CHAPTER 25
I woke un-refreshed and groggy. Someone was knocking on my door. “Room service,” a man’s voice said. The clock next to the bed read nine-thirty a.m. and my first emotion was guilt. So late, too late for work, too late on a weekday to be lying around. Then I remembered last night’s trip to the emergency room and everything else that had turned this tidy little assignment into a first class circus.
Another knock. “Dani? You there?” The voice was muffled and as I pulled on my robe and shuffled to the door, wincing at the movement, I congratulated myself on having dug my way into another hole. I didn’t know if it was Charlie or Dickie. Sooner or later they were bound to meet, maybe even outside—or inside, heaven forbid—my hotel room and I’d have to explain one guy’s presence to the other. Great. Even if Dickie and Miss Rome were a couple, I knew my ex would be particularly interested in whomever I was seeing.
I peered out through the keyhole. Charlie, looking as though he’d been up for hours. I opened the door, knowing I looked like I’d been at a college binge party that ended at dawn.
“Hey, I brought you coffee and a Danish,” he said, sweeping past me and setting down a couple of Styrofoam cups and a paper bag. “Hope I didn’t wake you up.” He examined me standing in the center of the room, robe pulled around me, hair doubtless in tangles, squinting. “Oh, I guess I did. I’m sorry.” He came over and tipped up my chin with his hand and kissed me on the forehead. “Sorry.” But he seemed wired and preoccupied.
“I just spent a half hour with your detective, who shared a new wrinkle with me. They arrested your friend Dermott Kennedy. They say they found evidence that links him to his wife’s death.”
“What?” I said as I perched on the side of my bed and blew on the hot coffee. “What kind of evidence?”
“You’re not going to like this. A gun, the same caliber that was used on his wife. They’ll do tests, of course, but they seem pretty confident it’s the same gun he shot himself with.”
“Why would he call me if he wanted to kill himself?”
“Second thoughts. Happens all the time.”
The caffeine was starting to work, which only made me madder. I unclenched my jaw and, remembering what I saw in the mirror when I opened the door, sidled over to the bathroom to find a hairbrush. “How seriously is he wounded?”
“The bullet went into his shoulder. He’s lucky. It could have ripped an artery. He’ll recover but he’s too groggy to be interviewed right now.”
“That makes two of us,” I said, splashing water on my face and hoping it made my eyelashes look plump rather than my whole head looking like I’d been drenched in a rainstorm. My annoyance, I had to admit, was not only about Dermott’s bad treatment, but about being caught without at least minimal makeup on. I can be superficial. “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Does it ring true to you? You do this stuff for a living.”
There was a moment’s silence. “I would be asking a bunch of questions and kicking myself for not testing Kennedy for powder residue after he showed up at the scene of his wife’s murder.”
“I think they collected his clothes later. He told me that.”
“From what Kirby told me, the Flores crime scene was seriously compromised by having so many people barging around. The medical examiner’s staff didn’t get there fast enough and county forensics couldn’t get much that was useful by the time they arrived. There’s fresh powder residue on Kennedy’s hand now, but no way to tell if there’s older residue too. Kirby’s pissed that some of his cops don’t know how to follow procedure.”
“They shooed us out of the building fast enough, “ I said, remembering the rush to get us out in case there was a murderer hiding nearby. “Dermott was on the lawn with me. Charlie, do you honestly think he could have killed his wife?”
“I couldn’t say without investigating. I mean, what was their marriage like on the inside? Was there a big life insurance policy out there? Was she pregnant and he was complaining it would stall his career?”
“You’re depressing me,” I said, taking a bite of the super sweet pastry and willing the sugar to get me going. Eating also gave me a moment to remember Dermott’s explanation of why he had a life insurance policy on Gabby and Gabby’s concerns about his heavy student loan burden. Reluctantly, I told it all to Charlie.
“Might be something, but I agree it’s thin, unless the guy had huge debts or was involved in something illegal and needed payoff money.”
