To The Power Of Three

PART THREE. Falling In Love With Jesus
Sunday
14

Lenhardt lay in bed, listening to his family get ready for church. Week in, week out, it was one of his best moments-alone yet not alone, the sounds of his wife and children drifting up to him from the downstairs rooms. The chatter was sharp at times; getting two children to church was seldom a smooth process and even required taking the Lord’s name in vain a time or two.

But, overall, it was a comforting, lulling murmur. On winter Sundays, Lenhardt exulted in the warmth that Marcia left behind, rolling into her spot, picking up her scent, very clean and soapy. On a warm June morning such as this one, he kicked off the lightweight blanket and stuck a leg outside the sheet, a thermal balancing act he had learned from his first wife. That had been a young marriage, a starter marriage, the kind of mistake that only two twenty-two-year-olds can make. The divorce had been more like a breakup, with record albums to be divided-and not much more. Except, sadly, an infant daughter. Lenhardt had paid his support dutifully for eighteen years, but his wife moved to Oregon and remarried before the girl, Tally, was two. She thought of her stepfather as her daddy, and maybe he was. To this day Lenhardt sent checks on Christmases and birthdays, but nothing ever came back, not so much as a postcard.

The hallway floorboards creaked, a sound signaling a child’s excessive, overdone caution, and Lenhardt cracked an eye as the bedroom door whined open. Jessica’s pillow was just about to land on his head when he snaked his arm to the left, grabbed Marcia’s abandoned pillow, and thwacked his daughter softly on the back.

“Got you first!” Jessica crowed, doing an up-and-down victory dance.

“But you can’t get me now,” he said, taking her wrists in his and pulling her onto the bed. He began tickling her, and although Jessica managed to free a hand, she was helpless to defend herself. She writhed and giggled, quite out of breath.

“Jessica-” Marcia’s tone was even, but Lenhardt recognized she was near her breaking point. “You just brushed your hair. Now it has to be brushed all over again.”

“No.” The girl took refuge behind her father. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Okay, but quickly. We need to leave in five minutes. Besides, you’re supposed to let your father sleep on Sundays. It’s his only day to sleep in.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Jessica said, tucking her legs beneath her and making no move to reach for the hairbrush that Marcia was now extending toward her. “Why can’t Daddy sleep in on Saturdays the way the rest of us do when there’s no swim meet?”

“Daddy worked yesterday,” her father pointed out. “In fact, Daddy’s going to work today.”

“I mean, when you don’t have to work. Why don’t you go to church with us?”

“Well, I have chores, and things to fix.”

“Why can’t you do your chores later?” she persisted.

“Jessica, get out of that bed and brush your hair, or I’ll use this on your bottom instead.”

The girl rolled her eyes, knowing that neither parent would ever raise a hand to her. But she did as her mother said, although she managed to do it in a way that indicated it was a mere courtesy to two inferior beings. Lenhardt slid out of the bed after her and headed into the shower, marveling again at his daughter’s bullshit detector. Jason was two years older, but he had never questioned Lenhardt’s absence from church. Jessica had an instinct for stories that didn’t quite hang together. Maybe it was a genetic thing.

Lenhardt had given his wife’s Methodist church a try, but he had never felt comfortable in the generous, light-filled space that Marcia called a church. Old habits died hard. He said “trespasses” instead of “debts” during the Lord’s Prayer, started to cross himself, and while his knees didn’t miss the literal ups and downs of the Catholic mass, his heart did, a little. “Church” should be one of those tall, gloomy piles that made you feel guilty as soon as you were over the threshold. No, he was just too old a dog to learn new tricks. So Marcia allowed him to abstain, as long as he promised to show up for the big things and didn’t expose the kids to his own doubts about the whole enterprise.

Well, he was working today, that wasn’t a lie. Less than fifteen minutes after his family headed out to church, he was en route to the Glendale address that the gun registration had kicked back for Michael Delacorte. Somewhat to his surprise, Glendale wasn’t that far from his own house, a quick detour off I-83. He had always thought of that rich suburb as a world away. But then, there were no true neighborhoods out here in north county, not like in the city, just one development running into another, sort of like what happened when Jessica tried to make cookies. Lenhardt had grown up in Remington, a lower-middle-class enclave best known for its rat problem. Word had it that Remington was getting semidesirable these days. And why not? It was good housing stock, brick and stone, ten minutes to downtown. People were tired of driving so much, in Lenhardt’s opinion. He wouldn’t have moved out here if he hadn’t landed the job in the county. There was a guy down at the University of Maryland who released a study, year after year, showing that commuting was the single biggest waste of Americans’ time.

“What about books on tape?” Infante had asked whenever Lenhardt cited this study, trying to play devil’s advocate. “You could learn, like, lots of stuff.”

“Such as?”

“Civil War battles. Or art history, like they have in that one book everyone’s reading now. Or you could read the classics you didn’t read in school.”

