“Oh?”
We’d arrived at our turnoff; three more blocks and I’d be home. Ahead, two young girls in a seven-thousand-dollar Porsche were waving wildly to friends on the sidewalk.
“What about the uncle, James Fisher?” I asked. “Did David ever mention him?”
“Yes, he did.” Apprehension was plain in her voice.
“What’d he say about him?”
She drew a deep breath, then said, “About a month ago I happened to see David after school. He’s very good at drawing and stays after school for the art club twice a week. He told me that his uncle had just come to live with them. He was elated about it—quietly elated. I had the feeling that”—she paused briefly—“that his uncle means a great deal to him.”
I turned into the last block, searching for a parking place. “What kind of a kid is David?” I asked casually. “Is he honest, would you say?”
“Yes,” she answered readily, “I would say. I’d also say that he’s intelligent, sensitive, and very easily hurt—probably because he’s been hurt so often. He’s one of those kids that other children love to torment, simply because he doesn’t defend himself.”
“Thus his stray-puppydog appeal.” As I said it, I was sorry, realizing I was far from expressing the balanced detachment I’d hoped to project.
In the next block I saw a parking space. I laboriously wedged my car into the spot, bumper-thumping too loudly, front and back. Only after I’d switched off the engine did I realize that she hadn’t spoken.
She was looking out into the night, as if we were still driving and she were watching the road. Her voice was very low as she said, “Until right now I never realized how—how difficult it must be to be a policeman. You’ve always got to be on guard against your—your finer feelings.”
“You’re right,” I said. “That’s all I can say—you’re right. But if you’re really saying that cops don’t have finer feelings, then you’re wrong.”
I felt her turn toward me. “Frank, I didn’t mean…”
“Eight hours a day—and sometimes a lot longer—I spend my time with either the victims of violent crime or the criminals responsible. If I wasted my energy on either sympathy or rage, I’d never get the job done.” I said it in a flat, impersonal voice—my interrogation-room voice. I’d meant for it to sound different.
“God,” she said softly, “it must be hard.”
“It is hard. But there’s a satisfaction in it—just like there is in any job, if you’re good at it.”
I felt her hand on my arm. It was a light, delicate touch, hardly a caress. Yet somehow, at that moment, it was more than a caress.
“Come on,” she whispered, “let’s go in. You promised me some Hennessey.”
“What time is it?” she whispered.
I glanced across her at the bedside clock. “Two-thirty. I wish you could stay.”
“But I can’t. Would you like to come to dinner Thursday night?”
“If I can manage it, yes.”
“Considering that I first met you while you were menacing my firstborn, the boys are very fond of you—in a gruff, manly way. Not to mention me.”
“But not gruffly.”
“No, not gruffly.”
“Good.”
A moment of silence. Then: “I’m sorry for what I said about your finer feelings, Frank. It—it didn’t turn out the way I meant it. I was trying to—to pay you a compliment.”
“I know. Don’t worry about it. Please.”
“You are a very warm person. Really. The first time I met you—the very first time—I had the feeling that you cared about what happened to Dan, even though at the time I know it looked as if he—” She didn’t finish it.
Moving closer to her, drawing my hand in a slow caress down the curve of her back, finding the full, exciting swell of her flank, I whispered into the hollow of her throat, making a mock-serious declaration: “It was you that I cared about, if you want the truth. From the first moment I saw you standing on your porch and frowning at me, I realized that we were meant for each other.”
In response, she sighed softly. I could picture the wistful shadow of a very private regret in her eyes; I could feel the silky muscles of her back shift almost imperceptibly. She was drawing herself together, unconsciously moving away.
“What a shame,” she whispered, “that we have to say it flippantly when we talk about each other. We…”
I touched her small nose firmly with my forefinger, silencing her. “No introspection. Not in bed. Pillow talk, okay. Even giggling is okay. But not introspection.”
