Black Diamond Fall

by Joseph Olshan

  Sam is stirred from his reverie by the ringing telephone. He picks up to hear the voice of Heather Finlayson, the dog-sitter.

  “Sorry I couldn’t talk to you much when you cane to pick up Panda,” she tells him. “I’ve been wondering—I just want to know—how you’re doing?” she says.

  “I wish I knew how I was doing,” he replies.

  February 21; Reading, Vermont; 13 degrees, heavy snow

  Jenkins stands on the front porch of Heather Finlayson’s house in six inches of new snow. It is late afternoon and his knock has driven the league of dogs inside into apoplectic barking. “Shut up!” he hears someone shouting. “Everybody in your crate! Pronto!” And when she answers the door a few minutes later, the barking has miraculously died down. He enters a living room with bare old pine floors covered by a traditional, mauve-colored cable knit rug. Dog crates are positioned all around the room and, looking from one crate to the other, Jenkins feels watched by many pairs of eager, curious eyes. “How much time do they spend in confinement?” he asks after they greet each other.

  “Only at mealtimes and at night and when people come over to leave or pick up a dog,” Heather says. “I don’t have a lot of company. Or, I suppose I should say, human company.”

  She is a large-boned woman of around sixty with short dark hair that has a pink streak running down the middle of her head. Her movements are quick and spry, and she looks at Jenkins with wry discernment. “Have a seat,” she says. Jenkins complies.

  “I thought it would be better to see you in person this time rather than speak to you on the phone.”

  “That’s fine,” she says.

  One of the dogs begins to yip and Heather snaps: “Give it up, Crosby!” The dog quickly obeys and goes silent.

  “You certainly have them under control,” Jenkins remarks.

  Heather stabs a finger into her own chest. “I’m the alpha in this house.” She gazes at him with narrowed eyes. “So what’s going on? Why are you here?”

  “I’m here because of my conversation with Sam Solomon last night.”

  “What about it?” Heather asks.

  “Well, if you recall, when I was first trying to locate Sam and called you, we discussed the fact that on February eleventh, after Sam Solomon left his dog here, you subsequently telephoned him at home.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And he dropped his dog off at?”

  “Just before five o’clock. Sam is punctual. If anything, he comes early. If he’s even three minutes late, I start worrying.”

  Jenkins nods. “And you spent some time chatting with him?”

  “A little bit, yes.”

  “How long was he here, would you say?”

  “You’ve asked me this before.”

  “Then I apologize for the repetition.”

  “Did you not believe me when you asked me the first time?”

  “I want to make sure I am clear about what happened.”

  She looks at him with skepticism and then says, “He was here at the most five minutes.”

  “Do you happen to remember what you talked about?”

  Heather considers this for a moment and then says, “I told him I thought it was good he was getting away. I told him I’d been worrying about him ever since he broke up with that kid.”

  “Anything else?”

  Heather looks up at the ceiling and then shrugs. “I don’t know. I probably told him I inherited $300,000 from my mother and because of that I was going to cut back on dog care. But that I would always have room for Panda. She’s easy as pie. She’s a real love.”

  “And then you called him at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you call him at home?”

  “Because I didn’t think he’d left enough dog food.”

  “And what time did you call him?”

  “Like I told Sam yesterday, six twenty-eight on my clock,” Heather says.

  Jenkins hesitates, carefully framing his next question, and then decides to be blunt. “We when spoke originally, you told me you called him at five fifteen.”

  “No, Sam told you I called him at five fifteen.”

  “He did tell me that.”

  “Well, then you’ve gotten us confused. When you called me, I told you I called him. My memory is you didn’t ask me what time I called him.”

  Jenkins believes this is untrue, but says, “Then that’s a huge mistake on my part. Not asking you what time. And if so, I apologize.”

  “Says Mr. ex-FBI.”

