by Roger Johns
It was a subtle change in perspective, but Wallace knew it could have serious consequences. It made cops cautious about all the wrong things. They started thinking too much about the dangers to their careers and their pensions and not enough about the dangers to their persons.
Please let me make it out the door without catching that one special case. The one that spoils the retirement party. The one that excretes a puddle of suspicion all over my otherwise A-plus career. The one that makes it look like I just suddenly decided it was time to “pursue other opportunities” or “spend more time with my family.”
In some it provoked depression. In others it proved lethal. More than a few officers were cut down just shy of the finish line because they were working so hard to preserve the hazy future that they took their eyes off the clear and present. Normally, the change came slowly, but it looked like it was happening to Burley right in front of her eyes.
He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a long, slow breath. “Here’s what I’ve got.” He spread a handful of scribbled-on pages along the coffee table between them. They were lists of the items hauled away from the Pitkin home. “And by the way, Eddie’s lawyer has informally notified the prosecutor that she intends to demand half of the hair sample we used to get the DNA match.”
“No surprise there,” Wallace said. She had known this would happen. Eddie hadn’t been formally charged, yet, so he wasn’t technically a defendant—only a suspect. Consequently, the prosecutor did not yet have a legal obligation to turn over the material. But Tasha K was letting them know she’d be breathing down their necks and wasn’t about to let anything slip through the cracks.
“My other news is that Glenn Marioneaux’s church doesn’t archive those videos. Once the money count is verified and the funds have been deposited, the video file is deleted.”
“So something new might already be recorded over the one from the day Marioneaux was killed.”
“Maybe not.” His voice sounded unhopeful.
“Will they let one of our IT experts examine the drive they store their videos on?” Wallace asked.
“Somebody’s working on that now. Oh, one more thing. The phone records for the victim and his family arrived. Do you want to go through them, or can we put somebody else on that?”
“LeAnne can take first crack. If we need extra bodies to interview any names that turn up, I’ll let you know. And thanks for helping on that warrant.”
“You can only be in so many places at once.” He aimed a remote at the television and turned it off.
“Where is LeAnne, by the way?”
“I’m right here,” she said, appearing in the doorway.
Burley waved her over to the empty side chair next to Wallace.
“I still can’t figure out why Eddie would have done it,” Wallace said. “Assuming, for the sake of discussion, that he did do it—that he slipped out through the attic when Peter Ecclestone wasn’t looking and killed Marioneaux—for the life of me, I can’t understand why. I know they had their differences way back when, but none of it seemed like something worth murdering over.”
“The logic of the killer is not always logical. But I get what you’re saying. It was a mean-spirited kill. The motive question is bugging me too.” Burley leaned back and spread his arms along the top of the sofa. “So, tell us about this Peter Ecclestone.” He checked his watch. “Shouldn’t he should be getting here about now?”
“He’s an artist slash photographer. Lives in Cavanaugh, and he was squatting in the lake house just up the road from the one Eddie was allegedly staying in. He admitted that the only reason he was in the house that day was because he needed a quiet place to nurse a nasty hangover.”
“An unreliable artiste who was chemically impaired, to boot?”
“I’m not saying that. Only repeating what he told me.” She wandered over to the bookcase against the wall beside Burley’s desk. “That said, he picked Eddie out of a slate of pictures I showed him and claimed the face in the pictures is the same face he saw on the dock behind the house late on the afternoon of the day Marioneaux was killed.” She let her eyes roam over a shelf crammed with books. “On top of that, he says that after it got dark he saw lights and movement in the house.”
“When we got back from executing the warrant on Pitkin’s place, I called Chief Shannon to let him know Ecclestone might be an alibi witness,” Burley intoned. “He refuses to get excited until we’ve questioned this guy twelve ways to Sunday and the alibi looks tight as a drum.”
Burley leaned back and spread his arms along the top of the couch again, then let his chin drop to his chest.
“You look like Jesus on the cross,” Wallace said. “A bald Jesus.”
“You trying to cheer me up?”
“I’m trying to bring you down.” She offered him a mischievous grin. “You looked so chipper when I walked in, and you know how much I hate it when you’re happier than I am.”
Usually, Burley could be counted on for a snappy comeback, but there was no banter in him tonight. He looked up, heavy lidded, and gave her what could, at best, be described as an appreciative smile. He puffed out a long breath and then let his head sag, resuming his crucifixion pose.
“Jason?”
Wallace and LeAnne looked toward the office door. It was Curtis Stiles, a former prison guard who had joined the city police and now worked with Burley on special projects.
“I finished that thing you put me on a little while ago.”
Burley opened one eye and looked at Stiles. “Come in, Curtis.”
Wallace wanted to tell Burley and LeAnne about Glenn Marioneaux, but he was already focused on whatever Curtis Stiles had brought in. She would roll it around in her head a bit more.
She and LeAnne slipped quietly from the office.
“I’ve got some details to clean up from the fiasco at Pitkin’s house this afternoon, and then I’m taking off,” LeAnne announced as they headed into the Detective Section.
