by Blake Banner
Fifteen minutes later, Mary had managed to coax Humberto away to the rectory, with promises of hot chocolate and cake, and we led the reverend and Sylvie out to the cars. But when Sylvie saw that Dehan was taking her across the road, and I was taking the reverend toward my Jag, she stopped dead in her tracks on the sidewalk and refused to move. A spasm of panic constricted her face, giving her the look of a terrified child.
“What’s going on? Why are you separating us? Why do I have to go on my own?”
I studied her face, trying to read her reaction and what it meant.
“We want to get this over with as much as you do, Sylvie. Detective Dehan is going to ask you some questions, and I am going to talk to Reverend Truelove for a bit. It saves time that way, and we can all go home and get on with our lives.”
She turned terrified eyes on the reverend. He nodded and said, “Let’s get it over with, Sylvie.”
She hesitated and then followed Dehan to her car.
I let Dehan get ahead and drove at a leisurely pace. The reverend was quiet, staring out the side window at the anonymous, fleeting people on the sunlit sidewalks. “I cannot believe,” he said without looking at me, “that you seriously consider Sylvie a suspect in this case.”
“Who says we do?”
Now he turned to me. “Come on! You were about to arrest her in there!”
“Was I?”
“Well, that is what your partner said.”
“That was one of a number of options she put to both of you.”
He was silent for a moment. “So I am the suspect and she is the material witness…”
“Nothing says ‘guilty’ like a stupid lie, reverend. And you would do well to remember that during the interview when we get to the station.”
He sighed, closed his eyes and flopped back in his seat. He didn’t talk again until we arrived at the precinct.
NINE
I sat opposite him and placed a thin, manila folder in front of me. He glanced at it and then up at my face. I stared at him a moment and when I was sure I had his full attention, I said, “I spoke to Elizabeth Cavendish. She confirmed your alibi.”
He swallowed. “My alibi…”
“Yes. Your alibi. She also mentioned that her husband has been paralyzed from the neck down for the last twenty-five years.”
He wouldn’t make eye contact and his breathing rate had increased noticeably. “Yes, that was a tragic accident.”
“Where did it happen?”
“In Brazil.”
“Was that where Humberto was conceived?”
Now he met my eye. “How is that relevant to your investigation?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then let’s leave it.”
“Okay, fine. What is the relationship between you and Elizabeth Cavendish?”
His face flushed. “We are friends.”
“Close friends?”
“Yes, we go back a long way.”
“How intimate is your friendship?”
His anger was explosive, but it looked to me like he was using it to hide his fear. “Really, Detective! This is too much!”
“What is, Reverend? The suggestion that you and she are having an affair is that infuriating? I don’t see that that’s too much at all.”
He spluttered. “She’s a married woman!”
“She is a very frustrated, comparatively young woman, with emotional and sexual needs, who is married to a man who cannot fulfill those desires. You are both close and she is clearly drawn to you. Tell me where it becomes too much.”
He was foundering, trying to find a firm footing somewhere. “Naturally, I have been there for her! But as a friend, nothing more…”
“She said you were lovers. Was she lying?”
He gasped.
I repeated, “Was she lying?”
He hesitated and then hesitated some more. He was screwed whichever way he went and he knew it. Finally, he said, “No,” and sagged. “That is, we were lovers. Years ago, for a very brief period of time. We had a short, ill-advised affair after her husband’s accident.”
“You are not lovers now?”
“No.”
“How many lovers have you had, Reverend?”
“That is none of your damned business!”
“I disagree.”
“How…?”
“Liz says you are, and I quote, ‘a rake’.” It was Dehan who’d said it, but Elizabeth had agreed and not retracted her statement.
“Well, I…! That may be her opinion, but it is certainly not the truth! I am a man of God, Detective!”
“Is she lying?”
He heaved another sigh to steady his nerves. “Look, Detective, you are trying to make me say she is a liar, because in doing so I will undermine my own ‘alibi’, as you call it. But I am not going to call her a liar because she is not a liar. She may see me as a rake for reasons of wounded pride, loneliness or any number of reasons. But that is her subjective view, and I can assure you it is not based on any factual information. I am not a rake!”
“What is the nature of your relationship with Sylvie Martin?”
His face went like stone. “I have already told you, I am her pastor. We are friends. And that is all, honest truth.”
“What time did you go to Elizabeth Cavendish’s house that night?”
He spread his hands and shook his head. “You are asking me for details of something that happened twenty years ago. I suppose about six o’clock, perhaps a little earlier. Traffic is heavy at that time of night.”
I nodded and smiled, one New Yorker to another. “You’re not kidding.”
He smiled back, a hint of relief on his face.
I said, “Now here’s the problem, Paul.” His eyebrows twitched at the use of his first name. He had lost his title and that worried him even more. “Can you remember what you did earlier that day?”
“Of course not.”
“You took Ahmed over to Sylvie’s house, to discuss what days and times he would work at the church, and when he would work for her and Simon.”
