“Wouldn’t you and your sister like to know what really happened?”
“Phil helped kill a guy. One way or another, he paid for it. A waste, that’s what it was. Phil never should have been there.” Reggie looked up at Harvey, his gaze seeking understanding. “You know, he was smart. He could have done anything with his life. He wanted to go in the Navy and come out an admiral. Instead he went to jail for four months and came out broken.”
“He shot himself with the gun stolen during the burglary.”
“You don’t say?” Reggie tossed his pen onto the pile of paper in front of him.
“Did he have it all those years?” Harvey asked.
“I don’t see how. Our family moved across town while he was in jail. If Philip had a gun in the house, we didn’t find it when we moved.”
“So if he’d had it before they arrested him, he must have hidden it someplace else, not at home?”
“I don’t know. If he had it, I never knew about it. But then, I thought he was innocent until he shot himself over it. He claimed he was innocent, and he was my big brother. I believed him.”
“Do you believe it now?”
Reggie’s face crumpled. “He confessed in his suicide note, so I guess he did it, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Do you know what happened to the gun afterward?”
“I think the police took it away.” Reggie ran one hand through his hair. “It was a long time ago. I think my mom said she didn’t want it in the house. She and Dad insisted Philip didn’t own a gun, and they didn’t know where he got it.”
“Do you remember the police officer who investigated?”
“Come on, I was fifteen.”
“His name was Arthur Corson.”
Reggie shook his head. “I think he was a big guy. Old. He smoked cigars and maybe wore glasses.”
“That’s him,” said Arnie.
“Thanks for your help.” Harvey took out a business card and laid it on the desk. “I’m very sorry about your brother. Please call me if you remember anything that might help us put this to rest.”
He and Arnie went out to the parking lot, where the pavement sent up scorching waves of hot air. Harvey said, “Philip Whitney was in on the burglary all right, but something still doesn’t add up. A gun doesn’t just disappear for fourteen years and then conveniently show up for a suicide.”
“Where do you think it is now?” Arnie asked.
“Probably in a box in some warehouse with other evidence from the Dark Ages.”
“Sometimes they sell stuff like that, if the family doesn’t claim it,” said Arnie.
“If they were going to sell it, they’d run the serial number, and they wouldn’t sell a gun used in an unsolved murder case. But we can check the computer just in case and see if a handgun with that serial number has been sold by the department in the past twenty-one years.”
*****
Ryan Toothaker arrived at the office with a large envelope soon after they got back.
“More clips for you. The ones from the trial you asked for were filed separately, but they aren’t computerized, so the librarian copied them for you.”
“Thanks. I didn’t expect the star reporter to hand deliver them,” Harvey said.
“I smell another front-page story.”
Harvey glanced through the clippings. “It’s too early, Ryan.”
“Well, I know you’re looking at a 35-year-old burglary case.”
“What if I am?”
“I read enough to know the only guy ever charged on it was acquitted. And he was a member of the ill-fated Portland High School class. Was he a buddy of Martin Blake’s?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why the interest?”
“Can’t talk about it yet.”
“There were other kids involved in that burglary-turned-murder.”
Harvey didn’t say anything.
“Come on, Larson, you need to give me something.”
“Can’t. I’m just about to walk out the door. I have some appointments today.”
“Give me one thing. Anything.”
Harvey sighed. “Don’t start on the burglary thing, Ryan. I’m not sure it’s connected to what we’re working on, and it could hurt a lot of people if I’m wrong.”
“Something else, then.”
“We’re still gathering information from people who drove over the bridge the night Blake was killed.” Harvey walked toward the locker room, and Ryan walked right behind him.
“That’s old. Have you heard back on the DNA test?”
“Not yet.”
“How about people at the park during the reunion?”
“A few have come forward. Nothing substantial.”
“Who are you going to see now?”
Harvey opened his locker and pulled out a tie. “A member of the class.”
“May I ask who?”
“No.”
“Somebody who was at the reunion?”
“No comment.”
“I need something.”
“I told your boss I’d give you something later.”
“It’s later.”
“You’re starting to annoy me, Ryan.” Harvey knotted his tie.
“This Whitney guy.”
Harvey glared at him.
“The suicide,” Ryan said.
“Yes?”
“Well, I saw it in the clippings. So I talked to his sister.”
“Thanks, Sherlock. What did she say?”
“That her brother couldn’t have done it, and she’s always thought he was framed.”
“You’re not going to print that?”
“It’s a great story.”
“It’s trouble at this stage of the game. You could scare off our witnesses if you link that burglary to the reunion.”
“So you’re sure the burglary is related to Blake’s death somehow.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yet.”
“You got it. Work with me here, Ryan.”
Ryan didn’t like it, but he promised to hold off. Harvey still felt uneasy when he left.
He got to Murphy’s office at ten minutes to eleven and was consigned to a chair in the outer room. After two minutes, he went into the hall and called Eddie on his cell phone.
“You got anything?”
