The Missing Hour

by Dawn Stewardson

  Cole started the engine and backed out of the driveway before he went on. “But having an affair is one thing, and committing murder’s something else,” he said as they started down the street. “And if your father killed her, why on earth would he have kept the knife? And hidden it in his own house, of all places? Wrapped in what must have been a piece of the bathrobe? Why wouldn’t he have taken the robe and that sports bag Abbot mentioned out into the country and burned them? Why wouldn’t he have wiped the knife clean and dropped it into the middle of Lake Ontario?”

  Beth couldn’t come up with a logical answer to any of those questions, but since she didn’t think very well when she was upset, she was afraid to let her hopes rise.

  When Cole didn’t continue, though, she said, “You’re really thinking he didn’t kill Larisa, then?”

  “I was having an easier time believing he did before there was this evidence. He’s just too smart to have stashed incriminating evidence in his own house.”

  Beth gazed at Cole, reminding herself he was a trained detective. So maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed—although she had trouble believing that was possible.

  “Then how are you putting the pieces together now?” she asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure. But, first off, we can rule out Dennis Roth. There’s no way he’d have broken into your parents’ house to steal that knife, murdered Larisa, then broken in again to stash it in the wall. Even if he knew where they lived, why would he risk getting caught breaking in? Twice, yet No, if he ‘d killed Larisa, the murder weapon wouldn’t have come from your parents’ kitchen.”

  “But if he didn’t do it, why didn’t he come forward and talk to the police?”

  “And tell them what? That he and Larisa had been having an affair? Beth, he probably figured nobody else knew about them. And I’m just guessing here, but I’ll bet that if he had no idea who killed her, if he figured nothing he could tell the cops would be any help, he decided he’d be smarter to keep his mouth shut. After all, it would have occurred to him that they’d suspect he might have murdered her. So, especially if he didn’t have an alibi for the morning she was killed…

  “Well, we may never know the actual story as far as he’s concerned, but let’s get back to that damn knife in the wall. I’d say the only people who might conceivably have put it there were your father, your mother or Mark.”

  “My mother or Mark? But if you don’t think it was my father…You’re saying that one of them…?”

  “Let’s start with Mark.”

  Start with him? And then go on to the possibility that her mother…? No, that just wasn’t a possibility.

  Not that she could believe her uncle was, either, but she forced her thoughts to him. Had Cole pro-gressed from wondering if Mark might have read La-risa’s journal and hired a hit man to deciding that’s what had actually happened? Was he saying that if her father wasn’t guilty, then her uncle had to have been behind things? Or, worse yet, her mother?

  “Mark always knew where the spare key was hidden,” he was saying. “Your mother mentioned something about that yesterday. Which means he could easily have gotten in to steal the knife, and then again to hide it. So let’s consider what’s been happening lately, and figure out if there’s any of it that Mark couldn’t have been involved with.

  “He certainly could have hired that guy in the coveralls and gorilla mask. And the one taking pot-shots at us in the cemetery. And that car following us the other day, the one we assumed was your father’s, didn’t have to be. I mean, you were right. There might not be many cars like his in Toronto, but there has to be more than one. Maybe Mark got it from some luxury car rental place.

  “And I told him that we were going to see Mrs. Voise. So if he had rented a look-alike car, and wanted us to figure your father was spying on us…

  “And he could have easily paid someone to go into your mother’s house yesterday, and take those books off the shelf—probably hoping that, when she called the cops, they’d think of the possibility that something was hidden behind the bookcase. Then, when they didn’t, he raised it himself.”

  Beth anxiously waited for Cole to voice a conclusion about all those “could haves.” When he didn’t, she finally said, “Then there’s nothing that rules Mark out?”

  “Not that I can see. But not ruling him out isn’t the same as proving he’s been orchestrating things—or that he was behind Larisa’s murder. Which means we should go back to that and think motive. If he did read the journal, if he knew Larisa was planning to leave him for Roth…”

  Cole was silent for a minute, then looked across the car. “Isn’t there something called false memory syndrome? Isn’t that part of the whole debate about recovered memories? Aren’t some experts very dubious about their accuracy?”

  “I…” Her thoughts began to race. “From what I’ve read,” she said at last, “I gather, a lot of experts are convinced that if a therapist raises a possibility enough times during sessions—subtly, I mean, without the patient even realizing what’s going on…Well, yes, then the patient comes to believe something happened that didn’t.”

  “Or comes to believe she saw something differently than she really did?” Cole said. “When Mark was supposedly trying to help you remember what you saw, couldn’t he have done something to make you think it was your father who killed Larisa?”

  “I imagine it’s possible,” she murmured. But would Mark really have “helped” her remember seeing her father? She could hardly believe he might have, yet he definitely had talked about her father during their sessions. And if he’d implanted the image she’d eventually “remembered”…

  If he had, would that explain why she’d doubted, all along, that her memory was accurate? Explain why, in the back of her mind, she’d been convinced that something had to be wrong with it?

  Her hands had begun to tremble so she clasped them together. The thought that Mark might have intentionally messed with her mind was making her positively ill.

