by Karen Pullen
“You came all this way? Where’s your car?”
“I flew.”
“Well, I’ll drive us both home. You can collect the mileage if you want, you don’t have to pay me. Hop in.”
I started breathing again and he laughed, his perfect white teeth gleaming as he boomed, “Ha, ha, ha! You thought I was gonna try to escape?”
I didn’t think it was funny, but waited until we were seated in his car to tell him why. “Lincoln, when forensics looked over your Jag they found something.”
He turned his head slightly to look at me. “What?”
“Kent Mercer’s blood on a floor mat. It looks suspicious. You have to come in for questioning.”
Lincoln banged his hands on the steering wheel. “I’ve done nothing! I’ll tell you what happened!”
This is why I got on the plane and flew to Reston, exposing myself to the predations of strange men, snarled traffic, and the fury of a certain Special Agent in Charge. I prayed silently that Lincoln would indeed tell the truth. I got out a tissue to pat my damp hair, which had bulked up to twice its normal size in the ninety-nine-percent humidity.
Lincoln was silent.
I waited.
Finally, he said, “Stella, I guess I’m glad you found out. ’Cause it’s been very difficult carrying this around. Yes, I went to Kent’s house. But he was dead when I got there.”
“What time was this?”
“Man, I don’t know. Two forty-five?”
“You didn’t tell anyone.”
“I saw two possible outcomes. First one: I’d be charged with the murder. No matter what evidence, the fact I was there and the man was dead would be enough to charge me. Happens all the time if you’re a black man, I don’t care how famous. Second outcome: I don’t get arrested ’cause the police don’t have evidence, but I’m a suspect. People find out Kent’s been stealing from me. The press makes up trash about me. Soon I’m a tabloid joke.
“Now it doesn’t matter to me what people say, I know who I am. But it matters to my family. It matters a hell of a lot. You ever been hounded by the press? There’s nothing worse.”
Lincoln was right. And wrong. He was involved, always had been, but he had withheld crucial information from the police.
“Can you go through that afternoon at Kent’s? Every little detail.”
We were stopped at a light, and he turned and looked at me. “Let’s see. Okay, Kent was supposed to call me around two, arrange to meet. He stood me up, the bastard. I called him but he didn’t answer. That didn’t mean he wasn’t home. He never answers his phone. So I drove over there. He doesn’t answer the doorbell. The door was unlocked so I went in and looked for him. The sliders were open to the deck, I walked out, and there he was, on the patio. Man, that was a horrifying sight.”
I watched Lincoln for signs he might be lying. He met my gaze directly, though tiny muscles around his eyes quivered with tension. “He was lying on the patio. So you went down the steps?”
The light turned green and Lincoln eased ahead. Traffic was heavy; it was almost five o’clock and the office buildings were emptying out. “Yeah, on the chance he might still be alive. I checked the pulse in his neck, but he was dead. Guess that’s when I stepped in his blood. I did my five seconds of thinking and cleared out of there, like my mama taught me—walk away from trouble. Went home. The rest is like I said before.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Nope.”
“Not even the little girl?”
“Nope. If I’d seen the kid I would’ve spoken up, you know? Helped out any way I could. I was mighty relieved when she was found. I heard your name was pinned to her clothes.”
If Lincoln told the truth, he’d arrived right after the murder. Perhaps the killer saw him there and felt threatened. I could understand why someone wouldn’t want to attack a man Lincoln’s size with a purple bird’s-beak paring knife. But why engineer a car accident for him? Risk being seen in the hospital, giving him an overdose?
On the other hand, Lincoln admitted to being on the patio and stepping in the blood. He could have killed Mercer and discarded his clothes, but forgotten to clean his shoes and the floor mats. But surely he hadn’t cut his own brake lines, engineered a morphine overdose. And that wasn’t his bloody fingerprint under the deck.
“So if it wasn’t you, who killed Kent Mercer?”
“He must’ve been into some bad trouble.”
Did Kent’s bad trouble—bugging phones, selling prescription drugs, and having sex with the babysitter—add up to murder? I couldn’t share all that with Lincoln.
