Behind the window, Winchester nudged Reardan, and said, “Get a load of the kid. He didn’t even bat an eye.
“I say he either made the phone call himself or he knows who did,” Reardan replied. “As for Mama, she’s struggling with her own demons and thirsting for something stronger than Coke.”
“Which doesn’t make her guilty of anything.”
“Nor does it give her an excuse to commit murder, Guy.”
“Just keep an open mind until we get the whole picture. Now back to … what did Mrs. Canelli call Quinella?”
“Queen Strongarm.” Reardan said with a snicker. “Now be quiet, she’s taking a different approach.”
Head bent, Quinella was doodling in her notebook.
“Naturally, our immediate objective is to help Ted help himself,” she said, “to make sure he doesn’t repeat this morning’s action because the next time he just might succeed.”
The Queen’s graffiti resembled a field of flying soccer balls, at least from Francesca’s upside down perspective. If only she’d talked to Matt when he needed her instead of dwelling on what might have been, instead of wrapping herself in a cocoon of sympathy. Had it been the other way around, Ben would’ve made a better single parent. Ben wouldn’t have missed her as much as she missed him.
After Quinella’s soccer balls ran off the page, Francesca watch the woman play seesaw with her pencil and two fingers, an annoying distraction which didn’t stop until her next words.
“Okay, Matt, now it’s your turn,” Quinella said. “Any ideas as to why Ted would attempt such a desperate action.”
Matt shrugged. “Actually, we’re not very close. I only see him at practice or the games.”
“Never went out for pizza or burgers, the usual stuff.”
“Maybe once or twice—White Castle, I think.”
“Good, good.” She smiled without showing the distracting gap. “You and Ted and who else?”
Matt directed his answer to the two-way window. “Maybe Ian Shepherd.”
“And—come on, Matt.” A handful of polished fingernails urged him forward. “Do I look like the family dentist? Don’t make me to extract every word from your mouth.”
“White Castle happened weeks ago.”
“Before Mr. Meredith died?”
“I guess. Yeah, but I don’t remember the exact date.”
“Names, Matt, give me names.”
He lifted his head, avoided looking at Francesca and the concern she couldn’t wipe from her face.
“Parker Elliot … Zach Stilworth … Oliver Billings,” Matt finally said. “Can I go now?”
“Not yet.” Quinella finished printing the names on a clean page in her notebook. She slid the notebook over to Matt. His name headed the list.
“Now, of these boys, which one do you think cared enough about Ted to save his life?”
“How should I know?”
“Take a guess, based on your limited interaction with each person. After all, they are your teammates.”
“Not all of them.” Matt swallowed hard and deep, exposing his adam’s apple. “Oliver and Zach didn’t return this year. And don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t. Nor would I expect you to believe any number of rumors that may be circulating. Right now, I’m more concerned about Ted’s lifesaver.” Quinella leaned over, her boobs resting on the table, her face closing in on Matt’s. “This isn’t a pass or fail test. Just give me your educated guess. A checkmark alongside the name is all I ask.”
Matt checked off a name, passed the notebook back to Quinella.
“Really, you think Ian saved Ted’s life. That’s odd, because he thinks you did.”
“You already spoke to Ian?”
“Yeah, he stayed home from school today, a nasty case of laryngitis. I suggested my mama’s home remedy—tea with lemon, plus a tablespoon of honey. Some folks add a drop of whiskey; however, I don’t condone the use of hard liquor when it involves those under the legal age. You don’t drink, do you Matt? Good, I didn’t think so. Anyway, since Ian’s laryngitis eliminated him, I’m leaning toward his guesstimate of you as Ted’s lifesaver.”
Matt cast his eyes away from the window. Francesca opened her mouth but quickly closed it when she felt Quinella’s hand over hers.
“According to Ted’s cell phone, a call was made to Ian’s at seven-thirty this morning and immediately after that to the home of Vince Valente. But Mr. Valente claims he was elsewhere at that time, eating oatmeal with raisons at the Rhythm and Blues Diner, and I have to believe him because said breakfast has been confirmed by a reliable employee of the diner.”