“Hah. He’s a mild-mannered history professor, Charlie, and his wife adored him. Hardly the secret gambler.” But I could almost hear Gabby telling me about the student debt Dermott had from grad school.
“You know what I keep coming back to?” Charlie was frowning at me, or rather past me at nothing in particular. His green eyes weren’t so warm and sparkly. “The supposed break-in to his apartment. If he was burgled, and shot when he surprised them, what were the bad guys after?”
“Bad guy, singular. But, Charlie, if he shot himself, did he toss his own apartment first? Would he bother with that if he were committing suicide? If Kirby says the place had been searched roughly, it seems to me to prove his statement that he surprised an intruder. Am I making any sense?”
“Kind of, although nothing there is proof, only suggestive. Kirby said the police did find signs of a disturbance. Dermott was in the apartment the whole time and says the intruder surprised him while he was sleeping. Kirby had a team at the apartment early this morning, and I know he’s working the case hard. They’re not going to tell me much more and they won’t let me talk to him, Dani.”
A picture of the distraught husband I met with at the hotel restaurant came back to me forcefully. “When I saw him the other day, he was adamant that he’s never had a gun, never even fired one. He must have been framed. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“By someone who planted the gun? That would be your friend’s killer.”
“There might be security cameras in the neighborhood, or other ways to check it out.” The caffeine and sugar were beginning to hit my brain.
“This isn’t a sci-fi world, at least not yet. There aren’t security cameras everywhere. This is a small town. I could believe some traffic cameras, but buildings on a residential street?” He shrugged. “ The good news is if they’ve arrested Kennedy, they’re not interested in you as a suspect. We might be able to get you out of here and home again. Feel up to traveling?”
“Right now, all I feel like is a long, hot shower, and several more cups of coffee. Thanks for this, by the way,” I said, holding up the cup and the remaining bit of the pastry. “I look like hell and I need time to recoup.” He started to protest, but I held up my hand. “Half an hour, in the restaurant downstairs, okay?”
While I was showering, an idea came to me. Not precisely a great idea, maybe not a thoroughly legal one, but something I convinced myself was worth trying. Question was, would Charlie squash it? After all, he was a sworn officer of the law.
While Charlie had been bringing me up to date on the trouble Dermott was in, I had noticed the set of keys sitting on the desk. As soon as he was gone, I went over and confirmed they looked like house keys. I remembered where I’d seen the couple coming out of an apartment house and knew I could find it again. The right thing would be to hold onto them for Dermott or turn them over, but to whom? The police? They already had access. No, he wanted me to have them for some reason. You want to see the apartment, don’t you? my inner voice said. Look for a clue about who shot Dermott? Well, yes, I admitted. Or some mysterious piece of paper that would explain the Lichtenstein, the O’Keeffe, and the other paintings that were the big question marks for me.
Fate took my side in the matter. While I picked at some scrambled eggs and tried to come up with a plausible reason for ditching a handsome, green-eyed lover who had flown all the way across the country to protect me, and Charlie demolished a tower of pancakes drowned in blueberries, butter and syrup, his cell phone rang. H
is S.F.P.D. partner is a perpetually depressed and irritated veteran of the homicide squad, and this is why. He was calling to see how much longer his partner would be gone, given that the mayor was freaking out about a murder that took place in front of a tourist attraction, wounding several civilians as well as a teenage boy who was being convicted by the media of being a drug runner before any evidence of that had surfaced. The mayor, gearing up for a re-election run, was demanding immediate results. The police department was—surprise—short-staffed. Charlie turned those amazing eyes to me in apology.
I was magnanimous, understanding, and grateful for everything he’d done. I agreed with him that I’d do everything I could to be on a plane myself tomorrow. I went up to his room with him and we kissed a bit, hampered by my stiff neck, before he threw his meager belongings into a duffel bag.
“I’ll catch the first available flight out of Boston, but I want to know you’re going to get out of here tomorrow. I swear I’ll come after you otherwise.”
