And Leave Her Lay Dying

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  “Bad news and good news.”

  “Give me the bad news.”

  “Sweet-ass Janet and her husband are talking separation.” He paused, waiting for a reply from McGuire before adding, “Now do you want to hear the good news?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sweet-ass and her husband are talking separation.” Innes roared with laughter.

  “Ralph, I need a favour,” McGuire interrupted.

  “Sure, Joe.” Innes became calm and serious. “I told you, you need anything, you call me.”

  “It’s on the Cornell case.”

  “Wait till I get a pencil here.”

  McGuire explained what he needed: A survey of routine pawnshop reports on all items valued at five hundred dollars or more, specifically any Cartier watches pawned or sold since June, with the name of the seller. An accidental death report for one Henry Reich of Park Drive, died sometime in July. A general records report from the San Antonio Police Department regarding one Suzanne Alice Cornell, died May 31, 1983.

  “Is Cornell her married name?”

  “Maiden. Jesus, Ralph, I’m looking at the file right now. Says she married somebody and they don’t even get his name. Anyway, I need the victim’s bank records too.”

  “How far back?”

  “Whatever you’ve got. A year will do.” He gave Innes the bank and branch from the cheques found in Jennifer Cornell’s purse. “And I need it all tonight,” he added when he had finished.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Innes replied. “But listen, you didn’t get it from me, right?”

  “Why not? This is legitimate business.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Kavander?”

  Innes exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  “He thinks you’re trying to shaft the department, Joe. He’s telling us to notify him about any contacts we have with you. Any at all. And he’s asking everybody if they’ve heard you bad-mouthing him or the commissioner or the commissioner’s dog, anybody. Know what I think? I think he never expected you to work the grey files. Way I see it, he figured you’d tell him to shove it and he could suspend you. Now he thinks you’re just doing it for revenge and planning to talk to the papers about it, I don’t know . . .”

  “Ralph, I’m working on an assigned case. I don’t take files home for doorstops.”

  Innes sighed into the telephone again, his breath making a noise over the line like distant thunder. “Joe, what can I say? Look, I’ll pass this through the channels, put a rush on it, give it a phoney file number. Nobody will ever know.”

  McGuire said he would call later in the day. He lowered the telephone and stared down into the street again as three young men in the grey and maroon colours of B.U. leaped from behind a parked car to pelt two laughing co-eds with snowballs, the sound of their play echoing off the buildings along the street and penetrating the dusty glass of McGuire’s window.

  I’m working the case until they take me off it, he said to himself. Me and Ollie. Nobody else turned up a thing in six months. Now it’s me and Ollie and we’ll work on it until we solve it—or they find a way to stop us.

  Half an hour later, McGuire walked past the mound of snow concealing his car and headed for the Hancock Tower. He found no enjoyment in the fresh whiteness of the season’s first snowfall. Winters were the price of living in New England, and the price seemed to be rising with every passing year.

  Arriving at the Hancock Tower shortly after ten, he rode the elevator to the offices of Raymond D. Robinson, entered and announced himself to the receptionist. He declined her offer of coffee and watched her disappear through a doorway in the elaborately panelled wall facing him. McGuire sat in a leather-and-chrome chair and wondered if law firms could function without walnut panelling. The decor seemed as important to the launching of law careers as textbooks and diplomas.

  “Mr. Robinson will see you now,” the receptionist announced, standing in the doorway. She was young, slim and attractive; as McGuire passed her he breathed deeply, trying to inhale her perfume, and was disappointed when he detected none.

  “Lieutenant McGuire.”

  The voice boomed from a barrel-chested man in his fifties who looked up from where he had been bent over his desk shuffling papers.

  It took several paces for McGuire to cross the thick carpeting and reach the lawyer. Ceiling-high windows on the wall to McGuire’s right revealed a spectacular view stretching northward from the Common to the coast, several miles distant. McGuire shook Robinson’s hand and proffered his identification, which the lawyer glanced at without interest before sitting down.

  “As you probably noticed,” Robinson began, his eyes fixed on the papers in front of him, “I have been retained by the proprietor of Irene’s to handle legal concerns regarding dissolution of the firm.”

  “I’m here on a criminal matter,” McGuire interrupted. “The murder of Jennifer Cornell, who used to work at the store.”

  “Yes, yes, so I understand,” Robinson added. He seemed preoccupied and unaccountably nervous.

  Raymond Robinson was sketched in shades of grey. His silver hair and moustache were immaculately trimmed and he wore a subtly-patterned grey suit over a white shirt and grey paisley tie. Even his glasses were silver-grey, poised on a patrician nose set between two grey eyes that seemed to be evading McGuire’s.

  To McGuire, Robinson was a man who avoided spotlights, preferring to remain in the background of events.

  “As it happens we’re both investigating the same person,” Robinson was saying. He swung the chair to his left, brought a hand to his chin, and stared out the window.

  “Would you mind explaining that in detail?” McGuire asked, opening his notebook.

  “My area is not criminal law, Lieutenant,” Robinson replied, his focus on the scene beyond the window. He scratched his ear, smoothed his eyebrow and adjusted his tie. “But I have clear evidence that Miss Cornell was systematically defrauding my client, Irene Hoffman, over a two-year period prior to her death. These losses had a direct impact on the store’s financial condition and led to its bankruptcy.”

