by Barbara Paul
“In the bedroom,” she replied, and pointed. When she heard the manservant’s voice on the line, she said, “Lewis? This is Sergeant Larch, NYPD. You had the pleasure of tossing me out of Mr. Quinn’s apartment a couple of days ago.”
“Ah yes, I remember it well,” Lewis said. “The most exciting thing that happened all week.”
“Hm. Lewis, you told me Trevor Page made that wine stain on the carpet. Are you positive it was Page?”
“Perfectly positive. Absolutely sure. And even dead cert.”
“Did you see him do it?”
“No, but he was the only one in the room other than Mr. Quinn, and I told you Mr. Quinn doesn’t drink wine. Are you suggesting we bill him for cleaning expenses?”
“How often has Trevor Page been there?”
“May I ask why this all-consuming interest in Mr. Page’s activities?”
“Lewis, please—it’s important.”
A heavy sigh came over the wire. “Oh, very well. He’s been here on half a dozen occasions that I know of, possibly more. I’m not here all the time. They do let me out once in a while, you know.”
“When was the last time Page was there?”
“Wednesday night. Sergeant, I enjoy Twenty Questions as much as anyone, but I am growing weary of this little game. Is there anything more you’re going to ask me?”
“One thing more. Did the stain come out?”
“Like a dream.”
Marian thanked him and hung up.
“He sounds English,” Holland said, coming out of the bedroom. “Well? Are you convinced?”
“Yes,” she said. “Page lied about being on personal terms with Edgar Quinn. It was Page who brought the conveniently dead Evan Christopher to my attention. And Page had the means for setting up the false money trail.”
“Conveniently dead—yes. Page is the supreme opportunist. A man he’s never met has an accident in his home, and Page finds a way to use it.”
“One thing I don’t get. If you taught him all about how to move money around, why did he leave the dates in the banks’ back-up systems to give him away?”
Holland smiled, this time with his eyes. “I didn’t say I taught him everything I know.”
Marian shook her head. “It’s hard to think of Page as Edgar Quinn’s accomplice—I sort of had Elizabeth Tanner pegged for that role.”
“Page isn’t Quinn’s accomplice—it’s the other way around. They’re in it together, but Page is the one with the initiative. Quinn can be led.”
Elizabeth Tanner had once said the same thing. “So now what?” Marian asked. “Wait a minute—Page set up the phony money trail on Monday? But that’s the day he went to Washington.”
Holland thought back. “You’re right, that’s the day he said he was going to Washington. That’s my next step—I’ll check with the FBI there. I hope I don’t have to go to Washington.” He went toward the phone; but before he could pick it up, it rang.
It was the Ninth Precinct desk sergeant. Captain DiFalco wanted Sergeant Larch at the stationhouse toot sweet.
“Read that,” DiFalco commanded.
It was the lab report on blood traces found on one of the platform trucks Universal Laser used for moving office equipment around. The hematologist had been able to identify the DNA code of one of them; it was Conrad Webb’s blood. “Bingo,” Marian said.
“So now we know where the murders were committed and how they got the bodies out of the building,” DiFalco said. “None of the protective mats had blood on them, though—the killers must have tossed them. But why’d they bring the platform truck back?”
“The trucks I saw all had numbers stenciled on them,” Marian told him. “Someone was keeping track.”
“Yah, that must be it. Okay, reconstruction time. From the beginning. Talk it through for me.”
Marian thought a moment. “The beginning is the project Universal Laser is developing independent of the Defense Department, not Project Soundbender but the hush-hush one only a handful of people know about. The Washington liaison group was in on it—Conrad Webb, Sherman Bigelow, Herb Vickers, and Jason O’Neill. That sounds to me as if Edgar Quinn was about ready to go to the government with it. But whatever the project is, it’s been kept secret from most of Universal’s employees as well as from the Defense Department.