“So-o,” Quinella said. “I guess that leaves you to answer Ted’s call, unless you invited one of your friends into the Valente house.”
Matt’s jaw was quivering again. Francesca knew he was holding back but wasn’t sure she wanted him going forward. She felt Quinella’s hand on hers again, willing her not to make a move. To hell with the Strongarm Queen, Francesca pulled her hand away and grabbed Matt’s.
“Maybe we should contact our lawyer,” she told Matt.
“Good idea.” He gave her the smile she’d been waiting for. “Thanks, Mom.”
Quinella closed her notebook and got up without the signature smile. “Not a problem, I’ll leave you two alone to make your call.”
Francesca got up too. “Thanks, but we prefer the ante room. I left my cell phone with Mr. Valente.”
As she expected, Vince was still waiting. He closed his magazine, the latest issue of Sports Illustrated, which told her he must’ve stepped out to buy it, along with some power bars, judging from the empty wrappers scattered over the lamp table.
“All done?” he asked, bringing one foot from his knee to the floor.
“I wish,” Francesca replied. “Do you know a good lawyer?”
“Does the Pope know Latin? Leave everything to me.”
CHAPTER 26
Francesca expected a same day face-to-face meeting with Vince’s choice, one of the top criminal lawyers in St. Louis. But when Vince telephoned him, Fred Montgomery insisted he wouldn’t be available until the following afternoon.
“Let me talk to him.” Francesca took the cell from Vince’s hand.
“Please, Mr. Montgomery,” she said with a voice she hardly recognized. “If there is any way you could meet us at the precinct this evening, my son and I would be ever so grateful. He’s only fifteen, a good boy who’s never been in trouble, not once. These people keep pushing Matt. They won’t let up.”
“You’re saying the detectives are interviewing your fifteen-year-old?” Montgomery asked.
“Not exactly. The words are coming from the mouth of this woman, a patronizing juvenile officer but the detectives are feeding her the questions. Matt’s a wreck; I’m a wreck. My husband—Matt’s dad—died recently, after being hit by a truck while jogging. Perhaps you read about it in the newspapers. And now this.” She sniffed into the phone. “First the detectives were hounding me and when they didn’t get anywhere, they jumped on Matt. We can’t take much more, Mr. Montgomery. I just want to go home and sleep through the night, without worrying about another inquisition tomorrow. Matt needs to study. He’s capable of being a straight A student but only if he concentrates on his homework.”
“Put your lead detective on the phone,” the lawyer finally said. “I’ll see what we can work out.”
To Francesca’s relief Reardan and Fred Montgomery agreed on seven o’clock that evening. The lawyer also suggested meeting her and Matt for a light supper at five-thirty, just to understand why Matt had become a person of interest, and before Matt, Francesca. Since Vince was driving, he picked the restaurant, actually a diner known for its blue plate specials. Thursday featured roast beef and mashed potatoes, which everyone ordered except Francesca. She decided on the chef’s salad and after a few bites pushed it across the table to Matt whose appetite hadn’t suffered from the continuing saga.
&nb
sp; Had this nightmare been a movie, Central Casting would’ve assigned Fred Montgomery the role of evil degenerate. At least that was Francesca’s first impression, but the lawyer quickly proved her wrong. In spite of his hooded eyes, blotchy nose, wispy hair, and stooped posture, he somehow managed to exude an appealing mix of compassion and knowledge. Moxie, Ben would’ve called it. Fred Montgomery listened more than he talked, and encouraged her to talk about Rex, although she weighed each word so as not to come off as the slut they all knew she had been.
“Tonight isn’t about me, Mr. Montgomery,” she finally said from across the table. “I’m referring to Matt’s interview, of course.”
“Fred, I insist you call me Fred, both of you. And correct me if I’m wrong, but you did indicate the detectives had expressed interest in you before Matt.”
