You Have the Right to Remain Silent (10 page)

“
I
never agreed to that,” Holland said dryly.

At that moment the ever-smiling waitress returned and did her best to persuade Marian to indulge in an after-dinner sweet. Lichee? Honey sesame banana? Ice cream? When Marian had said no for the tenth time, the waitress's face fell and she sadly placed the bill on the table between the two men. “Pay please to cashier.” She left.

Page laughed. “She didn't even ask us.” He fished out a credit card and they got up from the table. The cashier turned out to be the same old man who'd showed such concern over Marian's dinner. “Hold on a minute,” Page said, looking at the bill. “There's a mistake here—you charged us for only two dinners.”

“No mistake, no mistake, is right!” The old man all but snatched the bill and credit card out of Page's hand. Page turned and signaled to the waitress, who hurried to join them; when he tried to point out they'd been undercharged, she too denied there was a mistake.

It was Marian's dinner that had been left off the bill. “They know I'm a cop,” she said with a sigh.

“I thought you'd never been in here before,” Page remarked.

“I haven't. And don't ask me how they know.” By then the charge slip was made out and was smilingly presented to Page for his signature. “Go ahead and sign it,” Marian said, taking a twenty out of her billfold. “I hope this covers it.” She placed the bill on the cash register and was immediately met by a stream of rapid-fire Chinese and much shaking of the head. The cashier thrust the twenty back at her while the waitress started plucking at her sleeve. “I wish to pay,” Marian said loudly and distinctly. She was answered with more Chinese, more head-shaking.

“Amazing, how quickly they've forgotten their English,” Page said with a smile.

Finally Marian made the two Chinese understand she could not accept a free meal from them; she did so by speaking in the voice she normally reserved for
Stop or I'll shoot
. “Let's get out of here,” she muttered to the men.

Outside, Holland raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, well, well. An honest cop.”

“Well, well, well,” she shot back, “a cynical fed. Now which is the rarer bird, do you suppose?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Sor-ry,” he drawled, not looking or sounding the least bit sorry.

Marian refused their offer to walk her to her car, thanked them for the dinner she'd paid for herself, and said good night.

The following morning Marian found that her black eye had faded considerably; only a slight bruise remained. Just as well, she thought wryly; nobody had felt particularly sorry for her anyway. Except Kelly. Kelly had worried.

When Marian arrived at the stationhouse, the desk sergeant gave her a phone message from Trevor Page. He would be in Washington today, the message said. Curt Holland had something to check out in New York, but if needed he could be reached through the phone number he (Page) had left with her last night. Marian was just as glad to have them out of her hair for the day, but that did make it a mite hard to follow Captain DiFalco's order to stick to them like glue. She wondered what it was Holland was checking out; Page had given no details. And that, Marian thought, was the FBI's idea of cooperating and sharing information.

Foley wasn't in yet. Marian put in a call to the Crime Scene Unit, telling them a search warrant would be coming through for them to give a thorough going-over to Jason O'Neill's apartment. They were to look not only for evidence of a crime but also for anything that might provide a clue as to why the four murder victims had found it necessary to meet together surreptitiously Saturday afternoon. Search for notes, Marian said, torn-up papers, anything that looked as if it wasn't part of O'Neill's regular possessions. And for god's sake call the minute they had anything.

Foley strolled in, eating a jelly doughnut. “Grab a pencil, Foley,” Marian said. “Things to be done today.”

“I can remember,” he said, mouth full.

“Write it down.”

He glared at her and stuffed the rest of the doughnut in his mouth. He sat down at his desk and made a big show of picking up a pencil and pulling a note pad toward him.
Satisfied
? his body language asked.

“First, get a copy of the watchman's records at Universal Laser Technologies,” Marian said. “We want to know everyone who went in on Saturday, day and night both. Second, as soon as the banks open, get a balance statement for all four of the victims—look for unusually large deposits or withdrawals, that sort of thing. Third, put a one-man stake-out on Mrs. Sherman Bigelow's apartment. She's got to come home sometime.”

