by Harry Dolan
“I suppose it depends on your standards,” Elizabeth said. “Tom Kristoll thought he was good.”
“He may have been brilliant,” said Shan. “He may have been a neglected genius. Literarily. But financially, he was a dud. You’d expect a guy like that to be living in a garret, suffering for his art. But Wrentmore owned a condo.”
“Maybe his family helped him out.”
“They didn’t. They were in the dark about the condo. They had his address, of course, but they assumed he was renting. Last they knew, he had a job at a bookstore.”
Elizabeth got out her notebook, found the notes on her conversation with Delia Ross. “Wrentmore told his neighbor he made a living selling used books on the Internet.”
“But we didn’t find a ton of books at his condo,” said Shan. “Just his personal collection. There were books in his storage unit, but if he were selling them—”
“If he were selling them, it would be all wrong. He’d have to drive out to the storage unit every time he needed to fill an order.” Elizabeth closed the cover of her notebook. “Where was Wrentmore’s money coming from?”
Shan held up Wrentmore’s bank statement. “There’s only one deposit for the whole month. Five thousand dollars. Direct deposit from something called InnMan, Limited.”
He picked up his phone and Elizabeth listened as he flirted with a teller at Wrentmore’s bank. InnMan turned out to be an abbreviation for Innocent Man. The direct deposits occurred monthly and went back several years, though the amount had increased over time: from four thousand to forty-five hundred to fi ve thousand.
Shan’s second call was to the office of Michigan’s secretary of state. He 2 2 4 h a r r y
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learned that Innocent Man was a single-owner limited liability company—
with Sean Wrentmore as the single owner. The same call netted him the name of the lawyer who had filed the company’s articles of organization. As Shan hung up the phone, Elizabeth already had the yellow pages open.
“Who’s driving?” he asked her.
She found the lawyer’s address. “It’s close,” she said. “We can walk.”
Todd Barstow, Esquire, had a soft, unanimated face. His forehead was unlined, his pale blond hair slicked back, immobile. The walls of his office were paneled in dark wood and the carpet was tan, and the suit he wore was a shade of brown that fell somewhere between the walls and the carpet. He held three stapled pages in his thin fingers and his lips drew tight together as he read them. The pages were Laura Kristoll’s statement on the death of Sean Wrentmore. Elizabeth and Shan sat silently until he was finished with them. He laid the pages on his desk and said, “I agreed to talk to you only out of courtesy, and with great reluctance.”
“We appreciate that,” Elizabeth said. “The courtesy.”
“Not the reluctance,” added Shan.
“This document”—Barstow pointed to the statement—“is hearsay. Mrs. Kristoll relates events described to her by her late husband. Yet you’re asking me to take it as evidence of Mr. Wrentmore’s death. I’m not inclined to. Do you have any other evidence? Physical evidence?”
Shan nodded. “We have a blood sample from the fl oor of the Kristolls’
study. The blood type is the same as Sean Wrentmore’s.”
“That’s far from conclusive,” said Barstow.
Elizabeth watched a spider crawl along the rim of the lawyer’s in-box. She said, “We also have a statement from a friend of Tom Kristoll’s—a man named David Loogan—saying that he helped dispose of Sean Wrentmore’s body.”
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“Would this be the David Loogan whose picture was on the front page of the News yesterday, the David Loogan currently being sought in connection with another homicide?”
“That’s right.”
“Then he’s hardly a reliable witness.”
The spider found the edge of the desk and began to descend. Elizabeth said, “Do you have reason to believe that Sean Wrentmore is alive, Mr. Barstow?”
“You’ve given me no solid reason to believe he’s dead.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” asked Shan.
“Several weeks ago, I’m sure. Eight weeks? Twelve? Something on that order. But that’s not unusual. We have no need to be in constant contact.”
“Well, his neighbors haven’t seen him for a month,” said Shan. “His parents haven’t spoken to him for longer than that.”
“Sean Wrentmore is a competent adult. He can come and go as he likes, and doesn’t have to answer to his parents.” Barstow held up his open palms.
“But let’s leave that aside. You believe he’s dead. I have no knowledge of his alleged death. There’s nothing helpful I could tell you.”
Shan shifted in his chair. “What can you tell us about Innocent Man, Limited?”
“I can tell you nothing at all about Innocent Man, Limited,” said Barstow.
“You prepared the paperwork that created the company. It’s a matter of public record.”
“That’s true.”
“What sort of work does Innocent Man do?”
The lawyer’s small mouth made a frown. “Mr. Wrentmore is my client. I’m not at liberty to discuss these matters.”
“The paperwork describes it as a consulting firm,” Shan said.
“Then you can be sure that’s what it is.”
“What sort of consulting did Sean Wrentmore do? Who did he consult with?”
“I’ve already said I’m not going to discuss my client’s business.”
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“Innocent Man paid Sean Wrentmore five thousand dollars a month. Where did that money come from?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Elizabeth broke in. “Did any of it come from Tom Kristoll?”
Barstow’s face was unreadable. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
Elizabeth got out of her chair and crossed to the room’s lone window. The blinds were thick with dust and cobwebs.
