I nodded.
As he and Bandoni walked off, Bandoni reached his hand up behind his back and gave me the finger. The last defense of the weak. Score one for the railroad cop.
CHAPTER 10
There are two main reasons we wage war: greed and revenge.
You can talk about dictators who’ve crossed a line, or about the need to defend the helpless. You can get on your soapbox and preach democracy and how it’s your job to take it to the world.
But it all comes down to two things. Someone wants something. Or someone took something.
And now we’re gonna kick a little ass.
—Sydney Parnell, ENGL 2008, Psychology of Combat.
When Clyde and I arrived at the observation room, the ten-by-ten space was packed with detectives and federal agents and reeked of coffee and sweat. The noise level was at a volume just above that of a squadron of F-16s at takeoff. Mac had found a spot to the left of the door, pressed against the wall. I wedged myself in beside her, while Clyde, miserable with the crowd, crawled into the gap between my feet and the baseboard.
A wall-mounted screen at the front of the room provided a direct view into the interview room, where a camera was already recording and transmitting. All of us could see Veronica Stern sitting alone at a metal table in a chamber consisting of peeling plaster, two metal-and-vinyl chairs, and a single window reinforced with black wire.
She didn’t much resemble the Veronica Stern from earlier that day. Clearly, finding a child’s bloody clothing in your car—assuming you didn’t put it there—was enough to shock anyone. But Veronica didn’t look so much shocked as simply . . . gone. As if the real Veronica Stern was off somewhere trying to strike a deal with the devil. Her lovely face was a static mask, her flat gaze fixed on an invisible spot six inches above the table. The fingers of her right hand clutched her necklace as if it were a lifeline.
She barely seemed to blink.
At the sound of the door opening, she moved like someone coming out of a dream. She released the necklace—a silver heart with a diamond-and-ruby center—straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Her look was now one I recognized—the coldly competent litigation lawyer.
Cohen and Bandoni entered. Bandoni slapped a file folder onto the table and took a position behind Stern, arms folded and chin tucked. His gaze drilled into the back of her head. Cohen seated himself across from Stern. He opened his notebook and gave her a reassuring nod.
“I’m Detective Cohen. Behind you is Detective Bandoni.”
Stern’s glare was glacial. “I didn’t put those clothes in my trunk.”
“Then we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Cohen said, “and you’ll be free to go.”
He opened the file folder Bandoni had placed on the table. “We’re recording this,” he said, pointing to the camera in the corner.
“I am familiar with the process, Detective,” Stern said.
“That because you’ve been arrested before?” Bandoni asked.
Stern arched a brow. “Did you not bother with your homework, Detective Bandoni? As DPC’s chief litigator, I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews.”
Cohen pulled his chair closer to the table. For the camera, he said, “Let’s get started. Detectives Cohen and Bandoni, interviewing Veronica Stern. Ms. Stern, please say the date. Then state and spell your full name and address and your date of birth.”
Stern complied. When she gave her street address, Mac and I exchanged glances. Wash Park. Where the Davenports lived.
Cohen went through a patter, recording for the camera that Stern was there of her own free will, that she wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol, and that she understood that she was not under arrest. Once through the formalities, he pulled the file folder toward him and picked up the pen.
“This must be a shock to you,” Cohen said.
“Do you think?” The laser edge in her voice could have etched steel.
“You seem more angry than concerned.”
“That is because I haven’t murdered any children, Detective. I haven’t even given one a nosebleed. This is clearly someone’s idea of a sick joke.”
“Who would want to play that kind of joke on you?”
She tucked a single loose strand of hair behind her ear. “My line of work places me against people who would prefer I not do my job. People looking for compensation from the railroad, whether they deserve it or not.”
“You mean people hit by your trains. Can you think of anyone who’s been particularly upset?”
She shook her head. “In instances where the railroad is at fault, we usually settle. When it’s not—which is the majority of cases—we still do our best to settle. But this is a litigious country. People often refuse, then become angry when they realize they would have been better off taking our initial offer. So I’ve been mentally reviewing my cases. No one comes immediately to mind.”
“You settle to avoid the publicity?”
“And the expense. But when the plaintiff refuses, we fight. And we usually win.”
“Up until six months ago, you were fighting on behalf of a different railroad. Is that true?”
“SFCO. Yes.”
“What made you switch to DPC?”
“They offered a better package.”
“Higher salary?”
“And better benefits.”
Bandoni cleared his throat. “Benefits like sleeping with the boss’s son?”
Stern rolled her eyes. “Really.”
“As a litigation attorney,” Cohen said, “your pay is among the highest in the country, even for attorneys as a whole.”
“Are you suggesting that’s a crime? The work I do is difficult. Millions can be riding on the cases I handle. I was happy to accept DPC’s offer.”
“Were you driven by financial worries?”
In the observation room, a phone trilled. “Vibrate!” someone shouted.
“—merely pay commensurate with my work,” Stern said.
“We will check your financials.”
“Please do.”
