He Huffed and He Puffed (27 page)

“Pity,” the captain said sarcastically. “He was my pick.”

“Mine too,” Marian agreed without irony. “He's the most cold-blooded of the lot, but we can't pin this one on him. God, I hope he didn't have those two people killed. The finger pointers. Maybe he's just bought them off.”

“Why would he go after the mercenary?” the captain wanted to know. “The first mate's widow I can understand, but Ozzie Rogers is no threat to Richard Bruce. Bruce is just helping out the violinist—why would he want to do that?”

Ivan explained that one, and in his usual inelegant fashion. “Richard Bruce and Joanna Gillespie are screwin' each other. They'd never met before Friday, so I guess they're making up for lost time. Bruce must like it a lot because he's doing his damnedest to keep Gillespie out of jail. Any word on McKinstry's helicopter pilot?”

“He's alive and well and in the custody of the Miami police,” Michaels said. “When he learned A. J. Strode had been killed, he started talking and hasn't stopped yet. The cops there casually mentioned Jack McKinstry was one of our suspects and let him jump to his own conclusions.”

“Which just might be correct,” Marian pointed out. “Fifty-fifty chance. If the helicopter pilot is talking, that means at least one of them won't get away with those other murders, and that's something. But we need a little more time to pin down the Strode killing, Captain. Give us at least the rest of today.”

“Uniforms come off the site at midnight. That doesn't leave you much time.”

“Better'n nothing,” Ivan said. “We'll haul 'em all in at midnight, but let us put off charging them until then.”

Captain Michaels thought about it. “What can you do there that you can't do here?”

“Maybe get them to talk,” Marian said. “Play them off one another. There's no love lost between Jack McKinstry and the other two. A lot of tension there, Captain. If we bring them in now and separate them, the bomb won't go off.”

“You guarantee it will if we keep them there?”

“No. But it's a damned good opportunity and I think we ought to take advantage of it.”

The captain thought about it some more. “Okay. You got until midnight. But at or before twelve o'clock I expect three arrests. And it would make me very happy, Sergeants, if only two of the three perpetrators are to be held for extradition. I want to keep the other one right here, charged with the murder of A. J. Strode. That would make me very happy indeed. Do you think you could possibly manage that?”

“We'll sure as hell try,” Ivan assured him earnestly.

“Give it our best shot,” Marian agreed.

The two police detectives left, determined to do their best to keep their captain happy.

Divide and … cross your fingers.

“Show me how you and Richard Bruce got back in the house.”

“You know how we got in. Through the wine cellar.”

“Show me.”

Joanna Gillespie did not heave a big sigh of annoyance but managed to convey the impression that she'd done just that. She led Marian Larch out to the back patio and around to the door that led to the wine cellar.

“Did you lock it after you went in?”

“No.”

Marian tried the door; it was still unlocked. Inside was pleasantly cool, just the right temperature for the undoubtedly expensive wines kept there. “Where did you leave the suitcases?”

“There.” Joanna pointed.

There were no imprints in the dust on the floor to mark the place because there was no dust on the floor. The entire place was spotless, unlike any other wine cellar Marian had ever seen. A small table was shoved up against the wall with a chair on each side; Marian took one of the two chairs and pointed to the other. “You know Richard Bruce has cleared himself.” Not a question.

Joanna Gillespie carefully lowered herself into the other chair. She kept her eyes on Marian. “Yes.”

“Did you know he was going to do that? Did he tell you?”

Joanna licked dry lips. “I don't see how that's the police's concern.”

“He didn't tell you, did he? Must have been quite a surprise.”

She bit. “Look, Sergeant Larch, you know perfectly well Richard thought I was in the clear when he told you about being locked in the bathroom. You lied to him, and now you're trying to make it appear as if he was worrying about saving his own skin all along.”

“You mean he wasn't? I thought you all were.”

“Well, of course we are!” Joanna snapped. “You know what I mean. What does it matter anyway? Richard
is
in the clear, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is. And then there were two.”

