“Nobody?” Ben asked him now. “You have a financial consulting business and a real estate license. It’s been days. You haven’t seen anybody?”
“Everything is run out of the house,” Rod said, settling back into a comfortable-looking easy chair in his small, neat, sterile living room. “I haven’t had to show a house to anybody for a week or so, and the rest of my work is on the computer or the phone. Since my divorce, I’ve gone weeks without seeing another human being sometimes.”
I reminded myself not to get divorced unless it was absolutely necessary. I’d have to actually start dating again to get that process rolling, but it was worth noting.
“You lied to Duffy and me about knowing Louise, and you never mentioned you were on the bowling team,” I told Rod. I was getting kind of sick of Rod. “Why should we believe you now?”
Rod looked away, suddenly finding a very bland painting on his wall fascinating. Either he was lying—again—or he was embarrassed. “I had a thing with Lou, right before I got married, and I didn’t want to talk about it,” he said. “I didn’t think the bowling team was important. Why bring it up if it had nothing to do with Damien? He was the one you were asking about.”
Ben shook his head, realizing he was not discussing the subject he wanted to cover. Previous recriminations were not relevant to him. “Okay, so Duffy hasn’t been here. If I were you, I’d expect him to knock on the door sometime today, possibly very soon. Make sure he knows he should call me or Rachel as soon as he shows up, okay?”
Rod made an indifferent face and shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Do you have any idea how to get in touch with Barry Spader?” I asked. Might as well cover the ground we had left. Unless Duffy solved the whole plot by sunset—which was hardly out of the question—we’d probably be spending another night in Poughkeepsie, and I was mentally counting the pairs of underwear I’d packed. I could make it through today and tomorrow, and then things would get interesting, or I’d get shopping in a hurry. The hotel probably had a laundry room. So, shopping.
“Barry? From Rapscallion’s?” Rod actually perked up at the mention of the name. It was the most interested I’d seen him. Of course I knew the guy less well than I know Phil, the man who reads my gas meter once a month, but I thought the change in mood was significant.
“And from your bowling team,” I reminded him. Again.
“That’s the one,” Ben said. “Any idea where we can find him?”
Ben was in full cop mode now and had a little growl to his voice I had not heard before that was actually kind of interesting. I’m so easy.
“Okay, fine. I knew the guy. I wasn’t an especially close friend of his or anything,” Rod said, but his face was still sort of lit up. “I heard about him from Damien and saw him once in a while. But I know when the club closed up, he decided he’d had enough of cold winters and took off for someplace warm. New Orleans, I think.” Yet another in a series of destinations we’d heard for Barry. Paula had not yet found him in West Virginia, Phoenix, Peoria, or California, but New Orleans could be fun this time of year. Or any other time of year.
“Are you in touch with him?” Ben asked. “Phone number, e-mail address, anything like that?”
Rod leaned forward in the chair and probably didn’t even realize he’d done so. “Why? Do you think he had something to do with Damien disappearing?”
Wow. Rod was at least one murder behind. “Rod, the police had discovered that a murder victim they couldn’t identify five years ago is actually Michelle Testaverde,” I told him. I saw Ben watch closely for the reaction.
Rod laughed.
“You’re kidding!” he barked. “Really? Michelle got killed?” I’d seen ten-year-olds with better senses of propriety. “Who did it?”
“We don’t know,” I told him. “We thought Barry might be able to answer some questions for us. You obviously didn’t know anything about Michelle’s murder.”
Ben frowned, but Rod’s face was still incredulous and amused. “No!” Rod said. “That really caught me off guard. Wow. You must really think I’m awful. It’s just, you know how there are certain people that you know are headed for something, but you don’t know exactly what? And then when you hear something like that, it just doesn’t surprise you very much. How’d she get killed?”
I looked at Ben to see if that was classified information and let him answer. “She was shot in the back of the head,” he said. “Now, about Barry Spader’s contact information . . .”
