else did she say?”
Bridget made a sweeping movement with one hand. “All sorts of things. She said she knew about the Vegas money and Salas’ donation to Meridian, which she’d read about in the paper. She said Michael had betrayed her and now I was complicit in the scam, but if I helped her make it all public I could redeem myself and my reputation. Then she gave me her phone number and asked for a time to meet.”
“And what did you do?”
“I called Michael. He told me about the trip to Vegas and their blow-up at the bar.”
“Did he tell you to talk to her?”
“Just the opposite. He said he’d handle it himself. He said he’d made a terrible mistake with the rewritten report and now the only way to correct it was by admitting everything and returning the money. He was even going to send a letter to the Times, explaining what he’d done.”
“That would’ve been quite a gesture.”
“That’s the way he is, though. Deep down he’s a very honest and caring man.”
“But not caring enough to actually follow through on his gesture.”
“Well, that’s because he didn’t have a chance to follow through. I talked to him on Tuesday afternoon; that night he flew to Boston for a conference. And he was still in Boston—or on the plane coming back—when Alana got hit by the car.”
“Right outside your front gate.”
She leaned forward eagerly. “But don’t you see? That’s what proves it was an accident. She sent me the email, and I never responded. She’d already been up to Salas’ office to harass her about the donation, so it makes sense she’d come up here to harass me, too.”
Nyman said: “You think she drove up here to harass you, and just happened to get hit by a car as she was crossing the street?”
“I know it doesn’t fit whatever explanation you’ve come up with, but it seems logical to me. There are hit-and-runs around here all the time.”
“And what about Eric Trujillo?”
The eagerness went out of her face. “He’s the other victim?”
“That we know of so far. He was stabbed to death Saturday night and dumped on Skid Row an hour or two after midnight.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that. Michael told me there’d been another killing, but he didn’t say who it was.”
“So you’ve talked to Freed since Saturday?”
Alarm widened her eyes. “Well—yes. We talk sometimes on the phone, like I said.”
“Did he tell you who killed Trujillo?”
“Of course not. He doesn’t know anything about it.”
“What about you, Mrs. Collinson? Where were you on Saturday night?”
Nodding to the door her servants had passed through, she said: “I was here with them. We had dinner and I drank too much wine and made them listen to all my problems, like usual.”
“And they’ll confirm that?”
“If you want to humiliate me even more, yes. You can do it now, if you want to. I’ll call them in and we’ll establish that I’m a flake and a bad wife but at least I’m not a murderer.”
“You’re laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”
“That’s the only way I know how to lay it on. Do you want me to call them in or not?”
Nyman rose from his chair and said that it wouldn’t be necessary. “But I meant what I said about the police coming by. You need to think carefully about how you’re going to answer them.”
“Because I’m guilty?”
“No,” Nyman said, turning toward the door, “because you’re protecting someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Chapter 46
He drove south to Pacifica.
The campus was mostly deserted. The only people in sight as he crossed the quad were three or four students lying on the grass in front of the library, books piled beside them. No one joined him in the elevator as he rode up to the School of Public Policy.
The same bearded secretary was at the front desk. Nodding as he walked by, Nyman made his way down the hall to Freed’s office, where he opened the door without knocking and went in.
Freed looked as if he hadn’t slept. His face, no longer gray, was an angry red. The smell of Jack Daniels filled the room and was mixed with a smell of sweat. Half-rising out of his chair, he looked at Nyman with jaundiced eyes.
“Get out.”
Nyman ignored him and sat down. In Freed’s hands was a photo of himself and his wife and children. They were standing on a beach with the water behind them; Freed’s arms were wrapped possessively around the shoulders of his sons.
Nyman said: “I called your house, but no one answered.”
“If you don’t get out of here, I’ll call the campus police.”
“That’s fine with me, professor. They can make sure you behave yourself.”
Freed put the photo aside and laid his hands flat on the desk, as if trying to steady himself. Rather than a jacket and tie, he wore a polo shirt with two red spots on the collar.
“Cut yourself shaving?” Nyman said.
“What?”
“Your collar. There’s blood on it.”
Freed blinked. “Yes, I know. I had a nosebleed.”
“Last night?”
“This morning. When I woke up.”
“Why’d you go to Ethan Kovac’s house last night, professor?”
Freed shook his head. “I’ve never been to Kovac’s house.”
“I saw you there,” Nyman said, “along with Kovac’s director of security. He told me you were acting like a guilty man.”
Freed’s hands, still flat on the desk, were trembling. “Is there anything you won’t stoop to, Nyman?”
“I take it that you and Kovac needed to get your stories straight about the murders?”
