02 - The Guilty Plea

by Robert Rotenberg

  “That’s correct,” Greene said. “Question number one,” Cutter asked. “Is my client a suspect?”

  “Not at this time. We’re at the early stages,” Greene said. “That’s why we want to speak to her.”

  “April won’t make any statements at this meeting.” Cutter’s usually nervous body was calm, focused on Greene. Kennicott had seen Cutter like this in court, where his intensity could intimidate even the most confident witness.

  Greene didn’t look fazed.

  “Barbara, pass out copies of our prepared statements,” Cutter said. “April already has hers.” He didn’t take his eyes off Greene.

  Gild had a small stack of bound papers in front of her. She gave copies to Greene and Kennicott and Cutter and kept one for herself. Goodling fingered the copy in front of her.

  “These sworn affidavits demonstrate Ms. Goodling’s complete cooperation with this investigation.” Cutter leafed through the papers. “They’re from the night desk manager at the Gladstone Hotel, from the head of security operations there, and from Mr. Peter Bluin.” He pointed at the muscle-bound man standing behind Goodling. “Mr. Bluin is Ms. Goodling’s personal security guard. Between the hours of ten p.m. on Sunday evening, August sixteenth, and eight a.m. on Monday morning, August seventeen, Ms. Goodling was at the hotel and never left. She has a complete alibi.”

  Greene read through the legal papers slowly. “Ms. Goodling,” he said, putting the pages down, “where were you earlier in the day yesterday? Before you got back to the hotel.”

  Kennicott thought she was about to speak when Cutter sliced his arm down in front of her, as if he were lowering a barrier.

  “My client insisted on being here today. Against our advice, I might add. She was supposed to leave early this morning, but stayed. She’s going back to the States tonight. We both know she’s not legally required to answer any questions. I repeat, she’ll make no statements.”

  “I’ve every right to question her.” Greene was calm. “Whether she wants to answer me or not, that’s her decision.”

  “This meeting’s over,” Cutter said.

  Ignoring Cutter, Greene turned to Goodling. “We solve crimes because citizens help. Here’s my card. Call me.” He clicked his pen and wrote down a number. “That’s my personal cell. It’s always on.”

  Greene held out the card and she took it. He took out another card and turned it over. “Now write your cell number for me. I’ll never show it to anyone, but I’ll put it in my contacts. When you call me your name will pop up and I’ll know it’s you.”

  When you call me, Kennicott thought. His murdered brother, Michael, had been a master salesman. “I always use the word ‘when,’” he once told Kennicott. “That way a customer is already past the ‘if’ stage.”

  No one spoke. Greene clicked his pen twice. Goodling took it and wrote out her number.

  “Thanks.” Greene reached for his tape recorder.

  Cutter covered his hand with a meaty paw. “I assume you’re satisfied with the affidavit material,” he said.

  Greene jerked his arm back and clicked off the recorder. “Assume nothing. I expected more from you, Phil.”

  The conference-room door opened, and the blond receptionist walked in with a tray. Five frothy-looking cappuccinos jiggled on top. She put them gently on the table.

  “We don’t need them.” Greene turned to Goodling. “I thought that after you’d been with Terrance for a year, perhaps you cared about him.”

  “Of course I did,” she said.

  Cutter jumped to his feet. “No statements.” This was the real Phil Cutter now, Kennicott thought. Tough and hard. So much for putting on a smooth show for his big-name client.

  “I’d never heard of Terrance Wyler until this morning,” Greene said to Goodling. “I didn’t know much about you either until Officer Kennicott put together some articles for me to read.”

  “Tabloid trash,” she said.

  “No more questions,” Cutter said, his voice half a growl.

  Goodling was staring straight at Greene. “Our anniversary was in two weeks.” She pulled on her perfect ponytail.

  “April, don’t answer him.” It was Barb Gild. She was on her feet now too. Her thin lips were tight.

  “Why were you leaving the morning of his divorce trial?”

  “I didn’t want to be a distraction,” Goodling said.

  “April, we discussed this,” Gild said in a stern voice.

