The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  “I’m gonna call my lawyer,” he mutters between clenched teeth.

  “Excellent idea.”

  I step into a large open-plan room with a kitchen at the far end. Off to my left, a middle-aged woman stands next to an enormous sectional couch. The woman is tall and slender, with a willowy neck and a little button of a chin. She’s the only other person in view.

  “Your name, ma’am?”

  “Adele Schmidt.”

  My squad has already fanned out, two men headed up the stairs, but I still ask the relevant question. “Is there anybody else in the house?”

  “No . . . not in the house.”

  “On the property?”

  “Connor, my son. He’s in the cottage.”

  “The cottage?”

  “Yes. We have a small cottage on the property. That’s where he lives.”

  “Not here, in this house?”

  “He comes over for breakfast sometimes, but he lives in the cottage.”

  Her tone is so flat, I’m sure the line’s been rehearsed. Just like I’m sure the mayor, the police chief, and our beloved prosecutor will be smiling by the end of the day. Mission accomplished.

  My unit clears the house while I hang out in the living room with the Schmidts. Then I issue orders I can only hope my men will obey.

  “Wait here in the living room until I round up Connor. Don’t touch anything, and make sure they stay on the couch.” I point to the Schmidts. “By the book, all right? You can expect a lawyer to show up before we finish.”

  But maybe not. As Vern and I head off to find Connor Schmidt, I hear his daddy shout into the cell phone he’s holding an inch from his mouth. “Whatta ya mean you got a conflict of interest? You’re my fuckin’ lawyer. You have to represent me.”

  Despite the building heat, the walk across the Schmidt property is pleasant. The scattered trees throw lacy shadows onto the grass and there’s a rose garden behind the main house. Even past peak, the red-on-red blossoms are as big as my hand.

  We make only one stop along the way. To instruct a pair of landscapers to leave the property. Latinos both, they clear out in a hurry when they see our badges. I watch until they drive off, then lead Vern to Connor Schmidt’s door.

  Cottage is the right word for Connor’s home. White stucco walls, a tile roof with a rounded peak, about the size of a two-car garage. There’s even a Dutch door, both halves closed.

  Connor answers on the second knock. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and scratching at his scalp. He wants us to think we’ve roused him from sleep, but his gaze is too intense. For sure, his adrenals are pumping.

  “Hi, Connor.” I extend a copy of the search warrant.

  “What’s that?”

  “A search warrant for the property. You can read it or not. Your choice, strictly. The search is going to happen either way.” I skip a beat, letting the message penetrate. “Is there anyone else inside? Girlfriend, boyfriend?”

  Connor bristles. I’m disrespecting him, and not for the first time. But he pulls himself together. “No. I been home alone since last night.”

  “Fine.” I nod to Vern, and he goes inside. That leaves me and Connor standing face-to-face. Connor’s bare chested. Part of the show? Or is he just showing off? Connor’s big across the chest, and his arms are well defined. He appears as powerful as his father, but more in proportion. A ragged scar on his left breast adds character.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Just stay where you are. I’ll tell you what comes next when I’m ready.”

  We stand there staring into each other’s eyes until Vern emerges a couple of minutes later.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “All right. So, Connor, you have anything you want to tell me?”

  “About what?”

  “About Bradley Grieg. About Felice and Richard Gaitskill.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Okay, then how ’bout tellin’ me where you hid the gun that killed them?”

  “I didn’t hide any gun.”

  “Fine, tell me where your mother hid it.” I shake my head. All part of the game. “Put on something decent, Connor. You don’t want your mama to see you this way. She might get the wrong idea.”

  Back in the house, I set Connor, his mom, and his dad on the big couch in the living room. Then I make their options clear. They can leave the property altogether, though not in the Cadillac or the Lexus parked in the driveway. Or they can remain on the couch to enjoy some family time.

  “If your cars are locked,” I finish, “best give me the keys. Otherwise I’ll have them towed to where a locksmith can get at them.”

