Unreasonable Doubt (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Smith pulled her cruiser to a halt half on the sidewalk outside the gorgeous Victorian mansion. She ran down the path and bounded up the steps. The door opened before she reached it. A woman, not Mrs. Carmine, someone Smith didn't know.

“Thank heavens you're here, Officer. He's gone berserk.”

Smith told dispatch she needed backup and stepped cautiously into the front hall. “Follow me,” the woman said. She led the way into the dining room. The room was large enough for four tables of varying sizes, set with white tablecloths and pink-and-white china, and a long buffet with coffee and tea things, boxes of dry cereal, a crystal bowl full of sliced fruit, and containers of yogurt. The walls were papered in a dusty rose pattern; a chandelier dripping crystal tears hung in the center of the room; the windows were set into deep recesses overlooking the garden. Portraits in gilded frames, of stern-faced Victorian ladies and rigid mustachioed gentlemen, graced the walls.

Smith glanced around the room quickly, checking everyone out. They were all on their feet, the remains of breakfast abandoned on the tables. Aside from the two men who'd apparently been fighting, the other occupants of the room were women of a similar age, dressed in identical outfits of black spandex shorts and red tee-shirts with the name of their team, Kelowna Pepper, across the front of them.

The two combatants had been separated, placed in their own corners like boxers. The younger man seemed to have gotten the worst of it. He sat in a spindle-legged chair, more ornamental than designed to hold a person, with a box of tissues on his lap. A woman stood over him, holding his head back, pressing tissues to his nose. A pile of discarded tissues, red with blood, lay on the floor around him.

He pulled his head away from the woman's gentle hold as Smith came into the room. She recognized Walt Desmond immediately from the picture Winters had shown them.

The other man was older, much older. He was pressed up against a corner, Ellie Carmine planted firmly in front of him, while a dragon boat woman, short but powerfully built with close-cropped gray hair, held his arm.

Gino D'Angelo. Sophia's father.

Not good.

“What's going on here?” Smith feared she didn't need to ask. Ellie Carmine had phoned the police station yesterday evening to say Walt Desmond was staying at her B&B. It was entirely possible she'd told half of Trafalgar as well. And so Sophia D'Angelo's father had come looking for him. Outside, sirens announced the arrival of her backup.

“I've no idea,” the woman helping Walt said. She was close to six feet tall with a cheerful blond ponytail that swung as she talked. “That man barged in here, yelling his fool head off, and without a word he slugged Walt. I'm a nurse. I don't think his nose is broken.”

“We were having breakfast,” another woman said. “The doorbell rang, Ellie went to open it. We heard yelling. I went to see if Ellie needed help, but that man pushed right past me. “He kept yelling that he was here to see Walt.”

“Walt got up, went to the door,” the nurse said, “to see what was going on. And—wham—he got a punch in the face. That guy's a lunatic.”

Brad Noseworthy came into the room. Smith gave him a nod.
Everything okay here.

“Mrs. Carmine, you can let Mr. D'Angelo go now,” Smith said. “He won't be causing any more trouble. Will you, sir?”

Ellie stepped back; the short-haired woman released D'Angelo's arm.

The old man lifted his head, and looked at Smith for the first time. His eyes were sunken pools in a dark face. He spat on the beautiful cream and rose carpet. Ellie gasped.

“You'd better leave, sir,” Smith said. “Constable Noseworthy will drive you home.”

D'Angelo did not move.

“Mr. Desmond is entirely within his rights to ask us to lay charges. Do you want that?”

“You would charge me? And let the man who murdered my daughter go free? Where is the justice?”

The watching women threw questioning glances at each other and at Walt.

“Mr. D'Angelo, you are aware that the appeal court ruled in Mr. Desmond's favor and the Crown withdrew all charges. In other words, not guilty.”

“Oh, my God.” The short-haired woman gasped.

This was a situation they hadn't gone over in police college. Smith had no idea what she would do if Gino D'Angelo refused to leave. Wrestle a seventy years plus man to the ground, haul a murder victim's father off to jail in handcuffs? Her mother had always maintained a healthy mistrust of police and the justice system. Lucky, and people of like mind, were easily persuaded that a miscarriage of justice had happened. But not everyone would agree. Longtime residents were talking of little else, and newcomers were eager to find out what all the fuss was about.

Walt got slowly to his feet. The bleeding had stopped but his nostrils were crusted with drying blood. “It's all right. I understand how difficult this must be for you and your wife.” He stepped forward. He held out his hand. Smith could almost feel Noseworthy brace himself.

