You Have the Right to Remain Silent

by Barbara Paul

  Marian glanced up to see Page talking to Ian Cavanaugh on the other side of the room. Kelly followed her look and said, “Who is he, Marian?”

  “FBI.”

  Kelly laughed. “I ask you to tell me about a man you show up with on my opening night and all you can say is ‘FBI’?”

  Marian grinned. “I’m just getting to know him, Kel. He seems nice—but then, so did Brian, once.”

  Kelly sighed theatrically. “Thank god you mentioned him first! I was being so careful not to say the word ‘Brian’ until you did. What happened?”

  “I’m not really sure. He seems to have turned into a monster sometime when I wasn’t looking. Or at least his behavior has been monstrous lately. Oh, I don’t want to go over all that, Kelly. Brian is out of my life now. That’s the way he wants it.”

  “What about you?”

  “That’s the way I want it too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. The whole thing was a mistake anyway.”

  “Well, I will say you don’t look as if you’re about to jump out a window, so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. How’d you happen to hook up with the FBI?”

  Marian told her a little about the East River Park murders, but not much; tonight was Kelly’s night and Marian’s concerns could wait. The hour was growing late; Kelly and her friends were waiting for the reviews, but that was a ritual special to them and Marian didn’t want to intrude. She mouthed Let’s go to Trevor Page across the room.

  When he came over to say goodbye, Kelly said, “Listen, there are still some kinks to be worked out in the performance, but in another week or so we ought to have it right. Marian, would you and Bri—, um, Trevor like to see the play again?”

  “Yes!” they said together.

  “Sure you don’t want to talk it over?” Kelly asked, deadpan. “Okay, I’ll leave tickets at the box office again. Marian, I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

  They thanked her enthusiastically, congratulated her again on her successful debut, and left the party. In the elevator on the way down, Page said, “You know, I didn’t get to taste one thing from that sumptuous buffet table. Would you like to stop for something to eat? I promise not to ask you whose name Kelly almost called me by.”

  “Yes, I could do with a bite,” Marian said, taking him at his word about Brian. Then it hit her: if Page didn’t know about Brian, Curt Holland must have kept that degrading scene at the gallery to himself. That surprised her.

  They went to a West Side deli that wasn’t crowded at that hour. At first they relived moments of the play, enjoying it all over again. Then the talk turned more personal. Page was a widower and had been for almost ten years. He’d worked for various government agencies, the last eight for the FBI. Marian said she couldn’t remember the day when she didn’t want to be a cop, but now the job was beginning to get to her more than it used to. He asked if she’d ever considered working for the Bureau; she said she hadn’t. They talked about that for a while.

  “It’s not a bed of roses,” Page said, “but you’d find the working conditions better than with the NYPD.”

  Marian laughed shortly. “Anything would offer better working conditions than the Ninth Precinct. I’m not sure I’d fit into your organization, Trevor. But I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” He bit into a sour pickle and changed the subject. “I do like kosher food. These pickles are good, aren’t they? I can’t stand sweet pickles.”

  “Me either. Sounds like a contradiction in terms, doesn’t it? Sweet pickle.”

  “Pickle relish is even worse.”

  “And yellow mustard.”

  Page nodded. “And greasy popcorn.”

  Marian went on with the game. “Magazine inserts.”

  “Television commercials.”

  “Oh, everybody hates television commercials,” Marian scoffed.

  “All right.” He thought a second. “Newscasters who say Massatoosetts.”

  “Very good. Pay channels that cut their movies and then pretend they’re showing them complete.”

  “Newspaper ink that rubs off on your hands.”

  “Paperback books that fall apart in your hands.”

  “Raisin bagels.”

  “Ballpark organists.”

  “Country music.”

  “Plaid shirts.”

  “Plaid shirts?”

  Marian nodded. “Especially wool ones.”

  “Hm. Sunflower kernels.”

  “I love sunflower kernels!”

  It was three A.M. when they finally decided to call it a night. In the taxi on the way home Page asked if he could come up; Marian said no. When the driver stopped in front of Marian’s building, Page asked again. She said no again. They thanked each other for a wonderful time. Good night.

  Upstairs, Marian wondered if she’d done the right thing; it would have been the perfect ending to the perfect evening. It was sheer stubborn pride that had made her turn him away; Marian didn’t want to be one of those women who knew no way to bounce back from a disastrous love affair other than to hop into bed with the first man who looked at her. Besides, there would be time later. If Trevor Page was the man she thought he was, there would always be time.

  Marian woke up after four hours’ sleep feeling marvelous. She dressed quickly and started a pot of coffee. While the coffee was perking she ran down to a newsstand and bought copies of all the papers she thought might carry reviews of The Apostrophe Thief. She picked up a couple of bagels (no raisins) and hurried back upstairs. The coffee was ready; she poured herself a cup and toasted one of the bagels before sitting down to read.

