A Killer's Kiss

by William Lashner

  “We’ll see about that,” I said, and then I brushed past him, toward the den. I called out, “Julia?”

  “Victor?”

  I had wanted to hear that sweet lilt of pleasant surprise. I’m so glad you came. But that’s not what I heard in the voice. What I heard instead was, What the hell are you doing here? But what the hell did it matter? I was there, so was Julia, and maybe, for once, a piece of the truth would be in the room with us.

  “Julia,” I said as I pushed open the door to the den. “I’ve got news.”

  And there she was, in her chair, in her corner, wearing pants this time, and a loose white shirt, rolled up at the cuffs. Her shirt was buttoned, her hair back, her face scrubbed, she had been crying. She stood up when she saw me and stepped forward on bare feet. So captivated was I by the sight of her that it took me a moment to register that there were others in the room, two others.

  My head swiveled back and forth. Hanratty leaned against the wall behind me. Sims was sitting on the red leather couch by the fireplace. They both seemed quite pleased to see me.

  “What are you clowns doing here?” I said.

  “We were invited,” said Sims. “By Mr. Swift.”

  “I told them Mrs. Denniston was ready to talk,” said Clarence Swift from behind me.

  “Talk?” I said. “About what?”

  “About her husband’s murder, of course,” said Clarence.

  “I told them, Victor,” said Julia as she stepped up to me. Her arms were stretched wide before she wrapped them around my neck. “I told them everything.”

  30

  “You have the right to remain silent,” said Hanratty.

  “Really?” I said.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  We were back in the Roundhouse, back in the green interrogation room with its familiar mirror and familiar dead-rodent scent. But the room seemed so small now that I found myself struggling to breathe. It was no longer a room, it was more like a closet, or a box, and I was stuck inside, and the lid was slamming shut.

  I had been driven to police headquarters from Julia’s house by Hanratty, who kept his impressive jaw clenched the whole ride, but at least he didn’t hit me, which was a step in the right direction in our relationship. Next we would be doing the foxtrot together on Dancing with the Fuzz. Sims took my car back to the Roundhouse. I expect he searched the glove compartment without a warrant while he drove. Maybe he found the twenty I’d lost in there a couple of weeks ago. If he did, that was twenty I was out, but I had more bitter things to think about, like being betrayed by the woman I thought I loved.

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” said Hanratty.

  “Brigitte Bardot,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Anita Ekberg. Sophia Loren.”

  “He’s quoting Dylan,” said Sims, without looking up from the file he was staring at in that room. “He thinks he’s being clever, but as usual he’s being fatuous instead.”

  “Do you really think I’m overweight?” I said.

  “You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning,” said Hanratty. “If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay what?” said Hanratty.

  “You can hire me a lawyer.”

  “We are reading you your Miranda warnings, Victor,” said Sims, “because we don’t want you to be under any misconceptions. You are now an official suspect in the murder of Dr. Wren Denniston.”

  “At least I’m an official something. Do I get a badge?”

  “Shut up,” said Hanratty.

  “Now, see,” I said, “why do you need all this Miranda stuff when that’s the only advice a suspect really needs. Shut up. Thank you, Detective, for that sage advice. I think that’s just what I’ll do.”

  “Gregor Trocek,” said Sims.

  I rubbed my tongue hard across the inside of my cheek, thought about what Julia could possibly have told them. She’d said everything. And more, I’d bet.

  “What about him?” I said.

  “What is your relationship?”

  “We don’t have a relationship.”

  “Early supper at an exclusive Spanish restaurant. Friendly drives around town. Let me show you this.” He picked a photograph out of his file and tossed it to me. Gregor and me in the backseat of Gregor’s Jaguar.

  “Nice car,” I said.

  “Looks like a relationship to me.”

  “I’m not that easy.”

  I looked at Sims for a moment and tried to think it through. I had three options to deal with what Julia had done to me. I could lie, I could obfuscate, or I could tell the truth. As a lawyer, of course, I was partial to the first two. Lying and obfuscating are crucial tools of the profession, along with a shameless ability to overcharge. But in that room, with my neck suddenly on the line, I sensed that something else was required, something closer to the third option, maybe not the whole third option, but the third option nonetheless.

  “Gregor Trocek is looking for a large amount of his money that is missing,” I said.

  “How much?” said Sims.

  “One point seven million dollars.”

  “In what form was the money?” said Sims. “A check? A wire?”

  “Cash,” I said.

  “Cash,” said Sims, nodding, as if none of this was a revelation, as if one point seven million dollars in cash floating around was as natural as the sunrise. Hanratty looked at me and then at Sims with a puzzled expression.

  “Trocek thought I could help him find the money,” I said. “That was why he treated me to dinner and drove me around town. The latter at knifepoint, I might add.”

  “Why would he come to you?” said Sims.

  “First, he thought I had an in with Mrs. Denniston and that she might know something, but he was wrong. Whatever she knows, she won’t tell me. Then, because he had received a tip that I might be the guy with the money.”

  “And are you?”