“But one of the liaison group let the cat out of the bag—one of them either sold information or was careless or whatever, but the whole company knew something had gone terribly wrong even if they didn’t know what it was. Now this part is sheer speculation. Even the three innocent members of the liaison party didn’t know which of their group was responsible, so they got together Saturday afternoon at Jason O’Neill’s apartment to try to protect themselves by ferreting out the guilty one. They didn’t succeed in fingering the talker, but they thought of a way they might find out and it involved going into Universal’s offices—probably to check some records or correspondence or the like.”
“That’s a hell of a lot of speculating,” DiFalco said.
“I know, but it’s the only way this mess makes any sense. They couldn’t go into the offices right away—for reasons unknown—so they hung out at O’Neill’s place until around six o’clock. O’Neill had called his girlfriend at three and told her he’d be late. That meant they had to wait three hours to go check whatever they had in mind. But at around six they did go in, signing in with the security guard. The guard was sick, and the killers were already in the building, having just walked in during one of the times the guard was in the men’s room.”
“They could have made an appointment with the killers,” DiFalco said. “That would account for their hanging around for three hours until it was time for the meet.”
“Entirely possible,” Marian agreed. “But whether the group was surprised to find the killers there or only surprised to find they were killers, all four murders took place in the offices of Universal Laser Technologies. One of the killers held a thirty-eight on the four men while the other killer handcuffed them together. Then one by one each man was shot, through the right eye, because the killers themselves didn’t know which of the four men had blabbed. The message was ‘See what happens when you talk?’ and it was aimed at the other Universal people who are working on the clandestine project. The bodies were loaded on a platform truck, and they must have been covered by a couple of mats. Let’s see, now, how would that work?”
“Speed it up, will you?” DiFalco said. “I have to be downstairs in ten minutes.”
“All right, I think I’ve got it. The two killers took the platform with the bodies into the elevator and down to the second floor. One of the killers remained with the bodies while the other walked down to the first floor, staying in the stairwell and watching until the guard got up and went to the men’s room. Then the killer left the stairwell and hit the button that brought the elevator down to the ground floor. That’s about the only way they could have worked it. They pushed the platform outside, loaded the bodies into the van they’d already stolen—that’s premeditation right there. One of them sneaked the platform truck back in, and they drove the van to East River Park and dumped the bodies where they were sure to be seen. The protective mats must have had blood on them so they ditched them somewhere, the river maybe, and abandoned the stolen van on South Street. How does that sound?”
“It sounds damned good,” DiFalco said, getting up from behind his desk.
“Wait a minute, Captain, I have something else. Curt Holland told me—”
“I can’t wait,” he said. “Trevor Page and I are making a joint statement to the press. I’ve got to get downstairs.”
“Trevor Page?”
“There’ve been some new developments. That’s why I called you in—I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“But it’s Page who was Quinn’s partner!” Marian said to his retreating back. He didn’t hear, or didn’t want to. On her way to the stationhouse, she’d decided she didn’t have the right to
remain silent about what Holland had told her, despite the FBI man’s misgivings concerning Captain DiFalco. But Page was here, now … downstairs? A hard knot burned in her chest.
What was this press announcement about? She hurried downstairs after DiFalco.
19
Downstairs at the Ninth Precinct stationhouse, the high-ceilinged main room was crowded with reporters and camera operators. Captain DiFalco and Trevor Page were standing with their backs against the battered, chest-high brass rail that separated the main desk from the sad stream of supplicants, complainers, nuts, and real victims that flowed through the stationhouse. The desk sergeant had left his seat and moved aside, safely out of the camera shots. No chance for a little stolen limelight with two Big Cheeses on the scene.
Marian found herself a place behind a file cabinet and watched. From where she stood, she had a three-quarters rear view of Page; he hadn’t seen her yet. Again she felt that deep sense of loss. And she was uneasy for another reason; she should have thrown a hammerlock on DiFalco and made him listen before he appeared before the cameras shoulder-to-shoulder with Trevor Page. Since they were on DiFalco’s home turf, the captain spoke first.
