Before He Finds Her (35 page)

Magruder nodded. “You know, I hadn’t thought of it until just now, but Bill has been acting somewhat erratic. In fact—”

“Just so I have my notes correct, Bill Suddoth drove Ms. Adams to your house last evening around what time?”

David Magruder looked momentarily bothered. He wasn’t used to being cut off. Then: “I’d say around six o’clock.”

She jotted it down in her notes. “Okay, and Ms. Adams said that she’d come over to interview you for a school assignment. That you’d talked for a while, and that you dropped her off later that night at her hotel. So it was during the initial drive to your house that Mr. Suddoth must have become obsessed with her. Would you say that’s the only time he’d have been with her? I’m just trying to get the chronology right.”

“That sounds right,” he said, and leaned forward. “Just out of curiousity—what did he say about all this? Or is that confidential?”

The detective let out a laugh. “Bill Suddoth knows he could be facing jail time, so I don’t take anything he says very seriously.” She coughed into a closed fist. “Pardon me. Can you think of any other reason why he might have wanted to hurt her, other than some kind of sexual obsession? Could she have said something to him to make him angry?”

“I really have no idea. But I doubt it. He’s just a driver.”

Detective Isaacson nodded. “I honestly think this is a pretty straightforward case of a young, attractive girl being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She smiled knowingly.

“What is it?” Magruder asked.

“Nothing, it’s just—well, you asked what Mr. Suddoth said. Would you believe he said
you
put him up to it?”

“What?” Magruder uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. “Why the hell would he—”

“Because Bill Suddoth is basically a thug in nice shoes, and he did a bad thing, and now he’s trying to blame the bigger fish because he has a prior record and is worried about jail time.” She shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t take him too seriously. Anyway, you shouldn’t let it worry you—it’s what guys like him always say. Would you believe he said you ordered him to kill her, and that he decided to warn her instead to leave town?”

“My god!”

“I know—welcome to the police force. We deal with guys like him all the time. ‘The president made me do it.’ ‘The pope made me do it.’”

Magruder risked a tentative smile. “‘Jesus and Buddha conspired...’”

“Exactly!” Detective Isaacson returned the smile. “Tell me something. What
did
you and Ms. Adams talk about at your home?”

A nearly imperceptible tightening of his face. “Well, like you said. She interviewed me. About my job and my life.”

“I never said she interviewed you.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah, you did.”

“I said she went to your house in order to interview you. According to her, you quickly identified her as Meg Miller, presumed to be dead. Needless to say, that trumped a school interview, am I right?”

Through the computer monitor, Melanie watched Magruder’s body stiffen. For maybe ten seconds—an eternity—nothing got said. Magruder glanced around, as if for the first time realizing where he was.

“I’m not following,” he said.

“It’s okay,” the detective said. “I know she asked you to keep her identity a secret. That’s why I’m letting you know that
I
know. She told us, too. It’s remarkable that she’s been alive all these years, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Yes. It absolutely is.”

“Amazing coincidence, though, wouldn’t you say?” said the detective.

Melanie could tell that David didn’t want to take the bait. But he couldn’t not. “What coincidence?”

“Well, think about it: A woman is murdered, and her daughter disappears. Fifteen years later, the daughter returns to town and within a couple of days gets violently assaulted herself. I mean, that family has some really bad luck.”

“I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Magruder said.

“Because there’s no way those two things could be connected, is there?”

Magruder stared at the detective for a few seconds. Then he smiled broadly, his excellent white teeth gleaming. “Detective Isaacson, what is this?”

“What is what?”

He shook his head. “You’re interrogating me, aren’t you?
This
”—he motioned toward the vending machines, the partly opened door—“this is all show.”

“Absolutely not. I’m completely confident that Mr. Suddoth is at fault here. That’s why he’s the one who’s under arrest. But he insisted it came from you—”

“Which it didn’t—”

“Which it didn’t. Obviously. But Melanie—that’s what Meg likes being called these days, though I guess you know that—anyway, Melanie says that when she was assaulted this morning, Suddoth told her to, quote, ‘leave town.’”

