"Jennifer, right? Jennifer Creasey? Who else we know got killed?"
The alibi, and more important, Joey's voice, had the ring of truth. I stepped over Moon, past Joey, and out.
THIRTEEN
-•-
I got back into the car and drove toward Calem. I found the Creasey house, new and modern, but resting on an old farm site. Orchard, small pond, the comer of a stable obscured by the far treeline. Expensive acreage but incongruous, a Beverly Hills mansion dropped into a rural Vermont setting.
The driveway was circular, no cars in sight. I pulled in and walked to the front door. The large brass knocker, a lion's head, was heavy to lift and fell with a sound like a blacksmith's hammer.
A petite woman in a maid's outfit answered the door. In a slight Spanish accent, she said Mrs. Creasey was seeing no one, please. I took out a business card and wrote on the back of it: "For Jennifer's sake, please speak with me." The maid took it, reluctantly, and closed the door. I waited for five minutes. The door reopened. The maid said to come in, Mrs. Creasey would see me in the library, please.
The entry foyer was large, the house multileveled, each floor separated by half a dozen steps and overlapping with the floor partially above it. I was led up two levels to a room approximately thirty by thirty, with built-in teak bookshelves and a tasteful arrangement of deep leather furniture. A severe-looking woman, perhaps early forties, stood. She was painfully thin, her high cheekbones prominent in her drawn face. Her right hand held my card, folded lengthwise by the press of her fingers.
"Mr. Cuddy, please sit down. I'm Tyne Creasey. Would you care for any refreshments? A drink?"
I declined and sat.
"Pina, please wait downstairs."
"Yes, ma'am." She left.
"This," said Mrs. Creasey, tossing my card onto the end table next to her, "had better not be some vulgar entrée."
"It isn't, Mrs. Creasey. At least, it's not intended to be. I'm sorry about your daughter."
"Let's spare my feelings, shall we? What did you mean, 'For Jennifer's sake'?"
"Like the card says, I 'm a private investigator. I've been hired to look into Jennifer's death."
"Well, since we didn't hire you, I assume you're representing the Daniels boy."
"His mother, actually."
"What does she have to do with Jennifer?"
"Nothing. So far as I can tell, she and your daughter never met."
Mrs. Creasey exhaled elaborately. "Mr. Cuddy, what I exactly do you want?"
"I want to see Jennifer's killer arrested, convicted, and punished."
"Admirable. Your sense of civic duty, I mean." Her overall manner somehow made the words seem not cynical. "But why, then, are you working for the Daniels woman?" .
"Because I'm not convinced that William Daniels killed your daughter."
Mrs. Creasey started to laugh, then cut it off politely as it rose toward a shriek. She spoke normally. For her. "Sir, I don't mean to question your sanity, but are you aware that four people heard him confess? With the gun still in his hand?"
"Yes, I am."
"And you still . . ." She broke eye contact, gave herself a shake that implied I wasn't worth laughing at. A telephone rang downstairs. It stopped before one full ring had sounded.
"Perhaps you'd better go," she said.
"Mrs. Creasey, I've answered your questions honestly without interposing any of my own. You've been through a terrible tragedy and therefore I'm here only by your good graces. My sole purpose is to keep another mother from losing her child."
She watched me, reappraising. In a different voice, she asked, "Do you have any evidence that someone other than Daniels killed my daughter?"
"I have oddities, Mrs. Creasey. Jangles. Individuals who didn't act as I would have expected. To find evidence, I need to know Jennifer better. I need you to help me."
"I don't . . ." Her voice quavered, then started again. "I don't know that I can . . . help. Jennifer and I had . . .When she began college, she grew distant. Her father . . .we both were so careful with her. So strict that} . . ." She waved both her hands and lowered her face to them. "Perhaps her roommate could . . ."
I heard the downstairs door open and close, the sound of heavy treading on the stairs.
She looked up, startled. "Mr. Cuddy, I'm sorry, but my husband said—" She broke off, then spoke rapidly.
