Deception (21 page)

“Anybody see you?”

“I have an apartment. People walk the hallways, but I don’t think I came out, so they wouldn’t have seen me. No roommate.”

“Too bad.” I reached into my briefcase and pulled out the gun in its evidence bag. “Ever seen this?”

He looked it over. “Sure, I’ve seen them. Looks like this one’s been around the block.”

“It’s a Taurus Millennium Pro, 9 mm,” I said. “Have you seen this
particular
gun?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because it’s got your fingerprints on it.”

A long awkward silence. “I’ve taken guns away from lots of people. I guess they could have my prints on them.”

“This gun’s special. It was used to kill Professor Palatine.”

“And my prints are on it?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that possible?”

“We were hoping you could tell us, Noel.”

Suddenly the conference room door flew open. I stood, looking at the red face of Jack Glissan.

“What’s going on here?”

“I’m having a private interview with Noel.”

“Private? With Domast? And Abernathy?”

“You read the memo. I have to include him.”

“What’s going on, Ollie?” Jack asked. “I heard the murder weapon has prints.”

“Word gets around.”

“You’re not accusing Noel?”

“His fingerprints are on the gun. It was found in a Dump—”

“I don’t care if it was found under his pillow. He didn’t do it!”

“Were you with him between, say, 10:45 and 11:45 November 20?”

“No, but I saw him at 2:00 a.m. at our murder scene that same night.”

“Two and a half hours after Palatine’s murder? That doesn’t help.” I turned to Noel, whose usually tan face was two shades lighter. “Where were you?”

“I told you. Home. Alone. We were on call, right? I must have gone to bed early.”

“I’ll ask you again: Can anyone confirm your alibi?”

Noel shook his head.

“Hold on,” Jack said. “A week ago Wednesday night? I went out that night and dropped your golf DVD by your place. Around 11:15.”

Noel stared at him blankly.

“Don’t try it, Jack,” I said.

“You’d gone to bed early. Remember, Noel?”

Noel’s chin dropped. He looked at Jack for his next move.

“I dropped by because you’re usually up till midnight. I figured you were gone. So before I got the key from … you know, where you hide it … I rang the bell. And you came to the door. Said I was sorry for waking you up. That’s how it happened.”

“Stop it,” I said. “You’re just going to make it worse. Noel said no one saw him home. No alibi.”

“Don’t you remember, Noel?” Jack pleaded.

Noel raised his hand. “Jack’s telling the truth. That’s how it happened.”

Jack smiled. I looked back and forth between them.

“Except it was on Tuesday night,” Noel said. “I’d been at Jack and Linda’s. I really did leave Jack the golf DVD. I went to bed early, and he dropped it by and rang the bell, just like he said. Except it wasn’t Wednesday night, it was Tuesday.”

Jack’s and my jaw dropped in unison.

“Jack was telling the truth.” Noel turned to Jack, with eyes that said “let it go.” “You just got the night wrong.”

Jack started to argue. But neither Noel nor I was going to let him win.

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
2, 8:14
P.M
.

I rushed in the door at Lou’s Diner, fourteen minutes late. Kendra was in our booth. On the table sat a beautiful arrangement of a dozen red roses, baby’s breath and all.

“Sorry I’m late,” I told her. “The traffic was—”

She waved her hand, giving me that look that said she’d heard it all before.

“You look nice,” I said. She’d put on weight, but so had I. Pointing to her silver chain necklace, I said, “I like that.”

“Mom gave it to me for my high school graduation,” she said, in a way that sounded like I’d never given her anything. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

I settled in on my side of the booth. “Been waiting long?”

“Yes,” she said. “The man says they have a vegetable plate.”

“Good. Vegetable plates are always good.”

Silence.

“I’d hoped you’d join me for Thanksgiving,” I said, not mentioning that she’d never responded to my messages.

“With all those people? I don’t think so.”

“We could have eaten at my place. Just you and me and Mulch.”

She didn’t look up from the menu.

Rory came to take our order. “It is so nice to meet your daughter, Mr. Ollie. She told me she’d like the vegetable plate. Will you have the usual?”

