The Last Coincidence (The Nero Wolfe Mysteries Book 4)

by Robert Goldsborough

  “Michael,” she said woodenly. “He’s … just confessed … to killing Sparky Linville.”

  SEVEN

  THE SILENCE LASTED PERHAPS A dozen seconds, but it seemed as if everyone in the room had decided to see how long he could hold his breath. Megan sank into the chair next to the telephone and covered her face with her hands.

  “Stop acting so damn dramatic and pull yourself together!” Doyle ordered. “Who was that?”

  “A police sergeant,” she whispered, letting her fingers slide down her cheeks. “I’m not sure I got his name.”

  “Stebbins?” I asked.

  “That sounds like it. He said Michael had asked him to call us and say he’d made a confession. They must have beat it out of him.”

  “Wrong,” I said emphatically. “This is why I didn’t like the sound of things. I knew when I heard he didn’t want a lawyer that he must be getting ready to confess.”

  “But why?” Megan was actually plaintive. “Michael is as gentle as a lamb—Lily can tell you that. He couldn’t hurt anyone, let alone …” She extended her arms, palms up, then let them drop.

  “I don’t know what your son has said, or admitted to, but you can be sure that if the district attorney’s crew knows about Linville’s assault of your daughter, they’ll hammer on the ‘outraged-brother-hell-bent-on-avenging-his-sister’ angle, which they can make pretty damning, depending on what other evidence they have. It also means Noreen will be questioned, of course. There is another possibility …”

  Doyle glared at me. “Don’t go coy on us, Goodwin. Let’s have it. Unload.”

  “You hardly need to be a genius like Nero Wolfe to figure it out,” I fired back, not liking his tone. “Maybe Michael’s decided to sacrifice himself to protect someone.”

  “Totally ridiculous! Who would he be protecting?” Megan wailed.

  “Someone close to him—like maybe a family member.” I let my eyes briefly move to Lily, who looked thoughtful.

  “That,” Megan responded, spacing the words and accenting each one, “is a despicable thing to say. Mr. Goodwin, if you were not such a close friend of my sister’s, I would ask you to leave.”

  “Now, hold on a minute, Megan,” Doyle rumbled. “I came in late, but I’m assuming Goodwin is here because he knows something about criminals and murder and how the police operate, that kind of thing.”

  “He’s here because I invited him to come with me, and I wouldn’t blame him one bit if he got up and walked out that door right now without so much as a backward look.” It was Lily, still sitting but tensed, and I could tell she was working to keep her Irish temper from pulling at Mount St. Helens. “But you’re right, Doyle; he does know something—a lot more than something—about criminals and police and the law, and you’d both damn well better listen to him if you care about what happens to Michael.”

  Megan continued trying to vaporize me with her eyes, but Doyle nodded his assent to Lily and dropped into a chair. “I hear you,” he said. “Okay, Goodwin, the floor is yours—what do you think we ought to do now?”

  “The top priority is to get your son a first-rate defense attorney pronto, whether he wants one or not,” I said. “I wouldn’t trust his case to the public defender’s office. It’s not that they don’t have some talent, but you want a heavy hitter here. I can suggest a few names if you’d like. And I’ll also talk to the people at Homicide; I might be able to find out what went on in the interrogation.”

  “I still can’t believe this is happening,” Megan whined. “And he wouldn’t even phone us himself—he got a damn policeman to do it for him.”

  “It sounds like he doesn’t want to see any of you right now, whatever his reasons,” I said gently.

  “Well, I’m damned if anyone’s going to make me believe Michael’s guilty of a thing!” she ranted, pacing again and waving her arms like a hyperactive traffic cop on Fifty-seventh Street. “And you’re a lot of help,” she hissed at Doyle between puffs of a fresh cigarette. The room was starting to smell like the smoking car on the five-forty-two local to White Plains. “If we waited for you to spring into action, we’d all be in wheelchairs or nursing homes.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, shut up and stop embarrassing yourself, Megan.” Doyle slouched, shaking his head and jamming his hands into his pants pockets.

