Slice (22 page)

“I was only here for a matter of moments,” Manning said. “You wouldn't even let me inside.”

“I know.”

“So I had plenty of time to leave here, get in my car, drive into town, and murder Mrs. Whitman in cold blood.”

“I know.” She looked at him. “But you didn't.”

He smiled. “Why did you say what you did? I appreciate the alibi, given the vendetta Wolfowitz seems to have against me. But . . . you just gave a false statement. I can't allow you to do that.”

“What will you do? Go down to the station and get me in trouble?”

Manning sighed. “Why, Jessie? Why would you want to help me?”

“You came over here wanting to help me, didn't you?”

“Yes . . .”

“And aren't we all connected? Moving in the same formation like one single organism?”

“Still, if it's discovered that I wasn't here during those hours . . .”

“There's no one who can dispute it.”

Manning sighed.

“I have a feeling we're in this together, John,” Jessie said, placing her hand on his shoulder once again.

He reached up and placed his hand over hers.

F
ORTY-EIGHT

T
hree days later, Monica was still ripping mad at her sister. She had seen Jessie that day out in her backyard, sitting on the swings with John Manning, and she'd watched the policemen traipsing up the hill to speak with them. When the phone had rung a moment later, Monica hadn't really been all that surprised to learn from Gert Gorin that Mrs. Whitman, Abby's teacher, was dead and murdered. She'd suspected yet another calamity was heading their way as she'd watched Jessie sit there with Manning, being confronted yet again by the police.

So when Todd had suggested they invite Jessie to join them this evening, Monica had quickly vetoed the idea. Instead, Mr. Thayer had joined them for dinner.

“The lamb was excellent, my dear Monica,” the old man said, placing his napkin on his plate as Monica began clearing the table.

“I'm glad you liked it,” she replied.

Todd was refilling their wineglasses. “I'm glad you could come over tonight,” he told Thayer. “I've been wanting to ask your opinion about some bonds. . . .”

“No work talk tonight,” Monica scolded. “Can't we talk about pleasant things?”

“Well, I'm not sure how pleasant it is,” Mr. Thayer said, “but I am highly intrigued by the idea that we have a serial killer loose in town.”

Todd sipped his wine. “Well, two killings isn't necessarily a serial killer.”

“But in both cases, the throats were slit,” Mr. Thayer said.

“Okay,” Monica said, rejoining them at the table. “Maybe I'll let you go back to talking about work. It's better than talking about the killings.”

Mr. Thayer leaned in toward them, his gray eyebrows furrowed. “I've seen police cars over to John Manning's house twice in the past few days.”

“With reason, I imagine,” Todd said.

“Stop it, Todd,” Monica replied. “There is no connection between John Manning and Mrs. Whitman. If there's any connection between the two killings it's—”

She stopped short, but they knew what she was about to say.

“Poor Jessie,” Todd said softly.

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Mr. Thayer. “So soon after she comes home to have to deal with two such horrific events . . .”

Monica said nothing. She stood, resuming her efforts to clear away the dishes. She piled the last of the dinner plates on top of one another and carried them out into the kitchen. She could hear the men talking—stocks and bonds. Good. She'd rather them talk about Wall Street than sit there and voice misplaced sympathy for Jessie.

It's all her own fault
, Monica thought as she set the dishes into the sink.
If she hadn't been so damn headstrong, taking up with that horrible Emil Deetz, none of us would be facing these suspicions now. . . .

But then came another voice. . . .

It was Monica's little conscience, which she didn't listen to very often, nagging deep inside her.

“That's crazy,” Monica whispered, arguing with herself as she ran the dishes under water before placing them in the dishwasher. “She was well over Todd before she took up with Emil.”

If anything, Monica assured herself, it was
Heather
who'd ruined Jessie's life by stealing Bryan away from her.

Monica squinted her eyes as she looked out of the window over the sink. Was that Bryan she'd just seen lurking outside in the dark?

She tried to get a better look, but the glimpse she'd spotted just moments before was gone now. It must have been an illusion. She'd been thinking about Bryan and then she'd thought she'd seen him outside the window.

But in that split second she could have sworn she'd seen Bryan Pierce moving stealthily through the yard, past Monica's house and toward Jessie's.

Wouldn't that be just like her?
Monica thought.

It wouldn't surprise Monica in the least to find out her sister was carrying on with Bryan. Jessie brought scandal with her wherever she went.

F
ORTY-NINE

“W
hat I want to know,” Chief Walters was demanding of Detective Wolfowitz, “is why you haven't yet asked John Manning to explain his reasons for keeping a dossier on Emil Deetz, as well as whether he was in Mexico on the day Deetz was gunned down by police?”

Wolfie sat back in his chair, crossed his arms against his chest, and grinned. “Oh, so now you think I'm not so crazy for suspecting that our esteemed author might be involved in these killings?”

“I'm just expecting you to follow proper police procedure, that's all.” Walters eyed him with her sharp blue eyes. “When you find evidence, you question a suspect.”

“I'm planning on questioning him. But this new information has led me to postpone it a little while longer. And B'lin, you've gotta admit that if Manning had known I'd seen that dossier, he'd have quickly gotten on the horn to warn these other guys not to speak with me.”

“These other guys” were four associates of Emil Deetz, three in prison and one living in Hartford whom the cops had never been able to pin anything on. After speaking with dozens of Deetz's old cronies, Wolfie had found these four guys who admitted yes, they had been contacted by a man named Manning—and paid a considerable amount of money to tell what they knew. They weren't aware that he was a bestselling author; they'd figured “Manning” to be his first name. But the description of the guy was identical in every case, and matched Sayers' Brook's illustrious and enigmatic resident.