  The keys collected, I point at the Dink. That would be John Meacham, who’s holding the video camera. “You come with us, John. The rest of you fan out on the first floor. If you should discover anything of value, don’t move it. Lay down a marker and wait for it to be videotaped in place.”

  Do the assholes understand? Does it matter? I very much doubt that we’ll find incriminating evidence on the first floor. That’s because anything found, say in a drawer, could belong to Carl or Adele. And that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  DELIA

  Vern and I find three bedrooms upstairs, two of which appear to be guest rooms created from a catalog. Each contains a pair of single beds, a wing chair, a padded rocking chair, a small bureau, and a closet. Not even used for storage, closets and bureaus are empty.

  By the book, leave no wiggle room. I order the Dink to video the rooms anyway, including the empty drawers and closets. Meacham grumbles, even this small job taxing his commitment to the craft of policing. But I’m in a good mood and so is Vern as we head for Carl and Adele’s bedroom.

  “Hard or easy?” Vern asks.

  “Hard enough to make it look good. Easy enough to make sure we find it.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” This from the Dink.

  Vern looks at me and smiles. You could lecture John Meacham for the next year and he still wouldn’t get it. Myself, I don’t think he has enough nerve endings to feel the itch inspired by a setup. But Vern and I both felt that itch when Marjorie Carver made her little proffer. Unless encouraged by a higher authority—or someone aspiring to higher authority—she would have offered up every deviant known to her before giving up Schmidt.

  Of one thing I’m certain, whoever decided to use the same weapon on Grieg and the Gaitskills had a third use for it. And the shoe print in the alley behind the Skyview? Even at the time, I’d thought it a bit too perfect.

  Carl and Adele’s bedroom has two of everything, including two full-size beds. More important, there are two dressers and two large closets. Women’s clothing fills one of the dressers and one of the closets. The other closet and dresser hold only men’s clothing.

  We begin with Carl’s bureau. I don’t expect to find anything here, and though I’m not disappointed, I’m intrigued by a rainbow of bikini underpants. I wonder who Carl wears them for, his wife or Marjorie. But the answer is obvious. Marjorie is an earthy woman, fleshy, sensual, and hot-tempered. Adele Schmidt is so distant she might have come down from the moon. Or be preparing to return.

  Carl’s closet is next on the list—ground zero, or so I’m hoping. I might be wrong, of course. Maybe I’ll find nothing. Maybe we’ll leave empty-handed. Word on the street is that Carl Schmidt doesn’t participate in his operation’s day-to-day activities. And while he wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate a liability, he wouldn’t do it himself. So why would he have a gun, a gun used in three homicides, in his bedroom?

  “Video the entire closet, John. Then follow us closely as we do the search. Is the time and date stamp functioning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then keep the camera running. No gaps, right? Every second accounted for.”

  “All right, I got it.”

  The whiny tone’s not exactly reassuring, and I reinforce the message. “You fuck this up, I
’m gonna think you were paid to fuck it up. And I know Schmidt has a spy in the department.” I watch his head jerk back. Is it him? The question’s irrelevant at this point, but I won’t forget. “You need to cover your ass, John. That’s because everyone’s watching, from the mayor on down. So do the job I’m asking you to do. No fuckups, no excuses. I need to account for every second we spend in that closet.”

  Meacham nods acceptance, and I go to work on a couple dozen shoes paired together on the floor. The pair I want isn’t hard to find. Most of the shoes are flat-soled loafers or lace-ups. There are only two pairs of athletic shoes, and only one pair specked with mud. Very common New Balance cross-trainers, this pair well worn. The soles are rubbed almost smooth at the edge of the heels, and the toes are scuffed.

  “That’s it.” Vern points to a diamond-shaped insert on the sole that extends from the heel to the ball of the foot. “The insert. It’s on the print.”

  Good news, but there’s still the gun to be found. With Vern peering over my shoulder, making suggestions from time to time, I go through the closet. The process is tedious but thorough. Each garment is taken down and carefully examined. I explore every shoe, jamming my fingers into the toes. I don’t stop until the closet is empty except for a set of matching suitcases and a duffel bag on the shelf. There are six pieces altogether, from the duffel bag to a giant, hard-sided case that reminds me of a steamer trunk.