  “So,” Cole said slowly, “if he wanted to keep you from remembering the real killer…But, dammit, why would he care? I mean, even if he’s guilty, even if the killer was someone he hired, what could you have given the police to go on? The description of a stranger you saw, under traumatic circumstances, twenty-two years ago? When you were eight years old?

  “Hell, he’d be insane if he was worried about that. He’d only have had reason to worry if he’d committed the murder himself.”

  “And we know he didn’t. He was in his office all that morning.”

  “Yeah…unless his secretary lied.”

  That started more than just Beth’s hands trembling. If Mark had killed Larisa, and if he’d been afraid she’d remember that…If his choice had been between letting her remember what she’d actually seen or making her remember the killer as someone else…someone like her father, whom he might have secretly hated because of her father’s affair with La-risa…

  “Let’s run with the possibility that Mark read Larisa’ s journal and then murdered her himself,” Cole said. “By the time he killed her, she was hiding the journal in the attic. So even though he’d have wanted to destroy it, he couldn’t find it. But he knew the police might And if they got their hands on it, they’d have learned she was intending to leave him for Dennis Roth. And they’d have assumed Mark might have known, which would have given him a motive for murder. So, while your father would have been crazy to hide the murder weapon if he’d killed Larisa, it would have been a smart move for Mark.”

  Beth shook her head. “You’ve lost me.”

  “Well, once he’d planted the evidence, if the police had come to suspect him, he could somehow have made sure they found out where the knife was—which would have incriminated your father. And hell, that explains something else, too.”

  “What?” she said.

  “A hit man’s first priority would have been de-stroying the evidence. So if Mark was using a hit man, how did he get the knife and tha
t piece of bath-robe? Can you imagine a professional killer handing over anything that could incriminate him?”

  She shook her head, although imagining hit men’s behavior was hardly her specialty.

  “At any rate, as things turned out, the police bought Mark’s alibi. So he had no reason to worry about whether they found the knife or not. Not until that memory of yours started to surface.

  “But once it did, he knew that sooner or later you’d probably recall everything—including the fact that he murdered Larisa.”

  “Then why did he help me remember in the first place?”

  “Because he figured you’d eventually remember with or without his help. And the way he handled things, he was able to make you remember your father instead of him.”

  “Cole…you sound so certain he’s guilty.”

  “I’m not Not entirely. But things sure add up nicely, don’t they?” He paused, shaking his head, then said, “You know, if it was him, he’s played things perfectly. Now that the police know you remembered the killer as your father, even if your memory does get more accurate, Mark won’t have a thing to worry about. If you change your story, the cops will figure you’re only trying to save your father.”

  “But…that just shouldn’t be!” She swallowed hard, suddenly close to tears once more.

  “I know. But if Mark is guilty, and we can figure out how to prove it…”

  When Cole flicked on the turn signal, she glanced out of the car window and saw that they’d reached Wilson Place.

  He made the turn, then said, “Dammit.”

  She looked out of the Mustang and saw a nondescript dark car parked outside her building.

  “Police detectives,” Cole told her.

  “Oh, Lord. Do I have to admit that Mark was telling the truth? That I remembered my father as the killer?”

  “Fraid so.”

  “But you’ll be right there with me?”

  “They’d never let me sit in.”

  Her stomach lurched. She didn’t feel in any shape to face a couple of cops on her own.

  “You’re entitled to have a lawyer present,” Cole said. “And I do a lot of work for lawyers. If you want, we can get the best one who can free up some time.”

  “Then let’s.”

  She’d barely uttered the words before she wondered if she was overreacting. After all, she wasn’t at risk of being charged with anything.

  A lawyer wouldn’t let her say something she shouldn’t, which was the last thing she wanted to do. If she had to tell the truth, she would, but the less she said that would harm her father, the better. Be-cause at this point, she was absolutely certain she’d remembered the wrong face.

  Cole pulled the Mustang to a stop behind the parked car, then reached into the glove compartment for his cellular.

  Before he’d even begun to punch in a number, both front doors of the other car opened and two men climbed out.

  They sauntered over to the Mustang, and one of them tapped on Beth’s window.

  Her hand shaking, she rolled it down.

  “Ms. Beth Gregory?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I’m police detective Rodger Ronalds. I’d like to go inside with you and ask you a few questions.”

  COLE COULD TELL that Rodger Ronalds and his partner weren’t pleased when Beth said she wanted a lawyer present. But once he suggested heading to the nearest deli and picking up some lunch for them all, they began looking happier. And it wasn’t long after they’d finished eating that Max Linsalle arrived.

  The lawyer spent a few minutes talking privately with Beth, then the two of them joined the police detectives in her office.

  As soon as he was alone, Cole dug out Abbot’s list of people the police had questioned after Larisa’s murder. He didn’t want to waste any time, because unless Glen Gregory was guilty, whoever had been trying to kill Beth was still walking around free.

  Finding the name he wanted, he checked for it in the telephone directory. It wasn’t there, so he plugged his laptop’s modem into the phone jack and began accessing databases.

