Harry Dolan

by Bad Things Happen

  Mitchum made his report next. He and Ron Wintergreen had organized the search of the scene of Adrian Tully’s death. Tully’s car had been removed from the road, but its position had been carefully marked. Mitchum and Wintergreen had blocked out a search area that extended over the fields on either side of the road and into the woods beyond.

  A team of patrolmen and academy cadets, equipped with metal detectors borrowed from the university’s archaeology and geology departments, had worked in shifts to cover the area systematically over the course of Sunday afternoon.

  “We were looking for two bullets,” Mitchum noted. “One that killed Tully and punched a hole through the driver’s window. And the other—the hypothetical second bullet—that Tully’s killer could have fired in order to get gunshot residue on Tully’s hand. Ron found the first bullet early on, in the field on the driver’s side.”

  Ron Wintergreen, a gangly thirty-year-old with pale blond hair, looked uncomfortable at the mention of his name. Leaning against a wall, he gazed down at the laces of his hiking boots.

  “Unfortunately,” Mitchum added, “we had no luck after that. The second bullet, if there was one, could have gone through the same hole in the driver’s window, though it would have been a tricky shot. More likely, the killer rolled down the passenger window and fired it that way. We looked on both sides, but couldn’t find it.”

  Kim Reyes spoke next. One of the youngest detectives in the department, she had been given the task of interviewing Adrian Tully’s friends and class-mates from the university. They tended to describe Tully as shy and moody, she said. None went so far as to call him depressed or suicidal. And none of them had ever seen a gun in his possession, or heard him talk about owning one.

  Reyes had also been assigned to the search of Tully’s car. Everything in the vehicle had been catalogued, she reported, down to the soda cans and fast-food wrappers that littered the backseat. Every item that might hold a fingerprint would eventually be dusted.

  “I found something interesting under the passenger seat,” she said. “It was stuck in one of the tracks that allow the seat to slide forward and back.”

  Casually, she took a manila envelope from under her arm and drew out a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a small triangle of paper. One of the edges was rough, as if the scrap had been torn from a larger piece.

  There were fragments of type on the paper. Elizabeth leaned in for a closer look. She could make out the words OXFORD UNIVERSI—

  “It’s part of a book jacket,” Reyes said. “It set bells off when I found it, because the book on Tom Kristoll’s desk was missing a dust jacket. Shakespeare’s Collected Works. I wanted to compare it, so I stopped into Borders to see if they had a copy.”

  She drew an intact dust jacket from the envelope. Elizabeth glimpsed the publisher’s name on the rear flap: OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS.

  “Cute,” she said, half to herself.

  “They’re a match,” Reyes said.

  Owen McCaleb reached for the evidence bag and examined the small triangle within.

  “You think it’s a plant?” he said to Elizabeth.

  She was noncommittal. “I don’t suppose there’s a print on it.”

  “It’s clean,” said Reyes. “No prints.”

  Carter Shan had retired to a chair by the window, but now he got up. “If it’s a plant, then it confirms what we’ve been thinking anyway. Tom Kristoll’s killer used the book to knock him out, then took the dust jacket because it had his fingerprints on it. Later he decided to kill Tully and frame him for Kristoll’s murder. He tore this scrap from the jacket, wiped it clean, and left it in Tully’s car.”

  Elizabeth added, “It’s clever, leaving just a scrap. Subtle. The alternative would be to leave the entire jacket, but then you’d have to wipe the whole thing down. And then we’d see that it had been wiped down, and we’d wonder why. The jacket connects Tully to the crime. Why would he go to the trouble of wiping it down and then not get rid of it altogether?

  “This way we can imagine Tully fleeing the scene of Kristoll’s murder. He shoves the jacket under the seat as he drives away. Later, he stops somewhere and pulls the jacket out again to throw it away or burn it or whatever he’s going to do. Part of it is caught in the track under the seat and tears off, but he doesn’t notice.”

