‘It indicates the presence of hydrocarbons – gasoline, kerosene.’
Dennis shook his head – yes, give information to get information. And slowly, using the back of his hand he wiped his tears. ‘You think it was him that started it? My father would never do something like that . . . not deliberately. And yes his place was filled with solvents. Turpentine, denatured alcohol, the oils he used for lubricating and cleaning the clocks. I kept telling him to get rid of it, that it was a fire hazard. But it was useless, just made him mad. And all those fucking journals . . . It started in his apartment; is that what you’re saying?’
‘It looks that way, Dennis,’ Hank said.
‘How did you hear about the fire?’ Mattie asked.
And Dennis knew this was where he needed to tread softly. Say the truth the whole truth and leave out the bits that can cause problems. ‘Wally Doyle called me.’
‘At what time?’
‘Before four a.m.’
‘Not after?’
‘No,’ he repeated, watching the gears turn behind Detective Mattie Perez’s dark eyes.
‘You realize that was before the first nine-one-one call.’
‘I do now; I didn’t then.’
‘Do you remember the exact time?’
He stopped, remembering the call pulling him from a deep sleep. Annoyed to hear Wally’s voice, pissed that he’d used the house line and not the disposable cell he kept for their conversations. But in this case, probably best to have left a record. ‘I’d say three forty-five, but I’m sure you can check with the phone company.’ Suspecting she already had.
‘Why would he call you?’ she asked.
Dennis looked at his hands and at the cooling cup of coffee before him. He pictured Wally, and felt a pang of loss. Mostly for what Wally represented, a man who would literally die for him. ‘We were like brothers. In fact, he was closer to me than my own. Of course he’d call. I’d just assumed he’d already called the fire department, or . . . he probably didn’t think he needed to.’ He looked at her. ‘The place had sprinklers and alarms, aren’t those supposed to trigger a call if there’s a problem? Why didn’t that happen? Why didn’t they go off?’ And without being told he knew the answer, and suspected the culprits, one of whom – Delia – was dead. What were she and Jim playing at?
‘Tell me everything you can about that call,’ she said.
Dennis remembered the terror in Wally’s voice, the pitch high and breathless, like air through a dog’s squeeze toy. ‘What am I supposed to do, Dennis? Tell me what am I supposed to do?’ ‘He wanted me there. I told him to get everyone out, to stay calm and that I’d be there as fast as I could.’ Most of which was true, the part he omitted: ‘Make sure you’ve emptied the safe.’
‘Was there more?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. I hung up, threw something on and drove over.’ He’d floored the accelerator for the ten-minute drive, and, as he’d approached Nillewaug, saw smoke rising from behind the central residence. As he’d turned down the long drive to the facility he’d been shocked at the sight of flames over the roof. And then sirens, but from behind him. ‘It was all wrong,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten there before the fire trucks.’
‘What was Wally Doyle doing there?’ Detective Perez asked.
He looked at her, a quizzical expression on his tear-streaked face. ‘He didn’t say . . . I don’t know.’
‘Do you find his being there at three forty-five in the morning unusual?’
‘Very.’
‘And he didn’t say why?’ she persisted.
‘No, maybe someone on staff called and said there was a problem . . .’ He stared ahead, questions hammering at his thoughts. Good question, Detective – what the fuck was Wally doing there? When he’d arrived the fire was blazing, and the hottest spot was the back windows of his father’s second-floor apartment. ‘It doesn’t add up.’
‘No,’ she agreed, and then abruptly shifted topics. ‘What was your relationship to Nillewaug?’
‘Other than getting my dad in there when it opened, I invested a million dollars.’
‘Back in nineteen ninety-nine?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your return on investment?’
‘Solid,’ he said.
‘How solid?’ she asked.
‘Nothing the first two years, then a steady five to ten percent annually. Which, considering the crap economy, is damn good.’
‘A million dollars is a lot of money. What made you decide to put it in Nillewaug?’
