Whispers (13 page)

“You didn't have the locks changed?”

“It seemed like a needless expense,” she said. “The keys I lost didn't have any identification on them. Whoever found them wouldn't know where to use them.”

“And it didn't occur to you they might have been stolen?” Lieutenant Howard asked.

“No.”

“But now you think Bruno Frye took the keys with the intention of coming here to rape and kill you.”

“Yes.”

“What does he have against you?”

“I don't know.”

“Is there any reason he should be angry with you?”

“No.”

“Any reason he should hate you?”

“I hardly know him.”

“It's an awfully long way for him to come.”

“I know.”

“Hundreds of miles.”

“Look, he's crazy. And crazy people do crazy things.”

Lieutenant Howard stopped pacing, stood in front of her, glared down like one of the faces on a totempole of angry gods. “Doesn't it seem odd to you that a crazy man would be able to conceal his madness so well at home, that he would have the iron control needed to keep it all bottled up until he was off in a strange city?”

“Of course it seems odd to me,” she said. “It's weird. But it's true.”

“Did Bruno Frye have an opportunity to steal those keys?”

“Yes. One of the winery foremen took me on a special tour. We had to clamber up scaffolding, between fermentation vats, between storage barrels, through a lot of tight places. I couldn't have easily taken my purse with me. It would have been in my way. So I left it in the main house.”

“Frye's house.”

“Yes.”

He was crackling with energy, supercharged. He began to pace again, from the couch to the windows, from the windows to the bookshelves, then back to the couch again, his broad shoulders drawn up, head thrust forward.

Lieutenant Clemenza smiled at her, but she was not reassured.

“Will anyone at the winery remember you losing your keys?” Lieutenant Howard asked.

“I guess so. Sure. I spent at least half an hour looking for them. I asked around, hoping someone might have seen them.”

“But no one had.”

“That's right.”

“Where did you think you might have left them?”

“I thought they were in my purse.”

“That was the last place you remembered putting them?”

“Yes. I drove the rental car to the winery, and I was sure I'd put the keys in my purse when I'd parked.”

“Yet when you couldn't find them, you never thought they might have been stolen?”

“No. Why would someone steal my keys and not my money? I had a couple hundred dollars in my wallet.”

“Another thing that bothers me. After you drove Frye out of the house at gunpoint, why did you take so long to call us?”

“I didn't take long.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“At most.”

“When you've just been attacked and nearly killed by a maniac with a knife, twenty minutes is a hell of a long time to wait. Most people want to get hold of the police right away. They want us on the scene in ten seconds, and they get furious if it takes us a few minutes to get there.”

She glanced at Clemenza, then at Howard, then at her fingers, which were tightly laced, white-knuckled. She sat up straight, squared her shoulders. “I . . . I guess I . . . broke down.” It was a difficult and shameful admission for her. She had always prided herself on her strength. “I went to that desk and sat down and began to dial the police number and . . . then . . . I just . . . I cried. I started to cry . . . and I couldn't stop for a while.”

“You cried for twenty minutes?”

“No. Of course not. I'm really not the crying type. I mean, I don't fall apart easily.”

“How long did it take you to get control of yourself?”

“I don't know for sure.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Not that long.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Maybe five.”

“When you regained control of yourself, why didn't you call us then? You were sitting right there by the phone.”

“I went upstairs to wash my face and change my clothes,” she said. “I've already told you about that.”

“I know,” he said. “I remember. Primping yourself for the press.”

“No,” she said, beginning to get angry with him. “I wasn't ‘primping' myself. I just thought I should—”

“That's the fourth thing that makes me wonder about your story,” Howard said, interrupting her. “It absolutely amazes me. I mean, after you were almost raped and murdered, after you broke down and wept, while you were still afraid that Frye might come back here and try to finish the job he started, you nevertheless took time out to make yourself look presentable. Amazing.”

“Excuse me,” Lieutenant Clemenza said, leaning forward in the brown armchair. “Frank, I know you've got something, and I know you're leading up to it. I don't want to spoil your rhythm or anything. But I don't think we can make assumptions about Miss Thomas's honesty and integrity based on how long she took to call in the complaint. We both know that people sometimes go into a kind of shock after an experience like this. They don't always do the rational thing. Miss Thomas's behavior isn't all that peculiar.”

She almost thanked Lieutenant Clemenza for what he had said, but she sensed a low-grade antagonism between the two detectives, and she did not want to fan that smoldering fire.

“Are you telling me to get on with it?” Howard asked Clemenza.

“All I'm saying is, it's getting late, and we're all very tired,” Clemenza told him.

“You admit her story's riddled with holes?”

“I don't know that I'd put it quite like that,” said Clemenza.

“How would you put it?” Howard asked.

“Let's just say there are some parts of it that don't make sense yet.”

Howard scowled at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Good enough. I was only trying to establish that there are at least four big problems with her story. If you agree, then I'll get on with the rest of it.” He turned to Hilary. “Miss Thomas, I'd like to hear your description of the assailant just once more.”

“Why? You've got his name.”

“Indulge me.”

She couldn't understand where he was going with his questioning. She knew he was trying to set a trap for her, but she hadn't the faintest idea what sort of trap or what it would do to her if she got caught in it. “All right. Just once more. Bruno Frye is tall, about six-four—”

“No names, please.”

“What?”

“Describe the assailant without using any names.”

“But I know his name,” she said slowly, patiently.

“Humor me,” he said humorlessly.

