by Justin Scott
“How’d he parlay ten million into two-fifty?”
“First you answer my questions. Then I’ll answer yours. What did you see when you found the body?”
I asked Franco for a refill. Rose ordered a beer. Then I told him everything I’d told the state police. Rose asked some intelligent questions, and when we had hashed it out he asked, “So you still think he was shot from the woods?”
“Hey, I didn’t do the autopsy. I heard Steve guess it was close range. The woods were about fifty yards off.”
“How far was the tower?”
“Eighty yards.”
“Long shot with a deer slug.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“They think she shot him from the tower.”
“That will be a tough one to prove.”
“They don’t seem worried.”
“So how’d Ron Pearlman multiply ten million dollars into two hundred and fifty million?”
“He was well connected in Hong Kong from his old man’s fur coat factories. The government gave him grants to expand. Hot operation. The chip factory had some new process. A bunch of different American outfits wanted to control it for their own exclusive supply. They got in a bidding war. LTS won.”
“Connected, smart, and lucky.”
“Great combination,” Rose agreed. “I’d be envious, if he weren’t dead.”
“I don’t buy the lovers’ quarrel.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Why?”
“We’ll expect you to tell it to the jury.”
“What?”
“If it comes to a trial—and that’s certainly what the state’s attorney has in mind—we’d like you to appear as a sort of character witness.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you,” I said, though I had a bad feeling I was.
“You saw them together, right?”
“Briefly. Like I told you on the phone.”
“Well it’s too bad you blew the taping, but at least you saw them together. No one else has. They were really careful in New York. I got a shot of them getting into a cab, and some waiters who’ll testify they had lunch together. But in you I’ve got a well-connected local guy who can persuade the jury that Ron and Rita were deeply—nonviolently—in love. Nonviolently being the operative word here.”
“Wait a minute—”
“I know you don’t want to stand up in court and admit you were sneaking around the woods taking pictures.”
“You’re right about that.”
“But you were. And Mrs. Long’s freedom lies in the balance.”
“You’re forgetting my rep. The prosecutor will eat me for breakfast. He’ll discredit me to discredit my testimony.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He will.”
“Oh he’ll try to destroy you. No avoiding that. But he can’t discredit your testimony. I don’t care how much of a sleaze he reveals you to be, the jury will get that those two people adored each other.”
“I don’t want to be destroyed here. This is my home.”
“Sorry, fella. You want that woman to sit in jail for the rest of her life for something she probably didn’t do?”
“Probably?”
Rose shrugged. “Whether she blew him away is not the question. The question is Will she serve time for it? Now Mr. Long is up there with four of the top lawyers in New York to answer No. And I’m out hustling witnesses, to answer No.”
I started to protest. Rose cut me off. “This is not debatable. We’ll subpoena you. You’ll testify for the defense. And then you’ll duke it out with the prosecutor. No one’s asking if you want to do this. You’re doing it.”
“And if I refuse to testify?”
“Look what happened last time.”
I would have decked him right there in the cellar of the Yankee Drover, but whether I wanted to testify wasn’t the issue, because I’d seen something at the Castle that Rose had not. Rita’s spooky drawing would steamroller any sympathy I could build for the loving couple.
So instead of knocking him off his barstool, I said, “I’m sure she didn’t do it. I’ll do what I can to help her. But I’ll tell you right now, anything I say won’t help one damned bit the second the jury gets a load of one of Mrs. Long’s drawings in the studio.”
“Which one?”
I described the figure of Ron, naked with skull. “Like I say, I’m sure she didn’t kill him, but if you let them get her as far as a trial, they’ll show that picture. Any twelve northwest Connecticut jurors will take one look and say, Yup, a woman who’d draw a picture like that would shoot a man as soon as look at him. They’ll make me testify I saw her draw it and it’ll hang her.”
Rose took a leather-bound notepad from his jacket and opened it to the first page. “Bear with me just a minute.…Just checking their warrants.…No. There’s no such picture.”
“It’s on the smaller easel. The cops must have seen it. Ask your friend at the barracks.”
“No, I was just up there. The big one was a landscape—the view from the turret, as a matter of fact—”
“The little one. On the smaller easel.”
“No. That was a landscape, too. A pond and a fence. I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t there now and there’s no mention of it in the warrants.”
“You took it.”
“No. You said the cops would have seen it yesterday. I wasn’t there yesterday. Just you and her and Ron.” He closed his book and pocketed it with a satisfied smile.
I said, “There was someone else.”
“Who’s that?”
“The shooter.”
“Right,” said Rose. “The shooter.”
“You think she killed him, don’t you?”
“The jury won’t give a rat’s ass what I think.”
“But you think she did it.”
“I don’t care if she did it. My job’s to help get her off. Wake up, fella. Mr. Long’s paying for a program here: top criminal lawyers in court; me backing them up on the street. The man who’s paying says his wife will not go to jail.”
“Does he believe his wife killed her lover?”