She said, “Mr. Barstow, are you aware that Sean Wrentmore has been renting a storage unit for the last fi ve years?”
He looked at her blankly. “No.”
“So you have no idea what he might have kept in that storage unit?”
“No.”
“Do you think it’s just a coincidence—that he formed a company and started renting a storage unit at about the same time?”
“What else would it be?”
“Are you aware of any relationship between Wrentmore and a woman named Valerie Calnero?”
“I’m not privy to Mr. Wrentmore’s personal relationships.”
“What if I told you that after he died—”
“Allegedly died.”
“After he died, Valerie Calnero took something from his storage unit. And shortly after that, she attempted to blackmail Tom Kristoll.”
Barstow shot her a condescending look. “In that case, I would say that this Calnero woman is in need of a lawyer. But I fail to see how her actions reflect on Mr. Wrentmore.”
“I’m sure you can look at it from our point of view,” said Shan. “Sean Wrentmore has this mysterious company, and an unexplained income. Then if we toss in the idea of blackmail—”
“You should be careful what you toss in,” Barstow said sharply. “Do you have evidence that Mr. Wrentmore is guilty of blackmail, or any other crime?”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “No. And we’d like to be able to eliminate it as a possibility, so we can move on to other matters.”
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Barstow rose behind the desk, picked up Laura Kristoll’s statement, and held it out. “You should move on then,” he said. “Mr. Wrentmore’s income is from entirely legitimate sources. You have my assurance.”
Shan was silent on the elevator and through the lobby of Barstow’s building. When they hit the
street he said, “Well, if we have his assurance . . .”
They were within sight of City Hall when Elizabeth’s cell phone rang.
“Where are you?” Harvey Mitchum asked her.
When she told him he said, “Do you have time to do me a favor? Run by Sean Wrentmore’s place?”
“What for?”
“I need to know his shoe size.”
Chapter 30
Mitchum had called from the Nichols Arboretum, a park on the shore of the Huron River. Elizabeth and Shan drove there together, left their car in a lot by the water, and walked along a broad dirt path to a spot at the foot of a hill where Mitchum stood with a tall, thin black woman in her fi fties.
The woman had a dog on a leash, a mixed breed that was mostly greyhound. For the benefit of Elizabeth and Shan, she explained that she had let the dog off his leash and he had run up the hill and into the woods. He had been gone a long time. He had returned with a shoe in his mouth—a white running shoe covered in dirt and stained with something that looked like blood.
The shoe was a size ten. Wrentmore had worn a nine-and-a-half—too close to rule out a match. Still, Elizabeth had her doubts. According to Laura Kristoll, Wrentmore had been struck on the head; it wasn’t clear how his blood would have ended up on his shoe. A call to David Loogan could have resolved the matter, if she could reach him and if he were willing to talk, but when she tried his number she got connected to his voice mail as usual.
In the end, there was nothing to do but have a look around. She and Mitchum and Shan climbed the trail up the hillside and fanned out into the woods. After an hour or so Ron Wintergreen joined them, bringing along one of the department’s police dogs. At three o’clock Elizabeth and Shan departed. Shan had been called away on another case. He dropped Elizabeth at City Hall. b a d t h i n g s h a p p e n
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Back at her desk, she worked up a report on their conversation with Wrentmore’s lawyer, then gathered Wrentmore’s mail from Shan’s desk and began to sort through it piece by piece. She was still at it when Alice Marrowicz came by, wearing a flowered dress like faded curtains.
“I’ve been calling hotels,” Alice said. “We already sent out a fax with David Loogan’s photo and description, but I’ve been following up like you suggested—asking if they’ve had anyone registered under the name Ted Carmady. I’ve gone through every hotel in town and a bunch in Detroit and the surrounding area. No luck yet. I’ll keep trying.”
“Thanks, Alice. But he’s smart enough to come up with a fresh alias. Don’t let this keep you from other work you have to do.”
“It’s no problem. I wish there were some other way I could help.”
Elizabeth combed her fi ngers through her hair. “You can help me with Wrentmore’s mail if you want.” She picked up one of his credit card bills.
“About all I’ve uncovered is that the man bought gas and groceries and occasionally went to a restaurant—where, from the looks of things, he ate alone.”
She had the mail in two piles. She transferred one of them to Shan’s desk. “This is the stuff I’ve already gone through,” she said. “See if anything jumps out at you.”
Alice settled into Shan’s chair and set to work, poring over each piece of mail as if it might lead her to a buried treasure. She was still there when Elizabeth left at fi ve o’clock.
Under a deep blue sky Elizabeth descended the steps of City Hall. As she walked to the parking lot, she thought about picking up groceries, getting home to her daughter.
She got her car out of the lot and aimed it south on Main Street. There were banners hung from lampposts. College students smoking in front of downtown shops. She crawled along for a while in rush hour traffic, and 2 3 0 h a r r y
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then, without intending to, found herself driving west toward David Loogan’s neighborhood. She found his street and drew up before his rented house. An X of yellow police tape marked the front door.
She left the car and drifted up the walk. Made her way onto the porch—
slow, hollow footsteps on the wooden planks. She stood by the porch swing and got out her phone. Entered Loogan’s number, expecting to get his voice mail again.
