Murder Suicide (17 page)

Theresa Snow hadn’t mentioned her husband’s renewed interest in Kyle.  "But his work..."

"His work went to hell."

Coroway’s analysis of Snow made sense, given what Clevenger knew of him.  But his contention that Vortek had veered off course wasn’t easy to confirm.  For all Clevenger knew, Coroway could have patented the invention an hour before.  And he hadn’t forgotten Coroway had driven into a truck while speeding away from Mass General, as John Snow lay bleeding to death.  "Had you seen John in the last twenty-four hours?" he asked.

Coroway leaned forward.  "Don’t be delicate with me.  If you hadn’t found the accident report by now, I’d be as worried about you and North Anderson as I am about Detective Coady."

Coroway might or might not be guilty of murder, but no one would convict him of being indirect or poorly informed.  "Okay.  Did you see him at the General yesterday morning?"

"I couldn’t find him.  I called his cell phone.  He didn’t answer."

"Why were you looking for him?"

"I wanted to try one last time to get him to reconsider going under the knife," Coroway said.  "It was a last-minute impulse.  That’s why I was taking my car to the airport, in the first place.  I had a limo all set to pick me up at 5:45
A.M.
back home in Concord.  Then I got this feeling..."  He shook his head.

"What?" Clevenger asked.

"I’m gonna sound like a refugee from the Psychic Hotline."

"We’ll keep it between us."

"I got this feeling I needed to protect him."  He paused.  "All I could make of that — that feeling — was that I needed to protect him from himself, that if I went down there, told him once and for all that he was being a fool, then..."  He stopped himself.  "He needed me to protect him from someone else."

"You don’t think he killed himself?"

"I heard Coady was running that idea up the flagpole," Coroway said.  "I hope he’s let it go.  Otherwise, it’s time for him to go."

That made it clear how much influence Coroway believed he had with the Boston Police Department.  "Isn’t it remotely possible he committed suicide?" Clevenger asked him.  "It was his gun.  Very few people had access to it."

"John was no quitter," he said flatly.

"People get sick," Clevenger said.

"He was getting rid of what ailed him.  At least what he thought ailed him.  He was getting his brain cut apart to take out the bad circuit boards.  He was going to prove to me and everyone else that Vortek wasn’t any figment of his imagination, that he could make it real."

What Snow was really about to prove was that he could leave everyone behind, including Coroway.  "The two of you had put legal work in place to cover the potential John might not be able to continue at the company."

"He was going in for brain surgery.  Anything could have happened."

It was time to get a little more specific.  "Where exactly did you try to find him at Mass General?" Clevenger asked.

"Good.  Let’s get the minutiae out of the way," Coroway said, with characteristic detachment.  "The lobby, first.  Then the cafeteria.  The cashier saw me — Asian woman, forty or so, slight build, wearing glasses."

Coroway’s Navy Seal training seemed to be kicking in.

"I called Heller’s office," he went on.  "There was no answer.  I figured John might have gone into surgery early.  So I headed back to the parking garage, where I paid six dollars at the exit booth.  Young guy.  Twenty, twenty-two, thick glasses.  Curly, black hair."

"Quick trip."

"I had a plane to catch."

"At six-thirty," Clevenger said.  The accident report had Coroway leaving Mass General just before 5:00
A.M.
   Logan was about fifteen minutes away.

"I left something I needed at the office."

Or did he need to clean himself up?  "So you drove to Snow-Coroway."

"After I drove into a truck.  Security at the company will confirm I arrived there about 5:20.  I didn’t get to Logan until just before six o’clock."

"Did you hear a gunshot when you were at the hospital?"

"No.  But I heard sirens.  At the time, I didn’t know what all the commotion was about."  He stopped, closed his eyes, rubbed his thumb and forefinger into them.

Clevenger let several seconds pass.  "Why didn’t you want him to go through with the surgery?" he asked.

"I didn’t want a partner who was a blind mute."

"You thought the risks were too high."

Coroway looked at him.  "For no real gain?  You better believe it.  Vortek was D.O.A.   I had written it off the books as a total loss.  That’s why I was headed here in the first place, to return InterState’s money.  I didn’t believe for one second the operation would achieve what John thought it would."