  One review was mixed, but the others were raves. The one in USA Today was of the a-star-is-born variety, running a colorful picture of Kelly glaring heatedly at Ian Cavanaugh. But McPaper was for people who found television news too complex; what the New York Times said was more important. And the Times loved it. The writing, the directing, the acting, even the stage set—all were greeted as the long-awaited cure for the legendary fabulous invalid’s myriad ailments. When Marian had finished the last review, she went back and read them all again, savoring the words. Not one of the reviews attempted to explain the title of the play.

  But Kelly had made it. From now on she would be accepted as a serious, legitimate actress. No more sexpot roles. No more fluff TV series. As of last night, Kelly Ingram was exactly where she belonged: in a hit Broadway play.

  Inevitably Marian’s thoughts turned to the man she’d gone to the Broadhurst Theatre with the night before. She and Trevor Page were on different wavelengths politically, but she had to admit she liked just about everything else about him. He was a comfortable man to be with, and that was important, probably the most important thing to Marian. Little scenes and snatches of their conversations flashed into her head. Trevor wiping brown mustard off his mouth as they sat on a bench eating hot dogs. Trevor quietly and without rancor explaining why Curt Holland hated him. Trevor bringing her breakfast in the stationhouse Friday morning. Trevor telling her he’d never been in Edgar Quinn’s apartment.

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit.

  Marian’s buoyant mood burst like a pricked bubble. He’d lied to her. Trevor Page had lied to her. He said he’d never been there, but he’d been in that apartment more than once, if Quinn’s manservant could be believed. But why would he lie about a thing like that? Or perhaps it was the manservant who was lying? What did it mean?

  Before she could figure out an answer, her doorbell rang. She looked through the eyehole and made a sound of surprise; it was Curt Holland. Marian opened the door. “How’d you get in the building?”

  The shadows under his eyes were blacker than ever and his face was pinched and gray; deep creases ran down his cheeks and he needed a shave. Holland lifted a corner of his mouth in the half-smile, half-sneer that seemed to be his most characteristic expression. “Your security system here isn’t the world’s greatest. I walked right through it.”
/>   With the help of a lockpick or two? “I’ll speak to the super. Did you want something?”

  He looked at her a moment before answering. Then he said, “Are you truly an honest cop?”

  Irritated, Marian replied, “That’s a dumb question. Would I tell you if I wasn’t?”

  He waited a beat and then repeated slowly, “Are you an honest cop?”

  What the hell? “Yes, I am, dammit. What’s this all about?”

  Holland pushed past her into the apartment. “I hope to god you are, because I can’t nail him alone. Tell me who you think is behind the East River Park murders.”

  She closed the odor. “Edgar Quinn. And an accomplice.”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “Right. And I know who the accomplice is.”

  Marian got a sinking feeling. “Who?”

  “Trevor Page.”

  18

  You hate Trevor Page,” Marian accused.

  Holland folded his arms and looked down his nose at her. “Therefore anything I say about him will be suspect. Correct?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did. You’re quite right, of course—I despise the man. The reason—well, you needn’t concern yourself about that.”

  “I already know the reason. He forced you to stop being a criminal and become a criminal-catcher.”

  For the first time since she’d known him, Holland looked surprised. “He told you that? Amazing … I wonder what he thought he had to gain. Sergeant, I want you to repeat to me what he said.”

  Marian sat down on the arm of the sofa. “What’s the point? What difference does it make now?”

  “I think the point is which one of us you’re going to believe.” He was overarticulating his words. “What did he tell you?”

  With some reluctance Marian repeated the story about Page’s supervisor discovering that Holland was moving funds illegally in order to collect on legitimate debts, earning a big commission on each transaction. She said the supervisor had offered Holland a choice between prosecution or putting his skills to work for the FBI. The supervisor, now dead, had passed his information on to Page, who now stood as the foremost threat to Holland’s freedom. “I suppose you’re going to tell me all that is one big lie,” she finished.

  “No,” Holland said pensively. “In fact, it’s fairly accurate—except that part about the supervisor. There was no supervisor. It was all Page’s doing.”

  Marian stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

  Both corners of his mouth lifted. “What a surprise. I think I’d better tell you what I found, from the beginning. Do I smell coffee? Could I have a cup?”

  “Sure, come on.” She led him into the kitchen.

  “You certainly read a lot of newspapers,” Holland said, clearing off the table while she poured them both some coffee. “What shall I do with these?”

  “Don’t throw those out! Put them, uh, just put them on the counter there.”

  After they’d sat down and Holland had had a long swallow of coffee, he dropped a bombshell. “I found the money connection between Evan Christopher and Jason O’Neill.”

  “What? The arms dealer? It’s not Edgar Quinn? Well … that’s it, then, isn’t it?”

  “Wait, hear me out. As far as arms dealers go, Evan Christopher was not exactly one of the big boys. He kept all his money in one account in Geneva, except for a getaway stash in a Cayman Islands bank. I got into his Geneva account and started tracing his payments. He knew enough to shift the funds around some before they finally ended up where they were going, so it took a lot of time to chase each one down. But one of the payment trails finally led to a bank in Vienna, to an account in Jason O’Neill’s name. Two’ payments, in fact, the last only a week before the murders.”

