“Did she do that a lot?” Jones asked. “Go in to work after hours?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
“How about you?” Eades asked.
“Me?”
“Yeah. You ever go in at night?”
“Sure. Sometimes. Why?”
“What were you doing last night?” Jones asked.
“Lying on my sofa, trying to sleep.”
“Anybody trying with you?”
“No. I was alone.”
“Talk to anyone?”
“You mean like on the telephone?”
Jones nodded. “Or on the computer.”
“I didn’t get on the computer.”
“Who’s this guy Bob kept bringing up?” Eades asked, jumping in. He consulted a small notebook. “Quinton Stiles?”
I told them. Eades made notes while Jones stared impassively at me across the table.
“Who’s the detective on that case?” Jones asked.
“His name is Frank. Frank something…”
“Okay, Frank,” Eades said. “We’ll give him a call.”
“And Meredith Black, in a sort of adjunct capacity.”
“A what capacity?” Jones asked.
“She’s a friend,” I said.
“Whose friend?”
“My friend.”
“What about the victim?”
“My dog?”
“Your secretary.”
“She a friend, too?” asked Eades.
“Whose friend?”
“Your friend.”
“Well, sure. She’s a friend.”
“Close friend?” asked Jones, pressing.
“Pretty close, yes, I’d say so; though from the beginning, we made this rule that we’d keep our personal lives personal.”
They exchanged a glance.
“What?” I asked.
“Whose idea was that?” Eades asked. “Yours or hers?”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“You don’t understand what?” Jones asked.
“What this has to do with Quinton Stiles knifing my Felicia—my secretary.”
“Your Felicia,” Jones said softly.
“I’m a little confused,” I said. My voice had started to shake. “It’s late and I’m a little freaked-out. I’m telling you, the person you need to talk to is Quinton Stiles.”
“We’d love to. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would he want to hurt your secretary?” asked Eades.
“I don’t know that he does. Maybe he was there looking for me and she came in, surprised him, and he panicked. Like with my dog. He breaks in looking for me and finds Archie.”
Jones whistled. “And both times you just happen to be miles away. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Ruzak.”
“Why would he break into your office at eleven o’clock at night if he’s looking for you?” Eades asked.
“Okay, I see that,” I said. “Maybe he was checking the place out and noticed the lights were on … or maybe he was already there, heard her coming up the stairs, ducked into the bathroom…”
“You’re thinking he broke in to wait for you to show the next morning?”
“That could be it, or he was looking for some kind of proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“Of whom I might be working for.”
I told them about Richie Rache and Kein Mitleid. They nodded and listened but didn’t write anything down.
“So this Kein Mitleid, whatever it is, puts this contract out on Quinton. Quinton assumes they’ve hired you to find him, maybe even to do the hit. Quinton sets out to eliminate the threat,” Jones said.
“Something like that,” I said. “Can I go now? I’d really like to check on her.”
“You can go anytime, Mr. Ruzak,” Eades said. “Think it might be possible for you to come back later this morning, say around ten or so? We’re gonna have a few more questions.”
“I’ll do anything to help you guys,” I said.
“That include a polygraph?” Jones was smiling.
“Sure,” I said. “You bet. Anything means anything.”
4:23 a.m.
I crossed over the river on the Henley Street Bridge, and in the gauzy golden glow of the streetlamps, the world was a monochromatic gray: road, river, sky. Upon the bluff on the southern shore was Baptist Hospital, where both my father and mother had died, about ten years apart, my dad quickly, after a massive coronary, my mother not so quickly, after a lengthy bout with cancer. It was an island of light upon the river’s stygian banks.
I called Bob, told him I was on my way, explained the cops had kept me. He didn’t ask why the cops had kept me. Felicia was out of surgery and in the ICU. A cop was waiting with him, ready to take her statement as soon as she came to. Her vitals were good; she was going to make it, but it had been close, the surgeon had told him, very close. If he had waited another fifteen or twenty minutes to check on her, she would have bled to death.
“Meet you in the lobby, west entrance,” he said, and hung up.
He was waiting just inside the doors, wearing blue jeans, sandals, and a T-shirt stained with Felicia’s blood. My sleep-deprived brain sought a pattern in it, and I thought it looked remarkably like India.
“Hey, Ruzak,” he said, taking my elbow. “Let’s go outside a minute.”
We walked to the handicapped parking lot. The rain had stopped, but a fine mist hung in the air; it caressed my cheeks. Beside an old Aerostar van, Bob punched me in the stomach as hard as he could. He was in great shape: He could punch pretty damn hard. I went straight down to my hands and knees on the wet pavement. His feet were about a foot from my face. He had very neatly trimmed toenails.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You did this.”
I couldn’t argue with him, even if I’d wanted to—he’d knocked the breath out of me.
“She told you to back off. Why didn’t you back off? Jesus Christ, Teddy. Jesus Christ!”
He stepped out of the range of my cloudy vision. I heard his sandals scraping against the asphalt, and then he landed a kick into my ribs. We both cried out in pain. He might have jammed a toe.