He let me out at the Cumberland to get my rental car. He followed me while I returned it to the airport, then drove us both back to Raleigh, a five-hour trip. We talked, a conversation strained by mistrust. I was investigating a murder, he was involved, and the complications made us both tense even though the topics—our dogs, football, his kids—were neutral enough.
Lincoln told me about Clementine. Her compulsions and phobias tended to flare up when she was under stress. They’d first appeared after she and Lincoln were married. She’d been working as a legal secretary and going to law school nights. They were worried about money as Lincoln was still in college, playing ball. Her father had moved in with them for a few weeks, a difficult time for Clementine since he wanted money for gambling. One day Lincoln saw her freeze at the front door, unable to leave the apartment until she tapped the frame sixty-four times, eight times eight. She had already been using tapping to alleviate anxiety, but it was surreptitious—toe-tapping during a test, head nodding before she paid at the grocery store.
“Sometimes I pick her up and set her on the other side,” Lincoln said.
“Doesn’t that freak her out?”
“No, it’s fine. She appreciates it. Going through, someone carrying her—fine. Walking herself through, now that’s impossible.”
“What helps? Meds?”
“And therapy. Her old doc in Reston cured her. The kids, the pro football life, practicing law—she could handle anything. But when we moved back to Verwood and I bought the restaurant, she started to unravel. Dr. Emilie Soto was helping her, but then—you know—the shooting—so I went up to see the doc we’d used before, get his opinion. He wanted a face-to-face.”
“You didn’t tell Clementine where you were going?”
“Yeah, now that’s a problem. Clementine doesn’t always want to be helped. She thinks she’s managing, you know? Only she can hardly leave the house, and it’s really hard to watch her struggle with it. So I had to consult her old doc. He gave me the name of a therapist in Raleigh we can try.” He sighed. “Between my wife and the restaurant and finding Kent’s body—it’s been too much.”
I didn’t say anything. It was a challenge to drum up sympathy for someone so wealthy, famous, and respected.
“The restaurant’s on my mind all the time. By the way, are you coming to the engagement bash—Zoë Schubert and Bill Newell? At Clemmie’s tomorrow night?”
“No. Lots of people?”
“Around two hundred. Starts at eight with cocktails. Then a sit-down dinner and ten-piece dance band.”
“Nice party. Good business for you, Lincoln.”
“Yeah. Though that Zoë is a piece of work.”
“How so?”
“Talk about anxiety! She worries every detail to death. Man! What kinda oil in the salad dressing? Which ranch is the beef from? Who makes the goat cheese and how often do they wash their hands?”
I tried to laugh, until my cracked rib sent a stabbing reminder—someone with a rifle was trying to kill me.
CHAPTER 29
Friday morning
My phone’s gentle chimes woke me. My head throbbed, my side hurt like hell.
Sam asked, “Are you okay?”
“Uh, just woke up. I’m fine.”
“Sorry to be calling so early but my cell doesn’t work out at your grandma’s place. I’ve been meaning to tell you—I really enjo
yed myself last Saturday.”
I had to think fast—enjoyed what? Too much had happened. “Mmmm,” I said, hoping for a clue.
“Too bad you had to leave so quickly,” Sam said.
Aha—the dance at Essex Mills. I remembered the pleasurable feeling of his hands on my waist, his graceful and gentle maneuvers around the floor, occasionally brushing up against each other in a comfortable accidental way, in the shadowy room with the starry lights. The too-short kiss, broken by Hogan’s tap on my shoulder. It seemed eons ago.
I got up, stretched slowly, careful of my injuries and mountain-climbing muscles. “I had a good time, too. A very good time.” Up until the knife in the cheese.
“We’re finishing the work at your grandma’s tomorrow. She’s invited a crowd for a party in the afternoon. Hope you’ll be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I meant it, tried to sound confident. Sam and his work on Fern’s house were the one happy corner in my life.