“Promise,” I said, and meant it.
“If I thought it would help, I’d call Richard myself and ask him to deliver you to the airport.”
No, no, I thought. Let’s not go there. “Oh, I think he’s busy with what’s her name, the woman from Italy. She’s his date for the prep school reunion.”
“Ah,” Charlie said, and didn’t add anything. As he ducked into his car, where I had walked with him, he said, “Do not drive. Use taxis. Call me the minute you get back to the city.”
“You’ll probably be busy in a shootout.”
“I get involved after the shootouts, Dani. I’m the good guy, remember?” He kissed me on the nose, and I smiled as the car pulled away.
Realizing the police might still be at Dermott’s apartment, I went back to my room to make my flight arrangements, trusting that Charlie was right and the police would let me leave now that they had a suspect in custody. The agent warned me a big storm was headed toward Boston and I should check for delays before heading to the airport.
Then I flipped open my laptop and summarized the handful of questionable assets from the unmatched donation lists, and what I could report about each. I made no assumptions, suggestions, or implications. Just facts. I read the whole document once more, then added a cover note and emailed it as a draft to the president of Lynthorpe. Let them figure it out. I was focused on the human costs of this gift, Larry Saylor, Gabby Flores, and Dermott Kennedy, and I was pretty sure the answer was too twisty and foggy to put into the kind of report I had been instructed to write.
Teeni had left me an email with all caps in the subject line” “THEY CALLED P FOR REF,” which should have made me happy for her but only pushed me further into a low level depression. My friend and ultra capable sidekick at the Devor would disappear soon in a blaze of glory. Charlie was gone again, the urban sheriff running off wherever he was needed. Dickie was too busy with his new girlfriend even to bother me. Geoff was sure to be disappointed with the weaselly report I submitted to President Brennan. My neck hurt when I moved.
My watch said it was still morning and I didn’t want to venture over to Dermott and Gabby’s apartment for at least another hour. This was as good a time as any to try Vince’s number again. What I wanted to probe for couldn’t be distilled into one smart question, and I didn’t think Kirby knew enough of the backstory to be sensitive to what Vince might say. I fiddled with a pencil for a few minutes, rehearsing. You wouldn’t happen to have a Georgia O’Keeffe stashed in the trunk of your car? No. My, that Lichtenstein was expensive. Did you take up a collection from your closest friends to pay for it? No. Did Larry explain what was bothering him when you last saw him alone? Possibly. I had never tried to ask him point blank.
My hands were a bit sweaty as I dialed the great man’s office. I knew he was here in Bridgetown, but not how to reach him locally. I knew better than to ask the president of the college or the dean to give me his phone number. But I needn’t have gotten so worked up. His office was closed and the recorded voice said to leave a message. I wanted to confront him without giving him time to come up with a smooth lie, so I didn’t.
With nothing more to delay me, I decided against lunch, and, figuring the police must be finished going over Dermott’s apartment, headed there. A cab deposited me in front of the brick building in Bridgetown’s small downtown business district where I’d seen Gabby and Dermott. There were no police cars parked in front of the building, no yellow tape, no one skulking around. The cars I did see were almost all about as worn looking as the buildings. The only new car looked out of place, which said something about the salaries non-tenured history professors and junior fundraisers were paid, I suppose. I looked around furtively, although I doubted anyone would know who I was even if they did see me. I was nervous. I didn’t know what I might find in the apartment, but I was convinced it wouldn’t be proof of Dermott Kennedy’s guilt.
“Flores/Kennedy” was written on one of the buzzers in the unlocked foyer. I rang it for form’s sake and when nothing happened I climbed stairs that brought me to a landing and a dim hallway with doors facing each other. There was noticeable gray smudging around the door handle and frame of Number 21, undoubtedly left over from the attempt to find fingerprints. The hall was silent and dark, with one window at the end that faced a light-blocking tree. Listening for noise first and peering back down the stairs, I tried a couple of keys from the set Dermott had left for me at the hospital before finding the one that opened the door.
