“I don’t get it.”
“There’s a new party that may be of interest to you people. Springer and Mattocks were supposed to be told about it yesterday. With this new angle, and Robyn’s death, you’ve got to jump into this. I know you say Springer and Mattocks are experienced and all that, yet so far the only positive things they’ve done have been to hound me and lose the evidence that would vindicate me.” (The hell with it, Reuben decided, let the driver’s ears get pink.) “These cases need Bautista and Frost. And right away, like this morning.”
“I can’t do it, Reuben. I’m up to my eyes in three other kinds of crap. And it’s not SOP. Good old Standard Operating Procedure is very big in the Department, and I can’t buck it.”
“Why don’t you leave that to me?” Frost said, recalling the Mayor’s offer to be helpful. “I don’t want to discredit your colleagues—I have an idea we’re going to need all the help we can get—but I want you right at my side. Will you do it?”
“Oh, Reuben, what can I say?” Bautista groaned. “For old times’ sake, yes, I’d do anything for you. But you’ll have to straighten out the politics.”
“Consider it done. Can you round up Springer and Mattocks and be at my house at, let’s see, it’s eight-fifty now—how about ten o’clock?”
“Ten-thirty? I’m exhausted, and I don’t even know where the hell they are.”
“Listen, I’m talking to you from the middle of the Triborough Bridge, for God’s sake. There’s no one you can’t get in touch with if you try.”
“You’re a hard man, Reuben. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Frost put back the telephone with satisfaction. “We’ve got him!” he said to Cynthia, clasping her hand.
The remainder of the trip was made without further interruption, the driver keeping a respectful silence. He probably thinks I’m either a murderer on the loose or a bigwig in the Police Department, Frost thought.
Frost hauled the bags up to the master bedroom and then called Bob Millard immediately. Millard was full of remorse, convinced that he could have saved Robyn’s life if he had done things differently. He had called the widow the previous day right after his overseas conversation with Reuben, warning her, as instructed, to be careful. But with the sensitivity and discretion of the good trust and estates lawyer that he was, he had not told her the reasons, feeling that this should be done in person. He had arranged to meet her for drinks at home at six o’clock. That had been too late; he had arrived minutes after Miss Boyle, who had found the body, had called the police.
Frost assured him that he had acted perfectly correctly, and that no one could have foreseen that Robyn was in such imminent danger. Millard was not mollified, and Frost himself silently regretted the unfortunate chain of events.
“You talked to Springer and Mattocks?” Frost asked.
“Yes, before all this happened. I had a helluva time getting hold of them, but they came down here around four.”
“What did they think?”
“Reuben, I can’t say they were enthusiastic.”
“Did you tell them that I said they should get on Mr. Rourke immediately?”
“Of course I did. But as I told you, they weren’t very enthusiastic.”
Millard’s information made Frost ready for war when the three detectives arrived shortly before eleven. He herded them into the library and, with their permission, had Cynthia join them.
“Gentlemen, I don’t mean to be imperious,” he said, after they were seated and had started drinking the coffee Cynthia had prepared. “But I’m afraid I’m too tired to be polite. We’re just off a long and very tedious flight from Rio. We’re back early because of the weird new development—Tobias’ purported son—that came to light yesterday. Plus—plus—the terrible news we got this morning. So right now, the first question is, are all three of you going to be able to concentrate on the Vandermeers? Are you available?”
“Reuben, as I told you—” Bautista began.
“Yes, I know, Luis, I have to fix it up downtown. If I do that, what do you gentlemen say?” he added, turning to Springer and Mattocks.
“Mr. Frost, if you’ve got any useful information, we’re here to listen to it,” Springer said. “But I’m not sure we can let you run the case.”
Frost gave him a look of cold fury and with some effort controlled himself. “I’m trying to get these murders solved, Mr. Springer. I have no interest in glory or credit or running anything. Though I’ll have to be frank with you, I’m not certain who—if anyone—is running the show. I just want to get the job done, and the murderer found. Now, I’m going to make a telephone call, to which you are welcome to listen.”
