You Have the Right to Remain Silent

by Barbara Paul

  “It was his father’s. He inherited it along with the business.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Marian couldn’t help but think what it would be like having this man as her partner instead of the one she was saddled with. Page would be a real partner instead of a resentful, foot-dragging—no, better not get off on that. She was stuck with Foley and that was that.

  Page cleared his throat. “If you’re right that the East River Park murders were some kind of warning, then whatever’s been going on isn’t over yet. I wasn’t going to tell you until the warrant came through, but we’re going to put a tap on Quinn’s phone. Maybe we’ll get something.”

  Quite an admission. “So you do think he’s guilty?”

  He grinned, wryly. “Frankly, we couldn’t think of anything else to do. FBI rule of thumb—when you’re stuck, plant a bug. We should be set up by tonight. Do you want to listen in?”

  “Not tonight. Tonight I’m doing one of those things cops periodically do to remind themselves they do indeed have personal lives.”

  “Oh, sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “You didn’t. It’s just that I’m committed to attending a showing tonight, a sculptor named Bergstrom.”

  “Bergstrom?” Page looked at her with interest. “You like his ‘liquid configurations’? I think that’s what he calls them.”

  “I never heard of him before last week,” she admitted, a little piqued that he had. “The gallery owner is a friend of mine, and he’s been rather …”—insistent was too strong—”… persuasive,” Marian finished.

  “I see. Well, enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m sure as hell going to try,” she said with determination.

  12

  For once Marian got home in time to wash her hair before going out. She was a little edgy about seeing Brian again and began to wonder if a public reconciliation was such a good idea after all. She put on a red dress she’d worn only once before—to a party she’d gone to with Brian, she suddenly remembered. Brian had liked it. The thought occurred to her that she was dressing to please him; quickly she looked through her closet but couldn’t find anything else dressy enough to suit the occasion. So, the red dress it was.

  She found a parking place on East Seventy-eighth, only a couple of blocks from Brian’s gallery. The night air had turned chill, as if suddenly recalling it was September. The walk back toward Madison served to increase her jitters, for it was then that Marian finally admitted she wanted to see Brian again. Why had they fought? Best not to remember.

  The gallery was crowded, noisy, and so brightly lighted that Marian had to squint at first, coming in from the dark. Scores of ultrastylish people with drinks in their hands moved to an intricate dance of their own devising, totally unrelated to the taped music booming from the concealed wall speakers. At the same time these ostensible patrons of the arts all engaged in a speedtalking contest, those that weren’t waiting for their turn to compete. One or two of them were actually looking at the sculptures. Cliché in living color, Marian thought. She didn’t see Brian.

  She accepted a glass of champagne from a morose-looking young man bearing a tray and edged through the crowd toward the nearest sculpture. The piece looked like an old-fashioned TV antenna that was just starting to melt. What was the phrase Trevor Page had used? Liquid configurations. Well, it did look rather liquid at that. Marian knew she was supposed to be overcome by the aesthetics of the piece, but all she could think was How did he do that? She wondered which of these people was Bergstrom.

  Ten minutes passed and still no sign of Brian. Marian knew he had to be here somewhere; the gallery wasn’t all that large, but the constantly moving crowd made it difficult to see more than a few yards. She put down her empty champagne glass and started a systematic hunt.

  In a matter of seconds she caught a glimpse not of Brian but of another face she knew. Black hair, black eyes that bored into you like drills, downturned mouth, condescending air. He was dressed all in black, as he had been the first time she’d seen him, in Captain DiFalco’s office. In his slightly decadent way, Curt Holland looked right at home among this artsy crowd.

  When he saw that she’d spotted him, he made his way over to her. “Well, well, if it isn’t Maid Marian.”

  She was angry. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “Page was the only person I told I was coming here. Did he send you to spy on me?”

  “Page didn’t send me at all. He mentioned you were coming to the Bergstrom showing so I decided to take a look myself.”

  Marian grunted. “So suddenly you’re interested in sculpture? I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “I’m interested in what you’re up to. You found something that brought you to this gallery—I want to know what it is.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “I do have a personal life, you know.”

  He gave her one of his cynical smiles. “Page may have bought that, but I myself am inclined to be a trifle more skeptical when it comes to what the local police choose to tell us. You wouldn’t be holding something out on us, would you, Sergeant?”

  “Butt out, Holland. This has nothing to do with the FBI. Go away.”

  “I think not.”

  They were interrupted by a loud burst of laughter. As it died away, Marian could hear Brian’s voice calling, “Marian darling! There you are! Stay right where you are—I’ll come to you.”

  Marian “darling”?

  He was with three other people, two men and a woman. Marian knew the men, both sycophantic social butterflies whom she couldn’t stand. But the woman—the woman was new. Tall, chic, with hair so blond it was white, hanging straight to her collar bone where it had been cut to razor-edge sharpness. Younger than Marian. The blonde was clinging to Brian’s arm with a familiarity that made it plain the two had not met tonight for the first time.

  “Hello, Brian,” Marian forced herself to say, and nodded to the others.