  And he carefully watches Heather Finlayson’s face for a wrinkle of tension. Because, as Kennedy points out, Heather could now be trying to help Sam out by insisting she hadn’t been asked what time she’d called Sam and now claiming she’d called him at 6:28 p.m. on the evening of February eleventh. If this were true, he could not have driven to Carleton, met up with Luc and then driven down to Boston and arrived at Logan Park and Ride by 10:03 in the evening. But this will be easily verified by checking the phone records.

  “So you called him at six twenty-eight?”

  “Correct.”

  “It’s a very specific time. Not six twenty, or six forty, but six twenty-eight.”

  “I called him right before the six thirty news went on. And it’s a good thing I did because look what happened, he got injured and was away a lot longer than he planned. So I did need to get her more dog food. By the way, I didn’t charge him for the extra days Panda was with me.”

  “That was generous of you.” Jenkins hesitates and then says, “I don’t suppose you remember the kind of dog food Panda eats?”

  Heather glares at him. “Mister, are you testing my memory?”

  “Not really. Just curious if you recall.”

  They hear the tinny-sounding yapping of a dog coming from the far-off kitchen. “Hey, Serena, give it up!” Heather cries. Then to Jenkins she explains, “That’s my dachshund bitch. If you really want to know, she’s the real alpha queen around here. Even I kowtow to her.”

  Jenkins resumes. “So why did you call Sam earlier today?”

  Heather Finlayson explains that she didn’t have a chance to talk to Sam when he picked up Panda. “I just wanted to know how Sam’s doing. With all that’s been going on.”

  “I see. So that was your first contact with him since he picked up his dog?”

  “That’s right.” There is an awkward lull and then she asks, “Do you think he has anything to do with this kid’s disappearance?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’d like to know what you think,” Jenkins tells her.

  “Me? What I think?” Heather Finlayson intones. “How would I know? The only thing I know is he’s completely obsessed.”

  “Completely obsessed?” Jenkins repeats.

  “With that kid.”

  “Okay. And so if he’s obsessed—”

  “Now let me ask you a question,” Heather interrupts. “If my calling Sam means that he couldn’t have driven up to Carleton . . .”

  “Did I say that?”

  “No, I’m saying it. But couldn’t they have met somewhere?”

  “Luc’s car never left the street outside his apartment.”

  “What about Luc hitchhiking?”

  “In the middle of winter? Why would he do that? If he has a car.”

  Heather shrugs. “He’s hitchhiked down here before. Sam told me he did.”

  February 22; Carleton, Montpelier, Woodstock, Vermont; 21 degrees, gray skies

  Kennedy is driving an unmarked official car, and they are halfway up College Hill. It is one of those dark, saturnine winter days when the sky remains dreary and the air promises snow that is never delivered. They are heading to a symposium on cyber attacks that is being sponsored by the Computer Science Department at the University
of Vermont. Glancing in the side view mirror, Jenkins gains a glimpse of the harbor front of Lake Champlain, a place that becomes so much more alive and vibrant when the weather is warmer. Now, the watery plain that separates Vermont from New York State unfolds toward the horizon; it’s a sullen, monotonous pewter.

  Kennedy is saying, “Anyway, despite what Sam claims, we have to consider that Luc may have hitchhiked down to South Woodstock on February eleventh.”

  “Goes without saying,” Jenkins replies.

  The previous evening, subsequent to his conversation with Heather Finlayson, Jenkins asked Sam about Luc hitchhiking down to South Woodstock. Sam explained that Luc had stopped hitchhiking down to see him in October when it got colder.

  “And you believe Sam’s explanation that Luc hitchhiked because he didn’t want his roommates to know where he was driving?”

  “He was paranoid that they’d find out.”

  “Why would it matter so much if and what they knew?”

  Jenkins looks over at her. “How many college jocks do you know who are struggling with their sexuality?”

  “I don’t know many college athletes, period.”

  “Right. So here we have a twenty-two-year-old athlete who breaks off a heavy affair with an older man and starts dating a woman his own age. For me that says a lot.”

