by Dana Donovan
“Because he is married. I do not think he would appreciate his name coming out in association with a homicide investigation.”
“I can subpoena you.”
“Then do it.” She smiled coldly.
I looked to Carlos. He had nothing else. “All right, I guess we will go,” I said. I stood and offered her my card. “If you change your mind, call me.”
She took the card and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Don’t hold your breath.”
I pointed toward the door. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
Back in the car, Carlos and I discussed our thoughts on the colorful Ms. Stephanie Stiles. We had seen her kind before. Women like that usually try to put up a front for such interviews, but this woman would have none of that. Her transparency served well to feed two schools of thought. Either she had nothing to hide and let us see the disaffection in her relationship with Landau, or she simply did not care, implying her involvement in his death through her callas reaction to the news. Carlos was of mind that she positioned herself as Landau’s fiancée so that she might gain knowledge of the money’s whereabouts and recover it for herself. I agreed, further suggesting that her lawyer friend, Paul Kemper, arranged for the two to meet with just that plan in mind.
“Why else would he introduce a woman of her questionable scruples to a man in prison?” I asked.
Carlos said, “Maybe he is the mystery man who left his watch on the nightstand.”
“Could be. I suppose it’s possible Kemper met Stiles in the bar that night with one thing in mind.”
“Sleazy sex?”
“No, Carlos! He needed a soft intervention.”
He shook his head. “I’m losing you.”
“Look, this is purely hypothetical, but what if Kemper used his attorney client privilege to gain critical knowledge about the robbery, convincing Landau to admit that the money was still in play.”
“Oh, I see where you are going. The problem came when Landau would not commit to its location. So, that’s when Kemper worked Stiles into the equation, hoping she might coax it out of him.”
“Exactly!”
“So, what do we do now?”
“Simple.” I smiled at the thought of the chase finally getting under way. “Now we go see Mister Paul Kemper and ask him a few questions.”
SIX
Paul Kemper hung his shingle upstairs from a bail bondsman’s office in the downtown red light district. No small coincidence, I imagined, as the proximity to each other likely worked well for reciprocal referrals. Still, I found it strange that he chose to set up shop in this manner. Dominic Spinelli said that Kemper was once a highly regarded up and coming defense attorney. I would have thought he had made a name for himself by now, eliminating the need to represent low-life thugs and dregs from the hood.
Carlos and I walked into Kemper’s office, and right away noticed the distinct smell of nail polish and a severe lack of cross-ventilation. A young woman doing her nails at the reception counter looked up at us and smiled nervously. She invited us in, frantically raking a field of cosmetics off her blotter and into the top drawer of her desk. I got the impression she did not get many visitors, as she seemed completely taken aback by our presence, and maybe frightened, too. I pegged her at around twenty-one years of age. I don’t know, maybe her makeup made her look older. Carlos put her closer to eighteen, though just barely. I asked later why he thought so, and he said because he noticed only three other cars in the parking lot out front. One was a BMW 750i, which he assumed Kemper drove, and the late model Hummer H3T seemed like the kind of car a bail bondsman might own, leaving the Chevy Metro with its student parking permit on the windshield for our young receptionist. I told him that was brilliant detective work. He told me it was a trick Spinelli taught him—seems the boy has a thing for younger women.
“We are here to see Paul Kemper,” I told the receptionist. “Is he in?”
Her smile never waned. “Is he expecting you?”
“If he’s smart,” said Carlos.
That drew her down. “I’m sorry?”
“He is not,” I said, flashing my badge and I.D. “I’m Detective Marcella, N.C.P.D. This is Detective Rodriquez. Would you see if he has a few minutes for us, please?”
“Of course.”
I thought the young woman would pick up the phone and inform Kemper over the intercom. Instead, she got up, walked to the door separating us from the adjacent room, opened it and poked her head inside. I heard her announce us in a hush, and a man’s voice not so hushed saying, “Who? Here? Now?” It dropped considerably lower, however, for the next word that began with an F. The receptionist asked what she should do and he answered, “Well hell, Shannon, you have to show them in now, don’t you?”
She turned to us, embarrassed, and pushed the door open fully. “Please go in.”
I smiled politely and brushed past her. Carlos followed. She shut the door behind us and Paul Kemper, who was sitting at his desk, stood and offered his hand. “Gentlemen, please,” he pointed to two chairs opposite his desk, “make yourselves comfortable.” We sat, and then he sat, edging his seat and folding his hands neatly on top of the desk. “So tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Mister Kemper,” I said, “I don’t know if the young woman told you, but I am—”
“Detectives Marcella and Rodriquez, N.C.P.D. I know, she told me. How can I help you?”
“We are investigating a homicide, Mister Kemper, and we would like to ask you a few questions, if we may.”
Right away, he grew noticeably uncomfortable. Though his fingers remained clasped, his thumbs began spooling in fidgety circles. “A homicide?”
“Yes. Do you know whose?”
