Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  “Well, go back to the house and collect it legally this time.”

  “Wow, you’re sassy tonight! We’d need a court order, sweetheart.”

  “How hard is that?”

  “Unless you got a compelling reason, pretty hard. In this case, there are a lot of little details that need to be laid out in the proper order for others to see the same big picture I see. If I had a chance to present my case that way, maybe I could get the cops to go into the house and do their job.”

  “You have to convince the cop who warned you to stop trying to help Kate McCall?”

  “Yep. Good memory.”

  “You’ll find a way to convince him.”

  “He hates my guts. I’m going to need Kalijero’s help. Kalijero tolerates me.”

  “In the meantime, it’s not like whoever the suspect is can gather up all the animal DNA in their house and bury it in the backyard.”

  Tamar’s words tripped a breaker just as George’s words had done at Verkakte Fashions, although the significance wasn’t quite clear yet. “No backyard, just an alley,” I said.

  “Are you okay?” Tamar said. “You look kind of zombie-like.”

  “It’s not like he can throw the cat DNA into the dumpster,” I said, “and watch the garbage truck haul it to the landfill.”

  “Jules,” Tamar said. “I hate being around spaced-out people.”

  I focused on Tamar. “The murder wasn’t premeditated,” I said.

  “Lay out all the details to Kalijero,” Tamar said. “See if he’ll convince that cop to listen to you.”

  “DNA is too small to hide. Hiding a body would take planning.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Tamar said, “but it’s good to see you smile, so I don’t care.”

  Chapter 31

  Punim stared at me from the foot of the bed. Another morning, another blurry recollection of Tamar spending the night. I remembered coming home yesterday to find my cat lying across Tamar’s lap. The display of divided loyalty hurt.

  I showered, ate, drove to Jackie Whitney’s building, then pulled up to the parking attendant’s station. A stocky, older Hispanic man with a happy round face walked out of the office. Two teens followed, one Hispanic, one white. I had expected little enthusiasm for my shabby 1983 Civic, but the three valets appeared delighted to see me.

  “Do you have short-term parking?” I said.

  “Are you here to visit a resident?” the older man said.

  “Does Manny qualify? He practically lives here.”

  The man smiled. “You’re here to visit Manny?”

  “I wanted to surprise him.”

  “I’m Ray.” He motioned to the white kid who ran up to me and took my key. “We’ll just put it over there.” Ray pointed to an area marked with slanted yellow lines.

  I thanked him, walked into the building, then stood behind the stand of trees in the middle of the lobby. Manny was leaning against the counter talking with two men wearing suits. They chatted a few minutes, started laughing, said their goodbyes. Manny took his seat behind the doorman’s desk. From my location, he was visible from the forehead up. His cap turned back and forth. Probably reading the paper. I hung around five more minutes, then returned to the valet station.

  “He’s too busy,” I said to Ray. “I’ll stop by again some other time.”

  “That Manny,” Ray said shaking his head, laughing, “always busy talking to somebody. I’ll get your car.” He turned to leave.

  “Hey, you know my nephew needs a job while he goes to school. What’s it like working here?”

  “Those other two kids you saw, they’re still in school.”

  “You guys get tipped pretty good?”

  Ray shrugged. “Sometimes. Depends.”

  “What about when you take in the dry cleaning or do the grocery shopping? The residents must tip you for that too.”

  Ray chuckled. “Nah. They think it’s just part of our job.”

  “Get outta here! All these Mercedes and Porsches and Cadillacs, and they can’t tip you for delivering their fifty-dollar mustard?”

  “The car doesn’t mean nothing. Guys in old cars tip better than rich guys.”

  “Man, if I had to put up with that shit, I’d look for some unofficial tips. Like running personal errands in the company van while still on the clock.”

  Ray grinned, shuffled his feet. “Yeah, well, that probably happens sometimes. I’m not saying I do it, but maybe others.”

  I smiled, nodded. “Okay, now I get it.” I laughed. “That’s how Manny does it.”