He shrugged. “Did I? Yes, that’s very possible. But I fail to see…”
“Ahmed came over to the rectory at after five. You chatted. Then you went over to Sylvie’s house and while he collected the plums and the apples from the trees at the end of the garden, you and Sylvie sat and had coffee, and discussed his hours.”
“Clearly you think this is important…”
“It is important, because you left Sylvie’s house just after six. And there is no way you had time to get from there to Country Club in time for dinner. Which means that you and Elizabeth have concocted a false alibi…”
“Now wait just one minute!”
“…which also makes me wonder, what would make you do that?”
“You are leaping to wild, unwarranted conclusions!”
“I don’t see how.”
“If I was not there, then it is a genuine mistake…”
“You said you discovered the next morning what had happened. That is not the kind of thing you suddenly forget.”
“Well, I… It is a long time ago, Detective!”
“But quite a memorable event, wouldn’t you say? So were you there for her, or not? And if not, why not?”
He started to speak three times, and three times stopped himself. Then, he went for it and decided to brazen it out. “No! I am certain that I was dining with Liz! Ahmed and Sylvie must be mistaken.”
I shrugged like it wasn’t important. “You may be right. I just thought I’d better check. Moving on to another matter. What is the norm in Methodist Churches, Reverend, regarding Sunday Mass, as compared for example with the Catholic Church?”
He visibly relaxed and breathed more deeply. “Well, we are somewhat more flexible than our Roman friends.” He smiled as though he’d said something funny. “It varies from church to church. For my part, in the summer we worship in the morning on Sundays to allow people to relax in the afternoon and even
ing before starting the week. However, in the fall and in the winter, a lot of people find comfort in evening worship. So, as of the first Sunday in September, we meet for prayers and a reading of Scripture on Sunday evenings at about seven. Until the last Sunday in April.”
I nodded and smiled. “That pretty much fits with my research. Have you always followed that regime?”
“Always. Why?”
“September the fifth, 1999, was a Sunday.”
He closed his eyes. Then, after a moment, he buried his face in his hands.
I went on, “You have lied to me consistently and systematically since you first opened your mouth to me. And you are so damned arrogant and stupid that every time I catch you in a lie, you just keep lying more. Now, I told you in the car, nothing says ‘guilty’ like a stupid lie. So right now, you have managed to lie your way right to the top of my list of suspects. You have a big sign nailed to your two inch brow that says, ‘I’m The Guy.’” I sat forward and said, “Look at me.” He removed his hands from his face. I held my forefinger and thumb in front of him, an eighth of an inch apart. “I am this close to arresting you and charging you with Simon’s murder.”
“No! No! No! No! You have it all wrong!”
“If—if!—I have it all wrong, it is because you keep telling me half-assed stupid lies that a four-year-old could see through. Now, keep bullshitting me, Reverend, and you and Humberto…”
“No!”
“…get fast tracked to Attica!”
Our voices clashed, then died away and left a ringing silence. I pointed at him. “Think about it. I’m going to talk to Sylvie. When I get back, I want to hear the truth. If I get more lies, I will charge you and start building my case with the DA. I have means, opportunity and motive.”
“What motive?”
“The oldest two in the book. Your love for Sylvie and your desire to get your hands on her house, including her recently deceased husband’s life insurance. And I have a string of lies long enough to convince any jury that whatever you say, they should believe the opposite.” I stood. “Now, if it don’t work, stop doing it! I have warned you.”
I stepped out into the corridor, grabbed some black, caffeinated coffee from the machine and pushed into interview room two, where Dehan was talking to Sylvie.
Dehan was saying, “Now, see, Sylvie, here is the part I’m having some difficulty with. You are telling me that the reverend left you at around six, while Ahmed was working in the garden, to go to have dinner with Elizabeth Cavendish…”
Sylvie looked pale and drawn. “I don’t know if that’s what he did. I assume that’s what he did if that is what he says.”
“You think he might be lying?”
“No!”
I said, “Have you ever known the reverend to lie?”
“No! Of course not!”
“So you think he did go to Elizabeth’s house?”
“If that’s what he says he did, yes.”
“So the problem I have,” Dehan pressed on, “is that there is no way he could have gotten to Elizabeth’s house on time if he left you after six.”
She spread her hands. “Perhaps he arrived late.”
“No. According to Elizabeth, he was not late.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
I leaned forward. “You see, there is something else, and I think you know this already. The day Simon was killed was a Sunday, the first Sunday in September, and there was a service at the church. So there was no way he could have been dining with Elizabeth Cavendish.”
“He must have made a mistake.”
“Why wasn’t he there for you the night your husband was murdered, Sylvie? If he was not out, if he was at the church, why was he not there for you?”
“He was! He would have been! I don’t remember!”
Dehan was shaking her head. “No. I think you do remember, Sylvie. I think you remember very well. And I think you were right the first time. He was there. He was there for you every step of the way.”
“What do you mean?”
Dehan changed tack. “Why did he lie to us about being at Elizabeth’s?”
