by Carl Schmidt
I was hoping I could get Angele to have a glass of wine. Then she might forget about the murderous affair, and we could relax for the evening. I hadn’t counted on her last question. I had to think on my feet.
“This is Monday, January 13th. Let’s see. Didn’t we meet on January 13th, four years ago today?”
“We met in spring, Jesse. It was April.”
“Oh, right,” I replied sheepishly. “Now I remember. It’s my mother’s birthday.”
Angele pulled out her phone, opened to her calendar and checked that out.
“Your mother was born on November 3rd, 1955.”
While she was scrolling through her phone, I scrolled through mine.
“OK. I’ve got it,” I said. “According to the Julian calendar, which is thirteen-days-adrift, today is New Year’s Eve.”
Angele chuckled, “All right, we’ll have some wine. I just wanted you to work for it.”
I opened the bottle, poured two glasses and turned on the television. We decided to stream some episodes of an old detective series, Life, which had run it course a number of years before on NBC. The leading actress in that show was Sarah Shahi. She and Angele could pass for twins. They both knock me out, but Angele does it from close range.
Halfway through the show, Angele grabbed the remote and pushed the stop button.
“Hold everything,” she squealed. “I’ve got it!”
“You’ve got what?” I asked.
“I know how they did it. I know how they murdered Tony Doyle!”
One thing was absolutely certain; I didn’t have to ask, “How?” I was going to hear this one all the way through. In fact, I was looking forward to it.
“Let’s start with the Nicole Shepard murder,” Angele said incisively. “We’re assuming that Joe and Sophia pulled that off. If they did, they are not only cold and calculating, they are careful and precise. They worked out the details ahead of time. They managed to get two incriminating photographs of Xavier, spray paint the security camera, strangle Nicole and get away with the money, clean as a whistle. They didn’t do that spur of the moment.
“Naturally, they murdered Tony with the same measure of careful planning. They didn’t just up and kill him when he arrived at their place in Worcester. Look at all the problems that would dump in their laps.
“They’d have a body, a car, and possibly a bloody mess in their house. That’s a lot to deal with. It would be much easier to do it at Tony’s place. Then all they’d have to do is drive away. So—they killed Tony in his own home!”
Angele paused for a moment to let me get caught up. I was about to raise an objection when she rolled on.
“You’re probably wondering, ‘Why didn’t Tony open his garage door?’”
“Exactly,” I replied.
“He didn’t do that because he couldn’t. He didn’t have his remote! Joe took it from Tony’s car while Tony was inside the house talking to Sophia. Tony probably never saw Joe.
“You might ask, ‘Why would Joe steal Tony’s remote?’”
“You took the words out of my mouth, Angele.”
“He did that because Tony would have to enter his house by the front door. If he had his remote, he’d drive into the garage and be safe inside his home; the doors would be locked. Joe would then have to find another, more dangerous, way in. But if Tony couldn’t get the garage door open, they knew he’d have to get out of his car and walk to the front door. And that’s where Joe would be waiting for him.”
“I guess,” I ventured.
“There’s more,” Angele said.
“Keep going.”
“Tony had lots of things in his house that were valuable to them: drugs, money and information. Two kinds of information. There would be lots of stuff they could use in their own operations: a client list, drug sources, secret bank accounts…all sorts of things. But even more important, they needed to eliminate anything in the house that would link them to Tony. They didn’t want to become suspects in a murder investigation. They needed to either destroy his computers, papers and phones, or steal them.
“I’m guessing they stole them. After they’ve gleaned everything they wanted, they’d toss the stuff into Indian Lake, which is a quarter mile from their house.”
“The lake is probably frozen solid by now, Angele,” I said.
“OK, then they’d just pound the equipment with a sledgehammer and burn the papers in their fireplace.”
“Just like that?” I asked.
“Just like that,” she said emphatically.
“So you’re saying Tony is resting comfortably right now in his own home—all except for the breathing part.”
“Right! All except for the breathing part.”
“If his garage door isn’t stuck, I think you’re on to something,” I said.
Angele didn’t say another word. She was basking in the glow of her sleuthful presentation and the effects of the Zinfandel.
“Perhaps we can confirm that in some way,” I suggested.
“How can we do that?” Angele asked.
“Let’s see how long Tina and Leo spent at Tony’s house. According to Eric, they planned to stop by and pick up some cocaine and marijuana on their way south. If they stayed for more than ten minutes, then there is no way Tony is dead in that house. They’d be out of there in a heartbeat. They might have a quick look around, but if Tony is dead, and the valuables are gone—like you say they are—they’d have no reason to stick around.”
The GPS receiving unit for the tracker on Tina’s car was in my pocket. I attached it to Angele’s computer and pulled up the travel log.
Tina’s car left its parking space in front of our office building at 4:57 PM. It traveled south for an hour and a half and then stopped near Lowell, Massachusetts at 6:37. It remained parked at Billy’s Bar-B-Que for an hour. At 7:42, their car was back on the road. At 8:16, it came to a stop on the street in front of Tony’s house.
There was plenty of room to park their car next to the Jaguar, but they stayed on the street. Five or six inches of snow must have accumulated on the driveway; dead men don’t push shovels.
