“Actually, I should’ve said Sunday afternoon.”
With an obvious effort he raised his head, searching my face with anxious eyes. “Th—that’s when June was—was murdered.”
“We have a report of a dark-haired, middle-aged man at the murder scene, Mr. Cross—driving a white Ford. So, naturally, we’re checking out anyone associated with the victim who answers that description.”
As his eyes still searched my face, I saw his urbane, leading-man’s face begin to pull itself apart, revealing the haggard, hollow-eyed mask of twitching failure that I’d first seen yesterday.
“I was home Sunday,” he finally managed. “All day. I didn’t go out except for a—a short trip to the corner, for a bottle. Y—you can check with my neighbors. They’ll tell you. Ev—every step I take, down to the corner and back, I can feel them watching me. Every single step.”
I opened the door. “Thanks for coming down, Mr. Cross. I hope you find a decorating client soon.”
He tried to smile, jerkily extending his hand. His grip was weak. “I hope so, too, Lieutenant. I—” He gulped suddenly, and turned abruptly away, striking the doorframe with his shoulder as he left. Watching the door close, I wondered how long it would take him to buy a bottle and get back to his dark, musty living room.
I turned to the desk and dialed Friedman.
“I’ve just released all the Fishers,” he said immediately. “The whole crew. Much as I hate to admit it, I think we might have to set up a conference with the D.A. What happened with you?”
I recounted the Randall Grant interrogation and was rewarded by a long, low whistle. “That’s pretty fair interrogating, Lieutenant. Pretty fair indeed. Now, if we can just trap the wife into admitting that Grant went out for cigarettes, or something, we’ll have a brand-new suspect.”
“Why don’t you take Markham and go out and see her? I’ll keep the husband here until I hear from you. I’ve still got to question Ken Miller, too. He’s with Markham now, waiting for me.”
I heard him sigh. Friedman freely admitted a preference for the comfort of the office.
“All right.” He paused, then said, “You know, that Fisher woman is a real sugar-lipped bitch. I’ll bet you a three-dollar lunch that she’s the anonymous tipster.”
“Maybe.”
I could hear Friedman heaving himself to his feet. “Okay, I’m off. I’ll check with you later. Anything else?”
“Walter Cross seemed jumpy, especially when I told him that I was going to interview his stepdaughter.”
“All the more reason to have her interrogated, then.”
“I’ll send Culligan out on it.”
Sixteen
CATCHING MARKHAM’S EYE ACROSS the almost-deserted inspectors’ room, I beckoned to him. He left Kent Miller seated at his desk and came toward me, walking leisurely, adjusting his tie. His eyes were expressionless, his mouth unsmiling. He moved with the smooth, deliberate gait of a predator, always alert.
“Well,” I asked, seating myself on a desk-corner, “how’d it go?”
“I think,” he said flatly, “that something’s bugging him. Badly.”
“Did he see her in the park? On his motorcycle?”
“He won’t admit it. He won’t admit anything. But I think he saw her. He’s got a fringed leather jacket, too.”
“I’ll talk to him. Anything else I should know?”
“Not really.”
“Where’re his folks?”
“Working.”
“Was he at home when you found him?”
“Yes. ‘Sick,’ he said. I’ll give him that, anyhow. He looked sick.”
“He came downtown of his own free will, though.”
His only reply was a long-suffering nod.
“All right—” I rose from the desk. “Lieutenant Friedman is waiting for you in his office. He’ll fill you in.” I turned away, walking to Markham’s desk.
“Hello, Kent,” I said quietly. “How’s it going today?”
His shoulders moved in a slow, languidly expressive adolescent shrug, conveying both defiance and dismay—both uneasiness and indifference. At his elbow was an ashtray. He was moodily stirring a half-dozen cigarette butts with a not-quite-clean forefinger. He didn’t raise his eyes.
Something, certainly, was bugging him.
“I had the feeling yesterday,” I began, “that we were just getting to something important when I had to leave. That’s why I wanted you to come down today.”
Again he shrugged, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.” With an obvious effort, he turned away from the ashtray. His forehead and upper lip were perspiration-beaded. Now he slowly raised his left hand to his mouth, nibbling at the thumbnail.
“I especially wanted to ask you again whether you saw June at any time on Sunday,” I said. “Any time at all—morning or evening.”
For a moment he didn’t reply. Then, taking his hand down from his mouth, he mumbled, “I just talked to her on the phone. Like I told you.”
“You didn’t actually see her?”
“No. I told you.” His voice slipped into a higher note, aggrieved.
“I just wanted to make sure, Kent. That’s what police work is, you know: double-checking, then double-checking again.”
He didn’t reply.
“I also wanted to ask you about what you actually did Sunday—after, say, you talked to June on the phone. That was about—” I paused, faking a puzzled frown. “When did you say it was that you talked to her?”
“A—about three.”
“Right. Thanks. And you said, I remember, that you were working on your motorcycle.”
He nodded doggedly.
“Was it after you talked to June, or before, that you were working on your motorcycle?”