“The usual” means three different things at Lou’s, depending on time of day. My breakfast usual is a western omelet and hash browns with a giant buttermilk pancake. My lunch usual is a cheeseburger and fries or onion rings. My dinner usual is New York steak with a baked potato and all the trimmings. I pictured large hunks of medium rare meat in clear view of the vegetable plate. It didn’t seem wise.

“I’ve been having so many vegetable plates, I’m thinking tonight I’ll go with a steak
salad,”
I said. “With Thousand Island.”

Rory looked at me with big sympathetic eyes, but he nodded, took the menus, and left.

The next fifteen minutes were like pulling teeth. I couldn’t get more than a sentence at a time from Kendra. She didn’t ask me anything. The silence between my questions kept getting longer.

“How about those Seahawks?” I asked.

Nothing.

I pulled out a quarter and asked her if she had any favorite oldies. “Nope.” So I chose a few of Sharon’s: “I Got You Babe,” “Never My Love,” and “Cherish.” I saw “Honey” by Bobby Goldsboro, but I knew where to draw the line. Still, Kendra didn’t appear impressed.

Finally, Rory came with the meal. Kendra looked at her vegetable plate and seemed to reluctantly approve. Then she looked at my steak salad.

“How can you eat that?” she asked.

“What? Thousand Island?”

“Animal flesh.”

“I’m having a steak salad because it’s the closest I can get to a compromise between what I’d like to eat and what you’d like me to eat. I thought you’d appreciate the lettuce and tomatoes. Look, cucumbers and olives and these little … jobbers. They’re vegetables, aren’t they? I thought you’d approve.”

“It’s not just what we eat. It’s what we
don’t
eat. You wouldn’t eat your dog, would you?”

“Mulch
?” I dropped my fork. I couldn’t believe the words had come out of my daughter’s mouth.

“Some societies eat dogs,” she said. “That doesn’t make it right, does it?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think it’s okay to eat cows?”

“Well, for one thing … they’re a lot bigger.”

“So it’s okay to eat big dogs?”

“Could we stop talking about eating dogs?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Dogs are like people. Cows are like … pheasants, except not so gamy. And they don’t fly. I mean the aerodynamics … just getting airborne would—”

“I don’t think it’s right to eat animals.”

“Sweetheart, look, you can eat whatever you want. But—and this is just me, okay—I didn’t fight my way to the top of the food chain just to become a vegetarian.”

She scowled. “You need to get more exercise too.”

“I run around all day.”

“Don’t they have mandatory fitness programs for cops? They should. If you don’t watch it, you’re going to cut ten or twenty years off your life.”

Why would that matter to you?

We ate in silence. She finished her vegetables. I polished off my cow.

Since all attempts at bonding had failed, I took a deep breath and said, “About my investigation—can I ask you a question?”

“You and your investigations.”

“If I were Ichiro, would you say, ‘You and your baseball’?”

“You’re no Ichiro.”

“But what I do isn’t worthless. It saves lives, you know. I mean human lives. Not cows.”

“You didn’t talk with me when I was growing up,” she said.

“We talked more than you remember.”

“There were things I’d ask you about, and you’d never tell me. Personal things, family things. I had to go to Mom to find out. You’d always change the subject. I’d ask you about Grandpa. Nothing. I’d ask you about my br—”

“You were in Professor Palatine’s class?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever make a move on you?”

“A
move?”

“Did he get fresh with you?”

“Dad, you’re so out of it.”

“Just pretend I’m retro. Retro’s cool, right?”

She shook her head at me, but I saw a slight smile.

“So … did Dr. Palatine ever show a romantic interest in you?”

“Well,
this
is certainly awkward.”

“You said we never talked about personal things. I’m making up for it.”

“Well, it’s personal, I’ll give you that.” Her smile evaporated. “No. He only went after the pretty girls.”

“You’re a pretty girl.”

“I mean the
really
pretty girls.”

I would have hated Palatine for coming on to my daughter. Now I hated him for not considering her pretty enough. The truth is, my daughter’s history with men is … not so good. Her relationships have been many, and with the shelf life of yogurt.