  “Still ready to deliver the witty rejoinder, aren’t we? Some things never change—unfortunately,” she said with a tight smile. She kept on, but I quit paying attention because I was distracted by the figure that had moved into the doorway at Megan’s back.

  Although I hadn’t seen her for a few years, I immediately recognized the barefoot and bathrobed young woman with the tousled black hair and puzzled blue eyes. Noreen James had matured, in a pleasantly coltish way, since our last meeting. Her face showed a less-pleasant aging, complete with dark circles that ringed those blue eyes, but that very likely was attributable to recent events.

  Her father saw her at the same time I did. “Noreen, honey, I didn’t know you were here.” He got up and moved toward her. “How are you, baby?”

  She tensed, drawing back from Doyle, and his face registered something between hurt and puzzlement. “Noreen’s been staying here for the last couple of days,” Megan said to Lily and me, either ignoring the father-daughter byplay or oblivious of it. “I thought that would be … better.” Her tone implied that no one else was capable of giving the young woman comfort and protection.

  “Hello, Nor,” Lily said, smiling. “I think you remember Archie Goodwin.”

  “Oh … yes, yes,” she said absently, turning to Carmella and asking for coffee. The maid scurried off silently to get another cup. Noreen ran her fingers through her disheveled hair, looking around self-consciously with the realization that she was half-dressed in a room full of fully clothed people, one of whom—me—was a virtual stranger. She thought about it for a few seconds and shrugged, then took two steps toward me, smiled as if we were old friends, and held out a hand, which I took. Now, that’s aplomb.

  Another level of realization was kicking in, though, as she completed the awakening process. She frowned and turned toward her mother. “Why is everyone here?”

  Megan got up and went to her, but it was clear from their awkward embrace that mother and daughter were hardly soulmates. “It’s because of Michael. He’s been … well …”

  “God, stop beating around the bush!” Doyle made a pistol-shot sound by slamming a fist into a palm. “She’s an adult, regardless of the way you insist on treating her. Noreen, Michael is being held by the police. From what we know right now, and that’s pretty sketchy, your brother has confessed to killing Barton Linville.”

  That really put Noreen’s aplomb to the test, and she came through like Reggie Jackson with runners at second and third and the game on the line. “Michael? That is totally preposterous,” she pronounced firmly, fully awake now and sticking her chin out and shaking her head as she looked from face to face. “Does anybody really believe Michael could do … that?”

  “Of course not, darling,” Megan said softly. “And that’s what we were talking about when you came in. Mr. Goodwin has been giving us the benefit of his vast knowledge regarding criminal procedures and such.” After I set down the preceding sentence, I realized it sounded like Megan was being sarcastic, but that really wasn’t the case. The gravity of the situation had fully whacked her, and it seemed apparent that any anger she had felt toward me earlier had been overridden by her concern about her son.

  “God, where’s a cigarette?” Noreen snapped, her eyes darting around the room.

  “Right here.” Good old Pamsett, who in an earlier era could have made a dandy living playing Fred Astaire’s Man Friday, flicked open a silver case, and after Noreen had selected a cigarette, he put his Dunhill to work with a smooth motion that probably took years to perfect.

  Noreen indulged herself in a deep drag, then looked doubtfully at me. “So, you’re the expert. I assume you know all about …
everything. I mean, what happened with Sparky and me. What do you think?” Her aplomb had begun to slip, and her hostility, at least toward me, was rising.

  I shot a glance toward Lily, who nodded in the manner of Nero Wolfe, which is to say an eighth-inch dip of the chin. “I know you had a difficult situation a while back,” I said evenly.

  “You put it very diplomatically,” she responded with a tight smile that had no happiness behind it. “What do you think about Michael’s situation?”

  “As I was saying before you came in, your brother is in a grade-A pickle. First off, he apparently has confessed. Second, up to now he has refused legal assistance, which means he’ll get a public defender unless someone finds him a lawyer. That’s not good. And the way things are looking, he’s going to need plenty of horsepower in the courtroom. Third, you’d better believe the D.A. will put a lot of muscle behind this; after all, the son of a big-name, big-money family has been murdered—on the Upper East Side, no less—and the media will be all over him to come up with a quick conviction. And as I was also telling your mother and father, on top of it all, you’re sure to be questioned—probably today—about you and Linville.”

