by Alex Ames
“When did you see Phoebe next?” Ron was leaning toward Altward and he stared intensely at his face. Altward was a broken man, he had confessed, we had him.
Altward lifted his head, a glassy unfocussed look in his eyes. He simply stared between Fowler and me into the bright blue ocean. After a minute, he responded, “I never saw her again after that night.”
Tears were streaming down his face.
After that, Ron decided to break up our little assembly. He had enough on tape to put Altward behind bars and he didn’t want to risk any lawyer bickering about the style of the interrogation.
Andrew Altward was put into handcuffs and brought to police headquarters in Downtown San Diego. Juanita got an update from the crime scene techies next door. Fowler and I killed some time, went out into the garden, and warmed ourselves in the sinking afternoon sun.
“What will happen to the Maximilian Jewels, now that they have been found?” I asked Fowler.
“Judging from the recent publicity, it is very likely that Mexico will claim them very quickly. And the State Department will give in for the sake of bilateral peace. A day or two?”
“Even though they are held as evidence?”
Fowler gave his thin disillusioned smile; been there, heard that, seen it all. “It will depend on whether the district attorney defines the Maximilian Jewels as evidence. If the DA is comfortable with the case without the material evidence, he may waive it being produced at the trial. The DA and the defense may agree on the facts and stipulate that the Maximilian Jewels played a minor part in the murder of Wally Eastman and carry on without them being physically present. Remember, the murder of Mr. Eastman was over something completely different. And Altward’s attempted insurance fraud was with the good old Montenhaute grandma stuff. And whether it was legally or illegally, we still don’t know how the Max Jewels came into Altward’s possession.” Fowler sighed. “But, of course, these charges are comparatively minor to the murder charge.” He glanced over at me. “And you, are you happy that your plan worked out all right?”
That was probably as far as Fowler would lean over to me to tell me that he was wrong in accusing me of the break-in.
“The jewelry thing, yes. I am glad that it is over and that we found the jewels and the killer of the night watchman. But what about poor Phoebe?”
“I bet that was Altward, too,” Fowler said. “He would fit the bill.”
“But what’s his motive?” I thought about Mundy’s theory that Phoebe and her dad had stolen the jewels.
“For not telling or for killing her?” Fowler frowned. “For not telling, that is easy. Killing her dad is brought down to manslaughter. But killing Phoebe makes it two in a row and that doesn’t make it look so good. The DA could throw in plenty of motives—lovers’ quarrel, greed, panic, calculation, whatever.”
“But do you think those were his motivations?” I insisted.
Fowler gave me the same kind of look that Ron had given me all those weeks when I always appeared to be one step ahead of him.
Fowler raised his hands and said, “OK, I give up. Either you tell me what you want or you leave me alone.”
I beamed at him. “I want to be there when they hand over the Maximilian Jewels to the Mexican representative.”
He looked astonished for a second and then his eyes grew into their usual suspicious slits. “That’s all?” I nodded.
“I think that will be easy to arrange, you being the one who came up with the trap to retrieve ‘The Max.’ I will see to it.” He made it sound happy for me but he did not look the part.
Poor Fowler, he wouldn’t see it coming.
Chapter 44
FOWLER AND I spent the rest of the afternoon and the early evening giving our statements to the police.
Ron gave us a quick update on Billy Bounce. Had we ever seen him before? No. Fowler and I shook our heads, while I crossed my fingers under the table. They held him on several accounts, mostly the resistance and shooting stuff. Although it appeared that he was some kind of professional thug, he wasn’t on anybody’s wanted list. Billy Bounce simply asked for his attorney, made his one phone call and within an hour had the best lawyer in town at his side; another hot legal eagle from L.A. was also on the way. Ron speculated that Billy Bounce was a robber among robbers and simply wanted to get the piece of pie for his master. Followed by another quick look at me.