“
Maybe
she does,” Foley mumbled.

“Fourth, contact the limousine services and see if Conrad Webb, Sherman Bigelow, or Herb Vickers ordered a private car anytime after three Saturday afternoon. Fifth, find out where Jason O'Neill kept his car. Look for a garage attendant who might tell us if O'Neill took his car out during that period—after three, Saturday.”

“Jesus, Larch, this'll take forever!”

“Then you'd better not waste any time. And there's one more thing. We still haven't pinned down whether any of the four victims had personal enemies.
Real
enemies, the kind that hate deeply enough to commit murder. We've got to go into that more thoroughly.”

Foley threw down his pencil. “Shit. You sure don't mind wasting other people's time, do you? You know damn well it wasn't a personal enemy that killed 'em.”

“I know it and you know it,” Marian replied soberly, “but the Major Crimes Unit doesn't know it. Or at least they'll say they don't.”

“Major Crimes? What the hell do they have to do with it?”

“DiFalco told me the MCU wants to take over this case. The first sign of sloppy police work on our part, they'll be all over us and it's bye-bye to the East River Park murders. So we're going to cover
everything
, and then we're going to go back and cover it again.”

Foley nodded slowly, understanding. “Jesus, they wouldn't take it away from us now? Forget that, sure they would! Let us do all the legwork and then grab the collar for themselves.”

“So you see why we have to be doubly careful? Foley, I want you to make all these assignments yourself. Everyone is to report to you. Do whatever shifting or adjusting you think necessary. You're in charge.” The one thing Marian had never tried in her dealings with her troublesome partner was giving him a little authority—for the simple reason that she didn't trust him. But this time he wouldn't be in a position to get someone killed by not being where he was supposed to be.

Besides, she intended to check on him every step of the way.

Foley was sitting up straighter. “And where will you be?” he asked importantly.

“I have to check with DiFalco, and then I'm going to Universal Laser.”

On her way to the captain's office, Marian heard Foley yell, “Sanchez! Roberts! Get your asses over here! I've got a job for you.” A real take-charge kind of guy.

She opened DiFalco's door and saw the captain waving a large envelope at her. “Autopsy report—just in. They all died at the same time.”

Marian slid the report out of the envelope and started reading. “Time of death between six and nine o'clock, estimation based on the stage of rigor mortis in the bodies of Webb, Bigelow, and O'Neill at time of examination.” Herb Vickers excluded; Marian looked up. “Dr. Whittaker told me some fat people don't go through rigor at all.”

“Yah, I knew that,” DiFalco said.

She read on. “He says the abrasions on the wrists were made before death—all four men were handcuffed while they were still alive. Death in each case was caused by a thirty-eight-caliber bullet through the right eye. Lividity indicates the bodies were moved after death.”

“Hell, I knew that too.”

“Between six and nine,” Marian mused. “Did they stay in O'Neill's apartment all that time? From one-thirty or two on?”

“They must have. Maybe they were waiting for the killer—not knowing he was a killer. Then when he got there, he and the van driver handcuffed them together … why? Just to get 'em in the van?”

“Wouldn't that be rather noticeable? It's still light at six o'clock.”

“So he just killed them there? And then waited until dark to move them? Then why the handcuffs?”

Marian licked her lips. “I don't think they were killed in O'Neill's apartment. I think they went out somewhere together, to do something.”

“And got caught by the killer?”

She shrugged.

DiFalco tapped a forefinger against his chin. “It's possible, I guess. Did you talk to the Crime Scene Unit?”

“Just a few minutes ago. They know to look for evidence about the meeting as well as the murders.”

The captain nodded. “What's your next move?”

Marian explained what she had Foley and the others working on. “If we can't trace their steps after they left O'Neill's apartment, we're going to have to abandon that line of inquiry and go at it from another direction. We'll have to try to pin down the motive.”

DiFalco made a rude noise. “Needle in a haystack.”