His eyes, like a dragonfly, darted between Carlos, the clock, the door and me. “No.”
“No?” I knew he was lying. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
Behind me, the door opened. It was Shannon again. I could see her reflection in the window behind Kemper, as she held her finger up in interruption and said, “Sorry, Mister K. It’s Stephanie Stiles again. Should I tell her you’re busy?”
His thumbs stopped spooling, reverse for a single rotation, and then started in the other direction again. “Yes, please, Shannon. Get a number. I’ll call her back.”
“But you have her number,” she said. “It is in your Rolodex. Remember?”
“Thank you, Shannon! Now shut the door and do not disturb us again, please.”
I waited until he looked at me again. “Do you know René Landau, Mister Kemper?”
He pushed back with his hands and settled into the folds of his crushed leather chair. “You know I do, Detective, or else you would not be here. I take it that his is the homicide you are investigating?”
“So you know about it?”
“Yes, I saw it on the news this morning.”
“I see. What can you tell me about your relationship with René Landau?”
He splayed his palms up empty. “What is there to tell? He robbed an armored truck. I represented him in court. He went to jail. End of story.”
“Is it?”
“What does that mean?”
“I am sure you know about the six million dollars.”
“Yes, I know that it was destroyed in the cabin fire on the day of his arrest.”
“Is that what Mister Landau told you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I cleared my throat and decided to work him from another angle. “Why didn’t you appeal the sentencing rule that Landau serve his time at M.C.I. Cedar Junction? You knew that was a level six facility.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just so you know, Walpole was recently downgraded to a minimum security facility. It’s an overcrowding issue. That is one reason they released René early. At his last parole hearing he was not even close to getting out.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, so you have kept in touch with him over the years.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Wouldn’t you? When was the last time you saw him?”
His eyes began the dragonfly dance again. He made a great effort at appearing to think hard about the question before answering, and making his answer sound damn convincing when he replied, “October, 2005.”
I regarded him with some skepticism. “October 05? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a long time ago. How can you be certain?”
“Because that was the year his son got arrested for armed robbery. René wanted me to defend him.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he couldn’t pay me; that and the fact he stilled owed me for defending him at his trial. I have a business to run. I don’t do pro-bono.”
“So, why did you represent René Landau? Did you think he could pay you then?”
“He said he could.”
“Where did you expect he would get the money?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Did you believe the money from the robbery was still at his disposal?”
Kemper’s face grew flush. What else could he tell me, except the truth, that he did think the money was still within Landau’s reach? I saw his gaze drift out the window as if tethered to spider silk. He blinked through the glare of sunlight reflecting off the wet sill. It did not matter what he thought now of the money. If the cabin fire had not destroyed it, then Landau’s death most certainly made it as worthless as the dirt he buried it under. I waited until his eyes came back to mine. They seemed empty somehow, as if bleached in the tide on which they returned. I raised my brows in anticipation. He smiled thinly and said, “Yeah, I guess I thought he could still get his hands on it.”
“But you lost the case,” I said. “The D.A. produced a surprise witness that sealed Landau’s fate, so he would not, or could not pay you.”
Kemper shook his head. “That’s all attorney client privilege. I cannot talk about it.”
“I see. All right then, let me ask you again. Why didn’t you object to Landau’s sentencing at Walpole when there were at least two more desirable locations for him to serve out his time? He had no priors; the court considered him non-violent.”
To that, Kemper answered, “It’s what he wanted.”
“Who, the Judge?”
“No, René. He said Walpole was a closer drive for his wife and son to come visit him.”
I looked to Carlos and made sure he was writing that one down. “So, you have not seen Landau since 05?”
“That is correct.”
“Talk to him since then?”
He shook his head. “Not since 05.”
“Tell me how he came across one of your business cards?”
“What do you mean?”
“Landau, he had one of your cards on him when he died. Any idea how he got it?”
Kemper shook his head. “He must have had one of my old cards. I probably gave it to him at that parole hearing I mentioned.”
“It had this address on it. Have you been here that long?”
“Sure. If you don’t believe me, look it up.”
“I just might do that.”
“Great. Then I guess we’re done here.”
“Not quite.”
“What now?”
“Stephanie Stiles?”
I could see him sinking into his chair. “What about her?”
“We know you know her, and you don’t have to blame Shannon for that. We talked to Ms. Stiles already this morning.”
“So what?”
“She told us that you introduced her to René while he was in prison.”
“Yeah? Is that a crime?”
“No, I’m simply curious why you hooked the two of them up?”
He laughed. “Call it a humanitarian gesture.”
“I’m sorry?”
He leaned forward and propped his elbows up on the desk. “Look, René’s wife passed away shortly after he went to prison. I just thought it would be nice to introduce him to a member of the female persuasion to help him in his grief.”
“Did you ever tell Stephanie about the money?”
“From the robbery?”
“Of course.”
“No! Why would I? There was no money; there is no money.”