Rod got up and walked to a small desk in a corner of the room where a laptop computer was sitting. He opened it and began typing. “I’ll see if I have anything,” he said. “I keep records. You never know if someone’s going to want to move back home and buy a house or something.” It’s all about contacts.
He clicked and keyed for a while and then looked up. “Aha!” he said. No doubt Sir Isaac Newton was not as eloquent when the apple (or plum) fell on his head (or nearby—accounts differ). “Here he is. Barry Spader. I was wrong; he didn’t go to New Orleans. He’s in Arlington, Virginia.” I get those two mixed up all the time, too.
“Four-hour drive,” Ben muttered to himself, although he was calculating from New Jersey, not Poughkeepsie. From here it would probably take about six hours to get to Arlington. “Can you send the information to Rachel’s phone?” Great. So now Rod would have my cell phone number. Oh, wait. I gave it to him the last time I was here. Never mind.
“Sure,” Rod said and did the requisite moves with his mouse and his keyboard. “Now what can you tell me about Michelle getting shot?”
“What can we tell you?” I was not in my most tactful of moods. “We thought you would be able to tell us something. Why would anybody want Michelle dead?”
He walked back to the easy chair and sat down slowly, letting himself relax into the cushions. Rod, for reasons I wouldn’t dare to question, seemed to be enjoying this inquiry.
“Well, I can’t say I was in the inner circle, but there were rumors going around at the time.” He couldn’t adequately hide the grin that wanted to break out on his face. Honestly, I’ve had conversations with fourth graders that were more nuanced.
“What kind of rumors?” Ben asked.
“I don’t like to gossip,” Rod answered him.
Ben had clearly had enough. “Yes, you do,” he told Rod. “You like nothing better than to gossip. And we’re very happy to hear it, but let’s give up on the fiction that you actually don’t want to dish the dirt here. Rachel and I are on very short time, and we don’t have the luxury of being able to wait for you to play coy with us for hours. So please just tell us what you know, and we will acknowledge that you didn’t gossip but were very helpful in an ongoing investigation. How’s that?”
It clearly wasn’t what Rod had expected, and he was choosing from a smorgasbord of reactions but didn’t know which would be most effective. He went for submissive, which was a relief to us all. His shoulders slumped in the chair, and he hung his head a little.
“Like I said, I wasn’t the closest with that whole bunch, at least not after I got married,” he began. “But I do know that she was not exactly the most faithful of wives, and Damien knew it.”
So if we were to believe what Louise Refsnyder had told Duffy and me—and I saw no reason we should—both partners in the marriage were cheating on each other. My first thought was that it must have been exhausting. “Who was she seeing?” I asked. Somehow I knew it would be someone we had already met.
“From what I hear, half the young male population of Dutchess County,” Rod said, gaining back some of his bravado (but not much). “I heard there were at least three guys.”
“Under normal circumstances, the husband would be the first suspect in her death,” Ben suggested, perhaps to himself. “But Damien Mosley was already missing when Michelle was killed.” Then he looked at me. “Right?”
“Actually, we never really got a specific date when Damien left,” I said. “There was never a police
report filed. Michelle had supposedly already left for West New York and wasn’t around to file one. Nobody else lived with Damien, as far as we know.”
“I don’t remember,” Rod said, as if someone had asked him. “I mean, I never knew Michelle had been shot. I remember everybody saying she had moved into Damien’s place in Jersey that summer.” When people from anywhere else say Jersey like that, it drives us natives up the wall. Do we ever say you’re from York?
(We get to say Jersey whenever we want, though, because we live in it.)
“There’s one person who can tell us if it’s possible that Damien was the one who killed his wife,” I said, reaching for my phone.
Ben’s forehead wrinkled. “Who?”
“Duffy Madison.”
* * *
It took almost no effort to get Duffy to come out of hiding, which in his case turned out to be at Oakwood, the bar that had evolved from Rapscallion’s. I texted him and told him to stay where he was once he admitted being there.
All I’d had to do to roust him was to say that Ben and I had new information on Michelle Testaverde’s murder and that it might connect to Damien Mosley’s disappearance. Duffy, investigative maniac that he is, couldn’t resist. We thanked Rod for all he believed he had done for us, and I drove the two of us to the address my GPS found for Oakwood.