Gino D'Angelo looked at the offered hand for a long time. He growled and spat again. Walt didn't move his hand out of the way. The phlegm formed a puddle in the center of his palm. “I'm sorry you feel that way, sir. I'm going to finish my breakfast now.” Walt turned and crossed the room. The nurse handed him a tissue. He accepted it and wiped his hand. Then he sat down. Poached eggs were congealing on his plate. He reached for his fork with a hand that shook ever so slightly.

“Breakfast,” the short-haired woman said. “What an excellent idea. I'll be no good on the water without a full belly.”

“With five kids I'd have thought you'd have had enough of that, Nancy,” the nurse said.

The women laughed. It was tight laughter, with no mirth in it, but sufficient to break the tension.

“Come on, sir,” Smith said, “let's leave these ladies to finish their breakfast in peace.”

D'Angelo walked out of the dining room. Smith and Noseworthy followed. Ellie bustled after them, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Did you come in your own car, sir?” Smith asked.

“Yes.”

“Then Constable Noseworthy will follow you home. To make sure you're safe.”

“That man. You will let him sit there, eat his food. With women.”

“Mr. D'Angelo,” Noseworthy said, “we have no choice. Nor do you. Leave Desmond alone.”

“If you…if the police, will do nothing, then I will.” D'Angelo walked out of the house. He did not close the door behind him.

Noseworthy and Smith exchanged a glance before he hurried after the old man.

“Do you think he'll do something, Moonlight?” A longtime friend of Lucky's, Ellie still used Molly's proper name. “Perhaps I should ask Mr. Desmond to leave.”

“That's up to you, Mrs. Carmine, but it doesn't seem to me as if Mr. Desmond did anything wrong here.”

“I know they say he's innocent, that he didn't kill that poor girl. But I can't believe the Trafalgar police could have made such a mistake.”

“I'm going to have a word with Mr. Desmond before I go.” Smith headed back to the dining room. The women were seated, chattering like birds, birds trying to ignore the tornado gathering on the horizon. Someone had picked up the bloody tissues and tossed them into a wastebasket. Walt Desmond hunched over his plate, fork in hand, but he was only stirring his food into mush. He'd put a lot of ketchup on his sausages and the sight made Smith's stomach roll over.

“Everything okay, Officer?” the nurse said.

“Mr. D'Angelo has gone home,” Smith said.

“Good. Isn't that good, Walt? It's all a silly misunderstanding. Obviously the poor gentleman is well known to the police. I'm Darlene, by the way, Darlene Michaels. We're here for the dragon boat training.”

“I guessed that,” Smith said.

“You should give it a try, Constable,” another woman said. “It's loads of fun and an unbeatable workout.”

“Maybe I will. Mr. Desmond, do you mind if I have a word?”

He stirred his food. “Might as well.”

“In private, perhaps?”

“I have no secrets. These women, I hope, are my friends.” He seemed to take in the entire room as he said it, but out of the corner of his eyes he glanced at one woman, slightly younger than the rest, tall and slim with brown hair cut in a neat bob and wide dark eyes.

They chorused yes. The younger woman flushed ever so slightly.

“Please, sir,” Smith said.

He got to his feet in a quick, sharp move that had Smith almost taking a step backward.

“Why don't we step outside, sir? Won't be long.”

Walt followed her into the hall. Behind them the room fell silent.

The porch had a big swing and a cluster of white wicker chairs around a black iron table. Thankfully, it was in the shade. She took a seat and Walt Desmond dropped into a chair beside her. It was going to be another hot day. She could feel the heat building under her Kevlar vest. They desperately needed a heavy, soaking rain. The forests surrounding the town were tinder-dry, waiting for a dropped match or lightning strike to burst into an inferno. “I'm Constable Smith. I know who you are, Mr. Desmond.”

“As does everyone in town, it would seem.” While Smith had been seeing Noseworthy and D'Angelo off, Walt had wiped the last of the blood off his face. He was, she thought, not a bad-looking guy for his age. Short-haired, well-muscled, with full lips and chiseled cheekbones. Good looking, except for the pasty-white skin and the dark, empty eyes. She suppressed a shudder.

“I'm sorry about what happened there, sir. Chief Constable Keller paid a visit to the D'Angelos, to tell them to leave you alone. I guess Mr. D'Angelo decided to ignore that advice.”

“I guess he did.” Walt sat perfectly still. His large, rough, and scarred hands were folded in his lap, his feet flat on the floor. He stared out over the street. “Ellie called you Moonlight. Moonlight Smith. Are you Andy Smith's daughter?”

“Yes.”

“How's he doing?”

“He died a couple of years ago.”

“Sorry to hear that. A lot of things change when you've been away for a long time. I'll have to get used to that.”

“Mom's good, though. She still has the store. Mid-Kootenay…”

“I remember it. Your dad ordered a telescope for me. It was a Christmas gift to Arlene. My wife.” He turned his head suddenly and studied her face. “You'd be too young to remember us.”

