Idyll Threats (7 page)

I admired her handiwork. She blushed until her ears turned red. “I like graphing. That's why they have me conducting surveys. I did some ethnographic studies in school, and now they've decided I'm the Margaret Mead of insurance.” She turned the monitor. “Cecilia's average would have been even lower if she didn't have Gary Clark.”

Finnegan looked like a dog that's heard the word “walk.” He took a chocolate from the candy bowl. “May I?”

“Of course.” She proffered the bowl to me.

“No, thanks.” I patted my flat stomach. “Watching my weight.” Too late, I spotted a calorie counter taped below a picture of a thinner Jenna. Damn. I might not know much about women, but I know plenty about self-loathing. Jenna's face glowed red.

“Who's Gary Clark?” Finnegan asked.

She fumbled the candy bowl back onto her desk. “He works in the Life section. He started in mid-June. He's a boomerang.”

“A boomerang?”

“Yeah. He turns up with a new question before you've answered the last one.”

“So he took up a lot of Cecilia's time?”

“She used to say that Gary was the nine-to-four in her nine-to-five.”

“Did she mention what it was specifically that he needed help with?” Finnegan had his notepad out. Its wire top was unspiraling.

“Little stuff like how to get reimbursed for expenses or how to set up voicemail.”

Stuff he should've figured out himself. Finnegan looked my way. I nodded.

“You obviously liked Cecilia,” I said. “Was there anyone here who didn't?”

“Not really, no.” She looked down at her desk.

Finnegan said, “We won't repeat it.” I wasn't the only one telling lies today.

She twisted a ring around her middle finger. “Patricia Jamison and Cecilia had the same job, but Patricia's been here two years. She wants to be seen as this nurturing sort. You know, ‘My office is open anytime.' But she's not good at it.”

“And Cecilia was?” I asked.

“Cecilia liked people. I think Patricia thought Cecilia usurped her role.”

“Is Patricia in today?”

Jenna's brows descended. “Ever since we learned about Cecilia, she's been offering to help us if we're grieving. As if I'd go to her.” Her eyes welled. “Sorry.” She honked into a tissue. “Why would anyone shoot Cecilia?”

I gave her my card. “It's our job to figure that out. Where does Patricia sit?”

A small smile appeared. “I'll take you to her.” With her smile, she was quite pretty. I almost said so, but I knew she wouldn't believe me. Not with that calorie counter taped above her candy bowl.

While we stood outside Patricia's office, Finnegan nudged me. “You don't think Cecilia was shot because she became the nicest one in the office do you?”

“No. But it'll be helpful to talk to someone who didn't like her.”

“What about O'Donnell?”

So he'd noticed. “I'm hoping this one is chattier.”

“Right then,” he said as the door opened. Patricia Jameson wore a flower-print dress and granny glasses and had the reddest hair I'd ever seen. And I'm fourth-generation-from-the-boats Irish. She gave me a dead-fish handshake. Then she suggested we come inside. Her office contained nothing personal. Even I had an unwanted plant.

“You're here about Cecilia North.” She sat. All her office items were aligned at right angles. “It's such a tragedy.”
Tragedy
is a word outsiders use to describe terrible events.

“You were close?” Ah, Finnegan. He was winning me over today.

“She often came to me for advice.” She rubbed her hands together. If she were playing poker, I'd call that movement a tell.

“I thought Jenna Dash was assigned to help Cecilia?”

Scorn pulled her lips back. “Jenna is in charge of surveys and studies. She hardly communicates with others outside of her data collection.”

“How was Cecilia, once she got settled?” I asked.

She set her hands flat on the desk. Her veins were ropy and very blue. “She tried hard. But she wasn't always punctual, and time is money. She took two sick days when she only had one. And she spent too much time answering basic questions.”

“Was she reprimanded?”

“Ms. O'Donnell spoke to her, but nothing was added to her record.” How would she know? She saw me look at Finnegan and said, “Cecilia told me.” She'd left the lie too late.

“Did she seem troubled lately? Worried?” I asked. She shrugged. “You've said you were close. I'd hoped you might know if something was bothering her.”

