You Have the Right to Remain Silent (14 page)

The other woman's face changed, to what Marian thought was honest regret. “Yes, he'd stepped down before Edgar Senior died, and no, he never had to worry about employee loyalty. Conrad was special. He was the perfect man for getting this company off the ground and moving, and old Edgar was one smart cookie for knowing that. Those two made a perfect partnership—that's one of the things that attracted me to Universal Laser in the first place. But now, what with both of them gone …” She trailed off, leaving the obvious unstated.

So was she sincerely concerned for the company's future, or was she just out after Edgar Quinn's job? Marian couldn't tell. Right at that moment another maintenance man showed up, pushing a platform truck loaded with computer equipment; and Elizabeth Tanner's whole attention was given over to deciding where she wanted things set up. Page motioned to Marian with his head; they left without saying goodbye.

In the elevator on the way down, Marian asked, “Just how well do you know Elizabeth Tanner? Enough to make any sense out of that?”

“I know her well enough to see she's trying to edge Edgar Quinn out of his father's company.”

“By throwing suspicion on him? But how would that help her, if he didn't commit the murders?”

Page shrugged. “By rattling him? By undermining employee confidence in him? She's looking for anything that'll make him look bad.”

“You seem pretty sure,” Marian remarked. “How do you know she's not just worried about the company?”

“Because the only thing Elizabeth Tanner worries about is Elizabeth Tanner. No, Sergeant, that was just plain old office politics we got a taste of up there.”

“Edgar Quinn assured me there were no office politics at Universal Laser,” she said with a smile.

Page didn't even bother answering that.

On the street, they headed uptown, both of them wrapped in their own thoughts. After they'd gone several blocks, Marian said, “You know, don't you, that Edgar Quinn is the only suspect we've got? His motive may be on the puny side—accusing one of the liaison group of having betrayed him. But that's more motive than we've been able to come up with for anyone else.”

“Tell me something,” Page said to her. “How did you first learn that Quinn was suspicious of the liaison group?”

That was easy. “Quinn told me himself.”

“And would a murderer voluntarily hand the police a motive where none had previously existed?”

“Sounds farfetched, I know.”

“Damned right it does. You know, Sergeant, the more I think about it, the more I like Quinn's notion that one of that group was involved in a deal that went sour. The sheer methodicalness of the way they were killed smacks of a pro doing his job, don't you think?”

Marian had to agree. “It's hardly the method an amateur would attempt for his first killing. What are you going to do?”

Page pointed to a hot dog vendor on the corner. “Have lunch. How do you take yours?”

“Mustard only.”

They took their hot dogs to one of the benches outside the wall around Central Park. “One thing bothers me,” Marian said between bites. “Edgar Senior doesn't sound like the type to be blinded by paternal pride. If he was shrewd enough to see he needed a Conrad Webb to run his company, why didn't he know Edgar Junior wasn't up to the job when his time came?”

Page laughed shortly. “Because Edgar Quinn isn't anything like the incompetent boob Elizabeth Tanner painted him to be. Old Edgar knew what he was doing.”

Marian finished her hot dog and licked a spot of mustard off one finger. “You seem awfully sure Edgar Quinn is innocent.”

The FBI agent let the air out of his lungs with a
whoosh
. “I'm not, really. He could be guilty as hell. I'm just afraid we're zeroing in on him because we can't find anyone else.”

Marian knew the feeling. “Have you ever seen his apartment?”

“No—what's it like?”

“Beautiful place, and rather formal. Quinn himself is so informal, even in his office … he and that apartment don't seem to go together.”

“It was his father's. He inherited it along with the business.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Marian couldn't help but think what it would be like having this man as her partner instead of the one she was saddled with. Page would be a real
partner
instead of a resentful, foot-dragging—no, better not get off on that. She was stuck with Foley and that was that.

Page cleared his throat. “If you're right that the East River Park murders were some kind of warning, then whatever's been going on isn't over yet. I wasn't going to tell you until the warrant came through, but we're going to put a tap on Quinn's phone. Maybe we'll get something.”

Quite an admission. “So you do think he's guilty?”

