You Have the Right to Remain Silent

by Barbara Paul

  “Liar. Get used to it, Quinn, because I’m going to keep on calling you a liar until I get the rest of the story. You know what’s going on and you’re keeping it from the police. As I see it, that makes you an accessory. And we will prosecute, you can bet your ass on that. So why don’t you just cut through all the bullshit and tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Get out,” Quinn said hoarsely. “I want you out. Right now.”

  Marian stood up slowly. “Okay, you can throw me out, but you can’t stop the entire NYPD from doing its job. Talk to me, dammit! Get your lawyer over here if you like, but talk to me.”

  “I said get out! Lewis! Lewis!” The manservant appeared immediately. “Escort the sergeant out. All the way out.”

  “This way, please,” Lewis said without a flicker of expression.

  Marian followed him out to the entrance hall. She glanced back to see Quinn standing in the doorway of the room she’d just left, watching tensely. Did he think she was going to hide behind a chair and then pounce out on him? She stepped through the door the manservant was holding open.

  Lewis had a disapproving look on his face. “You put him on the spot, you know,” he whispered, and closed the door silently behind her.

  Friday morning the light was a peculiar color … storm brewing? Not a very good omen for Kelly’s opening night, when the Critics from Hell were expected in force. Marian would have to give her friend a call later during the morning, when she was sure Kelly was up; you can do it, enjoy yourself, something upbeat and positive. Marian knew she was not supposed to say good luck; for some reason that was bad luck. And she didn’t think she could say break a leg without giggling. But she did want to talk to Kelly, on this most important day of her friend’s life.

  Marian checked over the clothes she planned to wear that night, her thoughts full of Kelly and what she must be going through right now. The waiting must be torture. Would they be squeezing in a last-minute rehearsal, or would the actors have the day off to prepare themselves? A whole day to think about all the things that could go wrong. To worry about forgetting their lines. To build up an intense fear of the critics. Will they like me? Will they boo me off the stage? “Thank god I’m not an actor,” Marian said aloud.

  She was still thinking of Kelly while she got ready for work. Marian was excited about that evening; she was excited for her friend and she was excited for herself. An opening night. A Reaffirmation of Civilization within a Savage World. An Oasis of Creativity in the Desert of Destructiveness. Marian laughed at herself and pulled on new black slacks and a soft white sweater she’d been saving for a special occasion. Today felt special. She took a raincoat down to toss in the back seat of the car and drove to the East Fifth Street parking lot across the street from the station.

  Upstairs in the PDU room, Trevor Page was sitting at her desk drinking coffee. He got up when he saw her come in and pointed to a brown paper bag. “Eat your breakfast.”

  The bag contained fresh pineapple and a brioche, still warm in its aluminum foil wrapping. “What are you doing here so early?”

  “Your boss wants a show-and-tell. Someone called me at six to make sure I’d be here.” He went to get her some coffee.

  The pineapple was tangy and cold, just right with the buttery brioche. Foley and three of the other four detectives assigned to the East River Park murders were sipping at their own cups of coffee and helping themselves to a bakery box full of danish. Gloria Sanchez hadn’t come in yet. Marian wondered where Curt Holland was; she hadn’t seen him since Tuesday night, after that humiliating scene at Brian’s gallery when she’d told him to disappear. He’d certainly taken her at her word. She asked Page.

  “I didn’t want to pull him off his search for the money trail,” Page said. “Holland gets a bit tetchy when his concentration’s broken. Besides, only one of us needs to be here.”

  “He hasn’t found anything yet?”

  Page shrugged. “He says he has a couple of lines to follow. It’s a complicated business.”

  Marian had finished her breakfast and thanked Page for it. “What time did Captain DiFalco want to start?”

  “The androgynous voice on the phone said eight o’clock,” he said.

  She looked at her watch, but saw only a blank silver face. “Oh-oh. I need a new batch watery.”

  “A new what?”

  “I mean watch battery.” She told him about Kelly’s spoonerism. “It must be catching.”

