Murder.com (11 page)

Nineteen

Blue Hill

Before they left to go downtown to the restaurant, both Reuben and Luis told their wives about their suspicions concerning Eskill Lander. Francesca took the news calmly, not knowing the man and only glad—or hoping—that her husband's open case would soon be closed. Cynthia, on the other hand, was incredulous.

“I'm shocked,” she said.

“No more than I,” Reuben replied.

“It really looks bad for him?”

“It's too early to tell for sure. There are other possibilities Luis is still looking at,” Reuben said, not very convincingly.

Both men worried that they would probably be talking about the case over dinner, apologized for this, and cautioned Francesca and Cynthia not to speak Lander's name aloud. He was to be known simply as “Mr. X.” And the mysterious lunch guest would be “Mr. Y.”

They were seated at a table in the back of Blue Hill, amply spaced away from other diners.

“I don't know about any of you, but I need another drink,” Reuben declared. All agreed to join him except Francesca.

“I have to keep my wits about me to confront the you-know-whos when I get home.”

“If the truth be known, you probably need a drink more than any of us,” Reuben said.

Francesca laughed. “I would love to, but wine with dinner will be plenty for me. Mama-dos—that's what my mother calls me—has to be careful.”

“And not papa-dos?” Cynthia asked.

“I can handle it,” Luis replied.

The foursome tried bravely to make small talk (mostly about the twins) but the conversation turned to the murder as soon as they had ordered their meals—New York State guinea hen for Francesca and Reuben, and poached Hudson Valley duck for Cynthia and Luis. Reuben also selected a 2003 Aalto Ribera del Duero as their wine.

“Luis,” Reuben began. “You wrote down a whole list of things you wanted to investigate. Can I ask just how you propose to go about it? The picture of Mr. X and the staff at Quatorze is easy. That's the first.”

“Then there's his E-ZPass,” Luis continued. “Assuming Mr. X has an E-ZPass, and it's in his name, I can find out from the MTA when he used it, no problem. Then there's the PC in his office. I can get a search warrant.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Just have to clear it with my higher-ups and then go before a judge and show, as our manual says, quote, a reasonable belief that evidence of a crime will be found, unquote. Same with his cell phone. I can get a search warrant for that, too.

“There are only two little hitches,” he went on. “First, Reuben, you must get the password to open his PC from your Executive Partner. You say you can do that?”

“I hope so.”

“The second problem is: I don't want to tip this guy off to what's going on.”

“How can you avoid it?” Reuben asked.

“You don't have to tell the person named in a search warrant about it. You just go to the premises listed—if the guy's there, okay, but if he's not, you don't have to run around and find him.

“So here's my proposal,” he continued. “You can serve a search warrant in New York anytime between six am and nine pm. So if I came to your offices around, say, seven pm on Monday and you are there to show me Mr. X's personal office …”

“Oh my,” Reuben said. “I'm not very strong on the law of search warrants, but are you sure about what you're saying?”

“Yes. Remember, all I want to do is to find out if Mr. X ever tried to reach Meet.com. Just that one thing. So I'm not interested in carrying off the PC, or the hard drive, or anything like that. So you show me his office, I find out the info I want and leave—probably in less than ten minutes. And it's all copacetic, done under the protection of a search warrant.”

“It's none of my business, but my guess is you may not find anything,” Cynthia interjected.

“You could be right,” Luis said. “But we have to start somewhere.”

“What if he's erased the evidence? I erase hot stuff on our computer all the time. Like my love letters emailed to the Police Commissioner and the mayor,” Francesca said.

“Very funny, dear. There are about two dozen ways of finding out if someone has gone to a website and most people don't know that. I don't even know all the ways myself.”

Reuben sighed. “Well, Luis, I don't like your scheme very much, prowling around my law firm, but I guess it's necessary.”

“Good. I'll get a search warrant from Criminal Court as soon as I can get clearance Monday and we can do the search at seven pm Monday night.”

“You, know, gentlemen, I haven't heard a word about Mr. Y,” Cynthia said.

“That's because we don't know a damned thing about him,” Reuben grumped. “Just that he was older, like old enough to be Marina's father.”

Each of the men had a touch of wine remaining in their glasses, so they raised a toast.

“Now, let's have dessert. The chocolate bread pudding I saw go by looks delicious—wonderful and delicious,” Reuben said. “And let's talk about something else.”

“Now you say it,” his wife cracked.

“Just one other thing before we switch the subject. You had written down to investigate his credit card records. What about that?” Reuben asked.

“That's a tricky one. It's not clear when you subpoena credit card records if you have to notify the cardholder before you turn over information. We don't want that to happen. It's too bad Mr. X isn't a Muslim, or a terrorist.”