I could feel her relaxing; I knew that she was smiling mischievously. Extricating her arm, she pressed my nose painfully with her forefinger. “I’ve got to go home,” she whispered. “Dan will be calling the cops.”
Eleven
“I THOUGHT YOU’D SCHEDULED a meeting for ten,” Friedman said, exhaling gratefully as he sank heavily into my visitor’s chair.
“It’s only ten minutes to ten.”
“Really?” He frowned down at his watch. “Ever since that last hot pursuit, when I actually had to grapple with the suspect, this thing hasn’t been worth a damn. And it’s a good watch, too.”
“How often do you have it cleaned?”
“Hmm?”
“You should have them cleaned and oiled every two years. There isn’t a lubricant made that lasts more than two years.”
“About fifteen years ago,” he announced, “I had a watch cleaned. I paid twenty-one dollars for the watch and thirteen fifty to have it cleaned. That’s the last time I ever had a watch cleaned. It’s simple economics.”
“Then you’d better start shopping for a new watch.”
Grunting as he settled himself in the chair like a burrowing bear, he said, “Anything new?”
I outlined the Fisher interrogation, without mentioning Ann’s involvement.
“It sounds,” Friedman observed, “like this Fisher’s a live one. Did you find out who phoned in the tip?”
“No. But I didn’t try. Is there anything on Lester Farley?”
“I just read Culligan’s report. It seems that around eleven P.M. Farley left his place and started off for about a seven-mile stroll, some of it through the park. Culligan, I expect, will apply for disability.”
“Did Farley do anything but walk?”
“No, nothing. Still, a forty-one-year-old mamma’s boy who used to torch cats bears watching.”
“Anybody else turn up anything? Any more leads?”
“Yes. Mr. Papadopolous was waiting for me when I arrived this morning. Mr. Papadopolous, in spite of his broken speech and his distaste for American ways, is beginning to get interested in the Towers case. Or maybe he just likes me. Anyhow, after about twenty minutes of conversation it developed that in the wee small hours Mr. Papadopolous was smitten by something he forgot to tell me yesterday. He…”
A knock sounded. Canelli and Markham entered, both with manila folders under their arms. When they’d settled themselves, Friedman and I took five minutes to fill them in on the information we’d already exchanged. Friedman described Mr. Papadopolous’ visit, finishing with the statement that Mr. Papadopolous had remembered a “dark, suspicious-looking man of middle age sitting near the murder scene in a white car.” After some time spent with the car file, Mr. Papadopolous had identified the car as “probably a new Ford.” However, Friedman was skeptical of Mr. Papadopolous’ expertise concerning American automobiles.
“What about the Fishers?” I asked Canelli.
“They’re coming down here in about an hour, Lieutenant. No sweat.”
“The boy, too?”
“Yessir.”
“How’d they take it when you told them to come down?”
“Well, the woman seemed real upset—wild-eyed in kind of a quiet way, twisting her hands and swallowing a lot, and everything. She looked like she was either going to bust out crying or else cuss me out. And the husband, he was glaring around like he wa
s a—an enraged bull, or something, that couldn’t make up his mind what target to go after. So he just kind of glared at me.”
Listening, Friedman had been slowly shaking his head. “You do have a lyric gift, Canelli. No question about it.”
“What about the boy?” I interposed. “David. Did you talk to him?”
“No, sir. He was upstairs. Talking with the uncle, I guess.”
Nodding, I absently riffled through the pages of my notebook, as if I were searching for notes on a new topic. But actually my mind had slipped back to the strange, silent tableau of the boy and the uncle as I’d first seen them seated at the linoleum-topped table, staring at me, their expressions so curiously identical.
Friedman’s voice broke into my thoughts. “What about that Miller kid, Frank? Kent Miller. Shouldn’t we get him down here and find out whether he met the girl in the park? If he did meet her just before the murder, and if he originally denied it, we’ve got our first real contradiction of testimony.”
Looking up from the notebook, I nodded. It was a point I should have made. I turned to Markham.