Her questions were starting to annoy. All of this she already knew; she was gauging his veracity. But one of the myriad things he’d learned in prison was that his natural tendency to lie had to be resisted. Lies, of which he told many, needed to be perfect. Lying for lying’s sake was for kids and fools. ‘Several reasons,’ he said, keeping his tone even. ‘I know and trust Wally and Jim. Grenville, as you’re probably aware, is a Mecca for wealthy retirees and when they showed me the business plan, it seemed rock solid. And, it was at a time where I knew my dad had to downsize.’ In spite of himself, he smiled – ‘Like that was ever going to happen. I figured I could move him in at the beginning, get one of the best units.’
‘At a discount?’ Mattie asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘my dad loved nothing more than a good bargain.’
‘How long ago did he retire?’ she asked.
What is she doing? A twinge of rage like razors down his spine: it’s a trick. ‘According to him he never fully retired, just stopped performing surgery.’
‘What does that mean . . . not fully retired? Was he still seeing patients?’
His blue eyes narrowed, while his tone stayed pleasant and conversational, a good citizen, a grieving son. ‘He closed his surgical practice a year or two before moving to Nillewaug. I know that he kept renewing his license and went to conferences. Beyond that he told me about doing some consultation; I don’t know the details.’
‘Would you describe him as wealthy?’ she asked.
‘He was comfortable,’ he said, trying to figure where she was going. Of course, she’s trying to establish motive.
‘Do you know his net worth?’
‘Couple million I suspect.’
‘But no longer in his name.’
He nodded. Yes, she’s either done her homework or is good at guessing. ‘When he moved to Nillewaug his financial adviser recommended we – me and my brothers – put the money into a trust. At the same time Dad did all the other legal stuff like power of attorney, updated his will and made one of my brothers his health-care proxy in case anything happened to him.’
‘Wally Doyle was his adviser?’
He shook his head and sighed – more grief, but not too much. ‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t find that odd, or a conflict of interest?’
‘Because he also worked for Nillewaug?’ he asked, letting her know he understood where she was going and had nothing to hide.
He looked at Hank seated at the head of the table. ‘While it’s not as small as it used to be, this is Grenville. We don’t think about things like that. Yes, it’s probably not a good idea to have a friend or family member as your financial adviser or your attorney or your doctor, but we all do. End of the day it’s a matter of trust and who has your back.’ And thank God he’d finally cut the strings on his hulking puppet. He imagined fat Wally trying to field these questions, and the others that would most certainly follow. Like, where did you come up with the idea to divest Nillewaug residents of their assets? Or, how did you know to stay below the thresholds for the number of residents you’d bill to Medicaid?
‘So on paper,’ she continued, ‘your father had very little in the way of assets. Even the bank accounts he had access to were under your brother Robert’s name.’
‘Yes.’
Detective Perez glanced at her young partner. ‘What’s the total so far, Jamie, of the cash found in Dr Trask’s apartment?’
/> ‘Sixty-five thousand dollars.’
Dennis stared at the tall young woman and then back at the detective. His expression incredulous, but not overdone. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You weren’t aware that your father had a considerable amount of cash in his apartment?’
‘No.’ He stared at his hands, his brow furrowed. Dad is dead, Delia is dead and Wally is dead, the only one left who knows is Jim – what have you been up to Jim? Did you kill my dad? The only possible answer that made any sense was yes. With that realization, like a match on gasoline, his rage ignited. Hold it together, Dennis, smile. ‘I know little about my father’s day-to-day finances. All of that’s handled by my brother, Robert. I have no idea why Dad had that kind of money.’ You’re a dead man, Jim. Dead dead dead. All doubt erased. Jim had killed his father . . . and Delia and then tried to bolt. Dead dead dead.
The young detective cleared her throat. ‘And then there’s the bonds.’
Dennis froze, his mind’s eye picturing Jim Warren’s body riddled with bullets. ‘What bonds?’
‘Fifty thousand dollars in old US bearer bonds,’ Detective Perez said.
‘Why would he have those?’ Dennis asked, knowing exactly where those bonds came from, and why his dad had so much cash. All his life a seemingly endless supply of untaxed liquidity that had bought Dennis’s freedom on more than one occasion.
‘Good question. Do you have an answer?’
‘No.’
‘Or where that cash was coming from?’
