Skin Deep

69

“It’s your princely taste that saved your ass.”

Captain Charles Reardon stood behind his desk, peering down at Steve like a face hewn from Mount Rushmore.

“Your bottle of Veuve Clicquot had the distributor’s own product label, which was traceable to Central Street Liquors. We also got this,” he said, and handed him a sheet of paper.

It was a grainy black-and-white blowup of a security camera shot of him at a counter with a bottle of champagne, the Clicquot label clearly visible.

“What about the Taittinger?”

“No luck there because there wasn’t any retailer stamp. But the UPC price is thirty-four ninety-nine, nothing on your credit card records.”

“You mean you checked.”

“Your sweet ass we did.” Reardon smiled. “And next to you the killer’s a cheapskate.”

Steve felt as if he’d been flushed with fresh water. Reardon was pronouncing him an innocent man. Yet he could almost smell the fumes of overheating rise from him. Reardon had not summoned him to celebrate his exoneration.

“That’s the good news.” Reardon glanced at the paper in his hand. “The bad news is that someone else saw you trying to park your car in a resident slot near your place on St. Botolph a little before eight P.M., an hour before the estimated time of death of Terry Farina. She remembered because she claimed it took you a half-dozen tries to get the car in the spot which, she says, could have taken an eighteen-wheeler. When you were finished, the car was at a tipsy angle and you stumbled into your apartment.”

Steve remembered none of that.

“In short, you were fucking blotto.”

“I had a beer and two scotches. What she saw was the medication on top of that.”

“You said you were off the booze.”

“I said I was working on it. Still am.”

Reardon looked at him with that flat stone face. “Well, while you’re working on it you better work on reviewing the policies and procedures of this department, Lieutenant, because you withheld vital information regarding the victim. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but you’re the second cop who’s diddled the truth on this case.”

“The truth is that I didn’t know if what I withheld was information real or imagined.”

“How could you not remember having drinks with the vic two hours before she’s killed?”

“I did, but nothing after that because the meds reacted adversely with the alcohol. I had a memory lapse. Until I could verify my whereabouts, I saw no point in reporting what might or might not have happened.”

“You had receipts from the bar and the liquor store. You were with her.”

To try to justify his inaction would only make his case worse, so he simply nodded.

“I can bust you back to foot officer for this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reardon glared at him for another long moment then handed him an envelope. Steve did not have to open it. He knew it contained a formal letter of reprimand. “Am I off the case, sir?”

“No, and only because Sergeants Dacey and Hogan went to bat for you. Said you were cooperative in alleviating their suspicions, blah, blah, blah. You owe them thanks big-time.”

“Right.”

“Here’s the other reason you’re not chasing speeders.” He handed him a sheet of paper with the letterhead of the New Hampshire State Crime Lab.

“What’s this?”

“They went back to the evidence box and did an analysis of the stocking in the Corrine Novak case. The results show the patented nylon combination that’s unique to Wolfords.”