Skating on Thin Ice (25 page)

If my mention of Paul Valery’s name had caused Devlin to become ill at ease, the name Gemell increased his apparent discomfort fivefold. I expected him to bring the conversation to an abrupt end and order me to leave, but instead he mustered a bit of bravado.

“So?” he said, cocking his head at me. “Am I not allowed to talk to people?”

“I assume you’re aware that Mr. Gemell is considering buying the ice arena from Eldridge Coddington.”

“Sure, I’d heard that,” he said. “He had some questions on how the facility is run, and if I intend to keep my program there. Nothing could be more natural for someone interested in investing in it. Do you question that?”

“Under normal circumstances, Mr. Gemell’s interest in the Cabot Cove Ice Arena wouldn’t raise any eyebrows—except for the fact that I’ve been told that it was he who introduced you to Paul Valery in Las Vegas.”

It was time for Devlin to do what I’d expected him to do a few minutes earlier. He ended the conversation by saying, “I don’t know much about you, Mrs. Fletcher, except I understand that you’re a successful writer. I suggest you stick to murder mysteries—fiction seems to be your strength—and keep your nose out of other people’s business. Who are you to be digging into my background and making accusations that are totally false? You have some nerve coming here with your imagined scenarios. That may work when you’re writing one of your books, but it has no place in my life. Now, excuse me. I have more important things to do.”

I’d wanted to press forward and follow up with more questions, but it was obvious that wouldn’t happen during this visit. I stood, straightened my skirt, zipped up my jacket, and said, “I need to call for a taxi. I don’t drive.”

He looked at me as though I might be from another galaxy. “You don’t drive?” he said. “I hope you don’t expect me to ferry you somewhere after the accusations you just aimed at me.”

“Not at all,” I said. I pulled out my cell phone and pressed the speed dial for the taxi driver’s cell phone. He answered immediately and said he’d be there in five minutes.

“Thank you for your time, Brian,” I said. “I know that you haven’t found this pleasant, but I remind you that one of your pupils has been murdered at the very arena where he trained with you. You may not think it’s my business, but I was there the night they dragged Alexei from the ice pit, and I intend to do everything I can to help Sheriff Metzger solve the case. Again, thank you for allowing me to stop in unannounced.”

The minute I got into the taxi, I called Mort Metzger at his office.

“Mort? I have to see you. It’s urgent,” I said.

“Sure, Mrs. F.”

“Do you still have in custody the person you claim was behind incidents at the ice arena?”

“Yeah. In fact, I intend to question him again in about an hour.”

“I assume you’re talking about Thomas Mulvaney.”

“His name is Thomas all right, but his last name isn’t Mulvaney. It’s Hunter.”

“I’m not surprised that he changed it, considering his background.”

“What are you talking about, Mrs. F.? What do you know about him?”

“Quite a bit. I’ve learned a few things that I think that
you’ll
want to know before you question him.”

“Can’t wait to hear what it is,” he said.

“And I can’t wait to tell you.”

M
ort offered me coffee when I arrived, as he always does, and I declined, as I usually do. There was a time when he was fussy about his coffee and researched good blends and fancy pots. But the busier he got, the less effort went into the beverage, and eventually his became like all other station-house brews—terrible. For some reason, every police precinct or station house in the country makes awful coffee. It’s as though cops are taught while going through the police academy how to take perfectly good ground coffee beans and turn them into acrid mud.

Mort poured himself a cup. “You’re sure? It’s Sumatra.”

“Another time, thanks,” I said. “I’ve had my quota for the day.” I took the chair opposite his. “Did you get anything from Alexei’s cell phone?” I asked.

“The phone itself was ruined, but we got a list of his calls from the telephone company. Nothing really helpful. A few calls from the rink, but we can’t tell who he spoke with.” He took a sip of his coffee, winced, and put it down. “Okay, Mrs. F., what’s this information you’ve come up with about the kid I have back there in one of the cells?” He tipped his head toward the jail.