  Ray joined in with the smiling and nodding. “Manny’s been working here a long time.”

  “What’s the system? Sneak in and sneak out when nobody’s looking?”

  Ray gave me a dismissive wave. “No sneaking. He tells me when he needs a van, I mark it in the book.”

  “You keep track of these things.”

  “Oh, yeah, you gotta make sure a van is available when someone needs it.”

  “You know what? Good for him. Good for all of you. I mean, you work hard. Why not take advantage once in a while? As long as you’re careful and don’t smash up the van, nobody cares.”

  “That’s right. All jobs have little secrets.”

  “Hey, would you mind if I looked at that book you mentioned?”

  Ray’s friendly demeanor faded. “What for?”

  I reached for my wallet, took out a fifty, then stuffed it in Ray’s shirt pocket. “That’s for parking my car. There will be another fifty to let me look at the book.”

  Ray barely thought about it. He returned with a spiral-bound daily planner and handed it to me without a word. I gave him another fifty then paged back to May 18. My first impulse was to tear out the page. Instead I said, “You got another datebook in case this one gets suddenly lost?”

  Ray stared a hole through my forehead. “I’m not sure.”

  I handed over two more fifties. “Think about it.”

  He stuffed the money in his pocket. “Oh, hell, I’m sure I’ll find one somewhere.”

  —

  I pulled out of the garage then backed up to the last legally parked car along the curb. From what was technically the right-turn lane, I stared through the windshield, vaguely aware of vehicles whizzing past on Michigan Avenue. Henry DeWeldt’s affair and Lucille Mackenzie’s salary still nagged me as thin motivators for Jackie Whitney’s actions. And I wasn’t buying DeWeldt’s suggestion that an epiphany allowed Jackie to recognize the uselessness of dragging poor Henry down. I closed my eyes, let my head fall back. Perhaps Jackie had always assumed family money enabled Lucille to live so grandly, I thought. Then Jackie discovered Lucille’s salary and the shock was such that she couldn’t help wondering why the board allowed it.

  “It’s Jules Landau,” I said to Phillip over the phone. “Can you talk?”

  “Lucille’s not looming over me.”

  “Good. I want to look at the board meeting minutes when Lucille’s salary was approved.”

  “I don’t know anything about minutes.”

  “I was hoping you’d do a little investigating and get back—”

  “Hang on.”

  If board meetings were not part of the public record, I’d ask DeWeldt to show me the minutes approving Lucille’s salary. Despite his invoking “executive session,” I suspected confidentiality didn’t command the veto he implied.

  Phillip picked up the phone. “They’re posted on the website.”

  “Wow. That was easy.”

  “Case closed.”

  I put the phone down then noticed the cop who had pulled up next to me. He pointed at the no parking sign. I smiled, waved, then followed the right-turn lane onto Lake Shore Drive.

  —

  Punim crouched on my thigh, front claws holding fast to my jeans. An awkward movement meant ten pinpricks becoming ten tiny scabs. Laptop over knees, I scanned Furry BFF’s archive for agenda items and found a three-year-old meeting that included the
incoming development director’s compensation.

  The meeting began by approving the previous month’s minutes and followed with the treasurer’s report. Next came an update of the year’s adoptions and intakes, including a reference to how beautifully Bunny and Peanut were blossoming in foster care. Then the chairman called for old business. Henry DeWeldt moved that the board approve an augmentation of the development director’s sixty-thousand-dollar annual salary with a six percent commission on donations. After the motion was seconded, the chairman opened the floor to discussion. Henry DeWeldt stated that human nature required a percentage-based incentive to realize maximum gains for fundraising. DeWeldt also stated that incentive programs conducted efficiently at for-profit businesses functioned equally as well in nonprofits, regardless if one sold Porsches or solicited subsidies for animal shelters. No other opinions were offered. The chairman then put the motion to a vote. The motion failed with five opposed and only Henry in favor. Although the issue fell under the old business category, I found no mention of adjournment into executive session in previous or future meeting minutes.

