“I get it,” Schiff replied deadpan.
“Yeah, so, anyway, the whole time she’s back there and then finally she just finishes up and leaves without saying anything to anybody else. And when it finally slows down, I ask, ‘So who was that, our accountant?’ and Dylan about busts a gut laughing. ‘That,’ he says, ‘is the owner. But I,’ he says in that Godfather voice he could do, ‘I’m the boss and don’t you forget it.’ But not really serious. That was the way he talked, that was all. He could be funny when he turned it on.”
“So he was a good boss?”
“Definitely.”
“Did you know he was selling marijuana out of here?”
Ruiz quickly looked from Schiff to Bracco and back. “Nope,” he said. “No clue.”
“Did you ever buy any from him?” Bracco asked.
“No way, man. I don’t do drugs.” A smile at Schiff. “Except caffeine, of course.”
Since Ruiz’s name did not appear in Vogler’s computer, Schiff was willing to let this answer pass. It might even be true. “Let’s get back to Dylan and Mrs. Townshend, if we can, all right? Did he always treat her as though he was the boss, and not vice versa?”
“Pretty much.”
“And she took it . . . how?”
“I think mostly . . . I mean, I don’t know for sure . . . but if you ask me, it’s why she didn’t come in too often. She was nervous, like. I don’t think they really liked each other.”
Schiff told him that Maya had told them she and Dylan had gotten along.
His eyes went to both inspectors in turn. “Well, I don’t want to get her in trouble. She seems like a nice enough lady. Maybe they saw each other out of work.”
“No,” Bracco said. “But she did tell us that with Dylan dead, now there was no reason for her to keep the shop open. You have any idea what she meant by that?”
The young man shook his head. “She didn’t tell me she was going to close it up. I don’t know why she’d do that. The business is great. That just doesn’t make any sense.”
In the passenger seat of their car just after the interview with Eugenio Ruiz, Bracco hung up his cell phone. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“What?”
“Guess who’s the registered owner of our purported murder weapon? I’ll give you a hint. By all accounts she’s not quite as pretty as some men find you.”
“You caught that, huh?”
“I’m a trained detective. Nothing escapes.”
“You want to go by again and say hello?”
“I was thinking maybe we should.”
Slammed by the admission of Wes Farrell that he was one of Dylan Vogler’s marijuana customers, and still worried sick about the Glitskys and the fate of Zachary, Hardy couldn’t make himself concentrate on his junior associates’ utilization figures. So he decided to leave work early and on the way home to seek an hour or so of solace in the company of his brother-in-law Moses McGuire, who would be behind the rail at the Little Shamrock, the bar they co-owned out on Lincoln near Ninth Avenue.
He’d just found a miraculous parking place around the corner on Tenth and pulled into it when his cell phone rang, his most recent client calling in a panic to tell him that the police had just shown up at her door again and she didn’t know what she should do. It was getting late and the kids were underfoot and Joel would be home soon too.
“Where are they now?” Hardy asked. “The cops?”
“Still out on the porch. I told them I had to talk to my attorney before I could let them come in and talk to me again, and Inspector Bracco said that that was fine but I should know that they’d identified what they think is the murder weapon and found out it was mine. I mean, registered to me.”
“Is that true?”
“I don’t know. It could be, I suppose. I had left a gun I bought a long time ago down at the shop, but I hadn’t seen it in years. I didn’t know it was there anymore, but I guess it was. Anyway, they said maybe I should talk to them here and now if I didn’t want to have to come downtown.”
“That’s a bluff,” Hardy said. “They can’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go without a warrant. And they can’t make you talk to them under any circumstances. Do they have a warrant?”
“I don’t think so. They didn’t say so.”
“Are they still out there?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s only been . . .” He heard her talking away from the phone. “That’s okay, honey, Mommy’s just . . .” He missed the rest of it, and then she was back with him. “I’m sorry, where were we?”
“Are Bracco and Schiff still there?”
“I think so.” A pause. “Yes, they’re just standing outside, talking.”
“Could you let me speak with Inspector Bracco, please?”
“Sure, if you think . . . just a second.”
“Darrel Bracco here. Who’s this?”
“Darrel, it’s Dismas Hardy. How are you doing?”
“Fine, maybe a little cold standing outside in the fog, but okay. Call me a mind reader, but Mrs. Townshend’s your client?”
“She is. I could be there in fifteen minutes. How does that sound?”
“Frankly, sir, it sounds like she’s got herself lawyered up.”
“Every citizen’s right, Darrel.”
“No question, sir, no question. Though as you know, it sometimes gives a cop pause.”
Hardy well knew. “Sometimes it should,” he said. “But I don’t think this is one of those times. Although I’ll tell you frankly I don’t know how much I’m going to let my client say to you until I’ve had a chance to talk to her a little more. Maybe not much.”
“Why am I not shocked?”
“Experience, Darrel. It’s a beautiful thing. Can I talk to Mrs. Townshend again?”
“Sounds like it’s your show. Here she is.”
