by Andrew Grant
“That’s not our call. It’s up to the DA. But don’t worry.” Devereaux turned and smiled at Garretty. “We’ll make our recommendation.”
Tuesday. Afternoon.
Suspects are like catnip to this guy, Devereaux thought as he watched Captain Emrich staring through the observation window into the interview room. Nothing could get him out of his office on the fifth floor quicker than the sniff of a possible break in a major investigation. Now he was standing there, practically drooling. When they’d first met, Devereaux had taken Emrich to be a kind of voyeur, getting his kicks at the expense of the criminals whose lives were about to come seriously unraveled. But Devereaux had quickly changed that theory. He realized it was something else that attracted the captain. The chance to share in the kudos if the case ended well. And to deflect the blame if it didn’t.
On the other side of the glass Lucas Paltrow sat at the metal table, still wearing his blue coveralls. He was absolutely still. His back was straight. His feet were flat on the floor. His forearms were resting on the scratched and dented surface in front of him. He could have been meditating, if it weren’t for his open eyes and the tiny smile that occasionally played around the corners of his mouth.
There was a tap on the door. Garretty opened it, and Agent Irvin hurried into the gallery, followed by Lieutenant Hale.
“How long has he been like that?” Lieutenant Hale instinctively took a position between Emrich and Devereaux.
“Fifty-five minutes.” Devereaux checked his watch. “Tommy and I’ve been here the last five. We wanted to see how he’d react to being kept waiting.”
“Has he been calm like that the whole time?” Irvin sounded hopeful.
“The whole time.” Devereaux nodded.
“Excellent.” Irvin turned back to the observation window. “An innocent man would have been raging long before now. Let me out. I haven’t done anything. Why are you keeping me here? But look at this guy. He could be at a spa. He’s got guilty written all over him.”
—
Paltrow turned to look at Devereaux when he entered the interview room, but his expression remained neutral.
“Lucas.” Devereaux took the seat on the other side of the table. “Do you know why the officers brought you here?”
“I guess.” Paltrow moved his hands to his lap. “But I’ve got to say, it seems like a lot of trouble over one missed movie.”
“You lied about going to see it.”
“Not exactly.” Paltrow paused for a moment. “I have seen it. Just on a different day. Beyond that, I guess it all depends on what you take the concept of lying to be about. If you’re one of those pedantic-type guys who gets all caught up in the details, then you probably would say I lied. But me? I’m more about the big picture. You see, it was clear from the context of our discussion that what you really wanted to know was whether I’d killed that poor girl whose body was found at the crematorium. And as I did not do that, I figured there was no point in casting any unwanted light on another individual who also had nothing to do with the girl winding up dead. Plus I had actually bought the theater tickets. I liked the movie. I was planning to see it again.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Do I have to spell it out, Detective?”
“That’s kind of the idea of what we’re doing here, Lucas. So yes. Spell it out.”
Paltrow took a deep breath. “OK. The truth is, I’m seeing another guy’s wife. He’s one of my customers. She keeps saying she wants to leave him and move in with me. Which is absolutely not what I signed up for. So I keep trying to cool things down. Then Friday afternoon she calls me. She says she’s finally going to walk out. Tell her husband everything. So I figure, if there’s any chance of getting this woman’s finger off the nuclear button, I better head right over there. To her place. To try to calm her down. Make her see sense. Which I successfully did. But it meant missing the movie. And, it would seem, bringing a whole plague of suspicion down on my head.”
“I’ll need this woman’s name and address.”
“No problem. I’ll write it down for you. She’ll confirm what I said.”
“We’ll see.”
“Just do me one favor, Detective. If her husband’s around when you’re talking to her, be discreet. The whole point of the exercise was to keep him from finding out. And you know, really, I think they could still have a future together. If he could just listen to her more, and maybe occasionally—”
“Can the marriage counseling, Lucas. Tell me this instead. Where were you yesterday? Say, at eight pm.”