“I don’t know!”
“So he did lie!”
“No! I don’t know! No!”
“He wasn’t there. He was at the church, delivering a sermon. He knew it and you knew it. Why did he say he was with Elizabeth and persuade her to lie for him? What really happened that night, Sylvie?”
Her face was crimson, she had tears in her eyes, and she was almost hysterical. “I don’t know! I don’t remember!”
“When did you hear from him? When did he contact you?”
She was sobbing, with her face in her hands. “The next morning, I think. I don’t remember.”
“Not that night?”
“No! I keep telling you. I don’t remember, I am not sure.”
I spoke quietly. “OK, Sylvie, take it easy. Let’s talk about something you do remember. When was the first time you discovered that your husband had taken out life insurance to safeguard you and Mary?”
She wiped her face and looked at me with pleading eyes. “You asked me this already. I told you, after he died.”
Dehan said, “But we have copies of emails sent to you by the insurance company in February of 1999 advising you that you have been named the beneficiary in two insurance policies, and detailing the amount of the coverage.”
She looked bewildered. “What?”
Dehan slipped them out of her folder and slid them across the table. Sylvie looked at them and shook her head. “Even if I had received these, I would not have read them.”
Dehan frowned. “Why?”
“I would have left them for Simon to read. He took care of anything like that.”
“He had access to your email?”
“Access? It wasn’t my email! It was our email!”
I shook my head. “I am sorry, Sylvie. There is not a jury in this country that is going to believe that.”
I said it, but I knew I was wrong. She began to cry again.
“I swear to you. I had no idea about that insurance. I have no idea where Paul was, or why he seems to have lied to you. I have never known Paul tell a lie. He is the best, kindest, most God-fearing man I have ever met! He would never lie! Not Paul!”
TEN
I opened the door and let Dehan into the room where Reverend Paul Truelove was sitting, staring at the pale gray tabletop in front of him that looked like the same color as his face. He looked up as we came in and watched us sit opposite him. Before I could speak, he said, “I was having an affair with Liz. If my parishioners had got to hear about it, or if the bishop had got to hear about it, particularly in view of her husband’s condition, I would have been finished.”
Dehan said, “So what happened?”
“I couldn’t go to her. As you pointed out, it was a Sunday, the first Sunday in September, a fact that had completely escaped my mind after almost twenty years. I had a service and a sermon to deliver. So Elizabeth came to me. She slipped in to the rectory while we were in worship and once the service was finished, I joined her.”
“Will she verify this?”
“Yes. She covered for me because I asked her to…”
I interrupted him. “You realize that if this is another lie…”
“I know! I know! You have made your point!” He was quiet for a moment. “I am not a liar, Detective Stone. I got trapped in a web of my own lies. The point is, I was lying to save my career, not to hide a murder!” We sat in silence for a moment. He looked from me to Dehan and back again. “Will the bishop have to hear about this?”
I suddenly felt tired and sick.
“I don’t know yet. If it is not relevant to the murder, it is none of our business.” I eyed him a moment and added, sourly, “But Reverend, in view of all this, don’t you think you should be asking yourself if you’re actually fit to be preaching sermons to people?”
He looked down at his hands. “Am I
free to go?”
“Yeah. You are free to go.”
He rose and left. The door closed behind him and we sat for a bit without talking. Finally, I checked my watch and glanced at Dehan. “Let’s grab a burger quick and then go see Frank.”
“Did he call you?”
“No, but I’m sick of waiting.”
As we walked down the stairs, I dialed his number. He answered after the first ring.
“Stone, I had my phone in my hand, I was just about to call you.”
“Yeah, right. That is what you say to all the boys.”
“It’s actually on my desk. I’m reading it now. The pathologist was Mioko Itani. She isn’t here anymore. She moved back to Japan. However, I should be able to answer most of your questions.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
We walked down to Banyer Place and bought two burgers, then walked slowly back up toward my car. Finally, she said, “I believe them.”
I spoke around a mouthful of meat, salad, ketchup and bun. “We can’t afford to believe them, Dehan. We have to believe the evidence—which, I grant you, right now is telling us nothing. But if they are telling the truth, it means somebody else killed Simon Martin.” I wiped my mouth with the once white paper napkin and said, “So, if not them, then who…?”
“I know. I know…”
I shrugged. “But I do agree with you, up to a point. We may have been on a wild goose chase. Maybe it is time we started looking a little farther afield…”
But even as I was saying it, I was only half believing myself. I climbed in behind the wheel and she got in beside me.
“When we get back,” she said, “I will have a look, see if there were any other burglaries or house invasions in the area at the time.”
I took White Plains Road north, cruising at a nice, steady pace, watching the early onset of autumn: the first hint of russet in the plane trees against a pale blue sky, the first jackets and scarves replacing the T-shirts on the street, the lengthening shadows beginning to stretch out across the cooling sunlight on the sidewalks. I watched, and tried not to think. Sometimes, when you don’t think, you see things clearer.
But Dehan had other ideas.