Cohen scribbled something in the notebook. “Let’s talk about your car. Is it accessible at work?”
“When I park on the street. Usually I park in the adjacent garage, which is gated.”
“But someone could walk in.”
“Of course.”
“What about this week?”
“I was in the garage yesterday. The street the day before.”
“And what about at home?”
“I keep my car locked in the garage at night. I never leave it outside.”
“What were you doing at Green Hills Park at four this morning?”
She blinked. “I wasn’t.”
“Bullshit,” Bandoni muttered.
She didn’t glance around. “I wasn’t at any park this morning. I wasn’t even out of bed then.”
“And last night?” Cohen asked. “Where were you last night?”
“I picked up my usual Chinese dinner at Shanghai’s right after work at six and then went home.”
Cohen made a note. “And you are not married, is that correct?”
“Divorced.”
“Did your husband cheat on you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That is none of your business.”
From his post against the wall, Bandoni said, “That’s a yes. I bet that hurt—beautiful woman like you.”
Her eyes glittered.
“Boyfriend?” Cohen asked.
“No.”
“Roommate?”
“I live alone.”
“Meaning no one can vouch for your whereabouts last night.”
“After I left the restaurant, no.”
“You make any phone calls, log on to the Internet, anything like that?”
“No.”
“So how did you spend the evening?”
“I enjoyed a glass of wine with my dinner, turned on some Bach fugues, then settled in the living room to read.”
&nbs
p; “Soldier of Fortune?” said Bandoni. “I hear they got ads in there for people who want to make a hit.”
She didn’t respond, and Bandoni picked up the patter. “So you just sat in your chair and read. All by your lonesome.”
She shrugged. “Lonesome isn’t the word I would use.”
“Sounds lonely to me. Just you and—who’d you say—Bach and some magazines. You ever get bored?”
“No.”
“Ever try to alleviate the boredom by spending time with someone else’s husband?”
A muscle jumped in her cheek. “That sounds more up your alley, Detective.”
“Or maybe someone’s wife? How do you swing, Ms. Stern?”
Cohen gently took the conversation back. “Give us a timeline of yesterday evening and last night, Ms. Stern. After dinner and reading.”
“I read until nine o’clock. After that, I went to bed and read another thirty minutes, then slept until my alarm. At six thirty this morning, I went for a run around my neighborhood. I showered and arrived at work by eight. Half an hour later, I was called up on the Davenport case.”
“You drove your car to the tracks?”
“Yes. And parked it alongside two police cruisers. Maybe you should check with them.”
“What about after?”
“I went home to shower with the intent of returning to work immediately after. But your officer showed up on my doorstep.”
“What is your relationship with the Davenports?”
A shadow passed over her face, a quick flick like a blind snapping closed. “I know them casually. Or rather, I knew Samantha Davenport casually. She and I sat together on the Board of Directors for MoMA.”
“Must have been hard, seeing her under that train.”
“It wasn’t pleasant, no.”
Bandoni snorted. Cohen and Stern both ignored him.
“MoMA,” Cohen went on. “That’s the Museum of Modern Art, is that right?”
For the first time, Stern looked guarded. “Could this have something to do with the museum?”
“You know anyone who has something against MoMA?”
“It’s an art museum. Everyone has been behind it. The art community, the sponsors, the local government. Everyone.”
“Anything questionable about it? The museum, the people working for it? Maybe the land it’s on?”
Stern shook her head. “There is nothing improper or untoward. It’s a good group of people and a good cause.”
“Untoward,” Bandoni said. “I’m gonna have to look that up.”
She made the slightest inclination of her head in his direction. “I have no doubt of that, Detective. You’ll find it next to uncouth.”
“You sound pretty committed to the museum,” Cohen said.
“I believe in the arts.”
Cohen stood, stretched, his motions deliberately casual as he crossed to the window and looked out. Even through the video camera I could hear the rain hit the glass. There would be flooding—sewers and drains were already overwhelmed.
“Tell me more about your relationship with Samantha Davenport,” he said.
“We met at an art show where her work was on display. The museum was her brainchild. Her father-in-law, Hiram Davenport, is quite wealthy, as of course you know. Sam got him to donate the land and provide some of the funding. Believing my legal background would be useful, she asked me to be on the board of directors. Naturally, I accepted.”
“Did you donate any of your own money?”
“A few thousand.”
“How much is a few?”
“Five. I donated five thousand of my own money.”
“Was this before or after you took a job with DPC?”
She frowned. “Before. But if you’re looking for a connection between my employment with DPC and the museum, you won’t find anything.”
“What kind of connection would I be looking for?”
“I don’t know. You’re the detective.”
Cohen returned to the table and made a note. “How is it that Hiram Davenport was willing to give such a valuable piece of land to a museum? Riverfront property in a growing part of metro Denver. About as good as it gets.”
“I’m sure it’s because of Sam. And maybe he wanted the tax deduction. I can’t claim to know what he was thinking or to know anything about DPC’s finances—”
“Not even as DPC’s chief litigator?”