“Yes.” Uncomfortable under his stare, she got to her feet. “If there's any more trouble, give us a call, eh?”

“I can count on the single-minded dedication of the members of the Trafalgar City Police to protect me?”

She couldn't blame him for being bitter. She had no idea what he must have been through all these years. “Yes, you can. Chief's orders.”

“Your chief. How long's he been here?”

“He wasn't around when…your case happened, if that's what you're asking.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She walked down the stairs and went to her car, feeling his eyes on her back every step of the way.

Chapter Thirteen

Chief Constable Paul Keller stormed into the police station. He did not look happy. Staff scattered, everyone suddenly searching for something to be doing, preferably someplace else. He smelled of fresh tobacco and that was never a good sign. The chief was trying to quit smoking. He wasn't having much success as every time he was under any stress at all he could be seen dashing into a nearby convenience store. He marched into his assistant's office. “Is John in?”

“As far as I know.” Barb was never intimidated by the chief or his moods. Over the years she'd dealt with some
really
hard-assed chief constables.

“I need to see him,” Keller said. He went into his own office, slamming the door behind him, and Barb reached for her phone. “You're needed, John, ASAP.”

Winters was at her door in less than a minute. “What's up?”

She shrugged and whispered, “Meeting with the mayor. At a guess, I'd say it didn't go well.”

Winters knocked lightly on the door that joined the chief's office to Barb's and then opened it. “You wanted to see me, Paul?”

“Take a seat. Barb, you better join us. You won't need the laptop. No minutes.”

Barb and Winters exchanged glances. She shut the door behind her.

Now he was sitting down and had some time to compose himself, the high color was fading from Keller's face and his breathing was settling into a normal pattern. He'd already grabbed a can of Coke out of the bar fridge he kept behind his desk and had popped the tab. He took a long swig. Barb hid a grin. The habitual Coke had turned to the diet version. The poor man was trying to lose weight and give up smoking at the same time.

Barb's eyes moved to the pictures on his desk. There was a new one, of the chief's son, Matt, and Matt's girlfriend, Tracey, taken on a recent holiday in Banff, with the famous hotel looming majestically in the background. Another recent photo showed the reason for the diet and attempt to give up smoking: Lucky Smith smiling at the chief as they posed together on the lakefront at Chateau Lake Louise.

“Bad meeting with the mayor?” Winters asked, and all thoughts of love and diets flew out the window.

“No, thank heavens. I'd left him when I got the call. The mayor wanted to talk about the Walt Desmond situation. He's worried some people are going to react badly to news that the guy's back in town. He asked me what we could do about it. I said we can do nothing, nothing at all. The man's as free to conduct his life as anyone of us is. I had to remind the mayor that Desmond is not under bounds of parole. He does not have to report to a police station nor account for his affairs in any way.”

Barb and Winters exchanged curious glances once again. “We know that,” Barb said. “So what's the problem?”

“I've told the dispatchers to let me know if there are any calls related to Desmond. I'd left the mayor's office and was walking back, when I got a call. Gino D'Angelo showed up at the Glacier Chalet, where Desmond is staying.”

“That was a foolish thing to do,” Winters said.

“He attacked him.”

“Walt Desmond attacked that old man!” Barb gasped. “I knew he…”

“No, Barb. Gino assaulted Desmond. In front of a dining room full of guests, I might add.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Barb sank into her seat. What was she supposed to think: a convicted murderer, an old man. Who's more likely to be the aggressor?

“What happened then?” Winters asked.

“The fight had been broken up when Molly and Brad arrived. I called Molly a few minutes ago. She said one punch only had been thrown. Desmond made no attempt to defend himself, and the B&B guests stepped in and separated the men. Brad saw Gino home, and Desmond did not want to take the matter any further. Very wise of him, in my opinion.”

“Are you going to pay another call on the D'Angelos?” Winters asked.

“I think not. What on earth can I say that hasn't already been said a hundred times? I wanted you to be aware of the situation. Feelings will be running high. I had planned on paying a friendly visit to Desmond this morning, just to say hi. I've changed my mind. Molly and Brad have been there already. Another one of us going around so soon is going to look like harassment. I want you to keep your distance, too, until and unless you have some specific questions for him about the murder case itself.”

Winters nodded.

“So far Desmond's kept to himself and maintained a low profile. Let's hope it stays that way. The incident last night didn't help.” Keller cleared his throat. “Sorry, John, that sounded harsh. All I meant was I've heard whispers saying Desmond was behind the attack on Eliza.”

“I don't think so,” Winters said. “Eliza says the perp had longish dark hair and Merrill agrees. The picture you showed us of Desmond was of a guy with short gray hair. Innocent or guilty, rumor can be a dangerous thing.”

