“It would have been almost impossible to pull off. You were bound to be a primary suspect.”
“Motive and opportunity.”
“That’s right.”
“I knew that. When I came here it didn’t bother me. Actually I liked the idea. If I killed Lomax I’d want everyone to know. I’d be proud of it.”
“And jail?”
“Three meals a day and a clean bed? All the books I could read? It sounded pretty good, Chief. You should see my apartment in the East Village. Jail is nicer. Free rent and you learn a trade. Supposedly.”
“Cold.”
“Practical.”
“Yeah. But then you fell in love with the married man.”
She nodded.
“Going down in flames lost its appeal at that point.”
“Until I got dumped.”
“Recently?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I should have seen it coming.”
“So what now? Lomax is already dead. Anyone else you want to kill?”
“No, I only had one sister.”
“How about Mrs. Lomax? She certainly hates you. She wanted your sister to get rid of the baby. She was jealous. She was angry. She had a strong influence on her husband.”
“Are you trying to talk me into it?”
“I’m trying to decide whether or not to put you in custody until this case is solved. One murder at a time during the holiday season, that’s my policy.”
“Sounds good. It could be a new slogan for the Chamber of Commerce.”
I smiled. “I’ll run it by them. But I need an answer.”
“I’m not going to do anything to anyone, Chief Kennis. I barely have the energy to get out of bed in the morning. I might not swerve to avoid hitting a rabbit in the road. That’s about the extent of the threat I pose right now. I can’t pay my rent because I just got fired from my job. I may go back to the city.”
“Not until the case is resolved. I’m sorry.”
“Whatever. Fine, I’ll stay. I may do some carpentry. There’s an all-girl crew that’s hiring.”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay…so are we finished? Can I go?”
“Sure. Thanks for coming in. I’ll be in touch if I need to talk to you again.”
When Tanya Kriel was gone, I sat back and took a few deep breaths. I turned on my police monitor and listened to the soft crackle of calls and dispatcher’s instructions. The room, with its essential atmosphere of purpose and sanity and virtue, reasserted itself. The click of the shutting door dissolved the intricate, geometric tension that Tanya carried with her. It melted like a snowflake on a window pane.
I picked up the internal phone line and asked for a cup of coffee. Then I got down to work.
I spent the rest of the morning going through the transcripts, highlighting quotes that struck me as odd or significant.
Molly Burke:
I don’t know anything about that murder, and why should I? I cleaned his house but I’ve cleaned a hundred houses, haven’t I? And I never wanted to kill anyone. I don’t even know why you’re asking me these things. I don’t know anything and I’m glad I don’t.
Kathleen Lomax:
I came in late from dinner, we’d been at The Pearl and we had a few drinks—what? Oh, just friends from grad school and Barry Hewitt, he just got engaged to Annette Moore and he took us all out to celebrate. It was like, nine when I got home. I took a shower and talked to my dad. That was the last time—I’m sorry. You don’t need to—but it just keeps kind of coming at you from behind, you know? You think you’re doing okay and then it surprises you. Anyway, sorry, I’m okay. Really. I’m fine now. I guess I left the house about eleven fifteen or so. There was a party, this benefit thing I wanted to go to. I reset the alarm and locked up. Dad was a little whacked about that alarm. We used to argue about it, I mean this is Nantucket after all, but I guess he was right. Not that it makes any difference.
Kevin Sloane:
Of course my fingerprints were on the headboard! That doesn’t make me a killer. I had a thing with Diana Lomax, all right. The chief knew it. He pulled us over one night and he don’t miss much. Anyway, she liked doing it with me in her own bed. I just used the headboard for traction. There’s probably a dent where her head slammed it, too. Anyway, I wasn’t the only one up there.
Billy Delavane:
Actually, my brother Eddie once asked me about Folger’s keys. The guy caretakes at least a hundred houses. What did I say? Frankly, I told him to go fuck himself, Officer. Ed’s always been screwed up about money. Our parents made me the executor of the estate because they knew I wouldn’t sell it out. I mean—hey, I’ve unloaded a few parcels. There was a two-acre lot in Madaket last year. But Ed’s always looking for some way to make a fast buck. He’s no killer, though. I mean—sure, he killed people in the war. But aiming a carbine into a dust storm and squeezing off…that’s not cold blooded murder. Trust me. Ed’s a little crazy and he’s got a temper like a snapping turtle. Especially when he’s drunk. But you could say that about half the rednecks on this island. People used to say that about me in the old days. Before I mellowed out.
Derek Briley:
Only a matter of time, mate. Someone was going to kill the bloke. End of the day, you can only ask for it so long. Someone’s going to oblige, aren’t they? But it wasn’t me. I did my bit, ratting him out to the newspaper. I like to work behind the scenes. That’s my style.
Bob Haffner:
Hey, I was totally out of it that night. I went to the benefit, but I had dinner at the strip first and I was sick as a dog. That’s all I was thinking about, OK? Bad clams. I actually got to the benefit though. They gave me something to make me puke at the emergency room and everything was cool. I’m like a dog, man. I barf and I’m fine. Hey, at least I don’t try to eat it, like my dog does. So anyway, I got to the party late, someone was watching Leno’s monologue in the back room, but the place was still jumping, so that was cool. You should check out the guest list, man. Everybody was there.