“Thank you for coming,” he said in a voice deeper than the one he normally used. “As you know, the Ninth Precinct and the FBI have been cooperating in the investigation of the East River Park murders.” Not the police and the FBI, Marian noticed, but the Ninth Precinct; DiFalco was squeezing it for all he could get. “This joint effort has produced results that neither agency could have obtained alone. I’m pleased to announce that we expect to take one of the two perpetrators into custody shortly.”
What’s this?
DiFalco cleared his throat. “We have a warrant for the arrest of Edgar Quinn, president and major stockholder of Universal Laser Technologies.”
“What?” Marian cried, her voice lost in the buzz of excitement from the news reporters.
DiFalco raised a hand to silence the reporters. “We’re looking for Mr. Quinn now. He’s not in his home, but we’re sure he hasn’t had time to leave the city.”
Marian was thunderstruck. What was he doing, what in the hell was he doing? Getting a warrant, deciding the case was solved, making a public announcement before Quinn was in custody … all without so much as consulting her?
DiFalco went on, “Conrad Webb, Sherman T. Bigelow, Herbert Vickers, and Jason O’Neill were all killed in an attempt to keep secret a project Universal Laser has been working on. We have only recently learned that the project in question is a laser handgun.”
Marian gasped, as did every other cop in the room. The reporters looked at them uncertainly, not grasping the significance.
“I’m sure I don’t have to explain what this means,” DiFalco said, and then proceeded to do just that. “A laser handgun would deprive law enforcement agencies all over the world of one of their most important defenses against crime. We’ve all seen make-believe laser pistols in the movies,” he went on, milking it, “guns that shoot laser beams instead of bullets. You hear what I’m saying? No bullets. And no bullets means no ballistics. Without ballistics, a good ninety percent of firearms-related crimes would go unsolved. Without the deterrent of punishment, crime itself would skyrocket and become totally out of control. I want to take this opportunity to call upon the lawmakers of this country to pass immediate legislation to outlaw the manufacture, sale, and distribution of laser handguns.”
An uproar broke out among the reporters. Marian was stunned. A laser handgun—no wonder Quinn wanted it kept secret. But what was Trevor Page doing taking part in this public announcement? And when did he and DiFalco work out the details? Why had DiFalco shut her out? She felt her face growing hot with anger; DiFalco had no right to make such an announcement.
It was Page’s turn to speak. He signaled for quiet and when he got it, said, “The laser handgun has been no threat until now because no one had ever figured out how to make a power pack small enough to fit into the butt of a hand-held weapon. But Universal Laser has come quite close to solving the problem, and Edgar Quinn fully intended to capitalize on it. Quinn entered into partnership with an arms distributor named Evan Christopher, and the two of them together killed Webb, Bigelow, Vickers, and O’Neill when it looked as if one or more of them was leaking the secret.”
“What’s that name again?” one of the reporters yelled.
“Evan Christopher,” Page repeated slowly. “Christopher died last Sunday in a freak accident at his home in Baltimore. We have no evidence that any third party was involved in the East River Park killings.”
The reporters started shouting questions. Marian leaned against the wall behind the file cabinet and tried to think. The scenario had changed. Evan Christopher was no longer the big bad arms dealer who’d bribed Jason O’Neill to spill company secrets. Now he was the big bad arms dealer who’d helped Edgar Quinn kill four men. Page must be running scared to pull so drastic a switch. He had to have seen he wasn’t going to be able to keep Quinn out of it; his original plan of putting the blame on Jason O’Neill and the near-anonymous Evan Christopher was scrapped and a new one fingering Quinn and Christopher substituted instead. Page couldn’t have had much time to make up his mind, but what he’d decided was that Quinn would take the heat for both of them. All this time Page had evidently been cultivating Marian and DiFalco both; and sometime since she’d last seen him, he’d concluded he had a better chance with DiFalco. What if she’d let him stay last night? Would there have been any press announcement this morning?