“So he told them he was writing a book?” the chief said. “So far, I see nothing suspicious about that. He's an author, remember?”

“Come on, B'lin. You know something smells fishy. Why was he in Mexico at the same time as Deetz's killing? Why did he buy the property from the Clarkson estate? And what is the FBI not telling us? Why won't they confirm or deny that Manning is the guy mentioned in their agent's report?”

Walters shook her head, her short gray pageboy moving like an iron helmet. “That is indeed strange. They usually cooperate in local investigations.”

“I suspect they're watching him, too, and don't want to tip their hand.” Wolfie was certain that was the case. It made him even more determined to find out the goods on Manning. He resented the feds for not sharing information and for moving in on a case that should fall under local jurisdiction. He'd show them.

“So what did these pals of Deetz tell you?” Walters asked. “What kind of information was Manning looking for when he questioned them?”

“Everything. He wanted every detail of their drug-and-porn ring. Where they got the drugs. What they paid for them. What kind of profit they made. Where the porn was made.” Wolfie leaned forward in his chair. “Eastern Europe, if you want to know. And it's the kind of stuff that could land you in jail for a very long time.”

“Well, it did indeed land three of those guys in jail,” Walters said. “The porn charges against them, for distributing and aiding in producing, landed them longer sentences than the drug charges.”

“Yes, they sure did. Only one guy fell through the net. A guy named Ernie.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He lives up in Hartford. Very cagey. Obviously scared that he'll say something that will finally pin some of the charges to him. But I kept assuring him that by cooperating, he won't be arrested.”

“What did he tell you about Manning?”

“That one day he picks up his phone and it's Manning, identifying himself as a reporter and asking for an interview. How Manning got his number, Ernie had no idea. It's unpublished, and even then, listed under his girlfriend's name.”

“So how do you think Manning got the number?”

“The man apparently has connections.”

“Okay, go on.”

Wolfie leaned even farther forward in his chair. “The first time Manning called, Ernie hung up on him. So Manning called again. And again and again, each time getting a thud in his ear. Finally Manning shows up at the guy's house, and flashed a wad of cash when Ernie opened the door. Ernie lives in pretty squalid conditions, so he gave in and let Manning inside.”

“Did he tell him everything he wanted to know?”

“I suppose. After three hours, Manning seemed satisfied. Ernie wouldn't let him tape-record anything, so Manning scribbled everything down in a notebook. He wanted every detail of their illegal activities, but he seemed particularly interested in where they'd stashed their cash. The FBI report does mention a large amount of money that was never recovered. Looks like it could be in the millions. Deetz was just one operator in a very large scam, but he was moving his way up the ladder, and apparently was holding on to a big stash. After he got gunned down in Mexico, the rest of the ring was either arrested or scattered. And it's suspected that they're competing with the FBI to find that money.”

“So which side is Manning working for?”

“Your guess is as good as mine at this point.” Wolfie smirked. “But the fact that he bought the property next to Jessie Clarkson suggests to me he's working with the bad guys. I think that money was stashed on the estate, and Manning bought the chunk that he needed. And when his wife found out what he was involved in, he killed her.”

Chief Walters frowned. “And what evidence do you have to support
that
?”

“That part's just a hunch.” Wolfie smiled. “For now.”

“Where did Ernie tell Manning they'd hidden the money?”

“He didn't know. Only Deetz knew that. All Ernie knew was that it had been buried somewhere.”

“And you think it had been buried on the Clarkson property.”

Wolfie nodded. “The part that is now the Manning property.”

Walters leaned back in her chair. “I still think you've got to confront Manning with this information soon.”

“I hear you, B'lin. And I think I'm finally at that point where a confrontation can take place without messing up any other sources.” A grin slipped across his face. “And to be honest, I'm relishing the idea of seeing the look on his face when I tell him that I know he's been digging around into Emil Deetz's past.” His smile faded as quickly as it appeared. “And I did tell you, didn't I, that last I saw our esteemed author, he was sitting on a swing set with none other than Jessie Clarkson?”

“Yes, you told me that. As well as the fact that she provided him with an alibi for the night of Theresa Whitman's murder.”

“Things add up, don't they?”

The chief raised her eyebrows. “Show me your math, Wolfie.”

“Don't you think it's curious that Jessie returned to Sayer's Brook when she did? I always suspected she knew more about Deetz's drug deals and shady connections than she let on. Maybe she knew where the money was hidden, and she's in cahoots with Manning. They sure looked awfully cozy that day. And she admitted they spent several hours together the night before talking about ‘love.' ”

“This is all speculation.”

“But there's reason to speculate. Two people are dead soon after Jessie returns to town. Both are connected to her. And she's sitting there making goo-goo eyes at Manning.”

Chief Walters stood. She seemed to have heard enough. “Your next step is to question Manning about everything you've found out. What I don't want you doing is drawing conclusions before you have any evidence to support them.”

She walked out from around her desk and called to a couple of sergeants passing down the corridor, asking them about another case. Wolfie stewed. Chief Belinda Walters placed too little stock in gut feelings. That was why she'd never be a great police chief. That was why Wolfie should've gotten the job. Sometimes the best police work was done not by relying on hard-and-fast evidence, but that little nagging voice in the back of your head.

And that voice was telling Wolfie that John Manning and Jessie Clarkson were involved in both murders. He'd find the hard-and-fast evidence eventually.

But for now what kept him moving forward was his gut.