by West, CJ
Laroche filled a trash can with the pictures and documents, hefted it to his chest, and left Charlie to wait for the police.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Pinto hung up with the dispatcher and watched through the window as Frenet seated the women in a cruiser. He was glad Frenet was dealing with the hysteria outside. Joyet was much more rational and for the first time since he arrived, Pinto had a silent moment to piece together what had happened. He pulled out his pad, checked his watch and wrote: “Arrived 11:12 am.”
Beneath that he added: “Recently deceased victim hanging in foyer. Identified by widow as Charles Marston—Owner—Marston Vineyards.” Pinto didn’t add that Oliver had accused him of being a thief. He’d whisper that to the chief later. He also omitted any description of the body. The blood dripping from the calf supported the dispatcher’s opinion that Marston was killed while Oliver Joyet was on his cell phone calling it in. He’d sworn he heard the rope snap, but Pinto decided the time of death was best left to the coroner and the detectives. They could examine the body and listen to the tape themselves later.
He continued to describe the scene:
Oliver Joyet bound to stair post on second floor w/ duct tape.
Ankles/wrists bound, mouth taped over.
Neck taped to post.
Laceration (bandaged) on upper arm. Fight w/ Marston? Sr or Jr?
Who applied the bandage?
Elizabeth Marston, Deirdre _______, “guarding?” w/ bat
Kitchen knife by front door
Tape residue on women’s wrists, faces—appears to match tape on Joyet
Charlie Marston (Jr) not on premises
Who freed the women?
Barn on fire. Set?
Ten minutes elapsed from call to arrival.
Pinto glanced up from his notes at Oliver. He looked like your average accountant who’d been through a bar fight. His voice matched the 911 call and Pinto convinced himself that Oliver couldn’t have caused this much chaos in ten minutes. Charles Junior looked guilty. The women might be covering for him. What mother wouldn’t?
Pinto put his pad away and crouched down next to Oliver.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened when you got here.”
Oliver motioned over his shoulder with his head. The wound in his triceps must have been painful. Even uninjured, being trussed to the pole like that would be terribly uncomfortable. Pinto knew from experience that if his suspect trusted him, he’d be more likely to tell what he knew.
“Are you ok?” he asked.
“My back’s killing me.”
Pinto looked down at Rodrigues by the door and then looked behind Oliver to his hands. Even with his hands free, the tape around his neck would hold him. Oliver wasn’t going anywhere.
Oliver smiled when Pinto removed his pocket knife and began cutting. He sliced the dozen layers of tape that held his chest to the post then he knelt down and cut his hands free. Oliver pulled the tape from his chest piece by piece, balled it up, and tossed it in the corner.
“Hold still,” Pinto said, and cut between Oliver’s neck and the post.
Oliver tried to stand, but couldn’t manage it with his ankles bound.
Pinto stepped back, again checking Rodrigues, but hesitated to free him further.
“Do you mind?” Oliver motioned to his ankles. “You can cuff my good hand to the rail if it makes you feel better.”
Pinto helped him up, tightened the cuff around his wrist and fastened it to the unbroken section of the rail. When the cuff clicked closed, Pinto relaxed. No killer volunteered to be cuffed at a murder scene swarming with police. Oliver had to be innocent.
Pinto knelt down and focused on cutting the tape and not Oliver’s khakis.
The crushing pain in his windpipe came from nowhere. The knife dropped to the soggy carpet as he clutched his throat in vain for breath. Rodrigues was only twenty feet away somewhere between the foyer and the dining room. Pinto couldn’t see him and he couldn’t make a sound. There was a rush of air and then something slammed into his temple. The world flashed white and then everything went black. He felt himself falling as if in a dream, falling down into nothingness.
…
Pinto collapsed in a heap pinning Oliver’s feet to the floor, his belt just in reach. Oliver fished in the pouch that had held the cuffs, no keys. He moved on to the next pouch and then another. Someone moved at the bottom of the stairs. The gun was within reach, but Oliver couldn’t imagine winning a shootout with a dozen cops while cuffed in plain sight.