  McCaleb drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. “Why couldn’t it have happened that way? Tully kills Kristoll, hides the dust jacket under the car seat. Later he burns it—except for the corner that got torn off. The corner stays under the seat until Tully shoots himself, and then we find it. Why not?”

  “There’s the witness who heard two shots,” Shan said.

  “And the witnesses who heard one, or four, or none,” said McCaleb.

  Kim Reyes broke in. “There’s another possibility. Suppose Tully did kill Kristoll and that’s how the scrap ended up under his car seat. But then someone—a partner, an accomplice—lured Tully out to the cornfield and shot him to keep him quiet.”

  Harvey Mitchum chuckled. “Aw, don’t say that, Kim. It’s complicated enough as it is. I’d hate to have to sort it out for a jury.”

  Reyes started to reply, but McCaleb interrupted her. “Let’s move on,” he said. “We still need to hear from Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth took a breath and then began to outline her conversations with Bridget Shellcross, Casimir Hifflyn, and Nathan Hideaway. The fingers of her right hand went automatically to the string of beads at her neck as she spoke. When she was through, McCaleb asked for her analysis. Did she think any of the three could have been involved in Kristoll’s death—or Tully’s?

  “Hifflyn and Hideaway are both living alone,” she said. “Hideaway’s wife died six years ago. Hifflyn says his wife is in Europe, though I haven’t confirmed that yet. I intend to. I don’t want to find out later that she’s buried under the flagstones in the backyard.”

  Her fingers twisted the beads. “So neither one has an alibi for the night of Kristoll’s murder, or the night of Tully’s. Bridget Shellcross lives with a woman named Rachel Kent and claims to have been home with her on both nights.

  “Shellcross is a small woman, and the image of her lifting a body through a window is comical, but the two of them together could have done it, and I think Rachel could have managed it on her own. Cass Hifflyn claims that Shellcross was once involved with Tom Kristoll. That raises the possibility that Shellcross got back together with Kristoll recently. If she did, and if Rachel found out—well, I can see Rachel helping Kristoll out a window.

  “Hifflyn also admits to having been involved with Laura Kristoll in college, and says that Tom Kristoll stole her away from him. That gives him a motive for doing Kristoll in—a twenty-year-old motive. If he killed Kristoll for revenge, it may have been the most deliberate, patient act of revenge in history.

  “Hideaway had no motive that I can see. Kristoll was his benefactor. For the record, Hideaway is sixty years old, but he’s a vigorous sixty. He keeps in shape. I would say he’s capable of lifting a body through a window.”

  She rolled the beads against her skin. “All three of them—Shellcross, Hifflyn, and Hideaway—knew Adrian Tully. Any of them, I think, could have come up with a story to convince him to drive out to a meeting on a lonely road at night.”

  There was more discussion before the meeting wound down. Owen McCaleb wanted to know if there were others who might have been able to lure Tully out to a lonely road. Laura Kristoll’s name was added to the list. She would need to be questioned. Other avenues would need to be pursued: the possibility of a recent affair between Tom Kristoll and Bridget Shellcross, or between Laura Kristoll and Casimir Hifflyn. Inquiries would be made; photographs would be shown to hotel clerks.

  It was well after seven when Elizabeth left City Hall. The sky was blue-black and clear and there was a cool wind. As she turned onto her street a shower of rain began to fall. From a distance she saw her house, the porch light on. Sarah was there in the light, and anothe
r figure with her, leaning on the railing. Elizabeth thought at first that it was Sarah’s friend from school, Billy Rydell, but Billy, though tall, was very thin. He had dark, unruly hair. The man on the porch was broader in the shoulders. Sarah was talking to him animatedly, her arms gesturing. His hair, when he bent forward into the light, was copper-colored. It was David Loogan.

  Elizabeth left the car and came up the walk. Now she could see the meaning of Sarah’s gestures. Her daughter was juggling. Three oranges traced their arcs through the air. Sarah saw her and waved reflexively and the pattern was lost and the oranges went bouncing over the floor of the porch. One rolled down the steps and Elizabeth caught it at her feet.

