‘That would be good to say about him. Drove a big old black Buick.’
‘He came by himself?’
‘He came around dinner one time. One time as far as I know. He came with a woman about his same age. They went in. Stayed awhile. Young Mrs Talbot walked them to their car just before dark. Like I say, I don’t pay much attention to what people do around here. Not my business.’
Talbot’s previous address was in Irvington, another old community where homes were being restored, often by young marrieds. The community was less grand, but there was a pleasant small-town feeling to the area. The home that Talbot occupied before his marriage to the Taupin daughter was one of the smaller two-stories, red-brick, covered with ivy.
It struck Cross that Talbot was a bit of a romantic. His impression was confirmed by a woman who was putting brick down in a walkway that went from the street to the front door of the house just to the north of Talbot’s old place.
‘You’re ambitious,’ Cross said to her as she patted down the sand she sprinkled between the bricks.
She looked up. She was attractive. A blond with a bit of hair that had escaped her headband.
‘I have my moments,’ she said.
‘I’m doing a little investigation into the life of Marshall Talbot.’
She shook her head, then stood up, wiped the palms of her hands on her white shorts.
‘Oh, that is so, so sad,’ she said.
‘You knew him?’
‘Know? I’m not sure I did. But I liked him. He was kind of shy, kept to himself. You saw him walk his dog in the morning and then again in the evening. It was so clear he loved that dog. And the dog loved him. He wasn’t active in the association, but if we asked for money for something, he always gave. He always waved, but tended not to stop and chat.’
‘Quiet guy?’ Cross said, trying to keep the conversation going.
‘Yes, we had a book drive. Just after Katrina, a bunch of us decided to get some books together for the libraries in New Orleans. He came through with several boxes of books. They were good books, classics, high quality modern novels, histories. He was just such a decent guy.’
‘But you didn’t know him,’ Cross reminded her.
‘It was the feeling you had when you were around him. Maybe a little innocent, maybe a little sad.’
‘Did you ever see him with a woman with dark hair, maybe Latin or Middle Eastern?’
She thought for a moment, again brushed the hair from her eyes.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Shortly before he put his house up, his wife-to-be dropped by from time to time. Never really saw anyone else there.’
‘What was the wife like?’ Cross asked.
‘I don’t know. I noticed her one day. And the “For Sale” sign went up the next.’
Cross got the name of the real estate company. If he wanted more, he’d have to come back after working hours. He checked his watch. He wanted to squeeze in a lunch before heading downtown to see Lauren Saddler. Or he could have lunch downtown.
Though there were parking garages closer to the City County building, a vertical glass box, he parked at Circle Centre – a downtown mall. He’d grab a quick bite in the food court, stop at Borders on the walk back to the DA’s office. Next, he’d see if he could find the listing agent for Talbot’s home in Irvington. It was likely the rep who listed this one also handled the purchase of the one in Woodruff Place.
The Deputy DA’s office was seventies cool. It matched the building, but was newer. The Deputy DA was probably born in the seventies and was extremely ‘cool’ in the parlance of the era. Hard edges and sleek lines seemed to dominate the atmosphere.
‘We don’t know what to do with you,’ she said, motioning him to sit down in what appeared to be a stylish but uncomfortable chair.
‘You are not alone,’ Cross said.
‘I know you,’ she said. An unkindly smile appeared on her face.
‘Generically is what you mean, as in you know my type, right?’
‘Right.’
She looked pinched. He thought she’d be quite remarkable if she would relax a little. After all, he was the one in trouble. Not her.
‘And that is not a good thing, I’m guessing.’
‘Right again.’ She shook her head. ‘Unmarried, up late repossessing cars and hanging out with . . .’ She couldn’t find the right word. ‘How old are you?’
‘I only tell my friends,’ Cross said. All along he knew what he shouldn’t say, but the words came out on their own.
She picked up the file and looked at it. She shook her head again.
‘You know, Lieutenant Collins vouches for you. So do a few others on the force. Others say you are an irresponsible smart-ass. And whether you did it or not, the world would be better off without you messing around in it. What do you think?’
‘I think we could do something other than play dominant and submissive,’ Cross said. He regretted saying it. He regretted it as he said it. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of that whole scene.’
‘Well,’ she said, looking at him directly in the eyes, ‘today you are a submissive.’ She went around her desk to her chair. ‘Say, “yes ma’am.”
‘Yes ma’am.’ He gave in to a smile. She repressed hers.
She read the narrative of the case out loud in a monotone.
‘Do you have any corrections or additions to make?’ she asked.
‘Just one. Slurpy wasn’t making a threatening move toward the police.’
‘Did he have a weapon?’
‘Yes,’ Cross said.
‘Did he put it down when he was told?’
‘No.’
‘Was he coming toward police officers?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘No buts.’
‘Yes buts. He held it high, away from his body. He probably couldn’t hear the instructions with all the policemen yelling at him at the same time.’
‘Is that all you wish to say about the events of that day?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘About Mr Edelman,’ she went on, ‘how is it you were at the scene of his death?’
‘I was not only at the scene, I called it in.’ He wanted to be sure that point was clear. He had called it in.