I hadn’t expected to be hit with reminders of Gabby, but her presence was everywhere, bringing surprise tears to my eyes. A pretty sweater was draped over the back of a chair, framed photos of her with other smiling people sat on top of a crowded bookcase, and I recognized the slight scent of perfume in the air as what she was wearing when I last met with her. Dermott must have both wanted and grieved these intimate reminders.
Not all the books were in the bookcase. Half a shelf’s worth had been swept off and onto a pile on the floor. Some from another bookcase were scattered on the rug, as were papers that might have been on the dining room table nearby. A small desk stood in one corner of the room, and its drawers had been pulled out and emptied onto the floor. A framed painting hung crookedly on the wall, and the couch cushions had been pulled off and thrown around. Had the intruder done this, or the cops?
I picked my way through the mess to the small kitchen that opened off the living room. Here was a mess of another kind. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and the trash container had been dumped on the floor, leaving coffee grounds and odd bits of food scattered around. Yuck, but I realized it was a great rationale for me to be here. I would explain, if I needed to, that Dermott gave me the keys and I came to help clean up the mess. This would be after I finished snooping around, of course.
The apartment was small. A bathroom opened off a short hall and across from it was the bedroom. I could see a painted dresser in the room with its contents half out of their drawers, and an old-fashioned dressing table that looked untouched. A closet door was open, more gray smudges around the doorknob, and the hangers pushed to one side, exposing several neatly matched pairs of women’s shoes. The bed was unmade and I started around the end, thinking to look more closely at the dressing table.
Suddenly, I gasped and pulled my foot back from where I was about to step. “Oh yuck,” I heard myself say.
The rumpled bedspread had fallen partway down to the floor, and along the portion that touched the bare floor, a smear of darkened, dry blood was visible. I now saw that the mattress had no sheet on it and that it, too, bore dark stains. My stomach did a slow flip. So it was here that Dermott was shot, while he was in bed, or getting ready for bed. Or, if the detective’s cynical suggestion was possible, here’s where Dermott sat and deliberately shot himself. What a ridiculous idea. I could no more shoot myself than I could walk across a tightrope thirty stories up, and I was sure Dermott wasn’t a masochist either.
I stood on the side of the b
ed opposite the signs of Dermott’s wounding, and grabbed the bedspread so that I could pull it gently back up to hide the bloodstained mattress. My goal was to look under the bed, but as I tugged the fabric, something flew up out of a deep fold and then fell back into a crevice. Curious, I poked around with a clean tissue until I found the object and lifted it up. A sliver of pale wood, pointed at one end and slightly fuzzy at the other. A toothpick. The picture of Macho Cop rolling a toothpick around in his mouth rose in my mind. Probably dropped it while he was helping to search the apartment this morning, my inner voice said, and we should get out of here. I dropped it back onto the bedspread, wondering.
Where had the intruder been, and had he been in the apartment before Dermott got home, rummaging around for whatever he thought Gabby’s husband had in his possession? Maybe more copies of the missing art gift papers, if that was what had unleashed this violence? Would the cops have recognized the papers as important if they had seen them?
I left the bedroom and went back to the living room, picking up typewritten pages from the floor and glancing at them as I did. Student papers, by the look of them, now scattered so thoroughly that it would take someone who knew more than I did about the French revolution to reassemble them. Nothing even remotely connected to Margoletti or art that I could see. Same with the papers that hadn’t hit the floor.
Stacking what I’d picked up on the center of the desk, I moved over to a closet near the front door. The hangers here also were pushed to one side and held outdoor clothing. I dragged a box from the shelf above the coats down to the floor and squatted in front of it, but it yielded only voluminous research notes, possibly for an academic paper on someone named Guillaume Marie-Anne Brune, who, with all those female names, was actually a man, if my quick scan of a page or two was accurate.
Mixed Up With Murder Page 19
