“I’m not at liberty to say. You have doctor-patient confidentiality; I have detective-client confidentiality.”
He waited a few seconds before he said, “If you persist in trying to dig up dirt in a misguided effort to assist your client, you’ll regret it.”
“Dirt, Doctor?”
“… A poor choice of words. But you understand my point, I trust.”
I understood it, all right—the real reason Nesbitt had been willing to talk to me. He didn’t seem to care much, if he cared at all, what had happened to his friend and patient Alice Cahill. What he cared about was himself, protecting his privacy. Why? What was it he was afraid I might find out?
“It’s been my experience,” I said, “that if a person has nothing to hide, an investigation can’t do him or her any harm.”
“Are you insinuating I have something to hide?”
“Do you?”
“Certainly not. I have a strong dislike of unwarranted prying, that’s all. I meant what I said; I won’t tolerate it.”
“And I won’t tolerate unwarranted threats. I intend to continue doing the job I was hired to do, Doctor, whether you and your wife like it or not.”
Nesbitt put his hands flat on the desktop, levered himself to his feet. “I’ll thank you to leave now. I have patients to see.”
“People whose welfare is as important to you as your own?” I could not resist the jibe. He brought out the worst in me.
The scalpel-slash mouth again. And an eye glare that cut into me like a laser. He had nothing more to say. Neither did I; I stood as quickly as he had and went, feeling a whole lot better about myself than I had coming in.
* * *
Streeter Manufacturing was housed in a large, modern building in a newish industrial park on the outskirts of Concord. What they manufactured, according to a sign in front, was compact refrigerators, wine coolers, and icemakers. Judging from the size of the place and the expensively furnished reception area, the firm was a model of commercial success.
I told the young receptionist that I had an appointment with James Cahill. One minute after she notified him I was there, out he came looking tired and harried and conducted me down an interior hallway and into a good-sized office with wall-to-wall carpeting, blond wood furnishings, and a couple of windows overlooking what had once been an expanse of lawn and was now just another dead brown victim of the drought.
As soon as he shut the door he said with a kind of pathetic eagerness that was at once hopeful and hopeless, “Have you found out anything yet?”
I would have to tell him that his wife was in fact a plagiarist and had offered Grace Dellbrook two thousand dollars to keep it covered up, but this was neither the time nor the place. He had plenty on his mind already, and I was about to give him more—issues that did have to be dealt with immediately.
“Nothing specific,” I said. “I’m still gathering information. I have some questions that require answers, as I told you when we spoke earlier.”
“Anything you want to know. Can I get you something first? Coffee, a soda?”
“Nothing, thanks.” We sat down. “Let’s start with the insurance,” I said.
Blank look. “Insurance?”
“The hundred-thousand-dollar joint life policy you and your wife have. You didn’t tell me about it. Why not?”
“I forgot it. Honest to God, it never even entered my mind.” Now he looked chagrined, apologetic. “How did you find out about it?”
“Kendra Nesbitt. She thinks it’s one of the reasons you did away with your wife.”
“That’s crazy. Jesus. Alice isn’t dead; she’s just missing.” He couldn’t sit still. Up on his feet, moving back and forth behind his chrome-and-glass desk. “Even if I wanted to collect on it, and I don’t, I couldn’t if she isn’t found. Not for, what is it, seven years?”
“That’s right, seven years.”
“I’d have to be crazy myself to wait that long for money. I don’t care about money, I care about Alice. Jesus.”
The earnest pleading in his voice wasn’t faked; his eyes, his body language, would have given him away if it had been. I’d already dismissed the insurance angle, but it had needed to be mentioned, Cahill’s response noted, in order to be written off completely.
“Do you drink to excess, Mr. Cahill?”
“What? No. No. What gave you that idea?”
“Never fought with your wife in a drunken rage?”
“No, of course not. We hardly ever fought at all, except when she was in one of her dark moods, and then all I ever did was try to calm her down.…”
Cahill sat down again, dry-washed his face with one hand. “Who told you all those lies? Kendra?”
“Yes.”
“She must really hate me to make up crap like that.”
“You give her cause to hate you?”
“No. We never got along very well, I think I told you that yesterday, but all we ever did was exchange a few sharp words when she tried to interfere.”
“Interfere in your relationship with your wife?”
“She never thought I was good enough, strong enough, for Alice. Always trying to talk her into divorcing me, not that it did her any good. Alice would never leave me voluntarily. She loves me, depends on me.”
“So she didn’t listen to her sister.”
“No, and it drove Kendra crazy. They argued all the time.”
“She says there was no friction, no sibling rivalry, between them.”
“That’s another lie. There was. Ask Fran Woodward, she’ll confirm it.”
“I already have,” I said. “And she did. A love-hate sibling relationship, in her opinion.”
“I don’t know that I’d go that far, but … they went at it pretty heavily sometimes. Verbally, I mean.”
“Did you ever threaten to harm your wife?”
“My God, no.”
“Or her sister?”
“No,” Cahill said. “All I ever did was tell Kendra to butt out of our affairs. Not so politely a couple of times, but never in a threatening way.”