  “Ah, you’re wearing your red ‘power’ dress, I see—I’ve always liked that one,” Brian said with an insincere smile. He shot a glance at Holland. “And you brought a friend—how nice. Or is our little opening so threatening you felt you needed moral support?”

  Marian couldn’t believe her ears; she’d never heard Brian be so … bitchy. She pointedly did not introduce Holland, who stood silently watching and listening.

  Brian said, “Diane, love, I want you to meet Marian Larch. Sergeant Marian Larch.”

  The blonde’s eyebrows rose. “Sergeant? Uh, like in the army?”

  So she didn’t know who Marian was. “Police.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.” The other woman’s smile was friendly.

  Brian disengaged Diane’s arm so he could put his own arm around her waist, dropping his hand so that it was resting low on her hip. “Diane is a model. Isn’t she lovely?”

  One of the male butterflies snickered. “Don’t they make a super couple?”

  That was why Brian had wanted her to come? To see her replacement? He set me up again, Marian thought, stunned. The son of a bitch, he set me up again! “Brian,” she said wonderingly, “I had no idea you could be so petty.”

  Brian and the butterflies all laughed as if she’d said something wonderfully witty; Diane joined in, although it was clear she had no idea of what was going on. The same butterfly who’d spoken before said, “You’re not going to make a scene, are you, Marian?”

  Don’t you wish. Marian ignored him and spoke to Brian. “You didn’t have to do this. Does it make you feel taller? You could have just let it go.”

  “Oh, I’m never one to let things go,” he answered airily. “I firmly believe in tying up loose ends. You don’t mind being referred to as a loose end, do you, Marian?” He smiled at his own double entendre.

  Even Diane caught the insult; something like comprehension was beginning to dawn in her face. She looked from Brian
to Marian and back to Brian again. That’s right, honey, Marian thought; if he did it to me, he can do it to you. She looked her ex-lover straight in the eye. “Now that I’ve seen what I was meant to see here,” she said evenly, “there’s no point in my staying any longer. Goodbye, Brian.” She put a finality into the last two words that no one could possibly misunderstand. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and left with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “Oh, don’t go away mad!” a butterfly voice wafted after her.

  Outside, Marian walked rapidly back toward her car, her face burning. How dare he? How dare he? She didn’t even know the Brian she’d just left; he wasn’t the same man who’d given her so much joy in the past. Marian cursed herself for a fool, for allowing herself to be set up again. People lied to her all the time in her job and she could almost always tell when; but she’d not once questioned the seductive lies on her answering machine. She should have anticipated something like this, she should have been able to see through Brian better—she certainly had enough to go on. But no, she’d hung on, trying to make a go of it, unwilling to admit she’d made that big a mistake in judgment.

  “I apologize,” a voice said beside her. Startled, Marian jerked her head around; she hadn’t even realized Holland was walking with her. “You were right,” he said. “I had no business being there.”

  Marian sighed. “Holland, couldn’t you just discreetly disappear?”

  “I intend to. But first—are you all right?”

  “That’s a dumb question,” she muttered. They’d reached her car; she unlocked the door and climbed in.

  Holland tapped on the glass and she rolled down the window. “Just one thing,” he said. “You must have really gotten to him—otherwise he wouldn’t have gone to such extremes.”

  “Stand back,” she ordered. When he did, she started the car and drove away. The last thing she needed was commiseration from the man who’d witnessed her humiliation.

  Marian had a hard time making it into work the next morning. She’d stayed up too late and she’d had a few drinks. Last night she’d just driven around for a while, yelling at other drivers now and then to let off steam. Then she’d spotted a parking place a few doors down from a bar and it seemed only natural to pull in. Marian wasn’t a heavy drinker, and drinking alone had never been much fun. She wanted company, but it had to be someone who would listen indulgently and let her gripe until she got it out of her system. That let out the entire Ninth Precinct. Kelly Ingram? No: preview performance tonight. In the end Marian had called her old partner from better days and got him to come join her in the bar. On the whole Ivan Malecki had listened sympathetically, but then he took a stern-uncle line with her.

  “You’re better off without that Brian,” he’d said, pouring himself a beer.

  “You’re telling me something I already know,” she’d muttered.

  “So why did you stay with him?”

  “I must have had a reason. I just can’t remember what it was.”

  Ivan’s comfortably familiar face had smiled sympathetically. “You should have walked away yourself, long ago. You musta seen signs he was the kinda man who could pull a stunt like that. Why didn’t you walk away then?”

  Marian didn’t know.

  When she finally dragged herself into the Precinct Detective Unit room the following morning, it was to find four men she didn’t know taking up what little space the crowded office had. They were all reading from the reports on the East River Park murders.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”

  “Major Crimes Unit,” one of them said without lifting his head.

  Marian whirled and charged into Captain DiFalco’s office. He lifted a hand to stop her before she could say anything. “No, they haven’t taken over the case … yet. But you can be damned sure they’re looking for gaps in the case we’re building. Your police work had better be rock solid on this one, Larch.”

  “It is, Captain. We didn’t leave any holes.”

