“Good,” I said as I sat down in one of Lansing’s black vinyl guest chairs. “At least I can stop worrying about him, then.”
“You ready to tell me what this is about?” Lansing asked, giving me a look I had seen more than once while he was working the Kane and Taylor murders, the case on which I had met him. It was the look that said he thought I might have overstepped my bounds and that it had better not create problems for him.
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll answer one question for me without bullshitting me.”
“What?”
“I want to know exactly where things are with your investigation of Terry Porter. Could he have shot Magruder or not?”
Lansing grimaced slightly, as if something was causing him a pain in some part of his body. Probably some nether region that was sensitive to reporters, I guessed.
“Yesterday, we didn’t know one way or the other,” he said finally. “Today, I’d have to say probably not.”
“Mind telling me why you don’t think so?”
“Oh, hell, why the hell not? You’ll find out, anyway. Because we finally got his telephone records. He eventually said that he remembered getting a couple of telephone sales calls that afternoon, but he couldn’t remember who from. According to the phone records, someone at his apartment did answer the telephone twice during the afternoon Magruder was killed. Porter lives alone, so it looks like he probably was there, after all.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That makes me think that I may just be right about what I’m thinking.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask this, but what are you thinking?”
“I think I know who shot Dan Magruder,” I told him, deciding there was no point in easing my way into it gradually. “Or actually, I don’t know precisely who, but I think I know why he was shot.”
“Oh? And why was that?” The intensity of the natural light behind Lansing’s blue eyes ratcheted up several notches, either because he thought I was on to something in which he had a vital interest or because he thought I’d completely flipped out. I couldn’t tell which, but I liked his eyes on me, anyway.
“I think it was the same guy who killed Robert Coleman,” I went on, “and I think I may have seen him.”
“What?” The word more or less exploded out of his mouth, leaving him gaping at me in surprise.
“Before you get all bent out of shape, let me take you through it, and you tell me if it makes sense.”
“Oh, you’re definitely going to take me through it, all right,” Lansing said, now clearly leaning toward the flipped-out theory. He settled back in his chair as if preparing to listen to a tall tale. “Go right ahead.”
“It was the car that clicked for me,” I said.
“What car?”
“Don’t ask questions yet. Just listen, and let me go through the whole thing.”
Lansing looked as if he had all sorts of things he wanted to say, but he didn’t respond.
“Okay,” I said, trying to organize what I knew in the most logical order, “I told you about riding around with Magruder all day last Friday, and that the last call we made was over to Grist Mill Park to pick up Sheets or Clinton or whatever the hell his name is, for taking a leak in front of the little kids. I assume you went back and read Magruder’s report on it, right?”
“Right.”
“Did he mention witnesses?”
“Only the kids. He said he wasn’t able to locate any others.”
“He didn’t find anybody else who saw it happen, but he did talk to somebody who was there at the time. There was one car in the parking lot, and the driver was just coming back up the bike path to the car when Magruder got Clinton in handcuffs. Magruder took a few minutes to walk Clinton over to the car and talk to the driver. He told me later that he was hoping the guy at the car might have seen something, but the guy said he hadn’t been around at the time. So Magruder came back across the park to the Ferry house, and the guy in the car left.”
“And your point is?”
“This was Friday afternoon. At Grist Mill Park. The medical examiner says Coleman died there sometime between noon and midnight Friday. Peterson is down in Woodbridge right now, impounding Coleman’s dark blue Volvo sedan, which someone found in a parking lot down there. The car I saw in Grist Mill Park, the one that Magruder went over to, was a late-model, dark blue Volvo sedan. I was too far away to see license plates.”
Before I had finished, I saw the deductive train getting on track for Lansing, saw the knowledge of what I was about to say register in his expression. He sat forward, suddenly intent on what I was telling him.
“You saw this car and the guy who was driving it?”
“Yes, although I saw it from across the park. But Dan Magruder went over and talked to the guy. And he had Clinton with him.”
“So you think it was Coleman’s car, and the guy Magruder talked to was either Coleman or the guy who had just killed him?”
“I do, although I personally think it was the killer. Keep in mind here that I was watching from quite a ways away and that I wasn’t paying particular attention to the guy in the car. But from the pictures I’ve seen so far of Coleman, I don’t think it was him. I just have the impression that the guy I saw was probably thinner, maybe taller, than Coleman looks to have been. And he appeared to have lighter-colored hair. I know Coleman’s hair was dark except for that white streak.”
“And then you think the guy tracked Magruder down and killed him because Magruder had seen him in the park at the time Coleman was murdered? Had seen him close enough to identify him?”
“Right. I mean, think about it from his perspective. Magruder got a real good look at him and the car he was driving. Not only could Magruder ID him by sight and place him in the park at the approximate time of the murder, but for all the guy knew, Magruder had made a note of the license plates on the car. By the way, did he?”