"Had you told him so directly?"

"A hundred times."  His eyes locked on Clevenger’s.  "But I hadn’t told him everything.  I hadn’t told him what I really believed about his seizures.  I promised myself I would — at the hospital yesterday morning."

"What were you going to tell him?"

"That I didn’t believe they were real."

"The seizures?"

"The whatever."

"You think he was faking?"

"Not consciously," Coroway said.  "I think when he became stressed, when a problem was greater than his ability to solve it, he had a way out.  I think he’d gotten in that habit as a kid.  Because nobody ever told him it was okay to fail.  Then it just became automatic.  A reflex."

Coroway was describing pseudoseizures, fits that looked like epilepsy but were really a kind of hysterical reaction to stress.  People’s eyes might roll back in their heads, their limbs might jerk back and forth, but nothing much was actually wrong with their brains.

"I’m not saying John wasn’t overcome by these
fits
," Coroway went on.  "I think it was more like when someone passes out over bad news.  It isn’t from low blood pressure, as I understand it.  It’s an
emotional
collapse."

"His medical records from MGH say he bit through his tongue more than once during his convulsions.  That takes a whole lot of emotion."

"John needed to convince all the people around him he was sick, beginning with his family when he was a child.  But more than that, he needed to convince himself.  I think he would have bitten his tongue clear off if it meant avoiding the truth."

"The truth..."

"That he had limits."

"You don’t think Jet Heller confirmed whether the epilepsy was real?  You think he’d perform a neurosurgery on someone whose brain was essentially normal?"

"My guess?  The evidence was slim.  John interpreted any abnormality on a CAT scan or EEG as proof that his nervous system was betraying him.  I think Heller saw things the same way.  And I think that’s the real problem the Ethics Committee at the General had with the surgery.  They had a cowboy neurosurgeon on their hands so hungry for headlines he would have cut up John’s brain to stop him from sneezing."

"And John was that afraid of failing with Vortek?"

"Vortek was only a symbol," Coroway said.  "What he was afraid of was being human."

That was a whole new perspective on Snow’s quest to go under the knife.  But it didn’t change the facts.  Coroway had sped away from the same city block where his business partner had been shot.  He had flown out of state.  And he hadn’t returned.  He could take off from D.C. to Paris to parts unknown, if the spirit moved him.  "Are you planning to come back to Boston soon?" Clevenger asked.

"Probably tomorrow," Coroway said.  "Maybe the next day.  I wish I could be with our employees, but John’s death leaves me with more work than ever.  And a lot of it’s here, with our vendors and clients, including folks on the Hill.  They need to be reassured we’re still in business."

"Are you?" Clevenger asked.

Coroway’s lip curled ever so slightly.  "No one is indispensable," he said.  "I built Snow-Coroway at least as much as John did.  He was a genius, but we do have very talented people who were working right under him."  He didn’t look like he was buying his own lines.  "And I do have to remind myself," he said, "that as creative as John was, he made us spin our wheels for months on Vortek.  We should have walked away from it much sooner."

Clevenger’s eyes traveled back to Coroway’s cuff links — the little, gold jets.  His question had been naïve.  Business was business.  The show would go on without Snow.  "Who do you think killed him?" he asked.

"I have no idea," he said immediately.

That was about the only thing Coroway didn’t seem to know.  "No suspicions?"

"That’s your job."

"That’s why I’m asking."

Coroway got up, walked to the window.  "Maybe we’re all a little guilty."

That mea culpa seemed vaguely reminiscent of Lindsey Snow’s peculiar confession.  "How so?"

"We all needed John in our lives — for different reasons," Coroway said, his voice softer, less self-assured.  "Grace, Theresa, John’s kids.  Me.  Maybe nobody’s hands are clean."

Clevenger wanted to push Coroway a little harder.  "Tell me about yours," he said.

He turned back to Clevenger.  His face was pale.  "I told Lindsey about Grace Baxter."

Clevenger pictured the girl’s cold, empty eyes.  "You told her her father was having an affair?"

"I’m not proud of it."

"Then, why..."