  McGuire nodded as he made notes. “Any idea how much money was involved?”

  “As much as fifty thousand dollars. Not an astounding amount, perhaps, but Irene’s was a small exclusive shop with the usual retail cash-flow problems. Further, my client had recently completed extensive renovations which stretched her financial capacity. When she was unable to pay her suppliers’ invoices, they ceased shipping new merchandise. The store, I might add, had built its reputation on offering the very latest in ladies’ wear. Not being able to offer new merchandise had a negative impact on sales. Soon she was unable to meet her bank loan and things quickly tumbled from there.”

  “When did you discover the fraud?”

  “Officially, when an audit was conducted on . . .” The lawyer swivelled in his chair to examine his notes. “August twenty-eighth of this year. Unofficially, there were deep suspicions daring back to June.”

  “When in June?”

  Robinson’s eyes fastened on McGuire for the first time. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When did your client, Irene Hoffman, discover that Jennifer Cornell was robbing her blind? And where is your client now?”

  “I’m not sure that’s relevant—” the lawyer began, his eyes skipping from McGuire to his window.

  “I’ll decide what’s relevant.” McGuire bit off each word. For years he had harboured a casual distaste for lawyers. Now it was developing into a finely-focused hatred. “Was it early in June? Late? Middle of the month?”

  Robinson’s eyes dropped to his desk and he began shuffling his papers again, moving them delicately with the rips of his well-manicured fingers. “I would say it was early in June, but I can’t be more specific than that.”

  “Wh
ich would make your client a suspect in this homicide investigation,” McGuire said. “Discovering a major theft by the victim, especially one which resulted in the failure of your client’s business, would constitute a motive for murder in the eyes of a grand jury. So where is she?”

  “I must respect my client’s confidentiality,” Robinson replied. He began sliding the sheets of paper on his desk into a file folder.

  “Until I obtain a subpoena,” McGuire said. “You try to hide her after getting one of those and you’ll be facing a charge—”

  “Lieutenant McGuire,” the lawyer began.

  “—of obstructing justice.” McGuire stood up, his hands in his pockets. “You got anything else to add?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” Robinson said, rising from his chair. “Please understand, Lieutenant, that what I am about to do has no bearing whatsoever on my legal obligations either to my client or to the community at large. Nor does it constitute any obstruction of justice in the opinion of my colleagues.”

  McGuire remained standing, puzzled. When lawyers begin talking like textbooks, he reminded himself, it’s time to duck, because they’ll probably be throwing one at you.

  Robinson walked to a doorway concealed in the panelled wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows. He opened the door slightly and stepped aside as McGuire approached. “It has been a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant,” he said with excess formality. “I expect we may have occasion to meet again.”

  McGuire refused the lawyer’s outstretched hand, returning Robinson’s bland expression with a glare as he pushed through the open door into what he thought would be an outer hall. Instead, he saw three men sitting at a conference table, watching him with interest. He cursed and began to turn back but the door closed behind him, the lock sliding into place with a precise metallic click.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marv Rosen leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. Two men sat flanking him. All three watched McGuire from across a long rosewood table inlaid with an ornate geometric pattern.

  “Hello, McGuire,” Rosen said with his singsong delivery. “Sorry about the surprise, but there was no time to have invitations printed.”

  McGuire glanced from the lawyer to the other two men. One was Rosen’s young assistant, who stared at McGuire with a bored expression while pulling at errant hairs in his enormous moustache.

  “You already know Ivor here,” Rosen said. “He was a witness to our courtroom drama.” The assistant allowed himself a small smile, his fingers still worrying his moustache. “This other gentleman is Mr. Lorne Marshall, who has been retained by me.” Marshall, on Rosen’s left, looked blankly at McGuire through thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Marshall is a private surveillance officer,” Rosen added.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Rosen,” McGuire spat. He turned to grasp the knob of the door behind him. It resisted his attempt to twist it open.

  “My friend Raymond likes his privacy,” Rosen smiled. “Actually, he’s a little embarrassed at all of this, but he owed me a favour. Professional courtesy. One of my contacts told me you were working on a case involving a client of Raymond’s. Knowing your complete thoroughness and utter dedication to detail, I suspected you would contact him eventually and when you did—” He shrugged. “There’s a door behind us here which exits directly to the outside corridor, so you can leave any time you wish. See? No coercion at all.”

  “I don’t talk to scum,” McGuire said quietly, “unless I’m arresting them.”

  Rosen waved away the insult, still smiling. “Please, McGuire, pay attention, will you? I’m not asking you to talk to me at all. I’m just asking you to listen for a few moments. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Listening? Don’t forget, you can leave any time at all.” He angled his head in the direction of the door behind him. “Just walk out and be on your way. Or you can invest maybe two minutes in hearing what I and my colleagues have to say.” He held out a hand, indicating a chair across the table from him. “Won’t you sit down? There’s coffee in the carafe on the side table over there.”

  McGuire folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Go ahead and talk, Rosen,” he said.

