"C'mon, Andy." Jack chuckled. "I'm a P.I., not Dog the Bounty Hunter. I don't pack heat 24/7."
McGuire allowed a half smile. Cops watched Duane "Dog" Chapman's reality show for comic relief. "Then where's the gun? We'll need it for a ballistics test."
"It's locked in the trunk of" Jack reluctantly corrected himself. "It's in the glove box in my car. The weekend before last, I got bored and drove out to the practice range." Realizing how that sounded, he added, "I do, every couple of months or so."
"You get bored?"
"I target practice. If I ever do need to use it, I'd like to be able
." He cursed himself for running off at the mouth. "You want a ballistics comparison, get a search warrant."
"Oh, really. Well, that may be easier than you think, McPhee."
Two fingerprint-ident cards were removed from a file folder and laid side by side on the table. Placed above them was a photograph of an exterior door frame with a smudge circled in red. "Unless you can explain why your print was lifted off the deHavens' mudroom door."
Jack stared at the idents, then the photo. He didn't remember touching anything, apart from the side fence he'd climbed over and the burglar he'd tackled. And the gate latch, but that was with the heel of his hand.
Except fingerprints don't lie. Thank God, they weren't time-and-date stamped.
As though reading his mind, McGuire said, "The deHavens entertained frequently on the terrace. Barbecues, swim parties, cocktails, after-dinner drinks. Funny thing, though. Mr. deHaven was definite about you never making the guest list."
True, but an allegation wasn't a question. As things stood, it was Carleton deHaven's word against Jack's. The presumption that he and Belle were having an affair was obvious. Also a motive, if she supposedly reneged on leaving Carleton for an encore with Jack, and he'd shot her in a jealous rage.
It fit a wronged husband even neater. Jack said, "I'm surprised my ears haven't burned, much as you and deHaven have tossed around my name."
He looked up at the videocamera recording the interview. "Enough to make you wonder if ol' Carleton's setting me up." His eyes lowered to McGuire. "Where was he when Belle was shot?"
"I'm asking the questions."
"I loved Belle. A part of me always will. If her second husband is all but accusing me of murder, I have a right to know where the hell he was when she was killed."
McGuire gathered the idents and photo and returned them to the file. Another folder slid from the stack and was placed on top. "You don't have a right to jack shit, Jack. But instead of reading it in tomorrow's newspaper, I'll give you a break. DeHaven was in Little Rock, Arkansas. The P.D. there has sworn statements to that effect from a dozen or more people."
They both knew an airtight alibi was as suspicious, if not more so, than no alibi at all. "I guess there hasn't been time to review deHaven's financial records for any unusual cash withdrawals."
"Forget deHaven. Where were
you
yesterday?"
"I slept in. Alone, unfortunately. The call to Belle was one of many related to the job I mentioned earlier. I gave my dog a bath. Went to the mall awhile, met a friend there for a late lunch and chitchatted."
The receipt from the mall food vendor was in Jack's wallet. He didn't volunteer it. Too pat, for one thing. He also wanted photocopies of the original, lest it escape police custody.
"I went back to my apartmentalone. Went out later for a bite, ran into my dog's groomer, followed her to her house. She made coffee, we talked, then her mother fell ill. The mother's a heart patient and an ambulance was called. I stuck around about a half hour after the paramedics left, then drove home."
"I need the names and numbers of everyone you spoke with, by phone or in person."
"Am I being charged?"
"Remains to be seen."
"Then with all due respect, that's confidential." Jack held up a hand. "Why, is also confidential. If you have probable cause to obtain
my
phone records, fine. Otherwise, you're fishin'."
"Does obstructing justice mean anything to you? Withholding evidence relevant to a homicide investigation?"
A citizen might swallow his tonsils. A former cop turned private investigator knew the difference between an interview and an interrogation. McGuire had nearly nothing on Jack. Fingerprints
outside
the deHaven house and no date to go with them. The fatal gunshot was apparently fired from the same caliber weapon as Jack's, along with millions of other .38s, registered and not. Was his phone call to Belle the last she'd answered, much less made? Maybe. Maybe not. Even if it were, it meant zilch.
Yes, his alibi was sketchy. So what? It was Sunday. Normal people don't log their every move. P.I.s don't unless it's billable time.
Jack glanced at the folder moved to the top of the stack. He steeled himself for the big finale. McGuire mentioned it back at the office, after the bombshell he'd dropped to gauge Jack's reaction. A second shock treatment, if it came, he was ready for.
Or so he thought, until enlarged crime-scene prints were dealt out, like a game of gin rummy. Jack willed himself not to look away. To study them clinically. Commit the details to memory.
In the harsh glare of portable stand-lights, the deHavens' master bath resembled a rectangular igloo. The veined marble floors, wainscoting, shower surround and double-vanity counter were in stark contrast to the mahogany cabinetry and trim work.
To the right of the glass-enclosed shower, Belle lay crumpled in a nearly full Jacuzzi. Tendrils of her hair floated beneath her chin, having fallen from a messy upsweep anchored with a clip. Her right leg was crooked over the tub's outer rim, her heel and underside of her calf as bluish-purple as a deep bruise.
The water crested above her breasts, midway to her collarbone, her shoulders slanting downward, molded to the tub's inner curvature. Her head was slightly back, slightly turned, one eyelid hooded. A bullet had obliterated the other.
"Hard for me to look at," McGuire said, "and I wasn't married to her."
The slogan of a long-canceled game show was "It's not what you say, it's what you don't say." Corned Beef McGuire's law-enforcement experience had inured him to horror.
Jack's secret ambition to lead a homicide unit had withered at street-patrol level. He blinked to clear his vision. "No woman deserves to be seen like this. By anyone."
