Death Takes Priority (20 page)

“What?”

He reached into an enormous pocket in his overalls, which were colorful as usual from paint drippings. I felt a shiver of fear for the first time since coming upon him in my home. From the moment I saw him here, Tim looked almost innocent, more afraid of me than I was of him. Besides, the funeral service, or walking out on it, had imbued me with a new strength and resolve.

Until this minute, I'd never thought Tim might have a weapon. “Not breaking, just entering,” he said, producing a flat silver object.

I gasped. In some ways, it was worse than a gun. He had a key to my house.

“How . . . where . . . ?” I couldn't frame the question.

“You probably don't want to know,” Tim said.

“Wrong!” I said, close to screaming. “I want to know everything, and the sooner you start, the less likely I am to speed dial my best friend, the one with handcuffs, who's only minutes away at the funeral service you were counting on.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I told you. Everything. But I'll play it your way for now, Tim. You'd better give me straight answers.” He gave me a
shaky nod. “First, was Wendell hooking and unhooking extra telephone lines in people's homes?”

He seemed surprised that I knew, or guessed, that much. He squeaked, “Yes.”

“So that Derek could use those lines for his own purposes.”

He raised his eyebrows and let out another weak “Yes.”

So far, so good. Confirmation of wild guesses from Quinn, Wanda, Sunni, and me. “What was the purpose of those lines?”

Tim shrugged. “Don't know.”

I wasn't buying it, but I was willing to move on for now. “Did the people know that extra lines to their phones were being used by Derek?”

“Some did; some didn't. Derek wanted to use lines already set up in customers' homes, without their knowledge. You know, most of us have four lines kind of automatically, though we may only use one. But as you mentioned last night, that one time he tried, the phony billing system he set up didn't work.”

“How does Derek have so much power with the phone company? He's a developer, a construction guy.”

Tim gave me a kind of
duh
look. He used his hands as if they were the pans of a scale. “Housing and construction”—he made a weighing motion with his right hand, then switched to his left hand—“telephone lines, cables, communication systems.”

“Okay, I get it. He's got everything covered. Why did Wendell get into trouble that one time?”

“The customer's charge for the second line was supposed to be diverted, but instead he was billed for it and made a
fuss, and Wendell got caught. It was cleared up without disclosing the scam, but it was close, and made Derek scrounge around for different ways of doing business.”

I recalled how far the word of that incident had spread, such that even Ben knew about it. “So he brought people in on the operation, people who would agree to have their extra line used but not registered.”

“Right. Ideally, people who had something to hide and wouldn't make a fuss if something went wrong.”

“Is that why Derek was so interested in Scott James? He even sent his lawyer to get him out of police custody.”

“Derek is always looking for potential recruits to his operation. When a new guy comes to town for no apparent reason, like Scott James—you know, with no family here, or even a job waiting, Derek figures he's a good candidate. He looks him up, and in Scott's case, when he finds he's living under a different name, he figures the guy's on the run. Perfect. So, if things get dicey, he has something to hold over the guy's head.”

“And that's the reason Wendell might have had Scott's name in his pocket. To arrange for that extra line, or whatever.”

Tim nodded. He seemed more comfortable talking to me now. Maybe he forgot what might be in store for him if Derek knew he'd been caught. I realized I'd forgotten to lock my front door, having been thrown off my routine by the sight of an intruder. I got up and locked it now, just in case.

“Good idea,” Tim said.

I gave him an annoyed look. “Why is Margaret Phillips's name on a list of potential new lines?”

Tim looked surprised, then figured it out. “That e-mail you told me about.”

“Yes.”

“Wendell told Derek he was running out of ways to hide the installation. Also, he was afraid his boss was getting suspicious. And frankly, I think Wendell was getting tired of all the stress. Derek told him to keep it up, just find people less likely to figure it all out, and Margaret happened to be one he thought would be a good candidate. I don't know why, really. Maybe he met her somewhere and felt her out, you know. Or maybe she had a secret life. Who knows?”

“And someone like his lawyer, Barry Chase—he'd know and agree, of course.”

“Of course,” Tim said.

“Do you have an extra line hooked up in your house?”

“I do now.”

“Since that e-mail went out and Wendell approached you.”

“Yeah.”

“Do I have an illegally used line?”

“No.”

