The Blue Journal (43 page)

“She didn't deserve to die, Robert.”

“Didn't she?”

She sat back, staring at him. “What about Fred Wentworth?”

“What about him?” Stratford asked.

“Don't play games with me.”

“Games? Let me tell you one of the basic truths of life, Doctor Conway. Whatever happens to people, in the final analysis, they've brought on themselves. People make choices, you and I included.” Stratford took a few seconds, as if to give her time to contemplate the idea. “I suppose you think you made no choice in all of this.”

She offered no response.

He sat in a chair across from her. “No matter,” he said pleasantly.

“No matter?” Anger rose in her voice. “You need help, Robert, and I can't be the one to give it.”

“Help? I don't think so. My problem is solved, and so is everyone else's. Elizabeth is gone. Fred Wentworth murdered her, and now he's dead too.”

“Fred Wentworth did not murder Elizabeth.”

“Didn't he? The police certainly think he did. The press thinks he did. Once you confirmed his name to your friend Anthony, you helped to close the circle.”

She winced. “You were supposed to protect me, not use me.”

“I did protect you. I did everything I could to stop you from divulging your patients' confidences, didn't I? Didn't I make sure the police kept an eye on you? Maybe not directly, but you had enough attention that you were safe. Then events began to build and, like an old-fashioned pressure cooker, something finally had to give. Once you and your new boyfriend were convinced that it was a matter of life and death—as the police are so fond of describing it—you told him what he needed to know. The anonymous notes. The phone call at the restaurant. The break-in. When you gave him Wentworth's name the rest was as easy as painting by numbers.”

A voice came from behind Stratford, startling the two of them. “Painting by numbers? Mind telling me who or what was the subject of this artwork?”

Stratford spun around to face Anthony Walker. The detective stood in the doorway, waiting for an answer.

“We were just discussing a theory of the Knoebel case,” Stratford said. “Why Wentworth would have murdered her.”

Walker looked to Randi, but she turned away.

“Precisely why I asked you to meet me this evening,” Walker said. “What theory have you come up with?”

“Nothing solid yet.” Stratford twisted uncomfortably in his seat to face the doorway behind him as he spoke, but Walker wasn't moving. “Seems clear this fellow Wentworth was the man.”

“Uh huh.” Walker appeared to be thinking it over. Then he said, “Phyllis Wentworth swears her husband was incapable of murder. For what it's worth, I believe her.”

Stratford shook his head. “She's a grieving widow who can't bring herself to believe her husband was a cold-blooded killer. Sorry Detective, not a very persuasive witness.”

“Maybe not,” Walker said. Then he circled behind Randi, dropped a large envelope on her desk, and leaned against the windowsill, facing both of them. “What I've learned about Wentworth does not exactly conjure up the profile of a murderer.”

Stratford nodded amiably. “All right, but what about the woman's diary? I'm basing this on limited information since I never saw the entire thing, but I am told that her writings include an episode about a man now believed to be Wentworth. Her story indicates things did not go well for him. Perhaps she threatened to reveal his inadequacy. That might provide a motive. Or maybe the shame itself was too great.”

“Maybe, but then we'd have to explain why Fred Wentworth's car was run off the road.”

“Wentworth was run off the road?”

“Oh yes. His death was no accident. The marks on his station wagon made that obvious, but we decided not to release the information until the other vehicle was found. The troopers have it now. It was abandoned in the woods, ten miles or so from the scene of the crash. Their forensics team is going over it as we speak.”

“I wonder what they'll find,” Stratford said.

“We'll know soon enough.”

The threesome was quiet for a few moments. Then Stratford said, “Since you have more information than I do, why don't you go on.”

