The Last Good Place

by Robin Burcell

  “I told you about that phone?”

  Casey recalled her mentioning a phone and wondered if it was the same one they’d found in the truck. There were no texts, just numbers belonging to other pay-as-you-go cell phones. In other words, a burner phone, one in which they were still waiting for the reports on which cell towers it had been closest to at the time of the calls. “A friend of your son brought it, I think you said?”

  “With that envelope filled with money. I—I asked my son what it was for. He said it was a job, so naturally I was happy. He was finally working.”

  “Did he say what that job was?”

  She pinched her mouth closed, looking hesitant, and her husband reached out and grasped her hand. “It’s okay,” Jon said.

  “No. It’s not.” She gave them a broken smile. “I was worried they were going to pin all those murders on him. I heard him, you know. That morning.”

  “Which morning?” Casey asked.

  “When that woman was killed on the jogging trail. I was in the truck.”

  Jon Gregory’s brows shot up. “What d’ya mean you were in the truck? You knew he had it?”

  “He needed it for the job. I had that appointment, and I thought he could drop me off, come back, and pick me up. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Tell him to pound sand, Lin. Look what—”

  “Mrs. Gregory,” Casey cut in. “What do you mean you heard him?”

  “Well, I don’t think he realized I could hear the voices.”

  “Voices?” Casey echoed, suddenly worried she was talking about something in her head. Or her son’s. Even Al sat up at that.

  “On the phone,” she clarified. “My son is—was—a little hard of hearing. An artillery accident in the Middle East. He’s been to the doctor, but—What was it you wanted to know?”

  “You heard voices…”

  She nodded. “On that phone. A man, saying something like, ‘She’s leaving now. She’ll be there in about forty minutes.’ And then my son asking, ‘What’s she wearing?’ The man said blue and black. And that’s when I heard a woman’s voice in the background, saying something like, ‘Same as me.’ Like they were on a speakerphone, because her voice was as clear as his.”

  Casey and Al exchanged glances. Trudy had been wearing a blue-and-black running suit, something that hadn’t been released to the press. It fit. Which confirmed in Casey’s mind that this was legitimate information. “Did you hear any names mentioned?”

  “No.”

  “Anything at all?”

  “No. Just that when we saw her, I asked him what was going on. I thought it was like a PI job. That’s what he told me.”

  Casey looked up from his notes. “You saw her?”

  “Leave her house.”

  All three—Casey, Al, and her husband—simply stared. Finally, Casey asked, “You saw the murder victim leave her house?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it was the same woman who was killed. But we were parked up the street when that phone call came, and then out she popped from that front door, dressed in blue and black, just like the caller said. And when I asked my son what was going on, he told me not to worry. He was just going to follow her. Like a PI. And then he dropped me off, and—” She glanced at her husband, then broke down again. “I’m sorry. I just—I wanted him to have a job…”

  “Can you believe her?” Casey asked after the Gregorys left. He and Al were sitting in the interview room, where he was finishing up his notes. Stalling, he realized. Not wanting to return to his desk, worried that the news report with Congressman Parnell was now common knowledge. “We should arrest her.”

  “For what? Being stupid and wanting to believe her son was innocent? I don’t think it’ll fly. Especially since he’s dead.”

  “For being an accessory after the fact. Her son was a dirtbag. And right after someone delivers ten K and a cell phone to him, a woman ends up dead—a woman she knew he was following.”

  Al shut off the light of the interview room, and the two walked back to Homicide. “We’ll be better served finding out who was on the other end of the phone during that call she overheard. We know Fife called a burner phone, one that wasn’t used after the initial call.”

  “What about triangulating the cell towers? At least we can get a general idea about where the call went to?”

  “That, College Boy, is—”

  Both stopped short when they saw Jenn Barstow waiting in the lobby, her gaze pinned on Casey.

  Al gave a neutral smile. “I’ll see what I can’t wrangle from the phone company while you, well, do what you gotta do.”

  He continued on toward the Homicide office, and Casey waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “How did you find out about that search warrant on Parnell’s office?”

  “A confidential source.”

  “Yeah? Well everyone seems to think that source is me. So in the future, if you’re looking for a statement, you need to go through the press information office.” He started to walk off.

  “I was wondering if you had a chance to look at those videos.”

  Casey stopped, faced her, tried to ignore the vulnerability he saw in her eyes over her foster sister’s case. But then he reminded himself this was the same woman who had gone after Congressman Parnell last night like a pit bull. The last thing he planned to do was tell her about the Ghirardelli op and the arrest of Dunmore. That would come out soon enough. Just not through him. “We’re looking at them,” he said as the captain and Lieutenant Timms rounded the corner. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, hoping they wouldn’t notice. “I have a lot of work to do.”