He rolled Pinto aside, stood up and spoke loudly. “Then I came in through the door. Charles was standing here,” he motioned to the gap in the rail, “all bloody. I don’t think he could see anymore. Then, I saw Charlie behind him.”
The officer in the foyer moved on and Oliver knelt down and resumed fishing through Pinto’s uniform for the keys. He continued his story in case the men downstairs were still listening. “Charlie looked rabid. I screamed no, no, but he pushed him anyway. I ran up the stairs but it was too late. Charlie had the knife and then…”
Bingo, the keys were on a tiny ring in his chest pocket. The cuffs clicked open. Pinto’s 9mm Glock popped from the holster, not a ton of stopping power and only ten bullets. Regardless, Oliver was amazed to be free. He almost broke into a trot, but realized his heavy footsteps would attract attention downstairs. He stalked on wobbly legs through a tidy bedroom, out the window, and onto the garage roof. He closed the window and inched down toward the expansive vineyard. There he realized the white shirt he’d worn to highlight the blood was now a major liability. He’d stick out anywhere he went.
He decided to try the escape the Marstons had tried, but in the opposite direction toward the forest. He knew the woods around the winery better than anyone. With luck, the police would be so engrossed with the women and the fire they wouldn’t notice him sneaking down the slope and jumping over the stone wall. As long as they took their time finding Pinto, crawling along the wall to the woods, would be a snap.
He let go of the window frame and his sneakers began to slide on the mossy slope. The grating on the asphalt shingles would have been loud on any other day, but the fire and the commotion surrounding it completely drowned it out. He felt like a panicky ski jumper reaching dangerous speed for the first time. Halfway down, he did the only thing he could to slow himself; he dropped to his butt and slid. The shingles scraped the undersides of his thighs until he got his knees bent and leveled the soles of his sneakers back down on the shingles.
Still too fast.
At the end of the roof, his shoes caught the aluminum gutter and sent him head first over the ten-foot drop to the grass. His left arm crumpled on impact, slowing him only marginally. The force threw him over on his back and his ribcage met the ground with a thud that blew every breath of air from his lungs.
He lay on his back watching oceans of gray smoke. His arms were lifeless, his ribs on fire, but his legs were strong enough to carry him to freedom. Oliver never expected to survive this day. Energized by the prospect of freedom, he picked up the Glock and ambled to the wall. When he reached it and tumbled over, he looked back. No one followed. They were overwhelmed with what he’d left behind.
There was life ahead for Oliver. He had enough money to start again and live the life he’d missed. He regretted not keeping the money from Piolenc. The dead men would make it tough enough for Charlie. Unfortunately, Charlie was probably burning the pictures right now.
Gathering sawdust, he mused.
If only he’d sent copies to a lawyer. At the time, it felt too much like a setup. Charlie had surprised him. He held his water and rushed off to destroy the evidence.
Well played, Chuckie, but it’s not over yet.
Chapter Fifty-eight
The three men in the car with Charlie were wary, not afraid since his hands were cuffed, but alert to every movement he made, however subtle. The gun, zipped in a plastic bag on the front seat, had convinced them Charli
e was the sort of crazed sociopath who could kill his own father and terrorize his mother into complicity. The empty cylinder and his peaceful demeanor didn’t matter. To them, the freshly-fired gun proved his guilt. They had carefully bagged five bullets and two empty casings without a single comment about the odd condition of the house. One of the officers swore he could smell gun powder on Charlie’s fingers and ordered him not to wash his hands until they were tested for residue. The test wasn’t necessary. After six shotgun blasts and one with the revolver, Charlie could smell the powder himself.
Laroche had offered to take the gun, but Charlie refused. The gun was all that remained of Oliver’s case. When he learned his pictures were missing, he’d center his arguments on the gun and Charlie didn’t want to make himself look guiltier by trying to hide it. Right then, the gun was the only thing keeping the cuffs on Charlie. When the police put them together in the same room, Oliver would argue some wild theory about Charlie killing Henri, his father, and the detective. As the car drove on, Charlie wondered what connection Oliver would dream up to link these three strangers. Whatever Oliver said, Charlie could explain the gun and his father’s death. The dead detective and the cash in the couch would be far more difficult.