  There is edgy silence and then Kennedy says, “Okay, I hear you. But I am still not going to close myself off to the idea that, at the very least, Sam and Luc may have met up somehow.”

  “Okay, met up somehow. And then?”

  “Something could have happened between them that really set Luc Flanders off. Set him off on a . . . tangent where he could have ended up somewhere else and maybe have been harmed. And Sam is sitting on it, the fact that they met.”

  Jenkins ponders this as Kennedy makes the turn into a long driveway that proceeds behind several of the university’s tall, nineteenth-century brick Victorian buildings. At last he says, “Okay, I’ll press that with him,” as she pulls into a faculty parking area behind the new science hall. “And who says we can leave the car here?”

  “I do.” She reaches over him, opens the glove compartment and extracts a University of Vermont campus security pass.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I have my ways,” Kennedy says with a smirk.

  During the seminar, Jenkins feels his phone vibrate and sees a text from Barbara Kessler, the state police lieutenant down in Bethel. Call me ASAP.

  Gently elbowing Kennedy, Jenkins shows her the text. Kennedy whispers, “Wonder why she didn’t message me.” Bending down to avoid attracting attention, he makes his way out of the lecture hall, strolls quickly through a throng of students waiting in front of another seminar room and hurries down the hallway where there is suitable quiet. “Kessler!” She picks up after the first ring.

  “Hey, it’s Jenkins,” he says.

  “Hello, Nick.”

  “Kennedy’s pissed that you didn’t text her.”

  “I couldn’t find her number. Apologize for me.”

  “So what do you have?”

  “What do I have? I have Sam Solomon in custody.”

  Jenkins laughs despite himself. “Come on.”

  “Get this story. Early this morning, a woman named Heather Finlayson, who told me you went to see her last night, was driving one of her dog sittees back to its bed-ridden owner when a pickup truck went into her at a higher speed and ran her off the road. She was pretty reluctant to ID the offending car. But it was Sam Solomon’s.”

  “Did she see him?”

  “She believes so but isn’t sure.”

  “It makes no sense.” Jenkins goes on to say that an article in that day’s Valley News reported Heather’s testimony to Jenkins had made Solomon’s presence in Carleton on the night of February twelfth all but impossible.

  “Yeah, I know. I saw it,” Kessler says.

  “So where did you arrest him?”

  “At home. Swears up and down he’s been there all day and that somebody must’ve stolen his car.”

  “Without him knowing it?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  Jenkins goes quiet, trying to piece it all together. “So where are we?”

  “How about I hold him until you get here?”

  “Okay. We’ll head down there now.”

  Kennedy is driving again, and they are on the interstate just passing Montpelier, Vermont’s capital city. The weather seems (at least momentarily) much improved. The sun at intervals is breaking through the heavy clouds to strike the gold capitol dome, which responds with a Byzantine glint. “Ever spend time here?” Jenkins asks.

  “Can’t say I have,” Kennedy answers. “Apparently Montpelier’s got more liberals per capita than Burlington.”

  Knowing Kennedy’s politics skew toward the conservative, Jenkins glances over at her. “Got a problem with that?”

  “Obviously not. I mean, I do live in Vermont—voluntarily.”

  There is an uncomfortable pause. At last, Kennedy glances over at Jenkins. “Admit it, this little development is . . . Why would somebody take the risk of going to Sam’s house to steal his car? Especially when he has a dog that could bark and alert him. And why didn’t Sam hear his own car driving off?”

  Jenkins says, “It’s winter? It’s windy? Maybe the dog recognized the person who came up and took the car?”

  “In that case, Luc Flanders would be the most likely person.”

  “If only.”

  “Well, we’ll see if he’s telling the truth.”

  “And if he is?” Jenkins asks. “If somebody actually did steal his car?”

  “Then they must not be too happy that he now has an alibi,” Kennedy says.