Still denying any involvement with Phoebe’s murder, Altward was interrogated several more times. So far, his statement matched the story he gave us.
In parallel, Paul Faulkner was also brought in for questioning. At first, he too refused to talk and waited for his lawyer to arrive. Juanita and I were behind the mirror screen of the interview room while Ron and another policeman tried to pull something, anything out of Faulkner.
“Do you know this man?” Ron was asking. He put down the same photo of Hans Polter we had shown to Altward.
Faulkner didn’t even glance at the photo. He folded his arms, “Can I have another coffee?”
Ron tried some other questions to rile Faulkner into an answer, any answer, but no such luck. Faulkner simply stared at some undisclosed spot on the wall. A few minutes later, his lawyer arrived, the serious type with a Hermes silk tie and a calfskin briefcase. He introduced himself as Henry Winston, what fitting irony if you know about fine jewelry. He glared at the mirror screen as if he could make us out behind it.
Juanita whispered, “Has regular lunch with the mayor and plays golf with the chief of police.”
“Can I confer a few minutes with my client, Officer?” He inquired politely.
Ron said easily, “We only have a few questions for Mr. Faulkner, no big deal.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the Eastman murders or the break-in at the gallery?” Winston raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“It might,” Ron conceded.
“Is there a place where we can have privacy?”
They all got up, Ron showed them out and we heard them shuffling along the corridor, another door opening and slamming. A few moments later, Ron stepped into the interrogation room with fresh coffee and sat down, studying his file. Juanita and I sat down, too, and waited.
Faulkner and Winston met for about twenty minutes and then they marched back into the room. Ron switched on the recorder and stated the names of the people present.
“Who is behind the screen?” Winston pointed at the mirror.
“Detective Garcia, Officer Smithson, police consultant Moonstone and insurance agent Wynn,” Ron said. “They all belong to the investigation team. May we begin?”
“Go ahead and ask your questions.”
“First, I want to inform you that we have arrested your gallery partner, Andrew Altward, on the counts of killing your security guard, Wally Eastman, and attempted insurance fraud, other counts are pending.” He left out the Maximilian part. “He will be officially charged tomorrow.” Ron held up his right hand in a stop gesture. “And before you say ‘ridiculous,’ I further inform you that Altward has confessed to both counts.”
“He has representation?”
“He does, be assured. And a good one.” Ron pushed the photo of Hans Polter over the desk. “Do you know this man?”
“I might,” Faulkner said, without looking at the photo.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Neither. I meet so many people in my profession, it is possible that I have met him but forgot him already. Happens all the time.”
“Does the name Hans Polter ring a bell?”
“No, can’t say that it does. German?”
“Norwegian, living in the US.”
“No, I don’t know him.”
“Your partner Mr. Altward claims that you do.”
Faulkner shrugged, played with his empty coffee cup. A small smile played around his lips. “Asked and answered, Detective,” the lawyer said impatiently.
Ron didn’t show any reaction, simply continued asking his questions. “Did yo
u contact Mr. Polter at the night of the break-in?”
“Don’t know him, couldn’t contact him.” At least Faulkner didn’t skip any answers. “I was in Mexico at that time, remember?”
Ron rolled his eyes. “This is the new millennium, there are international phone calls!”
“I remember the evening of the break-in. Yes, Andrew called me in the evening or late at night. But as far as I do remember, it had to do with one of his clients.”
“How did he sound?”
“His usual self. Had a date with his girlfriend and a customer that night.”
“He didn’t mention an argument with Wally Eastman?”
“He had an argument with Wally? The night of the break-in?”
“Didn’t mention it?”
“He didn’t.”
Faulkner could deny everything as long as we didn’t had any concrete proof of his involvement. It was just Altward’s incriminating statement against Faulkner’s story. As Hans had gone underground for good, there was no one to support Faulkner’s involvement. The phone call had been explained, no harm done.
“That weasel,” I remarked quietly to Juanita beside me.
