You Have the Right to Remain Silent Page 6

  “So what did she do?” Marian asked.

  So she’d called some friends and complained that she was bored and wanted a night on the town. There were five of them altogether, hitting one night spot after another. “And yes, they alibi her,” Sanchez said tiredly, “right up till almost three in the ay em. This one’s a dead end, looks like.”

  Marian nodded, quite willing to accept Gloria Sanchez’s evaluation of the situation. The sooner they could eliminate domestic reasons for the killings, the more time they’d have for pinning down the real motive.

  She told Sanchez to put it in writing and that she herself was heading home for some sack time.

  Four hours’ sleep made her feel a hundred percent better. There’d been a message from Brian on the answering machine when Marian arrived home. It was a friendly message, rather nice; he’d ended by saying please call him when she felt like seeing him again.

  Foley was on the phone when she got back to the stationhouse; he hung up and said, “They found the van, abandoned at one of the deserted South Street piers. Stolen. Bloodstains in the back match two of the victims. No prints.”

  “Of course not,” Marian said with a sigh as she sat down. “When was it reported missing?”

  “Saturday afternoon, late.”

  Shortly after the time Herb Vickers had left home—only to turn up dead in the park eleven hours later. Too big a time spread. “Autopsy report in yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what? Oh. I suppose you want me to call Doc Whats-isname and bug him.”

  “You suppose right,” Marian said, “and his name is Whittaker.”

  Foley grumbled but made the call. “He says the gun was a thirty-eight, but he’s not ready to say which of ’em died first.”

  “What about the cuff marks on the wrists?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  Marian nodded, expecting no more. On her desk were reports detailing the follow-up interviews with the families of the victims. She picked up the first one.

  Mrs. Conrad Webb had regained her composure by the time the police came again. She’d had several friends with her, offering sympathy and moral support. With trembling voice she’d explained that on Saturday her husband had left for a 1:30 luncheon appointment at the Tavern on the Green, and that was the last time she saw him. When he hadn’t returned by seven that evening, she’d grown worried; Conrad was always so conscientious about letting her know when he was delayed. They’d been invited to a dinner party at the Hutchinsons’—both of whom were among the group of friends present during the police interview—and not knowing what else to do, she’d gone to the dinner party alone. There she’d expressed her concern, but her friends had persuaded her there was nothing to worry about. Conrad often got involved in marathon business meetings, they’d reminded her. She’d left the party shortly before midnight. Both the Hutchinsons confirmed her story.

  No, Conrad hadn’t said whom he was meeting or what the meeting was about. He hadn’t seemed tense or worried about the meeting, or about anything else, as far as Mrs. Webb could tell. No, she didn’t know what project he’d been working on lately, only that it required frequent trips to Washington. It was the interviewing detective’s opinion that Mrs. Webb was reluctant to admit how little she knew about her husband’s work.

  The Saturday staff of the Tavern on the Green had been contacted; they told the police that Conrad Webb had not been there for lunch on Saturday, nor had he made a reservation. The maître d’ was quite positive about it; he knew Mr. Webb well and would have remembered if he’d come in.

  So Conrad Webb had lied to his wife, Marian thought, just as Herb Vickers had lied to his. According to Mrs. Webb, her husband had left their apartment shortly after one o’clock; that narrowed the time a little more. The bodies had been dumped around eleven that night; there were still ten hours to account for.

  Marian read quickly through Gloria Sanchez’s report on Candy Vickers; nothing there Sanchez hadn’t already told her. As she was picking up the next report, the phone rang; it was a television reporter wanting to know what progress had been made. Marian said “No comment” and hung up. He must have come up with a pretty good lie to get past the desk sergeant.

