A Killer's Kiss (13 page)

The same green room with the large mirror, the same smell of sweat and vinegar and dead mice, the same clot of suppurating fear at the base of my throat. So why did the room suddenly seem smaller than before?

“We just wanted to chat a bit, Victor,” said Sims, sitting across from me at the table, his hands clasped before him as unthreatening as a preacher’s. He wore a gray suit, a dark purple shirt, an unctuous smile. “I’m sure you don’t mind.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said.

“Did you hear the hostility in his voice, Hanratty?”

“I heard,” said Hanratty. His back was against the door, his jaw was pummeling a stick of gum.

“I thought we were friends,” said Sims. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“Is that why you sent McDeiss to my apartment to scoop me up like one of the usual suspects, because we had an understanding?”

“There are a few things we need to clear up,” said Sims. “Nothing major, just timeline matters. The night of Mr. Denniston’s murder, you were home.”

“That’s right.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing.”

“Be more specific, please,” said Sims. “Were you watching TV, ironing your shirts, jacking off to Internet porn, reading the Good Book, what, exactly?”

“Nothing.”

“How many times did you go out after you got home from work?”

“I didn’t.”

“You sure? We received a report that you went out.”

“What kind of report?”

“And after you came back,” said Sims, “Mrs. Denniston called, isn’t that right?”

“I never went out.”

“Did she call you on your cell or your landline?”

“I don’t remember, but I figure you have the records already, so you can tell me.”

“Cell. And when you got the call on your cell phone, where were you?”

“Home.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“I’m not the one wearing the puce shirt.”

“You don’t like my shirt?”

“It’s quite puce. And who the hell told you I went out that night anyway?”

“It came as an anonymous tip.”

“And how does that work in court, exactly?”

“Not so well in court, but it’s boffo before the grand jury.
Now, before that night, had she ever been up to your apartment?”

“No.”

“Did the two of you have any furtive assignations at the Denniston mansion?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I never saw the place.”

“Did you hear that, Hanratty?”

“I heard,” said Hanratty, still pounding like a heavyweight on the gum. The way he was staring at me, it was almost like he was staring through me. Involuntarily my hand reached up and touched the pocket where sat the letter that was meant to frame me but good.

“I think he’s holding something back from us,” said Sims.

“He’s been holding back all along.”

“But I don’t think he means to. It’s just that he’s a lawyer, he can’t help himself.”

“Hey, guys,” I said. “I’m here, remember?”

“We found your fingerprint in the Denniston mansion,” said Sims, staring now right into my eyes. “On the panel leading to the safe where the gun was kept. The gun that was taken on the night of the murder. The gun that we suspect killed the doctor.”

“Now, how did your fingerprint get there if you never saw the place?” said Hanratty.

“I never saw the place until Dr. Denniston was murdered,” I said, as calmly as I could manage. “I assume you picked that up on your second go-round, the morning before you released Mrs. Denniston. The night after the killing, I visited the house and talked to Gwen. She took me into the room, showed me the safe. I must have touched the panel then. You can ask her, although I assume you already have. I assume it because if you hadn’t, I would be under arrest. Am I under arrest?”

“He wants to know if he’s under arrest,” said Sims.

“Let me work on him a bit,” said Hanratty. “I’ll squeeze
something out of him. It might not be the truth, but it sure will be fun.”

“Let’s give him one more chance before we resort to fireworks,” said Sims. “You know, Victor, we’re only trying to help you here, but you’re making it so difficult. We’ve got the fingerprint. We’ve got pictures of you and the dead man’s wife together even while the husband was still lying cold in the morgue. And we know that the dead man knew about the two of you.”

“How do you know that? Another anonymous source?”

“From the beginning I suspected the wife, and I still do. And what has convinced me even more than the evidence arrayed against her is her unwillingness to cooperate. Despite her lawyer’s advice.”

“Her lawyer is a fool.”

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful? But she’s not taking his advice, she’s not answering any of our questions. So maybe we were hoping that you could convince her to open her mouth. We have some very specific questions that need answers. Based on her current situation, the answers could only help her case. Without her cooperation I’m afraid that she is heading straight toward an indictment.”