I picked up the offensive pen. “Are there any more bugs in my house?”

“No.” Tim raised his hand, Boy Scout–style. “No, I swear.”

I figured I could decide later what percent of Tim's responses were trustworthy, perhaps only the ones where he raised his hand and swore? Only the single word answers? It was time to try an early question again. I hoped to catch him off guard. “What was Derek doing with those extra lines?”

Tim simply shrugged higher and longer.

I thought about all the options Sunni and I had discussed and that I'd searched out online. It was a long list, from blackmail to phreaking to more varieties of fraud than our Hole in the Wall had donuts.

“It must be related to drugs, I bet, all that money . . .” I said.

Another shake of the head. “I don't know what he was using the lines for.”

I didn't believe him, but I had a bigger question.

“Do you think Wendell was trying to get out of the job and Derek killed him because of it?”

Tim gasped. Either a genuine reaction, or good acting. “I don't know, okay. And now I'm really telling the truth.”

“And all the rest of your answers up to now have not been really the truth?”

“That's not what I meant.”

If I only knew what Tim meant, throughout this very strange conversation between a homeowner and an intruder.

T
im and I sat in silence for a couple of minutes, each in our own world, I imagined. We'd come to an impasse. Tim refused to, or honestly couldn't, answer the key questions: what Derek was using the unregistered telephone lines for, and whether he'd murdered Wendell.

As if to signal the end of the first round, my cell phone rang. The noise startled both of us. I picked up the device I'd used to threaten Tim, set to call the police. Curious that the police were calling me. The caller ID seemed larger than usual today and I was sure Tim noticed the letters NAPD staring at us.

I slid the phone on. I hoped Tim was impressed—my threats were justified; the chief of police was my friend, a phone call away, as I'd claimed. Derek Hathaway wasn't the only one who was reeking of power and connections.
Arrogant, I knew, but at least I stopped short of putting Sunni on speaker.

“Are you home?” Sunni asked.

“Yes, the service was a little too teary for me.”

“Understandable. I'm glad you took some time for yourself.”

I looked at Tim, now fidgeting in his chair.

“I'm relaxing,” I told Sunni.

“Can I come over? Feel free to say no.”

“I'd love for you to come by.” Much easier than having to figure out when and how to break some news to you.

“I'll bring lunch. Wanda is putting together a plate for you.”

“Great. I'll put the coffee on.”

“Excellent idea. ETA: twenty or less.”

Less time than I hoped to have before I'd have to decide exactly what I was going to say, but maybe that was for the best.

I tapped the phone off. “That was Sunni,” I said to Tim, as if he didn't know. “You'd better go.”

“Can I get a quick cup of coffee first?” I gave him a look that said, “Don't push your luck.”

“Okay, okay. But what are you going to tell the chief?”

“She needs to know everything.” All of a sudden, I'd adopted a full-disclosure posture.

“Does she need to know about”—he spread his hands over my living room furniture, making me question whether there were other hot spots—“this? About how you found out about the telephone lines?”

“I'll think about it,” I said.

Tim blew out a breath and shuffled his feet, as if
preparing to run. “It would be nice to know what you're planning. As far as Derek, you know?”

It dawned on me what would be foremost on Tim's mind. “You're worried about Derek finding out his field operative has been caught.”

Another loud breath. “Wouldn't you be?”

“Are you also the one who exploited the Girl Scout who slashed my tires?” Might as well go for broke.

“I'm not proud of myself for any of this, Cassie.”

“I'll take that as a yes. And I'll be sending you the bill.”

“From your attitude, I suppose I should run for the hills.”

“Whatever.”

I was also surprised at my attitude. I was buoyed by having made some progress in my resolution to discover what had shaken my world. And even though today's breakthrough fell into my lap, as I'd walked in on Tim, I was determined to accept it anyway, and make the most of it. It almost made up for four slashed tires, an invasion of my privacy, and the mental debris from another guy who ditched me.

Tim stood and put on his jacket. I held out my hand, palm up.

“What?” he asked.

“My key.”

“Oh, right,” he said, and dug it out of his pocket where, for some insanely hopeful reason, he'd returned it. I couldn't help wondering if Tim wished he could have a few minutes in my house by himself, maybe to retrieve, or plant, other bugs.

