A Killer’s Kiss

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 it 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.