“How’d you get him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, a body in a car. How’d they know it’s connected to us? Why’d they call you?”
“Ah. And therein lies a tale.”
“I’m listening.”
Ike spun it out for her. How on the web he’d come upon the Desert Storm connection to Geoff Cooke—whatever that meant, and he wasn’t at all sure. Then, since Beth had left for the day, he had wanted to bounce some of his thoughts off a living person to get some perspective on what anything might mean, and eventually he’d gone into the lieutenant’s office and tried to explain the tenuous connections between Geoff Cooke, best friend to Peter Ash, and Desert Storm, and his boat, the Mary Alice, which Len Faro was reluctant to go and search, even though they had Cooke’s permission.
They hadn’t reached any conclusions by the time the lieutenant had to go home, so Ike had returned to his desk. Feeling guilty about all the time he’d missed in the past week, he thought he’d spend a few hours catching up on his paperwork, and had gotten about two hours into it when the lieutenant had called from his home saying he’d had a call on a homicide—a car whose license plate was registered to Geoffrey Cooke. Naturally, he remembered the name with the British spelling and had called Ike first thing. And here they were.
Beth nodded, cocked her head toward the car. “Has Faro made it down here yet?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s go see what we’ve got.” She led the way over to the car, stopping by the driver’s-side window to verify that there was, in fact, a hole in the upper third of the spiderweb pattern. So the bullet had passed through the brain, out the other side, then through the window.
Beth and Ike crossed around to the passenger side. Both doors on that side were open. Someone was taking pictures in the backseat, but three other guys stood off a few feet, probably waiting for their boss to arrive before they did any wholesale messing with the site. Beth had a relationship of sorts with all three of these men and went right up to Rickie Grant and started in.
“So what have we got?” Beth asked.
“Looks like a suicide,” Grant volunteered, “although . . .”
“Right.” Beth cut him off. “But you won’t know for sure until you’ve finished with your analysis and the ME’s had a chance to make a ruling. Let’s forgo all that stuff, though, shall we? I’m just trying to get a sense of this. This guy—Geoff Cooke, right?”
He gave her a tight smile. “Geoffrey. Yes.” He pronounced it like the ballet company: Joffrey.
“Well, I don’t know if Ike mentioned it, but he’s connected to another one of our cases, Peter Ash. We don’t know how. You got anything inconsistent with suicide?”
“Well, not inconsistent,” Grant said, “but the passenger door was unlocked. Which doesn’t prove somebody was there with him, but doesn’t rule it out either.”
“Okay.”
“And this might be interesting,” Grant went on. “The magazine is three rounds light.”
“Three rounds? Does that really mean anything?”
“Depends. He put one through his head, there’s one in the chamber after he fired that shot. So if he started with a full magazine, where did that third round go? And if he started with a full magazine and an additional round already in the chamber, we’re actually missing two. But, of course, he could have fired that shot or shots anytime. Maybe months ago, maybe last week, we don’t know. Maybe wanted to make sure it fired. But it’s a little odd.”
“Hmm. What kind of rounds? Jacketed? Looks like it from the hole in the window.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Grant said. “And that’s the other thing.” He turned to one of his partners. “Jasper, let’s let the inspectors have a look at the gun, would you?”
Jasper reached down onto the front seat and lifted a plastic evidence bag containing the weapon. He held it up for easy viewing, and Grant shined his flashlight on it.
Ike stepped forward, took a quick look. “What the hell?” he asked in a whisper.
“Yeah. Right? Let the expert tell you.” Grant nodded at his colleague.
And Jasper said, “I’ll have to double-check when we get it back downtown to be positive, but this looks to me like a Tariq nine millimeter, made in Iraq, popular in Desert Storm. It’s basically the brother to the Beretta 951, a licensed copy but, as I said, made in sandland, so maybe not as reliable.”
“Which is maybe why he tested it first,” Grant put in.
Pointing to a triangle marking etched into the barrel, Jasper said, “That there’s the symbol for the Republican Guard, although evidently only a few got marked.”
“Cooke was in Desert Storm,” Ike said.
“Well, that explains that,” Grant said. He made some motion to Jasper, and the younger man pulled another couple of baggies from out of the car and handed them to Grant. “Check out the slugs,” he said to the inspectors. “Jacketed. Lots of pop.” He held up the other baggie. “The casing, here, was on the passenger-side floor, which is as good a place as any for it to wind up.”
“Where was the gun?” Ike asked.
“Between the seats,” Grant said. “He pulled the trigger, it kicked loose. Absolutely plausible.”
“And no sign of another casing?” Beth asked. Then, explaining, “The other bullet.”
Grant shook his head. “No. Wouldn’t expect it, really. Probably shot in the long ago.”
Ike asked, “Any GSR?”
“We got his hands bagged,” Grant said. “But that will be a few days.”
“Burn marks?” Beth asked, wanting to know if the gun went off in close proximity to Cooke’s head.
“Looks like, but again, that’s the ME’s call.”
“Okay. Is Len on his way?”
Grant looked at Beth, then over her shoulder. “It looks like that’s him now.”
* * *
“Why does this seem like a case of déjà vu?”