“What do you mean by that?” Reuben asked.

“The FBI and Homeland Security, and probably ten other Federal agencies, snoop on people with Muslim names all the time. Just say ‘terrorist' and all constraints are off.”

“Very attractive,” Cynthia said.

“I didn't make the law, Cynthia. I'm just telling you the facts.”

“Let's eat our dessert,” Francesca said.

They did, amid some further speculation about what the twins might be up to at the late hour.

“I just hope the sitter hasn't been driven crazy by the two of them,” Francesca said.

Realizing how late it was getting, Reuben paid the bill and they left the restaurant.

“Call me after your visit to Quatorze,” Reuben said. “And try to get some rest.”

Twenty

A New Direction

“How did you sleep?” Cynthia asked her husband at breakfast Sunday morning.

“Very well,” he replied. “I dreamed of flocks of New York State guinea hens.”

“Well I didn't. I was kept awake by a truly horrible thought. Made worse because it seemed so ridiculous.”

“Tell me.”

“It was just this: I remembered what you told me about your ‘Mr. Y'—Marina's lunch companion. Didn't you say that the restaurant people said he was old enough to be her father?”

“Yes.”

“My ridiculous thought was that maybe it
was
her father. Maybe it was Dan. Which puts him in New York the day of the murder.”

“Good God, Cynthia. That can't be.”

“Think about it. Isn't it possible he had a major confrontation with her over his romance with Darcy Watson? We know, or at least we think, she disapproved. And may even have been jealous. Wouldn't be the first time an offspring resents a stepparent or potential stepparent. Just like Facini and Dan.”

Reuben finished the cup of coffee he was drinking, poured himself another cup, and told Cynthia he was going to his study “to figure this one out.”

“You certainly have made my Sunday,” he told his wife.

Seated in the comfortable chair in his study with the door closed, Reuben considered Cynthia's theory. Yes, it was possible: Dan had a bitter argument with his daughter about Darcy Watson, was unable to bring her disapproval to an end, and then killed her. Unlikely, but the ways of true love are strange, as he well knew from a lifetime of observation. But how could he prove or disprove this bizarre conclusion about his old friend? And keep the police out of it until there was proof of guilt or at least a reasonable suspicion?

Reuben knew that Luis planned to return to Quatorze Bis with the picture of Lander. Couldn't he do the same with one of Dan? If Dan Courtland really was the mysterious lunchtime stranger, the boys at Quatorze should be able to identify him. But how could he get a picture? Even though Dan was camera-shy, the newspapers would have a photo, but Reuben saw no way of getting to any of his journalist friends to help him out on a Sunday. Then he remembered the professorship Dan had given to Jerry Falwell's Liberty University; surely there would have been a picture taken at that time. With a certain amount of fiddling, he reached the university's website and, with still more fiddling, discovered a group picture showing several people, including a smiling Dan Courtland standing next to the Reverend Falwell. He printed it out and immediately called Luis at home.

“Good, I'm glad I caught you before you went to Quatorze. I have another picture to add to your rogues' gallery,” Reuben said. He told him of Cynthia's theory and his success at locating a photo of Courtland.

“I'll come over and collect it before lunch,” Luis said.

Still mulling over the situation, Reuben decided if Dan's photo produced results, he would go to Indianapolis to confront him. He felt he would owe Dan a chance to explain himself.

Reuben ended his seclusion and briefed Cynthia on what he had done.

“I think your idea of going to Indianapolis is a good one,” she told him. “You owe him a private confrontation on his whereabouts that Friday.”

“I'm glad you don't think it's madness on my part.”

Luis collected the new picture just before noon and returned two hours later.

“Well?” Reuben asked anxiously.

“Mixed result,” Bautista said. “Gary, the maître d', and Jerrod were confident in identifying Lander. The other waiter, Matt, was less sure. But the majority vote certainly was that the man with Marina at dinner was Lander.”

“Not exactly beyond a reasonable doubt, is it?” Reuben asked.

“I'll concede you that. But I'm satisfied.”

“Now, to the more immediate question—was Courtland the first mysterious stranger or not?”

“A split verdict again. Jerrod, the waiter, believed that Marina's companion was the guy in the picture, but Gary was less sure.”

“Damn.”

“Maybe in a lineup, if it comes to that, Gary would change his mind.”

“A lineup? That would please Dan greatly. He's big on law and order, but I'm not sure his sympathies extend that far. However, there's enough reason to think Courtland might be involved and should be questioned. I propose going to Indianapolis tomorrow to quiz him personally.”

