Death Takes Priority

by Jean Flowers

  Sunni sat back, tucked her legs under her, and uttered a sigh that seemed to take her far away. Maybe the response was to another bite of white chocolate raspberry cake; more likely from images of her own opportunities whose time had passed.

  “I suppose you’ll miss Quinn,” she said, coming back to the here and now.

  “Miss him?” Did Sunni think Quinn visited every night? Could she even know he’d cooked the chicken she’d enjoyed this evening? “We had coffee this afternoon,” I admitted.

  She unwrapped herself and sat up straight. “Uh-oh. You don’t know.”

  I straightened a bit too and threw up my hands. “You’ve lost me.”

  She took a long breath, and looked up at the ceiling, as if there was a helpful tip written there. “Quinn Martindale went back to San Francisco this afternoon.”

  I dropped my fork. It landed at my feet, scattering bits of sugary pecans over my hardwood floor.

  It took a long time for me to retrieve it and clean up the mess with my napkin.

  17

  When I was ready to come up for air, Sunni was placing a clean fork on my plate. She handed me a glass of water.

  “I’m sorry, Cassie. I thought surely . . .” Sunni looked like she was about to slap her own face or, at least, bite her tongue.

  “Not a problem,” I said, aware of my shaky voice. “Of course, I can see why you’d think he’d told me. But it’s not like we were . . .” What were we exactly? I wasn’t clear myself; how could I explain it to someone else? “We weren’t that close,” I said. “The first time we did anything socially was that lunch last Monday.”

  “You mean the one where Ross and I came and took him away and left you stranded?”

  There was no good response to that except to laugh, which we both did, heartily. It was the perfect way to ease the tension.

  I caught my breath, and tried to pay attention while Sunni explained.

  “He stopped by the station on Wednesday morning to see how soon he could leave. We were still tracking him, so to speak, digging around for updates on his mother’s situation in San Francisco. I was impressed that he didn’t just split, but I asked him to wait a couple of days, and he did. He came back again this morning and I told him he was a free man.”

  “You said it started Wednesday morning?” It wasn’t lost on me that I’d given Scott the mysterious letter in peacock blue on Tuesday night.

  “Uh-huh. Of course, I thought you were in the loop the whole time. But, anyway, I’ve been convinced he’s done nothing illegal, technically, and he certainly didn’t kill Wendell Graham. There’s nothing tying them together except that one slip of paper in Wendell’s pocket, and the fact that those phone directories were in Quinn’s home. We know why Quinn stole the phone books, and even though we still don’t know why Wendell was walking around with Quinn’s names, that’s not what I’d call evidence of wrongdoing.” Sunni talked at an almost breathless rate, and now paused. “If it turns out there was another connection between Wendell and Quinn, and we learn about that, we’ll take it from there. I finally reached that lawyer who came through for him—well, I reached his secretary, that is—so I can always get him back if something shows up.”

  My mind flew to the e-mail. Could that be the other, important connection? Quinn’s name was on a list that seemed to be some kind of assignment from Derek to Wendell. What if there had been a confrontation between them when Wendell tried to carry out whatever the mission was?

  I tried to recall Quinn’s reaction when I showed him the e-mail. Nothing that indicated he was aware of it. It couldn’t have been the outing of the e-mail that sent Quinn running; he’d already started the process of splitting. Did he think the e-mail implicated him one step further than that simple slip of paper?

  “I’m curious,” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking, about what time did Quinn come into the station today?”

  “It was around lunchtime. I’d just sent Ross out for sandwiches since I had a lot of paperwork to catch up on.”

  Lunchtime. Right after our conversation in the café. Right after Quinn had expressed concern that I was endangering myself by looking into possible motives for Wendell’s murder. He’d been so solicitous, even offering to help or at least make sure I came to no harm. And then he ran.