“Maybe. A woman from Cape Elizabeth called. The family was at Fort Point at the right time. They’ve been camping for two weeks, and they just heard we wanted to talk to people who were there. They’ll come in around four.”
“Anything else?”
“Mrs. Blake called.”
“She wants results?”
“Or just company. I told her I’d try to swing by there later.”
“Don’t talk out of school, Eddie.”
“Would I blab something important?”
“No, sorry. It’s just that this case is so complicated. Something’s got to break soon, or I will.”
“We’re getting there,” Eddie said. “I really think we are.”
“No word on Matt Beaulieu?”
“Not yet.”
Harvey went back into the office and sat down, praying for wisdom and a break.
“Congressman Murphy will see you now,” the secretary said. Harvey followed her into Murphy’s private office.
“Larson, I can’t give you much time. I’ve just been told I have an urgent situation to deal with this afternoon.” Murphy didn’t shake hands, but gestured toward a vacant chair.
“Then let’s get right to the point,” Harvey said. “You and Thomas Nadeau had words on the beach at Fort Point before lunch Sunday. An argument.”
Murphy looked at him narrowly, but said nothing.
Harvey continued, “Martin Blake wrote about it in his notebook. It was another of your secrets he knew about, like the school break-in, when you and Tom went through the air duct.”
“Martin knew everything,” Murphy said. “I don’t know how. He wa
s lucky.”
Harvey said, “I don’t believe in luck. Martin Blake was observant. He looked down to the shore that day and saw what happened. He knew your secret, and now I know it.”
Something surged in Murphy’s eyes; anger, or fear? It was gone.
“What did he see?” the congressman asked.
“He saw Luke Frederick’s murder.”
Murphy sat forward in his chair. “Murder? Luke Frederick drowned.”
“Really? We found his glasses between the rocks, in a tide pool. They have a dent in one bow that fits nicely with the wound on the side of his head.”
“You’ve got a great imagination. I talked to Luke on the beach, it’s true, but that’s all.”
“You and Nadeau couldn’t have stood where you did, arguing, and not see Luke Frederick’s body.”
“Then it wasn’t there. Not when I was there.”
“What were you and Nadeau arguing about?”
“I don’t remember any argument.”
Harvey changed his tactics. “Tell me about the burglary thirty-five years ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The night of April twenty-eighth, your graduation year. Philip Whitney stood trial for it and was acquitted.”
Murphy sighed and sank back. “Yeah, I remember.”
“You were there.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“I think you were.”
“I don’t have to listen to this. If you have something concrete, arrest me. Otherwise, get out of here. I’ve got a media crisis to deal with.”
“A media crisis?” Harvey asked.
“Martin Blake strikes again. That man was a pain when he was alive, but since he died, he’s caused me more trouble…” Murphy loosened his tie.
“Blake’s work is your crisis?”
The congressman eyed him speculatively. “I just heard that the Portland Press Herald is carrying a Martin Blake exposé on the front page tomorrow, indicating my office was involved in wrongdoing.”
“You have a source at the Press Herald.”
“Yes, I do. Why he couldn’t have found out about this sooner, I don’t know.”
“So, you didn’t know until today that Blake was doing this article?”
“I had no inkling. Apparently they were going to run it earlier, but when he died they kept it a few days. You knew about this, didn’t you?”
Harvey shrugged. “I thought you did.”
Murphy’s eyes flashed. “This whole thing is ludicrous. A dead reporter making false accusations. I am not happy, Mr. Larson. Are we done?”
“No. I want to know what you and Tom Nadeau talked about.”
“I told you.”
“Tell me again.”
Murphy was silent. Trying to remember what he’d said before?
“Mr. Murphy, I suggest you stay available.” Harvey walked out, feeling he’d lost the round. It took him a while to find Nadeau’s office, and he prayed for guidance before going in.
Tom Nadeau seemed surprised to see the detective, but he stayed calm. He wouldn’t budge on the shorefront argument and said he had just found out about Blake’s new exposé.
“Dave Murphy called me an hour ago. He and I are getting together this afternoon to frame a statement for the press. Murphy’s office is clean on that lobbying thing.”
Harvey asked him about the burglary. “Martin Blake knew everybody’s secrets. He knew about the burglary, didn’t he?”
Nadeau’s lip curled in disdain. “Everybody knew about it. It was in the papers.”
“But he had information the police didn’t have.”
“I don’t think so,” Nadeau said. “His story ended wrong.”
*****
The Cape Elizabeth couple came to the office, and Arnie took them into the interview room for twenty minutes. He came out dejected.
“They were there the right time. Mrs. Dixon even thought she recognized Martin Blake, but her husband convinced her it wasn’t him.”
“Did they go down to the shore?” Harvey asked.
“No. Too steep, and too many people in the park. The reunion scared them off. They went somewhere else for lunch.”
“So they didn’t see anything?”
“They saw the fort and the lighthouse. There may have been a few people on the shore, but they weren’t paying attention. Couldn’t describe anyone.”
