Murder in a Good Cause (24 page)

But Manu, whose passport identified him as Pedro Albornoz y Miró, received only a perfunctory glance. The officer in the Guardia Civil took in his erect carriage, his sober gray suit, his elegantly cut hair, and his clean-shaven face, and nodded politely. Senor Albornoz gave him an almost imperceptible, chilly smile and walked away, unmolested, to catch the bus that would take him into the centre of town.

John Sanders stood in the middle of the hospital room, feeling awkward and out of place. Ed Dubinsky was leaning on the windowsill, managing to look unobtrusive; Veronika von Hohenkammer lay in corpselike silence, her face gray except for deep black smears under her eyes. With white bandages around her head and throat, she looked to Sanders as if someone had started to mummify her and then left for his coffee break. “I thought you said she was conscious and fit to be interviewed,” he hissed at the white-coated woman standing beside him.

“She is, in a manner of speaking,” the resident answered in normal tones. “She's just asleep. You said it was urgent, so the best thing is to wait around a bit and catch her while she's awake. She drifts in and out, but basically she's all right.”

“Can she remember anything?” asked Sanders with some apprehension.

“You have to expect a certain amount of amnesia with head injuries. Hers doesn't seem to be too severe. She knows who she is, and she was surprised to find herself here instead of at the museum. By the way, was she at the museum?”

Sanders nodded. “That was where we found her.”

“Then it sounds pretty good to me. I wasn't sure where she'd been when she injured herself; if the visit to the museum had been six months ago, then you'd be in real trouble.” The resident laughed cheerfully. “Why don't you sit down instead of looming over her like that? She'll wake up in a minute. And don't shake her. Her head hurts.” She moved over close to the door and leaned against the wall, determined, it seemed, to monitor the interview.

Sanders picked up a chair and set it beside the bed. This was the second woman in the last twenty-four hours who had accused him of looming. “Were there facial injuries?” he asked, looking over at the doctor.

She shook her head. “Back and side,” she said, sounding like a barber and touching her own head to indicate the site of the blows.

“Then why the black eyes?”

The resident snorted with laughter. “Mascara and God knows what other kinds of goop. Don't look at me like that. She was wearing a lot of eye makeup, and it got smeared. The nurses will clean her up today, don't worry. We took the worst of it off just to get a look at her skin color, but we didn't bother with the eyes.”

Before Sanders could comment, those same eyes flew open. Veronika stared up at Sanders's face, puzzled for a moment, and then smiled. “Hello, Inspector,” she said, her voice rather hoarse and weak.

“How's your head?” asked the doctor.

“Bad,” said Veronika. Her eyes swam with tears.

“Keep this short,” said the resident, turning toward the door. “I'll be back in ten minutes.”

“Who attacked you, Miss von Hohenkammer?” asked Sanders. If he was going to be hurried out of here in ten minutes, he had no time for idle preliminaries.

“I didn't see him.”

“Him? It was a man, then.”

“I think so. A man had been following me.”

“In the museum?”

“And before. A man asked for me at the hairdresser's.”

“And where was that? Which hairdresser's?”

“It had an Italian name, near Bloor and Avenue Road. I can't remember . . . it reminded me of the wine . . .”

“Chianti?” said Dubinsky, his pen poised but idle for the moment.

That brought a small smile. “Wrong wine. Orvieto—it was Arvieto's or Orveto's or something like that. I had my hair cut before I went to the museum.”

“Can you describe the man who followed you?”

She started to nod her head and stopped again. “Yes. I saw him several times.” She shut her eyes and went on speaking. “He's almost as tall as Klaus. He has dark hair, almost black, curly, but not very. Cut stylishly, but short. Big eyes, dark brown, thin eyebrows, and the one on my right is arched, the other is straight. His nose is thin and long. He has those cheeks that sink in, almost with a line down them, you know? And his chin comes down in a point that is squared at the bottom.” Dubinsky was scribbling rapidly as she talked. “He is thin, but his shoulders are not— They are wide, uh, broad. He walks like a dancer. If you know what I mean.”

“Perhaps you could explain,” said Sanders, who didn't.

“No, I'm too tired.” She opened her eyes again; they were moist with tears.