  “Because if you did, because if they find one little thing we’ve forgotten, we can kiss that case goodbye. I’ve given you a lot of leeway, Larch, because I thought you’d function better without me breathing down your neck. But if you screw this up for me, I promise you, you’re going to regret the day you ever set foot in the Ninth Precinct.”

  I already do, she thought. “We’ve covered everything,” she said firmly. “And what we couldn’t get to, the FBI took care of. Major Crimes isn’t going to find anything.” Marian wasn’t at all sure that was true, but it was death to appear uncertain when reporting to a superior; she’d learned that lesson her first year on the force.

  DiFalco dismissed her and she went back to her desk, one corner of which was being used by one of the Major Crimes men. Her head hurt. Foley was in one of his sullen moods and wasn’t speaking; that suited Marian fine. The FBI was nowhere in sight. The memory of the ugly trick Brian had played on her the night before kept running through her head; with an effort she pushed the scene out of her mind, took a Nuprin, and pulled out the glossies taken at East River Park.

  Conrad Webb. Sherman J. Bigelow. Herbert Vickers. Jason O’Neill. Webb was the heart and soul of the liaison group, and probably its mind as well. Two men would have been needed to take his place: Bigelow for his know-how and O’Neill for his “charm,” as Edgar Quinn put it. And the group was rounded out by overweight, disorganized Herb Vickers with his talent for explaining high-tech matters to laymen. If any one of them had been involved in selling secrets, surely the FBI would have found at least traces of the deal by now. Probably Quinn just wanted the killer to be someone outside Universal Laser. Or wanted the police to think so, if he himself was guilty.

  How can you have four murders and NO suspects? The only reason she had for even considering Edgar Quinn a possible suspect was something that Quinn himself had said, that one of the four victims might have been selling Universal Laser secrets. Sheer supposition on his part, if he was playing straight; an attempt to misdirect the investigation if he was not. That was all they had on him, that and an iffy alibi. But Elizabeth Tanner’s alibi wasn’t absolutely airtight; a further check had revealed a time early Saturday evening when she, her husband, and their Glen Cove host had not been together.

  “Got something,” Foley said from the next desk. “Put it in writing,” he said to his phone and hung up. “Security at Universal Laser was one man short on Saturday. Regular man and two back-ups were sick, a fourth man couldn’t be located. They like to keep two men on the monitors, so one’s always watching while the other’s doing rounds upstairs. But only one was manning the monitors Saturday.”

  Marian grinned at him. “So that’s how they got out of the building. It’s also how someone else could get it.”

  “Yeah, they just snuck by when the guard was taking a crap.”

  “Elegant, Foley. But would there be enough time to get four bodies out? They must have still been alive when they left.” She noticed all four men from Major Crimes listening intently.

  “Shit,” Foley said. “We still don’t have the scene.”

  Marian thought a minute. “Yeah, I hate to give up on Universal Laser. That guard still sick? Get somebody to pin him down as to exactly when he left his post and for how long. And we don’t take ‘I can’t remember’ as an answer.”

  Foley reached for his phone, and Marian sifted through the papers in her desk drawer until she found the card Trevor Page had left. Her call was transferred three times but she finally got him on the line.

  “Sergeant Larch,” he said with a lift in his voice. “Anything new?”

  “Maybe. I want to know if Holland’s finished his check of Universal Laser’s computers.”

  “Yes, he wrapped it up yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. All the erased files Holland recovered were records of ordinary business transactions that are no longer current. And the only hidden files were restricted ones accessi
ble only to certain key personnel for security reasons, or else they were ordinary DOS system files. You were counting on something?”

  “Did Holland read all the files?”

  Page laughed, ruefully. “It would take a year to read the correspondence alone. Holland has access to the restricted files, of course, but they all have to do with the Defense Department project and we already know about that.”

  “You already know about it.”

  “Believe me, Sergeant, if there were anything to be found, Holland would have found it. But I’m glad you called. There’s something here you might be interested in—I don’t know whether it’s related to the killings or not, but there’s a chance. Can you come here?”

  “I’m on my way.” She hung up and told Foley she was off to Federal Plaza. As she left she saw the Major Crimes men watching her and openly wondering if she was on to something. She exited with a flourish, doing nothing to spoil the impression.

  13

  The FBI offices at Federal Plaza had the impersonality all government offices have to some degree, slightly forbidding at first but then quickly forgettable. Trevor Page was waiting at the main doors and led Marian to an office that had no name or number on the door.

  “Sorry I had to ask you to come here,” Page said, “but we uncovered some information I couldn’t print out because it’s in one of our classified files. You’ll have to read it from the computer screen.”

  That struck Marian as odd; she didn’t have any sort of government security clearance. Page must be bending the rules for her benefit. “What kind of information?”

  “Did you ever hear of a man named Evan Christopher?”

  “No. Who’s he?”

  “An arms dealer. When we struck out on Universal Laser’s people, we decided to run a check on their suppliers and customers. Christopher has dealt with Universal in the past, twice. But here’s what turned up—Christopher was at Harvard the same time Jason O’Neill was enrolled there.”