“Things have been busy with the new crop of hires. We didn't have a lot of time to be chatting.” I said nothing. She bit her lower lip and
added, “Lately, she seemed distracted. I asked what was wrong, but she said she hadn't gotten enough sleep.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm her?”

She adjusted her stapler. “No, but you might ask Gary Clark. He spent enough time in her office.” There he was again. Gary Clark.

“Is there anything else you can think of about her last days?” Finnegan asked.

“She borrowed three dollars from me Friday to get a sandwich. She was going to pay me back, but—” She read our faces and said, “Of course, I don't care about the money. It's just so hard to believe she won't be here again.” The crocodile tears came. I would've left her to sniffle, but Finnegan handed her a tissue. I gave her my card. Then I threw three singles on her desk. “I'm sure Cecilia would have wanted you to have them,” I said. She looked as though I'd slapped her. Good.

Ms. O'Donnell gave us Cecilia's office key after she warned us not to review any files in there, which were confidential. She said she couldn't believe we'd find anything to help us. “She lacks imagination,” Finnegan said, as we examined Cecilia's desktop.

“And a heart,” I said.

There was an aloe plant on the file cabinet. Pictures of friends and family on her desk. A greeting card urged her to “Practice random acts of kindness and senseless beauty.” Finnegan tossed her daily calendar into a bag. I looked through her folders.

“Are those the confidential, do-not-touch folders?” he asked.

“Are they?” I held one up. “Gary Clark.” There was a picture. He was handsome in a preppy way. Blond hair, brown eyes, conservative shirt and tie. Mid to late thirties. Was this the man from the cabin? Maybe. It had been dark.

“Is that the face of a killer?” Finnegan asked. “God, I hope so. I swear, the more clean-cut killers you get, the better guys like me look.”

“Let's see if we can find the real article.” Maybe in person I'd know if it was him. And maybe he'd recognize me. I bit my cheek. Ouch. I
still had a sore. “I need to go to the gents. Find him, will you? Ask some basic questions, get a feel for him.”

“You okay?” he asked.

“It's nothing. Sometimes after I have coffee I—”

“Say no more,” he said. “I'll meet you back here.”

I used the toilet. Washed my hands. Imagined what Finnegan was doing. I should've gone with him. If Clark was the guy, I'd know. But then he'd see me. He'd ask questions. I crumpled my paper towel into a tight ball. “Fuck!” I tossed it at the garbage can. Missed. Instead of doing my job, I was hiding in the men's room. And how long could I hide? I slapped my hands against the sink. The exposed pipes juddered.

A man entered the bathroom. I pushed off from the sink and left to pace the hall.

Two minutes later, Finnegan returned and said Gary Clark was at an insurance seminar until Thursday. “But, get this, his colleague asked if he'd had another car accident.” We walked to the elevators. “Why would police show up about a car accident?”

“Look into it. You learn anything else? Is he married? What's he drive?”

“Didn't ask, and a Honda Accord. Why?”

“Curious. Any pictures on his desk?”

“Didn't see.” He was giving me side-eye, so I stopped with the questions.

We talked about small things on the return trip: graffiti tags near the middle school, and the burglaries that had occurred in the mayor's neighborhood. I'd heard a lot about those, mostly from the mayor. But my mind was back at the insurance company. I'd have to send Finnegan again, or ask Clark to come to the station. Where he would see me. No, Finnegan would have to go back. My cheek throbbed.

1530 HOURS

At the station there was a spike in the chatter. Wright found us. His face was calm, but his eyes weren't. “You need to see this,” he said.

“See what?” We followed him. I noticed his shoes were worn at the heels. He walked heavy for a slim guy.

“Revere found it.” He sounded annoyed.

Wedged onto a rolling cart was a bulky television attached to an ancient VCR. Revere held a remote control. When we'd gathered around, he hit play. A bodega appeared on screen, the frame focused on the cash-register counter. The store was empty. Someone walked into sight. She looked up, right at the camera. Cecilia North. “When was this taken?” I asked. She looked down, at the cashier. Only the back of his baseball cap was visible.

“August ninth,” Revere said. She smiled and handed the cashier a soda can. He hit a register key. “At Cumberland Farms.”

