“One of your fans, I see,” she said when they were well enough away. “What did you do to her to deserve that?” She added, “They tell me Layya gets around.”
“Why am I here?” Dewitt asked bluntly.
“I misspoke when we last met, and I wish to correct that situation.” She looked away from him. “Better late than never,” she tried demurely.
“Misspoke?” he asked.
“I inquired about Mr. Lumbrowski.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“He wasn’t in line for a job with a friend; he had been making calls to me. Soliciting me, as it were.”
“For?”
“I wouldn’t want you thinking that I deliberately withheld information from the police.”
“I’ll play along, Miss Laughton, if you insist. But I’m growing tired of Jessica Osbourne’s chess games. Lumbrowski wouldn’t have called you. He would have called your aunt. I need to speak with your aunt.”
“It’s been arranged. Consider this a briefing, if you don’t find that term offensive. Background. It will save you both time.”
“She hired him,” he stated.
“She listened, that’s all.”
“That’s not all, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“With his death… There’s some concern the investigation into Mr. Lumbrowski’s death may indirectly involve her somehow. You understand?”
“I’m beginning to, yes.”
“Jessie’s role in all of this was purely advisory, I assure you. She put Mr. Lumbrowski in touch with me. I handled him following that.”
“Handled him for her,” he corrected. “You were what we call the go-between.”
She explained curtly, attempting to clarify, “My role was simply this: I contacted Mr. Lumbrowski and questioned what information he might possess that might interest us.”
“When was this?”
“Thursday, the afternoon of the second murder. He was quite evasive, I assure you, and yet convinced me that it would be worth my while to ‘support his efforts,’ as he put it. There was no mention of actually hiring him. I was to provide an expense account.”
“He convinced you? How did he manage that? Did he offer you evidence?”
“He aroused my sense of curiosity. This morning, after reading about his death, I got cold feet. Our relationship was only days old. Whether my participation was right or wrong, I came to believe that this was the kind of information you, the police, must have if you’re to conduct a proper investigation. Have I broken the law?”
“Listen, Miss Laughton, you’re the go-between again. Nice try. You’re supposed to feel me out, to see how I’ll respond, to see if I’ll play along with your aunt.”
“And will you?” came the familiar voice from behind him. He knew that voice from television. Dewitt hadn’t expected Jessie Osbourne to be so tall and elegant. She had one of those anchorwoman faces: the girl next door with a dash of “wouldn’t you love it”; camera-ready but aging quickly. She wore a basic black tea-length dress, a black sapphire and gold necklace, and matching sapphire earrings. Her hair had been highlighted, curled, and glued to stay there. Her huge mouth was her trademark: Area cartoonists depicted her with a severely pointed chin and oversized teeth like something from a jack-o’-lantern. “So you’re James Dewitt,” she said, offering him her firm hand.
“I’ll leave you two,” Priscilla said, backing away and taking over a huddle.
“Shall we find someplace quiet?” Jessie asked, though it was a statement, not a question.
Above the din of guests and music, he said, “I didn’t know such a place existed.”
“I know all the secrets,” she said, waving a finger at him to follow her.
I don’t doubt it, he thought.
She led him down a hall, removing a purple ribbon gate that blocked off a hall. “You see,” she said, “all the tricks.”
The library study was teak paneled, with two teak inlaid tables holding brass banker lamps with emerald shades. Three of the four walls held books, floor to ceiling. The fourth, all glass and post like the banquet room, faced the ocean. One wall of fiction, one of reference, the largest, facing the ocean, nonfiction. Jessie wandered in front of the titles for a moment, the only light in the room coming from one of the desk lamps. A teak ladder on a track system accessed the reference wall.
“Your department handled my son’s tragedy very well. I wanted to thank you personally.”
Dewitt knew the rules. “That would be my captain or chief who deserves that credit.”
