“Not if you tell the truth. And you might encourage your friends to do the same.” I stood and stretched, my arms wider than his desk. “Oh, and not a word to Gary. I hear you tipped him off, and you’ll be lucky to see your kids for one hour on holidays.”
1730 HOURS
Mrs. Dunsmore handed me a folder and said, “For tonight’s meeting.”
“Tonight’s meeting,” I repeated.
“The Idyll Days planning committee,” she said, reading my echo as ignorance. “You have to go.” She cut off my mutinous reply and handed me a folder. “Here’s the work detail. Plus the fines schedules. Give the mayor one copy and his assistant two because he’ll lose his.”
“You know we’re closing in on a suspect, right?” I asked her. “In the murder investigation.”
She sniffed. “That’s what the detectives are here for, Chief.” She emphasized my title. Putting me in my place.
I stood outside the Porter Room, staring at Isaiah’s portrait. He looked constipated. Mr. Neilly, a selectman, mistook my stare for interest. “Isaiah was quite a visionary. Have you toured his home?” he asked.
“Ah, no.” I’d not set foot inside one historic town site. And I wasn’t looking to break that record.
“He was a talented silversmith. You can see some of his bowls at the house.” He tapped the portrait’s gilt frame with a gnarled finger. “Idyll Days is a tribute to his pioneering spirit.” Sure, except they’d named the festival after the town name they chose over Porter’s original, Wheaton. What kind of tribute was that?
“Come inside, Chief,” he urged. “Things are about to get underway.”
Inside, it looked like a science fair and a yard sale had mated. Against three of the room’s walls were long tables, each draped with a yellow or orange cloth. Poster-board displays and dioramas were assembled on the tables. A television in the corner played video of former Idyll Days.
Mrs. Kettle, the town’s lone selectwoman, sidled up to me. “Lovely, isn’t it?” Before I could agree, she said, “Every committee member has presented a portion of the program in a visual display.” Her bangles jingled as she pointed to a poster board showing tents and thatched huts. “That’s the arts-and-crafts display, headed by Mrs. Mullen. And that,” her bangles jangled, “is the apple-orchard tours, organized by Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore.” She was a one-woman percussion section as she led me through the room, her hand on my arm, pointing out each “attraction area.” She stopped before the end of a yellow-skirted table. “And here you are.” An 8 ×11 paper marked IDYLL POLICE occupied the only bare space in sight.
“I brought handouts.” I held up my folder.
She removed her hand from my arm. “Oh. Handouts. How efficient.”
I’d hoped the displays meant I could observe, feign attention, hand out my copies, and be on my way. But Mr. Neilly torched that happy idea. “Let’s all have a seat,” he said, pointing to the grouped chairs. “It’s time to get started.” Started? I’d already spent fifteen minutes admiring handwoven wreaths and scary apple-peel dolls.
Mr. Neilly talked about the history of Idyll Days, interrupted now and again by his aged colleague, Mr. Sousa. Then we had to go around the room and discuss our plans. Mrs. Prior, in charge of the bake sale, spoke first. “This year, we’ve decided not to sell the Mother Lodes.” Whispers from the group. She adjusted her bejeweled glasses and said, “Or the caramel apples with nuts.” The group revolted with cries of “Why?”
“What are Mother Lodes?” I asked. The room fell silent. Like I’d farted in church.
“Pretzel rods coated with chocolate and dipped in caramel chips, toffee bits, and nuts. They’re to die for,” Mrs. Mullen said. “And they sell like hotcakes.”
“Helen, why not sell them?” Mr. Anderson pled.
“Last year we had a lot of concern from parents of children with allergies. Remember that boy with the peanut allergy whose face blew up like a balloon? He had to be ambulanced to the hospital.”
“Pshaw,” Mr. Sousa said. He waved her concern aside with his liver-spotted hand. “In my day, no one was allergic to nuts.”
It took a half hour to resolve the nuts-in-baked-goods crisis. And then it was my turn. I handed out copies of the papers Mrs. Dunsmore had drawn up. “Here’s all the information needed from the police station.”