"Deborah Wald, her roommate. She lives in Marion. She left school because of——"
She stopped cold, now staring past me. I swiveled my head around. Two uniformed police officers, one about my age and slight, the other young and beefy, were in the doorway. The young one stomped over to me. "All right, on your feet," he said.
"Officer," began Mrs. Creasey.
"It's all right, ma'am," said the older one, moving in too. "I'm Officer Clay. Your husband called us."
"I said get up." The younger one grabbed my left arm, yanked me halfway out of the chair. I continued up, then twisted my arm back against his thumb, breaking his grip. He reached behind him for the leather sap he probably { carried in a back pocket.
"No, George, no need for that," said Clay. Then, to me: "Assume the position against this case here."
I walked around the young one, the name Bjorkman on the name tag over the badge on his chest. I spread legs and arms, with my hands on the shelf. Clay came up to me.
"Revolver," I said, "holster over my right hip."
Clay tugged my gun out, then stepped back and unloaded it. He put the weapon in one pocket and the bullets in another. He frisked further, my ID and wallet joining the bullets.
"You got a charge?" I asked.
"Shut up," said Bjorkman, moving a step closer.
"Easy, George," said Clay, then, to me: "We'll explain everything at the station."
Mrs. Creasey had her head in her hands. Pina, appearing magically, stood over her. My captors and I walked downstairs and to their cruiser, a third officer taking my keys to follow in my car. I sat in the back of the cruiser with Clay, George driving a bit faster and more recklessly than the situation required.
FOURTEEN
-•-
"I said shut up."
I couldn't argue with Bjorkman there. Between the ride in the cruiser and the time wed sat in probably the only interrogation room in the Calem Police building, he'd told me to shut up ten times minimum.
"Why am I—"
"I said shut up."
"George," said Clay soothingly, "take it easy. Detective O'Boy will be here in a coupla minutes."
I was starting to like Clay. He tried to calm his partner down while giving me an answer that might stop me from riling Bjorkman again. A good cop avoids confrontations; they're rarely productive.
There was a quick rap on the other side of the door. It opened, and a stumpy man in a short-sleeved dress shirt and a polyester tie came in. He had a few long wisps of red hair on the top of his head and a fringe of short-cropped fuzz around his ears. He juggled a manila file folder and what looked like my gun, wallet, and ID.
"I'm Detective Paul O'Boy," he said to me. He asked Clay, "He been read his rights?"
Clay nodded, looking tired.
O'Boy turned back to me. "I'm in charge of the Creasey girl's murder. You were out bothering her mother today. Why?"
I said to Bjorkman, "Gee, Georgie, aren't you going to tell him to shut up too?"
O'Boy said, "What are you talking about?"
"Officer Bjorkman here has been telling me to shut up for half an hour now. I thought it was because I was asking him 'why'-type questions. Now I'm not so sure."
O'Boy said, "Why don't we cut the shit and answer my question?"
I looked at O'Boy and said, "William Daniels's mother hired me to help his attorney investigate the murder. I wanted to find out about the girl's background? Bjorkman snapped at me: "Whaddya mean, her 'background'?"
"Oh, just little things. Like who she was dating, who she threw over. Things like that, Babyfat." Bjorkman came off the ed
ge of the table, hands balled into fists. Clay clamped his arms from behind and pulled him back to the door. Very quick and very strong, Clay, nice adjuncts to his brains and manner. And Homer seemed on target regarding Bjorkman's feelings for Jennifer.
O'Boy said, "Take him out of here, Clay. Then you come back."
Bjorkman was seething as Clay squeezed him through the door and O'Boy kicked it shut behind them.
"Well," said O'Boy, "you got that all out of your system now?"
"You know, you're going to have trouble with Bjorkman. If you haven't already."
"Let's talk about you. You say you're investigating the murder. Terrific. It's the best case I've ever seen. Set in concrete. But everybody's gotta make a living, right? So you're on a per diem and you don't wanna miss tomorrow's bread ration. Fine. Talk to anybody you want. Me, the chief, the governor. Just stay off the Creaseys, okay? They already had enough about the daughter."