“But you’re on the wrong trail,” I said. “She wasn’t at the house at the time of the killing.”

“You’re sure of it.”

“Yes.”

“He’s sure of it, Hanratty.”

Hanratty just stared and chewed.

“She has an alibi,” I said. “And I found it.”

“You found her alibi,” said Sims with an unconcerned voice. “Really, now?” He looked up at Hanratty, raised an eyebrow. “Tell me all about it.”

“A kid named Jamison,” I said. “I found him at an unlicensed Jamaican juke joint last night. He was with her at the time of the murder.”

“And what, may I ask, were the doctor’s wife and this Jamison doing that night together?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

“But she’s not cooperating.”

“Well, there you go. Maybe you’ll find out at trial.”

“He’s a cutie-pie, isn’t he?” said Hanratty.

“And where is this juke joint you mentioned?” said Sims.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Let me rearrange his face,” said Hanratty.

“If you choose not to tell us the details,” said Sims, “and she chooses not to cooperate, then maybe we’ll choose not to believe you.”

“Suit yourself, but you might want to turn your attention to other suspects, since there’s a gaping hole in your case against Mrs. Denniston.”

“It’s not a hole. Even if the alibi pans out. You can still be guilty of murder if you don’t pull the trigger. We’d just have to add conspiracy to the murder charge.”

“And who would be the co-conspirator?”

“Tell him, Hanratty.”

“You,” said Hanratty.

“Surprise surprise,” I said. “Hanratty thinks I’m guilty. The thing you’re both missing is the why. Why would we want to kill her husband? I admit that she was an old girlfriend. I admit that we were trying to figure out if we wanted to try again. That might be a bit unseemly, but it’s not a crime, at least not in this state. Divorce is legal, last time I checked. So there’s no motive.”

“What about the prenup?” said Hanratty.

I tilted my head, felt sweat pop up like popcorn on the back of my neck. “Prenup?”

“Don’t even bother, Victor,” said Sims. “A sharp guy like you, if there’s a prenup, you know about it. The way it worked, if she left him, she got not a penny.”

“But there was nothing to get. It turns out the doctor was broke. Nothing to him, and you know it, too.”

“But maybe you didn’t.”

“If I was sharp enough to know about the prenup, I would have been sharp enough to get a grasp on the guy’s net worth before shooting him in the head for his wife, don’t you think?”

“Hanratty doesn’t think you’re that sharp. Hanratty wants to bust you right now.”

“And Hanratty thinks his haircut is quite becoming. But you know better than to charge anyone until you check out the suspects with the best motive of all.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Hanratty. “And who are they?”

I raised a finger like I was about to perform a trick. Julia and I had planned to set up Miles Cave as the prime suspect for the murder, but that was before I realized someone was setting me up to play the Cave part. The letter in my pocket would stay there until I got home, when I would destroy it, I decided. But even with Miles Cave out of the picture, when it came to those with motives against Wren Denniston, there was no shortage of options. I lifted my briefcase onto the table, opened it, pulled out a file with the words COMPLAINT LETTERS written in Margaret’s script on the cover, spun it across the table toward Sims.

“These are the letters from the investors who lost money with Inner Circle Investments, irate investors who all seemed to blame Wren Denniston for the loss. Some of the letters are pretty strongly worded. One said, and I quote, ‘You bastard, you deserve to die.’ You might want to look at that one twice.”

As Sims reached for the file, I pulled it back. “Mine.”

“We’ll make copies and then give them back,” said Sims.

“Just be sure you do. I might need them if you fellows keep trying to lay a frame around me and Julia.”

“You don’t trust me, Victor, do you?” said Sims.

“Not an inch.”

“But a centimeter maybe? At least that. Tell me you trust me a centimeter at least. Because, believe it or not, I want to help you. Listen to me, Victor. I admit I might be wrong about Mrs. Denniston. And I admit I might be wrong about you. As a matter
of fact, there is nothing I want more than to prove it. Help me prove it.”

“How?”

“Talk to Mrs. Denniston. Tell her to answer our questions. Tell her to cooperate for both your sakes.”

“And if not?”

“What do you think, Hanratty? How would our boy Victor look in orange?”

“Peachy,” said Hanratty.