“Before and after.”
“And you said that you rode your motorcycle on Sunday. When was that?”
“W—what’d you mean?”
“I mean, when did you ride your motorcycle on Sunday—at what time of the day?”
“Well, I—I rode it all day, off and on. I—I was trying to fix the carburetor. And all day long I was testing it out.”
“Were you riding it at about five o’clock?”
“I—I don’t remember. Maybe.”
“Did you ride it in the park when you were testing it?”
“Once or twice.”
I sat silently, watching him, letting him squirm. Finally, very quietly, I asked, “Did you ride it in the park between four o’clock and six, Kent?”
He shook his head sharply, suddenly turning half away from me. He was blinking rapidly. His lower lip was trembling. “How should I know?” he blurted plaintively. “Christ, I don’t keep track of every little minute when I’m riding the bike.”
Still speaking quietly, I said, “What I really want to know, Kent—what I’ve got to know—is whether, at any time on Sunday, you saw June Towers in the park. Because we have information that she was seen talking to someone who answers your description. Right down to the fringed leather jacket.”
He suddenly twisted to face me, for the first time looking at me squarely. His eyes were wide, his throat painfully corded. Behind drawn-back lips, his teeth were tightly clenched. His voice was a low, strangled whisper. “Are you trying to say that I had something to do with killing her? Is that what you’re trying to say?” As he spoke, a single tear streaked each cheek. His eyes were brimming. His voice was unsteady, about to break. “Because if—if you are, you—” He broke off. He was snuffling now, breathing through his mouth. His chest was heaving.
“All I want to know, Kent, is whether you saw her Sunday. That’s all I…”
“You have to give me a lawyer. You can’t do this. Last night my dad told me that—that—” He turned away, his eyes seeking the door.
“I just want an answer, Kent. No one’s accusing you of anything. I just want to know whether…”
“All right, then. I saw her. For a second—a minute—I saw her. I—I didn’t e
ven know she was there. And I—I—” Shaking his head violently, he sprang to his feet, standing with fists clenched, mouth working. He looked like a child about to throw a tantrum.
It was time to back off. Legally, I’d already gone too far.
“No one’s suggesting you’re implicated in her murder, Kent. That’s not the point. The point is that first you told us one thing, then you told us another. You said you didn’t see her. Then you…”
“But I—I—”
“You go home now. Get some rest, and talk to your parents when they get home. We’ll see you later.”
He blinked, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. He glanced furtively around the room to see whether anyone had noticed his tears. He seemed irresolute—surprised at my response. “Y—you want me to—to go home?”
“Yes. As I say, we’ll be talking to you later. With your parents.”
He frowned, biting at his lips, still confused.
“We’ll see you tonight probably,” I repeated. “If you’ll wait outside in the waiting room, I’ll have someone take you home.”
Mumbling vague, garbled thanks, he stumbled toward the door. I called Canelli and told him to drive Kent Miller home, watch the house for a half-hour, concealed, then report back to the office.
Seventeen
I WAS IN THE cafeteria, eating a sandwich, when I saw Canelli standing in the doorway. Smiling sheepishly, half saluting, he made his shambling way toward me, clattering against a half-dozen chairs.
“Sit down.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.” He placed his misshapen hat beside my coffee cup. It was Friedman’s theory that to keep the underworld guessing, Canelli crushed his hat differently every day.
“Did Kent Miller stay home?”
“Yep.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No. But I didn’t push him.” He glanced at me questioningly. “Was that right?”
I nodded. “Exactly right. Coffee?”
“No, thanks. Say, did you know that Lester Farley is here?”
“What’s he want?”
“I think he has some information for you. Anyhow, he won’t talk to me. I thought you knew he was here.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know. Bring him upstairs in fifteen minutes. I’d like to talk to him.”
“Okay. How’s the case going, anyhow? It seems like everything is happening at once.”
“Everything and nothing. We’ll know more when we see what Ellen Grant says.”
“I saw her husband in the waiting room. He’s really fuming.”
“As soon as I hear from Lieutenant Friedman, I’ll let him go.”
“You know,” Canelli said slowly, his mouth twisted into an expression of deep concentration, “it seems to me that a lot depends on why June Towers was where she was. Know what I mean?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, we’ve been figuring that she just stopped at that particular place in the park for no real reason—because she just happened to be there, maybe to buy some popcorn, or something. But I been thinking that maybe she was there on purpose. And I’ve also been thinking that maybe the Miller kid knew why she was there.”
“Did he say anything that led you to think that?”
“No, it’s just a feeling I have.”
“Well, you could be right. But still, she left her house mad. Which doesn’t seem to indicate any previous plans to meet anyone at any particular time.”
“I know. But I was thinking that…”
“Lieutenant Hastings.” It was a busboy’s voice, behind me. “Telephone. At the cashier’s stand.”
“Thanks.” And to Canelli: “Wait for me.”
It was Friedman, phoning from a drugstore in the Grants’ neighborhood.
