Best Place to Die (20 page)

‘Thank you. He was a good friend. I've got to go.'

‘Of course,' she replied as dozens of questions shot to mind. Foremost of which was:
how the hell did you know Wally Doyle is dead?
‘Do you know when the funeral is?'

He turned, met Lil's gaze. He squinted. ‘My brother's arranging it, I'm certain it will be in the paper.' And quickly added: ‘Wally's wife, Jen told me about Wally . . . in case you were wondering. I've got to go.' And he abruptly turned and exited the dealership.

As she watched him leave she spotted Mattie and her tall young partner approach him as he was opening the door of a dark green Lexus. Mattie showed her badge, as Lil fished out her camera. And then realized Ada had it. ‘Damn,' she muttered, touching the camera app on her phone. The resolution wasn't good enough, not to mention the glare through the dealership windows. Nevertheless she started to shoot while heading in their direction. She was out the door and closing in when Mattie spotted her.

‘Sorry, Lil,' she said. ‘No reporters.'

There was no mistaking the rage in Dennis Trask's face as he glared first at Mattie and then at Lil.
If looks could kill,
Lil mused,
we'd both be dead. But why me? What did I do? Was there something in the article?

‘Are you arresting him?' she asked, as her right thumb touched the screen to take a shot.

‘No, Lil, just questioning. And sorry,' she said with finality, ‘no reporters.'

D
ennis Trask trailed the detectives in his Lexus, for a drive that ended in the familiar lot of the Grenville PD. ‘Just questioning,' he reminded himself, and then ran the evidence to support that conclusion. The short boxy woman detective saying they wanted to ask him about his father and the fire, and offering him the choice of driving with them or following behind. If this were to end in an arrest they'd never risk him in his own vehicle. ‘
Of course,
' he'd said, ‘
anything to help.
' Running, he knew, would be stupid, like painting a target on his back.
And for what?
Not that he hadn't done quite a bit that was outside the law; he flipped through recent infractions, mostly with prostitutes of legal age. He always checked ID and the girls would never report him, no matter how badly they got hurt. And his financial schemes, especially with Wally and Delia dead, were untraceable. The one potential weakness, and why he intended to get more information than give, had to do with his good buddy Jimbo Warren. It made him nervous knowing Jim was in custody, but unlike Wally, Warren was smart. The question was, would he keep his mouth shut or, if given the chance, cut a deal and rat him out?

He parked and got out of the car, and gave a sad smile in the direction of the female detectives. The curly haired short one nodded back, and the freakishly tall young one with the ponytail was already heading toward the door.
Both dykes
, he mused,
what other woman becomes a cop?
Or thinking about the few mannish female prison guards he'd met –
had to be dykes
. But the young one, maybe a few years younger and he'd do her.
Bet she'd struggle
, he thought, checking her muscular forearms and ridiculously long legs.
Pity she's not blonde
. He took a deep breath and felt the afternoon sun on his face. Looking at the brick police department felt like old times, trying to remember his last visit inside over thirty years ago.

He strode toward the door the short detective was holding for him. ‘Thanks.' He walked in noting the battered oak counter and waxed linoleum floor. To the right were the holding cells where he'd spent several nights waiting for his dad to pick him up, and once . . . well, that had been a real bad time. Knowing that he'd done something stupid and nothing his father or the attorneys at Windham, Porter and Smith could do about it. Third DUI in Connecticut was a mandatory year in prison, no exceptions and off he'd gone to Osborn.

‘This way,' Detective Perez said, leading him to the left.

He followed, checking out the two uniformed officers and the clerk behind the counter. None of them old enough to remember him.

‘Hello Dennis,' said a familiar voice and he looked up to see Hank Morgan. ‘I'm sorry to hear about your dad.'

‘Thanks.' A surge of fury and fear behind his eyes, as memories flooded in.
Screw you, Hank, you've got nothing on me. I did not start that fucking fire, but I bet I know who did . . . and once I know for sure, they will pay.

‘Can I have someone get you a water, a coffee?'