It was exactly what you’d expect from the name: an oak-paneled restaurant and bar catering less to hipsters—there was no irony on the walls here—and more to the hipsters’ parents. I’m not nearly old enough to have parented someone with a man bun and ironic facial hair, but I still appreciated the calm, welcoming atmosphere at Oakwood.
Turned out the atmosphere was welcoming as long as you’d brought your American Express card with you, because the prices here were not exactly attuned to the budget of the average (or, some say, above average) crime fiction writer. Luckily, I was with two chivalrous men, at least one of whom believed I had created him. They owed me.
Ben and I found Duffy at the bar, which I would not have expected. He doesn’t drink alcohol very often and almost never in public. But when we entered the place, there was Duffy on a barstool, deep in conversation with a man in a blue pinstripe suit who apparently hadn’t heard the eighties were over. The man was knocking back a double Chivas as we approached and already signaling the bartender, a comely brunette no doubt working her way through Vassar or the Culinary Institute of America (CIA) in nearby Hyde Park, for another.
Duffy waved us over. “Ben! Rachel!” People always do that because apparently they think you don’t know your own name. “Come meet Mr. Polanski.”
Ben and I managed not to give each other incredulous looks as we approached. It also became clear, the nearer we got, that Duffy had a glass of ginger ale in front of him, while Mr. Polanski—whoever he was—was already working on his new scotch. Duffy was smiling oddly, like a person who really doesn’t want to get his picture taken but is forced by his family to say cheese. This was Duffy pretending with all his might to be ingratiating.
“Mr. Polanski has been telling me a very interesting story,” Duffy said after introductions had been made. Mr. Polanski’s first name appeared to be “Mr.”
I had to figure this had something to do with Michelle Testaverde’s murder, but the idea that Duffy had just wandered into a bar and found a witness was, to say the least, unlikely.
“What kind of story?” Ben asked. Ben knows how to deliver a straight line when necessary.
“Mr. Polanski”—who still had not spoken other than to say hello—“is the owner of this establishment,” Duffy said. “He bought the building and the liquor license from Barry Spader, then did extensive renovations on the facility and the business plan.”
“It used to be a strip club,” Mr. Polanski said, more proudly than you might expect and with a definite slurring of his s. “I made it a classy restaurant.” I was willing to take him at his word, but it reminded me that we hadn’t actually eaten since the free breakfast at the hotel, which seemed like quite some time ago. Maybe Duffy could talk his new friend into giving us a discount.
“Yes, it’s very nice,” Ben said, reinforcing the subject’s point of view in order to provoke more conversation. I had looked up certain interrogation techniques for the second Duffy book, Little Boy Lost, available at your local bookstore, if you’re lucky enough to have one, and online. “So why was Barry selling his business?” Because let’s face it, we weren’t the least bit interested in Mr. Polanski, and we were interested in Barry Spader, who might very well have shot Michelle or Damien or both and then fled to Arlington, Virginia, which I’m assuming has an extradition treaty with the United States.
“He wanted to leave town,” Polanski said. “Said he’d had enough of the cold and the snow.” To each his own. I’m not a huge fan of winter, but Poughkeepsie isn’t the arctic. I’d miss the change of seasons if I moved to, say, San Diego. Not that I wouldn’t like to test this theory, but perhaps my mind was straying just a bit.
“The interesting part,” Duffy said, “was the price of the transaction. Don’t you think so, Mr. Polanski?”
Clearly, Duffy was leading his new buddy into a certain piece of information he’d mentioned before, perhaps even while still sober (if Duffy had gotten here early enough for that).
Polanski finished his drink and signaled for another. Not surprisingly, the bartender knew her boss and placed it in front of him immediately even as she took the empty glass away. This, and she wouldn’t even get a tip, except maybe from Duffy.