“We might have something,” he said. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the facts are that Randall Grant and his wife apparently kept on arguing after the girl slammed out. The argument got hotter, until finally Mrs. Grant slammed out, too. That was about five o’clock. Maybe a little before. She had to get some cigarettes, she said, which she got at a neighborhood bar. She got the cigarettes and decided to have a couple of drinks. Stingers. Then she went back home—apparently refueled and ready to start arguing again.”
“Was Grant there when she got back?”
“Yes.”
“Was it dark?”
“Yes.”
“Did she have any idea why you were interrogating her?”
“As soon as I started,” he said slowly, “she knew something was up. She was on her guard. At first I didn’t get the significance of it. But finally it dawned on me.”
“What dawned on you?”
“That she was worried. But not for hubby.”
“For herself, you mean.”
“Exactly. She was very careful to point out that all her time away from home was accounted for—a hundred and ten percent. Which isn’t, I submit, the standard attitude of the grieving mother. I mean, under ordinary circumstances it wouldn’t even occur to her that she needed to account for her time. It was almost as if she expected to be questioned—as if she was scared of what her husband had told us, instead of vice versa.”
Glancing at the avidly listening cashier, I asked Friedman to hang on while I hurried to my office, closing the door behind me.
“That was a quick trip,” Friedman said. “But then, you’re a jogger.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, as far as the mother is concerned, if you don’t count conjecture, there really isn’t much more to tell—beyond the obvious fact that neither she nor her husband has an alibi for the time of the murder. Not at this point, anyhow—not until we check out the neighbors and the bartender and God knows who.”
“Do you actually think it’s possible that she could’ve killed her own daughter?”
He hesitated, finally saying, “I don’t know, Frank. I really don’t know. But you know the old saying: most murder victims either raised their murderer or else were raised with them. Or, in this case, maybe by them. Which, I admit, is a little rare.”
“But this isn’t a typical domestic homicide M.O. Usually they pick up a butcher knife, or a paperweight, and that’s that. No premeditation. Besides, what’s the motive?”
“Jealousy.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t get off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant. You’re assuming an old-fashioned scenario: stepfather makes out with stepdaughter. Mother is outraged, slices up husband. But give your imagination a little exercise. This is the age of the pill, remember—the mother-and-daughter pill.”
“You’re saying that the mother and daughter were in competition for Randall Grant.”
“Precisely. And maybe the mother was coming off second best. Personally, I don’t believe Randall Grant rolled off that bed. I think he rolled the other way.”
“So the mother went out for cigarettes. She had a couple of drinks. Whereupon she got in her car and met her daughter and killed her. With a blunt instrument.” I shook my head.
“You’re oversimplifying, old son. You’re getting emotional. Furthermore, you’re assuming that…”
“How would she know where to find the girl?”
“That,” he replied, “is what we don’t know. In fact, we have only a very hazy idea why June Towers was where she was, when she was. And it’s my theory that when we do a little digging in that particular boneyard, we’ll know a lot more than we do now.”
“Canelli was just saying the same thing,” I said.
“For once, Canelli and I agree.”
“Did you ask Ellen Grant whether she knew about June’s relations with Randall—assuming there actually were any relations?”
“No,” he answered slowly, “I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I got so intrigued with her elaborately constructed system of self-defenses that I didn’t want t
o interrupt her. Besides, based on what you said, I figured she already knew.”
“Yes, but which version did she have—her daughter’s or her husband’s?”
“What’s the difference?” His voice was bland. I could visualize Friedman’s expression: professorial, supremely self-satisfied. Normally, concocting his theories, he liked to hold forth in the squad room, lolling belly-up in an inspector’s chair, airily examining his cigar ash as he talked, holding amiable court.
“There’s a lot of difference. One way, the mother gets the story approximately the way Grant told it to me. He’s the innocent party who finally flops off the bed. But the other way, sure as hell, she’d get it that he tried to screw June, and didn’t make it. I have never—repeat, never—known a woman, young or old, to admit that she tried to seduce a man and failed.”
“Now, now. Don’t get overwrought. You’re losing sight of the main point.”
“What point is that?”
“Very simply that we have probably accounted for June’s mysterious stash of money. We also have a motive—either for the father or the mother. Now all we need to know is…”
“Father or mother?” I interrupted sarcastically. “Don’t you have a favorite?”
“We can discuss that later. This phone booth is too cramped to support any really creative thought. This is just an outline, so to speak.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“What I would like to have you do, Lieutenant, is release Randall Grant forthwith. Tell him to go home. I’ll give him a half-hour or so, and then Markham and I will burst in on them. We’ll separate them and see what happens. Which will, I predict, be plenty.”
“But…”
“Meanwhile, I think that you and Canelli should reinterrogate Kent Miller, after he’s had time to stew a little.”
“I’d planned to. This evening.”
“Excellent. We still have to figure out how the murderer knew June Towers was at that precise place at that precise time. And I figure that Kent Miller knows.”
I drew a deep breath. “You might be right.”
“I’ve been right before. About thirty-five percent of the time, in fact, I’m right. This could be one of those times.”
Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 10