  “Would I be here if I was? The tip was as bogus as the ones you’ve been receiving about me. But I know where they’re coming from now.”

  “From who?” said Hanratty.

  “Clarence Swift.”

  “Mrs. Denniston’s lawyer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are your future plans with Mrs. Denniston?” said Sims.

  “I don’t know. Before, I hoped things would work out between us.”

  “Before the murder?”

  “Before that, yes. And before tonight, when she betrayed me like a snake.”

  “Again,” said Sims.

  “Thank you for that, Detective. Before she betrayed me like a snake again.”

  “Did you ever tell Mrs. Denniston”—he looked at a notepad sitting flat on the desk and then read the words—“that ‘if it wasn’t for her husband, everything could be perfect’?”

  “I might have. I said a lot of things. I was trying to get her pants off.”

  “Did you ever tell her you both needed to get him out of your lives?”

  “I was thinking more in the way of divorce.”

  “Do you remember when we mentioned a Miles Cave to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “We’re not surprised. As best we can tell, he doesn’t exist.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sims glanced up from the file and smiled. “There was apparently a partnership between Gregor Trocek and Miles Cave. But it appears that Miles Cave is a pseudonym for someone else. Do you have any idea for whom?”

  “I don’t think it was a pseudonym for anyone. I think he never existed in the first place. It was just a way for Wren Denniston to steal Gregor Trocek’s money.”

  “Cash money,” said Hanratty.

  “Yes. Doesn’t the word ‘cash’ make i
t sound that much more juicy?”

  “Interesting theory,” said Sims as he took out a paper from his file and slipped it across the table to me, “except for this.”

  I felt the shivers even before I saw it, because I knew what it was. The letter. From Miles Cave. A copy, of course, because the original I had stolen from the file and burned in my sink. But a copy in the hands of the cops was enough. I hunched my shoulders as the room grew smaller.

  “It has your address,” said Hanratty. “And the signature looks suspiciously like the signature you put on your affidavit the first night we met. And funny thing, the original is missing.”

  “It seems,” said Sims, “that the original was in a file you were examining at the Inner Circle offices. It’s a good thing they made this copy, isn’t it?”

  “Good thing,” I said.

  “Do you know what happened to the original?”

  “Yes. I took it.”

  “So you admit it?” said Hanratty.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what obstruction of justice is?”

  “Trying to keep a lie from infecting an investigation is obstruction of something,” I said, “but not justice. I’m being set up.”

  “You didn’t steal the letter because you wrote it,” said Sims. “You stole it because someone else wrote it.”

  “I took it because I knew I was being framed and I wasn’t sure you guys were sharp enough to see the truth.”

  “That’s a nice argument for the judge,” said Hanratty, “but it won’t stop us from banging you away right now until everything else is cleaned up.”

  “You’re looking in the wrong direction,” I said. “I’m just an innocent dupe.”

  “I buy the dupe part,” said Hanratty.

  “You need to find the guy who drafted the agreement between Gregor Trocek and the mythical Miles Cave, the guy who has been throwing out false tips and manufacturing false evidence, the guy who had the most to gain from Wren Denniston’s death, the guy who committed the murder.”

  “And who is that?” said Sims.

  “Clarence Swift,” I said.

  “He is so full of it,” said Hanratty. “Look, his tongue is turning brown.”

  “Why would Clarence Swift kill his best friend?” said Sims.

  “For love,” I said. “He’s got the hots for Mrs. Denniston, always has. And for money, Gregor’s money. He knows where it is and had to get rid of Wren Denniston to keep it.”

  “Love and money,” said Sims.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Love and money. That’s your answer.”

  “What, you don’t like it?”

  “No, we like it fine,” said Sims, closing the file and smiling up at Hanratty. “It’s like clockwork, isn’t it?”

  “Happens every time,” said Hanratty.

  “What happens every time?” I said.

  “A little psychological tic,” said Sims. “In the distorted mind of a murderer, the reason for the killing becomes so prominent he can’t imagine any other. So whenever be tries to blame someone else, he always imparts the very motive that drove him to kill.”

  “Love and money,” said Hanratty. “That’s why you did it, isn’t it, baby?”

  “I didn’t do it. Clarence Swift did it. I’m sure of it.”

  “He’s sure of it,” said Sims.

  “He’s a sure one, he is,” said Hanratty.

  Sims took another photograph from the file and spun it toward me. It was grainy, black and white, a distorted picture of Clarence Swift, with his high forehead and bow tie. He was looking down, fiddling with something. It was a photograph from an ATM, with the date and time imprinted. The date was the very date of Wren Denniston’s murder, the time was 8:37 p.m.

  “This was taken in Center City. Based on what the medical examiner concluded as to the time of death, there wasn’t enough time for Clarence Swift to have made it from the ATM to the Denniston house to have committed the murder.”

  I stared at the photograph, at the date and time. “There must be something wrong. This can’t be right.”

  “Oh, it’s right, baby,” said Hanratty. “We checked and double-checked. The bank’s records are precise.”

  “He’s in the clear,” said Sims. “Which leaves us with you.”

  “Love and money,” said Hanratty.