“Why did he come here, anyway?” Barb said. “To cause trouble that's why. More misery to that poor family.”

“I asked you to come in, Barb,” the chief said, “because you're the only one of us who was here back then. Did you know Desmond and his wife?”

“I knew them as in saw them around. I knew who they were. Arlene Desmond owned a dress shop on Front Street. I shopped there now and again. I felt dreadfully sorry for her. Married to that man.”

“You felt sorry,” Winters said, “before or after the killing?”

“Well, after, of course. When we found out what happened. Some people thought she must have known all along what he was like, but I figured he'd fooled her as well as everyone else.” Even now all these years later, Barb's blood began to boil. She'd been a junior clerk back then. In the days when, without the widespread use of the Internet and only the most rudimentary of police databases, they had more civilian staff. The chief hadn't even had a computer on his desk. His secretary took dictation and typed his letters. She also fetched his dry cleaning, and bought flowers for his wife when he forgot her birthday. If Paul Keller ever tried to ask Barb Kowalski to run personal errands, she'd give him what for. Not that she wasn't happy to bring him back a coffee when she took a run to Big Eddies, or sneak a little of her home baking into his office. She was rather fond of the old coot. Still, couldn't allow them to start taking liberties. Then, before you knew it, it would be dry cleaning and birthday gifts.

“I've read the files, Barb,” Winters said. “The entire case against Desmond was flimsy to begin with, and the appeal evidence was overwhelming. The TCP, to put it mildly, screwed up. Big-time.”

“I don't believe it,” Barb said. “Doug and Jack, they worked like dogs on that case. They were determined that Walter did it, and they proved it! Doug's gone now, and that's probably a good thing. I can't imagine what Jack must be thinking, to have his judgment questioned after all these years.”

“That's just it, Barb,” Winters said, his voice soft and low. “They focused on Desmond like a laser beam, didn't seem to even bother looking at anyone else.”

“That,” she said firmly, “is because he did it. And we all knew it. Heavens, Sophia told one of her friends Walt was making unwelcome advances.”

“Hearsay,” Winters said. “Reading between the lines, I wonder if the witness was encouraged to expand on that idea.”

Barb jumped to her feet. “Never! Never. I read those reports, I saw those pictures. What he did to her was unforgiveable.” Unbidden images flashed behind her eyes. In all her years with the police, Barb had never seen anything so dreadful. She wasn't supposed to, she was just a civilian clerk. But she'd opened the wrong file, and there they were. Photographs of that beautiful girl. Desecrated. Barb had nightmares for a long time, and her husband had taken to walking her to and from work for a while.

Then came the trial and the just verdict. Walter Desmond was sent away, to where he could do no more harm, and they were all safe again. The nightmares ended; she mocked her fears.

And now he's out, walking our streets, laughing at us.
To her horror, she began to cry.

The chief started to stand.

“I'm going to take an early lunch.” She ran from the room and out of the police station, while startled officers and staff watched her go, not even stopping to get her purse.

***

Keller dropped into his chair. Winters let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

“What was that about?”

“I asked Barb to join us because I wanted her take on what the old-timers are saying about this all being stirred up again. Looks like I found out.”

“I wouldn't convict a cat on the evidence presented at that trial,” Winters said. “Never mind what the appeal uncovered.”

“I understand where Barb's coming from. The murder was shocking, truly dreadful. The sort of thing that had never happened here before. People were terrified. Monsters were living in their midst. A quick arrest and subsequent conviction went a long way toward reassuring them.”

“Right. Except that, when I read the evidence, Paul, I have to conclude that they might have gotten the wrong guy. I'm not saying they did, even though the appeal court thinks so. It might be that Desmond was as guilty as sin, although the case wasn't solid. But, if Desmond was railroaded to keep the town happy, then someone else, the guilty person, walked away. And that's what really bothers me about this. The TCP didn't even look at anyone else. Drifters, known sexual criminals, small-time troublemakers, current or ex-boyfriends of the dead woman. No one. They found their man, and built a case around him.”

“Has anyone heard from Jack McMillan since this started?” the chief asked.

“Not as far as I know.”

“I'd like you to pay a call on him. A nice friendly chat. Cop to cop. Tell him to stay the hell out of town for the time being. Maybe he can take a long tropical vacation. Now that the court's decreed Desmond didn't do it, it's an open case. You'll have to spend some time looking into it, but after all these years I don't expect much of a result. Still, has to be done.”

“What about Desmond himself?” Winters asked.

“I want him gone, but our hands are tied. Hard to believe the man's so stupid as to come back here, but there you have it.”

“I'll ask Molly if he said anything to her about his intentions.”

“Do that. I'd like to know, too. She does have a way of making men talk to her.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Sorta like her mother.”