At 8:19, just three minutes after it arrived, Tina’s car left the neighborhood, got back on Interstate 95 heading south, and then, four minutes later, turned west onto the Massachusetts Turnpike.
I checked my watch. It was just past 10:00 PM. At that moment, Tina’s car was south of Hartford, heading toward New York on Interstate 91.
“Well, Angele, I think you may have cracked the case,” I said.
“It’s Occam’s Razor all over again, Jesse,” she said triumphantly. “It was the safest, simplest and surest way for Sophia and Joe to get all the booty.”
I don’t know if it was the wine, the excitement on Angele’s face or the last word Angele had just uttered, but suddenly my attention shifted.
“OK, Nancy Drew. There’s something I need to do now.”
“What’s that, Jesse?”
“I need to see if you’re wearing a wire.”
A puzzled look swept across Angele’s face, and then she asked, “Why would I record our conversation?”
“For any number of reasons,” I replied. “You could play it back later for your friends to show them how smart you are. Or worse—to show them how dimwitted I am. You might even use it to plead your case for a raise.”
“I’d never do a thing like that, Jesse.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I need to be sure.”
“Be my guest; search away,” she said defiantly.
I took hold of the bottom hem of her sweatshirt with both hands. Angele willingly raised her arms, and I lifted it completely over her head.
“Not here,” I said, tossing her shirt across the room. “But you might be wired in your pants.”
“You’re imagination is running wild now, Jesse,” she said.
“Yes it is, Nancy,” I replied, slightly out of breath.
I unbuttoned her jeans, and she let me slide them off without a
struggle.
“Not here either,” I exclaimed.
“Well,” she said. “You’ve come this far; you might as well go all the way.”
And I did. First on the couch, and for good measure, again in her bedroom twenty minutes later. After several loud shrieks and moans, we ended up on the “Island of the Floating Spirits.” The last thing I recall from the evening’s adventure was the gentle sound of waves lapping at the shore. Then the night went black.
40
Footprints Under the Window
“There it is, Jesse,” Angele said enthusiastically. “Now…in. Uhhhh. A little to the left. OK. Out. Now bring it back in. A little higher. There. Right there. That’s it. That’s the spot. Right by the bush!”
• • •
Google Maps is extraordinary. Billions of photographs, taken along five million miles of streets and highways in thirty countries, are coordinated with over two million satellite images. And they did it all in just over a decade.
Any online viewer can take a virtual road and aerial tour of the fiords in Norway, the mountains of Peru or the Piazza del Duomo in Milan, Italy. You can drive the Alaskan Highway from Dawson Creek, British Columbia, through Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory, all the way to Fairbanks in the comfort of your own home. You don’t need a truck, a passport, spare tires, liability insurance or a driver’s license. You can stop on a dime to look at the countryside, creep along like a snail or go hell bent for leather around hairpin turns. If you leave home with half a tank of gas, it will still be half full when you shut down your computer and call it a vacation. And while you’re on the road, it won’t rain, snow, sleet or hail.
It’s a wonder that diners, gas stations and tire shops can stay in business in the twenty-first century.
At the moment, Angele and I weren’t traveling anywhere especially exotic. We were sharing a morning coffee and checking out locations around the front door of Tony’s home at 18 Park Terrace Drive, Waltham, Massachusetts. Angele had just found the exact place where—she believed—Joe Dunham had been lurking at 7:35 PM, Sunday, January 12th, the evening he robbed, and then killed, Anthony Doyle, though not necessarily in that order. If Tony had a safe that needed opening, then it probably was.
Angele sprinkled a little icing on the cake when she quipped, “That’s where Joe done ‘em in.” One of the finer puns she’d ever uttered.
“Let’s call the cops, Jesse,” she said, “and tell them to go there right now and look in the house for Tony’s body. When they find it, they can drive to Worcester and arrest Joe and Sophia for murder. With those two behind bars, Xavier’s blackmailers will be out of commission, and he’ll be in the clear. Joe and Sophia won’t open their mouths about Xavier and Nicole; they’d risk having a second murder added to their charges.”
“But, Angele, when the investigators look at the photographs on Joe and Sophia’s computer, they’ll see Xavier LaGrange with Nicole in the lobby of the Rutland Arms Hotel. What will they do then?”
“Xavier can tell them the same story he told us originally…that he was paying her child support for his baby; Nicole’s not around to contradict him. Besides, don’t you think Father O’Reilly or even Allan Roth would come forward to corroborate her mode of operation in a case like that?”
“Possibly,” I replied.
“If we explained Xavier’s situation, I’m sure at least one of them would want to help,” she insisted.
“You’re probably right,” I said. “If Joe and Sophia did, in fact, murder Tony, that crime is not directly related to Xavier. In that case, it would be our civic duty to come forward. But you realize, I assume, that they couldn’t arrest them without proof. All they’d have is our suspicions.”
“When they search Sophia’s house, I’m sure they’ll find lots of stuff that links them to Tony.”
“They’ll need a warrant and probable cause,” I said.
Angele scowled. Either she didn’t like the roadblocks, or she didn’t like my setting them up.