“Maya,” Hardy said, “why don’t you ask the inspectors in and I’ll be there very shortly. But don’t answer questions until I get there. Is it really your gun?”
“It might have been. If they say so, I’m sure they’re right.”
Hardy wondered why she hadn’t seen fit to remember that detail in their earlier interview, but this wasn’t the time to bring that up.
“But what about Joel?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“He’s going to be coming home. I mean, maybe we could meet someplace else later. You and me and these people.”
“We could do that,” Hardy said evenly. “What time does your husband get home?”
“Sixish. Six-thirty. Usually. But sometimes not. It’s hard to predict.”
Hardy took a beat, checked his watch. “It’s just past four now. I’m sure we can get this all cleared up by five if I come right over.”
“But if Joel gets home early . . .”
“You’re going to have a hard time keeping this from him in any event. Maybe you want to get that part over with now. But meanwhile, I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”
“Or sooner if you could,” she said.
The two unknown guests in the living room—a man and a woman—stopped Joel Townshend in his tracks as he was coming in. He looked a question at his wife, who was sitting with them making small talk.
She had turned and now she stood up, wiping her hands nervously on her skirt. “Oh, Joel. You’re early.” Walking back to him, her face a map of her worries, she kissed him on the cheek, then turned to present the couple on the couch as they were getting to their feet together. “These are inspectors Bracco and Schiff. They have some questions about Dylan and BBW.”
Joel put on a welcoming smile, took a few steps forward, and shook hands all around. Thirty-five years old, tall and thin with short-cropped brown hair, he projected an easygoing, casual style only slightly belied by the perfectly tailored tan business suit, light yellow shirt, and brown and gold tie.
In fact, though, he gave no sign that these unexpected visitors bothered him in any way. They were guests in his house,
and he was their host. End of story. “Please,” he said, “sit back down. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“That’s all right,” Debra Schiff replied. “You didn’t interrupt anything. We’re waiting for your lawyer anyway.”
Joel’s face clouded in confusion. “My lawyer?”
“Actually, mine.” Maya reached out and took her husband’s hand, facing him now, cutting off any further response. She added, “A friend of Harlen’s. He thought we ought to have a lawyer if we’re going to be talking to the police about a murder.”
Joel made a dismissive gesture and shook his head with a bemused humor. “That’s ridiculous. You know I love your brother, My, but sometimes he’s a bit too much of a drama junkie, don’t you think? I hardly believe we need a lawyer to tell these people the simple truth, do we? You didn’t have anything to do with Dylan’s death.”
“No, but—”
“Well, then? And now we’re making them wait here in their busy day. And for what?”
“Well, Harlen thought . . .” She tried a conciliatory smile. “Mr. Hardy will be here in just a minute anyway. He thought it was worthwhile me calling him and asking him to come by.”
In a bit of theatricality Joel cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Well, of course he did. You ask a mechanic if he thinks you need a brake job. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, guess what? You do. New pads all around, more brake fluid and lots of it, maybe balance the tires while he’s at it. Oh, and PS, that’ll be five hundred dollars.” He looked at the inspectors. “Am I right?”
Bracco wasn’t completely successful hiding his appreciation at this response. But he kept it low-key. “We’re not encouraged to argue when citizens say they want their attorney, sir,” he said. “But I think it’s fair to say they’re probably overused, especially in situations like this one, where your wife is not a suspect.”
“Well,” Joel said, “her brother’s a big, important city supervisor now and when he gets dumb ideas, nobody ever calls him on them.”
“I know Harlen pretty well, sir,” Bracco said. “I used to be his partner when he was a cop.” Now he broke a broad grin. “The ambition thing makes him a little cautious.”
“There you go,” Joel said. “Excessive caution. Sometimes it’s just unnecessary.” Still holding Maya’s hand, he gave it a little confident squeeze. “I’m sure my wife will be happy to talk to you. What do you want to know?”
“Joel.” Maya now squeezed his hand hard, warning him off.
“Really, My. Come on. This is silly.”
And the doorbell rang.
“There he is now.” Maya jumped as she let go of her husband’s hand and ran to the door.
Townshend watched her for a second, then turned back to the inspectors and shrugged with some exaggeration. “Fantastic,” he said.
Hardy, walking in to a cool reception at best from both the inspectors and the husband, didn’t make matters any better when, first thing after the introductions, he asked Maya if he could speak to her alone, or with her husband if she wanted.
“I don’t think we need to do that,” Joel said. “Maya doesn’t have anything to hide. She can say anything she needs to in front of me and these inspectors.”
“Absolutely,” Hardy said. “If she wants to, of course she can. Maya? Your call.”
They stood in a frozen tableau for a long moment, until she finally turned to face Hardy and said, “Maybe Joel ought to come with us.”
After his initial stunned expression Joel took in the cops again with an apologetic shrug, then came back to Hardy and Maya with a terse, “All right. Let’s go, then.”
