Deadly Fall (31 page)

Was he teasing because her suggestion was so implausible? She couldn't tell from his straight face. “I ran them through the dishwasher this morning,” she said. “Besides, I don't believe Sam did that. He isn't that calculating.”

“How long have you known him?”

She hesitated, “A week.”

He raised a brow. Did he think her a silly woman who had fallen for a man's false sincerity?

She changed the subject. “What is this evidence you have supporting Felix as Callie's murderer? Did he or someone else tell you he was in love with her?”

Vincelli wheeled his chair toward her. He'd ignored that question twice during the drive from Felix's house.

She glanced at the camera mounted on the wall facing her. “A few days ago, Sam told me he was sure Felix had no interest in Callie beyond friendship. Have you talked to Sam?”

“How could Sam be sure?”

“Felix was his best friend. From the little I saw of Felix, he struck me as the open type, who'd wear his heart on his sleeve. I doubt he could hide his feelings if they were strong enough for him to kill Callie.”

“No one's completely open,” Vincelli said. “Everyone has secrets. Matters closest to the heart are often the last ones we share.” He grabbed a mushy egg sandwich from the platter he had ordered in.

She helped herself to one composed of limp lettuce and meat spread. “Felix had the opportunity. He knew of her morning jogging habit. I presume he had no alibi. None of us do.” Including Sam. “It seems hard to get an alibi that's iron-tight.”

“Too iron-tight can be suspicious.”

“Nobody wins with you people.”

“Everyone wins except the bad guys. And victims.”

“Felix isn't a bad guy.”

Vincelli wheeled back from the table. If his constant movement was designed to drive her nuts, it was working. So did the sterile room and camera recording her every word and movement.

“You asked for the evidence,” he said. “During the weeks preceding Callie's death, numerous phone calls were placed between her home and Felix's. Sam couldn't account for them all.”

“What about ones from her cell phone?”

“She rarely used it and kept it mainly for emergencies.”

True. Callie had a touch of the Luddite, not being into e-mail either, which was unfortunate. E-mail could have provided heaps of evidence about what she'd been up to lately. The police experts were doing a forensics check of Felix's computer. Even deleted e-mails and writing could be retrieved from the hard drive.

Vincelli wheeled forward to get a meat spread sandwich, the only ones left on the plate because they tasted even worse than the salmon and egg. She would have expected the cops to be more competent at selecting food.

“Dimitri had access to Sam's house,” she said. “He might have placed those calls. That reminds me, I saw Dimitri Friday night.”

He nodded, chewing his sandwich. So, Dimitri had told the police about her visit.

Paula finished her tepid coffee. “Dimitri talked with Callie during the summer. She told him she felt guilty about something. He sensed it wasn't related to her leaving Kenneth. Felix's note talked about guilt. It might be guilt about his murdering Callie, but what if he and Callie both felt guilty about something else?”

“Such as a love affair?”

“Why would they care about that? Callie had broken up with Dimitri. Felix was single. They were free agents.”

“Dimitri would have been hurt by their involvement.”

On the hike, Felix had shown a concern for Dimitri that was almost paternal. It seemed Callie still had feelings for Dimitri, too.

Vincelli's cell phone or beeper rang. He excused himself and left. His notebook lay on the table. If she peeked the camera would catch her. She rubbed her fingertips. A tiny spot of dye remained, after scrubbing with the police soap. Isabelle was in a room similar to this one answering questions. Were they suspects? Was Sam? The questions aimed at her suggested the police leaned strongly toward thinking it was a murder followed by suicide from guilt. Felix's body—he had been shot in the mouth—was still in that chair, surrounded by crime scene unit members dusting for fingerprints and rooting through his garbage. His family had been notified. One of his sisters was flying from Winnipeg today. His mother and two other sisters would drive from Saskatchewan.

The interview room door opened. Vincelli entered with fresh coffee in Styrofoam cups.

He returned to his chair. “Where were we?”