“The state’s attorney has a pretty thin case so far. Mr. Long’s strategy is to scare off an indictment. Trouble is, you got a small-town prosecutor here who sees a chance to get famous trying a rich, beautiful defendant. So if it comes to a trial, you’re on, my friend.
“I asked you if Long believes his wife killed her lover.”
“He doesn’t confide in the help.” Rose got up from his stool. I put my hand on his elbow. He gave it a get-out-of-my-face look. I curled my fingers until I had his full attention.
“If I testify, I have to testify I saw her drawing.”
He tried to pull away. “I thought you said she’s innocent.”
“She is, but I can’t lie for her.”
I let go. Rose flexed his arm, muttering, “With a friend like you, she won’t need enemies.”
I switched to bourbon old-fashioneds. I’d had enough tomato juice, and felt like something sweet.
Chapter 11
Sunday didn’t get any better.
Around dark Franco cut me off, suggesting I appoint a designated walker to get me home. I was dimly aware he gave the sports crowd watching the TV a nod, and my walker appeared in the form of an agitated Vicky McLachlan, whom I had earlier sent away, saying I had no desire to talk about Renny, thank you.
“You don’t drink like this,” she noted, which was true, by and large. By the time I came up with a smart reply, we were already out the door, where I promptly forgot what I was going to say. The way home was a mismatch. Vicky is simply too short to steer a drunk and too lightly built to keep one from falling.
“Are you okay?”
I was in Scooter MacKay’s hedge. “Fine. I’m fine.”
Vicky turned away from a car full of staring voters. I coll
ected my thoughts. “I’m sorry you never got to know Renny.”
“I didn’t know you knew him that well.”
“Oh, I did.”
“But you didn’t hang out with him.”
“He was busy. And I was…busy.”
“Get out of the bushes.”
I climbed out, with her help. “Do you feel guilty?” she asked.
“Why should I?”
“I’ve never seen you so upset. You weren’t like this when your father died.”
“You hardly knew me when my father died.” He had gone suddenly, heart attack in the ambulance. I got home just in time for the funeral. She spoke well at the church.
“You were cool as ice.”
“Then, I felt guilty. …”
At my front door, I invited her in. Vicky bit her lip. “I’ll put you to bed.”
“I’m not sure I’m up—”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Lying in Scooter’s hedge, I had known that I had lost every inhibition and was about to renege again on my promise to myself to get out of Vicky’s life before I did serious damage. I groped her on the stairs—artfully, I thought. But Monday morning I awoke to every indication that I had spent the night alone.
***
My mind was clear, despite a ferocious headache. Two hangovers in a row were one too many, and I had no intention of chasing this one with beer and Bloody Marys; I had coffee in my office, paid a couple of bills, balanced my checkbook. August is always a slow month. This year September looked worse. At nine-thirty, I telephoned Trooper Boyce.
“I was just about to call you,” she answered the phone. “Wondering if your memory has improved at all.”
“Would you like to have lunch with me?” I asked.
I believe she was so surprised that she said Yes before she could say No. I suggested the Hopkins Inn, overlooking Lake Waramaug. We agreed on twelve-thirty.
I telephoned the New York Times and booked another ad for the Richardson place. One of these days it was going to sell—you can’t buy that kind of privacy easily—and I intended to be there at the closing. Then I walked over to the General Store and bought a Times, and the Danbury daily, to see what the papers had on Renny and Rita and Ron.
The Danbury News-Times gave what they called “The Death Plane” front-page treatment, with an equal-size headline for Rita’s arrest. She was described as a “wealthy weekender from New York City.” Bail hearings were scheduled for this morning, which meant the poor woman had spent the night in jail despite her hotshot attorneys.
The Times had twelve lines in the Metro section about Renny and his plane but not a word about Rita’s arrest. As I understand these things, the edition we get trucked up here leaves the printing plant about nine P.M. I wondered if they’d had time to print a story, or if Long’s lawyers had hired a publicist to sit on it.
We’re too far north to receive News Radio 88 from New York, and the local news tends to be of the canned national variety or the momentous public-broadcasting type. So what it came down to was that Rita’s arrest was being downplayed and nobody but a few locals cared about Renny. I had, of course, missed the TV news Sunday night but assumed that the Hartford stations, at least, had included interviews with major case squadders Bender and Boyce.
The latter arrived at the Hopkins Inn looking flatteringly flustered. I had the definite feeling that some small female-kid part of her wanted lunch to be a date, so I was flattered. She looked kind of cute in a brown suit, with a handbag big enough for an automatic, and her hair all fluffy. She had on more makeup than on Saturday. Eyeliner, mostly, and some shadow that turned her gray gaze silver.
“Sorry I’m late,” she greeted me.
“Bail hearing?”
“Denied.” She studied my reaction. I was surprised. I had figured Long’s legal muscle could spring Rita on bail. Of course, local courts don’t always cotton to $400-an-hour outside attorneys throwing their weight around.