  Something must have connected, because Goodling turned to her lawyers. “Okay,” she said.

  “Now there’s no divorce trial, there’s nothing for you to distract,” Greene persisted. “Weren’t you friendly with his son, Simon?”

  Goodling flushed. “I love Simon.”

  “April,” Gild said.

  “A few hours from now I’m taking that little boy into a studio at police headquarters so he can tell me on tape what happened last night,” Greene said. “Then his family gets to tell him that his daddy is dead. If you care about the boy, why aren’t you staying to support him?”

  Goodling’s mouth gaped open. “Who are you to question me like this?”

  Greene grabbed his notebook from the table. “I’m a homicide detective. A child has lost his father and it means nothing to you.” He pushed his chair back and started toward the door.

  Kennicott got up to follow.

  “How can you say that?” For the first time Goodling looked angry. “You don’t understand what—”

  “April,” Gild shouted. “No.”

  Greene stormed back to the table. “A poor kid gets shot in one of the tough parts of the city, Jane and Finch or Rexdale. When no one talks to the police, all we hear is how awful ‘these’ people are who won’t cooperate with the authorities. You tell me how you’re any damn different?”

  Goodling was shaking her head.

  “What’s your excuse? There’s no gang member lying in wait for you because you ratted out his friend. Silence kills,” Greene said. “Believe me, I know.”

  “That’s enough,” Cutter bellowed at Greene.

  “No, it isn’t. I’m just getting started.” Greene grew calm. He glared at Cutter. “There’s a fine line between advising your client and obstructing police.”

  “You threatening me?” Cutter said.

  “I’m watching you two like a hawk.” He nodded at Gild before he turned to the actress. “You’re going to talk to me, Ms. Goodling. You know it and I know it. Because it’s the right thing to do. Your high-priced legal help can advise you all they want. You have my number now. I expect to hear from you.”

  He spun back around, strode out, and slammed the door behind him so hard that the frothy cappuccinos shuddered. Bits of white foam flew across the table.

  “Quick, get a cloth,” Cutter shouted at the receptionist.

  Kennicott made for the door after Greene. He grabbed the handle and stole one last glance at Goodling. She was sliding Greene’s business card into her purse, like a child hiding a candy from her parents.

  13

  For Jennifer Raglan, this was an odd moment. Walking back into her old office for the first time in two months. Until June, she’d been the head Crown for five stress-filled years. She’d loved it and hated it. Mostly loved it.

  “Jennie, thanks so much for coming,” Ralph Armitage said with a nervous laugh, sitting up in her old chair. Armitage had been a camp counselor and had the annoying habit of giving everyone nicknames that ended in the ee sound. “Feels odd to be sitting behind your desk.”

  “Feels good to me,” Raglan said.

  Armitage was a tall man, and even seated he dominated the room. Her old desk was spotless, in stark contrast to the usual clutter of files that always topped it when she worked there. The framed photo of Raglan’s three kids, which used to adorn the credenza on the back wall, had been replaced by an array of pictures of Armitage and his very blond and equally tall wife on various athletic vacations—skiing in Switzerland, horseback riding
in New Mexico, scuba diving in Belize. All the things couples without children could afford.

  It was hot in the room. The office faced east, and the morning sun slanted in. An old air-conditioning unit that rattled away in the corner window was better at making noise than delivering cool air. Despite the heat, Armitage wore a full suit, tie done right up.

  Ari Greene, in a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, stood calmly a few steps off to the right. His usual spot, slightly removed, everything in clear view. He carried his ever-present thin leather briefcase in his hand. Their eyes met for a moment and she flashed him a quick smile. Raglan hadn’t seen him since June, and Greene’s skin had a deep, tempting tan. Despite herself, she thought about his shoulders. Their first kiss had been in this office, right about where he was standing now.

  “Ari,” Armitage said. How convenient for him that Greene’s first name ended in a ee sound. No way even Armitage would call Greene Greeney. “Jennie tells me you two’ve done a few things together.”

  “A few.” He glanced back at her.