Joanna stared at her a long time. “There should be only one. Jack McKinstry.”

“Then give me something solid. Something other than your dislike of him. Think back. You must know something you haven't told me.”

“I
have
thought back—god, I've been over it and over it. I didn't hear him in his room during the time of the murder. That's all lean think of.”

“Would you have heard him? These walls are pretty thick.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “Unless he were making an extraordinary amount of noise.”

Marian tried a different tack. “You know, whoever killed Strode must have had it in the back of his mind that he was helping out the other two. He or she. By removing Strode, the killer was removing the near-certainty that Strode would indulge in a little more string-pulling in the future. As long as Strode lived, all three of you were in jeopardy. I don't mean that was the killer's motive—his motive was to save himself. But saving the other two was a kind of bonus.”

“But it wasn't! Strode had all his so-called evidence in the computer. Killing Strode didn't get rid of that.”

“Ah, but none of you knew about the computer then, did you? The killer
thought
all three of you would be home free once Strode was out of the way. So either you or Jack McKinstry took it on yourself to put an end to it. One of you killed to free all three of you.” Marian paused. “All we know for certain is that Richard Bruce didn't kill to save you.”

This time Joanna didn't rise to the bait. “You're on the wrong track, Sergeant. There was only one person Jack McKinstry was thinking about when he killed Strode, and that was Jack McKinstry. We got to know Jack pretty quickly this weekend, and he is the most
childishly
selfish adult I've ever met. If it did occur to him he was helping Richard and me, he probably tried to figure some way to take advantage of it.”

Marian thought that was a fair assessment of Jack's character. “But he couldn't take advantage of it, because it didn't work out right. It was bad luck that the murder accomplished just the opposite of what it was supposed to accomplish. Instead of saving everybody, the murder just brought everything to our attention. You know what's going to happen to you, don't you?”

“To me? No, Sergeant Larch, I don't know what's going to happen to me. Why don't you tell me?”

“It's up to the Boston police, of course, but I don't see how they can avoid charging you with the murder of your parents. Personally, I don't think you can even get away with claiming the murders were mercy killings. If I were sitting on a jury and heard testimony that the defendant had tried to hire a mercenary to do her killing for her, I'd think twice before buying the euthanasia story.”

“Oh, you've got it all wrong,” Joanna said tiredly. “I was thinking of hiring a bodyguard, that's all. Strode bribed Ozzie Rogers to say I wanted him to kill my parents.”

“A
body
guard,” Marian echoed, pretending to be impressed. “That's very good. Did Richard Bruce suggest that one? You have to have an explanation for consulting Ozzie other than intended matricide and patricide—so why not claim you needed a bodyguard?”

“Richard Bruce suggested nothing! I'm quite capable of thinking up my own …”

“Lies?” Marian suggested politely.

“My own
solutions
. And I decided a bodyguard was not a solution to a problem I was having at that time.” Marian looked a question at her. “Someone was sending me threatening letters, Sergeant, but it stopped well over a year ago. There was nothing to it.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I did. They weren't any help.”

“Where was this?”

“Boston.”

Marian made a note of it. “I'll check on it.”

“I'm sure you will,” Joanna said dryly.

Ivan Malecki was waiting for her in the conference room. The chair Jack McKinstry smashed had been removed. “Anything?”

“Not really. Joanna Gillespie says she was thinking of getting a bodyguard when she contacted her mercenary. Because of threatening letters. What about you?”

“Nothing. Lots of accusations, but that's all. McKinstry's on his way to being a basket case.”

Marian went over to the phone. It took her longer to charge the long-distance call to the NYPD than it did to find out from the Boston police what she wanted to know.

“One
letter,” Marian told her partner when she'd hung up. “That's all their computer knows about. She definitely told me ‘letters'—plural. And she intimated she'd been getting them over a period of time.”

Ivan scratched the back of his neck. “She coulda just reported the first one,” he said, “and when the police didn't do anything she didn't bother with the rest.”