“What about Dr. Nesbitt? Have any problems with him?”
“No. He didn’t pester Alice the way Kendra did.”
“Does he agree with her, you think? That your wife would be better off divorcing you?”
“He never said anything if he does. Not to me.”
“So then you get along with him.”
“I suppose so.”
“Suppose so?”
“Well, we don’t interact much,” Cahill said. “Paul … he’s not the sort of man you can know well, at least that I’ve been able to know well. Have you talked to him yet?”
“Before I came here.”
“Then maybe you understand what I mean.”
“Kind of a cold fish. Full of himself.”
Cahill nodded. “That pretty much sums him up. But he’s not a bad guy, really. And he’s a good doctor. Very attentive to Alice, helped her get through some of her worst periods.”
“How would you categorize his marriage?”
“It’s pretty solid, I guess. I mean, he and Kendra have been married a long time and they seem to get along all right. She can be bossy as hell, but he just ignores her when she’s like that.”
“There’s one other thing she told me,” I said. “That you’re having an affair with one of your co-workers, Megan Sprague.”
Cahill jerked as if he’d been goosed. His collar was suddenly tight; he tugged at it with a forefinger just above the knot in his tie. He did not quite flush, but little streaks of red showed on his neck.
“Well, Mr. Cahill?”
“How … how would Kendra know a thing like that?”
“She wouldn’t say. Is it true?”
“No. Not—” He tugged at his collar again. “Not exactly.”
“That’s not an answer. Either it’s true or it isn’t.”
“Megan and I, we’re just friends. I can talk to her; she’s been very supportive.…”
; “So you’re not sleeping with her. Even though by your own admission it’s been six months since you had relations with your wife.”
The red streaks grew a little darker. “All right. Once. That’s all, I swear to God, one night about four months ago. We … after that we decided it’d been a mistake and we’re better off keeping our friendship platonic. I never cheated on Alice before that one time; I’m not that kind of husband. You have to believe that.”
“If it weren’t for your wife, would you and Ms. Sprague remain just friends?”
“… I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. How much of a bond is there between you? If you weren’t married any longer, if you were a widower, would the two of you get together on a permanent basis?”
“I … I can’t answer that. I care for Megan, but I don’t love her.”
“Could you love her if circumstances permitted?”
“I suppose so. We’re compatible, we … oh, Christ.”
“How does she feel? Would she be open to a permanent relationship?”
“I don’t know. She’s never said anything.”
“Never mentioned it, never indicated how deep her feelings are for you?”
“No. We’re just friends; I told you that—”
“You also told me you slept with her once. How was it? Good for both of you?”
Cahill shoved his chair back so abruptly the headrest cracked against the wall behind him, climbed onto his feet again. There was plenty of color in his face now; it was the first time I’d seen him show strong emotion. I was not proud of the way I’d goaded him, but I wanted to see how he’d react. Angrily, but not violently. His eyes didn’t bulge; his fists didn’t clench. He just stood there staring at me like an animal that had just been kicked.
“That was a lousy thing to say,” he said in a choked voice.
“I know it. And I apologize. But if I’m going to keep on working for you, I have to have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. No lies, nothing withheld.”
The anger went out of him, loosening the muscles in his face and body; he sank down into the chair again. “I haven’t lied to you,” he said, “and there’s nothing else I haven’t told you.”
“All right. Does Ms. Sprague know you hired me?”
“Yes. I told her last night.” He added, “On the phone,” so I wouldn’t get the wrong idea.
“Is she here now?”
“… Yes?” Making a question out of the word.
“Would you mind introducing me to her?”
That stiffened his spine again. “Why? You don’t intend to ask her about our relationship—”
“No, I won’t do that.”
“Then why do you want to—” A sudden thought came to him; you could see it in the widening of his eyes. “My God, you don’t think she had anything to do with Alice’s disappearance? That’s insane! Megan is kind, gentle … she’s incapable of hurting anyone for any reason.”
Just friends except for one lapse? Well, maybe. But the way he’d rushed to her defense, the words he’d used to describe her, indicated that his feelings for her might be stronger than he was willing to admit, to me or to himself.
“I don’t think anything,” I said. “Just doing my job the best way I know how. Do you object to my meeting her?”
He blew out a breath before he said, “No, of course not.” He picked up the phone on his desk, tapped out an extension number. “Megan? Would you come to my office for a minute?”
It did not take her long to get there. Light rap on the door, and she came in smiling, stopped when she saw me get up off my chair. She was about Cahill’s age, copper-brown hair cut short and swept back on both sides, wide-set hazel eyes, slender, the hem of her green skirt cut high enough to show off shapely legs. She had the kind of face that you hear described as having character, a polite way of saying that the more you look at a woman who seems plain at first, the more attractive you realize she is. When she moved again, it was with her head cocked slightly to one side in a quizzical sort of way.
Cahill introduced us. She didn’t need to say she was glad to meet me; the eyes, the smile, the firm handshake, said it for her.
“Have you found out something? Is that why you’re here?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Do you think there’s any chance you will?”
“Hard to say. I’m doing my best.”