"Mrs. Creasey wasn't all that upset by me. Why the cruiser?"
"The maid called the husband. He called us. Miracle he got through, our phones've been on the blink."
"Your name was on the homicide report as investigating officer, right?"
"Right."
"Anything strike you as odd when you got there?"
"Odd?" said O'Boy, his voice rising. "Odd? No, of course not. We get hypnotized kids confessing to shooting their girlfriends alla time. Used to be one a week."
"Strike you as odd that Marek never turned on the video equipment?"
"He forgot."
"He remembered to dim and up the lights for the hypnosis."
"Heat of the moment. You do funny things."
"Focus on Daniels, then. You just shot your girlfriend. First thing you do is keep an appointment with your shrink?"
"Kid was there, in the building already."
"And submits himself to hypnosis, when he knows he'll tell the truth about it?"
"The kid was screwed up. Pressure from school and shit. Who can say what he was thinking? Maybe he figured confession'd be good for the soul."
"S0 what's his motive'?"
"For killing her?"
"Yeah."
"For chrissake, he was a black kid out of his league, fucking a rich white chick. Maybe she wouldn't blow him and he got peeved. Who am I to say?"
"I heard Bjorkman used to date her."
O'Boy hardened a little. "You heard wrong."
"Something about a senior prom?"
"The fuck do I know? I look like I was his guidance counselor or something?"
"They teach hypnosis at the police academy?"
"Used to. Then with—Hey, what're you getting at?"
Clay came back in. "Bjorkman's in the locker room. He'll be okay."
O'Boy said, "Mr. Cuddy's just leaving. How about you escort him to his car."
"Fine," said Clay, taking my gun and things from O'Boy. "I'll give these back to you at the car."
Clay and I walked side by side out to the parking lot. When he got to my car, he handed me my stuff, keys included, but bullets separate from gun.
Clay said, "You shouldn't have ridden George like that."
"He was behaving like an asshole. In the MPs, if one of my troopers ever put on a show like that, he'd be doing push-ups till his arms fell off."
"George really felt for the girl. You knew that when you goaded him. By the way, he was with me all that afternoon, four o'clock on till we got the call." I wondered how long Clay had been listening outside the interrogation room door, but I said, "Then you and Bjorkman responded to the murder scene, right?"
"Right."
"Anything strike you as odd?"
"Yeah, one thing."
"What?"
"That you think I'll give you something after you called my partner 'Babyfat.' Have a nice day." Clay turned and walked away.
More impressive all the time. Except for volunteering an alibi for George. I reloaded my revolver and holstered it. I started the car and pulled slowly to the exit driveway. A midnight-blue Mercedes, the biggest one they sell, screeched on its way in and cut me off.
A tall man in a gray suit got out from behind the wheel, slamming the door behind him. He was about forty-five and could have been Gregory Peck's younger brother. He strode determinedly to my car window and said, "Are you John Cuddy?"
"Yes."
"I'm Sam Creasey. I want to speak with you about bothering my wife. In my car." He turned and strode back to the Mercedes and got in.
I didn't move.
He reopened his door and, half emerging, curved his torso around the frame to yell at me. "I'm waiting."
I didn't answer him.
He came all the way out, slamming the door harder this time. About halfway to me, however, his stride faltered, and he walked very slowly the last few feet.
"We . . . my wife and I have been under incredible pressure the last few weeks. We . . ."
"Look, Mr. Creasey, I had nothing to do with the pressure, but you had me hauled out of your house and dragged down here. Now, if you want to talk, we'll talk. Why not move your car out of the way and climb in? I'll drive us around for a while."
FIFTEEN
-•-
"So how did you know it was me?" I said.
Creasey looked at me blandly from the passenger seat.
"Back there at the police lot. How did you know it was me you were blocking in?"
"Oh, Pina—our maid-described you and . . . and your car."
I turned left onto a nice country lane and hoped the split seams in the old Fiat's upholstery weren't razoring his suit.