  “Then Jason O’Neill did sell Universal Laser secrets.”

  “I don’t think so. The dates on the bank entries jibe with the theory that O’Neill was selling out, the second payment coming so close to the murders as it does. If you look at only the bank entries, it appears pretty cut-and-dried. Jason O’Neill was dealing with bad people and they killed him.”

  “But you looked at something else,” Marian said, not seeing where this was going.

  “I looked at the bank’s computer directory—I always check the directories, it’s automatic for me. One thing the directory tells you is the dates the last times the various files were used. And the last time Jason O’Neill’s account file was open was last Monday—two days after he died.”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at. O’Neill wouldn’t have had access to his bank account file anyway. Someone else was looking at it, someone who works at the bank.”

  “Possibly,” Holland said, “except that every other bank file the money traveled through on its deliberately meandering journey from Evan Christopher to Jason O’Neill was also used on Monday. A rather extraordinary coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  Marian began to see. “It’s not just someone else trying to trace the payments, is it?”

  “Ah, you’ve spotted it.” He looked pleased. “All that the directories indicate is the date the last time a file was used—that could be either the last time someone looked at an already existing file, or it could be the time the file was originated. But the back-up systems the banks use can tell you the difference. Just by checking the earliest date a file appears on the system, you know when it originated. And here’s the point. Every single file connected with the money transfer between Christopher and O’Neill was originated last Monday.”

  “A set-up,” Marian said wonderingly. “It’s an elaborate setup. To incriminate Jason O’Neill. That entire money trail was planted for you to find?”

  “Exactly right. Sergeant, are you going to eat that other bagel?”

  “What? Oh—no, help yourself.”

  Holland took the bagel to Marian’s cutting board, sliced it in two, and popped the two halves into the toaster oven. “I was meant to find the money connection—which is genuine, by the way. Funds really were transferred. But the Vienna account in Jason O’Neill’s name didn’t exist before last Monday. So unless O’Neill discovered a way to do his banking posthumously, we were meant to find the account and say, ‘Oh well, that proves it. Case closed.’” He brought his toasted bagel back to the table. “Don’t you have any cream cheese?”

  “No … you’ll have to use butter. But look, the fact that a phony money trail exists doesn’t prove Trevor Page planted it. How could he get into all those banks’ computers to diddle the records?”

  Holland chewed and swallowed before answering. “It’s not generally known, but the FBI collects access codes the way small boys collect baseball cards. Part of my, ah, induction into that august organization required me to explain my techniques of money transfer and donate all my laboriously acquired access codes. Most of the codes have been changed by now, but that’s not the point. The point is that large numbers of codes are available to Page for the asking—all he had to do was select four or five banks and move Evan Christopher’s money through them. And Page knows how to do it, because I taught him.”

  Marian nodded reluctantly, thinking about it while Holland finished his bagel. She was trying not to show how shocked she was; Holland’s news had hit her like a fist in the stomach. If only she didn’t like Trevor Page so much—ye gods, she’d even thought about sleeping with him. It was hard to cast a man she’d responded to that strongly in the role of villain, just like that; she needed time to adjust. But if Holland was right, Page was lost for good. Marian sighed and decided she needed a refresher course in How To Pick Your Men. “Holland,” she said, “why did you come to me?”

  “Process of elimination,” he answered. “If I took this to your Captain DiFalco, he’d turn it into a political weapon. Your boss is dying to establish his own personal hot line to the FBI, and he’s been cultivating Page to that end. Did you know Page had dinner at DiFalco’s house earlier this week?”

  “No, I did
n’t! Neither one of them mentioned it.”

  “They wouldn’t. So DiFalco was out. As for the others—Foley is mentally incontinent, Sanchez would fall asleep on me, Roberts is a baby—”

  “All right, I get the picture. And I accept the possibility that Page set up the false money trail. Edgar Quinn wouldn’t have the kind of information necessary to do the job—the access codes and the like. It had to be someone with inside knowledge. But that still doesn’t prove it was Page. There is one other candidate.”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  He looked at her through slitted eyes, his mouth turned down. “What’s my motive?”

  “What’s Page’s motive? I still don’t know what this is all about. Do you?”

  He expelled air from his lungs. “No, I don’t know the why. But would I tell you the money transfer was a set-up if I’d planted it myself?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely,” she admitted, and thought a moment. “There may be a way of resolving this—something I remembered just before you got here. Trevor Page told me he’d never been in Quinn’s apartment, and Quinn’s manservant mentioned he’d been there several times.”

  “When was this?”

  “Ah … Thursday. Lewis—the manservant—was trying to get a wine stain out of the carpet. He said Page had caused it, although he’d never spilled anything before. That means he’d been there more than once.”

  “You’re sure of all this?”

  “I can hear Page’s voice in my head right now asking me what Quinn’s apartment is like, there’s no mistake about that. But the manservant could have been wrong, or I could have misunderstood him. That’s something I can check.” Marian found Quinn’s home number in her notebook and tapped it out.

  “Do you have an extension?” Holland asked.