“Okay...”

“Well, that’s a strange thing for him to come up with on his own, isn’t it? I mean, why would someone obsessed with a girl order her to leave town?”

Magruder sighed deeply. “I haven’t a clue. He’s obviously a nut. Obviously, I never should have hired him.”

The detective waved the statement away. “Oh, we all make mistakes. Live and learn, right? But okay. I’m sure that when this is all said and done, Bill Suddoth will be charged and either plead guilty or be found guilty. But what—and this is just a hypothetical—but what if you did want Melanie to leave town? Why would that be?”

“Detective, I
don’t
want—”

“I know—that’s why I said it’s a hypothetical. Just let me finish. Why would he want Melanie Denison to leave town? I asked myself. And then I remembered—actually, I didn’t remember. I checked the file—but okay. I checked the file and saw that you didn’t have an alibi for the time of Allison Miller’s murder—”

“Stop.” David Magruder had his palm out like he was directing traffic. “We’re done here.”

“Please, Mr. Magruder,” said the detective. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to help you.”

“Now detective, you know that’s a load of—”

“I really am. Hear me out. I’m seeing this through the eyes of a thousand newspapers and TV stations—if they were to learn a couple of simple facts. Now, I don’t want to give Bill Suddoth’s story credence, because I don’t want you to become fodder for... well, for journalists. You know how they can be.” When Magruder said nothing, she continued. “It just seems a little weird to me that Bill Suddoth’s story—that he told her to leave town—actually matches what the victim herself told us.” She paused again. “Is it possible that maybe you asked Bill Suddoth to
talk
to Ms. Denison? That maybe you told him specifically
not
to hurt her, but just to make this helpful suggestion that she was better off somewhere other than Silver Bay?”

“What you’re saying is all very ridiculous, detective. Still, I’ll have my lawyer present before this goes any further.”

“Mr. Magruder, of course you can have your lawyer here. Of course you know that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. But you aren’t under arrest or even a suspect. What I’m doing is just trying to wrap this up fast, get you out of here before anyone in the media knows you’re here. See, if I knew that you had directed your driver to politely ask Ms. Denison to return to wherever it was she came from, for whatever reason you might have had—that’s not my business—and if
he
—all on his own—took things too far and became physical, then I should have all I need. It would explain why he talked to her about her leaving town. And her injuries certainly prove that he took things too far. We could get this wrapped up and no one will ever have to know you were here. Because it’s certainly no crime for you simply to ask your employee to
speak
with Ms. Denison. So is that maybe what happened?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Because otherwise, I’m going to have to look into the ridiculous claim that you ordered Ms. Denison to be killed, and I really don’t want to start investigating the wild claims of unreliable thugs. Especially when it threatens to put a man like yourself in the spotlight—in the news, online—where it will undoubtedly damage your career. That isn’t right.”

“And I don’t want to start investigating a corrupt and incompetent small-town police department. But I will if I have to, and I have more resources than you do.”

“You don’t have any evidence of that, Mr. Magruder.”

“And neither do you,” he said.

“I have the sworn testimony of the victim and the accused,” she said calmly, “plus the business card of every journalist who’s ever shaken my hand over the past seventeen years. We both know this is a juicy news story, Mr. Magruder. It’s your call.”

Magruder stared down the detective for maybe five seconds—five seconds of fast calculations and cost-benefits and, quite possibly, an awakening to the notion that his invincibility was neither inevitable nor everlasting—and then he broke eye contact and his posture sagged. He looked down at the table until he had collected himself somewhat. “I made him promise to treat her nicely—I
specifically
told him not to hurt her or even threaten her. Just to speak to her nicely. I’d have talked to her myself, but I had to get to New York early this morning.”

“See? That’s what I figured.” The detective sounded almost cheerful as she wrote a few fast notes in her pad. “So help me to understand just one more thing, will you?”

“I’ll try,” Magruder said. He still sounded extremely wary. He was in uncharted waters, and he knew it, and he knew that the detective knew it.

