Embroidered Truths

by Monica Ferris

  It was close enough to lunchtime that Betsy went into the kitchen—and discovered there was nothing to be eaten but a dry-looking orange and some wilted lettuce.

  She grabbed her purse and went out.

  Not directly to the grocery store, but first up to the Waterfront Café. Buying groceries while hungry was a sure recipe for excess spending, especially on cookies, doughnuts, jams, cheesecake, and frozen waffles, none of which Betsy wanted in her apartment. She had too many moments of weakness to allow temptation to take up residence.

  The Waterfront Café was an old institution in Excelsior, though not its only restaurant. There was a new and elegant Italian place a couple of blocks away, and a good Chinese place even nearer. The Waterfront, small and shaggy, was more nearly like a greasy spoon, except its spoons were not at all greasy. The food was very basic, on the order of ham and cheese or tuna sandwiches on white or whole wheat with chips and a pickle on the side, homemade soups, pie a la mode. Like The Polonaise, its menu invoked an earlier, simpler time.

  The Waterfront Café was also where people came to hear the latest. Even the Internet was not as efficient at spreading the news as the Waterfront—though there was a single station in the back where you could go on-line. It created an interesting anachronistic frisson, eating a tuna melt and reading the National Review Online.

  Betsy decided on a hot dog with relish and mustard, no chips, and a Diet Coke. She had no more than given her order when Sergeant Mike Malloy sat down across from her. “What’s new?” he asked.

  “Nothing much,” she replied, and watched as a slow smile grew on him, lighting up his whole face. She yearned to smack it off for him. Instead she said, “But I’m not finished looking yet.”

  That was almost as effective as a smack. “Well, look away, look away. You won’t find anything to disprove my case.” He rose in one swift move and went out.

  When her lunch came, she was too angry to eat. She paid her bill and left.

  By the time she got out to the big grocery store on Highway 101, she had cooled off enough to wheel her cart around without running into anyone. Godwin would be home soon—somehow, somehow—and she wanted the kitchen stocked for some of his great cooking. It was too early for even the earliest fresh local produce to be showing at a farmers market, so she went to the produce section and did her best among items imported from Texas, Florida, Mexico, and California.

  She filled five grocery bags and came home with a hunger headache.

  She built a quick sandwich, ate it while putting things away, and after finishing was still putting things away—had she really meant to buy an apple pie?—when the phone rang.

  It was Susan Lavery. “Hi, I’ve got some news,” she burbled happily.

  “Well, great! What is it?”

  “David Shaker has no alibi. In fact, he left work early last Thursday, and called in sick on Friday.”

  Betsy felt a hot stab of pleasure. “Gotcha!” she muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. What else?”

  “D’Agnosto—”

  “I don’t care about Mr. D’Agnosto!” interrupted Betsy.

  “Well, listen to me and you won’t have to read it in day-after-tomorrow’s news. This is big, Betsy, seriously big. The man is going to prison.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am now. I’d try to explain in detail, but that might take awhile. Here’s the brief—the real brief, not a lawyer’s brief. D’Agnosto’s specialty is arranging settlements between clients of the firm and dissatisfied or injured litigants. Recently a client was pleased to pay a hundred thousand dollars to avoid a trial, but D’Agnosto, the dirty rat, persuaded the litigant to settle for sixty-five thousand.”

  “Well, good for D’Agnosto, working hard for his client. Right?”

  “Wrong. The client wrote a check for a hundred grand and sent it to the firm, to be deposited. The firm wrote a check on another account for sixty-five thousand and sent it to the litigant. And a third check for the difference went into a special account only he knows about.”

  “Oh, but didn’t the people who wrote the checks notice what’s going on?”

  “D’Agnosto is our chief finance officer. He writes the checks.”

  “Oh, Susan! Have you told anyone about this?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to make some photocopies of documents first. Gotta run.”