“Possible,” Marian agreed reluctantly. “But Joanna Gillespie strikes me as a person who wouldn't let something like that ride. I'm surprised she didn't rush right out and buy a gun.”

“Maybe she did.”

“But she didn't go looking for an Ozzie Rogers immediately—there's a time gap. I think she got one letter, reported it, and now is using that as her excuse for consulting a mercenary.”

“None of which brings us any closer to finding out what happened here Sunday night,” Ivan said. “You're doing the Boston police's work for them, Marian. Let it go.”

“I know, you're right. Damn, but she's hard to pin down! So what do we do now—switch?”

“Might as well. Watch out for McKinstry—he might blow up in your face. I didn't tell him about the helicopter pilot. If you can get him calmed down enough to listen, you can throw that at him.”

“He's that rattled?”

“Was. He was starting to run out of steam there toward the end. See what he does first.”

What Jack McKinstry did first was make a pass at her.

He started out by asking Marian if she ever went to California. He told her about the big house in Malibu and assured her she would be welcome anytime she cared to visit. Then he moved in close, placed both hands on her shoulders, gazed deeply into her eyes, and expressed the sincere desire that they would see each other once “all this” was over.

For a seasoned playboy, it was an extraordinarily clumsy approach, Marian thought. Ivan must be right; Jack McKinstry was cracking up. Marian was a plain woman, and she knew it. Some plain women could slather on the make-up and affect outrageous hair and clothing styles and become TV personalities or rock stars. Marian Larch was not one of them. She decided to try diplomacy and told Jack she never mixed business and pleasure.

“Oh, come on, now, Sergeant … by the way, what's your first name?”

“You got it right. Sergeant.”

He sighed theatrically. “You are a stickler for the proprieties, aren't you? I can't believe you're this formal all the time. You've got a male partner, after all—I'll bet you loosen up once in a while. Am I right?”

That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. “I hate to burst your balloon,” Marian said, “but contrary to popular opinion it is possible for a man and a woman to work together without jumping into the sack together. What I do and with whom I do it is none of your business. So back off.”

Jack immediately turned contrite, almost convincingly so. “Oh hey, gee, I didn't mean to insult you. Christ, I meant just the opposite! Two left feet, that's me.” He squeezed her shoulders in what was probably meant to be an intimate gesture. “I want to get to know you, Sergeant Ms Larch whatever your first name is, and we're in such a peculiar relationship here, cop and suspect, that I don't know how to go about it. Help me. Stop playing mystery woman. Let me come into your life.”

She put an end to it by telling Jack that his helicopter pilot was in custody in Florida and was talking his fool head off.

Jack's face collapsed. His hands dropped off Marian's shoulders and he stood there staring at her like a lost child. “That's it, then,” he said in a tight voice. “You'll believe him, and Strode's lies, and whatever Joanna and Richard tell you. I don't have a chance. You're going to pin it all on me, the helicopter crash and Strode's murder and anything else you can think of. It's all decided, isn't it? I take the fall.”

“You'll have to answer to the French authorities for the helicopter crash, yes,” Marian said, “but I'm not arresting you for the murder of A. J. Strode just yet.”

“Yet,” he echoed glumly.

“Maybe not at all. Let's go over it again.”

They were in the dining room. Marian had found him in the kitchen jollying Danielle into fixing him something special to eat. One of the maids laid another place for Marian, who was surprised to find out how hungry she was. Jack told Marian his story again—where he was, what he did. It came out the same as last time.

Marian got up and walked around the dining table, thinking. “Tell me what you did while you were in your room.”

“I was packing.”

“I know, but take it one step at a time. Tell me everything.”

“Whoo.” He thought. “Well, first I went into the bathroom to get my shaving gear and like that. No toothbrush, the house staff puts out a new one every day with fresh towels. I'd already packed most of my clothes—I didn't bring a whole lot, it was only for a weekend. Then I started looking through drawers to make sure I had everything.”