The shouting had died down but the reporters’ questions continued. Marian barely heard them; she had questions of her own. How had Page managed to convince DiFalco that Evan Christopher was Quinn’s partner? And how was he going to explain away the money trail he’d left for Holland to find?
Holland.
If Page somehow knew that Holland had found what he was meant to find … that could become an embarrassment, now that Page was following a new script. Marian had left Holland in her apartment phoning the FBI in Washington. She moved to the nearest telephone and punched out her own number. Busy.
The press conference was over. Captain DiFalco was making his way out the front door, followed by a couple of reporters not quite ready to give up. She ran after them.
“Marian!” she heard Trevor Page call.
She pushed on. She caught up with DiFalco in the parking lot across the street and waited impatiently until he got rid of the reporters. He started to get into his car without acknowledging her.
“Captain! Captain DiFalco.” He turned, but before he could speak whatever excuse he had planned, she said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you put me in charge of this investigation?”
“Of course you’re in charge. There’s no question—”
“Then what the hell are you doing deciding the case is closed without even telling me?”
His face turned dark. “Hold it. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“I think I’m talking to a police captain who knows better than to ride roughshod over his own investigators but who did it anyhow. I want to know why.”
“What’s your problem, Larch? Did you change your mind about Quinn’s being one of the murderers?”
“No, but—”
“Then what are you bitching about? We’ll pick him up.”
“I’m bitching about the way you’ve taken it on yourself to decide Evan Christopher was Quinn’s partner. What’s your evidence?”
He actually moved toward her as if he wanted to hit her. “You’d better get something straight. I don’t account for myself to you, you account to me. You have to be reminded of that?” They stood glaring angrily at each other in the parking lot, the bright midmorning sun making them both squint. Then DiFalco forced himself to relax and went so far as to make a peace offering. “There wasn’t time to bring you in on it—this all came up in a hurry. And there is evidence. The FBI found a money link between Evan Christopher and Quinn.”
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So that’s how Page did it, the son of a gun. “It’s evidence Trevor Page manufactured,” Marian said. “He also made up a money link connecting Christopher to Jason O’Neill.”
“What?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you when you left for the press conference. Evan Christopher didn’t have any illicit connection with Edgar Quinn or Jason O’Neill or anybody else at Universal Laser. He was just a small-time arms dealer who died at the right moment and made a convenient patsy.”
“You’re telling me Page fabricated evidence just to close the case? You’re wrong, Larch, dead wrong. Better forget it before you make yourself look foolish.”
“But Captain—”
“I said forget it. This case is closed.”
Then she understood. “You don’t care if you got it right or not. All you want is the arrest. That business in your office before the press conference—what was that all about? Having me go over the murders step by step … to make sure there weren’t any gaping holes to embarrass you? You don’t give a damn who Quinn’s partner really is.”
He’d grown angry all over again. He moved in close, his face only inches from Marian’s. “Larch, you’re the best detective I got, but you ain’t going nowhere until you get down off that goddamned high horse of yours. If you ever, ever speak to me like that again, I’ll see to it you get every dirty, nasty little job that comes along. You’ll spend your days in the Records Department, waiting for your pension. You’ll work traffic detail. You’ll sweep the floors and empty the wastebaskets and kiss Foley’s ass before you ever get a decent case again. Do I make myself clear?”
Marian’s breath was coming in shallow gasps. “Perfectly clear.”
“Good.” He got into his car, slammed the door, and drove away.
Marian lumbered over to her own car, still trying to catch her breath. She got in and rolled down the window; early September heat was no different from late August. She could request a transfer to a different precinct, but DiFalco would block it. Play ball, keep your mouth shut, be a good little detective. She started the car and pulled out of the lot.