"Mr. Creasey, I am truly sorry about your daughter's death .... "
"Why can't you just leave us alone?"
"Because I've been retained to investigate her killing."
"What can there possibly be to investigate? He had the gun, he confessed before witnesses. He killed her, and he should hang for it." There was just a trace of a southwest accent in Creasey's voice.
"Are you from around here originally?"
"What?"
"Did you grow up here?"
"No, no. Texas. My father owned a spread near Fort Worth. I came east to school."
"Where you met your wife?"
"That's right. They used to have ice cream parties at Wellesley on Sunday aftemoons and invite the Harvard . . ."
I glanced at him, but he didn't continue. "What's the matter?"
"I don't usually open up like that. Where did you learn your interrogation technique?"
"Milita1y police for a while, insurance investigation afterwards."
"Combat?" .
"Some."
"Vietnam?"
"I was a little young for Korea."
"I was in the Dominican Republic. Marines, OCS navy program."
"You trying to open me up, Mr. Creasey?"
Almost a smile. "No, I was just thinking how much Tyne's family was against my being in the marines. An infantry platoon leader instead of a corporate executive." He blew out a breath. "Simpler times, in so many ways."
"You get older, life gets more complicated."
"No, it was the times. The choices were so much easier then. Clearer, more like my father's days. If he caught a man cutting some of our stock—I'm sorry, you'd call it 'rustling,' I guess—there wouldn't be any drawn-out litigation. The cattlemen would just take care of it."
"How do you mean?" .
"Well, the war—Second World War—was on, so most of the younger men were in the service, and there never were many peace officers anyway, so the ranchers just resolved it. If the man had been cutting to feed his family, he'd have to work it off for the spread he'd stolen from."
"What if he was cutting for profit?"
"Then something else'd happen."
"A little more severe?"
"A lot more severe. You were in combat. You catch some little shit you know did one of your men, but he isn't worth a nickel to intelligence . . . I mean, you could just look at him and know nobody'd
trust him with any bigger secret than how to pull a pin from a grenade. Does the line platoon feed him, wash him, and escort him back to the rear?"
I didn't like the memories Creasey was stirring for me. The country lane ended at a T—intersection, and I turned right.
"How did you get into television?" I said.
"Tyne's father got a license for one of the first stations up here in the early fifties. He had a manager who brought it along for about fifteen years. When I was finishing my hitch, it seemed a good place to start. The manager died within a year, and I took over."
"Are you happy with it?"
Creasey laughed, then said, "Sorry. It's just that your question reminded me of an interview I had at Harvard my senior year. Tyne and I were engaged, and I was already committed to the marines, but Tyne's father insisted I interview with this corporation that one of his college friends owned. So I'd have 'options' when I got released. Tyne's father was big on options. I met with some junior executive from the corporation, and what was scary was that he really resembled me. We both wore suits, obviously, but I mean his features, hair color, build, all like a ten-year-older version of me. Within five minutes I couldn't stand the guy. He had a bow tie and couldn't talk about anything but the corporation, and his responsibilities, and the long hours. I guess he was pretty much turning off on me too. At one point, maybe fifteen minutes into the interview, he looked at his watch, actually tapped it with the index finger of his other hand, and he asked me if I had any more questions.
I said, 'Just one. Are you happy?' Just like that. 'Are you happy?'
Well, he stared at me, and I was fairly certain he was trying to decide what 'relevant' question I could have asked that would have sounded like 'Are you happy?' Then he cleared his throat, said yes, he was, and we stood and shook manfully. I laughed all the way home."
"And I remind you of that guy?"
"No, no. I was just thinking that I am happy. At the station, I mean. It's a responsible, fulfilling job. I know it sounds like a reprise from Camelot, but the fact is that I get to do the things I want to do, the sort of programming I believe is important. That's what makes this license renewal so . . . I'm sorry, that's not your problem. Anyway, the station, the job, has made the rest of . . . this almost bearable. "
So Like Sleep - Jeremiah Healy Page 8
