Triple Pursuit (18 page)

Authors: Ralph McInerny

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective

BOOK: Triple Pursuit

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Marie Murkin was astonished by Amos Cadbury's decision to switch allegiance and become, if not Jack Gallagher's attorney, a member of the team that would defend him when he was brought to trial, having confessed to the murder of Agatha Rossner.

“He told me he was a fan of Jack's, Marie,” explained Father Dowling.

“Then why did he agree to defend Austin Rooney?”

“Because he thought the parish was implicated.”

Marie pondered that. More puzzling than Amos Cadbury was Father Dowling. Did he really think a confessed murderer should get off scot-free because of legal shenanigans? Not that she thought Amos capable of them, but as far as she had heard, he would not actually question witnesses or address the court or jury. But his presence would have a tremendous value for that rake Jack Gallagher.

“I wonder what Austin Rooney will make of it?”

“He probably will take it as a sign that he no longer needs a lawyer.”

Marie decided on a tour of the school, not one she would call an inspection tour, not out loud anyway, but there was no harm in keeping alive the realization that the dance Edna had agreed to had been a mistake. A case could be made that, if the dance had not taken place, well â¦

The activity in the gymnasium gave no indication that the men and women there were aware of the day's news, or concerned with it if they were. Self-absorption is the mark of age, of course, aches and pains riveting one's attention on oneself. Not that many aches or pains were in evidence here. A cry went up as a small slam was made at a bridge table, and several people converged on the triumphant pair, who were only too happy to review the bidding, the play, the outcome. Among them were Maud Gorman and Desmond O'Toole, Desmond very much in possession of the clinging Maud. Marie joined the happy throng.

“I don't believe a word of it,” Desmond replied, when Marie motioned him away from the table and asked what he thought of his friend Jack Gallagher. Of course Maud floated along with him.

“You don't!”

“A man that age with a mere girl? Impossible.”

On his arm, Maud dropped her eyes and simulated a blush. Desmond patted her arm and said, “It's compensation for what happened here.”

“I don't understand.”

“It will all come out.” He looked knowingly at Marie, then protectively at Maud.

Desmond O'Toole was a fool, of course. He reminded Marie of those who claimed the moon landing was a trick of photography not an actual space journey. Would he have to catch Jack in flagrant delight, or whatever it was, before he believed him? The police certainly believed him. More importantly, Amos Cadbury did. He would not be offering Jack his legal services if he thought it was a mere misunderstanding.

Marie went slowly up the school staircase, trying not to double over to make the ascent easier. Then she thought of Edna, bouncing up and down these stairs dozens of times a day. Her chin lifted, she smiled grimly, and moved swiftly upward, ignoring her creaking joints. Sometimes, climbing the stairs to her apartment, she stopped halfway and rested. No need to rush when no one could see her.

Edna Hospers, at least, had been flabbergasted by the news of the day. “Marie, I am so glad to see you.”

This was unusual warmth, and Marie basked in it, taking a chair and regaining her breath.

“I didn't want to talk to any of my wards about it. If Austin Rooney had come in today, I could have talked to him, but the rest â¦”

“Are playing bridge and spooning.”

“Spooning?”

“I just talked to Desmond and Maud. Desmond thinks it is a publicity trick on Jack Gallagher's part.”

“Some publicity.”

“I suppose he means being irresistible to a woman young enough to be his granddaughter.”

“I keep thinking of her lying there in the snow â¦”

It occurred to Marie that the events recalled dark moments in Edna's life, before she had come to work in the parish, when her husband had come under just such a suspicion.

“Austin actually met the dead woman once.”

“He did?”

“I don't know what the occasion was. I think he met her through his nephew.”

“He must have meant
niece
. Colleen Gallagher works in the same law firm as the dead woman.”

“I thought he said nephew,” Edna said testily.

Marie let it go. Why argue when you know you're right?

It had not been much of a tour of inspection. When she got back to the rectory she found Father Dowling getting ready to go out.

“I am going downtown to talk with Jack Gallagher.”

“I'd like to give him a good talking-to myself.”