“Damn right.” Polanski’s speech was definitely becoming a problem for him now, and it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for those of us trying to understand what he was trying to say. “I stole this place from old Barry.” He took a significant swig of his current drink, and I saw the bartender move the bottle of Chivas closer to where she was working so she could be ready when he needed another. That wouldn’t be long. “Took him for all he was worth. And I wasn’t even trying to do that.”
Duffy, who had not so much as touched the glass in front of him since we’d entered, patted Polanski on the shoulder in what I’m sure he thought was the appropriate gesture of support. Polanski was too drunk to decide if it was appropriate or not and didn’t seem to notice Duffy’s hand at all.
“No one thinks you cheated Mr. Spader,” Duffy said. “But he really did sell the business to you at a major discount, didn’t he?”
Polanski now seemed to remember that he was an important businessman, at least the most important within earshot. He stood up straighter and gestured toward Duffy with his right hand, which was holding the drink. A little of the scotch dribbled onto the bar, but Polanski didn’t seem to notice. “You’re damn right,” he reiterated. “A business like this, with a liquor license and a kitchen, should have gone for three times what I paid.”
Ben’s mouth twitched; something had clicked in his mind. He looked at Duffy. “So Barry might have been more desperate to get out of town than he let on,” he said.
Duffy’s smile became more genuine and broader. “Exactly.”
“Sure,” Polanski agreed, swaying just a touch. “You don’t give up that kind of money just because you hate the snow.”
I hadn’t said, well, anything up until now because I didn’t know what the point of the conversation might be until this moment. “But Barry left years after Michelle Testaverde supposedly left to live in the West New York apartment with her husband. Why was he in such a hurry all of a sudden?”
Ben and Duffy must have suddenly realized I was still in the room because they both turned toward me with identical expressions of mild surprise. They both nodded. Polanski just looked mystified.
“Who are you again?” he asked me. “And who is Michelle Testamonte?”
We all ignored him, and Duffy’s mouth flattened out a little. “There is a theory,” he said. “Suppose Barry Spader was involved with the murders but wasn’t the person who pulled the trigger. He knows what happened but c
an’t tell anyone about it because he has some implication. It is possible that living here and working in this building with all its memories of the people who were gone built up inside him. He couldn’t abide with all the thoughts, so he decided to get out. That could be why the price was irrelevant. He just needed to leave.”
“That’s not a theory,” Ben said. “That’s a guess.”
Duffy smiled. “Tomato, tomahto,” he said.
“I need food,” I announced to no one in particular. “Should we go somewhere else? This place looks a little pricey.” It was a calculated gamble.
And it paid off. “You’re not going anywhere!” Polanski shouted. “Lunch is on the house!” He gestured to the room in general, and a hostess who was possibly even more attractive than the bartender—I was sensing a pattern—appeared at his side and ushered us, minus the pickled restaurateur, to a table.
Once drink and appetizer orders (hey, it was on the house) were taken, I asked Duffy, “What happened when you tried to contact Barry Spader?” It followed that once he knew there was such a person, Duffy certainly would have followed up on the lead.
“I left two messages on his voice mail but hadn’t heard back until just before I came here,” he answered.
“Yeah, about that whole running out on us in the hotel thing . . .” Ben began.
Duffy looked up at him, all innocence. “Yes?”
There was a medium-sized pause. “Forget it.” Ben waved a hand. He had nice hands, I noticed.
“So you heard from Barry when you were fleeing us and making your way to the site of the former Rapscallion’s?” I said. I can get the conversation back on topic when I want to.
“Yes. He called and sounded somewhat bewildered, like he couldn’t understand why someone would ask him about something as obscure as the murder of a person he knew.” Duffy shook his head in astonishment. “Almost as if I were being rude to interrupt his day.”
I looked at Ben. “Imagine,” I said.
Duffy did not respond to that, but as is his habit, he plowed on through. “I finally managed to engage him in conversation about Michelle Testaverde, and he said she had been, and I’m quoting, ‘a singular soul filled with love and joy.’ The fact that she married Damien Mosley had apparently come as some surprise, as Damien was known as something of a darker personality, a little more brooding and pessimistic.”
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