  She hung up before Betsy could ask her more about David Shaker. Betsy wanted to call her back, but didn’t in case someone at Susan’s end was paying attention. Instead, she worried all afternoon about Susan.

  A little before seven she tried Susan at home. After six rings Susan’s answering machine picked up. Betsy waited for the beep and said, “Susan? Susan, are you there? It’s Betsy Devonshire! Please pick up if you’re there.” She waited a few seconds, then concluded, “Please call me as soon as you get home. Thank you.”

  At eight she called again. Still no answer. Nor at eight-thirty, or nine.

  So she called Mike Malloy at home. “I wouldn’t bother you, but I think this may be an emergency. I’ve been talking with an attorney named Susan Lavery, who works at Hanson, Wellborn, and Smith, John Nye’s firm. She hasn’t come home from work, and I’m terribly worried.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “Because she called me today and told me two things: one, that David Shaker, who was John’s superior, has no alibi for the night John was killed and called in sick the next day. John and David had a very serious confrontation the day before John was murdered. Two, she has collected evidence that a partner in the firm, one Walter D’Agnosto, has been stealing thousands of dollars in settlements he arranged for clients of the firm. If either of those people found out she’s been snooping . . . I’m scared for her, Mike.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, you damned amateurs!”

  Fright made her flare, “Oh, yeah? If it weren’t for us ‘damned amateurs,’ you professionals would send innocent people to prison for crimes they didn’t commit!”

  “All right, all right, calm down. What’s this female attorney’s name again?”

  “Susan Lavery. She has a child, Mike, a little boy.”

  “The two of you should’ve thought of that before you got her involved in this.” The phone slammed down.

  Betsy went to the couch in her living room, fell into it, and wept bitter tears.

  In a few minutes, she felt a gentle tap on her elbow. It was Sophie, who looked up into her face with concern. Betsy touched her on top of her head, and the cat climbed heavily into her lap, curled herself into place, and began to purr. Whenever Betsy stopped stroking, she would gently tap her arm again.

  Half an hour later, the phone rang. Betsy jumped up, spilling the cat onto the floor, and ran to pick up the receiver.

  “It’s Sergeant Malloy,” he said, his voice tight. “She’s at County General. All I know is what I was told, and I was told she fell out of a car. Not her car, apparently. She’s not able to tell anyone right now how that happened.”

  Betsy thrust the fingers of one hand into her hair. “Are you there now?”

  “Yeah. And I need to talk to you.”

  “Can you stay till I get there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Betsy grabbed her purse and started for the door—then turned back. In her experience, going to the hospital meant a lot of sitting and waiting. Betsy had a hard time just sitting. She ran to her easy chair, grabbed her knitting bag from beside it, and then went out.

  Twenty-three

  BETSY found a parking place on the street near the Hennepin County Medical Center, and hurried into the Emergency Room reception area.

  Mike Malloy, thin and grim, was waiting for her in front of the long, tall counter. He took her by the elbow, not gently, and steered her into a small office. “What do you know about this?” he demanded in a low, firm voice, shutting the door behind them.

  “How is she?” Betsy replied.

  “I
said—”

  “No. You first. How is she? What happened to her? Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s still unconscious, but she has a very thick skull, and she’ll likely wake up in a little while, none the worse except for a bad headache. She’s got a pretty good case of road rash on her arms and legs, along with assorted bumps and bruises, from falling out of a moving car. No broken bones. How did she come to be in the trunk of a car?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Who called me away from a terrific basketball game with a complaint that she might be in danger?”

  “Um.”

  “Right. Your turn. How did she come to be in the trunk of a car?”

  “Someone put her there, of course. I don’t know who!” she burst out, forestalling his next question. “I called you to say there were two people she was suspicious of, for two completely different and unrelated reasons.” She turned around and saw a metal chair with an imitation leather seat and sat down.