‘Once more, Mr Cross. How is it you were at the scene of his death?’
‘I drove there to talk to him.’
‘What about?’
‘You have that in your files don’t you?’
‘Humor me,’ she said.
‘I believe I was set up. Someone wanted me to drive the car with the bodies in it so I would take the fall for the crime. The only person who would know for sure where I was going and what I was planning to do was Edelman.’
‘Why would he set you up?’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to him about. Why are you talking directly to me? At this point, it should be the police, shouldn’t it?’
‘Probably, but you have a complicated relationship with the police.’
‘You think they would give me a break, help me beat a murder rap?’
‘Or they might help you take the fall,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see for myself.’
‘Have you?’
She shrugged. ‘Didn’t change much. I could make a case against you. Probably get a conviction.’
He wanted to ask what she was waiting for? But he didn’t want to nudge her in that direction. He’d done enough damage already.
‘Is it just the “probably” that’s holding you back?’
She nodded.
‘But you are getting pressured, aren’t you?’ Cross asked.
Lauren Saddler looked at him for a few long moments, said nothing. Finally, she broke the silence. ‘You’re on a short leash. And I’d advise you not to strain too hard against it.’
Cross stopped by his place on the way to the real estate office with Lauren Saddler’s hint of a smile drifting back and forth through the gray matter of his brain. He let Casey out, filled Einstein’
s bowl with dry food and put food down for the Catahoula. He didn’t feel guilty for not playing with them. He’d spent days with them before and they barely moved. A hot day like today and they moved less. Casey was all business with his business. He was back at the door in less than a minute.
Mark Graber was the real estate agent who worked with Sarah Taupin-Talbot. It took Cross about twenty minutes to track him down and, posing as a potential home seller, convince the agent to stop by his place. Cross used Graber’s travel time to down a very cold Asahi Dry. On hot days, he liked lighter beers.
Cross saw the guy, suit coat tossed back over his shoulder, casing the grounds as he slowly came up the lawn and through the gate into the inner yard. They shook hands at the door and Graber refused the offer of beer until Cross asked him a second time. He seemed grateful.
‘This is a strange one, isn’t it?’ Graber said, even before he took the 30-second tour.
‘Let me show you the East Wing,’ Cross said.
They walked through the double, arched doorway and then down the steps into a large, cool room. There was a fireplace on one wall and a wall of paned glass doors on the opposite wall. The doors opened out on to a couple of pines and a small metal table and some chairs.
‘Cool in here,’ Graber said.
‘The walls are big clay tile blocks. Thick. The roof is covered with clay tiles . . .’
‘I noticed that. Beautiful. Expensive to repair,’ Graber said. ‘You said Sarah Talbot recommended me.’
Cross saw the furrowed brow.
‘Marshall actually.’
‘Oh.’
That seemed to relieve him.
‘Being dead, I . . . you know.’
‘Sure,’ Graber said, not wanting to talk about deaths. ‘Messy business.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So . . .’ Graber said, looking around, ready to get back to what he’d come to do.
‘You ever meet the Missus?’
Graber nodded. ‘Working with her now. She doesn’t want to stay in Woodruff Place, given the situation.’
‘I don’t blame her.’
‘It’s still a little rough around there.’
‘What’s she like?’
Graber gave Cross a strange look.
‘I mean I knew Marsh, but you know he was a quiet guy. I was always curious about the kind of woman . . . you know.’
Graber walked back up the stairs and into the middle room, then into the kitchen, which wasn’t exactly gourmet ready. He looked around. This kind of property was probably a little below his usual standards.
‘I’m sorry, not high-end enough?’
‘It’s a strange one,’ Graber said, on the verge of laughter.
‘Used to be a chauffeur’s quarters. Turned the garage into a living room. Kind of patched up other areas.’
‘You have the neighborhood going for you,’ Graber said. ‘Why are you giving this up?’
‘This was my artist phase,’ Cross lied. ‘I’m ready for real comfort with very little maintenance. I’m tired of mowing lawns.’
‘Sarah is a Taupin,’ Graber said.
‘What?’
‘You asked about the missus.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Cross said. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Being a Taupin, she knows what she wants and what she doesn’t want and she has . . .’ He drifted off trying to find the right words.
‘. . . high expectations?’
‘Yeah, that’s a good word. She has every right to be demanding.’
‘She must be really broken up about all this,’ Cross said.
‘They don’t show their emotions, the Taupins. Everything is close to the chest. You don’t get in. Don’t know what their lives are like really.’
‘You know Raymond?’
‘Yeah, I do. I do a lot for the family.’ He caught himself. ‘In the way of real estate.’
‘I heard they had a place up at Lake Wawasee.’
Graber was clearly shocked. Did he know? Or was Cross not supposed to know?
‘Didn’t know about that,’ Graber said.
‘What do you think it’s worth?’ Cross asked.
‘How would I know . . . oh . . . you mean your place. I’d have to run some reports. And that’s not going to be easy. I mean, one bedroom. No offense, but who has a one bedroom home, especially in this neighborhood? But you know, there’s somebody out there who might like this.’