“Isn't that a job for the police?”

“Normally, I'd say yes. But I think he's as likely to level with me as anyone. And besides, no policeman could get to Indianapolis any faster than I can.”

“What about our little excursion involving Lander's PC? We'd set that up for tomorrow, remember.”

“It will have to wait until Tuesday, I guess,” Reuben said.

“Okay, if we have to delay, we have to delay. But can we do it at the same time—seven o'clock?”

“No, that won't work. The Chase & Ward semiannual firm meeting is Tuesday at five o'clock. I'll be at that.”

“How long will that meeting last? Could we meet at eight?”

“That should be all right.”

“Good luck tomorrow. Let's hope your visit obviates any need for a lineup for your friend Courtland.”

“You mean because he can exonerate himself?”

“Or because he confesses to you.”

Reuben felt he must make sure that Courtland would be in Indianapolis the next day. He hesitated to call him directly—he wanted to raise his questions face to face, and ran the risk of revealing or at least hinting at his purpose in a telephone call. What he needed to do was contact Grace Wrightson, Dan's long-time secretary, but he did not know her number. He had a bit of luck in this, getting her home number from directory assistance in Indianapolis and then finding her at home.

“Sorry I'm a little out of breath,” she said. “I just returned from a nice walk after church.”

“Grace, I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I need to know if Dan will be in and available tomorrow. It turns out I have some legal papers he needs to sign, so I may send a messenger out if he's going to be there.”

He realized his subterfuge was probably transparent—there were no “papers” and he would be the “messenger”—but he stuck with it.

If Ms. Wrightson saw through his ruse, she did not let on.

“Mr. Frost, what do you think? With the Indianapolis 500 about to take place?” she replied.

“Oh, of course. Does he have a car in the race?”

“Does a chicken have feathers? Yes indeed. With his long-time driver, Bruce Gemelli. So if you have papers to be signed, just have your man come here. If Mr. Courtland isn't in the office, it'll be easy enough to find him at the raceway.”

Reuben made arrangements for his trip and return and then tried to concentrate on the Sunday
Times
. Without success.

Twenty-One

Indianapolis

If Cynthia had a sleepless night on Saturday, thinking about Dan Courtland, Reuben had one on Sunday, pondering the same subject. He rehearsed over and over in his mind how he could question and confront his old friend in the most tactful way possible.

Still drowsy, he rose early to get the 7:59 am American Airlines puddle-jumper flight to Indianapolis. Frost called Grace Wrightson from Indianapolis International Airport to announce his arrival. She was puzzled.

“You told me you were sending a messenger,” she said. “Pretty high-class messenger, if you ask me.”

“I apologize, Grace. I need to see Dan personally. Is he there?”

“He's out at the Speedway. You can reach him on his cell. Do you have the number?”

“Yes,” Reuben said. He had not counted on having to chase his client down.

Dan answered immediately when Reuben called.

“What on earth are you doing here? Grace told me you were sending a messenger with some papers I have to sign—for what reason you've kept to yourself and not told me,” he stormed. “So what is this all about?”

“I'd rather tell you in person.”

“All right. Come on out here to the Speedway. Ask for Gasoline Alley. I'll be with my crew. Pick me up and we can go to the trailer I have nearby.”

“I'll leave right now.”

“Please do.”

Reuben had no idea what to expect. He had heard Dan rhapsodize about car racing over the years, and had come to Indianapolis often to visit CDF, but he had never been to the Speedway. Nor had he ever had any desire to visit it. Car racing struck him as a noisy and immensely boring sport; he even felt silly telling his taxi driver to take him to something called “Gasoline Alley.” The driver took him for an aficionado, an idea Reuben put to rest as gently as he could.

Gasoline Alley and the adjoining garages proved to be a sight the likes of which Reuben had never seen. An enormous complex filled with racing cars, each one attended by a crew of mechanics hovering over the engine and concentrating intensely. All Reuben could think of was a hospital operating room with a team of surgeons working on a patient. The most obvious difference was the high noise level coming from an astounding assortment of tools, hoses, pumps, drills, and heaven alone knew what else.

The strange new scene and the noise were disorienting, but Reuben was able to find Courtland's workspace and spotted Dan himself bent over a racing car like the mechanics. The two men shouted greetings at each other, and Dan led Frost to the exit and to his nearby trailer. Both were silent as they walked—Dan because of a premonition of bad news and Reuben reluctant to reveal the purpose of his visit until they were in quiet privacy.

The trailer was quite elaborate and spacious; it had been leased from a company that provided vehicles for stars' dressing rooms on movie locations.