“Rest for a minute.” Sanders turned to his partner. “Get the artist over here right away.” When Dubinsky had left, he turned back to the injured young woman. “I'll just tell you what we're doing. Don't bother to answer. I'm sending for our sketch artist. We will give him that description; he'll do a drawing and then ask you how it should be altered to make it accurate.” Her eyes drifted shut again, and Sanders realized he was pouring his words into a vacuum. He moved his chair over by the window, stared out over the rooftops of the downtown core of the city, and considered what she had been saying. Chances were that this fantastically detailed description was pure hogwash. Witnesses could rarely recall anything with such clarity and detail. Yet she just might be that one in a hundred with a strong visual memory. He wondered if the medicos would let her sit up and look at mug shots. She ought to be able to pick him out, if he existed. Who in hell was he, anyway? And why did he want to get rid of her? Maybe her sister, after all, had hired him, making one last attempt to get the whole pie.

Dubinsky walked quietly into the room. “He'll be here in an hour or so,” he said. “He's doing someone for Volchek. She say anything else?”

“Not a word. She's asleep again.”

“No, I'm not asleep.” Her voice was clearer now, and stronger.

“Can you tell me what else happened yesterday?” Sanders spoke as gently as he could. “We're trying to figure out why someone would want to attack you.”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing happened yesterday. I went shopping and had my hair done and went to the museum.”

“Who knew you were going?”

“No one knew, except I left a message on Harriet's answering machine. We were going to meet at the museum but hadn't set a time. I told her I'd be there at four. She never came.” Again her eyes filled with tears.

“She didn't get the message,” said Sanders. “Her answering machine was broken.”

Dubinsky raised his pen and then his eyebrow as he looked over at his partner.

“Who was in the house when you left? And could have known that you were going out? Maybe heard you leaving that message?”

“No one. Bettl was out, and Klaus had gone over to my sister's.”

“Ah, yes, so he said. When did you leave the house? Right after he did?”

“No, I was very cold, and I got changed first.” A patch of hectic color flared up in her gray cheeks and then started to fade again.

Sanders paused. What had happened while she was changing to cause such a reaction? “Then tell me precisely everything you did.” As she talked, her voice growing hoarser and more hesitant, he wondered why he was putting her through this. Except that he was void of ideas. “Who else did you see in the museum? Besides the man with the thin cheeks. Was he with anyone, did you notice?” Stupid question. Why in hell would you take a friend to help you hit a small female over the head?

Veronika von Hohenkammer reddened again. Once more she forgot and shook her head. The color drained rapidly from her cheeks, leaving them even grayer than before. She closed her eyes in pain and then opened them once more. This time their gaze was wide and candid. “No, of course not. I saw no one else. Just the people I mentioned.”

The door flew open. “Out,” said the resident briskly. “Before I put you out.”

“Why is she lying?” asked Sanders as they waited for the elevator.

Dubinsky looked over at him. “Who knows? Any number of reasons. How about, she knows who he is, she saw him talking to her sister or whoever, and she doesn't want to blow the whistle on them.”

“Then why the detailed description?”

“Yeah, well, wouldn't you? I mean, family feeling only goes so far. The guy tried to murder her. There's a difference between fingering your own sister, or cousin, and having us catch them in the course of our investigations. Right? If we do get this bastard and if he points the finger at Theresa baby, then that's not her fault, is it? So she's done what she wanted to do. Saved her own skin without doing anything mean or nasty, like squealing on a sister.”

“Jesus, but you have a cynical view of mankind, Ed. It's a wonder you can get up in the morning.”

“I can't. Sally throws me out of bed. Let's go get some breakfast.”

When Milan Milanovich walked out of the room in the Royal Bank, where he kept his safety deposit box—his other safety deposit box, not the one for which his wife also had a key—he was greeted not by a friendly teller wishing him goodbye and a good day but by a pair of police officers. Not especially friendly. Wishing to speak to him. Not here, but down at the police station. With his briefcase.

As he climbed sulkily into the cruiser, he had only one question. “How in hell did you guys find me? No one at this bank even knows me.”