The radio crackled with some official gibberish and one of the officers up front confirmed their arrival in less than a minute.
Charlie balled his fists again. He’d alternated splaying his fingers on the bench seat and pressing his palms higher against the backrest to no avail. His chained hands made comfort impossible. Every shift exacerbated the pain in his ribcage where Oliver’s heel had struck bone.
They passed a mob in the vineyard that looked like a huge, blue-shirted pruning crew fanning out in a wide arc. Charlie glimpsed two canine officers working their dogs in the center and took a tremulous breath.
“What’s going on out there?”
The men glanced at each other and the driver spoke. “The chief will advise you on the situation.” Police speak for sit there and shut up.
They whizzed by seven, two-toned state police cars at the roadside. A few green pickups and SUVs were mixed in among them.
“You didn’t let him go?” Charlie asked.
Their hesitation was answer enough. “Oh, my God! Do you have any idea what he’s done to us?”
The driver stoically turned down the long seashell drive unmoved by Charlie’s outrage. Up ahead, it seemed that every piece of Westport public safety equipment was arrayed around the blazing barn. Firemen rushed excitedly around the perimeter, the white water rushing from their hoses doing little to dampen the flames. The senior officer parked amid a cluster of police cars, got out, and daintily held the plastic-bagged revolver as he led the way into Charlie’s house. Charlie struggled out of the back seat and followed, flanked by the two younger officers.
Inside, three neatly dressed men stood in the center of the living room with a uniformed officer in each doorway. Chief Brock, an overstuffed man who’d been muscular some years ago, faced Deirdre and Elizabeth as they sat on the couch. With Oliver presumably gone and the pictures destroyed, the police wouldn’t know what was hidden beneath the cushions. Charlie wished there was a way to signal his mother to stay seated, but before he could think of anything, a tall man in dress pants and a tie gripped his arm and led him into the kitchen. He silently prayed Deirdre didn’t complain about something hard underneath her seat as Detective Miller firmly escorted him to a chair in the dining room.
“What are you doing with him? He has nothing to do with this.” Elizabeth’s protest trailed off as Miller removed one cuff then reattached it to the chair.
A stout officer unsteadily joined them from the front entry and sat in silence at the far corner of the table. He produced several sheets of paper and waited for Miller to begin. He lacked the authoritative edge of the other officers, as if he himself were intimidated by the proceedings. Charlie spotted a black bruise forming around his windpipe and assumed that this was the man that had let Oliver escape. He might be the only remaining vessel for Oliver’s story. The mishap would also explain his taciturn demeanor.
Miller began with polish distinct from his comrades. He looked fortyish and Charlie guessed he’d retired early from a city precinct for the slower pace of rural law enforcement. Miller acknowledged that Charlie knew his rights, but asked for his cooperation to speed the investigation along. Despite his manners and words to the contrary, Miller’s penetrating glare revealed his true feelings on the case.
Miller took up a position to Charlie’s right, forcing him to focus his attention on one of the men at a time. “I’ve listened to some very interesting stories this afternoon, and I assume yours will agree with your mother’s and that of Mrs. Deudon.” Miller held out his hands and tipped them like the Scales of Justice. “The problem I have is that Mr. Joyet’s statements align very closely with the facts. He’s the one who called us. He told us you were going to burn down the barn and kill your father. Voila, the barn is on fire and alas, your father is hanging next door. He also said we’d find you in his home with a gun.” Miller waved the revolver in the plastic baggie. “You have to agree he’s been very reliable.”
“Where is he now?”
“Careful, Mr. Marston. Joyet’s disappearance is the only thing keeping you out of jail at the moment. Why don’t you start by telling me where you got the gun?”
“If Oliver was innocent, he would have stayed around.”
“That’s precisely what he said about you. Answer the question, Mr. Marston. Where did you get the gun?”
“I came into the house, found my father dead in the foyer, and went upstairs to help my mother. The gun was on the bureau by the door.”
