Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken

by Melissa F. Miller

  A fat lot of nothing, that’s what, he thought.

  The two older kids, whom he judged to be in their early teens, had been busy working on one of those giant jigsaw puzzles—from his vantage point it looked like a picture of a mountain range. The youngest, who looked to be about nine or ten, was sprawled on his stomach on the floor creating a complicated Legos structure.

  Honey, the family’s idiotic golden retriever, who lacked the sense to even sniff out Rich’s presence, was curled into a blob of fur in front of the couch. Every so often, it would whimper and its legs would twitch, like it was dreaming of chasing a rabbit.

  Martine had curled herself into a similar whimpering ball, with a soft-looking little brown blanket over her shoulders, snuggled into Tanner’s side. She was crying softly, and Tanner was stroking her hair and murmuring into her ear words that Rich couldn’t hear but assumed were comforting.

  Rich did derive some satisfaction from the thought that she was sobbing over her dead friends, but it didn’t outweigh his frustration.

  He been tailing Tanner for weeks now and hadn’t gotten so much of a glimpse of a vice. The worst Rich could say about the man was that he was sometimes absent-minded. But for the most part, Tanner seemed like a decent man, a good father, and a loving husband.

  He hadn’t expected it to be this hard. The other two had been a breeze.

  Rich had been keeping tabs on the three chick lawyers for a while—just casually, not with any real purpose. But, when Ellen and Greg had jetted off on their European vacation, their empty mansion had proved irresistible. He’d broken in easily, just slipped a credit card through the side door leading from the garden. Poking around, he noted with interest Greg’s straight razor and the assorted Gamblers Anonymous pamphlets in his sock drawer.

  Once the idea had taken root in his mind, figuring out a way to get at Costopolous hadn’t been difficult either. Rich had known, just from watching Nick’s comings and goings and the way he stopped to check himself out at every reflective surface, that he was a ladies’ man. His second stepfather had had the same weakness for women and his own reflection.

  But Tanner was different, steady and responsible. In fact, he reminded Rich of his old man. He allowed his kids do their own thing but stuck nearby in case they needed a hand.

  Take this puzzle they were working on. Every so often, one of the kids would look up and ask for help, and he’d pat Martine on the head, then unfold his long legs and stride over to the table. He’d point out a few pieces they might want to focus on, watch for a few seconds to be sure they got it right, and then return to comforting his weepy wife.

  And when the little one had said he wanted a snack, Tanner had popped to his feet and hurried to the kitchen. He’d returned several minutes later and handed individual bowls of popcorn to all three children. All the while Martine had sat on the couch like a stupid, crying statue.

  Watching the Landrys at home made Rich feel like someone was squeezing his head in a vise. He didn’t want to sit through any more family nights in the bushes. He wanted to find Tanner’s weakness, exploit it, and then mail some incriminating pictures to Martine and get the ball rolling.

  But Tanner didn’t gamble. He didn’t drink. Or chase skirts. He didn’t even seem to golf or have any hobbies or interests that Rich could see outside of his wife and kids.

  The thing that really made Rich’s head ache was that he did know how to get at them, but he didn’t want to have to do it. He’d told himself at the beginning of his plan that he wouldn’t involve any children. He’d promised himself in his father’s name that he wouldn’t.

  But if he didn’t come up with something else soon, he wasn’t going to have a choice; he’d have to get to them through one of their kids. It had been one thing to let the Landry piece of the plan proceed at a slower pace; it had lacked the elegance that all three women receiving their pictures on the same day would have delivered, but the plan had still be doable. Now, though, time was running out. Especially because Nick had gotten that attorney involved.

  Martine let out a shrill wail and started to sob harder. All three kids rushed to her and huddled around, trying to help Tanner comfort her. He could hear them, through the windows, telling her how much they loved her.

  CHAPTER 33

  Sasha and Nick walked into police headquarters ten minutes after Detective Gilbert’s deadline had passed. Nick was, if not sober, at least faking it well.