He shoveled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth, some of which landed on his chin. She cleared her throat, patted her fingers to her chin but since he didn’t take the hint, she reached over and dabbed her napkin to the offending potatoes. Fred blushed. He thanked her. Which may have turned him into a flawed mortal because to her embarrassment Matt actually snickered, prompting Vince, who’d been drinking coffee instead of eating, to elbow Matt in the ribs. None of this Fred seemed to notice. Or, if he did, was too confident or too hungry to acknowledge.
At some point during Fred’s attack on the roast beef he must’ve secured Matt’s trust. Or, maybe Quinella had worn Matt down; he would’ve opened up to her had Francesca not intervened. Either way, it no longer mattered because Matt did open up to Fred, told him everything he knew. Correction, everything Matt said he knew. Most of which Francesca was hearing from the first time, a disappointment but for now it would have to suffice.
Vince checked his watch, signaled the waitress to bring him the check, and when he shoved his nearly-full plate aside, Matt asked if he was through.
“It’s yours, kid.” Vince passed his plate to Matt and then turned to Fred, “So, bottom line, can you get this shit resolved?”
“I don’t see a problem.” Fred took the last hunk of bread and mopped up the last of his gravy. He lifted his head and directed the next remark to Matt, who’d been eating like there was no tomorrow. “Now, Matt, when we return to the interview room, I suggest you tell Ms. Armstrong what you’ve just told me.”
Matt nodded with a tired expression.
“Are you in agreement, Francesca?” Fred asked.
“Whatever you say,” she said. “But about the interview room, it’s very cramped, hardly enough space for three, let along four.”
A crooked smile crept across the lawyer’s face. “Trust me, Quinella Armstrong prefers cozy interviews. She’s not about to move us.”
*****
The Strongarm Queen did accommodate Matt’s lawyer, although in doing so Francesca wound up out of the loop but still within the room. Ostracized to a far corner, and she hoped, unseen from the detectives’ window. Matt resumed his assigned seat, now between Fred Montgomery and a more subdued Quinella. Pursed lips concealed the toothy gap capable of making her seem almost human. Francesca wasn’t sure which version she preferred but knew she didn’t trust either.
“Naturally, my client welcomes the opportunity to help in any way he can,” Fred began. He patted Matt’s arm, a nice grandfatherly touch. “Go ahead, son. Tell Ms. Armstrong what you told your mother and me.”
Matt tapped his fingers before he spoke, reminding Francesca of Reardan. Ben too, whenever he tried to cover him being nervous. “I guess I was Ted’s lifesaver,” Matt began, “although I didn’t think of myself as anything but a snitch. Yes, Ted called me this morning, after first calling his best friend Ian who I guess couldn’t do much but listen so he called me. Ted went on about Coach Meredith and how much he hated him but not enough to see him dead even though he probably deserved what happened. Ted didn’t say why and before I could ask, he said he was heading over to Show Me before school. He wanted to test out the crossbar because he didn’t think it was possible for Coach to strangle that way.”
“Excuse me, what way?”
Matt hesitated, weighed his words. “Ted mentioned something about a cooler under his feet.”
Winchester perked up from his position behind the window. “Whose feet?” he whispered into a microphone connected to the tiny aid hidden in Quinella’s ear.
“Whose feet?” she repeated.
The question required some thought before Matt answered. “I figured Ted’s but what he meant for sure, I don’t know.”
“Anything else?” Quinella asked.
He directed his answer to the window. “Nothing I can think of. Can we go now?”
“Just a few more questions,” Quinella said. “Why was Ted wearing his Pegasi uniform?”
Matt’s face lost its color. “That I don’t know.”
“But he did mention the uniform, which prompted you to call the police, right?”
Matt tilted his head to the ceiling. He sighed, and addressed the window again. “Ted might’ve said something about wearing the uniform in order to salute Coach. You know, when he tested his theory.”
“You mean about the cooler,” Quinella said.
“Right, but after he said goodbye—not ‘so long’ or ‘later’—I got to thinking about the weird goodbye and the uniform, which seemed too far out for anybody’s theory, even somebody like Ted.”
“Like Ted?”
“He’d been down about his parents getting a divorce but I think they’ve since made up. So, anyway, I decided to call the police.”