  “I went to Hanson Wellborn to see if someone there had a grudge against John. I talked with John’s secretary, but she couldn’t tell me anything useful. Then I met Susan Lavery, just by chance. I know her, she’s a customer. I was surprised to learn she’s an attorney. Anyway, we talked and she volunteered to look into various people at the firm. First, she told me about David Shaker, how John had shown him up in an important meeting, and how David had come down to John’s office and . . . and there was some kind of confrontation. Tasha, John’s secretary, doesn’t seem to know anything about it, but Susan is sure it happened. David has a reputation as the enforcer of the firm. I only talked to him briefly, but he seemed perfectly nice right up until he gave Susan a look that should have frozen her marrow.” Betsy choked and wiped her eyes. “She told me she expected she would hear from him before the week was out. Oh, I feel just so terrible!”

  “How did you persuade her to do something so stupid and dangerous?”

  “Persuade her? She volunteered! Every time I tried to warn her, she just raved about how much fun she was having! She was digging up dirt on everyone. I asked her just to find out who was angry with John, but then she got this bee in her bonnet about Walter D’Agnosto, who is a very senior partner, and who runs the money end of things. She is very sure he’s been stealing funds that are routed through him. She said she had printouts that would prove it. I tried again to warn her, but she just laughed and hung up on me, and I was scared to call her back at work for fear someone might figure out what she was up to—I made no secret of it that I went there to find another suspect in John’s murder. Mike, I want to talk to her, can I talk to her?”

  “Sure, you can chat away all you like, but she won’t hear a word you’re saying. She’s unconscious, remember?”

  “Are you sure she’s going to be all right? How long has she been here? When did you check on her last? I want to go ask at the desk, all right?”

  “No, stay in that chair. I’m not done with you yet. She hasn’t been here two hours yet. I’ll go see if she’s awake. Now listen to me, you stay put, you hear?” He pointed a finger at her as if it were a pistol.

  “All right, yes.”

  He went out, closing the door sharply, as if to remind her that she was not to open it. She rubbed her upper lip, trying to get her whirling brain to settle down and think.

  Maybe it was one of those chance things, some rapist picking a victim at random? Where did he wait for Susan? Parking ramps had a reputation as places criminals lurked.

  Wait a minute. It had been nearly ten when Mike called, and nearly ten thirty before she came in here. Mike said Susan had been here “not two hours yet.” That meant she’d been picked up off the street some time after eight. She worked until five. Where had she been for three hours? No matter who had grabbed her and thrust her into the trunk of his car, he hadn’t been driving around the Twin Cities for three hours. He could have been in Duluth in three hours, or halfway to Chicago in that amount of time. Why hang around here, when there’s a person you want to lose? Even if the purpose had been rape, it wouldn’t take three hours to find a place to take her.

  Maybe David Shaker and Walter D’Agnosto were in an illegal partnership, and one had to wait for the other to show up.

  Maybe the grab had been an impulse and now the grabber had to think up a complex plan.

  No, neither of those sounded right. If you wanted to get rid of someone, the idea was to get rid of them, not drive around with them in the trunk. That was even more dangerous than leaving them alone. Attorneys could always think up excuses for anything short of being actually caught with a body in the trunk.

  Betsy had, for awhile, been a fan of the television show Cops, and had been greatly amused at how people reacted when drugs were found in their cars. “That’s not mine,” they’d universally say. Even when a cop would reach into a pocket and find drugs. “That’s not mine.” One had gone so far as to insist the underwear the drugs were found in were not his, either.

  Not my car—was that going to be the defense?

  Where was the car? Had it been stopped? Was the driver in custody?

  Suddenly Betsy had more questions for Mike.

  The door opened, and he was back, the answer to her prayer. She stood.

  He raised a hand against her questions. “She’s still unconscious, though they think she may start waking up soon. They’re pretty sure she has a concussion, and you know what that means.”

  “I do? No, I don’t.”