“Out.” Lucas crossed his arms. “Visiting a friend.”
“A friend like Dean Sullivan? The guy who lied for you about the movie theater?”
“Dean? That sorry-ass loser? God, no. A female friend.”
“The kind who comes with a price tag?”
“Me? With a hooker? Come on, Detective. The day I have to pay for it is the day I’ll eat my gun.”
“Ever heard the expression when you’re in a hole, stop digging? Because your friend Dean? He gave you up, Lucas. He told us all about your scheme with the hooker and the vacant apartment.”
“Wait a minute!” Paltrow slammed his palms on the table. “The imbecile. He didn’t fall for it? That’s ridiculous. He totally wasted his time, then. I didn’t go near the place. Why would I have to? I mean, for one thing, I could afford as many hookers as I could possibly want. And for another, I don’t want any. I don’t need them.”
“Drop the bravado, Lucas.” Devereaux leaned in closer. “It’s time to start telling the truth. You convinced Dean Sullivan to leave that apartment unlocked. Admit it.”
“Sure. I asked him to leave the place unlocked. But I never thought he would. The truth is, I’m sick of him hanging around all the time. He does nothing but complain about how sick he pretends to be, and how he can’t get a job, and how unfair life is. And all the while he’s sponging off me. I’ve tried to be nice and drop some gentle hints. I’ve tried being blunt and told him to give me space. Neither approach worked. So I thought, seeing as how he’s about the vainest guy I’ve ever met, I’ll embarrass him. Trick him into agreeing to do something he’s bound to chicken out of. Then he’d be too ashamed to show his face for a while. I’d have bet you a million bucks he wouldn’t go through with it. I had no idea he’d all of a sudden grow a pair.”
“But the fact remains, you arranged for that apartment to be left open. Then Emma Noble was lured there. Abducted. Tortured. And killed.”
“I get it. The whole thing’s a terrible shame for this Emma chick. But what’s her death got to do with me? Put it this way. What if I’d told dumb-ass Dean to leave his car unlocked instead. If his car then got in an accident, would it follow that I was the one who was driving it?”
“Where were you at eight pm, Lucas?”
“I told you. I was…wait. It was wrong, what I told you. I know exactly where I was at eight pm. Well, eight-oh-two, to be precise. I was getting gas. I have the receipt in my billfold. The time stuck in my head because the credit card machine was set to the twenty-four-hour clock. So eight-oh-two pm comes out as two zero zero two, and I liked the symmetry of it.”
“I’ll need to see that receipt. And we’ll be checking the security cameras at the gas station.”
“Knock yourself out. And while you’re doing that, here’s something else to think about. It just struck me. This Emma—her body was left at the Prince of Peace Catholic Church, according to the news. I know that church. I used to do a tai chi class there on Monday nights. It was a great place for meeting women. Anyway, that class ends at ten pm. I got to my friend’s house at 9:45, and I was there all night. So whatever happened to the poor woman, it had nothing to do with me.”
There was a knock at the door. It opened and Garretty leaned into the room. “Detective? I need you out here for a moment.”
—
Garretty led the way back to the observation gallery where Isringhausen, the technicia
n from the crime scene unit, had joined Irvin, Lieutenant Hale, and Captain Emrich.
“I just got back from Paltrow’s house and workshop.” Isringhausen handed Devereaux a USB drive. “I copied the video for you. It was a weird place. Unbelievably clean and tidy. Like, OCD-level clean. I’ve never seen anything like it in real life. Only on training courses and in books.”
“Anything to tie him to the murders?” Devereaux slipped the drive into his pocket.
“He had four boxes of synthetic work gloves, which could be similar to the ones that left the texture marks on the dead women’s necks.” Isringhausen shrugged. “We’re having them analyzed, but the guy works on cars. It’s natural that he’d have gloves. And there was nothing else incriminating in the rest of the place. No blood. None of the women’s missing clothes or possessions. No sheets that matched the ones left at the dump sites. The only other suspicious thing was the second bedroom in the house. It was painted matte black throughout, including the window. The carpet was black. The bed had black iron head and foot rails with straps attached to them. There was one of those kinky sex chairs with all kinds of restraints on it. And there was a false wall at one end, with a cutout for a hidden video camera. I can’t give you a guarantee, but if I had to guess I’d say it was a setup for making home porno movies.”