  “Sorry to pester you,” I said to Phillip over the phone. “Did your mom ever mention Lucille’s pay structure?”

  “No. But I told her there was a rumor she earned commission on donations.”

  “How did you hear about that?”

  “This is how it went: some volunteers were always kidding Lucille about her BMW and how she must be raking in the bucks. After a while, she got defensive and said her salary wasn’t so great but she got a percentage of the donations she brought in. Some thought she was joking, others weren’t sure.”

  “Did you look into it?”

  “Why would I?”

  “What did you think—if it’s true?”

  “Maybe that’s how rock-star fundraisers are paid. What do I know?”

  “You asked your mom?”

  “Later. It came up in a conversation, somehow. She thought the idea of paying commissions on donations sounded nuts. She wanted to know why I asked. So I told her.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “Something like, ‘That’s interesting.’ ”

  A suspicious female voice repeated in my head “that’s interesting,” several times. Even if Jackie Whitney hadn’t set up a charitable trust that possibly contributed to Lucille’s earnings, she would’ve pursued the truth. “Hey, Phillip,” I said. “You and the treasurer are friendly, right? How would you like to do some more investigating?”

  Chapter 32

  Lucille and I needed a heart-to-heart about her doll of a man, Henry DeWeldt. I suggested meeting at Penguin House where the Francis of Assisi Champion’s bad habits wouldn’t sully Phillip’s ears—or those of anyone else with a conscience. As expected, my invitation received an icy response. Thawing required hints of DeWeldt’s finances having caught the attention of “certain people,” and included questions surrounding his nonprofit tax deduction claims. My intentions were in the best interests of Furry BFF, I assured her. I doubted she believed me. Nevertheless, Lucille strolled into Penguin House looking tres stylish with her red wallet on a chain over the shoulder of a sleeveless floral print midi dress.

  “Thank you for meeting me here,” I said.

  Lucille smoothed her dress down as she sat. “I don’t have much time, Mr. Landau.”

  “Please understand that this is all very preliminary. It’s because I admire your hard work on behalf of Furry BFF, and because I understand that developing relationships with wealthy donors is crucial for the shelter’s success, that I wanted to give you this heads-up. Can I trust you to keep this conversation confidential?”

  “I give you my word, Mr. Landau. Now, who’s making these accusations against Henry?”

  “I have a police contact, but he won’t acknowledge whether it’s FBI, IRS, or BCI.”

  “What is Henry accused of?”

  “He hasn’t been officially accused of anything, but they’re looking into alleged use of Furry BFF for money laundering and tax evasion.”

  Lucille covered her mouth a moment then fell back in her chair. “But how do they know? What have they seen?”

  “I don’t know what tipped them off, but I’m sure they just followed the money.”

  “How will this affect the shelter?”

  “That’s why I wanted this meeting, to give you plenty of time to prepare for the possible loss of donations.”

  Lucille sat up. “Does this mean someone at the shelter was also involved?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What does this have to do with Jackie Whitney’s murder?”

  “If Jackie knew what DeWeldt was up to…”

  “Oh, yes, she had all sorts of terrible information about Henry, therefore Henry killed her.”

  I let the moment linger. “Information can ruin people’s lives. And Jackie may have been angry about something else that had transpired between her and DeWeldt. Something having to do with relationships, maybe?”

  Lucille tried not to look uncomfortable. “I cannot picture Henry DeWeldt killing another human being.”

  “In my experience, rich and powerful men fearful of losing their fortunes will do anything to protect what they have. And that includes hiring someone to kill.”

  “You have someone in mind?” Unmistakable sarcasm.

  “I’m sure a man like DeWeldt knows how to make an arrangement for a contract killer. Or he knows local folks who’ll do the job for the right price.”

  Lucille blinked several times. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Lots of facts added up before I decided DeWeldt should at least be a suspect.”