  They finally arrive at the state barracks in Bethel. Sam has been sitting with Barbara Kessler, a svelte exceptionally pretty state police lieutenant whose appearance completely belies her capabilities. From Kennedy, Jenkins knows that Kessler has a black belt in karate and is the one who teaches the state police trainees how to subdue rowdy and recalcitrant male citizens who fall under the stupid delusion that they can intimidate law enforcement, or motorists who fume and sputter at the $300-plus speeding tickets that the state of Vermont loves to hand out. Sam’s crutches are nowhere to be seen.

  “You didn’t really take his sticks away from him, did you?” Kennedy says to Kessler.

  The lieutenant grins broadly. “Course not. They’re behind the door. They were taking up space, so I parked them. Sorry I didn’t text you, Helen.”

  “I’m over it. But can you please program me into your phone?” She nudges Jenkins. “I’m not his gopher.”

  Jenkins turns to Sam. “So what’s new?”

  Looking distraught, Sam says, “I have no clue. You tell me.”

  Glancing at Kessler, Jenkins says, “Hey, come around the corner with me for a second?” He glances at Kennedy as if to ask permission.

  “It’s okay. I’ll get to know Sam a little bit. Go on.”

  The lieutenant gets up from her chair, carefully straightens her pant legs and follows him. Once they are out of earshot, Jenkins says, “So what did Heather Finlayson say exactly?”

  “She was very reluctant, but she said she saw him.”

  “She saw him, she saw Solomon behind the wheel of his own car?”

  “Saw the back of his head when he drove away.”

  “So that’s not quite a positive ID. Would you agree?”

  Kessler shrugs. “I guess I’d have to agree. I decided to bring him in because we were able to match the blue paint on her car to his truck.”

  “I think it’s a good call. I certainly would have brought him in.”

  “But by the way, Heather Finlayson ranted a little bit about how you originally neglected to ask her what time she calle
d Solomon.”

  “That’s her claim. But not my distinct recollection.” Jenkins sighs. “And quite honestly, I worry how reliable a witness she actually is.”

  “Well, in this case, she is because of the paint match. So if anybody is lying, it’s Sam Solomon.”

  When Jenkins and Kessler return to the examining room, he looks over at Kennedy, who says to Sam, “So now give us your version.”

  Sam’s face is a mask of distress. “Not much to say except I was not driving my car.”

  “Any idea who might have been driving it?” Jenkins asks.

  “I’ve been racking my brain. I mean, what would be my motivation for running Heather Finlayson off the road? She just gave you concrete proof that before I went to Boston, I couldn’t get to Carleton on February eleventh. So I should be thanking her, not antagonizing her.”

  Kennedy says, “But leaving that aside, you did neglect to tell us—that Luc sometimes hitchhiked down to see you.”

  Sam faces her squarely. “Doesn’t matter if he hitchhiked. As I’ve said all along, I have not seen him since the end of December. And I did not rear-end Heather Finlayson this morning.”

  Kennedy continues, “Then let’s get down to logistics. The person who stole your car had to get hold of your keys—”

  “I leave them in the car. As do most people in Vermont.”

  Kennedy turns to Jenkins. “I told him I was from New Jersey. Now he’s patronizing me.” And then to Sam, “But you have a dog who presumably barks.”

  “Yes. All the time whenever somebody comes to the house.”

  “And yet she didn’t this time,” Lieutenant Kessler says.

  “I honestly don’t know why she didn’t this time.”

  Kennedy says, “Would she bark if she recognized the person?”

  Sam considers this. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. She never barked when Luc arrived, for example.”

  There is knock on the door and a stout, non-uniformed woman opens it. “Lieutenant, just a moment.”

  “Can it wait?” Kessler asks.

  The woman shakes her head. “No, it can’t.”

  Turning to them, the lieutenant says, “My apologies for the intrusion. Just keep going. I’ll be right back.”