  Loogan bent to retrieve the others and then turned to flash Elizabeth a smile. “Hello, Detective.”

  “Hello. What’s this?”

  “David’s a juggler,” Sarah said. “He’s been teaching me.”

  “She’s a natural,” said Loogan.

  “I’m learning. It doesn’t feel natural yet. It feels like a parlor trick.”

  “It is a parlor trick,” said Loogan.

  Elizabeth joined them on the porch. “Let’s see it again.”

  Sarah took the oranges once more and arranged them in her hands. She made practice movements as if to remind herself and then let them fly. She kept the pattern going for five seconds, for ten. Elizabeth saw the moment when she lost control. Loogan saw it too. He snatched an errant orange from the air, and the next thing Elizabeth knew he had all three. He sent them up to brush the ceiling of the porch, then froze suddenly with two in his right hand and one in his left. He offered them back to Sarah.

  “That was good,” he said.

  Elizabeth smiled. “I’m impressed.”

  Sarah tossed an orange in the air and caught it. “I’ve invited David to stay for supper.”

  “You have, have you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” Loogan said.

  “He doesn’t want to impose,” said Sarah. “You’ll have to work on him.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m going in,” Sarah said. With the screen door open, she turned back. “What do you think about oranges in the salad?”

  Elizabeth considered the question. “I think three may be too many.”

  “I’ll see how one looks.”

  As the screen door clapped shut, Loogan said in a low voice, “I hope it was all right for me to come here.” He seemed deliberately casual. Stubble on his chin, darker than the copper of his hair. Weathered coat, flannel shirt, denim, sturdy hiking boots. But his eyes glinted, his mouth was a long ironic line.

  “It’s all right,” Elizabeth said.

  “Your address is in the phone book,” he said.

  “That’s practically an invitation.”

  “Your daughter is charming.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not going to ask me why I’m here.”

  Elizabeth leaned her back against a column and listened to the rain falling on the porch roof. “Sometimes I find that if I don’t say anything, people will tell me what they want to tell me, all on their own.”

  “I heard about Adrian Tully,” Loogan said. “I wondered what the story was.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t show too much interest. You’ll start thinking I’m guilty of something.”

  Elizabeth put a hand out to feel the rain. “We had a meeting today to consider who might be guilty of killing Adrian Tully. Your name didn’t come up.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It should have. Did you know we were looking at Tully as a suspect in the murder of Tom Kristoll?”

  “No,” Loogan said. “Is that true?”

  “It’s true. We believe Tully was the one who vandalized your car. He knew about your affair with Laura Kristoll. It’s possible he went to tell Tom and they got into an argument about it. You haven’t heard any of this? Laura didn’t tell you?”

  “No. You’re saying she knew?”

  “At the very least, she knew Tully was a suspect. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “If she did—if you believed that Tully killed Tom Kristoll—it would have given you a motive. Tom was your friend. You wanted his killer caught. If this were a story in Gray Streets, you’d catch him yourself. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “It is.”

  “You’ve even been playing detective,” Elizabeth said. “Have you found Michael Beccanti yet?”

  Loogan showed her his palms. “I haven’t been looking for him.”

  “If this were a story in Gray Streets,” she said, “you might want to do more than catch Tom’s killer. You might want to punish him. Have you ever been to a gun show, Mr. Loogan?”

  He looked puzzled. “No. Why?”

  “Have you ever owned a gun?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry to be so abrupt,” Elizabeth said. “It’s been a long day and sometimes I get tired of dealing with this nonsense. Did you lure Adrian Tully out to a cornfield and blow his brains out?”

  Quietly, firmly, he said, “No.”

  She came close to him under the porch light and studied his face. There was no sign of deception in it. He returned her gaze curiously. Though she didn’t study him for long, she had time to think about when she had seen him last: only two days before, at the funeral of Tom Kristoll. She had time to recognize that she was pleased to see him now.