  “I’ll handle that when it comes along,” Noreen said in a voice just above a whisper, breathing deeply and making her hands into fists. “We’re getting a top lawyer, of course?” She directed the question to her father.

  “Damn right we are; I’m about to make some calls. Can we get Michael out on bail, Goodwin?”

  “Depends on several things, including how forceful your defense attorney is and whether your son has a previous record. Does he?”

  “Of course not!” Megan was on her feet again. “I don’t think he’s ever had anything more than a parking ticket, and hardly any of those. I told you, he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

  “You’ve made your point, Megan,” Lily inserted with quiet force.

  I smiled in Lily’s direction to show that I appreciated the reinforcements. “Given the circumstances—and assuming you hire a good lawyer—there’s a strong chance he’ll get out on bond,” I told Megan. “But that’s only my assessment.”

  “This is crazy,” Noreen said. “I know Michael was furious when he found out what happened to me, but no way would he do something so … awful.”

  “So your mother has stated. But think for a minute about how the whole business looks,” I said. “I don’t believe it needs to be spelled out for anyone.”

  “No, no. We’ve got to do something—I mean besides hiring some big-deal damned lawyer. Innocent people have gotten convicted before, correct?”

  “More than once,” I agreed.

  “Mr. Goodwin,” Noreen implored, sliding in next to me on the sofa and gripping my upper arm so hard it almost hurt, “I want to hire Nero Wolfe. He’ll cut through all of this garbage and figure out who really was the murderer, won’t he?”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Megan was glaring first at her daughter and then at me, presumably for putting the notion in Noreen’s mind.

  “What’s ridiculous about it, Mother? Mr. Goodwin, doesn’t Nero Wolfe say he’s a genius? Don’t you say he’s a genius?” There was a hint of hysteria in Noreen’s voice—and her eyes. But there was nothing wrong with her strength, as her hand continued digging into my arm.

  “Mr. Wolfe has been called a genius on occasion,” I conceded. “And there are times when even I am forced to concur, albeit reluctantly.”

  “Mother, you know Michael isn’t a murderer.” Noreen released my arm and padded over to Megan. “Daddy knows he isn’t, I know he isn’t. But if he goes on trial—”

  “She’s right,” Lily put in. “None of us yet has the details of what Michael told the police, but from what little we do know, a trial could be a real crapshoot, even if he had Clarence Darrow defending him.”

  “You’re actually suggesting she should hire Wolfe?” Megan sounded as appalled as if someone had suggested that Bloomingdale’s start selling tractors and cattle feed.

  Noreen set her jaw. “Mother, I have the money, if that’s what’s worrying you. I’m aware that he’s expensive.”

  “Money’s the least of our problems right now, Noreen.” Megan’s voice was sharp enough to slice a diamond. “How do you think it would look if you brought in a private detective who positively wallows in publicity and—”

  “I really don’t give a damn how it would look,” Noreen cried. “All I care about is Michael.”

  I was watching a battle of wills between two women who at least at the moment seemed to be as flexible as an iron reinforcing bar. Once again, Doyle stepped between them. “Honey, that’s really all any of us cares about right now,” he told Noreen, putting his arm around her. “If you want Wolfe on the case, I’ll pay for it.”

  Noreen yanked away, and her eyes blazed. For an instant I was looking at a younger Lily. “No you won’t, Daddy! I’m the reason Michael’s in trouble, and I’m going to do something about it. Mr. Goodwin, I want to see Nero Wolfe.”

  Megan turned away with a theatrical moan of frustration. I’d almost swear Lily was enjoying the show. Under her grim expression, a light danced in her eyes.

  “You’re assuming a lot,” I told Noreen. “Mr. Wolfe works only when he feels like it, and he doesn’t feel like it very often. That’s part of what makes my job so much fun.”

  “Then you have to help me persuade him,” she said, fixing me with her baby blues. “How soon can we see him? I can be presentable in ten minutes. Let’s go.”