  I considered telling Sunni about the e-mail now. Would she reprimand me for not convincing Wanda to turn it in? Would she send for Quinn? Did I want some kind of justice or did I want Quinn back? I had to stop making his exit personal. My head hurt. Every mistake or misjudgment I’d ever made came back, full force, to flood my mind.

  In the flood, Adam made an appearance, the ultimate rejection, the clue that something was wrong with me. He’d walked out on me without even a face-to-face. Not that I was shocked, but I’d expected a civilized final conversation.

  I flashed back to the last texts between Adam and me. I received the first one a few minutes after I came home from work one evening and saw that all the things he’d left in my apartment were gone—a spare shaving kit, a few T-shirts, a pile of business magazines, a pair of jogging shoes, even his favorite mug with a large green dollar sign. A faded rectangle on the wall of the entryway was all that was left of a Fenway Park print we’d bought. Apparently he’d always considered that print his own.

  I’m sure u agree, he wrote in the text. Time 2 call it.

  Call what? I answered. This isn’t a game.

  LOL. It’s not working.

  Can we talk?

  Nothing 2 say.

  Still would like a face2face.

  I wish u all the best. A.

  Thus ended a four-year relationship that included a three-month engagement.

  And now Quinn. Without even a text message. Well, it was a good thing I didn’t need either one of them. I’d been taking care of myself in one way or another since I was sixteen years old.

  Sunni was waiting patiently for me to return. She’d been sipping coffee, taking small bites of her sampler plate of Bundts, allowing me time. I was trying to decide whether to ’fess up about the e-mail or change the subject altogether, perhaps to the exhibits that would be at the Gardner next month.

  “More coffee?” I asked. Stalling was my best talent.

  Sunni seemed to misinterpret my offer as a request to her. She took my mug from me, headed for the kitchen, and returned with refills for both of us. Such a thoughtful person deserved more than I was giving her. I’d hoped to have her as a friend without involvement in her profession, but it wasn’t working out that way at the moment. I knew if I wanted to keep her trust at all, I had to be forthcoming now. Otherwise I’d lose her for good. Another loss was the last thing I needed.

  I took a breath. “I have something to show you,” I said.

  I held my breath almost the whole time Sunni was reading the e-mail, contorting her face now and then, and I thought for sure she was going to lash out at me. I braced myself.

  “I don’t know what to say, Cassie. Wanda must have thought this was significant, or she wouldn’t have given it to you. Did it occur to you to suggest that she take it to me?”

  I shook my head. “I honestly didn’t think of that. I promise. Wanda brought it to me only this morning. If you’d seen this, would you have changed your mind about letting Quinn go?”

  “Probably not. It’s no better than the piece of paper with his names on it in Wendell’s pocket. And it’s only peripherally useful to begin with. But that’s not the point.”

  “I realize that, and I don’t know what I was thinking, except I assumed Wanda and I should check it out before bothering you with every little thing.”

  “Are there other little things?”

  I spilled out everything I’d done today, from trying to visit the central office of the telephone company to checking out the names on the e-mail list.

  “That’s it,” I said.
I was willing to tell her what I’d had for breakfast, if that would convince her of my willingness to cooperate. One tiny omission was the brief interaction Wanda and I had had with Derek and Selectwoman Corbin. A small voice in my head said it was a bad idea to keep this from Sunni, but in the end, I convinced myself that there had been no real significance to the meeting. It was what Aunt Tess would have called a kerfuffle—a small fuss—plus a sense of underhandedness in the air.

  “I hoped we could be friends, Cassie, regular friends, not coworkers on police matters.”

  “We can be, Sunni.” I folded my hands together and held them out. A gesture of supplication if there ever was one. “Please, cut me some slack, just for this case. It’s not all my fault that I’m involved.” I ticked off the excuses. “I happened to have lunch with Quinn. Once, and it was the wrong day to do it. My phone books were in his house. Wanda came to me and asked for help. For one reason or another, people in town sought me out, either giving or seeking information.” I threw up my hands. “I didn’t ask for any of this.” I sat back, feeling like a ten-year-old telling her parents she didn’t start the squabble, her brother did. What hope did I have that the chief of police would take me seriously?

