House on Fire

43

Early the next morning I gassed up the Defender — the hundred miles or so from Boston to Westham would use more than half of the Defender’s tank, and the fuel tank held fifteen gallons. I headed out through rush-hour traffic down the Southeast Expressway, that terrible, always-choked highway out of Boston. Patty Lenehan had sounded like she was at her wits’ end but said she could wait until today.

My mobile phone rang, and I glanced at it. A 914 area code, which meant Westchester County. I knew it wasn’t Sukie, because her cell started with 917. I didn’t recognize this number.

“Is this Mr. Heller?” A gruff male voice.

“Speaking.” I changed lanes and headed toward Route 3.

“This is Detective Goldman from the Town of Bedford Police.”

“Oh, yes,” I said.

“Remember I said I might have some additional questions regarding the death of Margret Benson? So a couple of things have come up, and I wonder, are you available to talk for a few minutes?”

I suppose I could have told him that I was driving and call him later, but I was far too curious about what he was calling for. Because I had a pretty good idea where this was going. He’d seen me on the surveillance video at Kimball’s house. What else could it be?

“Sure,” I said, my stomach tight.

“A couple of loose ends came up. When we talked at the Kimball residence, you told me that you spent the night sleeping in your bedroom in the east wing, does that sound right?” Cars were starting to pass me. The Defender engine roars loudly when you step on the gas, so I was instead easing up, trying to keep the noise level down. I moved to the right lane.

“That’s right.”

“Which parts of the house did you visit when you stayed there?”

“Let me see. Besides my bedroom on the second floor, I saw the rooms everyone else saw — the smaller dining room, the library, the kitchen... Let’s see, the room where you questioned me in the morning...”

“No other rooms in the house?”

“The game room in the basement.”

“Any other rooms?”

“It’s possible, but not that I can recall right now.”

“I see.”

He was silent for long enough that I thought the call might have gotten cut off.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Mr. Heller. Would there be any reason why we might find any information that said you were in a room that you say you weren’t in?”

A carefully worded question. And an accusation. We have information proving you were in parts of the house you’re not telling us about.

You’re a liar.

“Sure, it’s possible. I forget what-all I saw. I was a guest of Sukie’s and I went where she went.”

He wasn’t happy with that answer. “You said you slept through the night, is that right?”

“I don’t think I said that.”

“You said, ‘I was here, sleeping in my bedroom in the east wing.’”

“I don’t think I said I slept through the night. I never sleep through the night.”

In fact, I usually do sleep through the night, most nights. I’m untroubled, usually, by insomnia. And to be indelicate, I usually don’t have to get up to pee in the middle of the night like a lot of guys.

“So you didn’t sleep through the night? The night you stayed at the Kimball house?”

“I got up a few times, as I recall. To use the bathroom.”

The problem was, I couldn’t be sure whether he’d actually seen the video — nor how much it showed him, if he had. I didn’t know where cameras might have been concealed in the house. Where else besides the entry foyer? Was he even talking about the surveillance video?

“Was the bathroom next to your bedroom? Like, en suite?”

“Yes. But I might have taken a stroll around the house. I was curious.”

The Heller house wasn’t as big as Kimball Hall, but that’s like comparing yachts. Big is big.

“A ‘stroll around the house’? What time was that?”

“Not sure. I didn’t look at my watch. Two, three in the morning, maybe?”

“Were you snooping?”

I paused. “You could call it that. Healthy curiosity. ‘Snoop’ is a matter of opinion, and of course I didn’t have permission.”

“What if we found information that you were creeping through the home as if stealthily looking for someone? What would you say to that?”

So he’d seen the video. “I’d say I wasn’t stealthily looking for anyone. I simply went for a walk because I couldn’t sleep.”

A long pause. I thought, Does he have me and Maggie on video? Was there a time when the two of us walked together through the foyer?

I didn’t think so.

“Mr. Heller, you travel a great deal. Do you have any plans to leave the country in the foreseeable future?”

“Is this where you tell me not to leave the country without letting you know?”

“No, I just want to make sure I can reach you in the next day or two. If I need to.”

“You’ve got my number,” I said. “Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Thanks,” I said, and I hung up.

It suddenly occurred to me: He didn’t ask whether I went outside the house. He didn’t talk about the time Maggie and I spent in the backyard and the property beyond the yard.

Was it possible there were no video cameras at the back of the house?

He knew more than he was telling me, and that made lying to him a dangerous undertaking.

My phone rang again, and this time I recognized the caller.

“Dorothy,” I said. “What’ve you got?”

“Just wanted to say thank you.”

“Yeah?”

“I went through that file you left me? On the tax assessment? For the asshole?”

“Yeah? Talk to him yet? Let him know what you know?”

“You know what, Nick? John Warren is not only a tax cheat, but he’s a racist. And maybe I don’t want to live in a building where the head of the co-op board is a racist. Maybe I’m too good for these assholes.”

I smiled as I ended the call.

I picked up the phone and called Major Liz Rodriguez of the Massachusetts State Police.