Show No Fear

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  “Maybe seven o’clock last night?”

  “Did Richard Filsen do drugs?”

  Shocked, she clutched her hands to her chest.

  “Well?”

  “He had issues, but he was no low-life addict, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Ah,” Paul said. “So what did the woman you saw this morning look like?”

  “She was far away and her head was covered with a scarf maybe, or a hat. Or a hood.”

  Armano looked out the window and gave Paul a look. His look said, True statement.

  Paul felt deflated, but the game wasn’t over yet.

  “So you thought the person you saw leaving the building this morning was that woman?”

  She nodded. “I thought it was the same woman leaving the apartment after I heard the shots or maybe I just assumed it. I can’t swear to it. I saw someone moving away, a quick glimpse. I’m sorry. I’m not helping you, am I?”

  “Think hard, ma’am. Why did you think it was the same person?”

  “An impression of body size, maybe?”

  “Anything else?”

  “The sun wasn’t even over the horizon. Just let me think.”

  Paul waited. Armano drew out a stick of gum and started chewing.

  “I don’t know. I can’t say it was the same person. Somebody else must have seen this person! I mean, we all must have heard the shots!”

  Paul let it lie for now. She would be asked these same questions many more times.

  “Did you hear knocking on his door, or his door opening and closing any other time last night?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “But you claim you saw a woman? Definitely not a man?”

  “A small man dressed as a woman?” She almost smiled. “That only happens in movies.”

  Not true, Paul knew. Small men dressed as women all the time. So did tall ones. What a protected life this woman must lead, or else she might be lying like a rug. “Know anybody in the building with a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody who might have a grudge against Mr. Filsen?”

  Aha! She had glanced toward her husband as he came back into the room.

  “You could talk with his associate, Perry Tompkins. Oh, but I think Richard told me Perry would be out of town this weekend.”

  “Tompkins had issues with Filsen?”

  “I just think—I think Richard was a little insensitive about Perry. I don’t think he took Perry seriously enough.”

  “If you think of anything else that might be relevant to this investigation, please call me right away.” Paul handed her a card. Armano, planted near the door, tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket and reached for the doorknob.

  “Wait. Before you leave, here’s his last batch of mail,” Mrs. Santiago said. “I collected it for him sometimes. Find out who killed him. Please? We’ll miss him every day.”

  Before they left, the detectives checked out Armano’s nephew Helio down the hall. “I work out when I finish my shift,” said Helio. “In my bedroom. I had these headphones on and I was listening to Rubén Blades—you like his music? I play it real loud through headphones. That way I don’t disturb anybody. But right now, I gotta get some sleep. Rain check?” He closed and locked the door.

  “I’m backing Carlos,” Armano said. “She was poking Filsen. He’s the jealous husband, crazy in love with a no-good mama. I’ll get him to myself this afternoon.”

  “My money’s on Barbara. That’s who I’ll be looking at. Bet Helio has a lead on her and Filsen.”

  “He’s no rat.”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Hombre, she loved the dude! You see how she teared up every five minutes thinking about him dead?”

  “But he done her wrong. Happens all the time, Armano.”

  Other people at home in the building swore they hadn’t seen or heard anything. Paul and Armano walked down the stairs of the building rather than trust the elevator they heard groaning through the walls of the apartment house.

  “So you know this Nina Reilly she mentioned?” Armano asked Paul. “I mean, you have blond hair and all. I think you’re the only one in our department—”

  “Yeah, I know her.”

  “Sounds like she had major problems with Richard Filsen.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Paul promised, trying to include in his voice a warning not to pursue the topic further.

  “I can leave at six? That was the deal, right? Big family dinner at seven.” Armano fingered the key in his hand. “What do you think the chances are that Barbie saw the killer and it was a woman?”

  “We can’t rule out a little guy.”

  “You think Carlos is innocent?” Armano asked.

  “Well, forensics tested the hands of everybody in the building at the time, and him, too, because he lives here. They gave me a quick heads-up. Nobody flunked the silver nitrite test.”

  “So, an outsider. Still I feel the need to have a look at Carlos. Check his alibi, the gym, at the very least.”

  “Go for it. Hey, buddy,” Paul said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You seen the new coroner? Susan Misumi. She’s hot.”

  “She’s married and, plus, think about where those hands have been,” said Armano. “Now that you mention it, she does look a little like Barbie Santiago.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Whatever you say, hombre.”

  Paul dropped Armano at home to pick up another car. From the station, he called Nina at her house, then swung by, but the place was closed up, the day in full swing for her.

  He would have to reach her soon.

  CHAPTER 28

  ON THE COAST, MORNING HOVERS OVERHEAD LIKE A DAMP gray hat.

  Nina sat on her porch the day after Thanksgiving, book propped on a scratched wooden table beside her chair, waiting for sun but prepared against the cool, with a wool blanket over her jeans. Determined to study and spend some more time with Bob, she had taken the day off. Now she found her mind drifting away from the words on the page like the fog drifting up the street from the ocean. Inside the house, Bob sang loudly along to a tape, Wee Sing Silly Songs. The tune was from the stately and dignified “Battle Hymn of the Republic” but the words were nonsensical, and naturally Bob loved that.