“Marie, try to think of him as innocent. At least until he's proven guilty.”

“He's already admitted it!”

“That's one reason I want to talk to him.”

Harry Paquette was taken into custody in Kansas City and would be returned to Fox River in two days. It seemed that Harry Paquette, not Lloyd Danielson, was his real name, the latter having been invented in Minneapolis. Apparently he had no wish to fight extradition, if that right had been explained to him. Coming when it did, this seemed more of a nuisance than a breakthrough, at least to Phil Keegan, but Cy had grown tired of the ceremonial treatment of Jack Gallagher. It was hard to take such a man seriously, no doubt about it, but confessing to murder is a serious thing. Skinner was inspired.

“There can't be this prolonged and unlimited access, Captain,” the assistant prosecutor complained. “I'll want him ready for court in the morning.”

“No need to hurry.”

“Was his confession coerced?”

“Far from it.”

“Was it explained to him that he had a right to a lawyer's presence?”

“He said he didn't need a lawyer to tell him what he had done.”

Of the lawyers Jack had seen since, his son Timothy was understandably more shaken by his father's confession. Cy had heard of the episode in Jack's office during his heyday, when his brother-in-law had given him a beating. All in all, the Gallaghers were a combative
family, including in-laws. It was not every day that you get a retired professor hauled in because he had thrown a punch at someone, but Austin Rooney had laid Jack Gallagher low twice in the same night. Their family reunions must be interesting. But so far, Jack had been receiving rather than giving punches, so his claim to be a murderer was a quantum leap.

“Why would you kill her?” Cy had asked.

“She wouldn't let me alone.”

“Come on.”

Jack lifted one eyebrow. “That was not a macho remark. This was a very odd young woman. She literally picked me up the first time we met, dragging me off for a drink, and the next thing I knew she was spending the night with me. A little bit of that goes a long way, at my age, and I don't particularly like a woman who is the aggressor. It saps one's manhood. I told her as gently as I could that this had to stop. I expected tears, the usual thing, but her reaction came as a shock.”

“What was it?”

“She threatened to accuse me of sexually abusing her!” But his indignation faded into a wry smile. “I told her that was
my
complaint against
her
.”

“So you killed her.”

“It's a little more complicated than that.”

“We've got time.”

“She got dressed, there was a very chilly exchange in the living room, then she strode out the door, leaving it open. That's when I noticed she had left her scarf. I ran after her, in robe and slippers, with the scarf in my hand. She turned and saw me and immediately began to scream. I was trying to shut her up.”

“With the scarf.”

“It showed why I had followed her, I wrapped it around her neck, so she would understand. But she twisted away and began screaming again. Well, you know the rest.”

“And you just left her there?”

“I panicked. I ran back to the house and stood in my doorway. Suddenly I became aware that the neighborhood was quiet as the grave. No one had noticed the scene in the street. I shut the door, made a drink and waited for morning. That is when you and Captain Keegan came.”

A confession is not enough in itself. The case still has to be proved, even if it is like doing a math problem when you know the answer you're supposed to get.

“What do you think, Cy?”

“Quite a story.”

“He sort of comes out as the victim, doesn't he?”

Cy could imagine the defense, the put-upon elderly man, the ravenous sex-mad young professional woman, him succumbing once or twice, then trying to escape her clutches. Her screaming reaction to Jack's chivalrous return of her scarf might rouse all the residents in Western Sun. The strangling came through as almost inadvertent, more the girl's fault than his.

“Women,” Phil said, shaking his head.

Cy stared after Phil Keegan as he went down the hall to his office.

“Horvath!” Skinner approached with his head thrust forward, as if he were on a scent. “Guess what? Big Bertha has been assigned to this case.

“Gallagher isn't even indicted yet.”

“This deal had to be worked out. The judge had been looking forward to chastising Austin Rooney. If that suit is dropped, she drops out of the spotlight.” Skinner rolled his eyes at the folly of man, or of woman, in this instance.

“You think that will help you.”

“On this issue she could be a hanging judge.”

“She bulges here and there too.”