Walker folded his arms across his chest. “All right. Let's say the murderer didn't know about Elizabeth Knoebel's journal at the time of the killing. If he had, he would have looked for copies or, at the very least, he would have taken her laptop. But he didn't, which suggests to me that he simply didn't know. Whatever his motive for killing her, it had nothing to do with her journal. Later, when the diary was discovered, it created both a problem and an opportunity. Assuming the killer was one of the men identified in her writing, that created an unforeseen risk. On the other hand, the stories about her other playmates offered a chance for him to cast suspicion on someone else. All he had to do was let our investigation play out a little bit, and create some misdirection along the way.”

“Misdirection?”

“Sure, the things you just mentioned. The anonymous notes. The break-in of this office. The phone call Randi got when we were at dinner. False clues, all of them, staged to send us in the wrong direction while the murderer created a story around them that was just plausible enough to lead us to a believable fall guy. There were several of Randi's patients who might have worked just fine. Some that you and I have already discussed. Nettie Sisson. Fran Colello. Thomas Colello. Fred Wentworth just happened to fit the bill.”

Stratford remained silent.

“I must say, the Wentworth ploy was risky, especially since he had to be killed to really make the plan work. There was no way to allow him an opportunity to exonerate himself. No, he had to be removed, and there was real danger in the way it was done. I mean, look at the possible flaws. First, there was the risk of being seen switching cars. Then you had to be sure that Wentworth died in the crash. And, of course, since you had to leave the revolver behind, someone could have driven by at the moment you were planting the gun, another chance of being spotted. But the true genius was in engineering things so that Randi gave us his name. Once you learned that Colello suspected Wentworth had been in the Knoebel house, well, the rest was truly inspired.”

Stratford stared at him wide-eyed “You actually believe I murdered Elizabeth Knoebel and Fred Wentworth.”

“I do.

“You're insane.”

“Am I? I tell you what, even an unregistered gun like the one they found, it'll ultimately be traced. Don't look so skeptical, the State is working that angle. And the car that ran Wentworth off the road. Whatever you did to clean it out when you ditched it, they'll find something. I know you must've been wearing gloves, but maybe you left behind a hair or two, or breathed too hard on the windshield. Or perhaps you left tire tracks from your own car near the exchange point.”

“You really believe this hogwash?”

“I do.” Walker stood, picked up the brown envelope on Randi's desk and tossed it into Stratford's lap. The lawyer reflexively caught it as Walker continued. “Unlike Fred Wentworth, you really did have a motive, didn't you? You have a political career at stake, and you couldn't afford to have the truth about your relationship with Elizabeth Knoebel made public. Killing her was one thing, but then you had to bring our investigation to an end so the diary would be buried before anyone identified you in there.”

“You are way off base here, Detective.”

“Am I? I admit, proof beyond a reasonable doubt is a tough hill to climb, that's true, but even if you manage to skate on the criminal charge, you're through.” He pointed at the envelope. “Once we determined that the RSETU file was actually an encoded name for ROBRT, it was easy to fill in the blanks. Personally, professionally, you're done.”

Stratford held up the envelope. “Please Detective, not this woman's deranged fantasies. Please tell me that's not the basis of these slanderous accusations.”

“Deranged? Maybe so. But they weren't fantasies, which we've already established from others mentioned in her diary. There's another piece to the puzzle you didn't know about, something we didn't tell anyone. You see, Elizabeth Knoebel kept a schedule in her computer. She recorded all of her meetings, dates and places, chapter and verse. Shouldn't be tough to get corroborating testimony from bartenders and waiters and motel clerks. You know the drill, Counselor.”

They stared at each other, waiting. Then Stratford stood up, casually brushed off his suit jacket and smiled. “The day Fred Wentworth died. What time was he found?”

“Just before noon.”

“Yes. That's how I recall it. And the coroner's report indicated his time of death . . .”

“Was an hour or so before that.”

“Exactly what I was told by Chief Gill. So, before you came here tonight with this Alice in Wonderland story, did you bother to check my whereabouts that morning?”

“I did. You were not in your law office or in Town Hall.”