She sighed and settled back against the sofa, feigning boredom. She didn't want him to know that he was rattling her. What the hell was he after? “The man who attacked me,” she said, “was about six-feet-four, and he weighed maybe two hundred and forty pounds. Very muscular.”

“Race?” Howard asked.

“He was white.”

“Complexion?”

“Fair.”

“Any scars or moles?”

“No.”

“Tattoos?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Tattoos?”

“No.”

“Any other identifying marks?”

“No.”

“Was he crippled or deformed in any way?”

“He's a big healthy son of a bitch,” she said crossly.

“Color of hair?”

“Dirty blond.”

“Long or short?”

“Medium length.”

“Eyes?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes, he had eyes.”

“Miss Thomas—”

“Okay, okay.”

“This is serious.”

“He had blue eyes. An unusual shade of blue-gray.”

“Age?”

“Around forty.”

“Any distinguishing characteristics?”

“Like what?”

“You mentioned something about his voice.”

“That's right. He had a deep voice. It rumbled. A gravelly voice. Deep and gruff and scratchy.”

“All right,” Lieutenant Howard said, rocking slightly on his heels, evidently pleased with himself. “We have a good description of the assailant. Now, describe Bruno Frye for me.”

“I just did.”

“No, no. We're pretending that you didn't know the man who attacked you. We're playing this little game to humor me. Remember? You just described your assailant, a man without a name. Now, I want you to describe Bruno Frye for me.”

She turned to Lieutenant Clemenza. “Is this really necessary?” she asked exasperatedly.

Clemenza said, “Frank, can you hurry this along?”

“Look, I've got a point I'm trying to make,” Lieutenant Howard said. “I'm building up to it the best way I know how. Besides,
she's
the one slowing it down.”

He turned to her, and again she had the creepy feeling she was on trial in another century and that Howard was some religious inquisitionist. If Clemenza would permit it, Howard would simply take hold of her and shake until she gave the answers he wanted, whether or not they were the truth.

“Miss Thomas,” he said, “if you'll just answer all of my questions, I'll be finished in a few minutes. Now, will you describe Bruno Frye?”

Disgustedly, she said, “Six-four, two hundred and forty pounds, muscular, blond, blue-gray eyes, about forty years old, no scars, no deformities, no tattoos, a deep gravelly voice.”

Frank Howard was smiling. It was not a friendly smile. “Your description of the assailant and Bruno Frye are exactly the same. Not a single discrepancy. Not one. And of course, you've told us that they were, in fact, one and the same man.”

His line of questioning seemed ridiculous, but there was surely a purpose to it. He wasn't stupid. She sensed that already she had stepped into the trap, even though she could not see it.

“Do you want to change your mind?” Howard asked. “Do you want to say that perhaps there's a small chance it was someone else, someone who only resembled Frye?”

“I'm not an idiot,” Hilary said. “It was him.”

“There wasn't even maybe some slight difference between your assailant and Frye? Some little thing?” he persisted.

“No.”

“Not even the shape of his nose or the line of his jaw?” Howard asked.

“Not even that.”

“You're certain that Frye and your assailant shared precisely the same hairline, exactly the same cheekbones, the same chin?”

“Yes.”

“Are you positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was Bruno Frye who was here tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Would you swear to that in court?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”
she said, tired of his badgering.

“Well, then. Well, well. I'm afraid if you testified to that effect, you'd wind up in jail yourself. Perjury's a crime.”

“What? What do you mean?”

He grinned at her. His grin was even more unfriendly than his smile. “Miss Thomas, what I mean is—you're a liar.”

Hilary was so stunned by the bluntness of the accusation, by the boldness of it, so disconcerted by the ugly snarl in his voice, that she could not immediately think of a response. She didn't even know what he meant.

“A liar, Miss Thomas. Plain and simple.”

Lieutenant Clemenza got out of the brown armchair and said, “Frank, are we handling this right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Howard said. “We're handling it exactly right. While she was out there talking to the reporters and posing so prettily for the photographers, I got a call from headquarters. They heard back from the Napa County Sheriff.”

“Already?”

“Oh, yeah. His name's Peter Laurenski. Sheriff Laurenski looked into things for us up there at Frye's vineyard, just like we asked him to, and you know what he found? He found that Mr. Bruno Frye didn't come to Los Angeles. Bruno Frye never left home. Bruno Frye is up there in Napa County right now, right this minute, in his own house, harmless as a fly.”

“Impossible!” Hilary said, pushing up from the sofa.

Howard shook his head. “Give up, Miss Thomas. Frye told Sheriff Laurenski that he
intended
to come to L.A. today for a week-long stay. Just a short vacation. But he didn't manage to clear off his desk in time, so he cancelled out and stayed home to get caught up on his work.”

“The sheriff's wrong!” she said. “He couldn't have talked to Bruno Frye.”

“Are you calling the sheriff a liar?” Lieutenant Howard asked.

“He . . . he must have talked to someone who was covering for Frye,” Hilary said, knowing how hopelessly implausible that sounded.

“No,” Howard said. “Sheriff Laurenski talked to Frye himself.”

“Did he see him? Did he actually
see
Frye?” she demanded. “Or did he only talk to someone on the phone, someone claiming to be Frye?”

“I don't know if it was a face to face chat or a phone conversation,” Howard said. “But remember, Miss Thomas, you told us about Frye's unique voice. Extremely deep. Scratchy. A guttural, gravelly voice. Are you saying someone could have easily imitated it on the phone?”

“If Sheriff Laurenski doesn't know Frye well enough, he might be fooled by a bad imitation. He—”