  “How’d you and Kelly Ingram ever meet?”

  “A case I was working on. A friend of hers was killed.”

  Gloria Sanchez came in and lowered herself gently into her chair, looking half asleep and hung over. Marian could get no clues from her clothing whether she was black or Hispanic—no ethnic self-parody today? A first for Sanchez. Right on cue Captain DiFalco joined the rest of them, perching on Sanchez’s desk. “Okay, folks, let’s get started. I want to make sure that every one of you knows what everyone else is doing. I’m especially interested in what you learned at Universal Laser yesterday. But first, I’d like to hear from the FBI about this arms dealer who died Sunday.”

  Page nodded and told them everything he knew about Evan Christopher, which wasn’t much. “We’re still looking for a money link between Christopher and any member of the Universal Laser liaison team, concentrating on Jason O’Neill. Without that link, we’ve got nothing. But as things now stand, Evan Christopher is our best hope.”

  Marian cleared her throat. “You put a tap on Edgar Quinn’s home phone, didn’t you? Anything there?”

  “Not a damned thing. Mostly personal calls, some legitimate business stuff. But Mrs. Quinn uses the phone the most at home.” Page smiled faintly. “The manservant plays the ponies.”

  Lewis, a gambler? “And that’s all?”

  “That’s all. As far as we’re concerned, Edgar Quinn is clean.”

  “All right,” said DiFalco. “What about Universal Laser? Larch, you first. What did you get yesterday?”

  “I found out what Universal Laser’s hush-hush project is,” Marian said with an apologetic glance at Page, “and I also found out that it most likely has nothing to do with the East River Park murders.” She told them about Project Soundbender and Rachel North’s conviction that the killings were connected to a different project, one the secretary had no firsthand knowledge of.

  “That’s what all the fuss is about?” Foley said with disgust. “Some eavesdropping machine? I’da thought they had the ultimate weapon, the way everyone was carrying on.”

  Marian couldn’t believe her ears. “Foley, don’t you understand what it means?”

  “Later,” Captain DiFalco stopped her. “All you’ve got to go on is what this one secretary told you, right?”

  “That’s all so far, but the others will start talking now that someone else has opened up. And Rachel North is in a position to know, Captain. She handled all of Sherman Bigelow’s business for him, typed his papers. And she’s positive there’s no connection between whatever was leaked and Project Sound-bender. Soundbender was just business as usual during all the panic about the leak.”

  Page was groaning audibly. “Marian, you’re not supposed to know about Soundbender!”

  “So what do we know?” she asked him reasonably. “The name of the project and the fact that it has to do with converting vibrations into sound. No state secrets are out.”

  “You can never be too careful,” he insisted. “I don’t think you understand how many terrorist groups are watching this country every minute for any little slip we make, just waiting for a chance to attack in any way they can. What are we supposed to do about them?”

  “Nuke ’em till they glow?” Gloria Sanchez suggested lazily.

  “Look, I know you all think the Bureau is paranoid and I can’t do anything about that,” Page said earnestly, “but I must ask you to forget you ever heard the word ‘Soundbender.’ Never say it again, even among yourselves.”

  “Sure, sure,” DiFal
co said impatiently. “If it’s not behind the East River Park murders, we’re not interested anyway. Larch, you got anything else?”

  She told them about her subsequent interview with Edgar Quinn and her own conviction that Quinn was lying when he denied the “secret” project story. “The FBI may consider him clean, but I don’t—sorry, Trevor. Certain key people at Universal Laser are working on something they don’t want us to know about, they don’t even want the rest of the company to know about.” Marian said she’d leaned on Quinn as much as she could until he threw her out.

  One of the other detectives had a question. “That word we’re not supposed to say—it was just a red herring? Nothing more?”

  “It was a red herring handed to us by Edgar Quinn,” Marian said. “He wants us to think the killings are connected to you-know-what, which is another good reason to keep him on our suspects list.”

  “A list of one,” DiFalco grumbled. “And another secret project, just what we need. But Quinn says not?”