  The next report was on Jason O’Neill. A phone call to the victim’s mother in Idaho had elicited no new information; Mrs. O’Neill was despondent and mystified as to why anyone would want to kill her son. The detectives had found an address book in Jason’s apartment and proceeded to interview his friends and a few of his business associates. And yes, Jason O’Neill had had a girlfriend. Two of them, in fact: one in New York and one in Washington. The New York girlfriend was a singer named Amy Camus who’d only recently moved into Manhattan from Brooklyn. Amy told the investigating officer she and Jason had had a date for Saturday night but Jason didn’t show. She’d been furious with him until she learned why he hadn’t kept the date. Wasn’t she worried when he didn’t show up? Well, they hadn’t been getting along too well lately, and she thought he’d just stood her up. Did Jason do things like that often? No, but there’s always a first time, isn’t there?

  Marian smiled wryly; there was a lady with her feet on the ground. When was the last time she’d talked to Jason? the detective had asked. Friday, Amy supposed, but she had heard from him on Saturday. He’d left a message on her answering machine while she was out, saying he’d pick her up a half hour later than they’d planned. The machine had a timer, and the call had come at 3:05 P.M. The message had not yet been erased so the detective was able to verify both the content and the time. Amy had spent the night, from about ten o’clock on, with a woman friend of hers who’d been recently divorced; the two women had sat up most of the night talking. The detective got a confirmation of the story from the friend.

  So now they were down to eight hours, Marian mused. Jason O’Neill had died between three in the afternoon and eleven at night. If the autopsy report said he was the first to be killed, that would narrow the time for the others as well.

  There was no detective’s report on Mrs. Sherman Bigelow—only a note saying she hadn’t been home all day and no one knew where she’d gone. The detective said he’d keep trying.

  Marian was fairly well satisfied with what they’d found. As far as she was concerned, they’d eliminated two wives and one girlfriend as possible suspects, and she had no doubt that Mrs. Bigelow would soon be joining them. Two of the victims had lied to their wives about what they’d be doing Saturday, and one—Jason O’Neill—had had no one at home to lie to. Marian told Foley to keep two of the detectives on background checks; they still had finances and personal enemies to look into as well as the delayed interview of Mrs. Sherman Bigelow. But the other two detectives were to concentrate on trying to track the victims’ movements Saturday afternoon.

  The first twenty-four hours of an investigation were important. They wouldn’t have the murderer (murderers?) by eleven that night, but most of the machinery for tracking him/them was set up and operating. Just a few loose ends yet to take care of—

  A uniformed officer stopped by her desk. “Captain DiFalco wants you two in his office pronto.” Then he added out of the side of his mouth: “FBI.”

  At the next desk Foley groaned, but Marian was pleased. That was one of the loose ends that still needed tying up.

  7

  The two FBI men couldn’t have been more different. One was affable without being pushy; the other was aloof and somewhat condescending. Captain DiFalco introduced them as Trevor Page (the affable one) and Curt Holland (the other one). Page, fortunately, was the senior of the pair, both in years and authority. Neither man was dressed in the standard FBI uniform, i.e., conservative suit and tie, with or without trenchcoat. They both wore pullovers of some sort, not really sweaters since they were made of expensive-looking woven material instead of knitted. The FBI was trying to change its image? Or maybe they’d just gotten tired of being called The Suits.

  Trevor Page
was saying, “I’m aware relations between the police and the Bureau haven’t been too smooth in the past, but we’d like to change that. You know as well as I that we’ll have a better chance of catching the East River Park killer if we share information. We’d like to make this a cooperative investigation.”

  “Sharing information,” Captain DiFalco said. “That’s a two-way street.”

  Page smiled. “Right now we’re running security checks on everyone employed at Universal Laser Technologies. The results will be made available to you.”

  “That’s a promise, not information,” DiFalco rumbled.

  “It will be information, as soon as we’ve finished. Universal’s not a small company—it’ll take some time. But I assure you, we’re not going to hold anything back.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Foley growled, low.

  “Did you say something, Detective?” Curt Holland challenged.

