Simple (11 page)

Dolan was his usual chipper self. Today he wasn't dressed formally, just a crisp white polo shirt and sporty pants, not jeans. He carried his dignity in his walk. He said, and it wasn't much of a joke, “Fifty percent of these guys are going to know us. Watch out for projectiles.”

They explained their business to a sallow guy at the desk who did nothing to disguise a mood both sluggish and grim. He called for an escort to take them to the interview room on Cal Hathaway's pod and for the escort on that pod to bring Cal to them.

A murmur that was surely the beginning of some idle speculative gossip started up as soon as they came in sight of a few cells.

Christie wondered all over again if he could have the strength of mind to make a life out of a prison sentence or if he would simply go mad.

Dolan said, as if hearing him, “Unfortunately it's the ones who don't know how to spend a day who end up here.”

Christie had to laugh at their like-mindedness. They entered the interview room and sat at the small metal table that was bolted to the floor.

Soon Cal came in. He was shaking, clearly terrified. He dropped into a chair.

Christie began carefully, “I know you went through all this yesterday, but we need to keep very good records. Let's try to get comfortable and take our time. I'm Commander Christie. This is Detective Dolan. We're part of the same squad as the guys who talked to you. Understand? We need to ask you some questions.”

“Okay.”

“First of all, are you doing all right?”

“Not really.”

“Why is that?”

“People here want to talk. I don't get into that.”

“I don't blame you,” Christie said.

Dolan added, “You have to do a little bit just to keep them off you, right?”

Cal nodded.

“So,” Christie said, “I just want to start with something simple, but direct and important to your situation. The discrepancy. You said one thing, then another. Last night you said yes, you had killed Cassie Price. Then later, when you were booked, you said no, you hadn't. Can you explain that?”

“No.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I don't know.” Both detectives paused, waiting. They did the twelve count. When they were about to give up, Cal said, “I don't know what to think. What if I did?”

A little shiver went through Christie. “Are you saying you don't know if you did?”

“Yes.”

“How can that be?”

“It's hard to explain.”

“Drink? Were you drinking?”

“I don't drink. I'm not against it, I just don't, unless I go to some event and everybody has a beer.”

“What kind of event would that be?”

“There aren't too many. Like there was one with the company that sold me my house for all the Oakland owners. It was a party. I handed out my work fliers. I had a beer there. I just never think to buy it.”

“Did you have anything to drink last Thursday night?”

“No. I'm sure I didn't.”

They let some time go by again.

“See, I used to have blackouts. That's the problem. I haven't had any for a long time. But what if I had one and didn't know I did?”

“I see,” Christie said. “When is the last one you remember?”

“Two years out of high school. I had two in high school, and then the two after that, but then I thought they were gone. For good.”

Christie looked to Dolan, who said, “If you did have one, let's see, you would have walked over to Cassie Price's place? Or what? Driven?”

“I just live a street away. I would never drive. But why would I go there?”

“Can you think of a reason?”

“If I got mixed up and thought I should be at work. I don't think I ever mixed up day and night before. But they asked me if the gloves were my gloves and they were. They were mine.” He was still shaky. He looked at his hands as if they wore the gloves.

“That is puzzling. You keep the gloves with you, then?”

“No, no, well, I might sometimes, but these old ones I just left there. The weather, it's been dry, and I was working on her porch.”

Christie gave Dolan the nod to speak.

Dolan said, “Tell me, what kind of thing about her would make you angry? About Cassie?”

Cal heaved a big sigh and knuckled his mouth. Christie studied the fellow. He was not bad looking. Just the slightest bit unusual—the color of his eyes, green he supposed, and something about the way the features went together that was arresting. He flushed, but it didn't seem to be Dolan's question making him angry—he didn't look angry; the guy had blushed before in what seemed like typical shyness.

“Nothing. She was a friendly person. I never got angry with her.”

“Never?” Dolan asked.

“No.”

“This is a puzzle, then,” Dolan said lightly. “Unless you were in love with her and she didn't love you back, that kind of thing. That can cause anger.”

Cal sat straighter. “I liked her. I felt … love for her. I worried about her. I never thought of her as loving me back.”

“Why was that?” Dolan asked in his honey voice.

“She loved somebody else.”

“How do you know? She told you?”

“I saw her crying. I … saw that.”

“I've seen some guys,” Dolan said easily, “that can't stand a woman crying. They need to, you know, stop it. Did you maybe feel that way?”

“No.”

“Hm. Who was she in love with?”

“I don't know. She didn't say.”

“You have any ideas?”

“No. But she came home … that day, Thursday, she'd been drinking. I never saw her like that. And … there was a car going down the alley, kind of checking on her.”

“Oh. You didn't tell this to the others. Why?”

“It's easier to talk to you. They … I didn't feel … it was right to let people know she was unhappy in love.”

“How did you know she'd been drinking?”

“The way she walked and held on to things. And she said, ‘Don't ever drink margaritas,' or something like that.”

“Why did you not say these things before? About her drinking and being with someone?”

“It felt private. She kept it private.”

“I see. You really did like her.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of car?”

“Um, not sure. Small to medium. That's all I saw.”

“Would you do us a favor?” Christie pushed a legal pad over. “Write me a description of the car. Or draw it. Either way.”

He didn't draw. He wrote,
small or compact, hatchback shape, gray or silver.

They watched him take a pen, write, hand things back.

“Tell us again, where did you see this car?”

“In the alley. Back of the house. Checking, probably, did she get parked and up to the house okay.”

“You didn't get a good look at it?”

“I didn't see it at first. I was watching Cassie. Then I saw somebody go kind of slow, then fast. That was it.”

