The Assailant
Page 19
“Always getting in trouble over—well, you know.” Hastings smiled but resisted a wink.
Dr. Zoller stared at him.
“Anyway,” Hastings said, “like I said, I can sympathize. And there’s no reason for these sort of indiscretions to come out. I mean, you are cooperating, after all. Right?”
After a moment, Dr. Zoller said, “Yes. Right.” He spoke quickly after he figured things out.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that.” Hastings gave the fellow a moment to breathe. Then he said, “You met Reesa at the hotel, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Was there an Asian woman there as well?”
“Yes. She was pretty, but I . . . I was talking with . . .”
“Ashley,” Hastings said. “You knew her as Ashley.”
“Yes.”
“Who saw you with this woman?”
“Uh . . . well. There was Dr. McGinnis. He was there. And Dr. Sheffield. Wait, Dr. McGinnis left early. Raymond met the women. He spoke with the other one for a while.”
“With the Asian girl?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what name she used?”
“No.”
“Okay. You said something about Raymond. Raymond who?”
“Raymond Sheffield. That’s Dr. Sheffield.”
“What did he do?”
“He was with me when I met Ashley. He was talking to her for a while. But he got put off or something. I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, he got put off?”
“It’s hard to say. I mean, I’ve only known Dr. Sheffield for a short time. He’s a younger man and I don’t think he’s been with a—”
“A call girl?”
“Right. I don’t think he’s done that. If you saw them together, you would have thought that he thought she was just a girl at the party.”
“But you knew better?”
“Yes.”
“Did this Raymond Sheffield seem angry at the girl?”
“Angry? I don’t know. I never considered it. He only talked with her for a little while.”
“And then what?”
“Then I talked with her and we—we went upstairs.”
“And he knew it.”
“Well, I presume he did. I never discussed it with him afterward. I mean, what was there to brag about?”
Hastings was a bit surprised by this. Zoller may have had weaknesses, but self-delusion was not one of them.
Hastings said, “What did he do?”
“What did he do? I don’t know. I guess he left.”
“He ever say anything about it to you afterward? Like, how was it? Or, you dirty dog . . .?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“He never showed any interest himself?”
“In Ashley?”
“Yes.”
“No. I mean, he was talking to her. But no. He never asked for her number.”
“He never asked you?”
“No.”
“Do you know if he asked her?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“I have Dr. McGinnis. I have Raymond Sheffield, who, as I understand it, is also a doctor. Is there anyone else you know that was at this event?”
“No. That was all. I mean, apart from the people from the pharmaceutical company.”
“You say you haven’t known Dr. Sheffield very long. What about Dr. McGinnis?”
“I’ve worked with Don for several years. He’s a good doctor.”
“What about Dr. Sheffield?”
“Young, but very competent.”
“Is he a local?”
“No, actually. He moved here from Boston.”
“Is he married?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
“I don’t know. Lieutenant, I’m not sure I’m comfortable answering questions about Dr. Sheffield.”
“Well, it is a murder investigation.”
“I understand that, but Dr. Sheffield is not some sort of derelict. He’s a respected physician.”
“Right,” Hastings said. “Was he ever married?”
The doctor gave up. “I don’t know. We didn’t discuss our private lives.”
Hastings said, “You said a Dr. McGinnis was there, but he left early?”
“Yes.”
“Did he meet Ashley?”
“No.”
“Just you and Dr. Sheffield?”
“Yes.”
“Does he like women?”
“Dr. Sheffield?”
“Yes.”
“I—are you asking me if he’s gay?”
“No. I asked if he liked women.”
“I don’t know, sir. I have no reason to think that he doesn’t like women, no.”
Hastings said, “Do you have a daughter?”
“I don’t think that’s particularly pertin—”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“She’s in college. Brown, to be exac—”
“Would you feel comfortable if your daughter were dating Dr. Sheffield?”
“No, I would not. I don’t think this line of questioning is very professional, sir.”
Hastings let the man’s indignation exhale. He found that it was often useful to stand back from such things. He was quiet for a couple of moments. Then he said, “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Zoller said. “I just wouldn’t.”
“I understand,” Hastings flipped through his notes, half of the action being pretense, then said, “Well, I guess that’s all I have for now. I appreciate your time.”
Dr. Zoller got to his feet. He still seemed upset.
Hastings said, “You understand, of course, that this is a homicide investigation. I have not suggested that your colleague, your former colleague, is a suspect. Nevertheless, we don’t want the investigation compromised. Okay?”
“You mean you don’t want me telephoning Dr. Sheffield to tell him what you asked me. Is that it?”
“That’s it exactly.”
“And if I do, I suppose you’ll ruin my reputation with all this business of . . .”
“No, sir. I have not threatened you. Don’t accuse me of that. But I assure you it’s not in your interest to impede this investigation.”