"Then how come you can't take your eyes off 'em?"
Because it's the only chance I'll have, Jack thought. And all I can do for her now is find out who did this.
He raised his head. "The tub. You shut off the jets?"
McGuire didn't respond. It was as good as a no.
"I didn't kill her, Andy." Jack stood. "And this interview's over."
"For now." McGuire moved to the door. "Next time I bring you down here, it'll be in the backseat of the car."
11
A
fter he walked out on McGuire, Jack rode the elevator down a floor to use the washroom. He bent over the lavatory, teeth gritted, splashing water on his face. Both spigots ran liquid ice, as they had when he was a rookie and would have welcomed lukewarm and celebrated hot. Some things never changing wasn't always bad.
Two uniforms strolled in during the frigid baptism. They hardly glanced in Jack's direction, but curtailed their conversation. A civilian, they presumed. One cop checked his clip-on tie in a mirror; neither of them washed their hands before they left.
The washroom's paper-towel dispenser had been replaced with a blower and a roller-towel gizmo. Some joker had inked Caution: Biohazard on the grimy cloth. Yards of wadded toilet paper in the overflowing trash bin said Jack wasn't the first to improvise.
The Visine he squirted in each eye stung like a son of a bitch. A flashback to Belle's fatal wound was resected and shoved in Jack's mental vault.
His gratitude at the elevator car disgorging its occupants on arrival was as fleet as the descent to the second floor. While incoming passengers fanned into the remaining corners, Jack fixed his gaze on the broken indicator panel above the door. The last person to enter the car, an older gent, was left spatially adrift.
At the lobby level, Jack was poised to forgo the antiquated ladies-first drill. As the doors rolled open, his shoe stubbed the uneven brass threshold at the same instant Dina Wexler hoved into view.
Her face went sheet-white; somehow her whisper sounded like a shriek. "I didn't do it, McPhee. I swear to God, I didn't!"
"That's wonderful," he said, and tossed off a rictus smile at the elevator's other passengers. Spinning Dina around, he took her arm and escorted her toward the building's front entrance. Hustling her away from the police was quickly becoming a habit.
"Didn't do what?" he inquired under his breath.
"Kill your ex-wife," she murmured back.
"Good." Jack pushed open the vestibule's wide, bulletproof glass door. "That makes two of us."
His tone must have betrayed him. Dina flinched, then said, "I'm sorry, IYou still cared a lot about her, didn't you?"
"Yeah." Squinting against the sunlight, he steered her to the concrete retaining wall that abutted the steps down to sidewalk level. "So, what are you doing here?"
"I was about to ask you the same thing."
"I beat you to it. Start talking."
She took mild exception to Jack's tone. It wasn't as brusque as Andy McGuire's had been with him, but he was fresh out of friendly repartee.
"Well," she said, "I'm trying to keep from hurting more people than I already have."
"Excuse me?"
"The kennels don't deserve to be punished for what I did, but they will be if the newspaper finds out the Calendar Burglar's been arrested. Everybody in town will know how I chose which houses to break into."
Dina squared her shoulders. "Crime Stoppers tips aren't publicized. I've seen trials on TV where confidential informants hide behind screens and their voices are altered so nobody knows who they are. If I turn myself in and agree to plead guilty, there's no reason the police can't keep the details to themselves."
Jack surveyed her denim skirt, pinstriped blouse, linen blazer and pumps. She was right. Size did matter. In her Monday-go-to-confession clothes, she could be mistaken for the kid on Take Your Child to Work Day.
He couldn't think of anything Dina could wear to allay that living-doll image. Or deflect the verbal head-patting that undoubtedly went with it. Whether she realized it or not, the pet-door M.O. might be a rebellious "Up yours" to the literal larger world.
He scratched an imaginary itch at his earlobe. "That's a nice quid pro quo theory you have there. Allow me to point out a few problems with it."
"Go ahead, but you won't change my mind."
Don't bet on it, kid. "Cops make arrests. That's why you hear, 'The police arrested Donald Duck today on
suspicion
of indecent exposure.' The county prosecutor files the charges."
"Fine." She shrugged. "In fact, that's even better. It'll stay just between me, him and a judge, then."
"No, it won't. Richard '
V
for Victory' Vinyard has to beat a strong same-party contender in next month's primary and a former P.A.'s grandson in the general election. Vinyard's win-loss record in court has snowballed in the wrong direction. He'll call a friggin' press conference. Balloons, hot dogs, ice cream for the kiddiesthe works."
Dina's mouth tucked at a corner. Taking it as encouragement, Jack continued, "Once the police are aware of the kennel connection, there's the little matter of Mrs. Carleton deHaven boarding her dog Phil at Merry Hills yesterday."
The color that had returned to Dina's face drained away again. "But I didn't know the woman who brought him in wasn't Mrs. deHaven. Nobody even knows I broke into that house, except you."
"Yep. And you're the only one who can put me there last night." Saying it did unpleasant things to Jack's nervous system. "I asked Cherise Taylor to impersonate Belle, but I didn't tell her why."
Dina stared past him. The tip of her tongue probed a canine tooth. "Okay. Promise not to tell the police about me, and I promise not to tell them about you."
"I already did." At her gasp, Jack added, "Indirectly."
A brief explanation of the interview with McGuire and his highly selective alibi ensued. "As heartless as this may sound, it's a good thing Belle's body was discovered after today's
Herald
's news cycle. Otherwise somebody at Merry Hills might have recognized her name and already been on the horn to Lieutenant McGuire."
Dina's hand flew up and gripped her forehead. "Channel 8 did a special bulletin this morning. In front of the deHaven house. The reporter identified her as the victim."