“No. It’s you, Detective Dewitt. I have my sources, you know. As strange as it may sound, as a mother I was relieved to know my son did not take his own life.”
“Mrs. Osbourne—”
“Jessie—”
“Then why have you been so carefully avoiding me? You could have helped this investigation. Instead, you’ve stalled it. That needs explaining.” He offered a smile then that said, I won’t play your stupid games.
“I beg your pardon?” She studied the titles for several long seconds, noisily clicking her painted fingernail across them. “I have advisors, you know, Detective. Horrid little men and women who spend hours trying to pamper and protect my image. Droll, in a bizarre sort of way. One gets used to it, even grows accustomed to it. I’ve been in this game for many, many years, as I’m sure you’re well aware. When word of John’s suicide hit us, my people put out a gag order. Horrible expression, all things considered. They have insisted I be extremely careful about my position in this. Election year and all. I apologize for the method of our meeting, if that is offensive to you. Some things are difficult for me to control.”
I doubt that, Dewitt thought. He took a seat at one of the tables within the green wash of the banker’s lamp. A moment later, Jessie Osbourne joined him. The direct light was unflattering. He said somewhat harshly, “What is it you want from me, Mrs. Osbourne?”
“There are two people at this table, Detective Dewitt. No one forced you to be here. Perhaps I should ask what you want from me, or is it merely curiosity that brings you here?”
“Me? Yes. Curiosity. Honest answers. I also need you to pick your pocket, or that of one of your guests,” he said, cocking his head to indicate the party. “I need twenty-eight hundred dollars to pay an informant for information on the identity of your son’s killer. I need it immediately. Carmel doesn’t have anywhere near that kind of money for such things. And I doubt they would give it to me if they did.”
“Mr. Collette,” she said, shocking him.
“You do have your sources, I’ll say that! You see how few secrets we police have?” he asked, “And what is it you want?”
“Your help,” she said. “What I need is your help, Detective. I will attempt to give you what answers you seek, and I will also find you your twenty-eight hundred dollars.”
“You must want a lot of help.”
“I have chosen for my own reasons to deal with you directly. My advisors don’t know about this meeting. If they did, I would be hung by my thumbs. I asked around about you, of course, and I’ve been told you are a man of your word, a man who can be trusted completely, and so before we go any further, I must ask for your promise that what we discuss here remain confidential—off the record—if that is within your power to control.”
He considered this a moment. The implication was that he might not be able to control the confidentiality, which to him meant that whatever it was she wanted to share with him might come out in a court of law—the one place he would be forced to reveal it. He then thought this through aloud for her benefit.
“That’s right,” she said. “I don’t expect you to lie for me, only to protect that which you are able to protect.”
Dewitt agreed to go along on those conditions. “But if I sense you’re withholding information from me, Mrs. Osbourne,” he cautioned, “then the deal is off. I need substance, not prepared copy.”
“I understand your reservations.”
&nbs
p; “Do you?”
“You think I’m a fast-talking politician about to hoodwink you.”
“Yes, you do understand.”
It provoked a wry smile from her. “I like you, Detective. Since you’re the suspicious one, then why don’t you ask first? Perhaps we can break the ice that way.”
“Lumbrowski telephoned you, not Priscilla,” he told her.
“Yes.” She nodded.
“How many times?”
She considered this. “Five times. We actually spoke on three of those occasions.”
“You installed Priscilla as your go-between. She was to handle Lumbrowski from then on out.”
“Yes.” She nodded.
He wanted to be taking notes but he knew it would interfere. His mind began to fill with the noise of excess information, bits and pieces nudging each other out of the way, like taxicabs in rush-hour traffic. “Lumbrowski went along with that because by this time the two of you had reached an agreement of some sort.”
“Yes.”
“And that agreement was?”