“Really? Well, I may call my lawyer.”
Hastings pulled out a business card and handed it to Zoller. “If he has any questions, he can reach me at this number.”
This took some of the fire out of him, as Hastings suspected it would. He did not begrudge the doctor. He supposed if someone ever brought his daughter into an interrogation, he’d probably get upset too. But Dr. Zoller was hardly the first white-collar professional to try to rattle him with lawyer threats, and he wouldn’t be the last.
Out in the reception area, the girl whose tag said Destiny flirted with him, saying, “You weren’t too rough on him, were you?” She spoke quietly, having fun but not wanting to lose her job over it.
Hastings held his hands up. “Kid gloves, sis. Kid gloves.”
“I’ll bet.” Warmth in her tone now, but it could cool down anytime.
Hastings hesitated for a moment, wondering if she liked him enough to help him. She was waiting for him to say something, he saw. He said, “Could I ask a favor?”
“What?”
“Would you call St. Mary’s Hospital for me and find out what hours Dr. Sheffield is working?”
“Today?”
“Yeah.”
She gave him a steady look, one that said that she knew he was requesting something dubious, but she picked up the telephone.
Minutes later, he was in the car. He checked his watch and dialed a number. Klosterman picked up the other end.
“Joe. Raymond Sheffield, M.D. He’s an ER physician at St. Mary’s. Find out what you can about him. Check with DMV, find out what kind of car he drives.”
“Okay.”
“Do the car t
hing first. Call me as soon as you have the tag and model.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Rita Liu said, “I have to work.”
Hastings said, “You mean work?”
“Yes.”
“You feel comfortable telling me that?”
“You know everything there is to know.”
He was standing in the girl’s apartment. She was in a black cocktail dress and her hair was put up. When she opened the door, he didn’t recognize her. The transformation was startling. She was model pretty, magazine pretty.
Hastings said, “Look, it’s important. Come with me, look at a man. Tell me if you remember seeing him before. It’ll take an hour at most.”
“My date is in a half hour.”
“Reschedule it.”
She hesitated.
“Come on,” Hastings said. “Please.”
She glared at him, sighed, then walked over to the telephone.
When her customer picked up, Hastings heard her use a voice and a tone that was new to him. A seductive, sort of smoky tone. Playful and soft and enticing. It was like she had walked onto a movie set and a director had yelled “action.” She was in character, and Hastings had to admit that it was a good performance.
He heard her say, “Now stop . . . You know I want to see you. You know I do. . . . All right . . . Nine o’clock, then.” There were a couple of beats and then she gave the guy a throaty laugh and said goodbye. She hung up the phone and turned back to Hastings.
“Are you at least going to drive me to this fucking place?” she said. The sexy mama was off the clock.
•
As Rita sat in the passenger seat of his Jaguar, wearing a black raincoat over her dress, she crossed her legs. She had good posture, Hastings thought. She had a certain poise. She looked like a lady.
Hastings drove the car fast, pushing it hard by vehicles treading along in the slow lane. If Destiny Fisher was right, Raymond Sheffield would be ending his shift in twenty minutes. But he could leave early, and Hastings didn’t want to miss him.
They got to the hospital parking lot. It was flat and outdoors but bigger than Hastings would have liked it to be. He drove up and down the rows of cars, looking for the black Mercedes that Klosterman had phoned him about. He found it a couple of minutes later. The tag matched what he had written down. Hastings put the Jag in park, walked over to the Mercedes, and looked at the tag again. He looked into the windows of the car. He saw nothing of interest. He walked back to the Jaguar and opened the trunk. From the trunk he removed a long, steel-cased police flashlight. He walked back to the Mercedes and shone the beam on the tires.
There, between the treads. Mud.
Hastings felt his heart pounding.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything, he thought. It could mean that the car had been used to transport Marla Hilsheimer’s body out to the woods. But it could also mean that the car had been driven down a dirt road in the country. Or through a puddle at a Wal-Mart.
He shone the light along the car’s lower chassis. There was no mud along the sides. But the car looked like it had been washed recently. He could get the mud off the roof and sides, but he couldn’t get all the mud out of the tire treads.
Hastings took a pen out of his inner jacket pocket. He pried some of the mud loose from the tire and placed it in a plastic Ziploc bag. Maybe it would help.
Now he was standing at the back of the car, looking at the trunk. It was a newer Mercedes and no doubt it had a burglar alarm. Even if it didn’t, he would probably have to break the lock to get the trunk open, and he didn’t have a warrant to search the car. He walked back to the Jaguar.
Inside, he said to Rita, “Have you seen that car before?”
“No.”
Hastings drove down a few car lengths and then backed into a space. He cut the engine.
Five minutes went by.
Rita didn’t say anything.