  I looked over to catch Sunni’s smile. “You left out how Wendell was your prom date.”

  I hoped the smile meant I was forgiven. Assuming the best, I uttered a weak, “Thanks.”

  “Let’s look at this again,” she said, picking up the e-mail. “Something struck me when I first read it.”

  I moved to the edge of my chair, leaned closer to the table. Sunni ran her finger down the text, stopping at Barry Chase.

  “He’s a barber in South Ashcot,” I said, not mentioning that Wanda had already interviewed him.

  “Yes, I know that, but I’ve seen the name recently in another context.” She looked to one side then the other, lips tight, foot tapping, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe not. It’s one of those names that could just as easily be the name of a new game app on my nephew’s smartphone.” She gave me a smile. “Barry Chase, very common. Like Cassie Miller.”

  “Not like Sunni Smargon,” I said, continuing the light moment.

  “Definitely not like Sunni Smargon.”

  We sat back on our respective chairs. Finished for the evening, I thought, until it struck me. I’d also seen the name Barry Chase and seen his photo on a business card. “I think I have it,” I said. “Isn’t he one of the named partners in the firm where Edmund Morrison is a lawyer?”

  “The lawyer who got Quinn out of my custody. That’s exactly right,” Sunni said. “And now I also recall that he was a big contributor to Gert Corbin’s campaign for reelection. I couldn’t place it until you mentioned his firm. Thank you, thank you.” Sunni pulled out her phone. “And . . . just let me check.” she said, typing madly with one finger. “I know I have it here somewhere. Yes, that’s also the firm that represents Derek Hathaway. Derek gave me his card a few months ago for some other legal matter and I stored it in here.”

  “Wow,” I said, picturing all the loose ends closing in on each other. “What does it mean that a lawyer from Derek Hathaway’s firm, who helped get Selectwoman Corbin reelected, is also the one who got Quinn freed from your custody?”

  “Maybe nothing. It’s a small town,” Sunni said.

  “Not Albany.”

  “Good point.”

  “So can you look into this?” I asked.

  “You mean instead of you?”

  “No, I—”

  “I know you mean well, Cassie, and you have actually been a great help, but it’s a dangerous pursuit. These people are not players in a ball game. One of them might be a killer. Didn’t that tire-slashing party on your Jeep teach you anything?”

  “No, because I don’t know how it came about, other than a sweet young girl confessed.”

  “A subtle reminder that I haven’t given you an update?”

  “Could be.”

  “Okay, it is a little strange. You certainly have a right to know that. The girl who confessed? Her mother is very sick and they don’t have a lot of money. A guy offered her cash, told her it was a prank, no one would get hurt, just a little inconvenience to a good friend who liked to play games with him. When we explained that was not the case, I could tell she was really upset, and not just about getting caught.”

  “I don’t suppose she knows the man.”

  Sunni shook her head. “Someone came up to her at a ball game in the park and made this offer. She couldn’t resist, et cetera. She described him as medium this and ordinary that; not much help. I’m willing to bet it wasn’t Derek Hathaway, by the way, if that’s what you’re thinking. If he’s involved, he’s insulated himself. I can’t see him trolling the park for young girls to do his bidding.”

  I could, but I decided not to pursue the idea. “I get that you think my tires were slashed because someone thought I was snooping around too much. But isn’t that a little juvenile? I mean, why not really threaten me?”

  “You’d rather someone put a gun to your head?”

  I shivered. “Of course not, but—”

  “You know, I took a workshop last summer. A wellness program for cops that they make us attend every so often. They talked about various sources of stress and how to deal with it, but they never mentioned what to do with well-meaning citizens who want to help.”

  I gave Sunni an apologetic look.

  “So, the sooner we solve this case, the sooner I’ll get rid of a lot of stress. Tell you what, let’s brainstorm on what this e-mail could mean. We can start by assuming as you did that the ‘new opportunities’ has something to do with Wendell’s job with the phone company, and probably has to do with new lines being installed.”