“Why don’t you pick up Kent Miller at Alta High and bring him down here, Jerry? Check with his parents first. If they aren’t available, con him into coming—don’t force him. And while you’re at Alta, see what you can get from the girl’s counselor and friends. Ask about money. I keep thinking that she could’ve been dealing.”
Markham rubbed his chin, watching me with cold, remote eyes. I knew that expression. He was thinking that so far I’d assigned him only the dull, routine tasks that didn’t require the talents of an acting sergeant.
He was right. To myself, I could admit it.
I turned to Canelli. “While you’re waiting for the Fishers, why don’t you call up the girl’s stepfather, Randall Grant, and ask him if he can come downtown? Ask him what kind of a car he has, since he fits Mr. Papadopolous’ description. Then do the same for Walter Cross. He’s dark and middle-aged—and pretty weird. I’d like to see what he turns into when he’s exposed to the sunlight. And I’d like to see how Grant acts, away from his wife. In some ways, his reaction is the strangest of all.”
The two inspectors nodded, gathered up their folders, and left the office. Friedman sighed, settled back and lit a cigar. “Well,” he said amiably, “this case seems to be going in at least three different directions—at approximately equal rates of speed.”
“I said the same thing myself last night.”
“We’ve got Peter Fisher,” Friedman said, raising a pudgy forefinger, “who looks to be about as hot as a prospect can get, except for the alibi of a ten-year-old playmate. We’ve got Lester Farley”—he raised another finger—“who’s a good suspect-type and doesn’t even have a kid for an alibi. Then we’ve got Kent Miller, who’s my personal nominee.” A third finger joined the other two.
“Why do you say that?”
“When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, Lieutenant, you’ll discover that the suspect who gets caught lying is the suspect who’ll eventually earn you a promotion—providing he can’t think faster than you can.”
“How about a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“Then there’s Randall Grant and even Walter Cross,” he continued, ignoring my invitation, pausing only to puff on the cigar, “promoted to prominence by Mr. Papadopolous. It’s my personal opinion that if it isn’t James Fisher, and if for some reason it’s not Kent Miller, then it’ll probably turn out to be Randall Grant. It’ll probably turn out that—”
“Listen, why don’t we talk about it over a cup of—”
“—that Grant was screwing the victim while her mother was out at a double feature, or somewhere. That kind of thing happens all the—”
“I’m going. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Bring me a cup, will you? And a glazed doughnut. Naturally, I’ll pay for the doughnut.”
“Naturally.”
Twelve
I’D ALREADY GROUPED FOUR chairs around my desk when Canelli knocked.
“Come in.” As I said it, I rounded my desk and stood behind it, smiling.
Marge Fisher entered first, then the boy, finally the father. Canelli came in last, closed the door and took a seat to my far left. I gestured Mrs. Fisher to a place next to Canelli. Mr. Fisher sat on my far right, with the boy seated between himself and his wife, directly in front of me.
I smiled at the boy. “Hello, David. How are you today?”
“F—” He swallowed. “Fine, sir.”
My buzzer sounded. Frowning, I picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“It’s Pete, Frank. The uncle is in an interrogation room waiting for me. And now I just heard that Randall Grant is on his way upstairs. So why don’t you have Canelli interrogate Grant while I’m questioning James Fisher? Markham’s still out at Alta High. You can check with both Canelli and me after you’ve finished with the Fishers, and before either Grant or James Fisher leave the building. Okay?”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll send him in.” I hung up and quickly instructed Canelli to check with Lieutenant Friedman. When the door had closed, I turned again to the boy. “I’m sorry, David. I was just going to say that I’d like to have you relax. There’s nothing for you to worry about—nothing at all. That’s why I’ve asked your parents to be present. Do you understand?”
“Y—yes.”
I pushed the microphone across the desk, pressing the green button. “If you have no objections”—I included them all in the arc of my inquiring glance—“I’d like to record what we say. It saves time.”
The parents murmured agreement while the boy mutely stared at the small chrome mike.