Maya led the little party of three off to a front working den—flats-creen TV, bookshelves, fireplace. Closing the door, they remained standing because Joel gave no one any time to sit down before he more or less exploded, although he kept his voice in check. “Maya, you want to tell me what this is about?”
She threw a glance at Hardy—and again, clearly, this didn’t get her any points with her husband—nodded, took in a breath. “Mr. Hardy knows that I went by BBW on Saturday morning and saw the body, and then got scared and drove away without calling the police.”
Joel’s mouth went tight. “You went to BBW Saturday morning? Why?”
“Because Dylan called me Friday night and said he needed to see me first thing, that it was an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“He didn’t say that.”
“But you went?”
“Yes. I went. But the real problem, ask Mr. Hardy here, is that the first time I talked to those people, I didn’t say anything about that. I told them I went to Mass.”
“The first time you talked to who? Those inspectors out there? This isn’t the first time?”
Hardy finally felt that he could join the conversation. “They talked to your wife yesterday morning.”
Joel couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d talked to them? And not told them the truth?”
“I don’t know, Joel. I don’t know. I panicked. I was afraid, or embarrassed, or something. I thought you’d be mad at me being in this on any level, for getting you involved.” She had her arms crossed over her chest, displaying more defiance than her words indicated. “The point is I’m telling you now, all right? I don’t know what I should do right now. And by the way, you should know, Joel, that the gun they think is probably the murder weapon is the one I left down there back when I first opened the place, like ten years ago, and it’s registered to me.” She looked from one man to the other. “And in case either of you are thinking it, if I were going to have shot Dylan, which I never would have done under any conditions, period, I never would have been so stupid as to throw it away where the police could find it.”
For a minute no one spoke. Eyes flashed between husband and wife. Hardy kept his own counsel in silence until he felt again that he would be heard. “The thing to do right now, in my opinion, Maya, is to go out there and tell the inspectors the truth. As your husband has said. If you don’t do that, and somebody did witness you in the alley on Saturday morning, it will look much worse and be a lot harder to explain. As for the gun, you owned it. So what? If you kept it at the shop, Dylan undoubtedly knew about it and probably had it with him illegally for protection while he was carrying the weed.”
“What weed?” Joel asked.
Maya shook her head in anger and frustration. She spoke under her breath. “Oh, Jesus!”
“Dylan was selling marijuana out of your wife’s store,” Hardy said in his most neutral voice. “I don’t know why it hasn’t been in the papers. The cops have known this all along.”
“How special for them,” Joel said. Clearly seething now, he spoke in a near whisper. “How long were you going to keep all this from me, Maya? What is that about? I thought we talked to each other.”
“We do.”
“Not so much, though, as it turns out.” Finally, Joel brought his attention to Hardy. “So you’re suggesting we go outside and tell these people that my wife lied to them, is that it?”
“Omitted,” Hardy said. “Not lied. At least then we start over with a clean slate.”
“But Maya’s at the murder scene within, apparently, minutes of the crime.”
“That’s true. And in point of fact, she was.”
Now Joel came back to her. “And you don’t know what the emergency was?”
“No.”
“No idea?”
“No, Joel, really.”
This wasn’t enough for her increasingly furious husband. He kept at her. “So the situation here, correct me if I’m wrong, is that Dylan called you on Friday night saying he needed to see you first thing next morning, and you dropped everything and got up at five-thirty, lied to me and the kids about going to Mass—”
“But I did go to Mass, after—”
Joel waved that off. “After you went to see Dylan first, for some reason that he wouldn’t even tell you. Is that what y
ou expect me to believe?”
Tears glistened in Maya’s eyes. “That’s what happened, Joel. That’s exactly what happened.”
“That twerp calls you, doesn’t even give you a reason, and you come running, and now we’ve got the cops sitting in our living room and your lawyer here says we need to tell them the truth, except that the truth leaves you going down to visit the murdered man just about the time he was killed, and with essentially no reason.” He turned to Hardy. “How can we tell them she went down there if we can’t tell them why? Can you answer that for me?”
“Keep it simple. He asked her to, that’s all. Some problem with the business, some decision she had to make in person.” Hardy slowed himself down. “I’m sure Maya thought it was going to be a quick little meeting and then she’d have time to make it back to Mass. Isn’t that right, Maya?”
Hardy had given her the answer and was glad to see her embrace it. “That’s exactly it, Joel. I didn’t think it was anything really important. I wasn’t hiding anything from you. It was just a small business hassle that I thought I’d take care of like I have a million others.”
Another silence, finally broken when Joel asked Hardy, “You really think this will fly?”
“It’s the truth,” Hardy said. “All things considered, honesty’s still the best policy.”
Husband and wife stared at each other for a long beat. Maya reached out and took Joel’s hand in hers. “That ought to be the end of it,” she said.
“Not exactly,” Joel said, extricating his hand from his wife’s. “You and I are going to have to have a discussion.”
“We can do that.” She looked up at Hardy. “Meanwhile, let’s go tell ’em,” she said.
A Plague of Secrets Page 8