  The smaller ones come off the shelf first. I examine each in turn, with Meacham recording every move, until only the largest remains. It’s heavy enough, when I pull it down, to slip through my hands and fall to the carpeted floor. The suitcase makes a solid thump when it hits, but the sound isn’t loud enough to disguise the scrape of a heavy object sliding across the bottom.

  “Bingo.” This from Vern. “It just had to be.”

  The case, when we open it, has an obvious false bottom opposite the handle side. Still, it takes me a minute to find the release—a pair of metal buttons hidden beneath tabs at either end of the case. When I finally press them at the same time, a Glock 26, a subcompact 9mm, pops into view. I examine it carefully, mindful of DNA and fingerprints. The serial number has been filed down, which comes as no surprise, but the weapon appears to be in good working order.

  I jack out the round in the chamber, watch it drop to the carpet. The magazine comes next. It holds ten rounds, but when I remove the bullets, I discover only four.

  Four in the magazine, plus one in the chamber. Five bullets found, five missing. Three in the skulls of Grieg and the Gaitskills? The fourth and fifth in Felice Gaitskill’s chest?

  At that point I would have bet Danny’s college fund on it. All nine hundred and fifty-seven dollars.

  We come down the stairs and into the living room, a little caravan, with Vern in the lead, holding the athletic shoes. I’m carrying a shoebox taken from Adele’s closet. The Glock’s in the shoebox.

  “What the fuck are they?” Carl asks, pointing to the shoes.

  But I’m not here to answer questions. I’ve got other things on my mind. I tell Carl Schmidt that he has the right to remain silent, that anything he says can be used against him, that he has a right to a lawyer. The man’s not indigent and not entitled to a state-provided lawyer, but I put the possibility on the table anyway.

  “Do you understand your rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

  “Get real, you—”

  I don’t know if he was going to add bitch or cunt. Nor do I care. I remove the cover of the shoebox and show him the Glock, the empty magazine, and the unexpended rounds.

  “Recognize this, Carl?”

  “That’s not mine. You planted that.” Carl Schmidt’s eyes travel from the pistol to the Dink and his video camera. Yeah, the weapon was planted, but not by us. I nod to a pair of cops behind the couch, and they lean forward. They’ve been prepped by yours truly, who anticipated this development. Carl spins in his seat to stare at his wife and his son.

  “You’re both dead,” he tells them. “Hear me? I’m gonna have you skinned alive.”

  Connor rises. He takes his mother by the arm and leads her to the other side of the room. He’s quite calm, almost like he wants me to know it. But I don’t have time to analyze the asshole. I signal to the cops behind the couch, and they lean forward to seize Carl’s arms. I expect him to resist, but he rises without a struggle.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, but you’re being detained. I’m going to put you in the back of a cruiser outside. You can take your cell phone, but we’ll have to search you first. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  I’m not sorry for the inconvenience, but I want Carl put away. With the entire property yet to be searched, he’ll only be a distraction if left in the house. I instruct the cops holding Carl by the arms, then begin the second phase of the operation with a phone call to Chief Black.

  “I’ve got a gun and a pair of soiled cross-trainers, Chief. They’ll be on their way as soon as I get off the phone.”

  “Where’d you find them?”

  “Carl Schmidt’s bedroom, in his closet.”

  “Okay, I’ll alert the mayor.” He hesitates for a second. “And good work, Delia. You’ve been a step ahead all along.”

  The State Police Laboratory is approximately sixty miles away. I don’t know how Mayor Venn did it, but the lab’s agreed to process the evidence as soon as they receive it. Just as well, because we can only hold Carl for so long without charging him. I bag and label the evidence, then hand it to Patrolman Jerome Meeks, the cop who wouldn’t let the chief drive onto the Skyview’s parking lot. Meeks signs the labels on the separate bags holding the weapon, the magazine, the unspent rounds, the shoes. Then he’s off.