Juanita nodded. “We need to get our homework done real soon; otherwise he will just slip through our hands like a flopping fish.”
Ron continued, “So you didn’t call Hans Polter on the evening of the break-in?”
Faulkner ignored the question.
Ron flipped over some pages in his case file. Suddenly, he snapped it shut and said, “That’s all. Thank you for your time. The officer will show you out.”
Henry Winston was probably pissed that he couldn’t bill more time and he jumped up. “Hang on, Officer Closeky, you didn’t drag my client here just to ask him two questions and then let him go again. This is close to harassment.”
Ron looked him evenly in the eye. “I think your client lies. He was incriminated in a statement that he had been actively involved in the break-in of the gallery and therefore involved in the murder of Wally Eastman.” Faulkner and Winston got up, started to protest. Ron held up his hands to stop them from speaking. “Gentlemen, you denied any involvement, I took your statement, that’s all for today. We will contact you as soon as there are new developments. Don’t leave town, etc.; you know the drill from endless television series.”
Faulkner and his lawyer left without another word.
We were sitting in the detective office again, discussing the short, inefficient interview.
“This is impossible,” I said. “He gets away with murder!”
Ron looked me evenly in the eye. “He does, Calendar. There is nothing but Altward’s word so far and the fact that hacker boy Polter seems to be suspect number one when it comes to pulling off the computer break-in. But so far, Polter has been very good at hiding himself, so we have no statement from him. Do we?” He again gave me that glance that seemed to ask, ‘Do you know more?’
“What about phone records, a dig into the past of Mr. Faulkner?”
“Come on, this is still hot. We will continue digging. And digging turns up something, believe me. He is still on our list for Phoebe’s murder.”
“If we believe Altward’s tear-stained confession,” I argued.
Ron shrugged. “Sounded plausible to me. I am still looking for Phoebe’s killer. What about you, Juanita?”
Detective Garcia wagged her head. “Still looking, I think you are right.” Turning to me. “Don’t count on the background check of Mr. Faulkner. Even if we find a connection between Polter and Faulkner, he has given us a perfect explanation. ‘May have met him, didn’t remember.’ The phone call was also explained. He is slippery. He keeps his options open should we eventually find a connection between them.”
I stomped on the floor, frustrated. We had the story so far, but one of the protagonists would walk.
“How can we connect the Maximilian Jewels with Faulkner?” I asked.
“Since the Mexican connection, Mr. Toledo, is dead, I doubt we can,” Ron sighed.
A long day was coming to an end.
As I got ready to leave, Ron asked, “Can I take you home?”
“You can take me to dinner first, if you don’t mind,” I replied, stretching on my chair, yawning.
So we drove in the downtown direction and stopped at a Little Italy in a nearby mall. Ron flashed his shield and we got a table immediately. While we ordered, I could see Marion Altward’s weekend home and outside shots of the Altward Gallery on CNN on the TV over the bar. An important looking reporter was summarizing the daily events, a spokesman from Washington followed. Happy endings.
I ordered a large heap of carbonara and a green salad, Ron continued staring at the menu, finally put it away and ordered a salad.
“Hey, you can cheer up, pup. Most of your worries are gone, Ron,” I rapped, freestyle, patting his hand on the table.
He gave a feeble attempt of a smile. “Has anyone told you lately that you have very good intuition?”
“Not today,” I admitted.
“Remember our conversation about deduction after we interviewed Altward for the first time?”
“The smell of turpentine,” I remembered.
“Yes. And guess what. I was wrong and you were right. Altward had used the turpentine to get rid of any possible incriminating bloodspots or skin residue. He told me so himself when I asked him tonight.”
“You don’t look too happy about that fact,” I said, unsure where he was leading the conversation.
Ron gave me a serious look with a desperate undertone. He wasn’t smiling, “I have a confession to make, Calendar and it is not an easy one.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I assured him and thought, “or can it?”