“Not really. We know the reason's connected with Universal Laser Technologies and Washington.”

“Two pretty big haystacks, if you ask me. Speaking of Washington, where are the two feds?”

Marian told him about the message from Trevor Page. “They're cutting us out already, Captain. I don't know what Holland's working on in New York and I don't know why Page went to Washington.”

DiFalco swore. “Larch, sometime today I want you to get hold of the one who stayed here—Holland, that the one? Get him to meet you, make up some excuse. Don't let those sonsa-bitches forget that this is a
joint
investigation! Goddammit, we open our files to them and the first thing they do is pull a vanishing act! Well, I won't have it! Do you hear what I'm saying?
Do you hear
?”

She was sitting four feet away. “Yes, sir. I hear.”

“You get hold of this Holland and you—which one is he, by the way?”

“The cynical one.”

“Oh, him. Go call him now.”

“Excuse me, Captain,” Marian said, “but I think I should go to Universal Laser first. This is their first workday since those four men were killed, and it might be a good chance to pick up something.”

He thought that over. “Yah, you're right—it might be at that. Well, what are you sitting there for? Get a move on!”

“On my way,” Marian said.

9

Universal Laser Technologies had factories in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, but its corporate headquarters were in the West Fifties near Fifth, about as high-rent as the local real estate could get. Marian was most curious to see this paradigm of American industry, where office politics were not tolerated and no one had ever made any enemies. Even if Edgar Quinn had not said
that
, she would have suspected him of having a fondness for hyperbole, simply from his reaction to the news about Conrad Webb's death. Webb had been like a second father, Quinn had said. The latter had had a few bad moments, but then he'd recovered quickly enough to answer Marian's questions lucidly and articulately. Quinn had obviously been fond of the old man and his death had shaken him—but a second father? Marian doubted it.

Building security was tight. Marian had to show her badge in the lobby even to be allowed on the elevator, and again on the eighteenth floor, where she was issued a visitor's badge by a receptionist. Universal Laser wasn't exactly what Marian had been expecting. For one thing,
Dress for success
didn't mean much there; she saw more jeans and sneakers than she did neckties and high heels. The offices themselves disclosed a pleasant-enough working environment, but there'd been no attempt to turn them into a showplace. On her way to Edgar Quinn's office, Marian spotted an arrow sign pointing to the legal department. On impulse she turned in that direction.

The legal department was a small complex of offices off to itself. Two women were standing in the middle of the reception area, talking; they looked distraught and nervous. Marian cleared her throat and they both jumped. She asked for Sherman Bigelow's secretary; in Mr. Bigelow's office, she was told, over there.

Marian knocked on the door and was invited in. The woman sitting behind the big desk had been crying; she made a visible effort to pull herself together. “May I help you?” she said automatically. The secretary's theme song.

Marian identified herself and learned the secretary's name was North. She asked her, “Did you just hear of Mr. Bigelow's death?”

North shook her head. “It just hit me all over again, when I came in to check Mr. Bigelow's calendar and see if he'd made any notes for what he wanted done this week.” Her voice was high and tense. “Normally he'd leave them on my desk, but now …”

Marian asked to see the calendar. The secretary got up and walked around the desk to hand it to her. She turned out to be on the plump side and wearing baggy slaeks and espadrilles; not the usual picture of an executive secretary, but she looked very comfortable. Marian glanced at Bigelow's calendar. Business meetings, a doctor's appointment, dinner engagement Thursday night. “This appointment with Dr. Greenberg … was Mr. Bigelow ill?”

“No, he just needed new glasses. Dr. Greenberg's an ophthalmologist. Would you like me to make you a copy of the appointment sheet?” the secretary offered, thus saving Marian from having to ask.

“Thank you. Did Mr. Bigelow seem to be acting normally when he got back from Washington last week?”

“Normally?” A high squeak.

“Did he appear to be worried, distracted? On edge?”

North paused long enough to get her voice under control. “I noticed nothing, Sergeant. Everything appeared quite as usual to me.”