“I could see him doing that.” Irvin turned back to the window. “Especially with the bondage elements. Look at him. Like a statue. He’s obviously all about control.”
—
Devereaux closed the interview room door slowly, drawing out the high-pitched squeal from its hinges, and moved around to face Paltrow.
“The crime scene techs just got back from your place.” Devereaux shook his head. “They brought a lot of samples with them. The lab’s going to be busy. I just hope they didn’t make too much of a mess. They’re not exactly house-trained, some of those guys. They can get a bit heavy-handed. And what about your little porno studio, Lucas? Things get a little Fifty Shades at Chez Paltrow, huh?”
Paltrow showed no signs of a response.
“Well, not to worry.” Devereaux leaned his hands on the back of the chair. “I’m sure you’ll get everything straightened up. Eventually. But for now, the next step is to get you transferred to a holding cell. We need to check your alibis. I hope that won’t take too long.”
“I was doing some thinking when you were out of the room just then, Detective.” Paltrow laced his fingers and placed his hands on the table. “And it struck me, maybe the best way to help myself get out of this situation is to help you find the guy who did kill these women. So I have a question. All the time you were with Dean Sullivan while he was trying to point the finger at me, how much energy did you put into looking at him? Think about it. I wasn’t at the movie theater Friday, which means he wasn’t there, either. Where was he? Billy Flynn, God rest his soul, had access to my customers’ cars. So does Dean. He’s always hanging around my shop. He knows where I keep the keys. Deborah Holt came to my shop a year ago, the only time I met her. Dean was there that day, too. He became obsessed with her. He went on about wanting to find her for weeks afterward. And then there’s the apartment in his building, left unlocked. That was my idea, yes. But Dean’s the one who did it. And yes, I planted the idea of taking a hooker there. Now, clearly I don’t need to. But Dean? Whose girlfriend’s massively pregnant and mad at him all the time? He’s not getting any at home, believe me. And he’s just the kind of lazy idiot who’d do it on his own doorstep. Take it from me. I’ve known the guy since we were kids.”
Tuesday. Late afternoon.
“Did you arrest him?” Sullivan’s eyes were red and his face was paler than it had been earlier, but his expression brightened when he opened the door for the detectives. “Did he get mad?”
Pieces of ripped-up paper covered the floor between the kitchen and the living area like confetti after a wedding. Devereaux moved across and picked one up. There was a fragment of handwriting…empty station when…
“Chocolates next time?” Devereaux let go of the scrap and it fluttered back down to the ground. “Your romantic gestures don’t seem to be hitting the mark.”
“Just don’t get her a puppy.” Garretty moved to the couch and sat down. “Now come. Join us. We have a couple of follow-up questions.”
Sullivan shuffled over to the couch and perched on the edge of the center cushion. “What more do you need to know?”
“Who else did you tell about your plan to leave the downstairs apartment unlocked?” Devereaux took a step closer.
“No one.” Sullivan shrank back. “Aside from Lucas, obviously.”
“Have you ever done anything else like that?” Devereaux asked.
“No.” Sullivan shook his head. “I only did it because Lucas asked me to. He’s been really cranky with me lately, so I thought if I did what he wanted it would make things all right between us again.”
Devereaux put his hands on his hips. “So you did this cool thing, outsmarting the real estate agent, unlocking the door, and moving the wooden pole right under her nose without her having any idea what you were doing? Like you’re James Bond, or the Mission Impossible guy? And you don’t tell a soul? That’s crazy!”
“No it’s not.” Sullivan sounded hurt. “I did it for Lucas. He wanted it to be a secret. If I’d told anyone, he’d have been mad at me again. That’s the opposite of what I wanted.”