Do the hard thing first. Somewhere I’d read that was a practice of successful people, and dammit, I was tired of failure. I made a pot of coffee, slid the CD of decrypted recordings into my computer, and tried to pay attention—Temple reading to Paige, the gravelly voice of Bryce making his deals, Lincoln calling home to find out what time he was supposed to pick up Sue after her violin lessons. Silly splicings. I was nearly weeping from boredom until suddenly a new conversation came out of my computer.
Or not new, depending on how you define “new.” It was bits of Lincoln Teller (taken from calls he’d made to Clementine) in a dialogue with Ursula (ditto, to George). It was meant to sound like they were talking to each other. It didn’t quite work.
Lincoln: Hey, how’re you doing?
Ursula: Good, good. Are you busy?
Lincoln: Can’t wait to see you tonight.
Ursula: I should be done here about five. Can you pick me up?
Lincoln: Sounds good.
Ursula: We’ve waited too long.
Lincoln: You know it, baby.
I laughed out loud. Merle looked up. He didn’t hear me laugh very often; that was something I needed to work on. I recognized all of the dialogue from previous recordings—Ursula asking George to pick her up; Lincoln greeting a golf buddy with “Hey, how’re you doing?” “We’ve waited too long” came from a call Ursula had made to her son’s school, to complain about the lack of services for his learning disability. Mercer must have spent hours listening to the mundane and trivial conversations he’d recorded, trying to find the pieces that could be spliced together in a suggestive way. What had Mercer done with this file? It certainly sounded faked to me, because I’d heard the originals it was taken from. Could Ursula explain it to her husband, who, according to Fern, “fixes cars”? Had George been fooled enough to “fix” Lincoln’s Jaguar?
“Here’s a scenario,” I said to Merle. “Let’s say Kent Mercer tries to blackmail Ursula, which won’t get him much—she’s not wealthy. She isn’t the source of the fifty thousand in his bank account. But go with it: suppose George finds out, and believes what he hears on the CD, the implication Lincoln is having an affair with Ursula. George tries to kill Lincoln, twice. But why would George kill Kent Mercer? George’s jealousy could be a motive, but usually it’s the wife or lover who is killed. And why shoot at Dr. Soto? It doesn’t scan, buddy.”
Merle’s tail swished in agreement.
“Try it another way. Mercer tries to blackmail Lincoln, who is wealthy enough to be the source of the cash. Even though this recording is faked and not credible evidence, Lincoln pays him off and then kills him. Somehow, Clementine hears the recording, and is so furious she tries to kill Lincoln, twice.”
Merle’s pumpkin-gold eyes searched my face for a hint that this conversation might lead to a snack.
“What’s wrong with these scenarios, you ask? June Devon and the missing baby. Dr. Soto doesn’t figure. And Clementine can’t even walk through a doorway. How could she commit murder? She would rant, maybe throw something, but she’s a civilized woman.”
Merle’s tail thumped.
“Okay, I know, civility is on the surface. Corner a human and you’ll get a vicious animal. Present company excluded, Merle, and thank you for listening.” I gave him a cheese cracker.
I clicked “play” and listened to the last audio file—another version of the Lincoln-Ursula dialogue, this one even sillier. Frustrated and impatient, I shut the computer down.
Anselmo called to tell me Lincoln was coming into his office for questioning and I needed to be there. “Ten o’clock.”
“Can you keep it confidential?” I asked.
“He’s tough, Stella. He’s used to being banged around.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But the media will treat him like just another celebrity who uses violence to get what he wants. Fodder for the tabloids. He’ll be ruined.”
“You’re exaggerating. And what if he’s guilty? He deserves whatever he gets.”
“Right now all you have are footprints. Those aren’t proof of murder.”
“The sheriff isn’t going to handle him any different from any other material witness. Let’s agree to disagree on this.”
An hour later I drove downtown. A few blocks from the law enforcement center, traffic slowed. Dozens of cars were circling, searching futilely for parking spaces. A bevy of reporters milled in front of the building, including video crews from the network news affiliates. The irresistible combination of a Silver Hills murder and Lincoln’s celebrity drew the media like Japanese beetles to Fern’s roses.