“I read The Great Gatsby when Marcia was doing it for book club,” Lenhardt said. “Green light, big thrill.”

Once in Glendale it took him a few wrong turns to find the place he wanted, Windsor Park. Like most of the developments out here, it was set on a series of loops, with loops coming off the loops, so it was easy to get lost. The planners probably thought this layout discouraged burglars and thieves, and they would have been right, if communities such as this were targeted by the usual schmo amateurs, the addicts and teenagers interested in a quick buck or a joyride. But a pro wouldn’t be deterred by Windsor Park ’s layout. A real thief would study it, driving the streets in the bland white van of a contractor, figuring out when people came and went, who had dogs, what drew attention. Such a guy might even take a job as a workman, given the endless renovations and remodelings, which would afford him the chance to find out who had alarms-and who set them. You’d be surprised how many people didn’t use their expensive alarm systems because they didn’t want to turn the bypass code over to the maid, or some nonsense like that. The smarter thieves cut phone wires, waited to see if anything happened-some homes had cellular backup, but not many-and then went in with a pillowcase.

Lenhardt had a dog, a sweet mutt who barked her head off if someone outside the family so much as touched the front door.

The Delacorte residence, however, had walled itself off behind a fence, with an electronic gate across the driveway. Lenhardt pressed the button on the intercom system, checking his watch. Ten was a little early for a Sunday visit, but that’s why he had chosen this time. More likely to find people at home, assuming they skipped church as he did.

The voice that came back to him was alert, harried even. “Maurice? What are you doing at the front gate? You know you’re supposed to come to the side.”

“Mr. Delacorte? I’m Sergeant Harold Lenhardt from the Baltimore County Police Department, and I need to speak to you.”

“Now? What about?”

A fair question. The man had no way of knowing that his gun had been used in the Glendale shooting, may not even know it had been stolen, given that there was no report on it. The only information released to the media so far was that the shooter had used a licensed handgun.

“It’s not something I can talk about over an intercom.”

“I’ll open the gates.”

The gates rolled open, and Lenhardt found himself thinking of Graceland, a trip to Memphis when he and Marcia were about six months into their relationship, that time when it’s still all roses and valentines-no voices raised, no disappointments. You couldn’t go fifteen years without a few shouts and recriminations, of course, especially when raising kids. There was no doubt in Lenhardt’s mind that the long haul was better, overall, than the superficial pleasures of those early months, when nothing was at stake. Still, there was something to be said for beginnings, especially when they were behind you.

The house in front of him was an expensive, showy affair, even by local standards. Everywhere Lenhardt looked, he saw expense-the triple-hung windows, the heavy door, the beige brick, the landscaping.

The owner, so quick on the intercom, was slow to answer the door.

“Will this take much time?” he asked, panting as if he had come from a long distance. The man presented puffy-round-cheeked, with deep creases beneath his eyes, a stocky figure not unlike Lenhardt’s, but softer, doughier. “I have to go to my office, and I want to be there by noon.”

“On a Sunday you can get to downtown Baltimore in thirty minutes.”

“I don’t work in Baltimore.”

“D.C.?”

“ Harrisburg.” There was an impatient edge to the man’s voice, as if Lenhardt should have known where he worked. The name Delacorte did sound slightly familiar, but it didn’t bring up any ready associations.

“This will take just a few minutes, I’m sure.” People started out high-handed with detectives all the time, but the law-abiding types usually settled down pretty fast.

Delacorte led him into the living room, which looked unused, as most living rooms did these days. But this one was antiseptic in a way that Lenhardt couldn’t pinpoint, like a room in a model home.

“I have to ask you a few questions about your gun.”

“I don’t have a gun.”

Lenhardt took out his notes, although he was sure he had it right. There couldn’t be another Michael Delacorte in Glendale.

“State police records show that Michael Delacorte has a.22 registered to this address, has had for the past year.”

The guy’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s my wife. Michael.”

“Your wife? My mistake. You see a name like Michael, you don’t even think to glance at the gender.”

“She’s used to it. In fact, she rather likes it.”

“So…”

“So?”

“Is she here? Mrs. Delacorte.”

“She moved out a month ago.” That explained the bare look of the house. The wife had gone through, taking all those little personal things that women strew about, photographs and candlesticks and vases.

“And did she take her gun with her? Or say anything about it being missing in the past few weeks?”

“Until five seconds ago, I didn’t even know my wife had a gun. I’m still trying to process that information. It’s an interesting footnote to everything that’s been going on around here.” He laughed in a self-deprecating way, as if Lenhardt should be intimate with his troubles. Yet Lenhardt still didn’t have a clue who the guy was, had yet to learn his first name, in fact. “Why do you care?”

“A.22 registered to Michael Delacorte was recovered Friday from Glendale High School.”

“From Glendale -oh, my fucking God, that’s all I need.”