“You’re one lucky bastard,” he gasped. “You know that? Missed you twice now, and if she had died, I would have killed you. I still might kill you.”
I found enough breath to gasp I was sorry. That only made him madder. He kneed me in the side and I fell over; the back of my head slapped down on the pavement and I saw stars. He loomed over me, but I couldn’t see his face, just a deep shadow where his face should have been.
“It’s done, you understand? She’s out. Time for you to get a new girl Friday. And if you ever come around her or try to contact her in any way whatsoever, I’ll beat the living shit out of you. I’ll make this seem like a game of fucking patty-cake.”
Then he leaned over and spat in my face.
11:19 a.m.
I was back in the same interview room with Jones and Eades when Meredith Black came in carrying a manila envelope in one hand and a three-foot-long printout in the other. She looked at the detectives and said, “Take ten, guys.”
They left. They didn’t look happy about it. It was their case, and they wanted to know why was she sticking her nose in it.
She sat across from me.
“Where is Quinton Stiles?” I asked.
“We’re working on that.”
She tapped the printout with one bloodred manicured fingernail. My polygraph results.
“I flunked it.”
She nodded. “Teddy, I’m not going to dance around this. It indicates deception. This question: ‘Are you responsible for the attack on your secretary?’ And the one or two variations on that theme.”
“Maybe the fault lies in the phrasing,” I said. “There’s a difference between responsibility and guilt. How’d I do with ‘Did you have anything to do with the assault?’ ”
“Deception.”
“The other thing is, I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I’m hyped up on powdered doughnuts and coffee.”
“You want a do-over?”
“I’ll take it twenty times if I have to. Meredith, you know I had nothing to do with this. Felicia is about the only friend I have. Why would I hurt her?”
She didn’t answer. She opened the envelope and pulled out a yellow legal pad encased in a large plastic Baggie. She laid it on the table between us, and though there was some glare on the plastic from the fluorescents, I could still read the opening line: “Felicia there’s something I should tell you.”
I looked from the pad to her face. Our eyes met. I willed myself not to look away. I had the sense she was waiting to see if I would.
“That’s my personal property,” I said.
“Where I’m coming from, it’s called evidence.”
There was something else in the envelope. She turned it upside down and another plastic Baggie tumbled out. It contained something heavy; it clattered onto the table. In the small space, the sound seemed very loud.
A kitchen knife. The blade was stained a light brown, the color of dried blood.
“Do you recognize this knife, Teddy?” she asked softly. “Don’t answer right away. Think about it. A lot of knives look similar. This is a very common brand. Just glancing at it, I might mistake it for one of mine. So think about it. If you don’t want to answer, that’s okay, too. If you want to go now, you can. Or if you want to call someone. You have a right to an attorney.”
“That’s why they left,” I said. “You figured if I’d level with anyone, I’d level with you. You’re using our relationship.”
She didn’t say anything. She looked genuinely concerned. She sat back in the chair but kept her body language open. Her hands fell to her lap.
“It looks like one from my set,” I said. “My mom’s old set, the once that I got after she died. He must have snatched it Friday. Maybe even, I don’t know … maybe when you test it, you’ll find Archie’s blood, too.”
“I’m not trying to use our relationship, Teddy,” she said after a long pause. “You don’t know how hard I had to fight to keep them from arresting you after you failed the test.”
“Because you have it all now. Motive, opportunity, means. And all I have is some cockamamie, convoluted, totally outrageous theory about a psychopathic boogeyman I’ve never even met.”
“In my line of work, that’s called a defense.”
“A better one would be if she’d seen the guy.”
She was nodding. “She’s not up to making a full statement, but she was able to tell us he jumped her from behind. Looks like he was hiding in the bathroom when she came in.”
“She didn’t see him?”
“No.”
“Did you show her that?” I nodded toward my undelivered note.
“No.”
“But you’re going to. Well, you should. Let’s get it all out there; let’s bring everything into the light. Ask her if she thinks I’m capable of such a thing. Ask Felicia what she thinks about your theory.”
“Teddy,” she said. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks.”
2:31 p.m.
I went straight to the knife drawer when I got home. I’d inherited the full set of twelve from Mom. I counted eleven. That night when the cops asked me to check for anything missing, it hadn’t occurred to me to count the silver.
There was a message from Farrell on my machine. I called Wally Michelson first.
“I need a lawyer,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
“Not for the trespassing and deadly threatening. Attempted murder.”
“You tried to kill Quinton?”
“I didn’t try to kill anyone. He tried to kill my secretary.”
“I thought he killed your dog.” So Meredith or Frank had talked to him already, looking for Quinton.
“He did kill my dog.”
“I don’t understand this. Why doesn’t he just kill you?”
“Maybe he’s trying to and can’t catch me at a good time.”
“So why did they arrest you?”
“They haven’t—yet. I flunked a polygraph, I’ve got no alibi, and they think they have motive, and then there’s my knife at the crime scene.”
“Wait a minute. You took a polygraph?”
“They asked.”
“I thought you knew a little something about criminal law. Never take a polygraph.”