  She felt, oddly, happy. Again she focused her eyes on the page and watched the words fade. Again she looked down the street. This time, she saw Paul’s car approaching.

  She assessed herself quickly, wishing she had paid a little more attention to her mirror earlier, then shrugged. She had decided against Paul. Something about him scared her and she had had enough of that with Richard. Maybe at another time in her life she would welcome the pull she felt in his direction, but for now, she had achieved a welcome measure of stability. She wasn’t willing to let him rock that.

  He pulled up to the curb and slammed the car door behind him. She removed the blanket from her legs and stood up.

  “Hey, you,” Nina said as he walked up the steps to the porch.

  “Hello, Nina.” He put out a hand and touched her arm, then listened for a moment, head tipped slightly. “He sings really well, doesn’t he?”

  “He does, dang it. Just what the world needs, another boy who grows up wanting to be a rock star.” She smiled but Paul didn’t smile back at her.

  “Nina, sit down, okay? I’m here on official business.”

  “What? Is something wrong?”

  He took her arm again, and sat her down gently. “It’s Richard Filsen. He’s been killed.”

  The news surged through her like a bullet, ripping and tearing everything in its path, and for a moment, the shock stopped her from breathing. While Paul went on, giving her some details about what they knew so far, she hardly heard him. Richard, dead. Murdered!

  He was not old enough to die, was her first thought. Then she pictured him as she first saw him, confident, vibrating with energy, so attractive she couldn’t resist.

  “We’
ve talked with neighbors and have a few leads…the body will be autopsied…” Paul droned on.

  Every word stung. Such things did not happen to people you knew. Such things happened to others, distant people. Who would kill Richard?

  Reason resumed. Many people might want to kill Richard.

  “We’ll need to talk with your mother,” she suddenly heard emerge out of the buzzing.

  “What? Why?”

  “We have a few questions.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Just a few things we need to clarify…”

  “My mother is sick. She has plenty to worry about without a bunch of cops coming around to intimidate and scare her. You know her condition. This is outrageous!” She knew how she sounded, how disparaging. At that moment, she didn’t care.

  “Me, Nina,” he said. “One cop coming around, and I promise I will do my level best not to intimidate or scare her, okay? Look, I know this has been very hard news to hear but…”

  “She’s the last person on earth you should talk to. Many people had what they thought were good reasons to hate Richard, including me. You saw what he was like.”

  He nodded, and she saw impassivity mixed with curiosity in his hazel eyes, which jarred her. She had been right to fear him. He had the rock-hard soul of a cop.

  “Did you know the firm declined to take my mother’s malpractice case?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “That really upset her. Please don’t bother her, Paul.” Her mother would be horrified to hear of such a thing happening so close to home. And of course, knowing Richard’s relationship to Bob—

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “Bob.”

  “Does he know?”

  “He doesn’t know Richard was trying to get custody, of course not. He doesn’t even know—” she gulped, and could not speak.

  She put her face in her hands. She felt for the man she had once loved, however briefly, for his terrible end, and she wept out of pure guilt at the vastness of her relief.

  Richard was out of their lives for good.

  Paul waited until she finished, wiping her nose on a handkerchief he handed her.

  “Nina, I have to ask you a few questions…”

  The acupuncturist, Dr. Albert Wu, came into the station the next day, on Friday, November 23, after a summons from Armano. He sat serenely on the bench outside Paul’s cubicle for half an hour while Paul reviewed Susan Misumi’s autopsy report and preliminary lab results. No surprises there. Nothing to do with long, thin needles, anyway.

  Wu agreed to be taped and to sign a statement when it was typed up. He expressed regret and polite dismay at Mr. Filsen’s death. He explained that Mr. Filsen had been representing him in a professional matter. He had seen him on Monday. Mr. Filsen looked all right, if a little tired. He just wanted to clear up some facts and had nothing new on the case. No, Wu didn’t have any record of the conversation. Yes, they had been alone. Mr. Filsen bragged about keeping everything in his head and so did Wu.

  Paul didn’t believe much of it.

  “Why did you hire Mr. Filsen?”

  Wu launched into his own version of the events involving Virginia Reilly that Jack had already told Paul about at Pinnacles.

  “I’m curious about why you chose him specifically.”

  “He helped me several years ago on an unrelated matter. I did try Henton Jones Horvath, but the attorney there was not interested when I told him I don’t carry malpractice insurance.”

  “Acupuncturists don’t carry such insurance?”

  “It’s not required. Mr. van Wagoner, my profession has an honorable history in Asia and we are considered health providers here. But I could find no company willing to provide malpractice insurance at a reasonable rate.”

  “Well, you stick needles in people.”

  “Very fine, thin needles. Superficial. Almost entirely painless. This treatment is not dangerous.”

  Armano laughed. “That’s why this lady, Virginia Reilly, went after you? You didn’t stick ’em in far enough?”

  Dr. Wu stared at him, his face giving nothing away.

  “Did you have any social contact with this woman, Mrs. Reilly?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Did you ever talk to her after you removed the needles from her hands?” Paul asked.