“Not even then. I’m sure he also appreciated the press.”
“Especially given his battle with the Tates for the bullet train.”
“Perhaps. You would have to ask him.”
“Who else is on the board? Aside from you and—I assume—Samantha.”
“Wealthy art lovers and artists. It’s a matter of public record.”
“And what about Ben Davenport? Is he on the board?”
A tinge of pink rose in her neck. “No.”
“But you know him.”
Something glimmered on her face—a look like that of a child standing at the candy counter with empty pockets.
Beside me, Mac said, “Ah.”
Stern looked down. “Not really.”
Cohen gave the table a quick rap. “Ms. Stern? Can you look at me?”
She lifted her head. Her face was blank. “I met Ben exactly once. At a fund-raiser that his father insisted he attend. Or maybe it was Sam who wanted him to come. Either way, it was obvious that Ben was ill at ease.”
“He told you that?”
She nodded. “He’d had a drink or two by then, I guess. He said he hated small talk because there wasn’t anything he wanted to discuss except his family and the war. He said it wasn’t fair to inflict either on a stranger.”
“And yet he talked to you.”
“Only that much. I knew more about him from Sam.”
“What did she say?”
“That marriage could be tough. I thought maybe she meant his anger.”
“He had a temper?”
Even Stern’s shrug was graceful. “She said that Ben struggled after the war. Like a lot of veterans. Sometimes he’d get angry.”
“She ever mention him getting violent?”
“Never. When Ben got angry, he retreated. What bothered her more was that sometimes he seemed sorry to be back home. She thought he missed the war.”
“How’s that?”
Stern began turning a ring on her finger, a simple silver band. “The excitement, I suppose.”
“That your supposition, or Sam’s?”
“Mine.”
Cohen wrote a few more lines in his notebook.
In the observation room, I felt the sidelong glances from a couple of detectives who knew my past. I kept my eyes on the screen.
“You ever know Samantha or Ben to be involved with someone else?”
“You mean an affair? I never heard anything.”
“What about Jack Hurley?”
“Who?”
“Samantha’s assistant. You must have met him.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Maybe at an art exhibit?”
“Not that I recall.”
“And she never talked about him?”
“Not to me.”
Cohen took the photo of the woman from Ben’s office out of the file and placed it in front of Stern.
“Do you know this woman?”
She abandoned her ring and bent over the picture. “No.”
“Never saw her with Ben?”
“No.” She looked up. “Who is she?”
Cohen slid the picture back into the folder.
Bandoni scrubbed at his nose. “You don’t seem exactly torn up over your friend’s death.”
“I am not public with my feelings.”
Cohen went back to the window, leaving it to Bandoni to gauge Stern’s reaction. “And what of Hiram Davenport? How well do you know him?”
“He hired me. Outside of that, I’ve had little interaction with him. We’ve met once or twice
at fund-raisers.”
“When you made your move to DPC, you didn’t bring any information with you that might be of use to your new boss?”
“I’m offended by the suggestion.”
Cohen’s eyes met hers. “So, did you?”
“No.”
“What is your impression of Hiram?”
“My impression? What does that have to do with anything?” Stern worried the ring again. “Is he somehow a suspect in this?”
“That upsets you,” Cohen said.
“What upsets me is this waste of time while that little girl is still out there.”
“Bear with us. What do you know about Hiram Davenport?”
She shrugged. “I know he’s a railroad man, through and through. And I know he is passionate about art and is willing to put money into sharing that love with others. I know from Sam that, as a grandfather, he’s big on gifts, less so on family events. Anything else comes from what I read in the papers.”
Bandoni heaved himself off the wall, walked around the table, and splayed his hands on the metal surface, leaning in. “Oh, enough of this bullshit. Where is she?”
“If you’re asking about Lucy, I don’t know.”
“You slept with Ben Davenport. You murdered his wife and sons.” He was in her face now, shouting. “His daughter’s bloody clothing was found in your car. What have you done with her?”
Stern didn’t retreat. Her eyes flashed and sudden anger blotched her neck and cheeks. “I don’t care what you think, or who you are, or what game you’re trying to play to get me to confess to something I am innocent of. But that little girl is out there, no doubt suffering, and you are wasting time with me. I did not sleep with Ben Davenport. I did not—as you so crudely suggested—sleep with his wife. I did not hurt either them or their children. If you want to save Lucy Davenport, then for God’s sake, put your energy where it might make a difference.”
Silence in both rooms. Then someone in the observation room said, “That was righteous.”
Bandoni stayed right where he was, his face still inches from Stern’s. “I’ve seen the best liars the world has to offer, Ms. Stern. And you aren’t anywhere near their league.”
Cohen glanced at his phone. He passed it to Bandoni, who straightened and read whatever was on the screen. The detectives exchanged a look; Bandoni looked like he’d swallowed pins.
Dead Stop (Sydney Rose Parnell Series Book 2) Page 16