It was going to take a while before I'd feel completely comfortable alone in my home.

*   *   *

The chief of police deposited two plates covered with foil on my kitchen counter.

“Nutritionally balanced,” she said, pointing to the plates in turn. “This one has sandwiches and salad; this one is all sweets.”

I didn't trust my stomach with food before I cleared my conscience and got everything off my chest. I poured coffee and ushered Sunni back to the living room, where she took the formerly bugged seat. I was itching to check it to be sure Tim hadn't rebugged it. I wasn't sure whether it was a good sign or a bad one that he'd left the recording pen on the table.

“You didn't miss much,” she told me. “It was clear that the preacher didn't know Wendell very well. He used every platitude in the book. Wanda missed you, however. I encouraged her to give you some time before contacting you. I hope that was the right thing to do.”

I nodded. “Definitely. Thanks. I'll catch up with her later.”

“Sure I can't serve you lunch yet? It's very good. The Grahams provided catering from that deli in South Ashcot. Cold cuts and cheeses. And all kinds of sweets from our very own bakery. I picked up the mini pecan praline Bundts I thought you liked, and a couple of brownies.”

Strange that Sunni knowing my dessert preference almost moved me to tears. “That was really thoughtful of you,” I said, my voice choked. “But there's something I need to tell you first.”

“I'm listening,” she said, sitting back, crossing her
ankles, since her legs weren't long enough to cross at the knees on the deep chair. She was still wearing her funeral service clothes, sharp dress blues.

I took a long swallow of coffee. With the virtually nonexistent prep time for this talk, my only choice seemed to be to tell all. I started with how I'd walked in on Tim. I handed her the recording pen. “For backup,” I said, then did my best to paint him as a guy who'd made some bad choices, now caught in Derek's web.

I filled in all the details about the extra phone lines and how Derek managed them with the help of Wendell and some of his customers.

“It's not much,” I said, “but at least we have confirmation and a few specifics about the basic concept of unregistered lines.”

“I'm proud of you,” Sunni said when I finished.

“Because I was lucky enough to come home to a source of information?”

“Because you're telling me. I'm assuming that if I hadn't shown up, you'd have contacted me anyway.”

I assured her that was correct, holding back only the suspicion that I might have edited the information if I'd had more time.

*   *   *

I did my best to show my appreciation for the plates of food Wanda and Sunni had put together. I was eager to talk to Wanda, to apologize in person for walking out of Wendell's service, but for now, I had to deal with only one person at a time, and Sunni was it. We agreed to suspend talk of business for a while, but not before she assured me she wouldn't
leave until she'd had a look around my house with her cop eyes.

She made the transition by handing me her phone, queued up with photos of the quilt she was making for her daughter. I scrolled them and listened while she narrated.

“The top is done. I just have to quilt it,” she said, something I always found curious in quilters' terminology. It wasn't a quilt, I learned, until the last stitches were laid down, holding all the layers, including the stuffing, together. The pretty part, all the colors and patterns, was only “the top.”

Not having a hobby to share—yet—I confessed that I spent time tracking the sale of special stamps online. Many were auctioned for much more than the face value. A sheet of fifty six-cent stamps commemorating the Battle of Bunker Hill had recently sold for one hundred dollars.

“Wow, that's three dollars' worth of stamps,” Sunni said. “Who would pay more than they needed to for stamps?”

“They're collectors; they don't plan on using them. The Bunker Hill stamps have the artist John Trumbull pictured on them. They're from nineteen sixty-eight.”

“So, they're not even adhesive-backed, I'll bet.”

“I'll bet you're right.”

She struck a glamorous pose. “Can you put me on a stamp?” she asked.

I was fairly sure she didn't want the standard lecture on commemoratives, but I gave it to her anyway, explaining that the postal service doesn't decide what stamps look like. Styles and images are determined by the Citizens' Stamp Advisory Committee, made up of people from all fields: philatelists, educators, historians, writers, artists, scientists, and whoever else the postmaster general sees fit to appoint.

“Except for a U.S. president, a person has to be dead for at least ten years before they can be on a stamp.”

“Never mind, then.”

“You can always go online and buy those custom-made stamps.”

“The ones that cost a fortune? No, thanks. I guess I'll have to wait.”