“First, Mort, may I ask what led you to bring him in for questioning?”

“We got a call from one of the security guards at the ice arena. The kid was hanging around the door to the ladies’ room, trying to catch a peek inside, I guess. Apparently they’d caught him at it before, and this time they were willing to press charges. One of my deputies headed over there and brought him in.”

“What has he told you?” I asked.

“Not much. He’s like a little boy. Just sits there and pouts, won’t answer any questions. The name on his California driver’s license is Hunter, says he’s twenty-one, but I doubt it. The license looks like a forgery. We’re checking with Motor Vehicles out there. But you said his real name is something else.”

“That’s right. His real name is Thomas Mulvaney. He’s been working as a waiter at Mara’s as Tommy Hunter.”

“I knew I’d seen him somewhere around town. How long has he been at Mara’s?”

“Not very long. He told me he’s originally from the ‘flatlands of southern Nevada,’ but there are no flatlands in southern Nevada. He’s from San Francisco. He was accused out there of stalking Christine Allen, the young woman who was Alexei Olshansky’s skating partner.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I have a friend out there who used to be with the PD.” I didn’t want to reveal John Molito’s name; I didn’t want him accused of breaking department rules. Mort was wise to my fudging. He didn’t ask for a name.

“So this Tommy’s a real foul ball,” Mort said.

“He told Mara his parents were killed in a car wreck, but I’m not sure we can trust anything he says. He’s troubled, that’s for certain. I think he’s the one who wrote those nasty notes to Alexei Olshansky, the one found in Alexei’s room, and the other that was with flowers outside the rink.”

Mort’s eyes widened. “Then that means there’s a pretty good chance that he killed Olshansky.”

“It certainly doesn’t rule him out as a suspect,” I said, hoping Mort wouldn’t jump to premature conclusions.

“It’ll take a lot more to make a solid case against him,” he said.

“You say he won’t answer any questions,” I said.

“That’s right, Mrs. F. Clammed right up like a losing tout at the track. Refuses to say a word.”

“I wonder if he’d speak with me. I was introduced to him at Mara’s and he seemed friendly enough.”

“If he won’t talk to me, an officer of the law, I doubt if he’ll talk to you.”

“Well, sometimes someone who is less threatening might be able to get through.”

“I didn’t threaten him,” Mort said, looking offended.

“Of course you didn’t, but as you pointed out, you’re in uniform. That alone can be intimidating, especially to a young boy. Why not let me take a shot at him?”

Mort rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay,” he said, getting up and coming around the desk. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the squawk-and-talk.”

Tommy was led into a relatively comfortable interview room, at least when compared to most police interrogation rooms I’ve seen. His face expressed surprise to see me. I greeted him with a big smile and extended my hand, which he tentatively took. Fear was etched into his eyes, and I felt sorry for him. No one, of course, including me, would dismiss his activities as a stalker, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t respond to his vulnerability. He sat on one side of the table; I took a chair opposite him. Mort leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Sheriff Metzger thought you might be more at ease talking with someone other than a member of the police,” I said.

“Are you a lawyer?” Tommy asked.

“No. If you remember back to when we were first introduced, you found out that I write murder mysteries. I know you said you didn’t read much, but maybe I can get you interested in books. I’ll be happy to give you one of mine.”

“Would you sign it to me?”

“If you like.”

He started to say something but held back, his eyes darting to Mort and then to the floor.

“Would you prefer that Sheriff Metzger leave us alone, Tommy?”

He nodded and managed to say, “I think so.”

I looked to Mort, who shrugged and left the room, but not without saying, “We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Mrs. F.”

I enjoyed a distinct advantage over Mort because I knew more about the young man’s stalking history. I decided to try to catch him off guard with that knowledge and began by saying, “I know that you’re a fan of Christine Allen’s.”

His eyes took on life that hadn’t been there before.