There was some lighting on the lot. Enough to give the employees of the hospital some illusion of security. Hastings hoped that they were close enough to the man’s car and that there was sufficient light for Rita to identify him. If she could identify him. He didn’t want to move the car closer because he didn’t want the doctor to know they were there.
Rita said, “How long do we have to sit here?”
“It might be just a couple of minutes. It might be longer, though.” He hoped that Sheffield hadn’t left with someone else.
Rita sighed. “I rescheduled the appointment. I didn’t cancel it.”
“Hmm-hmm.”
She gave him a side glance and shook her head. She murmured something.
Hastings said, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you said something.”
“I said, ‘You too.’ ”
Hastings chuckled. “What do you mean?”
“You’re using me. Like the others. That’s what I said.”
“I’m investigating a murder and you’re a witness. There’s no need to be self-pitying about it.”
Now she laughed. “Is that what you think? That I’m self-pitying?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t flatter yourself. Whatever you give me, don’t give me pity. Don’t ever give me that.”
Hastings looked at her.
No, not a girl. He had seen her perform tonight, telling her client on the phone that she was looking forward to seeing him. “Now stop . . .” Flattering the man, playing a part. Patronizing someone who wanted to be patronized. She was good enough at it that it made Hastings feel sad. What had happened to her, that she could do that?
“Okay,” Hastings said.
She seemed to like this answer. She gave him another look and then glanced out her window. She said, “Hastings.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your first name?”
“George.”
“Maybe you’re okay, George. Maybe.”
“You mean, for a cop?”
“For a man.”
“Hmmm,” he said, his tone skeptical.
Rita said, “We’re a little alike, you and I.”
“Are we.”
“In a way. You don’t really trust people. You’re kind of mercenary. Were you ever with a hooker?”
“Every payday.”
She laughed and said, “That’s cute. Cops are the worst, you know.”
“How’s that?”
“The worst hypocrites, I mean. They judge us, bust us, lecture us—say things like, ‘Where are your parents? What would your mama think?’ Then they hit on us, ask for freebies.”
“Any cop caught doing that would be terminated. Besides, how would you know? You’ve never been arrested.”
“If I had, you’d probably use it against me, wouldn’t you?”
“I use whatever I can.”
“I’ll bet you do.” She returned her attention to the window. Then said, “Well, at least you’re honest.”
They sat in silence. A minute passed and then another.
A car started on the other side of the parking lot. Hastings looked at it in his rearview mirror.
Rita said, “George—”
“Hush,” he said. He saw someone coming.
A man in a raincoat and a flat hat. He came into the glare of one of the overhead lamps. His face was partially hidden by his cap, but Hastings saw that he was wearing glasses.
He touched Rita Liu on the arm.
She leaned forward.
The man walked to the Mercedes. He removed his hand from his coat pocket, and the car’s alarm made a thweep sound, then the doors unlocked and the inside light came on.
He got into the Mercedes and started it. The rear lights came on and the car backed up. The man drove past them and then circled around the lot to go out the exit.
Rita said, “That’s him.”
“That’s the man you saw at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“The same man you saw speaking to Reesa?”
“Yes. It’s him. I’m positive it’s him,” Rita said. “Look, I want to get out of here. Now.”
Driving back to her apartment, Hastings said, “I appreciate you doing that.”
Rita Liu grunted. She was smoking a cigarette, the window cracked so that the fumes could wisp out.
“Rita?”
“What?”
“I want you to be honest with me. Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”
“About what?”
“About the night you met Dr. Sheffield. The night you and Reesa were with Dr. Zoller.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you’re sure?”
“Yes. I don’t care if you believe me or not. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Okay. Can you tell me something else?”
“What?”
“Are you frightened?”
“Yes.”
“More so than before?”
“. . . Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because I think he killed her.”
“You think Dr. Sheffield killed Reesa.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you, I’ve told you everything I know. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything.” She turned to look at him. “Really, I don’t.”
“So it’s an intuition?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said. “Don’t.”
“I’m not. But—tell me why you think he killed her.”
“I don’t have reasons. I’m sorry, but I don’t. It’s a feeling. I should have felt it before. I was there when she met him; I should have known. There’s something off, something not right . . .”
“Something not right about him?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t look at a man and say he’s guilty of murder. You can’t just see it in his eyes. It doesn’t work like that.”
“You need evidence, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, that’s your problem. But I know what I feel, and I don’t want to be anywhere near him.”
“We don’t know that he’s the guy.”
“And you, you bring me back to see him. Why? Did you think I’d enjoy being involved in the pursuit? That I’d get a kick out of it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
They were near her door now, the lighted entrance to her apartment building in view.
“Leave me out of it,” she said. “Do you understand? I don’t want anything more to do with this.”
She slammed the car door and walked up the steps.