  “Quinn is saying as little as possible,” Marian replied.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have challenged him,” Page suggested.

  “Maybe not,” Marian acknowledged, “but I wasn’t getting anywhere with nice and polite.”

  “Okay, what about the rest of you,” DiFalco said. “Get anything?”

  Sanchez was the only one with something to report. “What I got backs up Marian, in a way. Elizabeth Tanner was telling me general stuff about Universal Laser, and she started to say ‘weapon’ but changed it to ‘project.’ The first time it happened, I didn’t pay much attention. But when she did it four more times, I got the message. Also, she made a point of telling me twice that Universal was working on a new technology with no Defense Department contract to underwrite it. And here’s the kicker. This new technology? She kept calling it ‘Edgar’s project.’”

  DiFalco actually smiled. “Conclusion?”

  “Conclusion—the lady wants us to know Edgar Quinn is using his company to develop a weapon that even the government doesn’t know about. She wants us to know real bad.”

  Page frowned. “That’s just supposition.”

  Sanchez gave him a big smile, all flashing white teeth. “Yeah. But it’s good supposition.”

  “But why would she give all that away?”

  “She wants Quinn’s job,” Marian said. “Another thing. Remember the ‘message’ aspect of the murders? The handcuffs, the bullet through the eye, as if the killings were a warning? These people at Universal who’re working on this new weapon—I wonder if they’re the ones who were being warned. Keep your mouths shut or look what will happen to you.”

  DiFalco whistled. “That must be some weapon. And the liaison group had talked? All of them?”

  Marian shrugged. “More likely just one. If Quinn’s behind this—and he must be—then he and his accomplice might not know which of the four had been telling tales out of school.”

  “So they just killed them all?” DiFalco said. “That’s one way to make sure.” There was an uneasy movement in the room; whether the killer was Quinn or somebody else, he had to be one ruthless son of a bitch. “I want a tail on Quinn.”

  Page coughed discreetly. “That won’t be necessary, Captain.”

  “The FBI’s tailing him? Well, I do thank you for keeping me informed, Agent Page!” Heavy on the sarcasm.

  “Surveillance is just starting today. Merely a precaution, since we don’t think he’s involved.”

  DiFalco grunted and turned back to his detectives. “Okay, listen up. You’re all on call all weekend. By tomorrow we should have the lab report on whether the platform trucks they have at Universal Laser were used to move the bodies or not.”

  “Platform trucks?” someone said.

  “Larch’s idea,” DiFalco answered. “If they find bloodstains, we’ve got the scene of the crime at last. In the meantime, I want you all to hit that company again. Talk to as many of the employees as you can. Tell ’em we know about the new weapon, make ’em understand somebody has already talked—that might loosen a few tongues. But don’t mention the secretary’s name. No need to make things hot for her. Find out who’s actually working on the weapon, who else knows about it, like that. I want you to come back with names. Got that?”

  “There’s one other thing I ought to mention,” Page said. “If we’re able to prove a money link between Evan Christopher and one of the murder victims, that will put this case into the realm of international secrets-dealing and the CIA is going to want to move in. So we’ve got to wrap this thing up.”

  DiFalco scowled at the thought of even more federal agents horning in on a Ninth Precinct investigation. “What are you all waiting for?” he snarled. “Get going!”

  Page said “See you tonight” to Marian and left. She gathered up her raincoat and handbag and joined her fellow detectives for another day of badgering the already nervous employees at Universal Laser Technologies.

  16

  Marian was regularly scheduled on the day shift, from eight to four; but in the six months she’d been at the Ninth Precinct, she could have counted on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d been able to leave when her shift ended. But on the Friday of Kelly Ingram’s Broadway debut, she got away at four on the dot. She even had time to stop at a Radio Shack on the way home and pick up a new batch watery.

  Her day of hassling Universal Laser employees had turned up exactly one name, that of a young engineer who was described to her as hyperactive, frighteningly inventive, and totally nuts. If anyone at Universal was involved in the development of some hush-hush weapon that even the Defense Department didn’t know about, he’d be the one. It was only a supposition on her informants’ part, but it was all she had.