Cross knew of no other way to spend the evening productively than to track down everything he could on Taupin. And the only means he had was the Internet. By eight he was bleary-eyed and numb. He called Bazbeaux in Broad Ripple and had them send over a pizza. Good as it was, it only deadened him further. It didn’t matter. An arrest could come at any moment. He had to get what he could get before the hammer came down.
What he found out was that the son-in-law, the victim, was not a board member of any of Raymond Taupin’s corporations. However, Taupin’s wife, Cheryl, was on every board as was Taupin’s daughter Sarah. There was another oddity. Someone named E. V. Lancaster was also listed on all of Taupin’s boards. These were the only constants.
Marshall Talbot was nearly invisible. However he was listed on a professional social network that linked people who had common past associations and allowed for the interested to contact them. It listed Talbot as the executive director of a human rights foundation. It was a prestigious enough job, one that would earn him respect, but not one to pay more than a modest salary. It could support a fixer-upper in Irvington and possibly a larger, but not ostentatious home in Woodruff Place. He had graduated from Notre Dame and attended Stanford Law School. He was on the board of several nonprofit organizations, all of which were doing something generally acknowledged to be good for humankind.
As he clicked off his computer and switched off the lights, he wasn’t sure he had found anything useful. He couldn’t be sure. He reminded himself that the trail of the murderer still led to the Taupins.
THIRTEEN
The previous evening had been pleasant. More than pleasant; for the first time Shanahan felt as if he were on vacation. Even the ‘nervous’ and slightly sweet wine turned out to be good. In the air conditioning they slept well. Getting up earlier than Maureen, as usual, Shanahan realized he was victim to a routine. His walk for coffee and a newspaper, a return to the room to freshen up and have breakfast in the hotel with Maureen, all were predictable. No doubt Channarong would join them in the hotel dining room. If there was anyone out there who wanted to do them harm, predictability was dangerous.
When Channarong called, Shanahan suggested they meet somewhere else for breakfast. The guide suggested a dim-sum place in Chinatown. They would meet there.
‘I have something to show you,’ Channarong said before disconnecting.
‘Chinese for breakfast?’ Maureen asked when she found out where they were going.
‘You don’t think the Chinese have breakfast? I understand they make a delicious porridge.’
‘Porridge.’ She looked at him with a Mona Lisa smile. ‘All right, bring on the porridge.’
‘To tell you the truth, it’s more like an early lunch,’ Shanahan said, looking at his watch. ‘They’re serving at eleven.’
They found a taxi. At the intersection, a flock of motorbikes gathered in front of them, each with their lawnmower motors straining to get the go.
The restaurant was large and loud. The main room was two-stories high, with mammoth square columns every ten or twelve feet. It was grand, but sheer size had replaced decoration. The waiters, all young Chinese it appeared, wore white coats and pushed stainless steel carts built to carry a dozen trays full of small dishes. Access was from the side.
Shanahan felt as if he had stepped back in time. He had been in such places during his time in Malaysia and his trips to Hong Kong. But all of that was long ago and he wondered how many of these kinds of place – white coats in this heat – were left. Of course the cold stone of the walls and floors hel
ped cool off the place and overhead fans that dropped twelve feet from the ceiling were keeping it as cool as possible without air conditioning.
Channarong was waiting for them at a table well in the middle of the great room. He stood, shook hands with Shanahan, and nodded graciously to Maureen.
‘What a place,’ Maureen said.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to interpret for you. Most of the waiters here speak only Chinese and Thai.’
A cart was rolled up and the waiter pulled out the first of many trays he would display for inspection.
Midway through the ‘breakfast,’ which included porridge, Shanahan asked Channarong what he wanted to show him.
Channarong presented a photograph. It was grainy, but clear enough for Shanahan to see a man that looked much like himself. It was a strange feeling. He hadn’t remembered his brother resembling him so much during the childhood years that he knew him. He showed it to Maureen.
‘It’s a little eerie,’ she said.
‘Where did you get this?’ Shanahan asked.
‘I got that from a friend at the police department. It’s probably ten years old.’ The arrival of another cart interrupted the conversation and after consulting with Maureen, he ordered shrimp and chive dumplings and turnip cake.
‘I need to tell you something else,’ Channarong said. ‘I told the mahouts that there would be a reward for information about Fritz Shanahan. I gave each of them a copy of the picture.’
‘How much is the reward?’
‘Twenty-five hundred baht,’ Channarong said, ‘about seventy-five dollars.’
‘Cheap,’ Maureen said. ‘But why would they know anything about him or how to find out information? There are, what, eight million people who live in Bangkok?’
‘Money is a motivation. They know people who know people who know people. Eventually we are all connected. There are a few bars just for the expats. And we can narrow that down to English-speaking bars. Whether he speaks Thai or other languages, it’s likely that he visits at least one place where English is spoken. If you are an American, you will tire of Thai food. You will want to read an English or American book. Even the people who choose to live here, need a break from Thai culture once in a while. And we know where the British go, where the Americans go and so on. It’s our business. Literally.’
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