"She’s a very convincing girl," Coroway said.  "She was in tears, questioning what had changed between her and her father.  She’d been the only person in his life who could compete with his work for attention.  He worshiped her.  All of a sudden, she was sharing him."

"With Grace."

"With Grace.  With Kyle — her brother.  With Heller.  With the whole fricking United States, if you really think about it.  Her father was a celebrity, all of a sudden.  It was difficult to watch her suffering."  He shook his head.  He looked genuinely disgusted with himself.  "Grace had called the house to arrange delivery of an oil painting from the gallery.  Lindsey got weird vibes off her.  She asked if there was anything going on.  I told her."

"You could have lied."

"I should have."

"Why didn’t you?"

"Because Baxter was no good for him," he said immediately.  The answer didn’t seem to satisfy him, any more than it did Clevenger.  "I wanted him back.  It sounds pathetic, I know.  I was worried about the business.  And I missed my friend."

"Are you telling me Lindsey killed her father?"

"John was playing a dangerous game.  Three women were hung up on him."

"Theresa, Grace and Lindsey."

"As for Theresa, she wanted his brain.  I don’t think she much cared what he did with the rest of his anatomy.  Grace seemed to be more self-destructive than anything else, threatening to cut her throat and all that."

To cut her throat
.  The words didn’t hurt any less the second time Clevenger heard them.  "Which leaves Lindsey," he managed.

A faraway look came into Coroway’s eyes.  "She was so enraged," he said.  "I knew the minute I told her...  I knew she’d never get over it."

"She broke down."

"No, she didn’t.  That’s what bothered me.  She just got very quiet.  Very still."  He focused on Clevenger again.  "Then she said something I really didn’t understand."

"What was that?"

"She told me I had no idea how much Kyle hated his father."  He shook his head.  "I didn’t get why she was making that leap, from her to her brother.  But now, I think maybe I do."

Chapter 11

Coroway offered to call a car for Clevenger after their meeting, but Clevenger told him he had an early dinner just blocks away with an old friend.  He wasn't about to get into an unmarked sedan ordered up by a man with fighter jets for cufflinks and a business partner shot dead in an alleyway.  He walked three blocks, flagged down a taxi, got in and told the driver to take him back to Reagan National.

The first call he made en route was to his assistant, Kim Moffett.  The media had gotten wise to the fact that Clevenger had been hired by the Boston Police Department to find Snow’s killer.  Over a dozen reporters had phoned the office.  Camera crews were milling about in the parking lot.  Moffett was so caught up in that chaos that she waited until the end of their call to tell Clevenger that Lindsey Snow had stopped by about twenty minutes before.

"Did she say what she wanted?" Clevenger asked.

"No.  But she said it was
no emergency
.  She wasn’t crying or upset or anything."

Moffett was being extra cautious in the wake of Grace Baxter’s telephone calls, which only made Clevenger feel worse about having missed them.  "She leave a number?"

"Her cell. 
617-555-8131
."

"I’ll give her a call."

"Can I tell you something weird about her?" Moffett asked.

Clevenger had learned not to be distracted by Moffett’s youth, blond curls or sweet voice; she was a savvy as they come.  "Shoot."

"She talked to me like she knew me.  And she talked about you like it was totally expected that she’d just drop by.  Like she does it every day.  She could be my instant best friend.  Add water and stir.  I mean, is she living in some sort of fantasy world?"

"I don’t know," Clevenger said.  "Whatever world she’s in, steer clear."

"I get that."

"Anything else?"

"North isn’t here, but he said to remind you to call him when you’re out of your meeting, which you must be, since you’re calling me."

"Will do."

Clevenger checked in with Anderson and quickly updated him on the meeting with Coroway.  They decided Anderson would stop by MGH during the 11:00
P.M.
to 7:00
A.M.
shift with a photograph of Coroway off the web.  It was worth checking out whether any employees remembered seeing Coroway in the lobby or cafeteria or parking garage — or near the alleyway where Snow was found.

His next call was to Lindsey Snow.

"Hello," she answered.

"It’s Dr. Clevenger," he said.

"Hey, are you in your office?"

Her tone was inappropriately familiar.  "I’m not," Clevenger said.  "I heard you stopped by."