“It’s really not.” Beth didn’t want to argue herself into a place where Faro would have to turn her down to preserve his authority. “This is a totally different situation, Len,” she went on in a reasonable tone. “This morning, you were absolutely right. The boat wasn’t even arguably a crime scene, there was no connection between Geoff Cooke and any crime at all. But then, suddenly, tonight, he winds up dead, an apparent suicide.”
“Apparent? I’d say slam dunk. Do you have any reason to think he wasn’t a suicide?”
“No. We’ll know for sure when forensics is done. But do I expect any surprises? No. He probably killed himself. Which is just what this looks like.”
“And why,” Faro asked, “does this change anything with the boat? Where there’s still no proof, or even an indication, that it’s a crime scene. Am I wrong here?”
“No. But that will change when I tell you the reason he committed suicide, which is that he knew that when we searched the boat, we would find the evidence that tied him to the murder of Peter Ash. A murder, I might add, accomplished, I would bet, by the same Iraqi-issued handgun that he brought back from Desert Storm.”
Faro, hands in the pockets of his perfectly cut Zegna suit, blew a plume of vapor out into the chill. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Beth,” he said, “but didn’t he give you permission to search his boat himself, and wouldn’t that indicate that he wasn’t too worried about what we might find on it? And certainly not worried enough to kill himself over it?”
Ike finally spoke up. “He’s been playing that game all the way, Len.”
“What game?”
“Stay close to us. Keep tabs on the investigation. Even volunteer to help. He probably figured that if he gave us permission to search the boat, it wouldn’t be half as rigorous as if we went and got a warrant and pulled the damn thing apart. No doubt he’s washed it down and cleaned it up, but then maybe he came to realize that that wasn’t going to work.”
“Or maybe, finally,” Beth said, “the guilt just got to him. He was at the funeral this morning
, hanging with Ash’s wife and kids. Maybe it all got to be just too much, seeing the results of what he’d done. It broke him.”
Faro closed his eyes and let his shoulders settle. “You can wear a guy down, Inspector,” he said. “You know that?”
“That’s not my intention, Len. But this is a stone we simply need to turn if we want to close the book on Peter Ash.”
“Search Mr. Cooke’s boat, even though now he’s dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
Faro released another deep sigh. “Didn’t you say he had an alibi for Ash?”
“He was at a deposition until late, yeah. But obviously, ’til not late enough. He could have met Ash any time. Midnight. Two a.m. Whenever he finished up with the depo.”
Finally, Faro broke a smile. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”
“I hope not, Len, but think of the good side.”
“And what is that?”
“If you come through for me here, I’ll owe you one.”
* * *
“I hate this,” Beth said as she pushed the doorbell and heard the deep chimes ring out within the house. Glancing to her left, she gave a determined nod to Ike, who stood at attention, his lips tight over his clenched jaw. They heard the footsteps coming toward them from within, and she stole a glimpse at her watch: 10:50.
“Yes?” Bina asked through the door. “Who is it?”
“Inspectors Tully and McCaffrey, Mrs. Cooke, if you could spare us a few minutes.”
The door opened and Bina Cooke stood in front of them. Wearing running shoes and the matching top and bottom to dark blue workout clothes, she exuded a barely controlled sense of panic. “Have you heard from Geoff?” she asked without preamble. “Why are you here?” Then, giving Beth no chance to answer, “Where’s Geoff? Why are you here?”
“Maybe it would be better if we came inside,” Beth said gently.
* * *
Ike had been able to pawn off his city-issued car for Jasper from the CSU to drive back downtown, so closing in on midnight, the two inspectors were driving back toward Ike’s home in the Jetta, Beth at the wheel.
“You really don’t think the note makes it conclusive?” Ike asked. “Not that it wasn’t already. But with the note . . .”
“It wasn’t a note,” Beth said. “It was an email. And I’m not saying it’s inconclusive . . .”
“No?” Ike cut her off. “Hold on a minute. ‘Dear Bina. Please forgive me,’ ” he recited from memory, “ ‘they’re going to put it together about Peter and me and I don’t want to put us through that. This is cleaner and better for you. I love you. Geoff.’ ”
“Yep. That’s it,” Beth said. “Perfectly rendered. Nice work.”
“Thank you. And that doesn’t sound like a suicide note to you? Or have it your way, a suicide email?”
“It has all the elements, yes. I’ll admit that. I just wish it was a real note in his handwriting that he’d left at his desk or something, instead of sent on his laptop so she could get it and freak out waiting to get the news from us, or however else it came to her. Doesn’t that strike you as a little cruel for a guy who supposedly loved his wife?”
“He wasn’t thinking about cruel. He was thinking about protecting her.”
“From what, exactly?”
“The trial. The media. His conviction. Prison time. Everything.”
She suddenly realized how late it was; how exhausted they both were. It had been a grueling night and suddenly she didn’t have the energy to fight over some admittedly minuscule quibbles that she might not even still have, much less remember, when she woke up the next morning. She looked across the seat at him. “What am I arguing about this for?” she asked him.
“I have no idea. You like to argue?”
“That must be it.”
“And that, right there,” he said, pointing out his window as they passed through an intersection, “was my turn that you just missed.”