“I didn’t mean to imply you were that kind of girl,” I said, then bit my lip.

“I need to be going.”

“Okay.”

She sat still. Finally I stood. I stepped toward her and put my hand on her shoulder, not close enough for her to bite it.

“Go home,” she said, voice strained. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. I just feel a little dizzy.”

“Need help?”

“Just leave, would you?”

“I’ll take you to your car. No, I’ll drive you home.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“Your mom used to say we were the two most stubborn people she knew.”

Finally, Kendra eased herself out of the booth, standing awkwardly. That’s when I realized my daughter was pregnant.

17

“Of all the facts presented to us, we had to pick just those which we deemed to be essential, and then piece them together in their order, so as to reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
N
AVAL
T
REATY

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
3, 8:00
A.M
.

“DID YOU SEE THIS?”
Kim Suda pushed the newspaper in front of my face, at my desk.

I was staring at a photograph of Professor William Palatine, on his back, on the floor, noose around his neck. I checked the paper’s date. December 3: today.

“This is a joke, right? Somebody printed one of those dummies. This can’t be the real
Tribune.”

“I bought it off a newsstand.”

I read the article, written by Mike Button. Among other things, he said, “An anonymous source inside the Portland Police revealed that the leading suspect in the Palatine murder investigation is a street person. He’ll likely be arrested within the week.”

I punched 6 for Abernathy. No answer. I declined leaving a message lest it be used against me at my murder trial.

I stewed in my juices fifteen minutes, skulking back and forth in homicide, eyes on the glass entrance. Finally, I saw Abernathy. I locked my laser stare on him when he was still twenty feet away.

“You’re off this case, Abernathy. It’s over!”

A half dozen heads turned our way, secretaries to detectives.

“First I knew of this is when Geneva showed me the paper this morning.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.” He raised his right catcher’s mitt.

“Your friend Carpenter gave those photos to someone.”

“They belong to the
Trib
, not Carp. She’s a pro, our best photojournalist. She’s turned down offers from the
LA Times
and
Chicago Tribune
. She’d never pull a stunt like this. She says the photos were on file, ready to go in case we got clearance.”

“Never happened.”

“I know that. Carp’s as mad as you and I are. Somebody got hold of them and took it to print.”

“Who?”

“Button refuses to identify his source.” Clarence’s face looked as hot as mine felt. “He’s willing to be a first amendment martyr. I think he wants to go to jail. Winston doesn’t understand how it got through editorial without coming to him. I told Button he’d be fired. Winston says they’re discussing it on the upper levels. Berkley’s involved.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it?”

“I know it’s false about the street person, but it’s better than spilling the truth, isn’t it? Does it really compromise the investigation?”

“Confidential crime scene information in public hands? Of course it compromises the investigation. Until now, if we interview suspects and they make an unguarded comment about the noose around the neck or the skin color or body position, it’d be enough to finger them. Now their only mistake—and I’ll grant you it’s a big one—is reading the
Tribune.”

“Look, I’m sorry. But I didn’t do it. And it wasn’t just photos either. It was information, some accurate, some false, like the street person part. It wasn’t from you, me, or Carp. Could it have come from Manny?”

Clarence didn’t notice Manny had just come up behind him, newspaper in hand.

“From me? I don’t work for the
Tribune
, hotshot.”

“You didn’t leak anything?” I asked Manny.

He gave me his thousand-yard stare, the one that would make Clint Eastwood melt like a salted slug. Manny redirected his stare to Clarence, then threw the newspaper on the floor in front of him. He stepped on it, grinding his heel into it.

My sentiments exactly.

“I heard the scuttlebutt about Noel Barrows,” Officer Taylor Burchatz said over the phone at my workstation. “For what it’s worth, I saw him the night of the Palatine murder.”

“Where?”

“At the Do Drop Inn, 59th and Foster.”

“You’re sure it was Barrows?”

“Absolutely. It’s not like we’re friends, but I know him well enough to recognize him.”

“What time did you see him?”

“I came at nine thirty. Left late, close to midnight. He was there the whole time.”