  The other five detectives on the case had come back with the same name plus six other possibles. Nobody was admitting they knew anything, but the middle-management-and-lower employees were now willing to play guessing games, once they’d been reassured someone else had already let the cat out of the bag. But the police had brought none of their possibles in for questioning, because shortly before three o’clock Edgar Quinn had been able to pull enough strings to get them all kicked out. The order had come from the Borough Commander’s office.

  So they’d all trooped back to the Ninth Precinct stationhouse, where they were surprised to find Captain DiFalco not particularly upset by the Borough Commander’s interference. He reminded them they still had another iron in the fire. DiFalco said if the lab found traces of any of the victims’ blood on just one of Universal Laser’s platform trucks, there was no way in hell Quinn could keep them out then. The Borough Commander himself couldn’t ignore evidence like that. All in all, DiFalco was pleased with what they’d learned, and they’d spent the last hour of their workday checking the names they’d brought back against the FBI security investigation printouts Trevor Page had brought them. Their seven possibles were all designers and technicians, and Marian was satisfied in her own mind that they were the target of the warning broadcast by the East River Park murders.

  DiFalco had put his detectives on call for the weekend; but Friday night was hers, or Kelly’s, rather, and Marian meant to enjoy it to the hilt. While she was getting out a new bar of soap, she came across some aftershave that belonged to Brian and realized with a start that she hadn’t thought of him once all day. In the shower the fatigue of the week’s labors fell away as if by magic; and then she was dressed, ready, and rarin’ to go.

  She and Page had agreed to meet for a drink before the play, so at seven o’clock Marian took a cab to a bar on West Forty-sixth, a couple of blocks away from the Broadhurst. The bar was noisy and packed, filled with playgoers seeking a quick precurtain libation. Marian spotted Page and squeezed through the crowd to join him.

  Once they had drinks in front of them, they tried to talk without shouting. Page asked, “How’s your friend Kelly doing? Did you talk to her today?”

  “Twice,” Marian replied. “T
he woman is a nervous wreck. She’s imagining all sorts of disasters, everything from the audience’s laughing at her in a serious scene to the curtain’s closing during her biggest dramatic moment. She told me she’d dreamed that she showed up tonight only to find the rest of the cast doing Shakespeare. Ian Cavanaugh is supposed to have said, ‘Oh, didn’t anybody tell you? We decided to switch.’”

  Page laughed sympathetically. “That is a bad case of nerves. Is she worrying about that line you said she spoonerized?”

  “She didn’t mention it. But you see, Kelly’s never performed in front of a live audience before this play—all her acting’s been done in front of a camera. If you goof before a camera, you just reshoot the scene. Kelly doesn’t have that safety net tonight. If she goofs, she could ruin it for everybody. And that’s what she’s thinking about right now.”

  Page took a swallow of his drink. “Don’t you imagine that’s what all stage actors go through before a performance?”

  “Oh, I suppose so. But Kelly has so much riding on tonight. Most of her career she’s played sex-object roles, because of her looks. Tonight is the first chance she’s had to break the mold.”

  “Do you think she can do it?”

  “Yes,” Marian said without hesitation. “Kelly has backbone. She can do it.”

  Page smiled. “She also has a good friend.”

  They decided they didn’t have time for another drink and left the bar. The cracked and broken sidewalks were filled with playgoers rushing to their various theaters, and Marian felt her own sense of excitement growing. They hurried the two blocks down to Forty-fourth; twice as they approached the Broadhurst they were stopped by people wanting to buy their tickets. Marian picked up their passes at the box office.

  The seats were excellent, almost at the exact center of the theater. Marian looked at her program: The Apostrophe Thief, a play by Abigail James. The characters were listed in the order of their appearance; leading off was Ian Cavanaugh, whose character name was Richard. The fourth name on the list was that of Sheila, Kelly’s character. The audience was noisy and talkative, buzzing with expectation. The air was electric. Marian loved it.