‘I don’t.’ But of course he did. Knowing how each week Delia would give his father a couple thousand dollars for signing off on stacks of bogus treatment plans for hundreds of Nillewaug residents. His dad knew it was fraud, but rationalized it away. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he’d say, ‘look at all the taxes these people have paid. They deserve to have their care underwritten by the government. It’s peanuts. And if you think about it, the care they’re getting here –’ never including himself – ‘is better than a nursing home.’
‘And you had no knowledge of your father’s finances?’
‘Just what I told you. You need to speak to my brother, Bob.’ Picturing his staid oldest brother, an orthopedic surgeon like his father and a kiss-ass through and through. But the truth, which was abundantly clear to all three brothers, was that while dad had little time for Dennis growing up, he was without doubt the favorite. If asked why, his older brothers would mumble something about Dennis’s athletic abilities or his early school achievements – they would be wrong.
‘From what you said your father’s estate is considerable. Didn’t you mind being marginalized in the decision making?’
‘I didn’t see it that way, and frankly, I don’t see what bearing this has on the investigation of my father’s murder. Detective Perez, if I’m under suspicion in any way, just come out with it. This dancing around is getting us nowhere. I know that you know I have a criminal past. You know I did a year at Osborn and that I had my felony expunged seven years after I got out. I’m sure Chief Morgan has told you about all the stupid shit I did when I was a teenager. To say I was a steady customer here would be an understatement. When it came time for my dad to move to Nillewaug, and to do all of that financial planning, I didn’t want anything in my name. My brothers and I have a long history; they don’t trust me. And I don’t blame them.’
‘And obviously,’ she said, ‘a man who can invest a million dollars with friends is not hurting for money.’
‘Correct.’ Seeing where she was going, he beat her to the next line of questioning. ‘My dad gave me a sizeable loan when I got out of prison. It paid for my first car dealership in exchange for a series of promises.’ Despite the situation, he smiled, remembering those long-ago conversations with his dad, most of them during his weekly visits at Osborn. Those hours were some of his most treasured memories. ‘We’re more alike than you might think, Dennis,’ his father had said. And that had been the truth, although never before spoken. ‘The difference,’ his respected surgeon father had explained, ‘is you let people see your wild side and it scares them. I keep mine hidden, even from your mother. We both know how much better you are than everyone else, smarter, stronger, faster.’
It was during those talks that Dennis had shared with his father that things weren’t quite so hidden. ‘I know about you and your women, Dad. The receptionist you paid off, the girls when you’re at your “conferences”.’ There was more, having spent hours perusing his father’s financial statements and the books for his surgical practice, realizing that what his dad reported to the IRS was roughly a third of what he had coming in. And then there was always cash and bonds in the gun safe, which Dennis had learned how to break in to when he was eleven. Stacks of cash from patients who, for whatever reasons, didn’t want to go through their insurance companies and paid for procedures in cash. And now the detective, while raising questions, had clarified several. Finding that much cash in his dad’s apartment ‘A’ made sense and ‘B’ ruled out robbery. He fidgeted with his Styrofoam cup. ‘My dad wanted me to straighten up, and we negotiated what that would entail. It worked out pretty well.’
‘How much was the loan for?’ she asked.
‘Five hundred grand for a down payment on the Toyota dealership, and then a second loan for the same when I wanted to get the lot next door. But after a few years where he saw I wasn’t slipping back into my evil ways . . .’ He shot Hank a look. ‘And yes, I did have a couple slips that I’m certain our Police Chief will tell you about, but eventually my dad told me to forget about the money.’ A tear tracked down his cheek. ‘He told me that he’d paid for college for my brothers and that this was no different. I went to Osborn and they went to Yale and Stanford.’
‘What about enemies?’ Mattie asked.
Dennis stopped. Years of dealing with cops, judges and attorneys had trained him never to jump at an unclear question. Instead, taking a page from all the attorneys who’d prepped him over the years, he parroted her question. ‘Enemies?’
‘Your father, are you aware if there was anyone who’d want to harm him?’