“Hmmm,” Christie said. “We might be back. We appreciate your cooperation. When do you see your lawyer?”

“I don't know anything about that. Do you know?”

“Probably not till Monday, but we'll look into it. There'll be all kinds of people coming to see you. That priest you worked for—he said he might pop up. If you like him, you can put him on your list.”

“I like him. I don't know anything about a list.”

“They'll give you one.”

When Christie and Dolan left, they retraced their steps with the corrections officer going ahead of them. In a quiet voice, Christie asked his partner, “What did you see?”

Dolan said, “He's either really really slick or he's potentially innocent. He's got me thinking about this other guy and the margaritas. Plus. He's either faking it or he's actually left-handed.”

“Ditto.” They'd seen the close-up photos of the dead woman. The suggestion the photos made and the coroner corroborated right off was that the perp was right-handed.

In silent agreement they shut up for the rest of the walk in case the corrections officer was listening in.

When they got to the lobby, they found the grim desk guard arguing with a woman, stating, “Those are the rules. Accept it. See these detectives? They just saw him.” The desk guard turned to them. “She says she has to be sure her son's okay. He's okay, right? This is the mother.”

She was a very neat woman, dressed in gray pants and a purple jacket with a bright white top under it. Cal's green eyes had come from her. She looked at the two detectives pleadingly. “I don't have much time off. I need to see him. I called and they said visiting was on Saturday.”

“Whoever told you,” the guard said, “forgot to tell you he has to fill out paperwork for who can visit him. Nobody did that yet.”

“Tell you what,” Christie told the man. “She was next on my list to interview. We can go sit outside with her while you get the paperwork done.”

“Today?”

“I would if I were you. It's not onerous. It's simple. It's human to let her see her son.”

The guard's jaw dropped.

“It won't take you a minute,” Christie persisted. He waited until the man began to pull out paperwork. Christie wasn't trying to be a saint. This simple intervention had clearly already bought the mother's cooperation and gratitude. It was two o'clock.

*   *   *

IT WAS TWO O'CLOCK
when Greer and Potocki woke Iris Mender.

Iris Mender was a slightly plump woman whose hair—not too recently dyed a medium brown—exposed gray roots. She insisted she didn't mind being awakened because sooner or later she hoped to get her sleep patterns back to normal.

“You want some iced tea?” she asked, bleary eyed.

“No, thanks, but you go ahead and have some. Take your time.”

“It might perk me up,” she said, going to the kitchen.

Greer and Potocki looked around her pleasantly disordered place. They sat together on one of two sofas, the one she hadn't been sleeping on, after they moved a sweater and a few pieces of mail aside. On the table in front of them was an empty plate with crumbs, several boxes of chocolate, and plenty of newspapers and magazines. Not surprisingly, the common sedative, TV, had probably put Mender to sleep. It was on, tuned to a movie station. Karl Malden being a priest. A good one.

Iris Mender returned to the living room. “I did talk to some police yesterday. Did they tell you?”

“Oh, yes, we read the report of the interview. We thought it was interesting that you knew both the victim and the accused. You apparently hired him to do some work.”

Mender worked to finger-comb her tousled hair and to bring herself fully awake. “I … had him replace all my windows. See?” She pointed. “I liked him a lot. I don't know what to say.”

“Did you know of any relationship between him and the deceased?” Potocki asked.

“She was only two houses over.” Mender pointed to her left. “I could see he was working there. From my back porch and whatnot, from my window, too. That's all I know. It's a terrible thing. Are you sure he's the one?”

They hesitated and checked with each other. Colleen took the question and rolled it in police-speak. “Let's just say the investigation is ongoing. These things are complex and take a long time to dot all the i's. We need to eliminate certain other possibilities. Do you have any idea of anyone else who would want to hurt her?”

She made a series of faces as she worked through the question. “No.”

“You hesitated. Why?”

“Would you like to sit outside? I have a glider.”

“Sure!” Colleen said. “I always liked a glider.”

When they were settled, Potocki on a lawn chair, Iris Mender said, “It may be I'm a little crazy. I know that. I have dreams that seem so real.” She sighed.

This is an epidemic, Colleen thought, people not knowing sleep from waking. “Is this about the gray car following her? You told our other detectives.”

“No. I was right out here. I saw that. I know I saw that.”

“Show us where?'

She pointed down to the corner to her right, saying, “Came from the boulevard,
she
did, and then this other car.”

“Who was driving it?”

“A man.”

“Can you describe him?”

“No beard or anything like that. Just a guy.”

“You said there was something else? Is this about the black car?”

“Yes. That's the part that was like a dream. I didn't tell the others everything. I hate it when people tell me I'm nuts.”

“What was it you saw? Just tell us again.”

“There was a black car in the alley in the middle of the night. Behind her place. I couldn't see the car until it left, but I saw a man going to the car. The only thing is I only saw him at the last minute and I can't swear where he came from.”

At night, and two houses over. And maybe coming from somewhere else. Colleen asked anyway. “Could you see the man clearly?”

“This is why I hate to say it. Why I didn't tell the others. He looked sparkly. Kind of like an astronaut. All white.”

Colleen tried not to look surprised.

“And you feel sure this same person is the one who drove the car away?”

“He went around behind her garage and I guess got in the car there. But I could see the same something that reminded me of an astronaut in the car window.”

“Describe it for us. And the car. As well as you can.”

Colleen felt happy. She liked wild improbability, the chill down her spine, the puzzle to be solved.

*   *   *

ELINOR HATHAWAY
sat on
a bench outside the jail next to Christie. Dolan stood, so as not to crowd her. She kept looking inside, no doubt to see if there was any activity on the paperwork.