“What I’m mostly concerned about, David,” I began, “is the time you spent with your uncle on Sunday evening. Between the time you left home and the time you returned. Now, I realize that Inspector Canelli has already asked you all this, just yesterday. But I have to ask you again. Do you understand?”
“I—I guesso.”
“All right. Good. Now, first—” I opened my notebook. “First I want to read you what I understand to be a true and complete account of everything you and your uncle did from approximately three P.M. on Sunday, January fourteenth, until approximately six P.M. of that same day. I want you to listen very carefully. Because when I’ve finished, I’m going to question you about a few points. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded slowly, looking at me with his dark, solemn eyes. Watching him, I unaccountably remembered the postwar CARE ads: the frail, unsmiling child dressed in shabby European clothing and staring with large, tragic eyes from the glossy pages of the best American magazines.
In meticulous detail I reconstructed James Fisher’s account of the afternoon in question. As I talked, I looked from the son to the mother to the father. The boy had a fixed expression of apprehensive uncertainty. The mother’s anxious eyes darted constantly from her son’s face to mine. The father gazed at me with a silent, implacable pugnacity, blinking constantly, continually flexing his thick fingers into chunky fists.
When I’d finished, I allowed a long moment of silence to elapse while I covertly assessed the boy’s response to what I’d said. His reaction was predictable: the mute, unrevealing watchfulness of a child eying an omnipotent adult, alert for some hint of his fate.
“Is that about the way it happened, David?” I finally asked.
“I—I guesso.”
Nodding, I took a long, final moment to study him, then decided to say, “David, you’re obviously a thoughtful, intelligent boy. And I imagine that you’ve already figured out why Inspector Canelli and I are questioning you about Sunday.” I paused, then asked, “Have you figured it out?”
“I guesso.” Now his eyes seemed to cling to mine, as if he were fearful of missing even the smallest change in my voice or my face.
“Why am I questioning you, then?”
“Because”—he gulped—“because you think that my—my uncle m—might—” He couldn’t finish it. B
ut, doggedly, he still stared directly into my eyes. The boy had courage—a silent, desperate, lonely courage that he himself probably didn’t realize he possessed.
“If you were going to say,” I replied, “that I think your uncle might’ve committed murder on Sunday, then I’d have to say that you’re partly right and partly wrong.”
“P—” He moistened his lips. “Partly wrong?”
I nodded. “What happened, you see, was that someone phoned into our office here and told us that we should talk to your uncle—ask him where he was on Sunday night. So, no matter how I felt about it, I had to talk to your uncle because I had to check out that phone call. It’s one of the rules we work by. Do you understand?”
“But who would phone and say a—a thing like that? It—it’s mean, to do something like that.”
I shook my head. “It’s not mean, David. You see, whoever phoned us was probably concerned that…”
“Didn’t they even say who they were, whoever phoned?”
“No. It’s what we call an anonymous tip. You’ve probably heard about—”
“But they lied. Whatever they said, they lied. My uncle is…” He twisted sharply to his right, meeting his mother’s watchful gaze. “They lied,” the boy repeated helplessly. “Whoever said it, they’re a liar.”
“You may be right, David,” I said. “I hope, for your sake, that you are. But still, I have to check. Do you understand?”
Breathing rapidly, he turned away from his mother, twisting to face me fully. Now defiance smoldered in his soft, sad eyes.
“Do you understand?” I dropped my voice to a deeper, more authoritative note.
He nodded with slow, stubborn reluctance, small hands clenched into narrow, ineffectual fists—but still, clenched.
Ann would be pleased, I was thinking, if she could see David now.
“All right. Good. Now, what I particularly want to ask you is exactly what happened, minute by minute, from the time you arrived in the vicinity of Mr. Papa—of the popcorn wagon and the time you left for home.” I paused briefly, deciding on the sequence of my questions. “First, do you remember whether the popcorn wagon was still parked there when you left the area?”
Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 7