She looked past him for what felt like several minutes. At one point, her eyes brimmed with tears, but she maintained her self-control. She looked him in the eye and said, “Like so many things, dealing with the human condition, Detective”—the tears threatened once again—“this can be stripped down to the simplest of things. There are a limited number of motivating factors when you strip away the clothing. No? For both Mr. Lumbrowski and myself, it was a matter of face. In the simplest of terms, we were after the same thing, and perhaps it is for this reason that I went along with him in the first place. Common ground. I understood him, Detective.” Dewitt waited her out. “Detective Lumbrowski was due for review in less than eight weeks. The ruling of that review board would have governed the rest of his life, would have determined his eligibility for pension and benefits, would essentially have been judgment on his years of public service. He believed that with his former police experience, he might be able to contribute to the solution of the murders. You see, he convinced me from the very beginning that my son was murdered, that it wasn’t suicide like the papers, and even the police, were reporting. As a parent, as a human being, I didn’t want to believe my son had taken his own life. Thus, we struck up a bargain. If he could prove my son had been murdered, and eventually convince the police of this, I agreed to help him, where able, with knowledge of the active police investigation, and, if he were ultimately successful, I would testify on his behalf at his hearing.”
“Insuring his reinstatement.”
“He seemed to believe my testimony would contribute in a positive way.”
“You said from the ‘very beginning’ he convinced you your son was murdered. How?”
“He told me to look at the first officer’s report and at your report, Detective… the inventory of the crime scene. He told me a very simple thing had been overlooked.”
“I’m listening,” Dewitt said. In fact, he was on the edge of his seat with anticipation. Something definite that Lumbrowski had caught that he hadn’t? A nightmare is what it was—a nightmare because he knew Lumbrowski’s years of experience overshadowed his own, and he dreaded the thought of having missed something.
“The roll of tape, Detective. ‘So simple,’ he said, and it was. Nowhere, on any of the police or forensics reports, was there mention of the roll of tape. In fact, there was no roll of tape ever found at the crime scene, and without a roll of tape, how was John able to tape the window shut?”
The two stared eye to eye.
“Simple,” she added.
He slowly nodded his agreement, the hot crimson rush filling his face. While he had been busy with sand on shoes and carpet fibers from the car, he had missed something. If Osbourne were committing suicide, there would be no reason for him to dispose of the tape he used. Lumbrowski had beaten Dewitt to a simple deduction: John Osbourne had been murdered.
“As I have said, that convinced me Mr. Lumbrowski was of value. We formed an uncomfortable alliance.”
“Capp copied the reports for you, not Lumbrowski,” Dewitt said in astonishment, thinking aloud.
Jessie Osbourne straightened her spine.
“You promised to give me the answers you could,” he reminded. “Capp provided you with photocopies of the files. You passed these on, through Priscilla to Lumbrowski, as part of your deal.”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. I made the request to Manny. He handled it for me. Whether or not Commander Capp was involved, I couldn’t tell you.”
“How many reports?”
“At first, just the crime-scene inventory and your report. Eventually, he got it all: coroner’s protocols, forensics reports, first-officer reports, memos. All of it.”
“You’re leaving something out. You wouldn’t condone that kind of behavior without substantial motivation.”
“I have to trust you, I suppose.” The two studied each other briefly. She said, “Lumbrowski discovered a substantial amount of cocaine in my son’s car.” She broke into tears. It was several minutes before she regained her composure. “Essentially, it was nothing more than poorly disguised blackmail, Detective. Lumbrowski would keep his discovery quiet if I would supply him with police records and make a statement at his hearing. He also believed the murder was drug-related and said he intended to pursue that avenue. His point was that as a one-man effort, he needed all the intelligence he could come up with.”
“We’re looking into the drug connection,” he informed her.
“You knew?”
“We had some sketchy information, is all. There was a source that implied an ounce of cocaine was missing. One of my men is looking into it. I can’t say for sure, but at this point I don’t think the deaths are drug-related. You were telling me about the arrangement?”