  Her faint thanks followed him down the hallway, and he was acutely aware that both Timms and the captain were right behind him.

  He barely made it to his desk when Timms called him into his office. This is it, he thought as he walked in, shut the door.

  The captain, his arms crossed, glared at Casey. “I’m not even sure where to begin. I’ve got a US congressman calling me about a threat you made to sic the press on him. Right after he comes here to give a voluntary statement to you last night, he gets accosted by the press with information about a warrant you served.”

  “The press thing was a misunderstanding,” Casey said.

  “A misunderstanding? Did I imagine the reporter you were talking to just now?”

  “I didn’t even know she was here until I walked out of an interview with someone else. And for the record, I asked where she found out about the warrant. She said the information came from a confidential source.”

  “And she didn’t mention a name?”

  “No,” Casey said. “I can assure you, though, it wasn’t me.”

  “Then what were you talking about?”

  The feeling that his career was riding on this answer struck him hard, and he glanced at Timms, whose expression remained neutral. “She was asking if we’d had a chance to view the video evidence on the murdered prostitute case. I told her we were looking into it.”

  “What the hell do you think the press information officer is for?”

  “The evidence was hers.”

  “Hers? The reporter’s?”

  “She’s the one who suggested the connection between that past case and the Landmark Strangler. Without her we’d have nothing.”

  The captain stared as the words seemed to penetrate. “That reporter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Son of a—” He slammed his hand on the desk, then closed the distance between them. “Do you realize that Congressman Parnell has lodged a complaint against us? Against you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, he has. And if I so much as find out you have fed one iota of information to the press—If I even see you talking to a reporter about this or any other case, about the damned weather, even, I will boot your sorry
ass back to patrol. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Casey walked out.

  “You okay?” Al asked.

  Casey strode past Al without answering, on out the door, down the hall to the men’s room. Finding it empty, he paced the floor, then turned toward the sink.

  “Damn it!” He slammed his hand against the wall, then caught his reflection, saw the growing bruise on his jaw. Instead, he focused on the drain, almost afraid to look at the mirror for fear he’d smash his fist into it as well. He had enough bad luck without adding a broken mirror to the mix, he thought as Al walked in a few minutes later.

  “Thought I might find you in here,” Al said.

  Casey refused to look at him. “It was like I had everything going for me this morning. Then bam! All gone…”

  Al said nothing.

  “How do you do it, Al? You blaze through interrogations and interviews, political correctness be damned, then walk out completely unscathed. Nothing fazes you. You never lose your cool. You—”

  “I what?”

  “You make it all look so easy. I don’t get it, Al. I had my whole future planned out. The degrees, the police work, my life. I bust my butt, thinking I’m doing the right thing, saying the right thing, and I get my ass handed to me for it.”

  “Are we talking about the investigation or the girl?”

  Casey glanced at Al in the mirror. “Does it matter?”

  “You ever see that cartoon about a book called How to Understand Women? It’s like three feet high with a gazillion pages. Spot on. When it comes to women, sometimes you need to step back. Take it easy. Don’t rush things. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”

  “Pretty sure I screwed it up beyond repair. Becca wouldn’t even let me talk this morning.”

  “You never know with women. Give it some time.”

  Casey gave a cynical laugh as he faced Al. “Even if Becca decides to overlook my idiocy with her, who’s going to want to date a loser like me? I’ll be lucky if I’m not booted from Homicide and transferred to midnights before the day’s over.”

  “The reporter thing? I’ll admit it looks bad. Not like you were dating her or anything. Maybe wait until everything settles before you start charging up your flashlight.”

  “After what we saw on the news? The congressman filed a complaint, and I’ve got my promotional interview tomorrow. How’s that going to go over?”

  “You’re young. You’ll recover just fine. And by this time tomorrow, all the world’s going to know you were instrumental in catching the Strangler. So you play that card for all it’s worth. Congressman Parnell, on the other hand…A shame, too. The guy really was a decent politician. Got things done. Just…” He shrugged. “Through sheer dumb luck, he got screwed because he was sleeping with someone from his office who had the effrontery not only to embezzle money from him, but to get murdered.” Al leaned against one of the stalls. “Talk about dumb luck.”

  Someone walked into the men’s room, one of the investigators from Property. He nodded at Casey and Al, then walked past them to the urinal.

  “By the way,” Al said. “Tony Salvatori called about the card we left on his door last night. Let’s go talk to him and see if we can’t at least make some headway on that case.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The drive helped to clear Casey’s mind, and he was considerably calmer by the time they arrived at the Salvatori home.

  “Thank you for seeing us again, Mr. Salvatori,” Casey said when they showed up at his door. “But we have a few more details we’re trying to clear up.”

  “Of course. Please. Come in.”