“What is your relationship with Ms. Stiles now?”
“There is no relationship.”
“Then why do you suppose she is calling you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not spoken with her yet. Maybe she found out about René and wants to know what I know about it.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Nothing. Like I said, I just heard about it on the news. It is a shame, really, but not my problem.”
I looked at his wrist, and his five thousand dollar Rolex. “Is that new,” I asked, pointing, “your watch?”
He framed the crystal between his finger and thumb and angled it to the light to read it. “This old thing? Nah, I’ve had this forever. I never take it off, even when I sleep.”
“What about when you shower?” Carlos asked. I knew where he was going with it, but I suspected Kemper would have an answer for that, too. He turned his wrist toward us to display the watch.
“It’s waterproof.”
I smiled at that. “Okay, Mister Kemper, I guess we have used up enough of your time.”
He smiled back. “Yes, you have.”
“Oh, just one more thing, though.” We had already stood and were reaching across the desk for handshakes.
“Yes?”
“Do you own a gun?”
He hesitated just long enough to figure out why I asked. “I do,” he said, adding, “it is registered with the state, in case you are wondering.”
“What is it, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. It’s a Glock 9 semi-auto.”
We finished shaking hands. “Thank you.”
Outside in the parking lot, Carlos had plenty to say about Paul Kemper. He made no bones about his disdain for lawyers, singling out Kemper as the reason you cannot trust any of them. “It’s so obvious he is lying,” said Carlos, working himself up about it. “Only, he lies with a straight face. How does he do that?”
“What is he lying about?”
“His relationship with Stiles, for one. And don’t tell me he hasn’t talked or met with Landau since he got out of prison. You heard him say that Landau still owed him big time for defending him in court.”
“Some defense,” I said. “Landau got twenty-five to thirty for the robbery. I don’t suppose he felt he owed Kemper any money for that.”
“Well, they remained friends, you can bet. If they weren’t, Kemper wouldn’t refer to him as René; instead he would call him Landau or Mister Landau?”
“Hmm, you noticed that, too.”
“Yes and I noticed that expensive watch you mentioned? I bet if we get a warrant to check it out, we’ll find traces of Landau’s DNA on it from where it scratched his face.”
“You think that is the watch Landau found on Stile’s nightstand?”
“Of course it is. Tony, come on, you heard him say it’s waterproof. You could almost smell the toilet water dripping off it.”
I laughed at that. “You ought not jump to conclusions, Carlos. It might cloud your objectivity. We still have some digging to do you know.”
“Digging? Yeah, for the money, because if you ask me, that’s the only mystery left unsolved in this case.”
“Oh?”
He shook his finger at me. “Mark my words.”
“Sure,” I said, and after checking my watch, I gestured toward the car. “In the meantime, let’s take a ride out to Pete’s Place. I want to know what the last person to see Landau alive has to say about things.”
“You want me to drive?”
“No, I’ll drive. I wan
t you to call Spinelli and see if he can dig up anything else on Kemper and Stiles. I don’t know if they are guilty of murder, but both are hiding something from us, and I want to know what.”
“Do you want him to plant a little birdie outside her condo to see who comes and goes from there?”
I shook my head. “A spotter? No, I don’t think our level of suspicion is high enough to warrant putting a man full time outside her apartment.”
“Not a man,” he said, “a birdie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dominic has this tiny remote camera thing that can send wireless signals to his laptop. He just sets it up in a tree or on a telephone pole and it transmits a live video stream twenty-four-seven.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, he calls it a birdie. We use it all time.”
“Why am I just finding out about this?”
He winced a bit. “We don’t usually mention stuff like that to you, `cause you don’t get it—electronics, I mean.”
I planted a playful slap on the side of his head, but hard enough that I suspected it hurt. “Get this,” I said, “and stop keeping stuff from me.”
SEVEN
I have been to Pete’s Place a number of times, though mostly in my younger days. I used to think that loose women and cheap whiskey were legitimate distractions for a cop with better sense than to settle down with a wife and kids. I know that’s cliché, and I totally disagree with that philosophy now, but it is easier on the nervous system when emotional attachments outside the work place are disposable. It is a high price to pay for longevity in the field, one Carlos and I have both realized, if only too late. But for the love of the job, I suspect we would do it again, a thought I fear most. Dealt now with a new beginning and the benefit of hindsight, I pray I will see that Lilith is the only distraction I need for consoling wounds previously un-reconciled. I may love detective work almost more than life itself, but this time around, I hope to love another more.
Pete recognized Carlos as soon as we walked in the door. Of course, he did not recognize me, as I had not been there since my return to prime. He looked up at us and smiled before going back to swabbing the bar with a still steaming dishrag. We crossed before him and took the last two stools at the bar closest to the back door. Except for an old man sipping suds at the opposite end, we had the place to ourselves. Carlos snagged a bowl of shelled peanuts from the drip ledge and reeled it in, tipping it toward me for first offer. I declined.