Freed said half-heartedly: “It was a fundraising visit. Kovac offered to give money to the university, and I went to see him about it.”
“At two o’clock in the morning?”
“We stayed up late, talking.”
Nyman reached for his notebook. “I think I’ve got the timeline figured out, but maybe you can fill in some gaps. Sometime during the week of June 27th, you submitted an analysis of the Merchant South development to the city council. This was your original report—the scathing one you’d written with Alana Bell.”
Freed said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Later that week,” Nyman went on, “Grace Salas asked you to write a more favorable version. She promised you—either explicitly or implicitly—some sort of financial reward for your trouble.”
Freed said nothing.
“That Friday,” Nyman said, “Salas donated twenty-thousand dollars from her discretionary fund to Meridian Resources, which was founded by your friend, Bridget Collinson. The same day, you left for Vegas, where you got another twenty-thousand in the high-limit room at Kasbah casino, which is owned by Savannah Group. Around the same time, you got the final installment of the bribe from Kovac’s company—also in the form of a donation to Meridian.”
Nyman looked up from the notebook. “Is all this correct?”
> Again Freed said nothing.
“Now what I don’t understand,” Nyman said, “is why you took Alana with you to Vegas. You had to know she’d be angry when she found out about the revised report. And it wouldn’t have been hard for her to connect the blackjack money to Savannah.”
Freed gave the approximation of a smile. “You think you know her that well?”
“Based on what other people have told me, yes.”
“You don’t know anything about her. She was far more complex than anyone gave her credit for—especially her family. She wasn’t immune to money or the things it can buy.”
“You thought you could bribe her?”
“Absolutely not. I thought I could convince her to relax. Make her see that it’s all right to indulge yourself once in a while. She was a brilliant woman, but too rigid—emotionally and intellectually.”
“So she got angry with you.”
“Yes. Very.”
“And when she got back to L.A.,” Nyman said, “she read Richard Voss’s column in Monday’s issue of the Independent, which mentioned Salas’ donation to Meridian.”
For the first time, Freed showed a hint of interest. “Is that how she found out?”
“At least in part.”
“I wondered about that.”
“And that was about the time Kovac sent his director of security to harass her when she wouldn’t cooperate. Eric Trujillo noticed the bruise on her face the next day, and at some point she told him about your connection to Meridian and Salas.”
“Trujillo,” Freed said, “was not just an innocent kid. He was obsessed with her.”
Nyman shrugged. “Maybe he was. Either way, he knew who to blame when she got killed. He went to Salas’ home and office; he made calls to Koda and Savannah Group. And I’m guessing he came to you too, professor. Was it here in this office?”
Freed got up and walked to the window. With his back turned, he looked less impressive than he had five days earlier. The broad shoulders had started to slump forward in the manner of an old man’s.
After a time he said: “I killed them both.”
Nyman’s face showed no change of expression. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you do it?”
Freed didn’t turn around, but his head twitched to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you were in Boston when Alana was killed, and in Santa Barbara when Trujillo’s body was dumped. I’ve already talked to people who saw you in both places.”
Freed sat down again behind his desk. He looked squarely at Nyman, his gaze calm and level. “I paid to have it done.”
“Both times?”
“Yes.”
“Who’d you pay?”
“I don’t know his name. It was a man I’d met at the park. He was homeless and desperate. He said he’d do it for money.”
“How much?”
Freed swallowed. “Two thousand dollars.”
“In cash?”
“Yes.”
Nyman picked up his pen. “Describe him.”
Freed gave a vague description of a man in his thirties, tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed.
Nyman said: “Where’d he kill Trujillo?”
“What do you mean, where?”
“When he stabbed him, where were they? Here in your office?”
“Of course not. It was downtown. On Skid Row.”
“The man didn’t dump the body there later? Out of a red sedan?”
Freed swallowed again and shook his head. “No. It all happened on the street.”
“Have you told your wife about your murders, professor?”
“God no. I could never do that to her.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, why not? You’ve met her. She could never understand why I’d do something like that.”
“She’s too innocent?”
“Yes. Exactly. I know you judge me for the way I’ve treated her, and you’re right. I’ve been terrible to her. At some point you see yourself for who are, Nyman, and I’ve seen myself. I’m a weak man, and I’ve thrown away a perfectly good marriage.”
“With your affairs, you mean, or the murders?”
“The affairs. What else?”
His voice, no longer lifeless, quavered with self-pity.
Nyman looked at him with narrow eyes, then looked at the watch on his wrist. Climbing to his feet, he said in a brisk, businesslike voice:
“There’s a detective at Central Community station. His name’s Timmons. I suggest you go down there, professor, and tell him everything you just told me.”