Once settled in the ample sitting area, Reuben began speaking, slowly, gravely, and deliberately.

“This may be the most difficult conversation I've ever had with anyone,” he told Dan. “It's certainly the most difficult one I've ever had with you. A friend and client for what, twenty-five years?”

“Something like that.”

“I need an honest, straightforward answer to a simple question. Were you in New York City the day your daughter was killed—Friday, April twenty-seventh?”

Dan looked startled and then his eyes popped with obvious anger.

“I have an easy answer for that,” he said, obviously suppressing his rage. “That answer is no.”

“You weren't in New York on April twenty-seventh?” Frost repeated.

“For Christ's sake, Reuben, I said no, and I meant it. Are you doubting me?”

“I'm afraid I am. The New York police believe that you were in the City on that date and had lunch with your daughter, Marina, at a restaurant on the Upper East Side called Quatorze Bis.” Reuben had stretched Luis's tentative conclusion into a certainty.

“Is this your idea of friendship, trying to catch an old friend in a lie?”

“Dan, I'm trying to protect you from more probing questions from the police. And questioning that could inevitably leak to your many friends in the press. So let's forget your prior answer and let me ask again—were you in New York City on the day your daughter was murdered?”

Dan sighed deeply and twisted his splayed fingers together.

“All right. Yes, I was in New York that Friday. And yes, I did have lunch with my daughter. It was the last time I saw her.”

“Was that lunch the reason you came to New York?”

“Yes and no,” Dan replied, now a bit calmer. “I flew to New York that day to go up to a country inn outside Highland Falls, upstate from New York City. I was meeting Darcy Watson there for the weekend. It's a place we'd been to several times—comfortable and private. And the nice rustic owners know nothing about Darcy's novels or my money.

“After we'd made our plans—Darcy and I—it occurred to me that I could have lunch with Marina and try, once more, to reconcile her to my romance, liaison, whatever you want to call it, with Darcy. Even though she had introduced us, Marina was very hostile to our relationship and I really wanted to talk her out of what I thought was an unreasonable, irrational, and jealous position.

“I failed. We had a very cool parting, which I have deeply regretted ever since that day.”

“And after the lunch …”

“I picked up a rental car at the airport and drove to Highland Falls.”

“Was Darcy with you?”

“As a matter of fact, no. Our plans got screwed up because she's having some work done on her house down in Pennsylvania. She got held up that day by having to meet with her contactor about the latest crisis, so it was agreed I'd go ahead to Highland Falls and she would follow by train Saturday morning.”

“So you left New York sometime in the afternoon?” Reuben asked.

“Exactly.”

“And your rustic proprietors can vouch for the fact that you were there Friday night?”

“Of course.”

“One more sensitive question,” Reuben said.

“That seems to be the only kind you're capable of asking,” Courtland shot back.

“Why didn't you mention this last encounter with your daughter when we had dinner that night at the Four Seasons?”

“I'll tell you exactly why. First of all, I knew that it was totally irrelevant to any investigation of Marina's murder. And second of all, having been a suspect at the time of Gretchen's death—however misplaced that suspicion was—I didn't want to go through that again. And I knew that if I was placed anywhere near the vicinity of Marina's murder, eventually there'd be a shadow over me once again. I didn't need that.”

“But now the shadow's there anyway. So best you tell me the name of the inn you were at and the names of the owners so the police can check your alibi.”

“So you don't believe me?”

“Look, Dan, I may, but the NYPD will want to be sure. Please don't take offense. I'm only trying to help.”

Dan gave him the information requested and then said, “Right now, I don't know whether to thank you or to throw you out.”

“I understand. You don't need to throw me out. I have a plane back to New York in two hours. But just let me say I understand your dark thoughts. And I repeat: I'm trying to be of help.”

The two men stood and Reuben was about to embrace Dan, but his old friend refused him.

“Don't hug me, Reuben. Just go away and let me be alone with those dark thoughts.”

“Fair enough, Dan. Let's hope our next meeting will be a happier one.”

“Good-bye, Reuben. Have a nice day.”

“Assuming his alibi holds up, you can scratch Dan Courtland from our list,” Reuben told Luis when he called the detective that evening. He gave him a full account of his day in Indianapolis and the information about Dan's trysting place in Highland Falls.

“I'll check it out first thing in the morning,” Luis told him.

“You'll still need to check on Darcy Watson. Remember Cynthia found out she was at the Cygnus Club the night of the murder, and she apparently didn't leave the city to join Courtland until Saturday.”

“If I'm lucky, I can get hold of her tomorrow, too. It should be one of her teaching days in New York.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Sure, and I'll see you tomorrow night in any event.”