  Foley was brave enough to stand up to someone outside the police hierarchy. “Yeah, I said something. We’ve heard this song and dance before. Cooperation and sharing—that’s bullshit. We do all the cooperating.”

  “Not this time,” Page answered, unperturbed. “Since Defense Department secrets may be compromised by these killings, we have every legal right to take the case out of your hands. But we don’t want to do it that way. We need your help, and we’re quite willing to offer the resources of the Bureau in exchange. This case has too many ramifications for either one of us to hog it.”

  Marian asked a question. “In your security checks on Universal Laser personnel, what do you look for?”

  “This time, primarily for connections with individuals or groups that would benefit from acquiring Defense secrets. Terrorist groups, other governments. Armaments manufacturers.”

  “Industrial espionage?”

  “Possibly.”

  Marian thought that over. “You’re convinced that’s what these killings are about? Laser weaponry?”

  It was Holland who answered. “They’re about dominance,” he said sharply. “Everything is always about dominance. Money and power? Means to an end.”

  Everyone except Page looked startled. Captain DiFalco said, “You care to explain that?”

  “I should have thought it was obvious,” Holland replied stiffly. His speech was clipped, precise, like an actor’s. “Those in possession of secret knowledge have an advantage over those who don’t. Whatever deposited four corpses in that park, you can be dead certain a power play was at the center of it.”

  DiFalco snorted. “Yah, well, that doesn’t get us very far, does it? What I want to know is, what are you doing in Washington?”

  Marian wanted to know the same thing. The FBI, Page told them, was checking every one of the Universal Laser liaison group’s contacts, whom they met with, why, for how long. They were also running “in-depth” security checks on those contacts, looking for any possibility of leaks or secrets-smuggling.

  “But why kill the liaison group?” Marian asked. “What would that accomplish, to be precise?”

  “Oh, by all means do let us be precise,” Holland said, making no attempt to soften the derision in his voice.

  Marian stared at him. This guy wasn’t out to win any popularity contests, that was sure. “Why would someone in the secrets-smuggling business want a mere liaison group dead?” she repeated.

  “To shut them up?” Page suggested. “Maybe they learned something in Washington that threatened whoever is after Defense secrets.”

  Holland made a sound of exasperation. “In which case they would have passed on their information to Universal Laser immediately. Even if they forgot how to use the telephone, they’d been home for three days before they were killed.”

  Good point, Marian admitted reluctantly.

  “Perhaps they didn’t know they knew something,” Page said, to which Holland responded with a sarcastic laugh. “It’s just a possibility, Holland,” Page said mildly. “That’s all we have now—possibilities.” He turned back to the police. “We know the person we’re looking for doesn’t have to be government-connected. It could be someone from the personal life of any one of the liaison group, and that’s where we can save time. There’s no purpose to be served in conducting separate investigations. We’d just duplicate each other’s efforts. If there’s anything you can give us now, we’d appreciate it.”

  DiFalco cocked an eyebrow at Marian. “Why, certainly,” she said silkily, and gave them the name of Jason O’Neill’s Washington girlfriend.

  The five of them spent the next fifteen minutes talking over what had been done and what still needed to be done. They agreed to share information and work together, and the first step toward that end would be for the two FBI men to read all the police reports that had been submitted so far—which showed a great leap of faith on the part of the NYPD, Marian thought. As they were leaving the captain’s office, DiFalco said, “Larch—hang on a mo.”

  She waited until the others had left and then closed the door. “Something?”

  “I want you to make this work,” DiFalco said urgently. “I want you to see to it that we’re glued to the FBI, so tight that nothing can pry us loose. Make those two feds dependent on us—on you, on me, even on Foley. Can you do that?”

  She looked a question at him.

  DiFalco sighed. “The Major Crimes Unit wants to take over the case.”

  “No,” Marian said, appalled.

  “Yes. I just got a tip from a buddy in the Chief of Patrol’s office, who found out from—well, that doesn’t matter. But the MCU wants this case, they want it bad.”