Trooper Boyce said, “Should we order a drink or should I open my notebook?”
“Coffee for me. What would you like? And you’re going to need two notebooks.”
She spread her big hands on the table. “Two?”
“I want to talk to you about Rita Long and I want to talk to you about Renny Chevalley. Renny first.”
“I’m going to read you your rights.”
“No need.”
She read them anyway, in a low voice, by heart, while holding a menu. A prosperous-looking couple at the next table exchanged the little smile lovers do when they see another couple sharing a special moment.
“Are you ready?” I said.
“Do you understand your rights?”
“Yes, goddammit. This isn’t a confession.”
“But your memory has improved.”
“Renny first.”
“Go.”
“Renny Chevalley would not fly coke into Newbury.”
“How come?”
I told her all about my cousin. She listened, taking notes. When I was done, she said, “Your opinion is noted. It’s now part of our investigation.”
“No. You don’t get it. What everyone thinks happened up there didn’t happen. It’s something else.”
“What?”
“I have racked my brain. I can’t think, but it’s not what you see. If he was flying dope he was tricked into it. Maybe he discovered it and tried to stop them. Maybe that’s why they shot him.”
“We’ve considered that.”
“And?”
“We’re considering various possibilities. The problem with this theory is Why did they leave the coke behind?”
“The bag broke.”
“Maybe. But it would have been worth the trouble to stuff it in their pockets. Thousands of dollars. Dope smugglers usually do it for the money.” She saw my disappointment. “Tell you what I’ll do: I’ll follow up each of the facts you’ve laid out about your cousin’s life, his business. We’ll see what his financial situation was. Keep in mind, whatever he did, someone shot him, and that’s murder.”
I still hadn’t conveyed how absurd it was. “Saturday night I got the impression that the police think one smuggler killing another isn’t the crime of the century.”
Marian Boyce said, “I just told you, I’m investigating a murder. Two murders, actually. What did you recall about Mrs. Long?”
“Where did the plane come from?”
“Your cousin rented it in Danbury. What did you recall about Mrs. Long?”
“She didn’t do it.”
Marian Boyce gestured for me to continue.
“She didn’t do it,” I repeated.
“Who did?”
“I still think it was a hunting accident.”
“The coroner doesn’t agree. He was shot in the back from the turret. The slug struck him at a high angle.”
“The woods slope up sharply. It could have come from the woods. Thirty yards inside the trees, a hunter would be standing as high as the top of the tower.”
“We found no sign of a hunter.”
“Mrs. Long told me they had a prowler the night before.”
“Turned out to be a raccoon. Trooper Moody shot it.”
“What if the raccoon didn’t do it?”
“Huh?”
“What if there was a prowler and the raccoon happened to be the wrong raccoon in the wrong place at the wrong time?” I was not unaware that I had been the prowler; I was merely trying to get the detective’s attention. It wasn’t working. She inspected her nail polish.
I said, “You’ve probably figured out by now that they were lovers.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Has it occurred to you that her husband might have shot Ron?”
“Mr. Long was in the Rose Garden of the White House, having his picture taken with the President of the United States.…Do you have any more information?”
I ha
d no information, and, with Jack Long off the hook, only one theory. “If I find a hunter—a poacher—who shot him by accident, can I come straight to you?”
“Fast as you can dial 911.”
“I’m trying to tell you she didn’t do it.”
“You’ve got the same problem with your cousin: You’re not telling me why.”
“I just know it. I know she could not have killed Ron.”
“Why?”
“She loved him too much.”
“Wait a minute. You said you met her at the cookout. And you went to appraise her house. Then you drank a glass of champagne in her turret. If that was your total contact with the woman, how do you know she loved her boyfriend too much to kill him?”
I was close to telling her about the video and the couple I saw they were. But I was afraid it would lead to more misery for Rita Long rather than less, so I said, “By the way she held his body.”
“I hope the food here is worth the drive.” She put away her notebook. “So tell me, what’s it like to grow up a rich kid?”
“I wasn’t a rich kid.”
“Trooper Moody said your father was mayor. Mine pounded a beat in New Haven. To me, you’re a rich kid.”
“Well, in that case, it was very pleasant growing up in Newbury. A little boring, but we made our own fun.”
“I heard the guys at the barracks laughing about some fun you made with Trooper Moody.”
I couldn’t stop the grin that jumped on my face. “The next time you see Ollie, watch how he always walks behind his car before he gets in.”
“Wha’d you do? They wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why not?”
“One thousand state police. Fifty women.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, but I got the impression that being tough enough to handle bigotry didn’t mean she didn’t get lonely. So I said, “Renny helped.”
“Is that supposed to be a character reference?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, because he was backing me up. Trooper Moody had done something pretty awful to me.”
“What?”
“A cop thing.…I was a teenager. It seemed like a big deal at the time.”
“Did he humiliate you in front of your friends?”
“How’d you guess?”