Shakeup

35

Clark had been gone only a quarter of an hour when Joan buzzed. “Art Jacoby, on one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Yes, Art?”

“Stone, the feds have picked up Deana’s case. DCPD is out of it.”

“I heard,” Stone replied. “That’s good news for you, isn’t it, Art?”

“Why?”

“Well, because you are innocent, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then the FBI has a better chance of proving that than does the DCPD, whose fearless leader wants you hanged at dawn, does she not?”

“She does,” Art admitted.

“That means that Little Debby will have no influence on the investigation.”

“Yes,” Art replied, brightly.

“Do you have an appointment today with someone called Maren Gustav?”

“I do. Who is she?”

“She’s the deputy director of the FBI for criminal investigations.”

“Her boss, Shaker, hates me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shaker hates everybody. Anyway, there are substantial rumors that he is on his way out, and other rumors that Gustav may replace him.”

“Uh-oh, then she’s going to be trying to make a name for herself.”

“Art, she’s already made a name for herself. That’s why she’s on the fast track for the job. She doesn’t need your head mounted over her fireplace.”

“She’s due here in ten minutes,” Art said. “What should I tell her?”

“The truth, Art. And if you’ve sprinkled a fib or two around in your earlier statements, now’s the time to iron out the wrinkles. She can smell a lie the way my dog, Bob, can sniff out a sausage from two rooms away.”

“I’ll remember that,” Art said.

“Remember, too, that her eventual goal is Donald Clark. She just needs you to pave the way.”

“Right.”

“Call me when you’re done.”

“All right.”

They both hung up.

Stone was finishing a sandwich at his desk, three hours later, when Jacoby called again.

“How’d it go, Art?”

“My shirt is soaked clean through.”

“Well, let’s hope that she does not equate the smell of sweat with lying.”

“I didn’t lie. I told her the same things, over and over, as she slightly changed the questions. You’ve heard of a steel-trap mind? That woman has a mind like a bear trap, and I was the grizzly in question.”

“She’s done with you now, Art,” Stone said. “It’s Clark’s turn in the bear trap, and I have a feeling he’s going to have to gnaw off his own leg to get free of her.”

“I have to go take a shower,” Art said and hung up.

Maren Gustav was shown by a butler into a large, mahogany-paneled room, festooned with hunting trophies — meat, fish, and fowl. There were not, she noted, very many books in evidence, and those present were, mostly, sporting in nature.

Donald Clark stood respectfully, shook her hand, welcomed her, and offered her coffee, which she declined. He offered her the opposite end of the sofa on which he sat, but she accepted a freestanding chair, instead.

“I understand you have a few questions for me,” he said.

“On the contrary, Mr. Clark,” she replied, “I have a great many questions for you, and I wish to record your answers.” She placed a small recorder on the coffee table. “Do you have any objections to being recorded?”

“Certainly not.” He shrugged. “Why should I?”

She noted the time and began to ask rapid-fire questions about his schedule on the day of the Carlyle murder, his companions at different times, and his past relationship with the various other suspects and witnesses, never consulting notes. Two hours and ten minutes later, she noted, she abruptly changed tactics.

“Mr. Clark,” she said, with a little smile, “can you enumerate for me the occasions on which you had sexual intercourse with Ms. Carlyle?”

Clark blinked. “I decline to address that question,” he said, finally.

“How about the nature of such intercourse?”

Clark collected himself. “I decline to answer.”

“How about the occasions on which one or more others were involved, and what persons participated in such intercourse? And their names, genders, and occupations?”

“Decline. I will not bring others into this matter.”

As if propelled by some spring-loaded mechanism, a man in a pinstripe suit, carrying a briefcase, entered the room at a trot through a rear door, crying, “Stop! Stop! My client will answer no further questions!”

“Oh, really,” Clark said. “I don’t mind.” This with patent insincerity.

“This interview is over,” the lawyer said to Maren. “Kindly leave the premises at once.”

“I take it you would prefer to have your client answer these questions before a grand jury,” Maren said, rising and picking up, but not turning off, her recorder. “I can arrange that.”

“Go, go!”

“A subpoena follows,” Maren said, then departed, noting the time on her recorder before switching it off.

Stone received her in his study, and Fred took her small suitcase and makeup bag away.

“Good evening,” Stone said, kissing her. “You look lovely!”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting.

“A drink?”

“Of course. A very dry martini,” she replied.

“Is there any other kind?” he asked, pouring one out of a premixed bottle from the freezer, frosting the glass immediately.

“Where are we dining?”

“At Rotisserie Georgette,” he replied. “Specializing in roast fowl.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“How did your day go?”

“Better than I expected,” she said. “Art Jacoby will make an excellent witness either for himself or against Donald Clark. I pretty much wrung him out, but he has his story straight now.”

“What about Clark?”

“I got everything I expected from him, and when I brought up the subject of sex, an attorney, apparently mechanically operated, sprang from somewhere, shouting ‘Stop!’ I’ll see his client before a grand jury, where he will, very likely, take the Fifth.”

“Very likely.”

“I’ll tell you this, though. He’s scared, and that’s the way I like my suspects.”