“The longer they wait, the colder the trail gets, Jesse. Those two won’t leave evidence of their connection with Tony lying around the house. They’ll keep what’s safe and toss the rest of it in a hurry.”
Angele hesitated a moment and then added, “I’ll bet the police have information already that ties them together. You can’t run that kind of family business without drawing attention to yourself.”
“I’ll call Brock and talk to him. But first, I want to check something out.”
“What’s that?” Angele asked.
“I’d like to see exactly when the snow stopped falling in Waltham on Sunday. If the storm blew through by 7:35 PM, then Joe’s footprints would still be on the ground behind that bush by the front door. There would also be one set of tracks leading to and from that hiding place.”
I ran a search, and sure enough…the snow began falling on Waltham earlier than I had first thought. It started at 3:30 PM and was over by 7:00. There may have been a few flurries after that, but nothing significant.
“If you’re theory is correct, Angele, there are footprints under the window,” I said.
I paused a second and then asked, “Did you ever read the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew?”
“No, Jesse, I never even heard of them. Why do you ask?”
“That’s the title of one of their books.”
“What is?”
“Footprints Under the Window, by Franklin Dixon. It was written in the 30’s. My dad saved several of Dixon’s books from his childhood. I read that one when I was twelve years old. I guess if you wait long enough, everything comes around again.”
“So, Jesse, are you saying we’re just traveling in circles?”
“More like ellipses, Angele. There’s hardly anything in the heavens that is perfectly round.”
“Ellipses, then. We’re traveling in ellipses?”
“Pretty much.”
“But I’ve never been to Italy, Jesse. So I won’t be returning there in March.”
“Italy?” I thought. I was doing my best to keep up with Angele’s frame of reference.
“True,” I replied, “but you’ll come back to Maine when you’re done, won’t you?”
“I don’t know yet,” she replied.
“You’ll either come around here again—like everything else does—or you’ll be the exception to the rule.”
While she was thinking that through, I continued, “I’ll call Xavier today at noon. That’s nine o’clock in California. I’ll run your scenario by him. I’d like his approval before we contact the authorities. If he wants to remain anonymous, I’ll get in touch with Brock. He should be willing to pass along some of this information to the Waltham authorities without giving up our names.”
“It’s 8:45, Jesse. Time to go to the office.”
I looked through the window at the thermometer hanging outside of Angele’s kitchen. It was 9°.
We bundled up and headed for our cars.
“Drive carefully, Angele, and keep your eye out for penguins dancing in the street.”
• • •
“Morning, Holly,” I said as I entered the office. “Enjoying the weather?”
“It’s a bit chilly,” she replied.
“Angele thinks Joe Dunham murdered Tony Doyle in his home on Sunday evening.”
“Based on what evidence?” Holly asked.
“Because Tony didn’t park his car in the garage, and Sophia lied to Tina on the phone. She thinks we should contact the police and tell them our suspicions.”
“It’s a little thin, Jesse. What would they say to him when Tony answers the door? Would they invite him to the policemen’s ball on St. Paddy’s Day?”
“With a name like Anthony Doyle, I’m sure he’d buy a couple of tickets,” I replied. “It’s a big event in the Boston area.”
“And if there’s no answer when they ring, what would they do then?” Holly persisted. “Knock the door down?”
“What would you do if you were b
ack on the force in New York?”
“I’d be out chasing criminals or writing reports. I’d need some physical evidence of a crime: a gunshot, a scream, a missing person’s report. If Tony is in his house, he hasn’t gone missing.”
“Being dead is one way to go missing,” I replied.
Holly smiled and said, “Well, I suppose you have a point.”
“Best guess? If I called my friend, Sergeant Brock Powell, and told him this story, how long would it take the Waltham Police Department to stop by Tony’s house and ring his bell?”
“Two days at the earliest, if they even bothered to drive by,” Holly replied. “They’d probably want something more tangible. If they were already investigating him for another crime, then sure, they’d have a look. By the way, when was the last time you checked on the location of Tony’s car?”
“Good point,” I replied. “I’ll check it again right now.”
I opened the travel log on my computer.
“It hasn’t moved since Sunday at 7:35,” I said. “It’s still outside in the snow.”
“Well, it is curious, Jesse. I’ll give you that.”
“I’ll talk to Xavier later and see what he thinks.”
“I should have the Allied Shipping interviews wrapped up this week,” Holly added. “It’s moving along very smoothly. I think it would be a smart business move to ask them for a review of our work when we’ve finished the job. We can approach other corporations with this particular business model.”
“Good idea, Holly. As soon as you complete the work, ask them for a response. Then, we’ll follow up a month or so later to see if they are happy with the results.”
“Right. I’ll be in the spare room for the rest of the day, Jesse. My interviews begin again at ten o’clock.”
• • •
Eric didn’t get back with me the night before with a report, so I called him to see if he managed to get inside the Woodbury home.
“Jesse, sorry I didn’t call you last night, but there’s not much to tell. I tried to get into Tina’s house, but it’s tight as a drum. The windows are shuttered, and there’s a deadbolt on every door. I’d need a wrecking ball to get in.”