“She’s my girlfriend. We’ve been best friends for years.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, but her father doesn’t want us to be together.” He caught himself. “Hey! How do you know about ... about me and Chris?”

“I have some friends in San Francisco, Tommy. They told me about the trouble you had there.”

“See? It was her father. She wants to be with me,” he said. “I know she does. He told the cops I was planning to hurt her, but I would never hurt her. She knows that. We’re going to run away. We’re going to pretend that I abducted her. Like a princess, you know, in the storybooks.”

My mind flashed back to first time I’d seen Tommy. It was at Charles Department Store, the night Irina Bednikova had come in. He’d been buying duct tape and white rope used for hanging laundry. It was possible his abduction fantasy about Chris included tying her up. I shivered at the thought.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hurt her,” I said to him, “but you can understand why she would be upset having someone pay too much attention to her.”

“I just want her to know who I am,” he said. He slumped back in his chair and seemed more relaxed.

“We’ll talk more about Christine at another time,” I said, “but—”

“We’re going to get married,” he said, absently. “And I’ll be the only one she skates with.”

I decided to change direction and become more specific in my questions. I had no idea how long Mort would allow me to be in there with him and didn’t want to be removed before I had a chance to ask what I considered to be the most important ones.

“Tommy, did you write notes to Alexei Oshansky, the Russian skater who was killed?”

His relaxed demeanor changed. He sat up straight and looked around the room as though seeking a means of escape.

“Did you?” I repeated.

“He doesn’t deserve to have her,” he said.

“But he didn’t deserve to die, either.”

He’d referred to Olshansky in the present tense, as though he were still alive.

“I didn’t hurt him.”

“I didn’t say you did, Tommy. I just asked whether you had written notes to him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We have those notes, Tommy, written on Mara’s order pads and with the same grease pencils you use at the luncheonette. Comparing your handwriting to the writing on the notes won’t take very much.” I didn’t say that Mort wasn’t prepared to pay for such a service just yet. But the thought alone might convince Tommy he was caught in the net. “I would like to help you, Tommy, but I can’t if you aren’t honest with me. Sheriff Metzger naturally wonders whether you had anything to do with Alexei’s death.”

I waited for a response.

“Did you have anything to do with it, Tommy?”

“He didn’t deserve to have her,” he said again.

“You aren’t doing much to help yourself,” I said.

“Chris and I saw him,” he said.

“Alexei?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When did you see him?”

“That night.”

“The night he died?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Chris was at the rink with you.”

He nodded. “I saw him go in where they keep those big machines.”

“The Zambonis?”

“The big machines.”

“Did you go in with him?”

He shook his head.

“Did you see someone else go in with him?”

He nodded.

Before I could follow up, he jumped to his feet, wrapped his arms around himself, and trembled. “I don’t want to talk anymore,” he said.

He went to the door and pounded on it. Mort immediately opened it and said, “I think we’d better end this, Mrs. F.”

He was right, of course. I’d had no idea how troubled Tommy was. It was shocking to witness the change in him from when I’d first met him at Mara’s. There he’d been friendly and open. Now he’d closed himself off from the world, wrapped up in his fantasy and totally unaware of the trouble he was in.

“You almost had him going there, Mrs. F.,” Mort said as we settled back into his office.

“You heard him say that Chris was at the rink the night Alexei died. She had denied that.”

“Yeah, but who knows if she was there for real or only in his imagination.”

“He said he saw Alexei go into the Zamboni garage the night he was killed,” I said, “and that he saw someone go in with him.”

“Shame he clammed up after he said that. Maybe he actually saw the murderer.”

“Or, in his mixed-up mind, was referring to himself in the third person.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks for getting the info about his being a stalker back in Frisco.”

“I have more information for you, Mort.”

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s about Brian Devlin and the man Eve Simpson says is interested in buying the ice arena. I went by Devlin’s house before coming here and—”