  He held the door for them, and they entered. The house was neat, but dark, the heavy floral drapes closed. A stack of unopened cards sat on the table in the entry, undoubtedly condolences, along with other mail, bills, also unopened. Casey wondered what it must be like for those left behind, faced with the day-to-day tasks of living while the police continually reminded them of the dead. “I hope we won’t take up too much of your time,” he said, pausing in the foyer.

  “Would you like some coffee or water or…”

  And just as Casey was about to decline, never wanting to bother anyone, Al said, “That would be great. Water.” Because that’s what Al did best. Always got people to do something else. Or think about something else.

  “This way.” He led them through the dining room into the kitchen at the back of the house. Here, the white lace curtains were open, the window a beacon of light in comparison to the funereal dark they’d just passed through. The window faced the Valentines’ house next door, and Casey glanced that direction, saw the blinds in the Valentines’ kitchen shifting slightly. Undoubtedly Marcie or Devin watching, he thought as Tony asked them what they wanted to drink.

  “Water,” Al said.

  He turned to Casey.

  “Nothing for me.”

  Tony filled a glass with ice cubes and water from the automatic dispenser on his refrigerator and handed it to Al. Then he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “Sit, please.”

  They did so, and Casey opened his notebook. “I apologize in advance, Mr. Salvatori, if these questions seem impersonal, but—”

  “No, no. I understand what you must do. Ask away.”

  “Thank you.” And even though he technically had permission, it still didn’t make the job of exposing layers of one’s personal life any easier. Especially if those layers were revelatory in unexpected ways. “We were wondering about Trudy, about, well—” The man looked as though he was ready to start crying, and Casey couldn’t quite bring himself to ask.

  Al leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with kindness as he ripped off the first layer. “Was Trudy having an affair with anyone?”

  Tony stared at Al for a good while before finally saying, “We worked past all that, Trudy and I. A long time ago.”

  “But you were getting divorced?”

  “What I mean is, the anger was over. We realized we were no longer in love. She went her way, I went mine.”

  “Who was she having an affair with?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. That office manager, I think. Roy Webber.”

  “And you?”

  “Well, I know you heard. My real estate agent. But that was over a long time ago, too.”

  Al nodded at Casey, who pulled out copies of text messages between Trudy and Congressman Parnell. “Mr. Salvatori,” Casey said. “Any chance your wife was having an affair with the congressman?”

  Tony eyed the messages, staring for a very long time. “She lied to me. I knew she was seeing someone. She never said it was the congressman. It was someone else. Someone who wasn’t even working there anymore…It was the only reason we agreed that she would still work there.”

  “Anyone from his office ever call you and talk to you about it?”

  “No.” His voice was barely a whisper, probably trying to digest the lies his wife had told him.

  Casey, hating this part of the job, glanced at Al, noting his expression was one of compassion. And Casey tried to emulate it as he asked, “How were finances between you and your wife?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “It’s worse than I thought. She hid a lot of what she spent from me. By the time I sell the house and pay off her credit cards….Not a lot of extra to go around.”

  “Did you ever see your wife with money she couldn’t explain?”

  “We had a joint checking account. And savings.”

  “Beyond that.”

  “No. Nothing that stands out. What does this have to do with her murder?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Mr. Salvatori. Were you ever aware that your wife was skimming money from the cam
paign accounts at Congressman Parnell’s office?”

  Tony Salvatori stared at each of them in turn. Then, as the words seemed to sink in, he asked, “My wife? Was stealing money from Parnell’s office?”

  “We believe so.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “You think someone killed her because she was stealing money?”

  Al said, “We’re still trying to figure things out, Mr. Salvatori.” He opened the laptop. “There’s a video we’d like you to see. It will only take a minute.” He clicked on the file, then turned the screen so that it faced Tony. “Any idea who that person is? The one with the hat.”

  Tony leaned in close. “It looks like Trudy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I think I’d know my own wife.”

  “Even though you can’t see her face?”

  “Trudy had a very distinctive walk. And I recognize the purse. I can show you.”

  He got up and walked to the living room. Casey followed for the simple reason that cops are always uneasy about someone being out of sight. Especially in the middle of a murder case. And when Salvatori opened a closet just off the entryway, then reached in, Casey instinctively slipped his hand beneath his jacket, felt for his weapon. A moment later, Salvatori emerged, holding a large black handbag. He shook it, jangling the keys hanging from a ring hooked to the strap. “You see? Trudy always hung her keys on her purse. Just like in the video.”

  The two men returned to the kitchen, Tony placing the purse on the table. He reached out, lifted the key ring, grasping a large silver heart-shaped charm among the keys, turning it over. “It’s from Tiffany’s,” Tony said. “Trudy told me the girls at the office chipped in and gave it to her.” He let it fall from his grasp, as though it had suddenly burned him. “I thought it seemed expensive.”