Skinner was shocked. His own cynicism was part of the job description, but he retained a simple faith that police were neutral, partisans only of justice.

“I mean, if she was ready to lay it to Rooney and judge in favor of Gallagher, her sympathies may already be engaged.”

“In a murder trial?”

“Manslaughter at best, Skinner. You should listen to Gallagher's confession. If the girl had survived, she would be on trial for leading him up the garden path.”

Skinner dismissed this as facetious but he was flustered. He had envisioned months, years, of work ahead of him. The trial, conviction, appeals, the death sentence, at which point he would put to the test the governor's moratorium on the death penalty. How can you put a moratorium on the law?

Skinner scooted away in quest of the transcript of Gallagher's statement. He would have to wait in line to see the suspect. Jack was still in conference with his legal team.

“The scheme team,” Tuttle muttered, when Cy found him in the press room. The intrepid representatives of a free press had taken notice of the lieutenant's entrance.

“The man suspected of shoving Linda Hopkins into traffic has been apprehended in Kansas City and is on his way here.”

Blank looks.

“The woman who was killed on Dirksen a couple weeks ago.”

Annoyed expressions.

“What do you have on Gallagher, Horvath?”

Mendel and his colleagues had begun a drumbeat of criticism about Linda Hopkins's death, demanding that the fiend who had done it be found. But the tide of history had passed on, and their discontent now had a different object.

Tuttle followed Cy out of the press room. “You caught the guy, eh?”

“The Kansas City police did.”

“You were the only one who really gave a damn about it.”

It was that kind of day. Faint praise from Tuttle was gratifying. Keegan hadn't been much more excited than the reporters. One piece of luck: Skinner would be occupied if they could make a case against Harry Paquette.

“When you tell him he has a right to a lawyer, give him my name,” Tuttle said.

“Has Gallagher let you go?”

Tuttle pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. “He will.”

Thank God she had brought her computer. Otherwise Colleen would have gone stir-crazy in the Hacienda Motel. She had talked to Jane and that had helped, and of course Mario had called.

“Your father's confession is not as bad as it could be. Maybe he did better not to have legal advice when he talked to the police.”

She listened as he told her how self-servingly her father had incriminated himself. Why did she think that Mario sounded as if he were throwing himself on his sword only as a dramatic gesture meant to draw attention to the incomparable Jack Gallagher?

“How are you doing, Colleen?”

“I was just going to check my e-mail.”

“Have you talked to anyone?”

“Jane.”

A pause. “Did you tell her where you are?”

“Just a motel.”

“I'll call again in an hour or so.”

When he hung up, the room seemed to close in on her. Room? It was a suite, almost as large as her father's condo. She looked at the great gray eye of the television. There was another set overlooking the bed. She had no desire to let in the outside world that would be babbling about what her father had done. At the desk she turned on her
computer and, while it booted up, thought of all the work she would have been engaged in at Mallard and Bill. But how could she have thrown herself into it when Mario would not be there? Albert Fremont had been told to take over what Mario was working on. It could have been worse; it could have been Aggie. She logged on and called up her e-mail. Halfway down the list was a message titled “Cheers.” She called it up.

Have a date with Dad
.
Cheers
.

Unsigned, but of course the address of the sender was at the top of the screen: AGATHA ROSSNER, ESQ. And then she saw that it had been copied to Tim as well, at his office.

Colleen stared at the little line of vindictive words. For the moment she forgot that Aggie was dead. She thought only of the office sex symbol, the body with brains, taunting a daughter and son that she was going to see their father that night. The message had been sent the previous day in midafternoon. What would she have done if she had read Aggie's message yesterday?

But yesterday seemed ages ago. The author of the message was dead. Colleen's father had confessed that he had strangled her. How could such a confession not be bad?

She switched to the home page of Mallard and Bill. After the name of the firm, in Gothic script, the next item was a page of thumbnail photographs of the members of the firm. Clicking on any one of them would enlarge it to screen size. She clicked on Mario's photograph and her screen was filled with his face. It was all she could do not to kiss itâa virtual kiss.