Wallace thought about giving LeAnne a pat on the back for handling the search of Pitkin’s house, but she wasn’t in the mood for the usual mouthful of cynicism she might be handed in return.
“Okay.” Wallace flopped into her chair and fired up her computer to check for new reports from the crime lab. “Burley and I can handle the Ecclestone interview,” she said, not looking at LeAnne.
“I can be here for that.” LeAnne sounded flustered. “I just didn’t know it was a for-sure thing.”
“And it may not be. We won’t know until he shows up … or doesn’t. So, no point in the whole detective section sitting around waiting for Godot.”
“No. I’ll stay.” LeAnne put her things on her desk, then left the room.
No new forensics reports had arrived, so Wallace pulled out Peter Ecclestone’s card and called his number to see how close he was. It went to voicemail.
Does no one answer their phone anymore?
“Mr. Ecclestone, this is Detective Hartman. I’m just calling to make sure you’re on the way, like you promised. We’re all waiting for you. Don’t forget me.”
Then she called Dorothy Marioneaux to ask her if she knew why her husband had scheduled a press conference. Dorothy said she was unaware of the event. In response to Dorothy’s question about the state of the investigation, Wallace told her only that every bit of evidence was being examined carefully and every avenue of inquiry was being pursued. Dorothy laughed at Wallace’s bureaucratic doublespeak and hung up.
Wallace closed her eyes and rested her head on her desk and let the facts of the case march around in her mind, to see if they would lead her anywhere new or interesting.
Glenn had the makings of a motive, albeit a weak motive, and he certainly seemed to be no fan of Eddie Pitkin. Whether that translated into an act of violence and a willingness to pin the whole business on someone else would depend on whether there were darker, uglier aspects to the father-son relationship she had yet to uncover. Perhaps Dorothy could shed some light
on the matter.
As for Eddie, things were even more complex. On one hand, if he had slipped out of the lake house, through the attic, and then traveled to Baton Rouge and killed Marioneaux chances were, as part of such a well-thought-out plan, he would have arranged for an unimpeachable alibi. But, as a former criminal attorney, he would know an alibi that looked too pat might smell phony. So, the fact that Eddie hadn’t immediately claimed to have an alibi cut slightly in his favor—why would it occur to him to make sure he had one if he didn’t know he would need one? Wallace supposed it was possible that claiming an alibi now, one that could be neither supported nor disproved, created the illusion of authenticity.
On the other hand, if Eddie had been at False River at the time of the murder, then his DNA had almost certainly been planted at the crime scene. And if the DNA was planted, then it was equally probable that the fibers found on Marioneaux were also planted. The same would hold true for any fibers that turned up on the material Burley had seized from Pitkin’s house.
And whoever had done it had to know when Eddie would be at a place where an alibi witness was a low probability. That would mean they either had access to Eddie’s schedule, in advance, or were keeping tabs on him. It also meant they could act quickly once they were sure he was in no position to have a provable alibi.
An operation like that would require at least one person to keep Eddie under surveillance and send the signal and another person to kill Herbert and plant the evidence.
With so many possibilities in play, there was a good chance at least one juror would balk unless the DA produced clear evidence of a motive. The marching in her head stopped and Wallace smiled.
A wafer-thin sliver of opportunity gleamed at the edge of her thoughts. The evidence already in hand covered means and opportunity. If someone really was trying to put a frame around Eddie, they would be waiting for the right moment to trot out the motive as well. That required action, and action—movement—might make the plotters visible.
FOURTEEN
The overhead light failed to come on as Wallace backed into her carport. Reflexively, she stared up at the fixture, as if by looking at it from a distance she would be able to diagnose the problem.
After she killed the engine, she sat, wondering whether it was a burned-out bulb that she could change herself or the fixture needed to be repaired. Fatigue was getting a strong grip on her. The light could be dealt with in the morning.
She pulled the latch handle and cracked her door open, then pulled it shut again and fished out her phone. Chief Shannon would be expecting her daily report. She boiled it down to the basics, including the fact that Peter Ecclestone was a no-show. Wallace closed with an offer to expand on any points he wanted to discuss further, and then prayed he wouldn’t see the message and call back tonight.
For just a second, she toyed with the idea of paying a surprise visit to Mason. She reached for the ignition but stopped short. If she stayed with him, the sleep they both needed would surely be a scarce commodity. She pulled the latch handle.
Before her door was completely open, a hard, powerful hand closed around her left bicep and hauled her from the car. She reached for her weapon, but another hand seized her right arm. As she was pulled backward through the breezeway that led from the carport into the backyard her attacker pushed her elbows together until they were almost touching behind her back. Wallace tried to twist free.
“None of that, now.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper. When she struggled, he shoved her hard up against the rear of the house, knocking the wind out of her.
As his head moved up alongside hers, she felt strands of her hair catch and tug in his whiskers. For a split second she thought of Peter Ecclestone and his unshaven face. But the voice sounded wrong.
Almost tenderly, his beard rasped against her neck as he nuzzled up close to her left ear. His voice stayed low and scratchy.
“Just letting you know, baby doll. You’ve got your sweet little hands on the right man.”