“So there were only two people in the whole world who knew that door was unlocked. Lucas.” Devereaux paused. “And you.”
“That’s right.” Sullivan looked up. “Where are you going with this, Detective?”
“Here’s the problem, Dean.” Devereaux crossed his arms. “Lucas has an alibi for last night. Which means there’s only one person who could have lured Emma Noble to the apartment.”
“No way.” Sullivan stood up. “Not me. I didn’t do it.”
“So someone else—some random stranger—just happened to pick the one apartment out of thousands in the city that you left open, the very night you opened it, to lure Emma? You expect us to believe that, Dean?”
“No.” Sullivan sat back down. “Not a random stranger. How about the rental agency? All kinds of people there could have known the apartment was empty. One of them could have done it. Or sold the information to someone else, who was looking for a great place to commit a crime. And the rental guys? They have keys. Do you even know for sure that the patio door was used?”
“That’s a complicated scenario you’re painting there, Dean.” Devereaux frowned. “Have you ever heard of this thing, Ockham’s razor?”
Sullivan’s hand instinctively moved to his chin. “No. Why?”
“An FBI agent told me about it on another case we were working together. This Ockham guy, he had a theory. He said that if there are two possible explanations for something, unless you have concrete proof that shows otherwise, the simpler one is probably right.”
“I don’t follow.” Sullivan looked genuinely confused.
“OK.” Devereaux spoke slowly. “Say, for example, your car disappeared from the parking lot while you were at the grocery store. One guy told you it had been taken by car thieves. Another guy said it had been vaporized by space aliens. Who would you believe?”
“The alien guy.” Sullivan smiled. “He sounds much more imaginative.”
“I guess Ockham wasn’t catering to morons.” Devereaux sighed. “The point is, forget about real estate guys selling addresses to hypothetical criminals. You knew the door was open. You’re the simpler option. So, where were you last night, Dean?”
“This is crazy. I was here.”
“Doing what?” Devereaux asked.
“Writing poetry.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“Yes. Hayley can. My girlfriend. The part about me being here, anyway. Not the poems. I didn’t give her those till today. And as you can see, that didn’t go too well.”
“So if you were spilling your emotions all over
the page, where was Hayley?”
“In the bedroom. She gets very tired, with the pregnancy.”
“So she was asleep.” Devereaux didn’t sound convinced.
Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t know. I was out here.”
“That doesn’t make for the greatest of alibis, Dean.” Devereaux took out his notebook. “Let’s try this. Where were you at 2:33 pm?”
“Why do you want to know about the afternoon now?”
“That’s when the call was made to Emma Noble’s service. Where were you then?”
“Oh. Let me think. Half past two. I know—I went out. I took a walk. I was thinking over some ideas for a poem, and I needed to clear my head.”
“Where did you—”
“Honey?” Hayley had appeared in the archway leading to the bedrooms. A pink sleep mask was pushed up on her forehead. Her hair was knotted on top of her head. And her pink frilly nightgown was struggling to accommodate her baby bump. “Why are you lying? Tell them the truth. Or I will.”
Sullivan flopped back on the couch. “Oh God. All right. Fine. We were at the doctor’s office. We’re doing couple’s therapy.”
“OK. What time was your session?” Devereaux flipped open his notebook.
“It started at two pm. And it ran for fifty excruciating, cringe-worthy minutes.”
“Were you in the office that whole time? Or did you step out at all? For a bathroom break? Maybe things were getting fraught? You needed to calm down…”
“No. I was in the witch’s lair the whole time.”
“Hayley?” Devereaux turned to face her. “Is that true?”
“It’s true that Dean didn’t leave the office. But Dr. Akinsola’s not a witch. She’s lovely. She listens, and she gives good advice, and if Dean would only—”
“Thanks, Hayley.” Devereaux stood up. “We can leave it there. I don’t think we need the blow-by-blow.”