‘Coffee would be good,' he said, meeting Hank's sad expression with one of his own.
What a difference a few decades make
, he thought, remembering a much younger Hank Morgan when he'd been Grenville's first chief of police.

He took a seat at the long table in the interview room, noting the clock was different and the chairs had been replaced with a set of black chrome and vinyl stackers. The two women detectives sat on the other side and Hank settled at the head of the table. The receptionist from behind the front counter appeared with a carafe of coffee and disposable cups.

‘We realize you've got a lot on your plate,' Detective Perez began. ‘But as you're aware we have a multi-fatality fire and a homicide.'

‘Lil Campbell's article said it was arson.' Dennis gritted his teeth, wanting them to see outrage. ‘If that's true, my father was murdered. So yes –' tears in his eyes – ‘I have a lot on my plate, but nothing is more important than catching my father's killer. So ask your questions.' His words were choked and bitter.

Mattie nodded. ‘When did you last see your father?'

‘Saturday morning,' he said, and he described their routine of Skyping. And sensing the detective's next question as to why he didn't just visit his father, he added, ‘It was less stressful for both of us. I hated to see the way he lived, and he hated that I hated it. So we Skyped once a week and then I'd take him out with my family for Tuesday night supper. That way we could pretend the problem didn't exist.'

‘The hoarding?'

‘Yes, and he couldn't stand that word. To him it was all necessary. The place was disgusting. When my mother was alive she managed to keep it contained, but after her death . . .' Dennis stared at his hands, the memory of the fire too real, the call from Wally: ‘
Dennis, it's bad.
' He looked at Hank and then at the short detective who appeared in charge. ‘What makes you think it's arson?'

Detective Perez held his gaze. Her words were slow and measured: ‘Too coincidental with the murder of Delia Preston, and the presence of accelerant.'

‘You know I was there?' he asked, figuring the best approach was to be honest . . . at least where he could.

‘Yes, according to several witnesses you were instrumental in helping many of the residents out of the building.'

‘I couldn't get to him,' he said, remembering the awful frustration. ‘It was too hot, and the smoke; I couldn't breathe. I tried . . .'

‘Your father?'

‘Yes, it was too hot on the second floor, I tried . . . it was too hot. I kept hoping he'd made it out before I got there. I tried, when I opened the door to his hall, like a wall of heat; there was no way. I ran around the outside as the first fire trucks arrived. I showed them where his apartment was; the windows were blown out, and there were flames and the smoke was so thick. I knew then that if he hadn't made it out he was gone.' Tears of rage and frustration flowed. ‘The smoke was black, that's why you think an accelerant was used.' He looked at her, not wiping his cheeks.

‘It indicates the presence of hydrocarbons – gasoline, kerosene.'

Dennis shook his head –
yes, give information to get information
. And slowly, using the back of his hand he wiped his tears. ‘You think it was him that started it? My father would never do something like that . . . not deliberately. And yes his place was filled with solvents. Turpentine, denatured alcohol, the oils he used for lubricating and cleaning the clocks. I kept telling him to get rid of it, that it was a fire hazard. But it was useless, just made him mad. And all those fucking journals . . . It started in his apartment; is that what you're saying?'

‘It looks that way, Dennis,' Hank said.

‘How did you hear about the fire?' Mattie asked.

And Dennis knew this was where he needed to tread softly.
Say the truth the whole truth and leave out the bits that can cause problems.
‘Wally Doyle called me.'

‘At what time?'

‘Before four a.m.'

‘Not after?'

‘No,' he repeated, watching the gears turn behind Detective Mattie Perez's dark eyes.

‘You realize that was before the first nine-one-one call.'

‘I do now; I didn't then.'

‘Do you remember the exact time?'

He stopped, remembering the call pulling him from a deep sleep. Annoyed to hear Wally's voice, pissed that he'd used the house line and not the disposable cell he kept for their conversations. But in this case, probably best to have left a record. ‘I'd say three forty-five, but I'm sure you can check with the phone company.' Suspecting she already had.