“High marks for addressing the obvious. What you did not know, however, was that I was in a private meeting with three representatives of my party from Hartford. We kept our gathering a secret to avoid unnecessary speculation about what you have referred to as my political career. We took a small conference room at the Hyatt in Greenwich, all of which you can easily confirm. I arrived there before ten and did not leave until after one.”

Walker did not reply.

“As for the death of Mrs. Knoebel, I'm sure I will be able to account for my location that day as well, should it come to that. You'll find I am also quite meticulous in keeping records of my schedule.”

Walker remained silent.

“So then, I think it's fair to say that your desperate speculation is nothing more than grounds for a slander suit.” Turning to the forgotten person in the room, he said to Randi, “You should really choose your new friends more carefully.” He came around the desk and bent down to kiss her on the forehead, but she pulled away. Stratford straightened up and had another look at the envelope in his hand, then returned his attention to Walker. “You're a small man with a small mind, Detective. Whatever you think you know about me is nothing more than wild conjecture.”

“That so?”

“Oh yes. And then there is the small matter of your own breach of professional conduct.” He smiled again as Walker and Randi waited. “Do you think I don't know you two have been sleeping together? Please, don't look so shocked, and don't waste time with idiotic denials. You have suggested that I am a clever and careful man, and you are correct on both counts.” He strolled toward the door, then turned back to them. “Any attempt to tie me to Elizabeth Knoebel will force me to reveal that the detective in charge of this investigation was having a sexual relationship with a woman who was not only a key witness in the case but, in addition, a potential suspect. I'm sure Randi has shared with you stories of her own difficulties with the late Mrs. Knoebel. All of that would also have to be revealed. Then there is the added complication that your new lover is a client of the very man you would be accusing. Take some time to employ your limited imagination and see how all that will play out. You will be fortunate not to end up in prison yourself. You will most assuredly lose your job, and likely forfeit any chance of ever working in law enforcement anywhere at any time in any other jurisdiction in the country.”

Neither Walker nor Randi spoke.

“I see I've made my point,” Stratford said, then turned and walked out.

When he was gone, Randi looked up at Walker, tears welling up in her tired brown eyes. “Oh my God,” she said.

“Are you all right?”

“You really believed he killed them both?”

Walker walked around the desk and slumped in the seat opposite Randi. “I did.”

“But he must be telling the truth about his meeting that day, the morning Fred . . .”

“I'm afraid that's probably so,” Walker agreed as he began to rethink his entire view of the case. “He wouldn't lie about something that would be so easy to disprove.”

“What about those things you said, about the car?”

Walker got up and walked to the door, just to be sure Stratford was gone. Then he returned, sat down, and let out a long sigh. “They did find the car, but not so much as a single print. It was wiped clean. There were a couple of hairs, but we don't have a match. They likely belong to the owner the car was stolen from.”

“What about Elizabeth's date book, proving that Bob was seeing her?”

He shrugged. “There is no date book.”

“So he was right. You were bluffing.”

“I played him, that's all. Just like he's been playing me. And you, for that matter.”

“But why? If he didn't kill Elizabeth . . .”

“I'm still not convinced he didn't kill Elizabeth. He seems to have a strong alibi for the day Wentworth died, but he still hasn't told us where he was the day she was murdered.” Walker nodded to himself. “My guess is, he'll find a way to work that out too.”

“Typical Bob,” Randi said, “to have himself covered that way. Now he'll go home so he and Lady Macbeth can discuss damage control.” More to herself than to Walker, she said, “I wonder if she really has any idea.”

Walker looked up. “What did you say?”

CHAPTER 59

Outside, at the far end of the parking lot behind Randi's building, Robert Stratford sat in his Mercedes, the engine idling, the map light casting a glow across his face, the CD player sending soft strains of
La Traviata
throughout the leather-upholstered interior. The envelope Walker had given him was on the passenger seat. He had removed the pages and was reading through the notes Elizabeth had made about their relationship.

Vain men are the easiest to control. They are willing to accept as true anything that strokes their ego, believing as they do in their superiority.