‘No. My dad was well liked. If he had an enemy I didn’t know about it.’ He knew this was untrue, but the irony was that the man who killed his father – Jim Warren – was far more friend than enemy. He wondered if his dad had suffered, and knew that if these officers didn’t lock him up here and now, he wouldn’t rest till Jim had paid for what he’d done. Thinking of the how gave him a tingle of excitement.
Detective Perez turned to Hank Morgan. ‘Did you have any questions?’ she asked.
To Dennis it felt like she was checking in with the local Police Chief – God, he looks old. He waited, thinking of his dad, of how many times he’d been called by Hank in the past. Always showing up, never doing what Jim’s dad would do – ‘Leave him there overnight, knock some sense into him.’ He wondered what was running through Hank’s head. There had been lots of situations, but so far in the past. All the kids he’d shake down for their lunch money or just for the fun of it. Occasionally one of them working up the balls to try and fight back, but with Wally and then Jim at his side it never went well for them. As a kid he’d get a thrill when the calls would come from angry parents, teachers, or the vice principal – ‘The principal in charge of vice,’ Jim would joke. Listening in the hall as his mother fretted and made excuses.
‘Are you certain it was Dennis? It must have been some other boy.’ Her feeble attempts at discipline. ‘You have to be punished. When your father gets here . . .’
Hank looked at Dennis. ‘Dennis, were you aware that Jim and Wally were in some kind of financial trouble with Nillewaug?’
Interesting, Dennis thought, meeting the Police Chief’s gaze. This does feel like old times, that weird sensation that Hank Morgan knew more than he was telling. Hank could play the hick cop, but he was no fool. It was a trap and for the first time in the interview he didn’t know how to avoid it. ‘I didn’t,’ he said, going
for the simplest lie possible. But as it left his lips he knew that Hank knew it wasn’t true.
‘Who told you about Wally?’ he asked.
‘What about him?’
Hank cocked a brow. ‘His . . . death.’
‘Jen,’ Dennis said, suddenly feeling like he was falling back in time and was once again the smart-mouthed drunk teenager in the holding tank. And why did he say ‘death’ that way?
‘Of course. You ever see Bill Stankus?’
Dennis fought the impulse to smirk. ‘No,’ he said, remembering one of the dorky kids he’d terrorized from elementary through high school. Stinky Stankus, the name he’d been given after peeing himself in fear in the third grade.
‘Roger Clayton?’
‘Sorry, no, not since junior high.’ What is he going for? Gayton Clayton was the biggest fag in town, now supposedly some big deal Broadway producer. Clayton was also the first kid that landed a then twelve-year-old Dennis in real trouble. It hadn’t been his fault. Prissy little Clayton had overreacted when Dennis had done his usual routine. It had been after school, and maybe it was the purple puffy-sleeved shirt Clayton was wearing that day, but the kid had it coming. They’d rode home on the same bus, Clayton getting out a few stops before Dennis. But on that day, Dennis, without Wally or Jim, had followed Clayton. Middle of the afternoon, no one around. He’d felt the kid’s fear, as he’d tried to pretend Dennis wasn’t steps behind him and just kept walking. ‘Hey, Gayton,’ he’d shouted, when the bus pulled away, ‘have you always liked to suck dick?’ And then Clayton had said something smart-assed – no, he thought, trying to remember. Maybe he’d just begged Dennis to leave him alone. As if that was going to happen. And Dennis was all over him, not really meaning to hurt him, just the fun of watching him cry, his hands over his face, falling to the ground. Dennis kicking his books into a clump of poison ivy and then stomping Clayton, something about that feeling so right. Looking around the wooded street, no one watching. Kicking him again. ‘Get your hands out of the way.’ The kid holding his belly, trying to cover his face. ‘I said, get your fucking hands out of the way!’ A kick in the gut, a kick in the back. The kid blubbering, begging him to stop. Kick kick kick, and then a woman’s voice: ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Leave him alone! I’m calling the cops! Leave him alone!’ Even the memory of it causing his pulse to quicken, standing over Clayton, knowing the kid’s life was in his hands. But now, looking up at Hank, those familiar eyes the way he was watching him.
Best Place to Die Page 16