“You’re sure it was Wednesday—week before last?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice try. Everybody wants to give Noel an alibi.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“Look, Noel says he was home alone that night. What kind of a half-wit would withhold his alibi for murder?”

“All I know is, I saw him.”

“Who else was there?”

“Bartender’s Barry. He might remember. There were probably a half dozen guys hanging around him. I know a few first names—Stu, Steve, Alan.”

“Exactly when did you leave?”

“After sports. I saw highlights of the Blazer game.”

“Sports is over about 11:25. You’re saying Noel was still there?”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t a put-on? If you’ve talked to Barry and got him to go along with this, we’re talking perjury, obstruction of justice, and—”

“I don’t know what your deal is, Chandler. I’m calling because I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to go after an innocent man. An innocent cop. Figured I should speak up. Maybe you want him to go down? That it? Maybe I should call a lieutenant or captain or somebody who wants to hear the truth?”

“Calm down,” I said. “I’ll call Barry now and check it out. If it’s true, I owe you an apology.”

Ninety minutes later, Manny, Clarence, and I sat at the conference table, door closed. Noel and Jack walked in together.

“Why are you here?” I asked Jack.

“Because I’m Noel’s partner. And friend.”

“But you’re not his lawyer. Let him talk, okay? Don’t put words in his mouth. Not like last time. Got it?”

Jack’s face flushed, but he nodded.

“I’ve been doing this many years,” I said to Noel. “I’ve told countless suspects that they’re lying about their alibi, and that’s what I’m going to tell you.”

“Hold on, Ollie,” Jack said. “You can’t just—”

“Shut up and let me finish, Jack.” I looked at Noel. “But until now I’ve never once sat down with a murder suspect and accused him of lying about
not
having an alibi.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack said.

I stepped between Jack and Noel to get Noel’s full attention. “I got a call from an Officer Burchatz. He saw you that night at the Do Drop Inn.”

Noel’s face twitched. His hands shook.

“He said you were still there when he left, near midnight.”

“Maybe he’s got the wrong night,” Noel said.

“No. I talked with Barry, the bartender. He says it must have been midnight when you left. You were there with a half dozen guys. He gave me names. I already called Stu, Steve, and Alan. These guys aren’t Phi Beta Brilliant, but all three confirm you were there.”

Jack looked at Noel. “Is it true?”

Noel looked like a junior high boy who’d been caught red-handed.

“Did I miss something,” I said, “or was your bacon just saved? Why in the ever-lovin’ world would you deny a murder alibi?”

Noel stood, face flushed, hands darting. “Look, we were the up team, for crying out loud. You know department policy. You’re not supposed to be drinking when you’re on call!”

“It’s not just department policy,” Jack said. “It’s my policy. No exceptions. Ever.”

“I know,” Noel said. “But we’d been on call for a week. I figured, what are the chances of somebody getting murdered that night? So I just … went to the Do Drop.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You have this alibi, with multiple witnesses, proving you couldn’t have committed a murder for which there’s evidence against you. And you wouldn’t tell us this because … Jack would be disappointed you’d had a few drinks?”

“He always tells me to stay off the drinks and go to bed early,” Noel said. “I … didn’t want to admit it.”

“So now you’re ‘admitting’ that you were at the Do Drop Inn between 10:45 and 11:45?”

“No,” he said.

“You weren’t?”

“It was more like between 9:00 and 12:15. I guess I got home around twelve thirty.”

“Actually, Noel, between 9:00 and 12:15
includes
between 10:45 and 11:45. Jack will explain it to you.” I’ve spent days trying to wring the truth out of people, but this was ridiculous. “Write down the names of guys there that night.” I handed him my pad and a pen.

He jotted down five names, two of which were new. Blushing, he handed it back to me.

Jack threw his arms around Noel. “Congratulations, bud. You’ve got yourself an alibi!”

Noel smiled sheepishly.

“But,” Jack said, “if you ever go to a bar again when we’re on call, I’ll kill you myself!”

I left the conference room, head aching and thinking about that other little item. Noel’s fingerprints were still on the murder weapon.

I called Phil, asking how a man with an ironclad alibi could have his fingerprints on the murder weapon, even though he swears he didn’t touch it. He couldn’t explain it but said he’d get back to me.