  “She’s not doing murder trials anymore, but she kindly agreed to come in and get things started with you.”

  Tell me about it, Raglan thought. Get things started with Ari.

  Armitage clapped his large hands together. Another one of his camp counselor habits. “Why don’t you two grab an empty office and go at it?”

  Go at it, Raglan thought. Hmm.

  They found an office with no windows. Someone had left a fan on, and it was rotating back and forth, doing nothing more than swirling hot air around.

  “How’re the kids?” Greene shut the door and slipped into a wooden chair tucked in the far corner.

  “Better,” she said. “Thanks for asking. How’s your dad?”

  “Difficult as ever.”

  “You make it sound like a good thing.”

  He laughed. “It is.”

  She’d tried to forget how much she liked his laugh. There was an awkward silence. Say something, Raglan told herself, her mind drifting. Like “Nice to see you, Ari.” Or “Ari, I missed you.” Or “Ari, you look so tanned.” She thought of their first kiss. It had been late at night, and they were working together. She’d shut the door and gone right over to him. He hadn’t looked surprised.

  Now Greene was talking to her. “We have to keep it totally under wraps,” he was saying. She nodded. Her heart was beating as if she were a teenager on a first date. Silly.

  “No matter what, it can’t get out,” Greene said.

  Odd he should bring up their affair now, she thought. He was usually so understated, and they’d taken such elaborate steps to be discreet. She was convinced no one knew.

  “The knife coming to us in that way. You never know how it’s going to help us,” Greene said. “Besides, the press would go wild with it.”

  Raglan kept nodding. What an idiot you are, Jennifer, she thought. He’s talking about the case. Not you. Fuck. Hope I’m not blushing. “Right,” she said. Remember, you broke it off with him. You wanted to be home. See the kids every day. Concentrate.

  He summed up the rest of the evidence. The marriage breaking up, Samantha’s e-mails and voice mails, the police warning her. On Terrance’s BlackBerry he’d found the e-mail telling Samantha he’d take the deal and inviting her to come to his house. E-mails back saying she’d be there in half an hour. No signs of forced entry. No apparent defense wounds on the body. The child saying his mother had been in his room last night.

  “Then this morning there was a call from your old boss, Ted DiPaulo,” Greene said. “He’s representing Samantha.”

  “Ted?” DiPaulo had been the head Crown before she got the job. He’d mentored her since the beginning of her career. Handpicked her as his successor.

  “Dragged me down to his office and had another lawyer give me the bloody kitchen knife wrapped in a towel,” Greene said.

  “That’s Ted. Always ethical. Wife have an alibi?”

  “Don’t know. DiPaulo’s stalling for time.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I thought DiPaulo had her in his partner’s office, so I put on a surveillance team. He just drove her home. We’ll follow her round the clock. I’ve alerted all the airports and the borders. Daniel Kennicott’s working with me on this case. He swore out a warrant, so we’ll monitor her phone, e-mails, et cetera.”

  This was smart. If Greene rushed into an arrest, it would leave things open for the defense to accuse him of tunnel vision. Failure to eliminate other suspects. Besides, once she was arrested, Samantha would effectively be silenced. This way they could watch and listen to her.

  “Terrance have any known enemies?”

  “No. No criminal record. No police contacts. Sounds like everyone loved him.”

  “Except his wife. Other suspects?”

  “April Goodling, the movie-star girlfriend, seems to have an alibi. In her hotel room all night. Cutter and Gild are her lawyers.”

  “That figures,” Raglan said. There was no love lost between Phil Cutter and Jennifer Raglan.

  “The oldest brother works early mornings at the food terminal. Kennicott did the notification.”

  Raglan knew why Greene had done this. The Michael Kennicott case was Greene’s only unsolved homicide. It would be tough for Daniel to tell someone his brother was dead. Greene was testing him.

  “The rest of the family live up north, parents and a disabled brother. We’re meeting them early tomorrow morning. Right now we’re going door-to-door on Wyler’s street. Most of the people are away.”

  “Up north at their cottages, no doubt,” Raglan said.