Could this guy be more self-involved? But then it hit Lenhardt-Delacorte. Stewart Delacorte. Another business guy under indictment, or about to be, something to do with stock manipulation in a furniture company that had been in his family for generations, gone public, then gone pretty much to hell.

“We’re trying to figure out how the gun came to be in the girl’s possession.”

Delacorte was in responsible-citizen mode now, keen to help. “We had a baby-sitter, a regular, came every Thursday. I think she was a Glendale girl.”

“You know her name?”

“I might, if I heard it.”

Lenhardt carefully read off three names, although he didn’t need to refer to his notes to do that. He just wanted to make sure that he didn’t lead this guy in any way, that each name was repeated in the same careful, uninflected tone.

“Katarina Hartigan. Josie Patel. Perri Kahn.”

“Dale’s daughter? But she was the one who was killed, right? Poor guy. When I read that in the paper, it reminded me there’s always someone whose troubles are worse than your own.”

“So Kat was your baby-sitter?”

“Oh, no. I just know Dale from, you know, around. He’s a good guy. So I recognize Kat, but those other names-it could be either one. I’m sure it was one of those y names. Josie. Perri. Terry.”

“But you saw the baby-sitter, would know her if you saw her again, right?” Perri’s parents had already confirmed that their daughter baby-sat for this family, but Lenhardt was keen to determine that the other girls couldn’t have procured the gun. The Kahns’ lawyer would sure as hell find out if they had access, if Kat or Josie had so much as rung the doorbell in the past three years.

Delacorte looked a little sheepish. “I suppose so. I-I worked a lot. That’s the reason Michael left. Part of the reason. The baby-sitter was…thin. Kind of bony.”

That description could apply to Perri Kahn or Josie Patel.

“Tall? Short?”

Delacorte shrugged.

“Um, ethnic?”

“Ethnic?”

“Like, Asian or Indian. Not American Indian but the other kind.”

“Oh, no. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone like that in the house.”

“And there was only the one baby-sitter?”

“On Thursdays. She came in on the nanny’s day off, because, you know, God forbid Michael would have to spend an entire day alone with Malcolm.”

“Why did your wife have a gun?”

Delacorte gave Lenhardt what he obviously thought of as a man-to-man smile. “I don’t know, but believe me, I’m thinking about it.”

“How do I get in touch with her?”

“Beats me. She won’t tell me where she’s living and hasn’t let me see my son since she moved out. Is that even legal?”

“Not exactly. But you need a family lawyer-”

He held up a hand. “I know. The question was largely rhetorical.”

“You got a number for your wife?”

“A cell. She won’t answer when I call, though. She always makes me talk to voice mail.”

“I thought I could call it.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Delacorte began to wander the room, pulling open drawers in various end tables and chests, looking for paper and pencil. Lenhardt felt a stab of pity, watching a man roam his own home, incapable of finding so much as scrap of paper.

He handed him his own pad and pen, asking, “Who’s Maurice?”

“My driver. It’s about an hour to Harrisburg. I can’t afford that much downtime, so he drives, I work. I moved here because I thought I could commute by helicopter, but the neighbors went berserk on my ass. That’s how I got to know Dale. He tried to broker a compromise, but there was no dealing with these nuts. I could have fought them in court, but it wasn’t worth it, not with everything else going on.”

“Why are you going in on a Sunday, though?”

“The usual things,” he said. “Papers to go through. Some things to box up and put into storage.”

His tone had the vague, innocent air of a lying kid, and he was no longer making eye contact.

“It’s illegal, you know. Getting rid of stuff once an investigation is under way.”

“Thanks for the free legal advice, Sergeant. Helps defray the cost of the official advice that costs me six hundred dollars an hour. Got any other pearls of wisdom for me?”

Lenhardt knew he was being put down, but he pretended to take the guy’s words at face value. “Okay, one more tip: Everything you steal, your wife is entitled to half of, under Maryland law. So if she knows where you hid all your assets before you gutted your company, you’ll have to cut her in.”

He left in a good mood, even though he hadn’t established anything other than the probability that Perri Kahn was the only girl who could have taken the gun from this house. It would be interesting to pin down the when, which would suggest just how long she had been planning her morning of havoc. And Delacorte hadn’t been able to place Josie in his home, a complication that Lenhardt had been happy to sidestep, even if he did think the girl was lying her head off.

What if she stalled on purpose? The thought hit him with a happy shock as soon as he was back on the highway, another possible resolution to the inconsistencies that were nagging at him. What if she hoped that refusing to open the door, pretending to be incapacitated, would be more likely to lead to the other girl’s death?

He filed it away and continued to the office, where he and Infante were going to write up the paperwork necessary to get permission for a medical examiner to eyeball the girl’s wound. According to the X-rays, the trajectory had been remarkably straight, as if someone had held the gun directly over the girl’s foot and fired. As if she had stood still, polite and proper, the best-behaved kid lining up for a flu shot.