He answered on the second ring. “Detective Waishkey,” he said. “You startled me. I was just about to check my messages.”
Now that she’d reached him, she wasn’t sure what she would say. She sat on the porch swing, leaned back, put one foot up on the railing.
“Where are you?” she asked him.
“Always the optimist,” he said. “One of these times I might tell you.”
“I wish you would.”
“I wonder what would happen,” he said. “Would you send squad cars screaming down on me? Suppose I told you I was at the cemetery, standing by the fence where you and I talked the day of Tom’s funeral—”
The smallest pressure of her foot on the railing set the porch swing in motion. “I wouldn’t send squad cars. But I don’t think that’s where you are.”
“No, it’s not. How are things going? Did you talk to Sandy Vogel? Did you ask her if she told anyone about seeing Beccanti in Tom Kristoll’s offi ce?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
She relaxed into the motion of the swing. “I’m afraid that’s part of an ongoing investigation. I’d like to tell you, but technically I’m not supposed to. I might be willing to bend the rules, but only if you told me something in return.”
“Like what?”
“Like where Sean Wrentmore’s buried.”
“That’s a big something.”
“Let’s start smaller then. Is he buried in the Nichols Arboretum?”
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“No. Where’d you get that idea?”
“Someone found a shoe in the woods there today. It was roughly his size.”
“He’s not in the Arboretum. You shouldn’t waste your time there.”
“I already did,” she said. “A good part of the afternoon. Me and three other detectives and a police dog. That’s the way it’s going to be from now on, whenever anyone finds a scrap of clothing in the woods, or a patch of dirt that looks like it’s been disturbed. You need to tell me where to find Sean Wrentmore.”
“I’m not ready to do that yet,” he said.
She listened as the wind stirred the branches of a forsythia bush beside the porch.
“I know,” she said. “Wrentmore is your leverage. You know where he is, and you think you might use the information as a bargaining chip later on.”
The bare forsythia branches scratched the wooden railing. “You’re wrongly suspected of stabbing Michael Beccanti, and you think you’re going to figure out who really killed him, and maybe you’ll solve Tom Kristoll’s murder too, while you’re at it. But none of that is going to happen. Do you know why?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
“Because this isn’t a story in Gray Streets,” she said. “Listen, you know I’m right. You should come in now, and tell me where Wrentmore is, and we’ll go from there.”
“I’ll think about it. Give me a few more days.”
“Don’t think about it. Do it. I’m at your house right now. I’ll wait for you here. We’ll figure out what to do.”
He paused, and the pause gave her hope, but only for a moment.
“It’s tempting,” he said, “but I’m not ready yet. A few more days.”
Less than three miles away, Loogan turned off his phone and slipped it into a pocket. He looked down at the headstone of Tom Kristoll’s grave, then 2 3 2 h a r r y
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turned and jogged across the cemetery lawn to his car. He drove along the winding road to the gate and headed east toward downtown Ann Arbor. A few minutes later, he managed to find a metered parking space on a side street. He walked two blocks to Main, slipped into a café, found a table in front by the window. From there, he could look out at th
e building that housed the offices of Gray Streets.
His own face stared up at him from a discarded copy of the Ann Arbor News. He folded the paper over and smiled at a girl reading Kafka at another table. The corners of her mouth turned up briefly before she went back to her book. The photo in the paper had been a poor one to begin with, and he hardly resembled it now. He had shaved his head and bought a pair of drugstore reading glasses—black plastic frames and the weakest prescription he could find. He looked very much like every other man with a shaved head and glasses.
A moment later, the lobby door of the Gray Streets building opened, and a woman emerged. Sandy Vogel wore a long navy blue coat and had a handbag slung over her shoulder. She walked south along Main Street and when she was out of sight Loogan stood up. He smiled again at the girl reading Kafka, pushed through the door to the sound of a tinkling bell, and jogged across the street.
Elizabeth closed her phone and got up from the porch swing. She had called in to the department and talked to McCaleb. She had learned that Loogan’s cell phone company had traced his call to an area on the west side of Ann Arbor, near the intersection of Wagner and Jackson. Tom Kristoll had been buried in a cemetery off Jackson Road. Loogan had been telling her the truth. She thought of driving there to look for him, but he would be gone by now. And McCaleb had already dispatched patrol cars to search the area.
As she descended the steps of Loogan’s porch, she noticed a car parked across the street, partway down the block. The driver’s door opened and a b a d t h i n g s h a p p e n
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man climbed out—for a moment she had the crazy sense that it was Loogan. Then she saw that it was an old man in a rumpled suit, a man with gray, comb-over hair: Roy Denham, the detective from Nossos, New York. Closing the door, he leaned wearily against the car. He smiled as she approached, and the smile transformed his loose-jowled face. He said,
“Detective Waishkey, isn’t it?”
“Detective Denham,” she said. “How long have you been here?”
He checked his watch. “Nearly four hours,” he said. “I wanted to be of some use, and yet stay out of everyone’s way. Seemed like a good idea to watch Malone’s house.”