She nodded and continued: “After the second murder—Mr. McDuff—Priscilla said that Detective Lumbrowski became somewhat paranoid.” Dewitt absolutely hated the fact that everyone continued to refer to Lumbrowski as a detective. “I found out later, that the paranoia was justified. Both John’s car and Mr. McDuff’s had been parked alongside Detective Lumbrowski’s while he was out walking on the beach. Lumbrowski evidently believed someone was trying to frame him for the murders.”
It explained the discovery of the oil. He thought aloud: “Lumbrowski wasn’t arriving at the crime scene before us, the crime scene was coming to him.” He recalled his discussion of a trapper with Dr. Shilstein. Had the killer lured Lumbrowski by relying on a man’s instincts as a cop?
“It apparently concerned Detective Lumbrowski that he might be implicated in the deaths.”
“I need that twenty-eight hundred dollars, Mrs. Osbourne. Howard Lumbrowski is not the killer. But we have an informant who may know who the killer is.”
“I’ll write you the check myself.”
Dewitt remained deep in thought while Jessie Osbourne left the room and returned with her purse. She picked through the purse and located a checkbook. As she began to scribble out the check, he said, “Better make it to cash and endorse the back.” It was a month’s pay to James Dewitt.
She handed him the check and looked up. “I abused my power, Detective,” she said. “I allowed my emotions as both a mother and a politician to dictate my actions. I involved myself in a criminal investigation; I obstructed justice; I solicited and received privileged information. And I was stupid. Those documents went through me… from Manny to me, to Priscilla, to Lumbrowski. Our fingerprints are all over those documents. I never considered that. I don’t know where Detective Lumbrowski kept them, but if they’re found… well, yours, mine, any public servant has his or her fingerprints on record with the Department of Justice. How long until I’m connected to the case?”
“That’s why no one wants me on the Lumbrowski case.”
She shrugged. “If those papers are found, we’re all in trouble. My offer is this: I will try to see that you are asked to help out with the Lumbrowski case, in ret
urn for certain considerations should that evidence surface.” She hesitated. “I will withdraw from my current political contest, I will slip quietly out of public office, if you can save me from the embarrassment that evidence would bring me. I am not without ego. I would just as soon be remembered favorably than driven out of office by a hostile campaign waged around my stupidity in this matter. Most importantly, I would like to avoid, for both Priscilla and myself, any criminal action that might result from the discovery of that evidence. I do not wish to be impeached by my colleagues.”
“No one’s after you, Mrs. Osbourne. At least I’m not. You’re a living legend in this state. I’m not going to be the one to end that. What you did… Well, it just got out of hand, that’s all.”
“It certainly did.”
“Lumbrowski had a way of making things get out of hand. One of his trademarks, I’m afraid.”
“Then we have a deal?” She held out her hand.
“I’m new as a cop, Mrs. Osbourne. I told myself when I started up that I would avoid this kind of thing if at all possible. The back-room deals. The back scratching. But even then I knew there would be exceptions.”
Dewitt continued: “I can forgive you your reasons. Not Commander Capp, not Manny Roth. Their motivations are far less forgivable. They knew exactly what they were doing… misusing the system, back scratching. Copying a few files isn’t enough to demand their stepping down; I don’t mean that. But perhaps Capp could finish out his twenty years somewhere else, another department, and Manny Roth could be convinced to stop dividing his time between the links and town hall. He’s away too often, Mrs. Osbourne. He doesn’t understand this town well enough. We could use a mayor who is serious. Eastwood divided his time, but he took his job as mayor quite seriously. Did a fine job.” He added, “If someone else finds those papers, then all this is moot. If not, then perhaps you use your persuasive powers. Either way, you better hope I’m put back on the Lumbrowski case.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
***
“We’re out of here,” he whispered into Clare’s ear from behind. She was listening to a very tan gentleman in his early sixties as he explained to her the potential market for biodegradable plastics. Dewitt pulled on her elbow.
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