“But not from Mr. Valente’s house.”
“I was running late for school.” He glanced at Francesca. “And since I don’t have my own cell phone, I made the call from a pay phone.”
“You actually found one, expressed your concern, but hung up before giving your name?”
“My bus was coming. I almost missed it.”
Francesca felt the muscles in her neck loosen up. Matt’s story made perfect sense, at least to her. But then Quinella hit him with another question, this one from a page in her notebook.
“So, Matt, from those names you gave me before: how do Parker Elliot, Zach Stilworth, and Oliver Billings fit into the Ted equation?”
“For those answers, I suggest you speak to each boy directly,” Fred said in his lawyer voice. He checked his watch and stood up. “Now, unless you have any more questions for my client, I’d appreciate your excusing him for the evening. As with any fifteen-year-old, Matt needs a good night’s sleep. After all, he’s only a high school sophomore.”
Another interview ended, with Francesca and Matt free to leave. Fred Montgomery had earned his fee and somehow she’d find a way to pay it, whatever the price.
“Send me your bill,” she told him out in the parking lot.
“The financial arrangements are between Fred and me,” Vince said. “The two of us go back a long way.”
God bless Vince Valente, Fred Montgomery too. He put a comforting arm around her, the kind Lou Canelli would’ve given if that damn prostate hadn’t cut his life short. “Not to burst your fine bubble, Francesca, but I expect you’ll hear from the detectives again. Very soon, I’m sorry to say. And when you do, don’t hesitate to call me.”
CHAPTER 27
The ordeal at Precinct Four may have been put on hold but Francesca regarded it as no more than a temporary reprieve and was determined not to allow herself the luxury of unwinding. She resumed her position in the back seat of Vince’s SUV, all the better to observe any change in Matt’s facial expression. “You really should come home with me,” she told him as Vince pulled out of the parking lot.
“Not tonight,” Matt said without turning around. “I’ve got my homework spread out all over Vince’s den.”
Francesca pictured Matt’s orderly chaos, similar to what defined his room at home. Vince confirmed the homework excuse with a nod to the rearview mirror and considering his current penchant for swerving whenever the least little t
hing distracted him, Francesca decided not to push for Matt’s immediate return to Surry Lane. Besides, he’d already closed his eyes, perhaps from exhaustion but more likely to avoid further discussion with her, a ploy Ben had often used when she was about to get the upper hand. Except for Vince making a few off-hand comments about the influx of new condominiums and single family homes along the route, they drove back to his house in comfortable silence. As soon as he pulled into the driveway, Matt hopped out of the vehicle before Francesca opened the rear door. He bounded up the walkway but came to an immediate stop as soon as Vince called out a paternal command.
“Hey, Nelli, show your ma some respect.”
Nelli, where did Vince come up with Nelli? Oh yeah, from the soccer boys. Francesca’s Matt came back and brushed his lips against her cheek. She wanted to hold him, beg his forgiveness, but he stepped away from her before she had the chance.
“I love you,” she did manage to say, “more than life itself.”
“I know, Mom. But right now I need room to breathe.”
He was gone again but Vince lingered to say he’d have Matt home within the next day or so.
“I’m counting on it,” she replied. “Maybe he’ll open up to you before then.”
“You gotta understand, Francesca: whatever Matt confides in me stays with me.”
“No, no, no. That’s not fair,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m his mother and you’re not his priest.”
“But I am a man of honor.”
“How well I know, which explains why I trust you with Matt’s life and mine. Goodnight and sleep well.” She kissed the hollow of his cheek and walked away with the refreshing fragrance of something other than Eternity for Men. Vince must’ve been sampling the cologne at Walgreen’s, or wherever he bought the magazine, while Matt battled the Strongarm Queen. Francesca considered Vince’s casual attitude during this time of crisis as a good sign, a vote of confidence in Matt and later, Fred Montgomery. Oh my god, where were her manners. “Vince,” she called out. “About Fred, I almost forgot to thank you. I’ll pay you back—you know I will. However long it takes, I promise.”
Lethal Play Page 17