“Discussing your evidence against Felix.”

Vincelli's olive complexion looked sallow in the room's white glare. His trendy unshaven look was growing closer to Felix's unkempt stubble. This was Sunday. He had said he was called in from his first day off since starting work on the case.

He laid his large hands on the table, palms down. “A few weeks ago, Felix's neighbor saw him standing by his backyard fence, arguing with a woman who fits Callie's general description.”

“A lot of women do. What were they arguing about?”

“Since she was inside her house, the neighbor couldn't hear.”

“How did she know they were arguing?”

“Both were gesturing wildly. The woman, in particular, was shaking and thrusting her arms. At one point, Felix looked around, as though to check for someone overhearing. In the end, the woman whirled and ran off. Felix stood watching her.”

“Circumstantial. You don't know if the woman was Callie or if it was a romantic argument.”

He was blocking the camera. Was that by accident or on purpose?

“After the murder, a man called the police hotline,” Vincelli said. “He recognized Callie from her newspaper photo and said he had passed her every morning on his walk to work. One day, he noticed her talking with Felix, whom he knew by sight as a prominent journalist. They were engaged in, as he put it, spirited conversation.”

“A fight? Like the one the neighbor had noticed?”

“He wouldn't commit to that. He didn't hear any words. This man is very precise. He makes an excellent witness.”

Vincelli slid his chair to the side. The camera stared straight at her.

“Do you believe Callie and Felix had an affair?” she said.

“By many accounts, he was in love with her thirty years ago. Some people never let go. His obsession might explain why he never married or lived with a woman.”

“Who told you he'd been in love with her?”

Vincelli stroked his Styrofoam cup. “Believe it or not, I like Felix. Liked him, that is, and I don't think he's a bad guy. His remorse shows he wasn't a natural killer.”

“I still say his so-called suicide note wasn't conclusive.”

“It provides the missing piece. The motive. Everything fits.”

“Neat and tidy.”

“As it should be.”

“Too tidy can be suspicious.” Paula placed a half-finished sandwich on her plate. “If alibis can be too iron-tight, can't the same be said for evidence? What if Felix didn't do it? What if he didn't kill Callie and didn't kill himself?”

“At the moment, we're ninety-five percent certain his death was suicide.”

“What about the other five percent?” She stood. Her leg buckled after so much sitting. She rubbed the cramped muscle. “Suppose, for a minute, it wasn't suicide. Pretend one of your experts rules it out. What would this mean?”

Vincelli looked up at her, scratching his beard stubble. “Someone murdered him, setting it up to look like suicide.”

“Was there evidence of break and enter into his house? There can't have been or you wouldn't be thinking suicide. He must have let the person in.”

“Felix kept a spare key under a statue in his backyard,” Vincelli said. “He told Isabelle to use it if she lost the one he gave her. That reminds me to make sure Isabelle gives us that other key.”

“Who else knew about the spare under the statue?”

“All of his friends we've talked with so far. He would tell them to let themselves in if he thought he might be late getting home to meet them. It seems he used it regularly when he locked himself out. Anyone passing on the Elbow trail might have observed him or someone else removing the key. It was an incredibly careless practice and completely in character.”

She paced to a white wall. “Was Felix killed by one of his own guns?”

“The one he was holding was registered to him.”

“You'll check it against the bullet.”

“I'll be surprised if they don't match.”

“The killer would have known about his gun collection.”

“That narrows it down to a few hundred friends and acquaintances.”

“And whoever they told,” she said. “Is it easy to set up a murder to look like suicide? You could probably find the information you need on the Net, but to do it convincingly . . .”

“If this was a setup, we'll find out.”

Paula returned to her chair, to face him. “The reason for doing it is obvious: the case is closed with Felix declared guilty of Callie's murder; her killer is off the hook.”

“Don't forget his note confessing to the crime.”

“The writing was wavy. Could it have been forged?”

“Our handwriting expert will determine that.” Vincelli wrapped his hands around his cup. “Your turn to suppose. Let's say our expert confirms Felix's handwriting.”