  Marian sputtered, “But, but, they, they—”

  “The only thing that’s holding them up,” DiFalco went on, “is that they’re having a little manpower problem of their own right now, just like everybody else. But they’ll be back at full strength in another two or three days. You’ve got that long to turn this circus into a joint Ninth Precinct/FBI investigation, a real one. Lead Page and Holland by the hand, if you have to. Give ’em whatever they want. Hell, take ’em along on stakeouts, if you got any.”

  “I got the picture. As a matter of fact, the FBI can be a help. I was wondering how we were going to handle the Washington end.”

  DiFalco grinned. “If they’re right about military lasers being at the bottom of this, they may just end up solving our case for us. But whatever happens, I want you to make the collar, you or Foley.”

  “Right.”

  Then, surprisingly, Captain DiFalco clenched his fist and slammed it down on the top of his desk. “Those bastards aren’t going to screw me on this one. Not this time!” Marian watched in astonishment as his face began to turn purple. He waved her away.

  She closed the door behind her as she left, wondering what the Major Crimes Unit had done to DiFalco in the past to earn that kind of resentment. She didn’t know the captain very well, no one at the Ninth Precinct did; he’d been on the job only a couple of weeks before Marian herself had transferred there. But clearly the man was ambitious, playing departmental politics for all he could get. He actually had a private pipeline to the Chief of Patrol’s office, for crying out loud. The Chief of Patrol was God; every precinct commander, every zone commander, every borough commander in the City of New York was answerable to the Chief of Patrol. If DiFalco had a connection that high up the chain of command … Marian wondered why he’d come to the Ninth in the first place. To prove he could handle anything?

  When she got back to her desk she found the two FBI men reading reports that Foley had given them. Page asked, “No follow-up interview with Mrs. Sherman Bigelow?”

  “She’s missing,” Marian said. “We’re still looking.”

  “Do you think she’s involved?”

  “I doubt it. She’s probably just staying with family or friends.”

  Holland was examining the black-and-white glossies the Crime Scene Unit’s photographer had taken. “If thy right eye offend thee, shoot it out. Did they all die at the same
time?” He passed some of the pictures to Page.

  “Don’t know yet,” Marian answered. “Autopsy report hasn’t come through.” She took a moment to study the FBI agents as they in turn studied the photographs. Trevor Page seemed friendly enough, but cautious—the sort of man who was willing to meet you halfway but no more. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, a good face. Curt Holland must have been good-looking once, with his black hair and eyes and strong features. But the deep shadows under his eyes and the scowl lines around his mouth spoiled the effect; even in repose his expression was one of … arrogance? Resentment? Arrogant resentment? Whatever it was, something was off-kilter there.

  Holland dropped the last of the photographs on her desk. “Two-man job at least, perhaps three. But however many took part in the actual killing, transporting, and unloading of the four bodies, one man was behind it all. He’s the one we look for.”

  Foley threw a triumphant look in Marian’s direction. “Told you there was more than one guy in the van.”

  Marian gritted her teeth. “I never disagreed with you, Foley.”

  “A superior sort of man,” Holland went on, ignoring them, “or at least he thinks he is. Never questions his convictions, always positive that he is right. He feels qualified to pass judgment and dispense justice. Arrogant. But a little jealous of his authority, I would say—thus his ‘signature’ on the killings. The ritualistic shooting out of one eye, the linking of the four together to demonstrate their equal culpability in whatever happened to arouse our killer’s godlike ire.”

  Interesting, Marian thought, that it was the arrogant one who spotted the arrogance behind the killings. “Are you a psychologist?” she asked him.

  He gave her an ironic smile. “In a murder investigation, I am whatever I need to be.”

  Oh my. “I’d say the killings were meant as some kind of warning.”

  Holland spread his hands flat on her desk and leaned his weight on his arms, staring her straight in the eye. “Of course they are a warning.”