She tried again to wrestle free, but he just pushed her elbows closer together. “You’re in serious trouble, mister,” she wheezed, trying to recover her breath. Her shoulders felt as if they were ripping from their sockets.
He increased the pressure until she gave up a low groan. He pressed his body against her, holding her tight against the house. She could smell the paint and she could smell him.
“Not too, too long before the good senator got pushed off the chessboard, I saw the filthy motherfucker you got locked up sneaking out the back of a house just north of Spanish Town. Seems Mr. Pitkin had been paying a secret after-dark visit to the fine upstanding young woman who lives in that house.”
“You couldn’t come to the police station and make a statement like a normal person?” She struggled to keep the agony out of her voice.
“Too many reasons y’all might have to keep me there.”
“Then how am I supposed to do anything with what you’re telling me?”
His answer was a sharp blow to her right kidney. The blade of pain collapsed her. She felt the man back away. She heard his rapidly retreating footsteps. Then she was alone.
* * *
Wallace raised her shirt and peered over her shoulder at the reflection of her back in the bathroom mirror. A fist-shaped bruise blossomed above her belt line where he had punched her. A dull ache was spreading through her ribcage.
She sat on the edge of the vanity, thinking about what her attacker told her. It would be almost impossible to verify. It would have to be checked out, nevertheless.
What if it hadn’t been a lovers’ tryst at all, and the woman had simply been Eddie’s transportation from False River to Spanish Town and back?
What if it was all bullshit? Assaulting a cop just to deliver bogus information was absurdly dangerous, but perhaps she was being gamed.
Wallace lowered her shirt and tried to figure out when she was going to tell Mason about her nocturnal visitor. If she called him now, the retelling followed by their certain disagreement over filing a police report and seeking medical attention would keep her up for hours. And if she mentioned it to Burley, he would probably force her off the case.
FIFTEEN
TUESDAY: JUNE 5
Despite Wallace’s climbing into bed at a decent hour, sleep had been elusive and fitful for the second night in a row. The throb from the blow to her kidney, and the gnawing guilt over not telling Mason about the attack, kept her awake.
And now she was starting to think evil thoughts about Peter Ecclestone. Seven calls in the last eighteen hours—all unanswered, all unreturned. She knew people had all sorts of reasons for getting cold feet when it came time to give an official statement in a criminal proceeding.
Mostly, they worried that helping to pin guilt on someone dangerous would make them a target for revenge. Clearing Eddie Pitkin didn’t point the finger at anyone else, though—at least, not at this point. But Peter had no way of knowing that.
It was certainly possible that Peter was just off somewhere, doing his artist thing, out of reach of any cell signals. But, by midmorning, after Burley had called her several times asking about him, Wallace decided to do something desperate.
She called the Pointe Coupee deputy who had brought the warrant to the lake house, and asked if she would take a look around the house where Peter had been trespassing. Then she called the chief of police in Cavanaugh, the little town where Peter lived, and asked her if she could have someone look in the likeliest places to see if Ecclestone had gone back home and was simply not interested in keeping his promise to come to Baton Rouge.
Wallace explained why she needed to find him and why sooner was much better than later. Melissa Voorhees, the police chief, was not encouraging.
“No, don’t call him flaky,” Voorhees said. “Flaky people are actually more responsible. The fact is, Peter’s kind of a wild spirit. We grew up together, so I know whereof I speak.”
“A man’s life may hang in the balance because of
the information in Peter’s head.”
“That wouldn’t necessarily matter to him. He would see making a statement as requiring him to get involved in something in more than just a superficial way. That kind of thing scares the crap out of men like Peter. If you don’t believe me, just ask half the women in Cavanaugh. Hell, you can ask ’em all.”
“Doesn’t he have a business to operate?”
Melissa laughed. It was a gleeful laugh that actually lasted a few seconds. “His momma set him up in that studio. And I just put air quotes around studio. I mean, Peter’s talented, there’s no question about that, and he has some pretty loyal customers and a few profitable outlets for his work. But running a going concern? On a day-to-day basis? Maybe not.”
“What’s your best advice, then? I’m getting stuck in a squeeze play between my boss and Mr. Ecclestone.”
“I’ll drive by his house and his alleged place of business, and then check with his mother. If I can think of something else useful, I’ll do that too. Let me call you back as soon as I know something, but I wouldn’t sit by the phone waiting for Peter to call you.”
Wallace had no intention of sitting by the phone. The Capitol building was full of the late senator’s colleagues who needed to be interviewed. She stuck her head in Burley’s office on her way out, to let him know her plan and to see if he had any news. He didn’t.
* * *
Marioneaux had been the head of an important committee, so he had office space and people who worked for him. And because of his longevity in the legislature, he had an extensive web of political connections.
His office was surprisingly well-appointed. Long, heavy curtains were cinched with tasseled tiebacks. All of the furniture was heavy dark wood and leather. Vibrantly colored Oriental rugs covered most of the floor, and the walls were loaded with dozens of grip-and-grin photographs of the senator posing with pro athletes and other notables. The faint scent of cologne hung in the air.