  When he finally got some current data on the woman, he plugged the base of the cordless back in and punched in her office number.

  “Dr. Rothstein’s office,” someone answered.

  “Claire Delaney?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Delaney, my name is Cole Radford and I’m a private investigator.”

  “Yes?” she said again—suspiciously, this time.

  “Ms. Delaney, I’d like to come and talk to you once you get home from work. It’s extremely important.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m busy tonight and—”

  “It’s extremely important to you” he interrupted, “that you talk to me before the police contact you.”

  “The police?” she said so quietly he knew she wasn’t alone. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s not something I can discuss over the phone. But I promise, you’ll be very glad you talked to me first.”

  “I…well…all right. Do you know where I live?”

  “The address I have is on Christie.”

  “Yes…well, I’ll be there by five-thirty.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.” Cole had barely put down the phone before he heard the door into the hallway open and close. A minute later, Beth and Max Linsalle appeared from her office.

  “How did it go?” he asked them.

  Beth’s face was pale and she was clearly upset, but Max said, “Fine. Especially considering I had almost no time to prepare her.”

  “I told them I was certain my memory was wrong,” she said. “But they took that with a grain of salt.”

  “Don’t worry,” Max told her. “When this comes to trial, your father’s lawyer will call experts on recovered memories. And their job will be convincing the jury there’s not a chance your memory’s right.”

  “Trial.” Beth slowly shook her head, as if she hadn’t entirely come to terms with the fact her father had been charged.

  “Well,” Max said. “If you need me again, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks,” Cole said. “And thanks for getting here so quickly.”

  Once they showed Max out, Beth turned to Cole. She looked completely drained, and when he wrapped his arms around her she wordlessly rested her head against his shoulder.

  He smoothed his hands down her back, the soft warmth of her body making him wish they could stay right here in her apartment. Telling himself they wouldn’t be gone too long, he said, “We’ve got an appointment to get to.”

  “Oh?” She eased back a little and looked at him.

  He smiled. “I wasn’t just sitting around, you know. While you were playing twenty questions, I tracked down Claire Watkins, who’s now Claire De-laney.”

  Beth returned his smile with a wan one of her own. “And I’m supposed to ask who Claire Watkins De-laney is, right?”

  ‘‘Right You know, you’re really catching on to this detective stuff.”

  “Very funny. So who is she?”

  “She’s your uncle’s alibi. And we’re going to go have a talk with her.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  When they turned onto Claire Delaney’s street, Beth’s heart was in her throat.

  “Are you sure we can’t get thrown in jail for this?” she asked Cole. “Isn’t it called entrapment or something?”

  “Only when the police do it. When we do it, it’s called bluffing.”

  “But I’m no good at bluffing.”

  “You don’t have to be. I told you, all you have to do is follow my lead.”

  “I…Cole, maybe I should wait in the car and let you talk to her on your own.”

  “No, I need you. You’re going to be what convinces her we’re not bluffing.”

  “But what if I blow it?”

  “You won’t.”

  But what if she did?

  Firmly, she told herself that she simply couldn’t. If her uncle was guil
ty, his ex-secretary was probably the only person—aside from Mark himself—who knew he hadn’t been in his office the entire morning Larisa was murdered.

  But if she’d lied about it to the police back then, how could Cole be so sure she’d tell them the truth now?

  ‘This is it,” he said, pulling up to the curb. “Ready?”

  Beth nodded, even though she was anything but, and they climbed out of the car.

  Claire Delaney opened the door almost before Cole knocked. An attractive, dark-haired woman in her late forties, she looked as anxious as Beth felt.

  “Ms. Delaney?” Cole said, producing his investigator’s license. “Cole Radford.”

  Claire eyed the ID closely, then looked at Beth. “And you’re…?”

  “She’s the reason I have to talk to you,” Cole said. “May we come in?”

  With obvious reluctance, Claire led the way to her living room.

  Once they were sitting down, Cole gestured toward Beth and said, “This is Beth Gregory.”

  The name didn’t seem to mean anything until he added, “Dr. Mark Niebuhr’s niece.”

  Claire sat up straighter in her chair. “You were the little girl who was in the house?”

  Beth nodded, telling herself so far so good. But they hadn’t reached the hard part yet.

  “That…was a long time ago,” Claire said. “It’s been almost twenty years since I worked for Mark.”

  “And twenty-two since the murder,” Cole said. “But why don’t I cut straight to the chase? Can I assume you know something about the subject of recovered memories?”

  Her gaze flickered to Beth, then back to Cole. “Yes, I’ve always worked for psychiatrists.”

  “Good, then I don’t have to waste time explaining the hows and whys. The bottom line is that Beth has remembered witnessing the murder.”

  Claire’s face paled. Then the corners of her mouth quirked, as if she thought he might be joking.

  When neither Beth nor Cole said anything more, Claire finally looked at Beth. “Remembering must have been…very traumatic.”

  “It was.” She took a deep breath and prayed she’d sound sincere. “To suddenly remember seeing…to suddenly know that my uncle is a murderer…‘Very traumatic’ doesn’t begin to describe it.”