“In the note, he didn't directly state he murdered Callie.”

“He states he was responsible for her death.”

“You can feel responsible without being literally guilty. I've felt responsible for her death, for not returning her call. If I was unstable, it could have nagged at me until I went crazy with guilt.” She brushed back her sweaty hair. “Maybe Felix was in a position to have prevented her murder. He might have seen someone following her on the trail and didn't say or do anything. Or something else relatively innocent preyed on him. Guilt works in mysterious ways.”

“You don't need to tell me about guilt,” he said. “I was raised Catholic.” Again the deadpan expression.

“The note was the start of his column. Did you find more of it, earlier drafts in the wastebasket?”

Vincelli stared, lips tight. He had shared the information about the witnesses and gun registration. She guessed he didn't know if they found anything in the basket.

“If it wasn't suicide, Callie's murderer is still out there,” Paula said. “It's someone who planned ahead enough to steal Sam's father's gun and scout the river trail for the best murder site. Someone brazen enough to enter Felix's house at the risk of being seen by neighbors or waking him up. That suggests, by the way, it was someone who knew him to be a deep sleeper. Sam told me he had a particular sleep pattern. I forget the details.”

“He was an insomniac who got by on a few hours of rock-solid sleep.”

“Sam said Felix was up every morning when Callie jogged by his house, around 6:15
AM
. I bet that wasn't the time of his murder. The killer would have got him during his period of deep sleep.”

“That's assuming he was murdered.”

“He was a snorer. His mouth would have been open.” Paula pictured the body on the chair, its bloodied head leaning back. Would she ever get over the image? “Whoever killed him was knowledgeable enough or skilled enough in Internet research to set up a suicide that was ninety-five percent convincing to a homicide unit. And heartless enough to kill a friend or acquaintance.”

She took a breath. Vincelli was edging back. He probably thought her obsessed, but this was her chance to make a point. The whole unit would watch and listen to the camera recording.

“Felix raved about his explosive column,” she said. “What if he planned to expose Callie's murderer and that person found out and felt a need to silence him? Felix talked a lot. He probably talked even more than usual when he was drinking in bars. What if he confided his knowledge of Callie's murder to someone he met there and Callie's murderer learned about that? He murdered Felix to shut him up. What's to stop him from killing that other innocent person?”

Vincelli's chair stopped a few feet from the wall. Even to her, the theory sounded like an improbable chain of events. Vincelli and his colleagues would think her unhinged. Now, she understood why he had shared police information. There was no need to keep it secret. The case was almost closed.

He wheeled the chair toward her. “We'll know more, as information filters in. Felix's friends might corroborate his suicidal mood, as you did when you described his behavior on the hike: his unnatural buoyancy, magnified sense of purpose.”

After the high came the crash. Everything fit so well.

Outside the interview
room, they were met by the short detective who had questioned Paula on Felix's street. He told them Isabelle had been sent home in a taxi an hour earlier.

“Once again, she scores the shorter grilling,” Paula said.

His jaw tightened. “We need to investigate thoroughly.”

“I hope you do.”

“You'd be wise to curb that attitude.”

Vincelli said he'd drive Paula back to her car parked on Felix's street.

“Your colleague rubs me the wrong way,” she told him on their way to his vehicle. Without replying, he unlocked the doors.

They drove under the railway tracks and entered the Beltline district humming with people out shopping or enjoying a Sunday stroll. While they had been stuck in the police station, gray skies had given way to a burst of sun.

“I gather Felix has been a prime suspect from the start,” she said. “Murder-suicide fits your expectations. All that remains is to wait for the evidence to roll in and prove it.”

“Can we leave it, Paula, for one minute?” His tone was harsh. Was he annoyed by her attitude, too, or simply tired?

She switched gears, slightly. “What happened to your partner, Novak? I haven't seen him since you both interviewed me that first Friday.” It felt like a year ago.