The mayor looked at the papers and said, “Parking fines are the same as last year.”
“Yes, they are.” I didn’t elaborate.
“Who’s manning the emergency-care station?” he asked.
Inside my folder was an underlined note from Mrs. Dunsmore. “EMERGENCY CARE IS THE FIRE DEPARTMENT’S REPONSIBILITY!!!”
“That’s the Fire Department’s responsibility. And where is Captain Hirsch?” I asked.
“He doesn’t attend the committee meetings,” Mr. Neilly said. “Busy putting out fires.” He chuckled at his wit.
“Right. Any other questions?” I asked.
“You only have two men assigned to the arts-and-crafts areas,” Mrs. Mullen said. She worried the tail of her gray braid. “But we need more support! There’s thousands of dollars in merchandise. Some booths aren’t well staffed.”
“I’m afraid two officers are all we can manage.”
“But—”
“Now, Mrs. Mullen,” said Mr. Neilly. “This is Chief Lynch’s first Idyll Days. He’s not familiar with the procedures. I’m sure he’ll incorporate our feedback and give us revised copies of his plans at the next meeting.”
“There’s another meeting?” The circle of faces looked at me, astonished at my ignorance.
“Next week. Same date and time,” the mayor said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t make it.”
“What?” Mrs. Kettle asked. Her bangles sounded the alarm as she raised her arms. “Now, Chief,” she began.
“Look, I’ll provide police support for this large and important town event. But I have other work. I’m running a murder investigation. I’m sorry, but I can’t attend more meetings. My proposals are based on prior years’ needs and this year’s estimated attendance. And they’re final.”
A woman came into the room. “Chief Lynch? You’ve got a phone call from the police station. He said it’s urgent.”
“Excuse me.” My chair scraped backward. I followed her to a cramped office dominated by stacks of telephone books. She pointed to the phone and left.
“Hello?” I said. “Lynch here.”
“Hi, Chief,” Billy said. “You still there?” I’d had the foresight to tell him to call me at Town Hall, just in case I was trapped there after an hour.
“Just leaving. Thanks.”
“You need anything else?” he asked.
“No, thanks. Have a good night.” I hung up and looked around. Phone books. I had one for Idyll, but not for neighboring towns. They’d come in handy for the names on Elmore’s list.
You don’t need Elmore’s list. You’ve got Gary Clark.
But did I? I wanted him to be our man. No one wanted it more.
Perhaps the men on the course were witnesses.
The gay men could’ve fled after the shots were fired. Scared. Afraid to come forward, to admit why they were there, what they were doing. Any defense attorney would love to get at those witnesses. Perverts committing filthy acts on a golf course? It would be a slam-dunk. No wonder they hadn’t come forward, volunteered what they knew. Would I in that situation?
I picked up three area phone books. Just in case.
The air in the station was charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. The men crackled with purpose. Even Yankowitz strode with his chest out, shoulders back, as he carried his ticketing booklet. Everyone knew we had a man in our sights.
Our arguments were forgotten, for now. Wright reported to me, without attitude, that Mr. and Mrs. Gary Clark owned a home in Cheshire and a cottage on Nantucket. Mrs. Clark came from money. Poor Gary had to earn his. At his last job, he’d gotten into hot water. A sexual-harassment
complaint was filed. He’d left the company and gone to Liberty Insurance. Where Cecilia let him harass her. Finnegan said that all of Clark’s poker buddies had recanted their prior statements. Revere told me that Gary didn’t own a registered gun, but his wife did. Not our model. That didn’t sink our hopes. He could have bought one illegally. Borrowed one.
I was reaching for the phone when it rang.
“Hi, Chief, it’s Jenna Dash. I just finished reviewing his files. There’s something you might be interested in.” I noticed she didn’t mention Gary Clark by name. Did she think we taped our calls?
“I’m all ears,” I said.
“Do you know anything about STOLIs?”
“Isn’t that vodka?”
“Um, yes, but STOLI is also short for stranger-originated life insurance.”
“Not familiar with it.” I grabbed my notepad.