Now, seeing the media swarm in the parking lot, I realized I needed to avoid them, too. Fern would be thrilled to see my face on the News at Ten, but my boss wouldn’t. The only publicity the SBI likes are exact quotes from heavily edited press releases. I drove a block away, parked in an elementary school lot, then walked back to the center and knocked on a side door. For five minutes.
Finally Deputy Chamberlain opened the door a crack. “No press,” she said firmly, trying to close it, but I’d already inserted my right foot, left hand, and right shoulder.
I smiled sweetly. “I’m not press, I’m here to see Lt. Morales, and don’t you remember me?”
She peered through the opening. “Sure. Your face looks much better.” She let me in, then pushed the door closed and tested the lock.
“Is it crazy here?”
“You don’t even know.” She chuckled. “And you’re in for a surprise.”
“Tell me.” I knew Lincoln would be interviewed, but I thought I knew what he’d say.
“I don’t want to spoil it. But you’ll be glad you stopped by.”
I walked down the hall to the first interview room. Lincoln wasn’t there. Instead, I saw June Devon, looking decorous in a black dress and pearls, her hair in a tidy twist. Next to her was her lawyer, Harry Edwards, a dapper gent—that’s how I’d always thought of him—holding an unlit stogie in one hand and June’s paint-speckled fingers in the other. He was whispering to her. All my grandmother’s friends loved Harry. In his seventies, three times divorced, now single, he bedded many women. He didn’t pursue them so much as hang around and admire, offer to give a back rub, prune the roses, and make a cup of hot chocolate. Before long, treating a woman like a valued treasure instead of the person who picks up his dirty underwear, he was the friend most men wouldn’t be. This according to Fern; Harry hadn’t worked his way down to my age bracket yet.
Nonetheless, Harry was a decent lawyer, and since June was guilty as hell, he’d have done his best to persuade her to work with us rather than face the ordeal of a trial and a potentially lengthy jail sentence.
June straightened in her chair as I entered the room. “You still have that bump,” she said, pointing to my head.
“Hi, Harry,” I said. He stood and gave a little bow.
“I’ve come to confess,” June said. “Your buddy Morales talked with the DA.”
“Well, dear, not confess, exactly. Explain,” Harry
said. “We’re negotiating a plea bargain.”
I suppressed a grin. Fern had done good work, convincing June to come clean. “What’s the offer?” I asked. So far, the DA had charged June only with breaking and entering. An abduction charge was being considered, offset by the fact that June had rescued Paige from a dangerous situation.
“Drop the B and E charge; she’ll plead guilty to theft. She needs to care for Erwin. He won’t survive if she goes to jail.” Harry patted June’s arm lovingly. June beamed at him.
I didn’t quite agree. Erwin looked tough enough to survive in the desert eating mashed-up scorpions. But I could understand June’s dilemma—Erwin needed on-site management. “In return for full disclosure, of course,” I said.
“Why, yes,” said June. “I’ll leave nothing out. Spill the beans. Tell all.”
Anselmo came into the room, raised his eyebrows. “Busy day. We can’t decide who to arrest for what.” He beckoned me into the hall. “You saw the ballistics report? Her husband’s gun was used in the Soto shooting?”
“Are you charging her?”
“Not for anything connected to the gun.” He handed me a tape recorder. “You’ll need this. The video recorder isn’t working.” He opened the door to the interview room and motioned me in. He turned to June and Harry. “Mrs. Devon, the DA accepts your offer. He’ll withdraw all charges except misdemeanor theft. He’ll ask the judge to grant immunity from further charges in this case and sentence you to ninety days’ house arrest. Now I’m going to leave Agent Lavender in charge. She’ll record your interview.” He winked at me, raising my body temp a degree. I wrenched my attention back to June and Harry, and turned on the tape recorder. I’d record for Anselmo’s benefit. The SBI would want a written report, so I would also take notes.
“Mrs. Devon, even though you’ve told this story before, we need your statement to be complete. Please start at the beginning, the day of Kent Mercer’s murder,” I said.