There was a tap on the door and Colleen froze. She went back to the page of thumbnails and listened. Another tap and then a key in the door.

“Who is it?”

The door opened and a black woman in chambermaid uniform looked in.

“Housekeeping, ma'am. Everything all right here? Towels â¦”

“Oh, just fine. Thank you. I only now checked in.”

The woman stepped inside, keeping one crepe-soled shoe in the door. “It's a slow day today. Not much going on at all.”

“That's fine with me.”

“Me too.” The name tag on her ample bosom said RUBY, HEAD HOUSEKEEPER. She noticed Colleen noticing.

“You're in charge of rooms?”

“Keeper of heads, as my husband says. He was in the Navy. Where âhead' means bathroom?”

“The law firm I work for has held conferences in this motel.”

“We get lots of professional people. Doctors, lawyers, beauticians, accountants â¦” Her voice slowed as she ticked off the litany. “A local firm?”

“Chicago. Mallard and Bill.”

Just talking to someone was a relief, and she hadn't been here two hours. Mentioning the name of the firm to the head housekeeper didn't matter.

“I think I remember that name.”

They looked at one another, then Ruby smiled. “Well, honey, I better get on with my appointed rounds.”

The door closed shut. Crossing the room, Colleen's image was played back from half a dozen mirrors. What am I doing here? Why am I in hiding? Mario's plan had seemed to make sense earlier; she had willingly surrendered herself to his notion that she had to be put out of the reach of reporters. Now she felt in exile.

Descriptions and pictures of the wanted always made them seem larger than life, objects of universal pursuit, but in person they were just the usual losers who showed up on the wrong side of the law. Harry Paquette wore jeans and new cowboy boots he wasn't accustomed
to yet, and his jacket hung open as if he defied the weather to cool his T-shirted chest. He hardly glanced at Cy when he took custody of him from the officers who had been sent to Kansas City to fetch him.

“Had anything to eat?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Come on.” He took him to the commissary after he had stowed the cuffs and leg irons in which Harry had been transported. The prisoner's step became more jaunty as they went down the hallway, as jaunty as was possible with the new boots.

“You get those in Kansas City?”

“I always wanted a pair.”

“Never wore them.”

“They take getting used to.”

“The high heels go with your ponytail.”

Harry gave him a look. His thin hair was skinned back over his narrow head and gathered in the back in what could be called a ponytail.

“You know when men began wearing short hair?”

“At birth?”

“Men, not babies.”

This seemed to matter to the prisoner. For most of world history, men had worn their hair unshorn. Haircuts were a sign of the coming End. Harry had read it somewhere.

“Take Samson.”

They were at the commissary and Cy led the way in. This was calculated in a way; he wanted to gain the confidence of the man he had been pursuing since the day Linda Hopkins got pushed into traffic on Dirksen. Cy could imagine him doing that. But then he could imagine lots of people doing it.

Harry filled up his tray as if this were going to be his last meal.

Cy said nothing. He settled for coffee and lemon meringue pie. “I've had lunch.”

“Don't ever get arrested in Kansas City,” Harry advised.

“I'll remember that.”

“The food?” He made a gagging sound.

After they sat at a table, Harry went to work on the food he had taken. The guy didn't have a pound on him yet he ate like a horse. Pippen came in, looked around, and then her face lit up when she saw Cy. He motioned her over.

“This is Harry.”

“Hi, Harry.” She put out her hand.

“Mine's all greasy.”

Cy said, “Have you done the autopsy on the girl?”

Harry stopped eating, and looked furtively at Cy and Dr. Pippen. Cy looked at Dr. Pippen. It was difficult not to. He would have asked her anything just to have her stay and talk.

“Let me get some coffee first.”

“I'll get it for you.”

“Oh, would you? I've been on my feet for hours.”

She was deep in conversation with Harry when Cy got back. Harry was looking at her hair as he told her how recently it had been that men had cut their hair. She gave Cy a guarded look when he sat across from her again.

“She was strangled,” Dr. Pippen began without preamble. “But then we already knew that. Her stomach was almost empty but she had been drinking. She looked to have been in remarkable health.”