Reuben called the Mayor and received the usual reply that he would get back to him. Not wanting to wait for the next “phone break,” he urged the person he was talking to to tell the Mayor as soon as possible that he was calling and that it was an emergency concerning the murder of Robyn Vandermeer.
“Now, while we’re waiting, do I understand correctly, Mr. Springer and Mr. Mattocks, that Bob Millard told you about Stephen Rourke?” Frost asked.
“Reuben, you’ll have to fill me in,” Bautista said.
“Fine, let me do it for the benefit of everyone,” Reuben said, possibly implying that a second rendition might improve Springer and Mattocks’ understanding as well.
“So what have we learned about Rourke?” Frost asked, when he had finished. “Where was he on March fifth?”
Both Springer and Mattocks shifted in their chairs, plainly uncomfortable.
“I’m afraid we don’t know anything yet, sir. We were going to start this morning, then we were called over here,” Springer said.
“I realize you can’t be in two places at once. But I don’t believe there’s any time to waste. Did it occur to you, when you found out about Mrs. Vandermeer, that he might be her killer?”
“We were told he was Vandermeer’s illegitimate son,” Mattocks replied.
“Well, put two and two together. He was Vandermeer’s heir, but he wouldn’t get the income from the family Trust as long as Mrs. Vandermeer was alive.”
“Got it,” Mattocks said.
Frost looked at Bautista with a stern expression. These boys were slow learners.
“But that’s not the reason I wanted you to check him out yesterday. I didn’t know about Robyn then. You’ve never been able to find the servant that was at the party the night Tobias Vandermeer died, have you? Pace Padgett?”
The two detectives shook their heads glumly.
“Did it not occur to you that Rourke might be the missing Pace Padgett?”
It clearly had not. As the possibility sank in, the phone rang. It was the Mayor, and Frost told him why he had been calling.
“Norman, I’m not trying to interfere with the Police Department, but they now have two Vandermeer murders on their hands. I’m trying to help solve them, give them the benefit of what I know about the Vandermeers and what happened the night Tobias died, but I’d quite honestly feel more comfortable if a particular detective I know named Luis Bautista got brought in, in addition to the detectives that are already assigned. I’m not criticizing, Norman, but this is a ticklish situation, and I think Bautista would be helpful. What can you do?”
“I always hesitate to interfere with the police,” the Mayor told Reuben. “You’re right, though, this is a hot one, and Robyn was a good friend and supporter of mine. Let me talk to the Commissioner. I’ll get hold of him at once.”
“As a matter of fact, I have Bautista and the two other detectives, named Springer and Mattocks, here with me now. Could the Commissioner call here?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“We’ll have to wait for your boss to call,” Frost explained. “In the meantime, can one of you tell me exactly what happened yesterday?”
“Sure thing,” Mattocks said. “A call came to nine one one around five forty-five. Five forty-six, to be precise. A Miss Boyle, Kathleen Boyle, the
Vandermeers’ maid, called to report that she had found Mrs. Vandermeer’s body in the dining room when she returned from her afternoon off. The victim had strangle marks on her neck and had been pushed halfway under the dining-room table. The portables who answered the call gave us the word around six-thirty, and we found the body just as Boyle had described it, with the strangle marks on her neck. Except for an upended dining-room chair, there was no sign of violence other than the marks on the victim’s neck. No struggle at all. We surmised that the perpetrator must be somebody she knew and had probably let in.”
“When did all this happen?” Reuben asked.
“The ME figured she’d been dead at least two hours. The Boyle woman said she was ‘stiff as a board’ when she called, which probably means rigor mortis had begun. That takes at least two hours, which brings you back to around three forty-five. Then, Mr. Frost, your colleague, Millard, told us he’d talked to the deceased on the telephone at roughly two forty-five. So we’ve got a break, a good fix on the time. Somewhere between two forty-five and three forty-five.”
