by Barbara Paul
Marian tried a different tack. “You know, whoever killed Strode must have had it in the back of his mind that he was helping out the other two. He or she. By removing Strode, the killer was removing the near-certainty that Strode would indulge in a little more string-pulling in the future. As long as Strode lived, all three of you were in jeopardy. I don’t mean that was the killer’s motive—his motive was to save himself. But saving the other two was a kind of bonus.”
“But it wasn’t! Strode had all his so-called evidence in the computer. Killing Strode didn’t get rid of that.”
“Ah, but none of you knew about the computer then, did you? The killer thought all three of you would be home free once Strode was out of the way. So either you or Jack McKinstry took it on yourself to put an end to it. One of you killed to free all three of you.” Marian paused. “All we know for certain is that Richard Bruce didn’t kill to save you.”
This time Joanna didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re on the wrong track, Sergeant. There was only one person Jack McKinstry was thinking about when he killed Strode, and that was Jack McKinstry. We got to know Jack pretty quickly this weekend, and he is the most childishly selfish adult I’ve ever met. If it did occur to him he was helping Richard and me, he probably tried to figure some way to take advantage of it.”
Marian thought that was a fair assessment of Jack’s character. “But he couldn’t take advantage of it, because it didn’t work out right. It was bad luck that the murder accomplished just the opposite of what it was supposed to accomplish. Instead of saving everybody, the murder just brought everything to our attention. You know what’s going to happen to you, don’t you?”
“To me? No, Sergeant Larch, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. Why don’t you tell me?”
“It’s up to the Boston police, of course, but I don’t see how they can avoid charging you with the murder of your parents. Personally, I don’t think you can even get away with claiming the murders were mercy killings. If I were sitting on a jury and heard testimony that the defendant had tried to hire a mercenary to do her killing for her, I’d think twice before buying the euthanasia story.”
“Oh, you’ve got it all wrong,” Joanna said tiredly. “I was thinking of hiring a bodyguard, that’s all. Strode bribed Ozzie Rogers to say I wanted him to kill my parents.”
“A bodyguard,” Marian echoed, pretending to be impressed. “That’s very good. Did Richard Bruce suggest that one? You have to have an explanation for consulting Ozzie other than intended matricide and patricide—so why not claim you needed a bodyguard?”
“Richard Bruce suggested nothing! I’m quite capable of thinking up my own …”
“Lies?” Marian suggested politely.
“My own solutions. And I decided a bodyguard was not a solution to a problem I was having at that time.” Marian looked a question at her. “Someone was sending me threatening letters, Sergeant, but it stopped well over a year ago. There was nothing to it.”
“Did you call the police?”
“I did. They weren’t any help.”
“Where was this?”
“Boston.”
Marian made a note of it. “I’ll check on it.”
“I’m sure you will,” Joanna said dryly.
Ivan Malecki was waiting for her in the conference room. The chair Jack McKinstry smashed had been removed. “Anything?”
“Not really. Joanna Gillespie says she was thinking of getting a bodyguard when she contacted her mercenary. Because of threatening letters. What about you?”
“Nothing. Lots of accusations, but that’s all. McKinstry’s on his way to being a basket case.”
Marian went over to the phone. It took her longer to charge the long-distance call to the NYPD than it did to find out from the Boston police what she wanted to know.
“One letter,” Marian told her partner when she’d hung up. “That’s all their computer knows about. She definitely told me ‘letters’—plural. And she intimated she’d been getting them over a period of time.”
Ivan scratched the back of his neck. “She coulda just reported the first one,” he said, “and when the police didn’t do anything she didn’t bother with the rest.”
“Possible,” Marian agreed reluctantly. “But Joanna Gillespie strikes me as a person who wouldn’t let something like that ride. I’m surprised she didn’t rush right out and buy a gun.”
“Maybe she did.”
“But she didn’t go looking for an Ozzie Rogers immediately—there’s a time gap. I think she got one letter, reported it, and now is using that as her excuse for consulting a mercenary.”