When I got home from the Roundhouse, I set a little bonfire in the bathroom sink. Then I took a long shower to wash off the sweat from the interrogation and the gunk from my hair and the oily sheen left on my skin from proximity to Sims. Showered and shaved, powdered and puffed, I put a towel around my waist and called Julia.

“How are you?” I said.

“Bewildered.”

“I understand. Today was a shock, I’m sure. Do you want me to come over?”

“No.”

“But I need to see you. Right away.”

“I don’t think we should see each other,” she said. “Not now and not for a while.”

“Why not?” I tried to hide the whine in my voice but failed abysmally. I was showered and shaved, powdered and puffed,
and ready for action. “There is something important I need to talk to you about.”

“So talk.”

“I don’t want to do it on the phone.”

“I’m surprised. It’s easier taping a phone call than wearing a wire.”

“Julia?”

There was a strange pause, and then she said, “Where were you this afternoon, after you left my husband’s office? Why didn’t you call me right away?”

“I was detained.”

“Lawyers are always so busy.”

“No, really detained. By the police. They picked me up at my apartment. They had questions.”

“And you had answers, I’m sure.”

“They didn’t want my answers, they wanted your answers. What are they asking you? What are you refusing to give them?”

“They keep asking about Wren’s business affairs. But I don’t know anything about Wren’s business affairs. I never cared enough to learn. I guess that makes one of us.”

“Julia?”

“You should have seen your face, Victor, when that Nettles character told you my husband didn’t have any money. It was like one of your pathetic little dreams was crawling underfoot and he had stepped on it and squashed it flat.”

“I was simply surprised. Weren’t you?”

“Not about that. I could tell that things had gone wrong with Wren’s business. By the end his mood had turned so sour it could only have been caused by financial disaster. What surprised me was you. You were so shocked I almost felt sorry for you, even though it wasn’t your money. And then I learned you were at the police, blabbing away, and I figured you found a way to deal with your disappointment.”

“Who told you I was at the police?”

Another pause. “Did you do what you promised? Did you tell them about Miles Cave? Did you start them on the chase?”

“No,” I said. “I couldn’t. Something happened.”

“Yes, something has happened. I hoped we could trust each other. From the start that’s what I hoped. And you promised me that we could.”

“We can, still.”

“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“All I want to do is help you.”

“No you don’t, Victor. You can’t forgive me, so you’re going to pay me back.”

“That’s not true.”

“Even if you don’t recognize it yet, that’s what you’re doing.”

“Julia, listen. Things are getting hairy.”

“Shave.”

“Someone’s trying to set me up.”

“I feel the same way.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the prenup?”

“Would that have tempered your interest?”

“It would have been nice to know about a prenuptial agreement between my old fiancée and her murdered husband when I’m being questioned about the murder. Julia, we need to stick together if we’re going to get through this. I know you didn’t kill your husband, and you know I didn’t kill your husband.”

“Do I?”

“Stop it. Just stop it. This is going from bad to worse. Someone is playing us both, one against the other.”

“Oh, Victor. All the scheming and plotting, the whispered warnings and secret messages.”

“What whispered warnings?”

“When did love get so hard?”

“I had that very same thought.”

“It’s not supposed to be like this. Why can’t it just work out and everyone be happy until they die?”

“It can. We still have a chance to make it work.”

“No, I don’t think so anymore. I thought we did, truly, but I can see now any chance we had was murdered along with Wren.”

Another pause, and the soft whisperings of a voice not Julia’s.

“Is somebody there?” I said.

“Take care of yourself, Victor.”

“Who’s there? Julia? I’m coming over.”

“Don’t. We need to stay apart. They’re watching us both.”

“Are you okay?”

“No, no I’m not, Victor.”

“Let me come over.”

“Gwen will take care of me, she always does.”

“Is she there now, Julia? Is it Gwen who’s with you?”

“I’m sorry, Victor. For everything I’ve done. And everything I’m going to do. I’m sorry.”

“Julia?” I said. “Julia.”

But I was talking to the ether, because she was gone, leaving me with the peculiar sensation that I had just been involved in a three-way skirmish between a horny toad, a chameleon, and a snake.

And the horny toad had lost.