Miller nodded presumptively as if he’d heard this before. “It wasn’t in a drawer or the gun cabinet. Someone left it lying in plain sight.”
“Not someone, Oliver. The women were tied up in there. Ask them.”
Miller ignored the suggestion. “How’d you know to look upstairs?”
“I was approaching the house through the woods and I found a little lean-to that Oliver had been watching us from. There was a monitor that showed my mother bound to the bed in the guest room. I think he wanted me to find it.”
Miller stared back, as if no proof Charlie could offer would offset the gun sitting on the table. Charlie pointed out the front window with his free hand. Miller paused, then left the room a moment and sent an officer trotting across the driveway and up into the trees. The man across the table wrote something and passed it to Miller as he came back. Miller browsed it and pushed it aside.
“So, tell me why Oliver Joyet goes to all this trouble. What could he possibly gain from this?”
The inference stung. Charlie stood to inherit millions, but not until both his parents passed. “Oliver hated my father. Getting even was all Oliver cared about.”
Miller listened skeptically as Charlie chronicled Oliver’s quest for revenge. He didn’t take a single notation as Charlie explained the original fraud here in Westport and the death of Oliver’s parents. He looked bored as Charlie described a man so consumed with rage that he paid to have Charlie’s knee broken almost three years ago. The stout man started at the mention of Charlie’s knee, but didn’t interrupt.
Miller looked dubious, but didn’t speak. It could have been a ploy to keep Charlie talking, or he could have been truly convinced Charlie was guilty. Either way, Charlie obliged by describing what Oliver had done to the Caulfields and then the similar things he’d done to them here. The officer in the corner took copious notes. When Charlie finished, Miller dispatched officers around the farm to check Charlie’s story. Then they sat looking at each other and waited.
A dog barked outside. Charlie shot a look to the window in time to see twenty men parade toward his parents’ house. This was the search party from the vineyard and, by the flurry of activity outside, they hadn’t found what they were looking for. Charlie had survived Oliver’s torment for months, fought him, outs
marted him, caught him, and strapped him down. In less than an hour, these men had managed to lose him. At some level, Charlie was glad Oliver was gone. Without him twisting the facts, he was sure Miller would eventually come around.
Miller left Charlie with the quiet officer for nearly half an hour. Neither spoke.
He appeared a while later in the doorway with an officer who’d just rushed in. Their whispering wasn’t quiet enough to keep the conversation from Charlie. The dogs originally bolted out among the vines to a shallow hole. They found six .308 shell casings in the dirt. They returned to the house and, after a few circles, they picked up a track behind the garage that went down along the stone wall and into the forest. The canine officers and the dogs found progress on the path fairly easy, but the troopers stomping through the brush at their sides barely managed to hack their way through the wiry tangles of briars, never mind search for a fugitive. They were confident they were following Oliver’s trail, but they couldn’t be sure how far behind they were.
They’d never catch him in those woods.
Miller sat down with a notepad and slowly pieced together a timeline. His questions were more specific since returning from outside. The threats in his questions waned and his eyes grew less intense. He picked over the facts, searching for details to fill in things he’d missed or didn’t understand. His hostility disappeared and, as he learned the depths of Oliver’s torment, his tone became apologetic. The one question Charlie couldn’t answer lay unasked on the table. Miller stood up, never asking why Charlie went to Oliver’s house or what he’d done there.
Miller removed the cuffs and led Charlie into the living room to join Deirdre and Elizabeth. The television was tuned to a rerun of You’ve Got Mail to occupy their eyes if not their thoughts.
Later, on a trip to the kitchen for a soda, Charlie noticed an officer on the back deck, not facing in to watch the prisoners inside, but facing the vines to protect them. Another officer was similarly stationed on the front steps. The shift signaled a change for Charlie. The police weren’t treating him like a suspect anymore. They’d seen enough to know Oliver had killed Charles regardless of what he said on the emergency services recording. But the change also meant they didn’t know where Oliver was. They were here to protect them now, but eventually they’d leave and Oliver would be back.