“Jesus Christ, Michelson, I couldn’t even pass the PI exam! Are you going to represent me or not?”
He thought about it for a second. “Think I’ll pass.”
“How come?”
“Because I don’t want to be involved in anything that Quinton Stiles might be involved in. I will give you some free advice, though. Stop talking to the cops. No good can come of it.”
Next, I called Farrell.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“How’d you know?” I asked.
“I read the paper every morning before I go to bed.”
“They’ve moved her out of the ICU. That’s about all I know.”
“You haven’t seen her?”
“I can’t.”
“They won’t let you?”
“Bob won’t let me.”
“He thinks you did it?”
“Him and the KPD.”
“Jesus Christ, Ruzak. This shit is getting out of hand.”
“And I thought that ‘road to hell’ thing was just an expression.”
“The funny thing is, I talked to Isabella last night and got her to let it go.”
“Let what go?”
“The incident at her place. She’s dropping the charges.”
“Well, that’s terrific. One less thing.”
“This is all my fault,” he said. “If I hadn’t asked you to find him—”
“It’s not the same,” I said. “There’s a difference between responsibility and guilt. I’m the one who pushed.”
4:26 p.m.
Looking through the peephole, I could see Jones standing in the hallway. With him were a uniformed cop and a crime-scene tech.
“You have a warrant,” I said, opening the door.
Jones reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Mr. Ruzak, I have a warrant to search these premises.” He pressed the paper against my chest and stepped past me into the apartment. The warrant fluttered to the floor. I bent down to pick it up as the uniform stepped forward, coming within an inch of crushing my hand with his big black shoe.
“You can stay if you like,” Jones called over his shoulder. “We’d prefer it.”
“Anything I can do,” I said.
They donned gloves. Jones started in the kitchen, pulling open drawers. I showed him where I kept the knives. The tech bagged one from Mom’s old set. They dismantled my CPU and took the hard drive. They pawed through my desk but didn’t take anything. They asked where the clothes I wore from Friday through Sunday were. I told Jones that Friday’s clothes were at the cleaner’s—they were stiff with dried blood and I thought a professional needed to get involved—but the rest were in the hamper in the bathroom. They went through my dresser. While Jones and the tech went through everything, the uniform hovered near me, like at any minute I might go berserk on them. Paper sacks filled with my stuff filled the entryway. The tech spent the most time in the bathroom, removing the drain traps and running swabs over the faucets. Then he sprayed the apartment down with luminol. They closed the blinds, turned off the lights, and then the tech went around with a handheld black light, looking for blood. Archie’s glowed on the floor. There was a luminescent island the size of a throw rug behind the sofa, and splatter glowed on the back of the sofa and the wall, and a trail of it led from where he fell to the door. The light picked up a partial shoe print in the main puddle. The tech took a picture while Jones held the light. I told Jones that was probably my shoe print and asked to which crime the search warra
nt applied. He ignored me.
The tech discovered a blond hair under one of the sofa cushions, the wrong color and too long to be mine or Archie’s. Jones gave me a look and I said it was probably Felicia’s; of course she’d been in my apartment before. He said I shouldn’t say anything. I thanked him for the legal advice.
In a couple of hours, they were done. The uniform and the tech left first, loaded down with the paper sacks. Jones turned at the door and said they’d be in touch. He understood I was willing to take another polygraph—when was good for me? I told him someone who was a lawyer, but who did not happen to be my lawyer, had counseled me not to take any more polygraphs. Jones smiled, like I had said something mildly humorous.
“How about a gun?” he asked.
“That’s the thing I meant to bring up at the station,” I said. “It’s missing.”
“When did you discover it was missing?” His expression was stony. He didn’t believe me.
“Today, when I got back from the station. I couldn’t remember the last time I had it, and then I remembered I’d left it at home when I went out Friday night. Put it in my nightstand, where I always keep it. Now I can’t find it anywhere.”
“We’ll need the serial number, make, and model,” he said.
I pulled the registration from my wallet and handed it to him. He copied the information onto the back of a form, handed the registration back to me.
Then he left, too. I closed the door, threw the dead bolt, and hooked the night latch.
It was quarter to seven.
TUESDAY
6:45 p.m.
I stood for a second just inside the door of her room. She was sitting up; her eyes were closed. I took a couple of baby steps into the room. The covers had fallen down to her waist, and she looked very thin in her gown; her bare arms looked downright skeletal. Her face looked puffy. She had two black eyes and a big bandage over her nose, probably broken when she hit the floor after he sliced her. Her neck was completely hidden under a layer of bandages, over which was one of those collars whiplash victims wear.
I sank into the lounge chair on the other side of the room. Behind me was a wall-length built-in cabinet, and right above it was a window with a magnificent view of the Tennessee River and downtown Knoxville—World’s Fair Park, Neyland Stadium, the First Tennessee Bank Building. The top of the cabinet was loaded down with flowers and balloons. I picked up the card closest to me and opened it. It was from Tommy. “Get beddar son, Momma!”
The Highly Effective Detective Crosses the Line Page 13