She looked at something in the rows below her waist. Grabbed a packet and gave it to the cashier. She spoke, and then laughed.

“Who's the cashier?” Finnegan asked.

“Donny Browning. Lives in Willington.”

She smiled, waved, and left. Another person entered, an older white male. He headed for the back, out of frame in seconds.

“That's it?” I asked.

Revere hit the remote's stop button. “That's it.”

“What's the time?”

“Nine forty-two p.m. She told Donny she was going to see a friend.” The man in the cabin, no doubt.

“Who?”

“Didn't say.”

She'd walked out of the store and gone to the cabin, where we met. Less than two hours later, she was dead. “No one's said boo about meeting her that night,” Finnegan said.

“Did the cashier come forward with this?” I asked.

“No,” Revere said. He tugged at his dress-shirt cuffs.

“How'd you find it?”

He said, “Good old-fashioned police work.” I clenched my jaw. “I went door-to-door, covering all buildings within a two-mile radius.” We should've done that. We had done that, or so I'd thought. But we'd missed this. What else had we missed?

“Good work. I want to see this Donny Browning.”

“I can type up my notes in fifteen minutes,” he said.

“I'd like to talk to him myself.”

“He worked the rest of the night. The tape shows him there until five thirty a.m.” Revere sounded like an exasperated parent, explaining a simple concept to a whining child.

But I wasn't his child. “Tapes can be faked.”

“And destroyed, which he didn't do. Honestly, this kid's not bright enough to edit a videotape.” He looked annoyed. The others enjoyed this. Finnegan and Wright might think I was too hands-on, but they didn't like Revere. And they sure as fuck didn't like being upstaged by him.

“Pick him up,” I said to Wright. “Bring him in.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted me. His smile got wider as he walked past Revere.

Forty minutes later, I met the cashier. Donny Browning had close-set eyes, a weak chin, and a baseball cap he had to be told to remove. His nicotine-yellowed fingertips would've outed him as a smoker if his stink hadn't first.

“So, Donny. You saw Cecilia the night she died.”

His eyes jackrabbited about the room. “I want my lawyer.”

“You have an attorney you'd like to contact?” What gas-station employee had a lawyer on call?

“Yeah. Douglas Browning. My father.”

I let him place the call. Twenty minutes later, his father came to the station loaded for bear. I must've looked furry, because he went straight for me. “Why are you interrogating Donny?” He wore his money: leather briefcase and a fancy, silk-blend suit.

We talked in my office. I wanted home-court advantage. “Donny saw Cecilia North the night she was murdered. We want to ask some questions about his interaction with her.”

“He's already answered questions.”

“We have a few more. Donny might remember something that helps us catch her killer.” That deflated him. He couldn't fault our cause.

“I'll join you.” He brushed my office lint from his suit. “I've seen the news. Abner Louima. Seems you New York cops like to play rough with suspects.”

Abner Louima. The papers and TV were full of him. The Haitian resident of Brooklyn who'd been arrested, then sodomized with a broom handle by two New York police officers while in custody. No doubt people would be taking to the streets in protest soon.

“We're not in New York,” I said.

Mr. Browning harrumphed and followed me out of my office.

When his father entered the interview room, Donny looked scared. Mr. Browning sat at the same side of the battered table as his son. But he was careful not to touch him.

Mr. Browning said, “Did they ask you anything after you called me?”

“No,” Donny said. He squirmed in his chair.

“May we continue?” I asked. No one objected. “Donny, what time did Cecilia come into the store?”

“Ten o'clock or so.” He was off by almost twenty minutes, but that wasn't a crime.

“Had you met her before?” He shrugged, his hands limp in his lap.

“Answer,” his father said.

“We went to middle school together. And I saw her at the store sometimes. Mostly to fill her car with gas.”

“How did she seem that night?”

Mr. Browning put his hand in front of his son, as if protecting him from sudden braking. “You want my son to speculate as to Miss North's mental state?”

Stop grandstanding, Perry Mason. There's no judge here.

“It would be helpful to know if she was agitated,” Revere said. I hadn't wanted him here, but he'd caught the tape. So he got to sit at the big boys' table. He lounged in his seat, not a care in the world. Not his usual attitude. An act for the Brownings.