  Other thoughts occurred to her, all on their own: David Loogan had an interesting mouth. She could probably convince him to stay for supper.

  If he stayed, he would linger for a while afterward. Sarah would go off to do her homework. He would want to help with the cleaning up; it was consistent with the persona, with the flannel and the denim and the broad-backed sturdiness. He would volunteer to wash the dishes. He would stand at the sink and she would stand behind him—she was nearly as tall as he was—and his collar would smell freshly laundered and she would put her hands on his shoulders.

  Strange thoughts.

  And if he had something to do with Adrian Tully’s death, or Tom Kristoll’s, she would have to testify against him. She would be cross-examined. She would have to explain why she’d had a murder suspect as a guest in her home. She would have to account for every move.

  And did there come a time, Detective Waishkey, when you smelled the defendant’s collar?

  Under the porch light with David Loogan, she was able to find it amusing. She turned away from him to hide her smile. In reality, it would not be amusing.

  She managed to get the screen door open. Loogan stayed where he was.

  “I believe you,” she said. “About Tully.”

  He was still regarding her curiously. He didn’t answer.

  “I should go in,” she said. “I hope you won’t mind if I don’t invite you to stay.”

  Chapter 21

  ANN ARBOR HAS THE STREET LIFE OF A MUCH LARGER CITY. WHEN THE weather is fair, and sometimes when it’s not, the sidewalks along State Street and Liberty and Main bustle with people: hip, arty, confident people who walk to theaters and shops, bookstores and coffeehouses, who gather at sidewalk tables that spill out of restaurants.

  David Loogan found them fascinating. He thought it must be the university that produced them. The university made the city more prosperous and young and good-looking. It gathered all these people to itself and then it sent them out into the city where they ate fine meals, and attended plays, and greeted one another on the street with hugs and cheery shouts and back-slapping.

  On Monday night he watched them from a distance, from the top of a parking garage on Main Street. Laura Kristoll stood beside him. She wore a long, dark green coat and kept it hugged tight around her.

  “Ten days,” she said.

  Loogan looked down along the canyon of the street. At people gathering on corners at an intersection. At the streetlights reflecting off the hoods of passing cars.
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  “Tom’s been gone for ten days now,” Laura said. “It seems longer. Does it seem longer to you?”

  “Yes,” said Loogan.

  It had taken some convincing to get Laura out of the house. She had declined his invitation to dinner on Sunday night, saying she was exhausted. He decided to try for Monday. He suggested a jazz bar called the Firefly Club—it was sure to have live music, even on a Monday night. He would pick her up at seven.

  He got to the house early, while she was working on her makeup and her hair. He waited for her downstairs. When they left, she turned her key in the dead bolt of the front door. Loogan wondered if Michael Beccanti could get past a dead bolt. He wouldn’t need to; Loogan had unlocked the patio door.

  They stopped at a café for a light dinner and then went on to the Firefly. A blues trio on the stage. The crowd was low-key. Loogan brought Laura to a table in the corner farthest from the bar, and she leaned against him and they were quiet in the dark.

  Later they walked to the garage where they had left his car. Waiting for the elevator, she put her arms around him and kissed him and started to cry. The car was on the fourth level, but they took the elevator all the way to the top and stood looking out over the concrete wall in the cool night and talking about Tom.

  “Do you think he was frightened?” she said.

  Loogan knew what she meant. From where they were standing they could see the building that housed Gray Streets; they could see the distance from the sixth floor to the sidewalk below.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think he was aware of anything by then.”

  She lifted her shoulders, buried her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I don’t know what I’m doing, David. I had a class I should have taught today, but I didn’t go. The chair of the department is an old friend. He insisted I take at least two weeks off. He wanted me to take the rest of the semester.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “What’s the point?” she said. “I’d rather be doing something. It’s just me in the house, and every minute I spend there reminds me of Tom—”