“None of which brings us any closer to finding out what happened here Sunday night,” Ivan said. “You’re doing the Boston police’s work for them, Marian. Let it go.”
“I know, you’re right. Damn, but she’s hard to pin down! So what do we do now—switch?”
“Might as well. Watch out for McKinstry—he might blow up in your face. I didn’t tell him about the helicopter pilot. If you can get him calmed down enough to listen, you can throw that at him.”
“He’s that rattled?”
“Was. He was starting to run out of steam there toward the end. See what he does first.”
What Jack McKinstry did first was make a pass at her.
He started out by asking Marian if she ever went to California. He told her about the big house in Malibu and assured her she would be welcome anytime she cared to visit. Then he moved in close, placed both hands on her shoulders, gazed deeply into her eyes, and expressed the sincere desire that they would see each other once “all this” was over.
For a seasoned playboy, it was an extraordinarily clumsy approach, Marian thought. Ivan must be right; Jack McKinstry was cracking up. Marian was a plain woman, and she knew it. Some plain women could slather on the make-up and affect outrageous hair and clothing styles and become TV personalities or rock stars. Marian Larch was not one of them. She decided to try diplomacy and told Jack she never mixed business and pleasure.
“Oh, come on, now, Sergeant … by the way, what’s your first name?”
“You got it right. Sergeant.”
He sighed theatrically. “You are a stickler for the proprieties, aren’t you? I can’t believe you’re this formal all the time. You’ve got a male partner, after all—I’ll bet you loosen up once in a while. Am I right?”
That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. “I hate to burst your balloon,” Marian said, “but contrary to popular opinion it is possible for a man and a woman to work together without jumping into the sack together. What I do and with whom I do it is none of your business. So back off.”
Jack immediately turned contrite, almost convincingly so. “Oh hey, gee, I didn’t mean to insult you. Christ, I meant just the opposite! Two left feet, that’s me.” He squeezed her shoulders in what was probably meant to be an intimate gesture. “I want to get to know you, Sergeant Ms Larch whatever your first name is, and we’re in such a peculiar relationship here, cop and suspect, that I don’t know how to go about it. Help me. Stop playing mystery woman. Let me come into your life.”
She put an end to it by telling Jack that his helicopter pilot was in custody in Florida and was talking his fool head off.
Jack’s face collapsed. His hands dropped off Marian’s shoulders and he stood there staring at her like a lost child. “That’s it, then,” he said in a tight voice. “You’ll believe him, and Strode’s lies, and whatever Joanna and Richard tell you. I don’t have a chance. You’re going to pin it all on me, the helicopter crash and Strode’s murder and anything else you can think of. It’s all decided, isn’t it? I take the fall.”
“You’ll have to answer to the French authorities for the helicopter crash, yes,” Marian said, “but I’m not arresting you for the murder of A. J. Strode just yet.”
“Yet,” he echoed glumly.
“Maybe not at all. Let’s go over it again.”
They were in the dining roo
m. Marian had found him in the kitchen jollying Danielle into fixing him something special to eat. One of the maids laid another place for Marian, who was surprised to find out how hungry she was. Jack told Marian his story again—where he was, what he did. It came out the same as last time.
Marian got up and walked around the dining table, thinking. “Tell me what you did while you were in your room.”
“I was packing.”
“I know, but take it one step at a time. Tell me everything.”
“Whoo.” He thought. “Well, first I went into the bathroom to get my shaving gear and like that. No toothbrush, the house staff puts out a new one every day with fresh towels. I’d already packed most of my clothes—I didn’t bring a whole lot, it was only for a weekend. Then I started looking through drawers to make sure I had everything.”
“Pajamas?”
“Don’t wear ’em. Oh yeah—I found a pair of shoes under the bed. Then I closed the suitcase and picked it up, and it slipped and fell on my toe. I was hopping around holding my foot when I smelled smoke.”
Something clicked. “Wait a minute,” Marian said. “That business about dropping your suitcase on your toe—you mentioned that before.”
“Yeah, so?”