  Rosen shrugged, widened his eyes and rolled them at his assistant. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.” He turned to the balding, dark-skinned man on his left. “Lorne? You want to read your report?”

  Marshall cleared his throat, passed one hand across his mouth and lifted a sheet of paper from the desk. He began speaking in a scratchy, nasal voice with a distinctive cockney accent. Not a voice McGuire would want to hear on a regular basis. Not a voice he wanted to hear now.

  “On November twenty-second, the subject departed Hutch’s Bar and Grill, having consumed two bottles of beer in the presence of what appeared to be a contingent of fellow law enforcement officers. He drove directly to his residence, arriving at approximately eight thirty-five p.m., where he was joined by a woman subsequently identified as Homicide Detective Janet Parsons at eight forty-three p.m.”

  McGuire closed his eyes briefly before fixing them on Marshall again.

  “Mrs. Parsons, who at the time was residing with her husband on Bartlett Crescent in Brookline, was observed leaving the premises at ten-fifteen p.m. On the following evening, Wednesday, November twenty-third—”

  “Shove it, Marshall.” McGuire had heard enough.

  Marshall turned to Rosen, who nodded. The lawyer placed his elbows on the table and his hands under his chin. He studied McGuire in silence before speaking. “You know the procedure, McGuire. Incidentally, we have photographs. Taken from the apartment of one of your neighbours. Or, I should say, several of your neighbours. A group of students sharing some rooms directly across Commonwealth Avenue from you. Infrared prints through your bedroom window. Very revealing. We didn’t show them to Max Parsons—who, by the way, is a very broken man. But we did pass along your telephone number and suggested he call it the next time his wife said she’d be late arriving home from work. Sloppy stuff, McGuire. Should be more aware of surveillance techniques these days. Oh, and we also have some transcripts of telephone conversations. Which,” Rosen added quickly as McGuire began to speak, “are not admissible in a court of law, but that’s beside the point.”

  “You tapped my telephone?” McGuire said in a low, threatening voice.

  “Not physically, McGuire,” Rosen smiled. “You know very well that’s not necessary any more. Just the usual radio pickup from a van on the street. Besides, I can have the transcripts destroyed and both of my colleagues here will swear I made no reference to the matter. In fact, as Raymond Robinson will attest if necessary, you stumbled into our meeting here in this room while exiting his office after a routine interrogation.” He smiled and blinked several times. “Like I said, McGuire, the door is open any time you want to leave.”

  McGuire breathed deeply, forcing himself to stay calm. “What do you want?” he asked, speaking each word distinctly.

  “Obviously, your resignation,” Rosen replied. “There are a few local scandal-sheet reporters who would be very excited about your activities over the past few days. They could spin it into a series: ‘Affairs between members of Boston’s elite detective unit breaking up marriages.’ ‘Award-winning cop has love nest on fringe of Back Bay area.’ So it’s very simple and very persuasive, McGuire. You simply throw in the towel and I drop all charges against you, the department and the city of Boston. And don’t kid yourself, McGuire. There’s more than one heavyweight cop downtown who would be pleased to hear that you’re leaving and taking my lawsuits with you. Jack Kavander and some others will be happy. I’ll be happy. And even you’ll be happy, McGuire. Because I’ll destroy all my material. I won’t send it to Max Parsons. And I won’t send it to the media either.” He extended his hands, palms up. “It’s what you call a win-win situation, right?”

  “It’s what
I call extortion.” McGuire took a step towards the table. In reflex, the other three men simultaneously leaned away from him. “If I resign from the force—”

  “Nobody has to know why,” Rosen interrupted, his infuriating smile growing wider. “Just a quiet walk away from duty, that’s all it is.”

  “And Arthur Wilmer? What the hell does his retrial turn into? The jury will know that you and I are already responsible for one mistrial. And you’d be sure to ask me on the stand about my resigning from the force. No jury in the world would buy my testimony completely. You know it, I know it, Don Higgins knows it. In fact, Higgins probably wouldn’t even waste the taxpayers’ money on another trial. And you would have another acquittal on your slimy record.”

  “My client is innocent—” Rosen protested.

  “Your client is an animal that should be shot and pissed on!” McGuire shouted. He lowered his voice and rested his hands on the table, leaning even closer to the three men who sat frozen by the glare in his eyes. “And I’ll risk everything I have,” McGuire hissed, “to see that he is caged for the rest of his miserable life!” He straightened up and began walking quickly towards the far end of the table.

  Rosen pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. “McGuire, you are the agent of your own misfortune.”

  Rounding the end of the table, McGuire seized the metal coffee carafe from the sideboard and, in the same motion he would have used to toss a sidearm curveball, flung it through the air in the direction of the three men, who ducked to avoid its path. The carafe struck the polished surface of the table in front of them and careened away to collide with an elaborately framed Victorian-era print on the wall at the other end of the room. The impact knocked the picture and its heavy, ornate frame to the floor with a clatter of splintered wood and shattered glass.

  The three men leaped to their feet, dripping coffee. “Jesus Christ!” Rosen’s assistant muttered while Rosen quietly withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and brushed at the coffee on his suit jacket.