“I can check the report again, but I don’t remember any mention of it,” Lansing said regretfully. “So, how did he find Magruder again?”
“It wouldn’t have been hard. Magruder had his name tag on. He may even have introduced himself by name. If the guy called the Mount Vernon Station, they probably would have told him when Magruder got off work. Or, for all I know, the guy went a block or two down the street and waited to follow us back to the station and then followed Magruder home. He couldn’t have gotten into the elevator with Magruder to see what apartment he lived in, or Magruder might have recognized him. But a few bucks slipped to someone in the management office or even to a maintenance person who might have seen Magruder in uniform could have solved that problem.
“And you were afraid that whoever killed Magruder would go after Clinton if Clinton had been released?”
“Yes. I put the Sheets name in my story, after all. He was drunk as a skunk that day, but who knows what he might or might not remember. If I were the killer, I probably wouldn’t take a chance on his memory. And how hard would it be to find out if he were still in jail or back out on the street?”
“Not very. Just a phone call. What about the woman who called the park thing in, and her kids? Why hasn’t he gone after them?”
“If he even saw them from across the park, in the shade of the trees, he probably figured they were too far away to see anything. And besides, going after a housewife and her two little kids probably would bring down a lot more heat than killing off a reporter.”
Lansing laughed at that comment.
“I’m not getting suckered into that one,” he said. “So anyway, you’re saying that the last part of this would be your car? You think this guy may be the one who rigged it with the bomb?”
“It would be too coincidental if it wasn’t him, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Lansing said, then gave me a wicked smile. “Although I’m sure there’s more than one person out there who’s found you so infuriating that they’ve thought about doing you in. He probably would have to get in line.”
�
��I thought you weren’t getting suckered in.”
“Sometimes the temptation is just stronger than the willpower. But back on the subject, if this guy you saw in the Volvo killed Coleman on Friday and was so concerned about witnesses that he shot Magruder that same afternoon, why did he wait until Monday night to go after you?”
“That had me stumped for a while, too. But I finally realized that he didn’t know about me until not long before that. If he saw me at all, it would have been from all the way across the park. I was standing in Mrs. Ferry’s backyard, in the shade, with her and her kids. If he could even see us, he probably thought I was a neighbor. Or if he followed the cruiser, he might have thought I was the person who called the cops out after the drunk in the first place. It wasn’t until the Sunday paper came out that he would have known who I was, that he would have realized a reporter had seen him, as well as a cop. While a housewife and kids might not be a threat, he probably figured a reporter was as bad as a cop. A reporter is someone who pays attention, or someone to whom Magruder might have said something that I could use to identify the guy in the park.
“At any rate,” I went on, “my guess is that it took him until Monday to get what he needed to rig the car. And if he’s a cop or a former cop of some kind, he would have known how to find out easily what kind of car I drove and where I live. I’m in the phone book. So all he had to do was wait for me to come home Monday night. It was just his bad luck that that kid tried to steal my car before I came back out the next morning to go to work.”
And the kid’s bad luck, too, of course.
Not now, I thought back. I’m trying to think straight here.
Well, let’s not get in the way of an occurrence as rare as that!
“So why didn’t he just shoot you, the way he did Magruder?” Lansing asked, interrupting my little friend. “When murderers find a method that works, they usually like to stick with it. Why a car bomb?”
“Who knows? But maybe he didn’t want our deaths connected, didn’t want too many arrows pointing in one direction. Maybe he thought blowing me up would put police off his trail. Or maybe he was being more careful about witnesses this time, and by the time he saw the paper, it was just too difficult to get close enough to shoot me. I was at home from Sunday afternoon when I left you and David until Monday morning when I went to work. My apartment building is much bigger than Magruder’s, which means there are usually more people around, and it wasn’t a weekday, when most people would have been at work. In other words, too many witnesses to provide descriptions or come around a corner unexpectedly. Without being able to connect it to the Magruder and Coleman shootings, the police would think exactly what they are thinking, that it was somebody who was really pissed off at a story I did about them. And with two different police agencies involved, he has lessened the chances even more that someone would make the connection.”
Lansing was looking at me hard again in silence, his mind obviously running through all the permutations of the theory I had presented to him. Then he reached over and picked up his telephone to dial a number. Within a minute, someone answered on the other end.
“It’s Lansing,” he said, still looking at me across the receiver. “You still in Woodbridge?” Apparently, he had called Jim Peterson on Peterson’s car phone. There was a pause as Lansing listened to whatever Peterson was saying. “How soon will you be done there?” Another pause. “As soon as you can get back up to Fairfax, come find me. I’ve got McPhee in my office, and she’s got a story I think you had better hear.”
More listening. A grin. “No, I don’t think she’s gone off half-cocked this time. I think she may be on to something, and it involves the case you’re on down there.” Pause. “Okay, I’ll be here, and I’ll make sure she hangs around until you get back.” He hung up.
“That was Peterson,” he said.