  “Facts? As in evidence?”

  “Yes. Mostly circumstantial, but there’s too much of it to ignore. This might sound far-fetched, but could DeWeldt be linked somehow to Kate McCall?”

  Lucille laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, DeWeldt spoke of Jackie Whitney’s interactions with Kate McCall. So she resided somewhere in his consciousness.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean he knows her, as if he had conversations with her.”

  “McCall and DeWeldt were both important people in Jackie’s life. They both spent a lot of time with her. It’s not completely nuts to assume their time with Jackie overlapped now and then.”

  Lucille appeared to consider my logic then took out a compact and freshened up her lipstick. “What if Henry did know Kate McCall in a limited capacity?” Lucille said. “What difference would it make?”

  I held my gaze upon Lucille longer than she would’ve preferred. At least, that was my intention. “Then McCall could, somehow, be a component of my theory about DeWeldt’s guilt.”

  Lucille smiled, shook her head. “A conspiracy involving Henry and Kate McCall? You’re really starting to sound silly, Mr. Landau, and I think it’s intentional, as if you’re playing a game.”

  I shrugged and returned her smile. “I assure you it’s not intentional.”

  “But aren’t you working for Kate McCall? Aren’t you trying to prove her innocence?”

  “My job is to help find reasonable doubt so McCall’s lawyer can get her out of jail. I’ve held up my end of the bargain and did a damn good job. The guilt or innocence thing is a side gig. I guess you could say finding the truth is a hobby of mine.”

  “I’d imagine that hobby could be dangerous at times. Maybe you should try something safer, like skydiving.”

  Lucille’s ironic humor caught me off guard. My boisterous laugh startled both of us. “Maybe I should,” I said. “Anyway, you probably want to inform the treasurer what’s going on with your single largest donor—for budget forecasting considerations.”

  Lucille stood, then looked down at me. “Yes, I’ll talk to her first thing,” she said then walked out.

  —

  “Detective Tommy Brookstone cracks Gold Coast murder!” I said to Kalijero when he answered the phone.

  “What’re you talking about?�
�

  “That should work, don’t you think?”

  “Is this about that meeting you want to set up?”

  “I got a story to tell, Jimmy. Tell Brookstone he gets McCall but he’s gonna have to take DeWeldt down too, because I’ve got them connected. Tell him it’s DNA-solid-proof connected.”

  “You wanna tell me how you did it?”

  “No, it’s too long a story and I don’t want to have to tell it more than once.”

  “Just give me a summary for fuck’s sake.”

  “A Reader’s Digest version isn’t going to help my cause. I have to tell it my way or it’s not going to make sense. C’mon, Jimmy, tell Brookstone he was right about McCall. Don’t even mention DeWeldt if you don’t want to, just tell him I got McCall’s accomplice and Brookstone will be the hero of the day.”

  “Does your public defender boss know what you’re up to?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re going to piss off a lot of people turning on your employer like that.”

  “I know, Jimmy. Relax. I’ll give all the money back.”

  “That’s not the point, idiot.”

  “Let me worry about that stuff. A woman was murdered. Those responsible need to be held accountable. Don’t you want justice to be served? That’s the only issue I see.”

  I imagined Kalijero shaking his head while staring off into never-never land. “Frownie’s turning in his grave. But fine, I’ll talk to Brookstone. Where and when are you telling your story?”

  Chapter 33

  I stood in the threshold of Lucille’s office, facing the back of her head. She sat staring out the window holding a cellphone to her ear with one hand, drumming her fingernails on the desk with the other. Phillip peeked out of his office. I flashed a thumbs-up sign. He responded in kind. Lucille disconnected the call and swung her chair around.

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “How long have you been standing there?”

  I stepped into her office, stood at the side of her desk. “I need your help,” I said.

  Lucille glanced at the accordion file in my hand. “Help with what?”

  “A couple of detectives are on the way. They want to hear what you and I have to say about DeWeldt.”