  I thought back to my ad hoc interview with Mr. Comm, the guy I met on my way back from the central office. “The phrase that keeps coming back to me is ‘connecting lines, disconnecting lines, hooking lines, unhooking lines,’” I offered.

  Our brainstorming began, but not before another round of coffee. With my permission, Sunni raided my cabinets for snacks. It seemed a long time since the chicken potpie. She came back with pretzels, corn chips, and small chocolate squares.

  “I left the dried fruit behind,” she said.

  “Good choice.”

  “There’s a lot you can do on a phone line that isn’t registered properly,” Sunni said, settling back on her chair. She grimaced at the taste of a stale pretzel. Too bad we’d already demolished the miniature Bundt cakes. Too bad they were so small.

  Sunni used her smartphone to make notes; I chose the old-fashioned pad of paper and a ballpoint, randomly choosing a pen from a mug. The logo on the pen was ASHCOT’S ATTIC, Quinn Martindale’s former place of employment. I stuffed it back in place and took one Linda had sent me from the Boston Public Library.

  “Could Wendell have been hooking or unhooking lines to Derek’s advantage?” I asked.

  “Hacking phones and e-mails is a national pastime, and not just in this country. There was a big case recently, I forget where exactly, where a reporter was accused of eavesdropping on the phones of sports stars, politicians, celebrities, to get scoops.”

  “Not too many celebrities in North Ashcot,” I said.

  “Except for us,” Sunni said, primping her hair and smiling, reminding me how much I liked our chief of police and looked forward to a deepening friendship.

  “You said it.” I took a satisfying bite of corn chip before I shared a sudden brainstorm. “On TV, the drug dealers are always using burner phones to do business, so their calls can’t be traced. When they’re through with the number, they click on something and the burner number goes out of service. I think it even wipes out all the numbers called.”

  “You think Derek might be dealing drugs on special telephone lines instead of buying dozens of burner phones every month? Why?”


  I shrugged, hoping Sunni didn’t think I had intimate knowledge of drug dealing. “Because it’s less expensive?” I suggested.

  “If that’s what’s happening, that would make the people listed on the e-mail about ‘new opportunities’”—here Sunni drew quotation marks in the air—“potential users? Other dealers? What?”

  “Prospective new users or something similarly unsavory would make sense in the case of the South Ashcot librarian, Margaret Phillips. Wanda said she claimed to want nothing to do with Derek. She’d be likely to squash any suspicious invitation immediately, if she’s like the librarians I know.”

  “You mean smart,” Sunni said. “It wouldn’t hurt to talk to her; I’ll take a little trip to see our neighbors to the south.”

  I nodded. “Our ‘new users’ hypothesis doesn’t make sense for Barry Chase. If he’s Derek’s own lawyer, why would Wendell need to be involved at all? Derek and Barry could deal directly.”

  “In more ways than one. I see what you mean. And who knows about Tim Cousins and Quinn? Maybe they’re already in the business.” When I didn’t respond, Sunni moved on. “What else could it be, besides a drug business?”

  I ran all my favorite TV crime dramas through my head. What were other popular themes and motives for crime? “Blackmail,” I blurted out.

  Sunni tapped her smartphone, the updated version of chewing on a pencil while deep in thought. “Blackmail which way? Say, Derek is looking for people to blackmail. He wants a special line—one that’s rigged, or can be tapped, whatever—to blackmail people, and Barry, Margaret, et cetera, are potential victims.”

  One of us had to say it. “Quinn obviously fits the bill here,” I said.

  “Aha,” Sunni said, as if she hadn’t thought of it herself. “So, Derek finds out that Scott James has something to hide. He uses his lawyer to get Scott/Quinn Martindale out of custody so he’s free to be blackmailed. Or he’s already being blackmailed, and Derek doesn’t want him spilling the beans.”