“So I gathered,” I replied. “I think it was the half-cocked part that gave it away.”
* * * *
“Will you please come back to my house tonight so I don’t have to worry about you?” Lansing asked, as we waited for Peterson.
“I really don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I told him. “For all sorts of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Come on, I’m sure you can figure them out for yourself.”
“Probably, but take me through them anyway, so I can talk you out of them.”
I sighed. “Okay, first of all, professional conflicts. I’m a reporter. You’re a police detective. I have to cover the cases you’re investigating. How am I supposed to be objective if I’m staying at your house? My boss is going to find out sooner or later, because eventually, I’ll tell him even if no one else does. And how do you get your bosses to believe you didn’t spill the beans to me when I find out something about one of your cases that I wasn’t supposed to know?”
“Personal integrity. In both cases. Next.”
“You’ve got a six-year-old son. What’s he supposed to think about some woman spending the night there?”
“How about the truth? That there’s a temporary problem with your apartment, and you’re a friend who needs a place to stay for a few days. He thought that explanation sounded perfectly sensible when I gave it to him Tuesday night.”
“Aren’t you worried at all that I might represent a risk to you and David? What if the person who wants me dead finds out that I’m staying there?”
A look of pain crossed Lansing’s face.
“No more of a risk than my job has always represented to him,” he said simply. But I knew the pain I had seen was the memory of Sarah, the wife who had died because of his job.
“Then what about David getting attached to me and then you decide this really isn’t such a hot idea after all? Is that good for him?”
“I think,” Lansing said, “what you’re really worried about is my getting attached to you and vice versa. I think that scares the bejesus out of you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied. “Why would I be afraid of that?”
“That’s a question you’re going to have to answer.”
Well, he’s got you there, hasn’t he?
He had, of course. I knew, when I was honest with myself, that that was exactly the problem. I wanted Lansing and was terrified of him at the same time.
“Besides,” I said, trying to change the subject, “what if it takes weeks or months to catch this guy? How long can I stay with you before you get tired of it, or before we…” I stopped awkwardly, realizing it was the same subject after all.
“Before we what?” Lansing asked, giving me a wicked smile. He knew exactly what I had almost said, but he wanted to torture me, anyway.
I was saved from having to answer by the appearance of a woman in Lansing’s office doorway.
“I’ve got the sketch for you,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper. She looked to be in her early thirties, petite, light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. A rather plain face on which sat a freckled nose and a pair of intelligent hazel eyes that more than made up for the plainness.
“Sharon, hi,” Lansing said, smiling at her. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The woman smiled at me in acknowledgment as she walked behind Lansing to look over his shoulder while he put the paper down on the desk in front of him. I could see that it held a face. Lansing looked at it thoughtfully.
I stood up and reached out my hand to the woman.
“I’m Sutton McPhee,” I said, shaking the hand she held out in response. “I’m with the Washington News.”
Lansing looked up in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he said before Sharon could speak. “Sutton, this is Sharon Pate. She’s a new sketch artist for the department. We’ve had her on the computer all morning, working with the neighbor who saw a man in uniform on Magruder’s floor. Here, you should take a look at it, too.” He turned the sheet around to face in my direction. “See if it looks anything like the guy you sa
w in the park.”
I studied the long, thin face that looked back at me from the paper.
“I just don’t know,” I said finally, looking up at Lansing in apology. “It could be him. But I just wasn’t close enough to see this kind of detail. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know how good a likeness it really is, either,” Sharon said, looking from me to Lansing. “The neighbor only saw this person for a second, of course, and we didn’t get to pick his brain until several days later, so his memories of the person he saw are all very vague at this point.”
“It’s okay,” Lansing said to her reassuringly. “We weren’t expecting a whole lot from him, based on what he already had told us, but maybe it’s better than nothing.” He looked at me. “We’ll get you a copy of this to take with you. Spend some time with it and see if anything comes back to you.”
He looked up at Sharon again and handed the sketch back to her.
“Tell Frank to go ahead with distribution on this if the witness is satisfied with it.”
“I will,” Sharon said, taking the sketch. “It was nice to meet you,” she told me as she went to the door.
“You, too.”
When she was gone, Lansing and I looked at each other again.
“So you’ll come back to the house tonight?”
“Do I have any choice?” I asked in exasperation.
“None.”
“Then I guess I’ll be there.” Trepidation and all.
Lansing looked pleased with himself.
* * * *
“Having you around is enough to make me believe in this Karma thing,” Jim Peterson said as he lowered himself into the other guest chair in Lansing’s office.
“Excuse me? I don’t understand what you mean,” I responded, looking at him in confusion. His comment was a non sequitur, seemingly unrelated to anything Lansing and I had been discussing when Peterson walked in or to anything to do with Peterson’s case.
“I keep wondering just how many lifetimes of misbehaving I’m trying to work off here,” Peterson explained drolly. “And how many more it will take.”
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