Mike Henderson:
Listen, the guy owed me money. I could see threatening him. But I’ve never understood killing people over stuff like that. Or even hurting someone. Like the mafia. Some longshoreman owes them money, so they break his legs. How is he supposed to earn the money to pay them at that point? It’s crazy. I did spread the news about Lomax skipping out. I overheard him, and I just thought…People should know this. It occurred to me that someone might try to do something to the guy. Sure, I admit it. And I guess they did. But it’s nothing he didn’t deserve, believe me. Lomax was a bad guy. You got in his way, you were roadkill. He wouldn’t step on the brakes. He’d step on the gas. That’s how I see it.
Cindy Henderson :
Of course Mike hated Lomax. Everyone did. But he would never have done anything violent. Mike’s not that way. He breaks up fights, he doesn’t start them. He was off-island the night Lomax died. He came to meet me in New York. It had nothing to do with the murder. It’s private. We had private business there. I really don’t think it’s relevant.
Pat Folger:
Sure, I was in his face at the party. People like Lomax make you want to get out of this business, I swear to God. They make it a goddamn misery. Ten years later, a pipe bursts and they’ll sue you into the poor house. Meanwhile they change their minds every ten minutes, and you have to videotape them asking for the extras if you ever want to get paid. And the checks bounce, or they left their goddamn checkbook in New York. Who travels without a checkbook? But if I killed every one of these people who deserved it, I’d be more famous than Son of Sam, all right? And just for the record—whoever got in there, they didn’t use my key. I keep those suckers locked up tight. I’m old school, sonny. I take my responsibilities seriously.
Jesse C
oleman:
Yeah, I know Ed Delavane. I spend time at his house. But I don’t sell drugs and neither does he. If he did, I’d bust him. This whole line of questions pisses me off, if you want to know the truth, Lonnie. I’m a cop. I have ambitions. Busting that turd would make my career. From summer special to detective in two years, man. I could write my own ticket after that. No, I’m not scared of him. He can try all the karate tricks he wants. I’m licensed to carry a firearm in this state and all that ninja stuff don’t mean shit unless you’re bulletproof.
Rick Folger:
I just worked for my dad. I was at the bottom of the food chain, man. I didn’t know any of the customers. He would have killed me if I even said hello to them. The rule was, whatever they asked, I had to say, “You’ll have to talk to my dad.” I mean—anything. “How’s the weather? What about them Sox last night?” You’ll have to talk to my dad. “You and that girlfriend of yours still together?” You’ll have to talk to my dad. He loved that one. That was his idea of a joke. Anyway, the point is, I never met Lomax or his family. I couldn’t pick them out of a lineup. By the time they had their big party I had quit. So there was zero socializing, I hate those parties anyway—you know, put out some food for the morlocks. Give ’em a drink and pretend they’re human for the night. Fuck that. I was long gone, anyway, like I said. I even got rid of my tools. I don’t own a hammer anymore. Can you believe that? And it feels great. I’m never going to bang a nail again. My dad always said I hammered ‘like a cobbler.’ Anyway. The one time I took a good swing, I smashed my thumb. The nail was black for a year. Ask him about it. He loves to tell that story. Hey, I know he’s an asshole, but he’d never kill anyone. Let’s get that straight. He doesn’t even hunt anymore.
When I set the last page aside, I finished my coffee. It was cold, but I liked cold coffee. My notes reminded me of the “Voices of Nantucket” column in the Inky Mirror, man-on-the-street sound bites about the issues of the day. “How do you feel about the Lomax murder?”
I glanced at the clock: almost twelve. I should have left five minutes ago. I was going to be late picking up Fiona for lunch. I started to rise, changed my mind, and pulled the chair up to my desk. There was something in those transcripts, some organizing detail that would resolve all these random voices into a coherent story. I didn’t have it, and it was giving me a headache.
Chapter Twenty-six
Dirty Laundry
I set the files aside. I had more immediate problems, and the first one was David Trezize, sitting in a holding cell downstairs. It wasn’t just that he was innocent, which I firmly believed. Cobbling together circumstantial evidence against him was wasting valuable time. Plus the process had to be annoying David, and one thing I learned in Los Angeles was—don’t gratuitously annoy journalists if you can avoid it. They write their stories anyway, and people read those stories, and the words shape people’s perceptions and negative perceptions can make the day-to-day business police work, on the ground, talking to witnesses, panning the swift stream of a neighborhood gossip for a nugget of useful information, almost impossible. Conversations that start “Fuck are you doing here, pig?” rarely turn out well.
The Shoals was a small paper, but its circulation was growing and in any case every big newspaper in the country had sent reporters to the island, and David was the obvious local contact for them. He’d be telling a story, and I didn’t want that story to be one of arrogance, harassment, and incompetence.
Besides, I liked the guy. I admit it.
“So what were your footprints doing in the mud?” I asked him. He looked more rumpled and miserable than usual, sitting on the edge of the concrete slab. He needed a shower and a shave.