  He’d been subdued during the drive to the North Side. Sasha had suggested that he call his parents, who hadn’t heard from their son at all since the news of Clarissa’s death had broken, but he’d shaken his head no and then leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes.

  When they entered the building, blinking at the harsh overhead lighting, a pleasant-looking middle-aged man with a silver buzz cut greeted them heartily, like they were regulars at a neighborhood bar. She figured they looked like a respectable young couple who’d wandered in for directions.

  “Hello, you two!” he beamed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hi,” Sasha said with considerably less enthusiasm. “We’re looking for Detective Gilbert.”

  “Then you’re in the right place,” he said, picking up the telephone. “Who should I tell him is here?”

  “Attorney Sasha McCandless and Nick Costopolous.”

  The grin faded and he punched a number with his finger. “Burt, the Costopolous perp’s here. With his lawyer,” he said in a clipped tone.

  He nodded at whatever the detective said and then hung up.

  “Suspect,” Sasha said in her sweetest voice.

  “What’s that?” the desk sergeant demanded.

  “I said, Mr. Costopolous is a suspect—a person of interest, more accurately. Bereaved husband is also acceptable, if you prefer.” She smiled.

  The man rolled his eyes and waved them away from the desk.

  “Detective Gilbert will be down from Homicide in a minute. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Sasha turned and looked. He was pointing to a cinder block wall. The height of comfort.

  She and Nick walked over and leaned against it.

  “Are you okay?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I guess.”

  He didn’t look okay. She hoped Gilbert was hurrying, because her client was jittery, like he was getting ready to sprint out of the building.

  “Take a breath. You need to stay calm, okay? Remember what we talked about in the car.”

  “I remember. I still don’t understand why you told Greg not to come,” Nick mumbled.

  Sasha had firmly dissuaded Greg from tagging along to provide moral support. She didn’t care to imagine the reception they would have received if she’d walked into police headquarters with two men accused of murdering their wives. One was plenty.

  She’d explained to her skeptical clients that she would inform the detective that Nick had an alibi and offer to arrange a time for him to speak to Greg. In light of Greg’s own pending murder trial, the contours of that discussion would need to be agreed to in advance by Sasha and whichever assistant district attorney had been assigned to Nick’s case.

  “Here,” Nick said, handing her his watch and a soft leather wallet, “take these.”

  The gesture seemed unnecessarily final and dramatic, but maybe Nick knew something she didn’t. For all she knew, personal property routinely disappeared from the police station.

  She turned the understated titanium watch over in her hand. On the back, a worn inscription read All my love. For all time. C.

  Nick watched her read the love note from his dead wife. His eyes flashed with pain.

  Sasha tucked the watch and wallet into her bag and was about to offer some additional words of meaningless encouragement when the elevator bell chimed and the doors opened with a slow whoosh.

  A fit-looking African-American man in a conservative suit stepped off.

  “Ms. McCandless?” he said, striding over to them.

  “
Detective Gilbert,” she answered, extending her hand.

  He pumped it in a fast, firm handshake and then turned to Nick.

  “Mr. Costopolous, thank you so much for coming in. I’m Detective Burton Gilbert, with the Homicide Squad. On behalf of the entire department, my condolences on the loss of your wife.”

  Nick looked at Sasha, momentarily confused, then offered the detective a weak handshake. “Uh, thanks,” he said.

  Sasha shook her head slightly, trying to warn him. Nick could not make the mistake of thinking the detective was his friend. She had been very clear with him in the car: don’t volunteer anything; answer only the questions asked; and don’t answer anything immediately, so she’d have time to object. She didn’t know much about police interviews, but she’d defended enough depositions to know nothing was more disastrous than an eager-to-please client who believed he had a rapport with his interrogator.

  “Well,” Gilbert said, still playing the genial host, “let’s get set up in an interview room. Can I get you two anything? Coffee? Water?” he asked as he led them toward the stairway. “Okay if we take the stairs? I have to get my exercise somehow.”