“What? Now?”
“As soon as possible. And you should take a lawyer with you. Do you have a lawyer?”
Freed stared at him in bewilderment. “No. I mean, I’ve used firms in the past, but never for anything like this.”
“Well, it’s your decision. Good luck.”
Nyman opened the door, started to go out, then paused. “One other thing. The nanny who watches your sons. Is she still on vacation?”
“Marcella? Yes, I think so. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Chapter 47
As the carillon rang the four o’clock hour, Nyman stopped under the shade of a palm to dial Marcella’s number. Getting no answer, he went into the student union, bought a coffee at one of the cafés, came back out into the sunshine, and tried the number again.
This time a woman’s voice, low and guarded, said hello. He told her who he was and asked if they could meet. She said that she was on vacation and too busy for a meeting.
“Where are you?” Nyman said.
“Long Beach.”
“I can come to Long Beach. What’s the address?”
“No, I’m sorry, it’s not possible.”
“Are you frightened of something, Marcella?”
“I’m not frightened.”
“Then there’s no reason not to meet me, is there?”
For a time he heard nothing but her breathing and snatches of what sounded like the mournful tones of a church organ. Then she said that she wasn’t in Long Beach.
“Where are you?”
"At La Concepción," she said, and gave him the address.
It was a church in East L.A. Nyman made the drive in half an hour and left his car on Cesar Chavez Avenue, beside a tortilleria fragrant with the smell of cooking masa.
Palms outstretched, a statue of the Virgin stood above the doors of the church, framed by a stained-glass oculus. Shafts of colored sunlight followed Nyman across the lobby and into the nave, where the pews stood in semi-darkness.
Marcella was in a middle pew: a small woman with a stack of sheet music on her lap. Thick black hair fell to her shoulders, accentuating the narrowness of her face. Aside from the skeletal, gold-painted Christ above the altar, they were alone.
Sitting down beside her, Nyman thanked her for meeting with him. “You’re here for the service tonight?”
She shook her head. “Choir practice. But it doesn’t start for a few minutes.”
“I’ll try to make this quick, then. Have the Freeds told you anything about my investigation?”
They’d told her bits and pieces, she said. “But none of it’s true, you know.”
“None of what’s true?”
“The things you’re thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Freed. No one in that house could hurt anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re good people. You know how they dote on those boys? If every parent was like that, this would be a better world—I can tell you that.”
Nyman said: “I called you once before to ask about last Wednesday. The night Alana Bell was killed.”
She nodded. “I told you the truth then and I’m telling you the truth now.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I need to ask one more thing. Did you drive to the Freeds’ that night?”
The question seemed to take her by surprise. “I always drive.”
&n
bsp; “And you parked in the driveway? Not the garage?”
“Of course. It’s only a two-car garage.”
“And last Saturday night, when Eric Trujillo’s body got dumped on Skid Row: you were at the house then, too?”
She consulted her memory. “The day I watched the boys, you mean? Yes, I was there.”
“Alone?”
“No, the boys were with me the whole time.”
“Apart from the boys, I mean. Did you see the Freeds?”
Footsteps came from the lobby behind them. Other members of the choir were making their way into the nave, carrying hymnals and sheet music.
Marcella gestured for Nyman to get up. “We’ll talk outside.”
He followed her back through the lobby and down the front steps. Across the street, a line of customers angled out the door of the tortilleria and ran halfway down the block.
“Last Saturday,” Nyman said. “Did you see the Freeds that day?”
Nodding, Marcella said that she’d gone to the house in the morning, like usual. “Mr. Freed was packing for Santa Barbara, to go and see the library. I played with the boys in the yard for an hour or two and then Mrs. Freed came out and asked me if I could stay the night.”
“Did she seem upset?”
“Not at all. A little shaky, maybe. I thought maybe she was getting sick. But she said they needed to get away for the weekend and I’d be doing them a big favor.”
“Did you leave the house at any point after that?”
“That day? No, I don’t think so. I have my own little room at the house—clothes and everything. We stayed out in the yard for the rest of the morning, and then I made them lunch. In the afternoon I think I watched T.V. Then in the evenings we always have the same routine. The boys like to play video games.”
“And you parked in the driveway?”
Irritation showed in her narrow face. “I already told you that.”
Nyman asked if her car was somewhere nearby.
“How else would I get here?” She nodded to a red Ford parked along the street. Despite the dents and scrapes on the bumpers, the exterior was immaculately clean.
“Did you wash it recently?”
Marcella, flushing, looked over his shoulder at the pitted concrete face of the Virgin. “It’s not important, is it?”