“STOLIs represent when someone offers another person a life-insurance policy and says, ‘Hey, you don’t have to pay the premiums or the interest on this. I’ll take care of it for you, for say, two or three years.’ Then at the end of that period, the payer asks the insured person if they want to pay the accrued interest and principal.”
“Okay,” I understood this, sort of.
“But most older folks are on fixed incomes. They can’t afford a large policy. So whoever’s been paying keeps doing so, and when the insured person dies, the payer get the money. And since most STOLIs are targeted to the elderly, they don’t wait too long for payday.”
“Is this common?” It seemed like betting, only on death rather than on dogs or horses. Death was a surer proposition.
“It’s becoming more so, and it’s worrisome. If an elderly person has a STOLI taken out on him, he can’t purchase another life-insurance policy, and if he can’t afford the one that’s been taken out on him, then he’s pretty much screwed.”
“And that’s legal?”
“Yes, but it’s not best practice.”
“And Gary Clark was offering these policies?”
“He’s handled policies where the insured party is not the same person paying the premium. And the payee doesn’t appear to be a spouse or family member. I’m going from what I can see on my computer. The paper files would have more information.”
“But if it’s not illegal, he wouldn’t be in trouble, right?”
“Yes and no. Legally, he’s within bounds, but six months ago, Liberty Insurance issued a memo to all agents insisting they not handle STOLIs. The company is being sued by a couple who claim we defrauded their father by offering him a STOLI. Until that’s settled, agents shouldn’t complete these deals.”
“Could he be fired?”
“Yes.”
“Could Cecilia have known?”
She gave it some thought and said, “She couldn’t have seen his caseload, and, honestly, even if she had, I don’t think she’d have known how to interpret this stuff.”
“But he might have told her.”
“Maybe,” she said. “If they were close, like you said.”
I asked a few more questions about the policies. “Don’t suppose there’s any way the company is likely to let me peek at those files?”
“Not without a warrant,” she said.
“Then I’ll get one.”
“You really think he killed her? Over STOLIs?” she asked.
“I’m not sure why he killed her, but he’s looking better and better for it. Thanks for your help, Jenna.”
“Don’t mention it. Please. I don’t think my employer would be happy about my helping you.”
“Mum’s the word.”
Did Cecilia and Gary Clark fight the night she died? Had she threatened him? Made him fear for his job? How badly did he need to work? His wife had money. Or was Cecilia unhappy about being the mistress? Had she wanted more?
Time to share what I’d learned. The pen was dim with smoke, the air thick with testosterone. I explained about the STOLIs. I didn’t tell them how I knew, even when asked. I wanted to keep Jenna’s job safe.
“You think our victim found out about the policies?” Revere asked.
“He might’ve told her.”
“How did he plan to keep them secret? Wouldn’t they eventually be found?” Billy asked. Good question.
I repeated what Jenna had told me. “The files appear to be pending, though they’re months old. Maybe he hoped to keep them like that until Liberty settled its STOLI lawsuit.”
“Seems dangerous,” Wright said. “What if Liberty ends up paying through the nose and banning all future STOLIs?”
“I’m told it’s unlikely. STOLIs generate revenue, and no court has faulted an insurance company for offering the policy. Most likely, he’ll be in the clear.”
“He killed her because of insurance?” Billy asked.
“Maybe not. Maybe she threatened to tell his wife.”
He crossed his arms. “I don’t think she’d have done that.” Everything about his body said he wanted to believe Cecilia was a good girl. And good girls didn’t sleep with married men. But he’d seen the diary.
“Billy, if you can’t keep an open mind about the victim, say so now.”
He uncrossed his arms. “I can. It just doesn’t fit her profile.”
Finnegan exhaled cigarette smoke in circles that expanded and wobbled through the air. Billy, easily distracted from his anger, clapped. Wright said, “You should be in the circus.”
“Time to pick Clark up. Who wants the honor?” I asked.
Billy shot his hand up in the air. We all pretended we hadn’t seen him. After a few seconds, he lowered it and said, “Oh.”