The men were packing up to leave when Eddie took a call from the state lab.
“We’ve got a break, Harv. The blood from the bridge is Martin Blake’s.”
“Fantastic. Tomorrow we go to Stroudwater and interview the woman Nate and Tony found.”
“Okay, but don’t expect much.” Eddie walked to a file cabinet and opened the top drawer, where they filed documents on their current cases.
“Better head home, Ed,” Harvey said.
“You’re not leaving now?”
“I didn’t call the chief yet, and I thought I’d try Beaulieu’s sister one more time.”
“Call the chief in the morning.”
“We’ve got to get hold of Beaulieu.”
“Yup.” Eddie put some papers in his desk drawer. “Do you really think Murphy had Blake killed because of the news article?”
“I was leaning that way, thinking it would topple Murphy from his position if Blake had proof. The documentation Russell had impressed me. But after talking to Murphy today, I honestly don’t think he knew Blake was writing it until today. He and Nadeau were going into high gear damage control.”
“If Murphy didn’t know about the story, why would he kill Blake?”
“And why would he kill Frederick?” Harvey asked. He pulled out his pocket planner to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything important, then called upstairs, but Chief Leavitt was gone for the day, so he called Jennifer.
He said, “Hi! Where are you?”
“Just got home. It’s hotter in here than outside. If you’re coming over, bring some ice cream.”
“I might stay at the office a little longer tonight.”
“You must be working hard on the case.”
“I am, and I can’t just drop it right now. I’m sorry.” He really wanted to go over to Jennifer’s house and relax. “Maybe I can come by later?”
“Sure. And I know you,” she said. “If you’re working, you won’t eat. I’ll have something for you when you get here.”
Harvey called Denise Beaulieu Marston’s number, and this time she answered. She was reluctant to give him her brother’s new telephone number. Harvey explained who he was and that he was investigating Martin Blake’s death.
“Good riddance,” she said.
“Really? What makes you say that?”
“His book hurt a lot of people, including my brother.”
“Was your brother in the book?”
“I hope not. I was thinking of Matt’s friend, Phil Whitney. He’d been through the wringer already over that burglary thing, and then when the book came out it started all over again. He shot himself, you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry about what happened to your friend. You knew him in high school, of course?”
“I was a freshman when it happened, but Philip was at our house all the time. He and Matt were best friends. Matt was devastated when Philip was arrested. They had enlisted in the Navy, but of course Philip couldn’t go. Matt thought of resigning, but in the end he went alone.”
“Did you ever see Philip after his acquittal?”
“Only once, but he wasn’t accepting sympathy. He went to Bangor to stay, just to get away from the talk. He was such a smart kid, but he wound up pumping gas. And then Martin wrote that awful book.”
“I read it.”
“Then you know what I’m talking about,” Denise Marston said.
“Not exactly.”
“He tried Philip all over again, and convicted him.”
“And you don’t think he was guilty?”
“There was a suicide note
saying he did it, so probably he did. I’ve always hoped that somehow it wasn’t true. But even if we found out it wasn’t, Philip is gone, and it would be worse somehow to find out now he was innocent.”
She gave him her brother’s new address in Oregon, and the telephone number. Harvey tried to call him but got no answer.
He called a couple of the other classmates they hadn’t been able to reach during business hours, but didn’t get any new information. Arnie hadn’t been able to find the missing handgun listed in any of the department’s sales of weapons. Harvey put the serial number into the software he tracked evidence with, but there was no match. It had never been logged in as evidence, or at least not since the system went digital.
He went to the locker room and shaved, then tried Beaulieu again. Still no response. He stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d had enough. Jennifer smiled at him from the picture on his desk, and that did it. He turned off the computer and went out to the garage, carrying her copy of Morristown and Patricia’s yearbook. The air was stifling. He threw his sport coat in the back seat and turned on the air conditioning.
*****
Harvey stood on the doorstep, and he handed Jennifer a bag from a convenience store.
“Ice cream,” he said.
“Wonderful. Come on in.”
Beth had her Sunday School book out and was sitting on the living room floor in walking shorts and a sleeveless blouse, studying in front of a fan. Jennifer had opted for shorts, too, but she was still uncomfortable in the stifling heat.
“This place is an oven.” Harvey pulled off his tie.
“They make you wear ties to work in this heat?” Beth asked.
“Well, between the press conference and interviewing a congressman, today was a tie day. I get a lot of that lately. You don’t mind if lose this shirt, do you?” He started unbuttoning his cuffs.
“We should drive down to the Old Port,” Beth said. “It might be cooler near the water.”
Jennifer frowned. “I don’t have the energy.”
She took Harvey into the kitchen, and he made a pile of his holster, shirt, and tie on the counter. She took cold cuts and salad from the refrigerator and fixed a plate for him, then poured two glasses of iced tea. When she set the pitcher down, Harvey put his arms around her.
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