“There’s one other thing,” Springer interjected. “The place was in good order, as Mattocks said, but there was a picture of some kind missing from the dining room. It had been ripped out of its frame and the frame was on the floor.”
“The Jasper Johns,” Frost said, looking at Cynthia. The art world was intruding on the case again.
“Yeah, that’s the name. That’s what Boyle told us,” Mattocks said. “Do you know anything about it? She wasn’t very good at describing it. Said it was a lot of blotches and scrawls that were meant to be numbers.”
“It was called, I believe, ‘0 through 9,’” Frost said. He described the missing painting as best he could.
“I assume it was valuable,” Springer said.
“I’m told ten million at least,” Frost said, quoting Deybold’s estimate.
“Jeez,” Mattocks said.
“Sounds like somebody was after the picture,” Springer added.
“Yes, except it’s hard to believe anybody would think they could ever get rid of it,” Frost said. “Johns is famous and still alive and the painting’s surely known in art circles. Trying to sell it legitimately would be a little like peddling the Mona Lisa.”
The call from the Police Commissioner interrupted their speculations. Reuben picked up the telephone and was told that the Commissioner wanted to speak to the three detectives jointly.
“We don’t have a speakerphone here, Commissioner. I’ll put them on separate extensions if you hold on,” Reuben said. He directed Springer and Mattocks to the kitchen and the upstairs bedroom, and put Bautista on the phone he himself had been using.
The Frosts watched Bautista’s face as a very one-sided conversation ensued. The grimaces he made, coupled with an occasional smile and an upraised arm and fist, indicated that Springer and Mattocks were getting their marching orders; Bautista’s own participation was limited to an occasional “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.”
“We’re at your service, Mr. Frost,” a chastened Springer said when he returned, coolly but without any remaining edge of hostility. “Where do you suggest we go from here?”
Frost decided not to inquire further about the Commissioner’s call, but hastened to seize the initiative in answering the now compliant Springer’s question.
“Gentlemen, here’s the way I see it, though if you think I’m half-cocked, say so. The first priority is to find out everything we can about Stephen Rourke. Most especially where he was on March fifth and yesterday afternoon. Luis, you’re new to all this, I think that’s a job for you.”
He also told him to contact Drew Hammil, after telling the group about the lawyer’s visit to Millard. “It will be very interesting to know if and when Hammil reported the things he’d found out to his client.”
“Now, let’s turn to Robyn,” Frost went on. “Unless we’re dealing with a stranger after the Jasper Johns, I think our working assumption should be that whoever killed Tobias killed Robyn. Any disagreement there?”
Reuben’s question was met with silence.
“In case Mr. Rourke doesn’t pan out, it would be useful to find out where the other suspects in Tobias’ death were yesterday. We’re now down to five, as I make it. Robyn’s obviously eliminated, and, I’m told, so am I,” Frost said, glancing at Springer and Mattocks, without pausing to give them a chance to explain or apologize, or even to confirm what he had said. “That leaves Bill Kearney, Wayne Givens and his wife, Sherman Deybold and Kathleen Boyle, each one of whom could have planted the poisoned capsules. How are you dividing them up?”
“Before we do that, you can eliminate Boyle,” Mattocks said. “We checked her out last night. Yesterday was her afternoon off and she took an old Dominican friar to the movies. Unless he lied to us, she was with him all afternoon.”
“Okay,” Reuben said. “How about the others?”
“I’ll take Kearney and the two Givenses,” Springer said. “Mattocks can take Deybold—and Pace Padgett, if he’s not this guy Rourke.”
“Thanks a lot,” Mattocks said.
“And when do we meet again?” Frost asked. “How about same time, same place tomorrow?”
“That doesn’t give us much time, sir,” Springer said.
“There isn’t much time, Detective Springer,” Frost countered. Forty-plus years at Chase & Ward and a lifetime of crash legal projects had not prepared Frost for any counseling of delay. “All I can ask is that you do your best—and happy hunting.”