  “When you get right down to it,” said Sims, “what else is there? Except maybe just money.”

  The photograph didn’t make any sense, it couldn’t be right. Clarence was the enemy, I knew that with complete certainty, which meant he must have killed Wren Denniston. But if the picture was true, then it hadn’t been him. So who could it be? Not Julia, she had an alibi. Not Margaret, because the motive was all wrong. Not Clarence and not Gwen and not me. So who?

  I didn’t have an answer, but suddenly I realized I had a clue. And a question. And someone who might have an answer, if I could only get out of that damn closet so I could ask him.

  “Let me book him now,” said Hanratty. “He admitted to taking the letter. That’s clear obstruction. We can hold him forty-eight hours just on that. It will keep him from slopping around in our evidence until we get enough to finish him off.”

  Sims looked back at the file, rearranged some papers, closed it, gently clasped his hands together. “That’s all, Victor,” he said. “Thank you for coming around.”

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “That’s it,” said Sims.

  “As always,” I said, standing quickly, “it was as pleasant as a root canal.”

  “What are you doing?” said Hanratty.

  “Keep out of trouble, Victor,” said Sims.

  “Wait a second,” said Hanratty. “This isn’t procedure.”

  Sims reached into his pocket, pulled out my jangle of keys, slid it across the table. “Your car’s parked in the back lot.”

  Hanratty strode to the table, leaned over Sims like he was leaning over a suspect. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “Either he mucks up the evidence or he runs. My bet is he runs, but either way we’re screwed.”

  “You’re not going to muck up the evidence or run, are you, Victor?”

  “No, sir,” I lied.

  “Let me talk to the captain before we let him walk,” said Hanratty. “Give me a few minutes at least.”

  “Toodle-oo, Victor,” said Sims. “Don’t leave town.”

  I didn’t hear what Hanratty said next, because by the time he could continue his angry complaint, I had grabbed my keys and was out the door.

  31

  FRIDAY

  This is how you get to Washington, D.C. Scrounge around for signatures on your nominating petition, suck up big-time for money, hire a consultant to tell you what to believe, film yourself walking the street among a crowd of actors, declare your belief in God, hire a detective to catch the incumbent fornicating. And then, if your moral fiber is determined to be deficient enough and the national trend breaks your way and the detective catches the incumbent fornicating with a goat, maybe, just maybe, you might make it to our nation’s capital.

  Or you could just take I-95 south.

  I was scrunched down among the candy wrappers and empty cans in the backseat of a 1973 Camaro, taking the easy way into Washington, D.C. Or what would have been the easy way had the Camaro in which I was scrunched down contained a working set of shock absorbers. It was dead early in the morning, the radio was blasting hip-hop, the car smelled of reefer and spilt beer, Baltimore was in our rearview mirror, and we were going way too fast down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.

  “You want to slow down a bit?” I said.

  “Just shaking the tails, bo,” said Derek, in the front passenger seat. “It not just your ass on the line on this one, it my ass, too, this don’t work out slick and easy.”

  “But getting stopped by the cops on the expressway won’t help the cause,” I said.

  “Don’t be worrying about that. They won’t be catching us, no
t with a 355 under this hood.”

  The car lurched forward as it raced south.

  “We’re not going to outrun the cops,” I said, “not with me in the car.”

  “You’re not that heavy. And things work out, we won’t have to,” said Derek as he lifted a small black box with a wire and a stand. “We got radar.”

  “I feel so much better,” I said.

  It was no mystery how I ended up in the back of that Camaro. As soon as I got out of the Roundhouse, I had called Derek on his cell. “I need to talk to Jamison,” I said. You remember Jamison, the drug dealer who had been selling to Julia the night of her husband’s murder. Why did I need to see Jamison? Because suddenly, in the midst of my betrayal by Julia, I started wondering whom she had betrayed me for.

  With the normal vixen, in penal danger for the murder of her husband, you’d expect any betrayal to be for the purpose of saving herself. But, though you might call me a fool, I couldn’t believe it about Julia. She simply wasn’t built like that. I first thought she might have been manipulated into it by Clarence Swift, and though that still might have been what happened, it wasn’t to protect Clarence. No, she was betraying me to protect someone else. But for whom would Julia throw me splat under the train? That was the question. And I didn’t have an answer, but I did have a clue.

  What had she been most anxious to hide when the police first came looking for her? What piece of information had she been adamant that I keep secret? She’d been buying drugs from Jamison, but not for herself and not for her husband and not for Clarence Swift. Then for whom? I wondered. And the only one I knew who might have an answer was Jamison.

  So I had called Derek and we had arranged things. First, so late at night it was early in the morning, I had picked up Derek in his neighborhood. Then, as I drove down a narrow street in North Philly, a van had pulled out right behind us. The van veered left and stopped quickly, blocking the roadway, as I kept going. I followed Derek’s directions right and then left and then right again, until I pulled the car into a rather deserted back alley.

  “Park in there, bo,” said Derek.

  “Next to the Camaro?” I said, indicating a sharp blue muscle car with broad white stripes on the hood.