  I gave her a long look with my own baby blues, then glanced at Lily, who smiled mockingly, as if to say: You’re the one who claims to know women, pal; don’t think you’re going to find any help in this corner.

  “I’ll compromise,” I said to Noreen. “I will talk to Mr. Wolfe—alone—about taking you on as a client. I can’t guarantee anything; he does what he wants to do, and when he wants to do it. But it works better when I handle him my way. If you don’t believe me, ask your aunt; she’s known him for years.”

  Noreen threw a glance at Lily, who backed me up with a real nod, not one of those eighth-of-an-inch numbers. Noreen’s shoulders sagged. “All right,” she sighed. “You’ll talk to him this morning?”

  “As God and Ed Koch are my witnesses,” I said, checking my watch. “In fact, I’d better leave now. He will be walking into his office in thirty-seven minutes, and I’d like to be there to greet him.”

  “And tell him about Michael. And me?” Noreen asked hopefully.

  “Noreen, you’re making a mistake—a big one,” Megan cut in. “You’re—”

  “For God’s sake, leave her alone!” Doyle boomed. “She’s capable of making decisions without your damn meddling.”

  Megan was about to return the salvo when I jumped in. It was that or hang around all day watching the James family bounce rocks off one another’s noggins. “When I see an opportune time, I’ll talk to Mr. Wolfe,” I promised Noreen, ignoring her sparring parents. “As somebody—don’t ask me who—once said, ‘Timing is everything.’ And on this, you’ll have to leave the timing to me.” As I rose to go, I sent a look in Lily’s direction.

  “Megan, Doyle, I really must be leaving too,” La Rowan said, getting up. “And good-bye, honey,” she added with warmth, reaching for Noreen, who buried her face in Lily’s shoulder and clung to her a moment.

  When we were alone in the southbound elevator, the woman of my life turned to me and rubbed a finger along her graceful chin. “Okay, I caught your not-so-subtle message,” she said. “After all, regardless of what you think, I’m not totally dense. What’s the problem?”

  “Michael,” I answered as the elevator disgorged us into the palatial lobby. There was a break in the conversation while the doorman flagged us a cab. “What about him?” Lily said when we were headed south in the taxi of one Luis Ramirez, who had artistically decorated his dashboard with three pairs of pink baby booties.

  “I have never met your half-nephew, or whatever the proper terminolo
gy is, so I’m flying on instruments,” I told her. “And I want your best guess—as in: Did he or didn’t he?”

  “Kill Linville? Archie, I honestly don’t know, but to put it into terms that you’re comfortable with, I’d say it’s nine-to-five that Michael’s innocent. Now, I grant you those odds come courtesy of the suspect’s aunt, or half-aunt if you prefer, so you can do your own weighing.”

  “You like the guy?”

  “Michael? Absolutely. He’s high-grade. Serious, hardworking—he’s in an executive-training program at Metropolitan Trust’s headquarters building down on Wall Street.”

  “Personality?”

  Lily’s eyes flicked over a display of cocktail dresses in a store window. “Pleasant and engaging, but bordering on the stuffy, which is too bad, although even as a kid he was somewhat that way. But I think that stuffiness has increased since he’s been at the bank.”

  “Not surprising,” I observed. The word “kill” had gotten Luis Ramirez’s attention. He was leaning at such a slant to get an ear near the opening in the Plexiglas divider that I was a little worried he might topple over. “What’s his social life like?”

  Lily considered a moment before answering. “He dates a fair amount, but no one special as far as I know. I’m not aware that he runs with a particular crowd—I think it’s mostly people he went to school with and from the bank and the financial district. And he’s one good-looking guy.”

  “Again not surprising, especially considering his father.”

  She gave me an enigmatic look. “Interesting you should say that.”

  “I didn’t realize I was being any more interesting than usual.”

  “Archie, I feel like I’m exposing you little by little to the foibles—and skeletons—of our family. There’s, well, some doubt as to whether Doyle is really Michael’s father—at least in Doyle’s mind.”

  “Continue, please.” Luis Ramirez was practically quivering with curiosity. We nearly sideswiped a delivery truck.