“As Sir Thomas Beecham said, ‘That ought to keep the buggers hopping,’” Reuben said, once the policemen were gone.
“Oh, Reuben, I hate that story,” Cynthia said. “That tyrant Beecham, saying such a thing after conducting a performance of Swan Lake at double speed.”
“That’s because you’re a dancer. But I’m sorry, dear.”
24
Alibis
Around eight the next morning, Frost got up and began fiddling with his computer “index.” After making a series of entries covering what had been learned the previous day about Robyn’s death, he printed out the entire document. Was there information buried in his compilation that might be relevant? With this in mind, he began scrutinizing each scrap that he had stored away.
One item that caught his notice was the peculiar fact that Tobias Vandermeer had fairly recently been interested in adoption. What could that mean? Maybe he should have a look at the memorandum Chase & Ward had prepared on the subject for Tobias.
He looked up Bob Millard’s direct number at the firm and dialed it. He was nonplused when a child answered the phone.
“I was trying to reach Robert Millard,” he said.
“Daddy.”
“Could I speak to him?” Reuben asked, slowly and deliberately. It was not at all clear that he was communicating, when Millard himself came on the line, apologizing for the child.
“You bringing your children to the office these days, Bob?” Frost asked.
“No, no,” Millard said, laughing. “I’m polishing up a bitch of a brief to be filed in Surrogate’s Court next week, so I decided to hole up at home today.”
“But I called your office.”
“Oh, Reuben, you don’t know about the fancy new phone system at Chase & Ward.”
“I know everything I care to know about it,” Frost said acidly, thinking of his own frustrations at coping with the “new” system on his occasional visits to the firm.
“Well, you can forward calls from the office. Since my secretary’s decided that this beautiful sunny day would be a good one to get sick, I had no choice but to get my calls routed here.”
“Hmn. Modern science, I guess. Let me tell you why I called. You remember that memo you described to me, the one written for Tobias Vandermeer about adoption?”
“Sure.”
“How can I get a copy?”
“Easy. I’ll get one of my associates to messenger it up to you.”
“Excell
ent. Right away?”
“Right away.”
Millard was true to his word, and a Xerox of the adoption memo was delivered by an office messenger just before eleven. Frost should have been meeting with his police colleagues, but they were late, so he read it. It was immediately clear that Millard, back on the day after Tobias was killed, had read it too hastily. It was true that it dealt with the rights of an adopted child—but the emphasis was very clearly on such a child’s lack of rights, once legally adopted by another, against his natural parent, and not on his rights against an adoptive parent.
Frost was too pleased with his discovery to find fault with Millard’s cursory reading, or the fact that the younger lawyer had missed a short, and perhaps meaningful, paragraph toward the end of the memorandum that informed the reader that not only a minor, but also an adult could be adopted.
Well, well, well, Frost muttered to himself. Wasn’t it likely that Tobias was thinking of persuading Stephen Rourke to be adopted by another, thus cutting him off from his rights in the Vandermeer Trust? And wasn’t it perhaps significant that the memo dated back roughly to the time Tobias had begun drinking more heavily?
Frost was going to consult with Cynthia, who was reading the morning paper at the breakfast table in the kitchen, when Bautista, Springer and Mattocks arrived together.
“What have we got?” he asked, as the five of them reconvened in the library. “Any good news? Any bad news?”
“How do you want to proceed?” Bautista asked.
“One by one,” Reuben answered. “Starting with Stephen Rourke.”
“Okay,” Bautista said. “Here’s what I have. Stephen Hendrik Rourke—”
“I like the Hendrik part,” Frost interjected.
“Stephen Hendrik Rourke, born in Saint Vincent’s Hospital September 22, 1952. He lives at 425 West 21st Street, way west in Chelsea. Lives alone, but has a girlfriend who’s around a lot. I’ll come back to her.
“I had a hard time finding the guy. No answer on the phone—he’s listed in the book—or when I went to his apartment house. I called Hammil, his lawyer—”
Murder Times Two Page 21