He looked up. “Funny, no one bothered to ask me that, Chief. I guess they figure it’s obvious. I mean, I threatened the guy in front of all those witnesses. Including you.”
“No offense, David, but weak people make threats. Killers just get the job done. And they don’t advertise it beforehand.”
He managed a smile. “Thanks. I guess.”
“Still. You came to the house. I’m betting it was the earlier in the day.”
He nodded. “I was returning Kathy’s inhaler. She has asthma and she wears glasses and she takes the antidepressant and she’s always losing her inhaler and leaving her glasses and forgetting to fill her prescription. Personally I think it’s because she’d like to be a happy person with strong lungs and 20-20 vision and some part of her just rebels.”
I sat down next to David on the slab. “So she’s in denial.”
“That’s what we were fighting about. She was at my apartment and I was trying to explain…well, it’s private.”
“Not during a murder investigation. Nothing’s private during a murder investigation.”
A lot of people were going to find that out in the next few days.
He sighed. “All right. It had to do with her boyfriend. This painter kid, Kevin Sloane.”
“He was having an affair with her mother.” David looked up, startled. “Diana Lomax was driving the car that night. Remember? You picked up the traffic stop on your scanner. Kevin Sloane was with her.”
“Makes sense. Wish I’d known that. Anyway, she didn’t want to hear it and she took off. I found the inhaler the next morning—after the big party. She threw herself at me when I brought it back, sobbing and sniffling and apologizing and calling herself an idiot.”
“She found out the truth?”
“She caught them in bed together.”
“Jesus.”
David bit his lip, shaking his head. “Terrific little present for the Advent calendar, huh? Must make you all giddy about what you’re getting the next day.”
I stood. “But we know what she got the next day.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry about this David. I’ll expedite the paperwork, get you out of here. If you remember anything else that might be useful, call me.” I dug out my card—the one with my private cell number, the old number with the 323 area code.
He took it. “I will.”
I dismissed Kevin as a suspect—he was a pilot fish, not a shark, and three other people’s depositions placed him at the benefit party until dawn, long outstaying his welcome, still drinking Bud Light and chowing down on whatever food was left, but not helping to clean up, or even bus dishes back to the kitchen. Kevin had a clear idea who the party was going to benefit and it wasn’t some stranger with multiple sclerosis. It was Kevin Sloane. That was his MO, but that didn’t make him a murderer, especially when it came to the powerful husband of one of his many disposable girlfriends. Kevin was the type to cut and run, not make some romantic last stand with a fistful of cash and a bloody screwdriver.
He wore boots the same size as the prints in the snow, and with the same vibram sole. But the prints were too deep for him to have made them. I guessed that the person wearing those shoes had to weigh at least a hundred pounds more than the skinny painter. Hal Loomis, the taciturn SID guy from the state police, reluctantly agreed with me. I think he was surprised that I noticed. Local cops were supposed to be bumpkins. “I guess you picked up a thing or two with the LAPD,” he muttered.
That was as close to a compliment as I was going to get.
For Diana Lomax, innocence wasn’t so clear-cut. Despite her apparently solid alibi, her genuine-seeming shock and her plausible suspicion of Tanya Kriel, her genuine upset at the sight of the girl, we weren’t quite done with Diana.
There was still some of her privacy left to violate.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Lonnie Fraker said to me as I walked into the station the next morning.
I patted his shoulder. “You’re probably right.”
He led me into the conference room, shut the door and took out a small digital recorder. “Listen to this.”
Then the two disembodied voices filled the room.
I recognized Diana’s raspy contralto immediately. The guy I had never heard before.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Paul.”
“You sound awful. Are you drunk?”
“No, but thanks for the suggestion.”
“What’s going on? Did something happen?”
She laughed. “No, don’t worry about that, Darling. Nothing ever happens. That could be my whole autobiography. At least I don’t need a ghostwriter. I am a ghost. The autobiography of a ghost. Three words. Nothing ever happened.”
“You are drunk.”
“Just high on life. Isn’t that what we used to say?”
“Diana, you have to get out of there.”
“Really? And how do you propose I should do that?”
“Go to the airport. Buy a ticket. I’ll meet you at LaGuardia.”
“And then what? We live in your tiny apartment on a music teacher’s salary? We’d be at each other’s throats in a month.”
“Divorce Preston. Than you can live any way you want.”
The room went silent. Fraker held up one finger to say “just wait.” So we waited. I felt a sickly voyeuristic thrill listening to these intimacies, and I began to understand what motivated the spies who operate our surveillance state. The sense of power was overwhelming. We were omniscient at that moment, just like God, listening in on the most private moments of these hapless creatures.
But what petty and mean-spirited little gods we were.
“Diana? Are you there? These fucking dropped calls! Every time you try to—”
“I’m still here.”
“Then talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I signed a prenuptial agreement, Paul. I would have thought you’d have figured that out by now. Everyone assumed I was a gold digger. I suppose I was a gold digger. What they don’t tell you is, it’s much easier to actually dig gold out of the ground than to live with Preston Lomax.”
Nantucket Sawbuck Page 20