“Who was strangled?” Harry asked, licking his fingers. Would he want to shake Pippen's hand now?

“It's another case.” Cy said.

“Another?”

Cy decided not to spoil his rapport with Harry by telling Pippen who he was and what he was accused of. Pippen yawned.

“I didn't get a wink last night.”

“Don't ever get arrested in Kansas City,” Harry told her.

She looked at him, startled.

“Noisiest jail I was ever in.”

She decided to leave that alone, now that she understood Harry's
status. She yawned again deeply, as if giving an advertisement for perfect teeth, front to back.

“I am going home and get some sleep.” She stood and gave Cy the smile that tested his marital fidelity. But she was an all-American girl, a cheerleader type, clean as a whistle. Cy wondered if she realized how beautiful she was. She turned to Harry. “I'll remember that about Kansas City.”

“She a doctor?” Harry asked, watching her leave.

“Assistant coroner.”

Harry shook his head. Once men start cutting their hair, anything can happen.

When they were sitting in the interrogation room, with a stenographer present, Harry said, “It was the bank account, wasn't it?”

“Bank account?”

“The one I opened at the First Fox River.”

“You left town without your money?”

“I beat it in only what I was wearing. You think I was going to stick around after what happened? Of course I left town.”

“Well, I don't blame you.”

“This is why.”

“âThis.'”

“As soon as you found I had a record I'd be sitting in a room like this. I couldn't face that, not then.” He shook his head. “One look at her and I knew she was gone.”

“Harry, you have a right to a lawyer.”

“What do I want a lawyer for?”

“You know why you were arrested in Kansas City and brought back here.”

“Yeah, but I didn't do it. Not that I expect you to believe me.”

“There is a lawyer in the building who would be willing to represent you.”

“I told you, I'm innocent.”

“Everybody is innocent until proven guilty.” And those proved
guilty went on claiming to be innocent. Probably some of them were. But most of them?

“Let me see if that lawyer is still around.”

Tuttle was in the press room sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup as if he were testing it for poison.

“I've got a client for you,” Cy said.

Tuttle was on his feet. “Who?”

“The guy who pushed the girl into traffic.”

Tuttle made a face.

“Don't worry. He just told me he's innocent.”

They went back to the interrogation room and Cy asked the stenographer to read back what had been said so far. Tuttle sat straighter at the mention of the lawyer. “Tuttle is the name.” They shook hands, after which Tuttle looked at his, then took out his handkerchief to clean it.

“I'll just go ahead, okay?” Cy said.

Tuttle bobbed his head.

Cy read to Harry highlights of the record of the investigation that had been conducted. Harry lowered his head as the description of the girl's body was read. Cy gave the original statements of witnessesâno point in mentioning that most of them had waffled later. Once they got a look at Harry their memories would be refreshed. Harry kept shaking his head.

“That's bull. Nobody saw me do that, because I didn't do it. I was coming toward her, we had agreed to meet there, and she turned and saw me coming. The expression on her face â¦” He stopped and then a great sob escaped him. “Oh God, God, God.”

“Just tell it in your own words,” Tuttle said.

“Why would you meet there?” Cy asked.

“That's the corner the bank is on. The First Fox River.”

“You weren't going to rob it?” Tuttle cried.

“I had an account there. I was going to turn it into a joint account, that's why I told her to meet me on that corner.”

“You were approaching the girl,” Cy said.

“And then some guy came out of the crowd and pushed her. She was still looking at me when she fell.” Again he stopped. This time his shoulders and chest heaved, but there was no sobbing.

“Did you recognize the man?”

“He was just some guy.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I don't know. It happened so fast.”

“How was he dressed?”

Harry's eyes were swimming with tears. “I don't know. Like you, I guess.”

“Wearing a suit?”

“He had a coat on too. And he wore a hat. A cap.”

“He was a workingman?”

“No, it wasn't that kind of a cap.”

Cy turned to Tuttle. “I can't get the witnesses down here until tomorrow. Right now I'd like to take Harry out to the Hacienda Motel.”

“That's where she worked,” Harry said to Tuttle.