“I know. I was just testing you.”
“Are you okay to get home?”
“I’m fine.”
“Tired?”
“Fine.”
“You could sleep on our couch for an hour or two.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Doesn’t mean it is, either.”
“Well, either way, when I slow down around this next corner,” she said, “you jump out.”
34
AT 7:30 THE NEXT MORNING, Ginny sat at the counter in her kitchen with a mug of coffee in front of her. When Beth came in, she told her mother that she’d already talked to Laurie in the hospital, where she’d been moved to a regular room, was off the drip, and had started an eating regimen of lots of milk, which evidently was the refeeding food of choice. She had appointments later in the morning with a nutritionist and a psychologist, but then they were planning to release her, which seemed a little soon to Ginny. What did Beth think?
“I think they probably know what they’re doing. She’s got to learn to manage her diet—and her life, for that matter—on her own sometime. How did she seem?”
“Actually, more embarrassed than anything. She kept apologizing for being a bother. I told her not to be ridiculous. It’s not like she tried to have a meltdown. But now I’m worried that if she’s going back home, it just might happen again.”
“Did you tell her that?”
Ginny nodded yes.
“And what did she say to that?”
“She told me it wouldn’t. She guaranteed me it wouldn’t. She said that the thing yesterday actually was a wake-up call, telling her that she was really, truly physically sick. And she didn’t want to be sick anymore. She wanted to have a life. To enjoy things again. Like food. Like we’d done over the weekend, except maybe she’d gotten carried away with the pure joy of it all. But now she knew that she just had to be aware of what she was doing until she put some weight back on, got her metabolism back under control.”
“Well, let’s hope. I must say it does sound promising.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But still . . . if she’s living alone . . .”
Beth put her own mug down on the counter. “I think Alan’s planning to stay with her. For the short term, at least, make sure she gets on a program and sticks to it.”
“That would probably help.”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt.”
“So.” Ginny met her mother’s eyes. “Do you think I should still go by once in a while?”
“No ‘should’ about it. You’re friends. You have fun together. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Well, because I’m the one who force-fed her over the weekend, which almost killed her.”
Beth gave her daughter a long disapproving stare. “Nobody force-fed anybody, Gin,” she said at last. “Nobody realized how serious her situation had become. Including me, your trained investigator mother who is supposed to see things. We just weren’t aware of it. As I’ve mentioned before, you are not to blame here. And yes, you should definitely go by and see her if you want to. I’m sure she’d like that a lot.”
“I wouldn’t be stepping on Alan’s toes?”
“Alan’s a big boy,” Beth said. “If he’s got a problem, I’m sure he’ll tell you about it. But I predict that he’d like your company, too.”
Ginny sipped from her mug, made a face, put it back down.
“What?” Beth asked.
“Cold coffee.”
Beth shook her head, smiling. “Nice try. What else?”
“Well, since you brought him up.”
“Alan? Yes, I like him and no, we are not an item.”
“Really? Not to sound like a mom, but what time did you get in last night?”
Beth chuckled. “That wasn’t Alan. It was this damn case I’m on.” She filled her in on the details. “In any event,” she concluded, “Alan and I seem to be on hold until this Peter Ash case settles out, which mig
ht be as soon as today.”
“Why is that? Is he connected to Peter Ash?”
“No. I mean, well, he knew him slightly. But mostly it’s been bad timing. Last night being a perfect example.” She hesitated for a moment. “I’d like you to be okay with it, if it did become something.”
“Are you kidding? I think he’s great.”
“I do, too,” Beth said. “I think.”
* * *
At 10:00 a.m., Beth was sitting at her desk in the Homicide detail doing one of her least favorite jobs, reviewing the transcript of one of her witnesses’ testimony in a case they’d been working on six weeks before. In general and in theory, these transcripts were the official written record of the tape recordings that inspectors made of interviews in the field—people who had witnessed the crime or something to do with the crime.
The wrinkle was that many of these witnesses—and today’s Ivan Vrotovna was a perfect example—did not speak English as their first, or even second or third language. This hardly mattered, however, because the denizens of the transcription pool often were not overburdened with too much education themselves and simply typed what they thought they heard. And God forbid they should go back and look for typos or spellcheck malfunctions.
The first sentence of the last paragraph she’d read was more or less typical: “Yah was tree sometime there where I was stopping in front of bank and (inaudible) . . .”
She was deeply immersed, pondering the true meaning of this, when an object in a baggie dropped right at her elbow on her desk. She jerked up halfway out of her chair. “Jesus!” Looking up, she saw Len Faro grinning down at her.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did I startle you?”
“No, not at all. Levitation is part of my regular workout.”
“Where’s Eisenhower this fine day?”
“Down at the morgue. The Geoff Cooke autopsy. I figured Dr. Patel wouldn’t need both of us. Probably don’t need him, either, if you want to know. But Ike wanted to go down. How could I ruin his fun?” Reaching over, she picked up the evidence baggie, saw that it contained one brass bullet casing. She turned it over in her hand, looked at it from the other side. “What’s this?” she asked, when suddenly her eyes lit up. “The boat.”
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