We lapsed into a companionable banter while we watched local news and mustered up excitement over the junior high girls' basketball win and the repaving of the parking lot in front of the town hall. We shuddered appropriately at the thirty-second ad featuring Gert Corbin waxing ineloquently—something about not accepting the proposal to corrupt our citizens who shouldn't be asked to resist the temptation to squander their money.

“Too many negatives in that sentence,” I said. “Is she for or against a gambling parlor?”

We laughed and switched off the set in the middle of her next thought.

“Refill?” I asked, standing up, ready to collect her empty mug.

“I'm good.” Sunni looked at her watch. “It's after two. I need to be at the station for an interview pretty soon. Do you have a few minutes to strategize?” Sunni asked.

I thought I must have heard wrong. Maybe she'd said “eulogize,” referring to the preacher at Wendell's memorial; or “synchronize,” as we'd worked around each other to tidy up after lunch. Had something materialized while I wasn't looking?

“Do you?” she asked.

“Do I what?” I was taking no chances.

“I know you heard me.” She gave me a playful nudge and pointed to the chair I'd been sitting on. “Sit,” she said. “That's an order.”

“Thanks,” I said, not saying for what.

“We still have three big questions.”

I could think of only two: Derek's machinations and Wendell's killer. I said so.

“You forgot ‘Are they related?'”

It hadn't occurred to me that they weren't. “Whether they're connected or not, can you arrest Derek on the basis of what Tim told me?”

“It's not that simple. Right now it's hearsay. It's all about what he said Wendell and Derek did. I need to hear from Tim firsthand. Then we'll see where we are with respect to Derek.”

“Are you going to question Tim?”

“He should be arriving at the station in a few minutes.”

“You've already had him picked up?”

“As soon as your back was turned.”

“He's the interview you're going to?”

“Uh-huh.” She smiled, clearly pleased that she was a few steps ahead of me today. So was I.

It seemed a moment of truth had come. I had the sudden thought that Tim might deny everything. Novice that I was at spy technology, I wasn't sure how much of our talk had been recorded on the pen. How would Tim answer Sunni's questions? It was one thing to tell all to me, another to confess to the chief of police. Would he tell Sunni a different story? Refuse to answer questions at all? Have a lawyer present? Worse, Derek's lawyer? I had little doubt that Derek would know Tim Cousins was at the police station in an
interrogation room. Another billable hour for Edmund Morrison, who'd liberated Quinn earlier in the week?

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to sort out my feelings. Worry, relief, and guilt for starters.

“Are you going to sweat Tim to see if he'll give up Derek?”

Sunni laughed. “You watch too much TV. You need to get out more.”

I couldn't disagree.

She twirled the pen as if it were a cheerleader's baton. “I'll listen to this and see what I can use. I do need to know whether you're willing to file B&E charges against Tim. If it comes to that.”

I pushed away the image of the boyish-looking architect with the slight Southern drawl, a charming manner at his beck and call. I focused instead on the latest picture I had of him, in my home, which he'd entered with a key that I didn't know about, doing fieldwork on his electronic listening device. All this, plus misleading and intimidating a young girl into committing a crime against my tires.

“I'm willing. Whatever you need,” I said.

Sunni picked up her jacket, preparing to leave. I wished I could accompany her and listen in on the interview with Tim, but I thought better of pushing my luck. It had been a fruitful enough day.

I picked up the recording pen. “Do you have any way to tell if there are other bugs in my house?”

“As long as they're switched on, our guy can find them. I'll send him by. He's sort of on call, a semi-retired guy who likes these little projects.”

“Like Ben,” I said.

“Exactly like Ben. Sometimes annoying, but indispensable. Are you going to be around later if he's free to stop by?”

“I need to go to my office for a while.”

“On a Saturday afternoon?”

“For a short time. I need to finish up some administrative things. I might just gather some files and take them home to work on. It's been a crazy week. I'd like to get off to a fresh start on Monday morning and I'm way behind on background stuff.”

“You mean it's not just cops who have tons of paperwork?” she said.

“You mean cops have management memos and amendments to rules and regulations?”

“And new protocols and updated evaluation forms,” she added, snapping on her gloves.

I knew we could both go on for a while about time-consuming office work. “I guess our jobs aren't that different,” I said.

She faked a frown and pointed a black leather finger at me. “Yes, they are, and don't you forget it.”