  “People who wake up with concussions don’t remember how they got them. They lose at least a few minutes and more often several hours of memory.”

  “So even if she saw her attacker, she may not be able to remember him?”

  “Very likely she won’t remember him.”

  She sat down again. “Mike, do they have the car she fell out of?”

  “No. Someone was driving behind when she came out, she almost ran over your friend. She had a cell phone, and called for help.”

  “Susan must have been conscious to have opened the trunk. Did she tell the woman who stopped anything?”

  “Nothing useful. She just said, ‘Help me.’ The witness said the car Ms. Lavery fell out of was silver, that’s all she remembers about it.”

  “Mike, I was thinking—”

  “Always a dangerous thing.” He grimaced and turned his face away, then back. “No, that’s not true. I apologize. What were you thinking?”

  “She gets off work at five. She fell out of that trunk at what, eight? After eight? Where was she taken from? Did she work late? Was she in the parking ramp? Her driveway at home? Oh, and where’s her little boy?”

  There was a special note of urgency in that last question, so Mike answered it first. “He’s with a neighbor, he’s fine. She’s taken him in before. She’ll get him off to school in the morning with her own kids—they go to the same school.”

  Betsy gave a little sigh of relief. “Good,” she said.

  “Now, about the other questions. We have retrieved tapes from cameras in the parking ramps near where Ms. Lavery works—I don’t suppose you know where she normally parks? Or what kind of car she drives?”

  “No,” said Betsy, unhappy that she couldn’t be helpful.

  “That’s all right,” said Mike genially, glad to prove his side superior in this matter. “We have other sources. One will be able to tell us so we can look for her car when we run the tapes.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s good. But it’s odd that someone thought to drive around for hours with her in the trunk, isn’t it? And not going somewhere—or is that true? Where was the car when she fell out?”

  “On Cedar Avenue near Lake Street. Only a block from a police station, as it happens.”

  “Going toward or away from the freeway?” asked Betsy. Cedar Avenue going north ran directly into—your choice—35W going north or 94 West.

  “North.” Mike nodded. “I’d say he was headed out of town.”

  “I think that means he’d pic
ked her up shortly before that,” said Betsy. “I don’t know where Susan lives. Is it anywhere near Cedar Avenue?”

  “Not really. It would be much quicker to go from her house to 494 than to take city streets all the way over to Cedar.”

  “What’s in the area where she was taken?”

  “Now, we don’t know where she was taken from. Could be miles from where she fell out.”

  “But not from downtown, surely. I mean, you can get from Cedar Avenue going north to a quick exit back downtown. If he was coming from downtown, he’d be going south.”

  A twinkling sound came from Mike’s suitcoat pocket, and he pulled out a cell phone. “Malloy here,” he said into it. He listened for awhile. “Fine, that’s good,” he said at last. “Right, I’ll keep you posted.”

  He folded the phone up and put it back in his pocket. “Susan Lavery drove a two-year-old Nissan, dark blue. She always parked it on level three or four of the Marquette Avenue Ramp. We have videotape of her getting into her car and driving away at five-fifteen this evening. So she wasn’t taken from work. I think that points away from either of the two people you think might be suspects in this kidnapping.”

  “Possibly. It also might show he has the brains not to take her from a place that could put suspicion on him.”

  “Or,” said Mike, “it could mean she was taken by chance, by a stranger.”

  “True. But does either David Shaker or Walter D’Agnosto have a silver car?”

  Mike smiled tightly. “As it happens, they both do. Shaker has a silver BMW, and D’Agnosto has a silver Audi.”

  Betsy smiled admiringly back, acknowledging that Mike was, after all, a professional police investigator, not some low-IQ jerk. He also had the resources of several law-enforcement jurisdictions behind him. That could get things done in a hurry. “Well done,” she said.

  “Now, what we need to do next—”

  The door opened, interrupting him. A man in white scrubs stuck his head in. “Sergeant Malloy?”