“Wright?” I said. He probably wasn’t the smartest choice. He was the type to bump Gary Clark’s head into the cruiser door while saying, “Watch your head.” But I needed to make a peace gesture, and I didn’t much care if our suspect got a bruise on his way in.
He grabbed his keys and said, “Time to get the bad guy.” He hummed as he left.
Revere said, “What’s with him?” He asked Finnegan, “He has a hard-on for men who hurt women?”
“How’d you know?” Finnegan asked.
I recalled Anthony Fergus. How Wright had wanted to fit him up for this killing.
Finnegan stubbed out his cigarette butt. “His mother got knocked around some when Wright was growing up. Makes him a bit zealous when it comes to guys like that.”
I felt a flare of anger. That I hadn’t known this. It would’ve helped. I would’ve understood why Wright wanted Anthony Fergus so badly. But then, I hadn’t made much of an effort to understand. Too busy playing solitaire in my office, staying away from my men. Not getting too close, as I had with Rick. People can’t hurt you if you don’t let them near.
Revere offered to fetch the warrants. Said he knew the judge on roster. “So we want his home and car, right?” he said. He ran his hand over his buzz cut.
“I want access to his work files too.”
“That’s gonna be a tough sell. Privacy concerns for the clients, yada yada.”
“Sway the judge to our side. If the files don’t pertain to the case, I’ll gladly return them. But the victim told her aunt she suspected something wasn’t right at the company. If Mr. Clark knew she’d talked—”
He interrupted with, “Did he kill her because of his job or because he didn’t want her talking to his wife? Pick a motive and stick to it. I don’t want to be arguing two separate cases.”
“Get me a warrant for the files, his car, and his home, and I’ll get you one solid motive.”
Revere huffed, but he said, “I’ll try,” before he walked to his much newer, nicer patrol vehicle.
While I’d jawed with Revere, Billy had updated the board. Gary Clark was front and center, and a picture of his car was pinned to a town map.
“Has anyone been able to establish that he and the victim were together the day he lied about his car accident and she called in sick?” I asked.
Finnegan said, “Her mot
her said Cecilia was out most of the day. Said she went out to return library books and to get medicine. Her mother offered to do both, but Cecilia insisted.”
“Did she return the books?”
“Yup. Two of ’em. I checked with the library.”
“Did she get medicine?”
“No. When her mother asked, Cecilia got upset and said she didn’t know what to buy since she wasn’t sure if she had a summer cold or some other bug.”
“So she makes it to the library but not the drugstore,” I said.
“You think she met him after the library?” Billy asked.
“It’s possible. But where? The cabin isn’t the safest bet during daytime,” Finnegan said.
We thought about it but had no answers.
“Come to me when you’ve got a confession,” I said as I walked to my office. I needed to be out of sight when Gary Clark came in. Just in case he recognized me.
I passed an hour moving papers on my desk. Trying to figure out where he might’ve dumped the gun. When I couldn’t stand the sound of my own breathing, I did twenty push-ups. It helped. But not enough. So I cracked the door and yelled Billy’s name.
He arrived, flushed. “Yeah?”
“How’s it going?” I pointed to the interview room.
He worked a piece of chewing gum, hard. “Finnegan and Wright are tag-teaming him. Clark spent his call on his wife. He told her he was working late tonight.”
“How long they been in there?”
He glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes.”
“Keep me updated.”
He nodded. “Will do.”
The next few hours were torture. I wanted to be in that room, getting in Clark’s face, pushing his buttons. I was good at it. Rick used to call me “Secret Spanish,” as in the Inquisition. First time we handled a murder, I got the killer to confess in less than two hours.
“Damn, Tommy, that was fucking A-one stuff!” Rick had high-fived me, his hand small against mine. “At this rate, we’ll have all the killers in this precinct locked up by Christmas!”
We didn’t. Of course we didn’t. But our solve rate was better than average. At least until things started to sour. I don’t know why he first tried the stuff. He’d always been a booze guy. The great Irish way. But I knew when he started because no one visits the john that often unless they’ve got problems. He had a problem. He was developing a cocaine habit.
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