“The first time we talked to you. You said you dropped your suitcase and let out a yell …”
“To wake the dead, right. So?”
“Did you really yell, or are you just telling a good story?”
“I yelled, lady. That hurt. Do you want to see the bruise on my toe?”
“No, thank you. But I do want you to yell again. Not now,” she added hastily as Jack took a deep breath, “and not here. Let’s go upstairs.”
“You want to cue me in? What’s so important about my yelling?”
“Later.” She led the way out of the dining room and told the uniformed officer who was watching jack to find her partner and send him up to Mr. McKinstry’s room. Upstairs, one policeman was down at Richard Bruce’s end of the hall; Joanna Gillespie was downstairs somewhere with Ivan Malecki. They went into Jack’s room. The villainous suitcase was on the floor by the bed.
“Where were you standing when you dropped the suitcase?” Marian asked.
“Uh … about here.” He took a position near the door.
A minute later Ivan knocked at the door. “You got something?” The cop Marian had sent after him peered over his shoulder.
“Maybe. I want you to go across the hall into Joanna Gillespie’s room. Close the door and stand as far away from it as you can. Then tell me if you hear anything.”
Ivan raised an eyebrow but did as she asked. At Marian’s nod, Jack let out a yell that should indeed have sufficed to raise the dead.
Ivan came back and said, “I could hear him hollering. Is that what you meant?”
“Yep. Now go into her bathroom and close the door. See if you can hear from there.”
Jack repeated his performance, and Ivan said that he could still hear him. “Why, Marian? What’s it mean?”
She took a breath. “About the same time A. J. Strode was being stabbed, Jack dropped a suitcase on his foot and made a lot of noise about it. Joanna Gillespie told me she couldn’t hear Jack in his room during the time of the murder.”
When he realized what that meant, Jack McKinstry let out a third yell, but this time it was a cry of triumph. “She couldn’t hear me because she wasn’t in her room! Ha! Aha! I told you she did it! Sergeant Malecki, didn’t I just tell you that? Not more than an hour ago, I said she did it! Joanna Gillespie killed A. J. Strode, not me! And now you’ve got her!”
“Hold it, hold it,” Ivan cautioned. “It’s just his word against hers,” he said to his partner.
Marian shook her head. “Jack didn’t know she’d told me she didn’t hear anything. He’d have had no reason to make up the story.”
Jack was seated on the end of the bed taking off his shoe and sock as fast as he could. He stuck a bare foot up in the air. “Behold—my bruise! My beautiful, colorful, alibi-providing bruise! Could anyone acquire a bruise like that without yelling? What a bruise! Did you ever see such a bruise? A wonderful bruise!”
Marian and Ivan were examining Jack’s wonderful bruise when Richard Bruce burst into the room. “What is going on here? I could hear Jack yelling down at the end of the hall!”
Jack let out a whoop and flopped backward on the bed. He lay there laughing, waving his bruised foot in the air. “Oh Richard, Richard! What perfect timing! Evidence, dear Sergeants Malecki and Larch, that a good healthy yell can be clearly heard on this floor—by anyone who’s around to hear it. Ask the cops in the hall. I’ll bet you thirty pieces of silver they heard it too.”
“Of course they heard it!” Richard snarled. “We all did. I repeat, what is going on here?”
Jack sat up. “What is going on here, Richard my friend, is that your inamorata has tripped herself up. Given herself away. Sunk her own ship. Joanna blew it, Richard. She blew it bad. And not even you can make it right again. Isn’t that a sad story?”
Richard turned to Marian. “What is he babbling about?”
Marian almost hated to tell him. “It looks as if Jack’s cleared—of Strode’s murder, at least. No hard evidence, but enough indication to satisfy me.” She looked at her partner; Ivan nodded yes.
“What do you mean, ‘indication’?” Richard asked in his most sarcastic manner. “Since when is an indication sufficient to charge someone with murder? What has this accomplished liar been telling you? You should have learned by now you can’t believe anything he says!”