For an hour at my desk, I examined with a magnifying glass a hundred of the professor’s photos we’d bagged from his house, looking for a particular camera angle. I couldn’t find what I was looking for.

I called Manny, who rarely hangs around precinct. “I want you to go over our list of the professor’s family and friends and colleagues. Call and ask if they have pictures taken at the professor’s house, anytime in the last three years. If they do, I want to borrow them. We’ll make copies and return them.”

One thing I like about Manny is that he seldom asks why. Within an hour, he called back. He’d already talked with three people who had pictures taken at the professor’s. The professor’s sister-in-law, easier to get hold of than her doctor husband, said she had a couple dozen.

There were a number of things I needed to do, but I lacked manpower. I needed to recruit some.

I called Paul Anderson, ex-skater and beat cop and now larceny detective. He knows the streets better than anybody. He said he and his partner were on surveillance, but I was welcome to join them. I got his location, grabbed Clarence, and headed for my car.

When Clarence and I approached, Paul was sitting in an unmarked car with his partner, Gerald Griffin. I knocked on their passenger-side back door. After Griffin lowered his hardware, we crawled into the backseat, and I gave them a peace offering … a box of Krispy Kremes.

As Anderson smacked his lips on a warm glazed, I said, “You wouldn’t have a half day to spare for an old friend who’s an underresourced homicide detective?”

“Wish I did, Ollie. If there were a moratorium on theft, I’d be glad to help.”

“Who you watching?”

“Clancy Baines, the guy in the navy blue sweatshirt.” He pointed. “Word is he robbed the liquor store on Twelfth and made away with a sackful of bills. Fifteen hundred dollars—way more than they should’ve had in the till. We’re sure the money’s in his room. Positive he’s behind a dozen other robberies. We take this dude and crime plummets.”

“Insufficient grounds for a search warrant?”

“And he knows it,” Griffin said.

“He’s a drug dealer too,” Paul said. “We’re hoping to see him sell so we can get a warrant. But he’s not going to deal in front of us. He just steps around a corner. He’s got his soldiers keeping their eyes out. They know exactly where we are.” He nodded toward two teenage boys leaning against the wall ten feet away, pretending not to look at us.

“So,” Griffin said, “he’s not only robbing the community; he’s robbing our time.”

“If I get him for you in the next twenty minutes,” I said, “would you give me four hours each?”

“You kidding? We’d give you a whole day each. But how—”

“Two entrances to the apartments, front and back?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Okay, after we step out of the car, give us five minutes. Then you get out and stretch. I’ll call your cell. Answer, sound excited, say you’ll be there right away, and lay rubber when you take off. Then circle the block and wait out of sight. In ten minutes or so, Clancy Baines will be running out the front door, carrying the money.”

“What are you talking about?” Griffin asked. “Why would—?”

“When you see the bag or box or whatever, you’ll have grounds for believing it’s the money and you can look at it. Then you take him in. I’ll call you later about your indentured servitude.”

“Come on, Ollie, you can’t possibly—”

“Just do it,” I said.

Clarence and I went to the back of the apartments. He wanted an explanation, but I told him, “Just follow my taillights, okay? I need you right here at the back door. You got a good look at Clancy Baines? He’ll be carrying something in his hand. Make a threatening move toward him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just plant your body in front of him, that’s all. One look at you will probably be enough. Make it so his only other option is the front door.”

“But why—”

“Just do it, okay?”

He sighed and nodded.

I peeked around the corner and saw Anderson outside his car, the two street soldiers within earshot. I punched his number and watched him answer. I said, “There’s a bank robbery, kidnapping, assault, rioting, terrorist activity, pipe bombs, and a hijacking at the county courthouse! We need you here now! Pronto! Get going, you lazy no-good cop! Peel rubber! And don’t stop for donuts!”

I disconnected and heard his excited voice from the street. He might have overacted, but when the tires screeched, everybody noticed. He was gone.

I waited, giving Anderson and Griffin time to park and sneak back on foot. I called to make sure they were in position. Anderson said they were lurking in the shadows, with a clear view.