  “I never met with that woman in person. She did leave several messages at my office. The last one came on Thanksgiving. I can’t say what time, the machine picked up. She seemed furious. Delusional. She threatened me. She said some very sad things, for instance that I wouldn’t get away with”—Wu blew out air—“‘maiming’ her. That poor woman. She needs psychological help.”

  The way Wu said it, with a comma punctuating both sides of his mouth, reminded Paul of those two-faced drama masks, one happy, one miserable.

  “Do you have the tape of that call?” Paul asked.

  “Yes.” Wu dug into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, then handed Paul a microcassette. “It should be here. I erased all other messages, so you need to listen for it to come up about midway through the recording.”

  “Did Mr. Filsen do a good job for you?”

  “As far as I know.” Wu glanced down at a solid-gold watch. He smoothed his tie, a muted dark blue silk print.

  “Do you know how Ginny Reilly or any member of her family reacted when Mr. Filsen became your attorney in this matter?”

  Wu looked interested in the question but said only, “I have no idea.”

  “Where were you yesterday morning at six a.m.?”

  “At home. Asleep with my wife. She’s right outside. You can check with her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all,” Paul said. “Unless you decide to tell me how your conversations with Richard Filsen really went.”

  Wu smiled slightly and turned to go.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Paul said. “Did you or did you not treat Virginia Reilly by inserting acupuncture needles into her fingertips?”

  “Detective, you surprise me.”

  “Just tell me,” Paul said quietly.

  “She broke her appointment. I never treated her.”

  “So Ginny Reilly is insane. Why else would she lie about such a thing?”

  “Not insane, ill. She could not make peace with her ailments. She looked for someone to blame. She picked me as her persecutor. In your business, you see how people lie, not just to you, but to themselves? Delusions, Detective. Delusions.”

  As Wu walked away, Armano murmured, “Easy for you to say, ya fuckin’ liar.”

  “He’s ashamed he hurt her, and now he’s defending himself,” Paul said. “Add that to the idea that he’s not happy she could ruin him.”

  Paul tried to reach Perry Tompkins, but got only a message machine. Then he tried Remy. Armano hadn’t arrived at the firm yet, presumably held up by Rubén Blades.

  “Ooh,” Remy said. “Hello, Paul.”

  He hated the way she said that, so seductively. He wondered if her law clients heard the things in her voice he heard. He knew Jack did, and the thought made blood rush into his cheeks.

  “You hear about Richard Filsen?”

  “Yes.”

  She revealed no emotion at the news. Well, Filsen was her adversary, and almost no one who knew him well seemed to like him. “Does this mean the end of any legal issues regarding Dr. Wu?”

  “There’s something else going on here, Paul, a coincidence. I had just informed Mrs. Reilly our firm could not go forward with her case.”

  “I heard. Why not go forward?”

  “Problems of proof. I can’t go into details. Attorney-client privilege. I very much doubt Filsen’s murder had anything to do with Mrs. Reilly.”

  “Mrs. Reilly had some good reasons to hate him.”

  “Jesus, Paul! She’s sick and has only one hand!”

  “And she’s angry.” He had listened to Wu’s tape, heard the bitter mixture of rage and
fear. He told Remy about Ginny’s phone message.

  “She shouldn’t have done that. She must have called him right after we talked. She wasn’t happy about our withdrawal. I felt terrible about it myself.”

  “What’s your take on what happened to Richard Filsen?”

  “I barely knew him,” Remy said. “We attorneys make so many enemies. An ex-client, maybe.”

  “You have enemies?”

  “If you don’t make enemies, you don’t make it at all.”

  Paul tried Perry Tompkins again and got the machine. He left a message.

  They put a new tape into the remote recording system and asked Matthew Reilly to come in. Ginny Reilly’s twenty-one-year-old son seemed to have been sleeping in his clothes for the better part of a week. He had been picked up out in Cachagua, a remote valley in the hills where drugs devastated many a family.

  The thing about crack—different from crank, which dissipated quickly—you could smell it on a user’s clothes, if you knew what to smell for.

  “Crack?” Paul began conversationally.

  The boy jerked as though Paul had pushed a cue stick at his solar plexus. “I stand on the Fifth. You’re supposed to be a friend of my sister.”

  “That makes you a friend of mine? I’ve seen the counter where you work. Chore Boy metal-mesh scouring pads and those little single roses in those handy glass vials right at hand. You do it at work?”

  “I don’t do anything.”

  Underneath the grungy clothing was a blond kid with a narrow, suspicious, good-looking countenance. When he smiled, the face looked more elfin than evil. The kid looked all tired out. The legs of his jeans hung so low he was walking on them. Every once in a while Paul took in the acrid whiff from the clothing.

  Paul looked down at his notebook. “Where were you Wednesday night, the twenty-first? And Thursday morning? Thanksgiving?”

  “By the way, I’m taping this,” mocked Matt.

  “I am taping this. Where were you?”

  “Out and about,” Matt answered, scratching his head.

  “Take him into the next room and let him think awhile,” Paul told Armano.