“It is! I used you to flush out the murderer and to solve the gallery heist.”
Chapter 45
OOPS, THINGS GOT serious. I immediately went into turtle mode, took away my hand from his and just raised an eyebrow. “I am listening. Spill.”
He took a deep breath. ”I used you to flush out Altward.”
“Yee-es?” I said carefully, not getting where this was leading. “Wait a minute; as I remember, I developed the plan.”
Ron nodded, avoiding my eyes. “And I went along with it and it worked well. Better than anticipated.”
“Come on, tell me. What did you do?”
“The reason for my confession starts a little earlier than your brilliant idea. Did you ever wonder why I asked you to come along to the gallery?”
“Really? Oh, I took for granted that you were a little short of art world know-how and wanted a blonde girl on the side,” I replied.
Ron took my hand again but had to retract it because our order was placed in front of us. Undecided whether to be offended by his remarks or feel hungry, hunger won and I started shoveling pasta into my mouth. I hadn’t had anything all day except for some dry crackers at the station house.
This seemed to unnerve Ron. With no obvious appetite, he poked nervously at his salad leaves. After a few bites, he couldn’t hold back any longer, put away his fork for good and took hold of my spaghetti-shoveling arm.
“Calendar, please listen. If I had needed art expertise, I would have stuck with Fowler. He knows five times more about art than you do.”
I sat back, perplexed and offended. “Oh! Does he now?”
Ron nodded. “You are specialized in antique jewelry. He is specialized in every antique subject you can think of. But, to support your ego, he collaborated with everything you told Juanita and me about Calder, art valuation, Montenhaute and ‘The Max.’”
“Uh-oh… ” I thought and ate another fork of spaghetti to mask my uneasiness.
Eager to get it over with, Ron continued, “Fowler told me in detail about his suspicions regarding your involvement in the gallery break-in. He laid out the typical Calendar Moonstone factors—an impregnable safe, a noble location, no clues and high-class material stolen, never to be seen again.” He ticked off the �
�Calendar factors’ on his hand. “As you know, Juanita and I showed up at your parent’s home, did the interview, you provided us with a solid alibi and that was that.”
I simply looked at Ron.
He added, looking down at his salad. “To be expected, by the way. Fowler told us that you would come up with a very good alibi. The boyfriend plus the neighbors listening in, very good indeed.”
“It is the truth! What do you want to hear?”
Ron waved it off, as if it didn’t really matter. “After the interview, I sat down and thought hard. Fowler provided me with some of his private research about you concerning some extremely suspicious cases, which showed me that you had to be a very resourceful woman. And you seem to have some kind of code, like a modern Robin Hood or something.”
Treading carefully now. “I have no clue what you are talking about. Robin Hood?”
“Well, not exactly Robin Hood, that’s the wrong analogy; you don’t give to the poor.” Who was I to correct him? “But you only seem to steal from very rich people who don’t really miss the money or mind the higher insurance premiums, you are not violent, you are very clean in your job, no mess or destroyed homes… ”
“Fowler brainwashed you, that dirty little trick. Forget my ‘code,’ I should find him and kill him right now.” I raised my voice.
“In the end, I came up with two scenarios.” He held up his thumb. “One—you were involved in the break-in and the murder. To hire you as the jewelry specialist would give me the opportunity to keep track of you and watch you closely. Two—you were just involved in the break-in but not in the murder. Just stumbled upon it by accident. With this one, chances were high that you knew who was behind it.”
“Did scenario three ever occur to you? No involvement at all?”
Ron shook his head. “No, sorry, never. Too many coincidences, the odds were leaning heavily toward you. Or against you, however you see it.” Ron looked at me with his homicide cop eyes. “And I was going with scenario number two. Break-in and knew something about the murder. Which you apparently did. That’s why I gave you such a long reign to flush out whoever was involved. The appearance of Mr. Billy Bounce proved that.”