  “I’m trying to trace Samantha Wyler’s movements for the last twenty-four hours. We checked the video in the lobby of her apartment. She left at nine forty-one on Sunday night and never returned. Doesn’t have a license. The nanny says she never learned to drive. We’re checking the cab companies, the videos at the subway. We’ll interview the late-night bus drivers when they come back on shift. Nothing so far.”

  “Where do you think she went?”

  “I have a hunch. We’re going door-to-door in Yorkville, where her family lawyer, a guy named Feindel, has his office. DiPaulo got that knife from her somehow. Makes sense to me she gave it to Feindel.”

  Many homicide detectives took pride in making speedy arrests, but Greene had a way of seeing another angle to even the most straightforward set of facts. This time, though, Raglan wondered if he weren’t being too conservative. “She has motive and opportunity. You’ve got her e-mailing him that she’s coming over, the knife, her son saying she was in the house. Then she disappears. What else do you need?”

  Greene stood up. His eyes were a mesmerizing gray-blue. Easy to stare at. “The boy’s already lost his father,” he said. “Last thing I want to do is make a mistake. Then he’ll lose his mother. Let’s see if she comes up with an alibi.”

  That was so like him, Raglan thought. Any other detective would arrest her right now. But Greene didn’t see Samantha Wyler only as a suspect, but as the boy’s mother.

  “What are you doing next?”

  Greene looked at his watch. “Going back to Wyler’s house. The forensic officer is ready to walk me through the scene. Kennicott’s meeting me there in half an hour.”

  “Has the child been told?”

  “The family’s going to speak to him tonight.” Greene clenched his jaw. “Before he’s been told, I’m going to try to get him to tell me on tape what he said this morning. That his mother came into his room last night. If I can do that, the case is almost over.”

  “Oh, Ari,” she said.

  He looked away. “I’m picking him up at four. We have a special room for kids at police headquarters.”

  The Old City Hall clock, which was in a spiked stone tower almost above their heads, rang through the four parts of its hourly chime and started to dong twelve times. It was noon. She had to hurry or be late to pick up her daughter.

  Ari Greene, Ari Greene. E
very time she thought she could reach him, he slipped away. Like a shadow over a cliff.

  That night in her office, she hadn’t been sure if he’d let her kiss him. Raglan had heard women’s washroom scuttlebutt about Greene over the years. Others had tried without luck. Thinking back, every detail was still so clear. The roughness of his hands. His clean smell. He hadn’t been shy about her body.

  What did she really know about him? There were all these gaps. Greene’s parents were Holocaust survivors, and he was an only child. His mother had died last winter, and his father still lived in the house Greene grew up in. He didn’t join the force until he was thirty. About fifteen years ago, he took a twelve-month leave of absence. One of those cop mysteries that no one could figure out. When he returned, Chief of Police Hap Charlton became his “rabbi,” promoting him up the ladder fast. Greene liked to joke that this had special relevance, since he was the only Jewish homicide detective on the force.

  Raglan knew that Greene had been in Europe, because every once in a while he’d mention an old town square he’d seen, an ancient bridge he’d walked across, a painting in a gallery. From all the French books in his house, she could tell he’d spent time in France. Two French stations were programmed into his old car radio.

  One night when they went to a country inn for the weekend, he’d awakened in a sweat. She’d touched his back, and he jumped. “Quoi?” he said, casting his arms out in the air.

  “Ari,” she asked, “you okay?”

  He had rolled over and looked at her in the dim light. Lost for a moment before he pulled her to him.

  … Dong, dong, dong. The bell tower finished ringing out twelve o’clock. “I’m glad for that boy that you’re on this case.” Raglan was watching him.

  Greene had an unconscious habit of licking the top of his lip for a moment before they kissed. She was sure he had no idea he did it. The edge of his tongue slid across his upper lip for a split second. He still wants me, she thought.

  He flashed her that grin of his again. “But we all know you’re not doing any more murder trials.” Greene grabbed his briefcase and slipped out of the hot room, leaving the door open behind him.