  Back to work. I organize my remaining cops (minus the Dink) into pairs and assign them to the various outbuildings. Connor Schmidt’s cottage and the remainder of Carl’s bedroom I reserve to myself, Vern, and the Dink. I find nothing of importance in either place, though I’m amused by Connor’s immaculate housekeeping. No joint in an ashtray, not a leaf on the floor. Aspirin and nasal spray and a stool softener in the bathroom cabinet. No oxy, no molly, no fentanyl.

  Due diligence established, I finally approach Adele and Connor Schmidt. They’re sitting quietly, side by side, on the couch. Adele’s wearing a gray skirt and a navy blouse. The skirt falls to mid-shin, the blouse buttoned almost to her throat. Connor’s wearing blue sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and leather slippers. No socks.

  “Step away, Connor. I want to talk to your mom alone.”

  Adele Schmidt’s a shy, retiring type, notably lacking in self-confidence. She’s a woman in obvious need of protection, and Connor should be the one to do the protecting. He doesn’t. He rises to his feet and meekly follows Vern into the kitchen. I sit down next to Adele, in the still-warm spot vacated by Connor.

  “I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Schmidt. Very few, but they need to be asked. I want you to think carefully before you answer. No rush, okay? I want your responses to be accurate . . . and truthful.”

  Adele mutters, “All right, Lieutenant,” without raising her eyes from her lap.

  “Last Saturday night, were you home?

  “Yes.”

  “From when to when?”

  She hesitates for a moment, then says, “I shopped at the Kroger in the afternoon. I’m not sure exactly when I left the house, but I know I was home by four. To watch a baseball game. My husband follows the Chicago Cubs, and we usually watch together.”

  “And you didn’t go out again?”

  “No.”

  “What about your husband? Did he stay in the house all night?”

  “I . . . I think. Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  The answer comes faster this time. “I take a sleeping medication most nights. I was asleep by ten o’clock.”

  “And you didn’t wake up during the night?”

  “No, I never do. But I’m sure Carl was in bed when I did wake up. That was
a little before seven.”

  “Was he also in bed when you went to sleep?”

  “Carl was downstairs watching TV when I fell asleep. He generally stays up late.”

  I jump to Monday, when the Gaitskills were killed, and get the same basic response. Then I ask her to write her statement on a yellow pad. I’m expecting at least a moment of hesitation. That’s because everyone hesitates before putting pen to paper. Not Adele. Her handwriting’s a bit on the shaky side, but she creates a timeline for both nights and signs without my asking her. Carl Schmidt is now officially without an alibi.

  “Is that okay, Lieutenant?” she asks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CONNOR

  The bitch has balls. Serious balls. Augie-size balls. She sits us on the couch for five hours, don’t move, don’t complain. You gotta take a piss, a cop escorts you and waits outside the door. In your own home. When you’re not even a suspect.

  Like I’m gonna do exactly what if I’m not watched every minute? Like my mother’s gonna do exactly what? Like you already have the gun and the fucking shoe. Like you already have my old man locked in the back of a patrol car. So what are you waitin’ for?

  Five hours later, finally released, I’m standin’ on the porch with Mom. We’re watchin’ the bitch cuff my father’s hands behind his back, then ease him into the same patrol car she took him out of. Doin’ it herself, with the old man’s new lawyer watchin’. That would be a second-tier mouthpiece named Jeff Hennessy. Lorimer Taub (who’s as top tier as it gets in Baxter) now represents Marjorie Carver.

  Lorimer was the last piece of a puzzle that began to assemble itself when I opened the door to Cabin 909 that night at one o’clock, half expecting to find Bradley Grieg asleep. Bradley had a tendency to fall asleep when he was bored, like there wasn’t enough going on inside his head to keep him awake. But passed out unconscious in a deep nod isn’t asleep. I took in his works spread out on the edge of the tub, the bag open on a dresser, the gun sitting at the bottom of the bag, the money gone.