  “No problem,” Sasha said, following him into the stairwell. “And no thank you on the beverages. Mr. Costopolous would, however, like to use the facilities before we begin.”

  Behind her, Nick whispered, “I don’t need ...”

  She turned and gave him a look. “Just go. Take a minute to yourself before we get started.”

  She wanted to interrupt Gilbert’s efforts to bond with Nick, break his rhythm. In addition, she’d watched enough television shows to suspect that Gilbert planned to ply Nick with coffee and water until he needed to use the facilities and then make him wait.

  Gilbert led them up one flight of stairs and held the metal door for them. Once they were in the antiseptic-looking hallway, he pointed Nick toward the restroom.

  Sasha took in the white tile floor and mint green walls.

  “Nice place,” she said, needling him to see if he’d drop the friendly facade when Nick wasn’t around.

  The detective just shrugged and said, “Your tax dollars at work.” He turned one corner of his mouth up in a brief smile and said, “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on cop shows, you know.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s unconstitutional to coerce a confession.”

  Sasha bristled. “I’m well aware of that, Detective. I’m glad to know you are, too.”

  “Right,” he continued, “and the Supreme Court has ruled that depriving a suspect of access to the bathroom is unconstitutional coercion.”

  Sasha felt her cheeks burn but willed herself to ignore her embarrassment. He was trying to throw her off-balance.

  She took a centering breath before she answered. “Thanks for the information. I realize you think I’m inexperienced, but I do know some criminal law. As I’m sure you know, on occasion, your brethren have been known to break the rules in their zeal to secure a confession. I’m certain you’d never do such a thing, but let’s not pretend it doesn’t happen.”

  He raised a brow but said nothing.

  “Listen,” Sasha said, “I produced my client as a show of good faith. I know you think he’s guilty for some reason. Just do yourself a favor and hear what he has to say.”

  “Do myself a favor?”

  “Yes. Because you’re wrong. He didn’t kill Clarissa.”

  Detective Gilbert gave her a knowing smile. “Of course, Counselor. If Nick convinces me he’s not our man, I’m not going to arrest him. I want the dirtbag who did this. I just happen to think I already have him.”

  The restroom door swung open and Nick emerged, drying his hands on his pants.

  As he approached, Gilbert said, “I understand you’ve decided to bring counsel with you today, Mr. Costopolous, and that’s your right, of course. Just so we’re clear, this is simply an initial interview. At this point, you are not being detained and are free to leave.”

  Hope bloomed in Nick’s eyes.

  Gilbert went on, “If, however, you don’t consent to speak to us voluntarily, I do have sufficient evidence to arrest you.”

  The hope wilted, and Nick said, “Let’s get this over with, then.”

  Gilbert clasped Nick on the shoulder and pointed toward a steel door to their right.

  “Right through that door.”

  Nick hung back, so Sasha entered first.

  The room was a small square with three gray-green walls, one floor-to-ceiling observation mirror directly across from the door, and dark blue carpet. A long, particleboard desk was shoehorned into the room, with just enough space for a cheap plastic chair behind it. Its mate was in the middle of the room, about a foot from the end of the desk. Three feet in front of that, was a metal folding chair, perpendicular to the desk. No clock. Strong overhead light.

  The walls began to close in on Sasha before Gilbert had even closed the door behind them. She checked on Nick, whose fear was evident.

  A quick calculation made it clear that Nick was supposed to sit in the metal chair facing Gilbert while Sasha was stuffed away in the corner, out of Nick’s line of vision.

  Oh no, you don’t, she thought.

  “Here.” She took Nick’s arm and directed him to the seat behind the desk; then she hurried over to claim the other plastic chair before Gilbert could take it.

  Nick looked around the room, his eyes a bit unfocused, then sat behind the desk.

  Gilbert scowled at Sasha and then cut his eyes over to the one-way mirror. Now he had to decide if he should make everyone switch seats so he could maintain his psychological upper hand over Nick or if the act of calling attention to the seating arrangement would further weaken his position.