“We noticed that, sir. But you parked your car outside the bank. On the street. In a no-parking zone.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “I was in there only five minutes.”

“Long enough, sir,” said the driver cheerfully, and Milanovich subsided into silence.

The three remaining members of Veronika von Hohenkammer's family were now sitting in separate rooms, guests of the Metropolitan Toronto Police, a study in variations on anger. Milanovich remained sulky; Theresa, imperious; Klaus, combative. “What did you get from them?” Sanders asked Collins, to whom had fallen the brunt of the questioning.

“Short version?” Sanders nodded. “Milanovich has a girlfriend. He's been in the city all the time, with his car in her garage. But her husband's coming home tonight, and he had to make his move. The briefcase contains $60,000 in US dollars. His own money, he says. Like a savings account. Just in case.”

“I'd be interested in finding out exactly where that money came from. Considering that he's damned near bankrupt. And his wife?”

“She spent the day at home, she said at first, looking after the kids and talking to her cousin, Klaus. But the nanny doesn't lie, and when we poked around a bit, it seemed madam had gone out several times. And so did Leitner. If the girl did leave the house between eleven and eleven-thirty, anyone of them could have been over there and known that she was going to the museum. Klaus went out before eleven to see their lawyer. Theresa remembered the safety deposit box at their bank and popped out to have a go at it. We've witnesses for all that. Either one of them could have gone to the house, heard her on the phone, known where she was going and when, and set up whoever he was. Of course, Milanovich's girlfriend was at work during the day as well. His alibi is nonexistent.”

Collins's recital was interrupted by the telephone. Dubinsky reached over lazily and picked up the receiver. “Yeah, it's Ed.” He listened for a minute in silence. “You're sure? Well, okay, bring the picture in. We'll show it to Walker. You never hear of coincidence?” He set down the phone and looked over at his colleagues. “MacVey says that the sketch he did of the suspect the von Hohenkammer girl described is identical to the sketch he did of Walker's pal, Carlos Ramirez. According to him, it sounds like the same guy.”

“He's sure?” asked Sanders.

“That's what he says.”

“I wonder . . .” And Sanders picked up a pencil and began to draw little boxes and surround them with bigger boxes on the piece of paper in front of him. Dubinsky shrugged and went back to the work on his desk; Collins muttered something about checking up on those statements.

For almost an hour the business of the department whirled past John Sanders, having as much effect on him as the water in a trout stream does on a boulder sitting in the middle of it. Over the long run, no doubt, considerable; in the short run, none at all. Finally, he pulled the telephone over and punched in a number without bothering to look it up. Dubinsky put down his pen to watch.

“Harriet?” That Dubinsky heard quite clearly. “Do you have . . .” and here his voice trailed off; several people walked in and out of the room, slamming doors and talking. “Could you bring them over? Now? Yes, it's important or I wouldn't have asked, would I?” There was a slight pause. “If I were just feeling sentimental, I would have asked for pictures of you, not of some building, for chrissake. See you in half an hour.”

But Harriet was there in twenty minutes, holding a manila envelope in her hand and looking slightly out of breath. “You found your way up, then,” said Sanders, taking the envelope from her.

“Not without a lot of help,” she complained. Sanders didn't hear; he was laying the contents of the envelope out on his desk. Dubinsky got up, curious, to have a look. “Hi,” she said, holding out her hand. “Remember me? Harriet Jeffries. That long night at Clara von Hohenkammer's.”

Dubinsky took her hand and tactfully refrained from mentioning that he had already memorized her features and her name, and now that he had pieced together exactly where Sanders had disappeared to yesterday afternoon, he was tucking away her address and telephone number.

“These ones,” said Sanders. “Send them over with the sketch and see what Walker has to say about them. Have them call me.” As an afterthought, he turned to Harriet. “Thanks. You had any lunch?”

She shook her head.

“Find someone, Ed. Two corned beef on rye.”

The call did not come until the corned beef had been commissioned, fetched, delivered, and consumed. Dubinsky answered the phone and then graciously handed it over to Sanders. He listened and nodded several times. “Look, ask him one more thing, will you? Is the buru a woman?” He stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the curiosity emanating from everyone around him. “That's it,” he said at last, and put down the phone.