“You were happy to learn that Ms. Denison—who you once knew as Meg Miller—was alive, is that fair to say?”

“Of course. I was very glad to learn that her father had spared her life.”

“That’s what I’d assume. So then why did you want her out of town so quickly?”

“Why did I...” He bit his lip. “Well, I didn’t really want her to—”

“You did. I mean, you just admitted to that.”

“
Detective
.”

He took a breath as if he were going to chastise her, and the detective even gave him time to put his words together. But when no words came, the detective said, “Mr. Magruder, did you kill Allison Miller back in 1991?”

“What!” He snapped bolt upright in his chair.

“Because I think you did,” she continued. “She was a beautiful woman, and you were in love with her.”

“What are you—”

“And on the night of September 22, 1991, when everyone had left the Miller house, you went there, and she rejected you, and so you killed her.”

“That’s a lie!”

“You strangled her and threw her into the fire pit and let Ramsey Miller take the blame. But it was you.”

“I want my lawyer here right now!”

“Fine. I’ll get you a phone,” the detective said. “But know that I’m seconds away from reaching for those business cards. Every slimy journalist—their numbers are all in a drawer. And I know you understand exactly what will happen to your career when the world learns that David Magruder is suspected of killing Allison Miller and now, fifteen years later, of trying to murder her daughter.”

“I didn’t—”

“And this will drag on a long time. I personally guarantee it. We’ll start tonight with a warrant to search your home. A dozen police cars will park out front with their lights flashing. It won’t take long for the news helicopters to start circling. And I’ll take as much time as I need to build my case, and eventually I’ll have enough evidence for a homicide charge. By then, the David Magruder brand will be long defunct.”

“Why are you doing this?” David looked wounded, a child unfairly punished by his teacher.

“Because you murdered a woman,” Detective Isaacson said. “And now the daughter returns, and it makes you have to remember—it makes you feel that woman’s throat in your hands all over again. It makes you smell her burning flesh.”

“Stop it.”

“You killed Allison Miller, Mr. Magruder. Admit it.”

“I didn’t,” Magruder said. “I swear it.”

“You swear it?” The detective lowered her voice. “Did you order Bill Suddoth to assault and threaten Melanie Denison?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Either you tell me the whole truth about this morning or else the world finds out in the next hour that you’re the prime suspect in the murder of Allison Miller.” She lowered her voice. “That’s how it has to be. If you admit to ordering the assault, we’re probably talking probation and a fine. If you didn’t murder Allison Miller, then tell me the complete truth about the assault. Prove to me you can say something truthful. Now. Not later.”

“I only asked Bill to convince her to leave town.”

“What—specifically—did you ask him to do?”

“I didn’t say,” he said. “I didn’t say, ‘hurt her.’ I didn’t even tell him to threaten her. I left it vague.”

She nodded. “But you knew he might not be very diplomatic.”

“Yeah. I guess I knew that.”

“Because you knew he had a criminal record.”

David looked at the detective. His shrug was barely detectable.

“So you were lying when you said you didn’t know about that.” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Why did you want her to leave town so badly, David?”

Silence.

“What were you so worried about that you were willing to jeopardize your precious career over it? And why in the world would you put your fate in the hands of a man like Bill Suddoth?”

More silence.

“You panicked, I get that. But why?” The detective waited a long moment before apparently reaching her limit with David’s irritating silence. “I’m giving you ten seconds,” she said. “Then I’m out the door and you’ll have your lawyer and I’ll have your face on the ten o’clock news on every TV in America.”

She stared him down, and Melanie was certain that more than ten seconds passed. When David finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost meek. “Can I tell you something off the record?”

“
Off the record?
” She shook her head as if in pity and closed her file folder. She stood up. “I’m a cop, pal, not a journalist.”

She was almost to the door when he said, “What if I saw a crime happen and didn’t report it? How bad is that?”

Detective Isaacson closed the door all the way and returned to her seat at the table. “How about you start talking and we let the D.A. decide.”