  Sasha watched him, her face impassive, while he worked through it.

  After another second, he picked up the metal chair one-handed and turned it ninety degrees, so that he was facing Nick. He banged it down and then took a seat.

  Perfect. Nick had a clear line of sight over the detective’s shoulder.

  She smiled at him. She could communicate with Nick, and Gilbert would be able to see her only peripherally, if at all.

  Gilbert’s stiff shoulders and clenched left fist told her his displeasure with this set up matched her delight.

  Her cell phone vibrated in her bag. She opened her purse and peeked at the phone’s display. Will was calling. She let it roll to voicemail.

  Gilbert rolled his shoulders, relaxed his hand, and smiled at Nick; determined not to let his irritation stand in the way of his interrogation.

  “Okay, Nick—can I call you Nick?”

  Nick nodded his head, but Sasha caught his eye and gave a short shake of her head. Nick stared at her. Gilbert turned to see what he was looking at.

  “Mr. Costopolous is fine,” Sasha told the detective.

  Gilbert turned back to Nick with a look that said can you believe this lady? Nick shrugged.

  “Mr. Costopolous,” Gilbert said, giving the formal name heavy emphasis, “we’ve spent the better part of today trying to find you. Any reason you went missing after your wife’s brutal beating death?”

  Nick waited a beat, like Sasha had told him to do, before he answered.

  “I can’t really answer that.”

  “Because your lawyer told you not to?” Gilbert said, jerking a thumb toward Sasha without looking her direction.

  “No, because I don’t know when Clarissa was killed.”

  He looked at the detective with no expression.

  Gilbert snapped his fingers. “Oh that’s right. You and your wife were estranged, right? So, when did she kick you out?”

  Nick’s nostrils flared. Sasha shook her head in warning. She didn’t know how Gilbert had learned about Nick’s recent marital troubles, but he had. Nick needed to stay cool.

  He didn’t.

  “That’s a damned lie!” Nick half-rose from the chair. “We weren’t having problems, and she didn’t th
row me out.”

  “Oh, no? So, Clarissa hadn’t filed for divorce?”

  Nick’s anger deflated as quickly as it had bloomed, and he sank back into the chair.

  He answered in a soft voice, “Okay, that’s true, she did; but, as God is my witness, I don’t know why she did that. We hadn’t been fighting or anything. All I know is I went to my social club last night—”

  Gilbert cut him off. “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe six-thirty or seven?”

  “Go on,” Gilbert said, nodding his approval of the time estimate.

  “So, I went to the club—”

  Gilbert cut in again. “Did you see your wife before you left your home?”

  “Yes. She went upstairs to rest, and I yelled a goodbye up the stairs.”

  “Go on, please.”

  Sasha needed to cut in herself, just to break up the volleying.

  “Nick, isn’t it true that this is a standing date? You go to your social club every Wednesday evening, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right,” Nick agreed. “I meet the guys for dinner and drinks. We play some cards and watch whatever game’s on.”

  Gilbert was looking at Sasha out of the corner of his eyes. He was irritated, she felt sure, but unwilling to address her or even acknowledge that she’d spoken.

  Good.

  She added, “Did Clarissa have standing Wednesday night plans—that you know of?”

  Nick considered the question.

  “Not really. She usually did go out. Sometimes she went over to her folks’ place; sometimes she met up with her girlfriends; sometimes she went shopping or whatever. For a while, she took a Wednesday night pottery class, but she missed too many of them. You know, work emergencies.”

  Gilbert spoke up. “So, you went to your club. Anything unusual happen?”

  Nick had been looking over Gilbert’s shoulder at Sasha. Now he narrowed his eyes and met the detective’s gaze.

  “You obviously know that something unusual happened, Detective. Yeah, some asshole barged in and served me with divorce papers.”

  Sasha raised her hand level with her shoulder, palm toward the floor, and motioned for him to calm down.