‘Why would he call you?' she asked.

Dennis looked at his hands and at the cooling cup of coffee before him. He pictured Wally, and felt a pang of loss. Mostly for what Wally represented, a man who would literally die for him. ‘We were like brothers. In fact, he was closer to me than my own. Of course he'd call. I'd just assumed he'd already called the fire department, or . . . he probably didn't think he needed to.' He looked at her. ‘The place had sprinklers and alarms, aren't those supposed to trigger a call if there's a problem? Why didn't that happen? Why didn't they go off?' And without being told he knew the answer, and suspected the culprits, one of whom – Delia – was dead.
What were she and Jim playing at?

‘Tell me everything you can about that call,' she said.

Dennis remembered the terror in Wally's voice, the pitch high and breathless, like air through a dog's squeeze toy. ‘
What am I supposed to do, Dennis? Tell me what am I supposed to do?
' ‘He wanted me there. I told him to get everyone out, to stay calm and that I'd be there as fast as I could.' Most of which was true, the part he omitted: ‘
Make sure you've emptied the safe.
'

‘Was there more?' she asked.

‘No, I don't think so. I hung up, threw something on and drove over.' He'd floored the accelerator for the ten-minute drive, and, as he'd approached Nillewaug, saw smoke rising from behind the central residence. As he'd turned down the long drive to the facility he'd been shocked at the sight of flames over the roof. And then sirens, but from behind him. ‘It was all wrong,' he said. ‘I shouldn't have gotten there before the fire trucks.'

‘What was Wally Doyle doing there?' Detective Perez asked.

He looked at her, a quizzical expression on his tear-streaked face. ‘He didn't say . . . I don't know.'

‘Do you find his being there at three forty-five in the morning unusual?'

‘Very.'

‘And he didn't say why?' she persisted.

‘No, maybe someone on staff called and said there was a problem . . .' He stared ahead, questions hammering at his thoughts. Good question, Detective –
what the fuck was Wally doing there?
When he'd arrived the fire was blazing, and the hottest spot was the back windows of his father's second-floor apartment. ‘It doesn't add up.'

‘No,' she agreed, and then abruptly shifted topics. ‘What was your relationship to Nillewaug?'

‘Other than getting my dad in there when it opened, I invested a million dollars.'

‘Back in nineteen ninety-nine?'

‘Yes.'

‘And your return on investment?'

‘Solid,' he said.

‘How solid?' she asked.

‘Nothing the first two years, then a steady five to ten percent annually. Which, considering the crap economy, is damn good.'

‘A million dollars is a lot of money. What made you decide to put it in Nillewaug?'

Her questions were starting to annoy. All of this she already knew; she was gauging his veracity. But one of the myriad things he'd learned in prison was that his natural tendency to lie had to be resisted. Lies, of which he told many, needed to be perfect. Lying for lying's sake was for kids and fools. ‘Several reasons,' he said, keeping his tone even. ‘I know and trust Wally and Jim. Grenville, as you're probably aware, is a Mecca for wealthy retirees and when they showed me the business plan, it seemed rock solid. And, it was at a time where I knew my dad had to downsize.' In spite of himself, he smiled – ‘Like that was ever going to happen. I figured I could move him in at the beginning, get one of the best units.'

‘At a discount?' Mattie asked.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘my dad loved nothing more than a good bargain.'

‘How long ago did he retire?' she asked.

What is she doing?
A twinge of rage like razors down his spine:
it's a trick.
‘According to him he never fully retired, just stopped performing surgery.'

‘What does that mean . . . not fully retired? Was he still seeing patients?'

His blue eyes narrowed, while his tone stayed pleasant and conversational, a good citizen, a grieving son. ‘He closed his surgical practice a year or two before moving to Nillewaug. I know that he kept renewing his license and went to conferences. Beyond that he told me about doing some consultation; I don't know the details.'

‘Would you describe him as wealthy?' she asked.

‘He was comfortable,' he said, trying to figure where she was going.
Of course, she's trying to establish motive.