“I’m sure you are. Mr. Cahill is at his wit’s end, with all the false accusations and innuendo. He had absolutely nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance.”
Defending him openly, with a sideways glance at him as she spoke. She cared about him, all right. Just how much was open to question, but if I’d had to make an immediate guess I would have said that her feelings ran deeper than a simple friend with one-time benefit. Over the years I’ve learned to trust my first impressions, up to a point; the one I had of her was favorable. She struck me as a woman of unswerving loyalty, the kind of person you’d want in your corner in a crisis. Of course, loyalty can be carried to extremes if it’s mixed with a passionate and mostly unrequited love. I did not know enough about Megan Sprague to make any definite judgment about her.
As for Cahill, I was getting to know him well enough to judge that he was driven by his emotions and that they made him both deferential and unpredictable. Three minutes ago he’d been worried that I would say something to Ms. Sprague about their relationship. Now, impulsively, he said to her, “My damn sister-in-law told him she thinks we’re having an affair, that that’s one of the reasons I did something to Alice.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t lose her composure in any way. She said to me in the same even voice, “It’s not true. Mrs. Nesbitt made it up. She has it in for Jim, God knows why.”
“We’re just friends,” Cahill said. “I told him that.”
“Yes. Just friends.”
I asked, “How do you suppose Mrs. Nesbitt came to that conclusion?”
“I have no idea. Jim?”
“She didn’t get it from Alice. I never said a word to Alice about you.” The additional words and me were in his open mouth, but he didn’t allow them to come out.
“You don’t believe it, do you?” Megan Sprague asked me. “That Jim would harm his wife because of me?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t.”
“Good. It’s pure nonsense. Whatever happened to poor Mrs. Cahill, it had nothing to do with Jim.”
If she’d added, Or with me, I might have marked her down a notch in my estimation. But she didn’t. She just stood there, straight and staunch, no longer smiling—a rock. The kind of rock a man like Cahill needed, the kind of rock his wife hadn’t been.
14
JAKE RUNYON
Locating Joe Meeker proved to be easy. Rittenhouse drove first to Meeker’s cabin, and the handyman’s Silverado pickup was parked there in plain sight from the road. They found him inside his workshop stripping varnish from an old walnut hutch.
As soon as he saw them, he was on his guard. You could see his thin, bony face close up, the smoke-colored eyes darken and then narrow. He gave Runyon a cursory glance, then held his gaze on the chief deputy.
“What’s up, Charlie?” he asked.
“We need you to come over to the Hansen cabin with us.”
“What, right now? What for?”
“We’ll talk about that when we get there.”
“Can’t it wait? I’m pretty busy—”
“No, it can’t wait. Now.”
“How come you brought this guy here with you?” Meeker said, still keeping his eyes off Runyon. “What’s he got to do with whatever’s going on?”
“At the cabin,” Rittenhouse said. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you, Joe?”
“Trouble? Me? Hell, no. I’m just confused, that’s all.”
“Better take off your tool belt before we go.”
“Oh, sure.” Meeker slid the screwdriver he’d been using into a belt slo
t, unbuckled the belt, and laid it on the workbench. His hands were steady enough doing that and then wiping them on an already grease-stained rag. He had nerve, Runyon thought, not that that was any surprise given his actions on Tuesday night. “You want me to follow you over there?”
“No. We’ll go in my cruiser.”
They trooped outside, Meeker with his skinny shoulders squared. Rittenhouse unlocked the cruiser’s rear door for him—prisoner’s seating, behind the thick wire mesh screen that divided the interior in half. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t hesitate, just shrugged and got in.
Nobody said anything on the short drive to the Hansen cabin. Runyon half-turned on the front seat to watch Meeker through the mesh, a psychological ploy he’d learned in his time on the Seattle PD. But it didn’t rattle the little handyman. He kept his head turned away, looking or pretending to look out through the side window.
Lloyd Hansen’s Honda was parked in the same place as before. Runyon had told the deputy about his earlier meeting with the cabin’s owner, that Hansen was liable to still be here when they arrived. Rittenhouse said it wouldn’t be a problem.
Meeker sat forward as they turned onto the property. “Whose car is that: Mr. Hansen’s? We come here to see him?”
“No,” Rittenhouse said. He braked alongside the Honda. “I’ll go talk to Hansen. You two wait here.”
“Listen,” Meeker said as the deputy moved away toward the cabin. “What’s this all about, huh?”
Runyon didn’t answer.
“You trying to get me in trouble with the law for some reason? I never done nothing.”
No response to that, either. Let him sweat in silence.
Rittenhouse was in the cabin less than five minutes. When he came out, Lloyd Hansen was with him. They split up as they neared the parked vehicles, Hansen going to his car, the deputy to the passenger side of the cruiser. He stood there while Hansen started the Honda, swung it around and up onto the road. Once it was out of sight, Rittenhouse motioned to Runyon and Meeker to get out and join him.
“You tell Mr. Hansen to leave?” Meeker asked the deputy. “Where’s he going?”
“Into the village to do some shopping. We’ll be gone by the time he gets back.”
“We going into the cabin or what?”
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