“Oh, pardon me all to pieces, O Truthful One,” Jack answered in kind. “And forgive my speaking up in the presence of such personification of moral rectitude as thyself, but I must point out, Your Virtueship, sir, that you ain’t gonna pin this one on me. Fuckin’ right you’re not. It was your fiddling dolly that stuck it to Strode, not me. And they know it.” He jerked his head in the direction of Marian.
Richard raised an eyebrow. “My, my—aren’t you the brave one all of a sudden. You think you’ve found a way to weasel out? That’s what you do best, Jack—weaseling. Weaseling and undercutting. Hiding behind lies. Blaming someone else for your own inadequacies.” His voice was cold and unforgiving. “You disgusting little chickenprick—you’re just about the most useless human being I’ve ever met. Utterly worthless.”
Jack jumped up off the bed, his face red and angry. “Jesus, you really do think you’re God, don’t you? Looking down your nose at everybody else, so goddamned pleased with yourself! You’ve been lording it over me ever since you got Jo in bed, but what did you get? You got a murderer who was quite willing to let you be suspected of her crime. Both of us. She doesn’t care who gets hurt. You’re an ostrich, Richard! You can’t see what’s right under your nose!”
Richard looked at him wonderingly. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you? Jack, if I have to see you, or listen to you, even one minute longer, I am going to commit a criminal act, right here in the presence of the police!”
Jack laughed nastily. “That wouldn’t be your first mistake. It could be your last.”
The two of them kept at it. Ivan looked as if he were enjoying the brouhaha, but Marian turned tiredly away from them all and stared down through the window at the street. Why did they do it? It didn’t matter whether it was one-on-one-upmanship like now, or ganging up and calling it football, or really ganging up and waging war; it was still all the same game. I’m bigger and badder than you. She felt the beginnings of depression.
Eventually Ivan stepped in and stopped them when it looked as if they were ready to start swinging. Marian’s depression deepened, and it had nothing to do with the two angry men ready to tear each other’s throats out. Every time she and Ivan started getting close to nailing a killer, Marian felt a heaviness come over her that wouldn’t go away until several days after the job was finished. All the disillusionment garnered in an adult life of dealing with those who considered themselves above
the law seemed to peak at that moment when she had to face another human being and say: You are a murderer. Your humanity has failed you, and we are less because of you.
Once Ivan was safely between Richard and Jack, the latter became even more belligerent, throwing threats of physical mayhem at Richard Bruce over Ivan’s shoulder. Ivan wasn’t having any of that. He spun Jack around and pulled his wrists together to slap the cuffs on him. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”
“Aw, hey, man, don’t go spoiling it! You got your murderer. What do you care what happened in France four years ago?”
“You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one—”
“I can afford one, I can afford one! You’re not really going to send me back to France, are you? All because of that stupid Billy shooting his mouth off—”
“Everything you say will be taken down and used against you in a court of law. Any questions? You’re Mirandized, buddy. Put your shoe on. Let’s go.”
“Ah, Christ!” Jack wailed. “Sergeant? Sergeant Larch? Can he do this?”
“He certainly can.”
“And you’re just going to stand there and let him haul me away?” He pulled on his sock and shoe. “Because of some stupid helicopter that malfunctioned four years ago?”
“It wasn’t the helicopter that malfunctioned, Jack,” she said without expression. “Your best chance now is to tell the truth, all of it. If you know how.” In rapid succession his face showed disappointment, self-pity, anger, and then some new cunning—all in the space of half a minute. A grasshopper mind, Marian thought.
Ivan waved a hand toward Richard Bruce. “Marian?”
She nodded. “I’ll take care of him.”
Jack broke away from Ivan long enough to lurch over to her. “Marian,” he said smugly. “Your name is Marian.” He grinned toothily at her and let Ivan lead him away.
“Childish to the last,” Richard Bruce murmured as the door closed behind them. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “Well … Marian? My turn?”
“Your turn.”
He listened to her read him his rights without interrupting. Then he asked, “What’s going to happen to Joanna?”