He grinned, wryly. “Frankly, we couldn't think of anything else to do. FBI rule of thumb—when you're stuck, plant a bug. We should be set up by tonight. Do you want to listen in?”

“Not tonight. Tonight I'm doing one of those things cops periodically do to remind themselves they do indeed have personal lives.”

“Oh, sorry—I didn't mean to intrude.”

“You didn't. It's just that I'm committed to attending a showing tonight, a sculptor named Bergstrom.”

“Bergstrom?” Page looked at her with interest. “You like his ‘liquid configurations'? I think that's what he calls them.”

“I never heard of him before last week,” she admitted, a little piqued that he had. “The gallery owner is a friend of mine, and he's been rather …”—
insistent
was too strong—”… persuasive,” Marian finished.

“I see. Well, enjoy yourself.”

“I'm sure as hell going to try,” she said with determination.

12

For once Marian got home in time to wash her hair before going out. She was a little edgy about seeing Brian again and began to wonder if a public reconciliation was such a good idea after all. She put on a red dress she'd worn only once before—to a party she'd gone to with Brian, she suddenly remembered. Brian had liked it. The thought occurred to her that she was dressing to please him; quickly she looked through her closet but couldn't find anything else dressy enough to suit the occasion. So, the red dress it was.

She found a parking place on East Seventy-eighth, only a couple of blocks from Brian's gallery. The night air had turned chill, as if suddenly recalling it was September. The walk back toward Madison served to increase her jitters, for it was then that Marian finally admitted she
wanted
to see Brian again. Why had they fought? Best not to remember.

The gallery was crowded, noisy, and so brightly lighted that Marian had to squint at first, coming in from the dark. Scores of ultrastylish people with drinks in their hands moved to an intricate dance of their own devising, totally unrelated to the taped music booming from the concealed wall speakers. At the same time these ostensible patrons of the arts all engaged in a speedtalking contest, those that weren't waiting for their turn to compete. One or two of them were actually looking at the sculptures.
Cliché in living color
, Marian thought. She didn't see Brian.

She accepted a glass of champagne from a morose-looking young man bearing a tray and edged through the crowd toward the nearest sculpture. The piece looked like an old-fashioned TV antenna that was just starting to melt. What was the phrase Trevor Page had used? Liquid configurations. Well, it did look rather liquid at that. Marian knew she was supposed to be overcome by the aesthetics of the piece, but all she could think was
How did he do that
? She wondered which of these people was Bergstrom.

Ten minutes passed and still no sign of Brian. Marian knew he had to be here somewhere; the gallery wasn't all that large, but the constantly moving crowd made it difficult to see more than a few yards. She put down her empty champagne glass and started a systematic hunt.

In a matter of seconds she caught a glimpse not of Brian but of another face she knew. Black hair, black eyes that bored into you like drills, downturned mouth, condescending air. He was dressed all in black, as he had been the first time she'd seen him, in Captain DiFalco's office. In his slightly decadent way, Curt Holland looked right at home among this artsy crowd.

When he saw that she'd spotted him, he made his way over to her. “Well, well, if it isn't Maid Marian.”

She was angry. “I don't believe in coincidence.”

“Nor do I.”

“Page was the only person I told I was coming here. Did he send you to spy on me?”

“Page didn't send me at all. He mentioned you were coming to the Bergstrom showing so I decided to take a look myself.”

Marian grunted. “So suddenly you're interested in sculpture? I'm supposed to believe that?”

“I'm interested in what you're up to. You found something that brought you to this gallery—I want to know what it is.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “I do have a personal life, you know.”

He gave her one of his cynical smiles. “Page may have bought that, but I myself am inclined to be a trifle more skeptical when it comes to what the local police choose to tell us. You wouldn't be holding something out on us, would you, Sergeant?”

“Butt out, Holland. This has nothing to do with the FBI. Go away.”

“I think not.”

They were interrupted by a loud burst of laughter. As it died away, Marian could hear Brian's voice calling, “Marian darling!
There
you are! Stay right where you are—I'll come to you.”

Marian “darling”?

He was with three other people, two men and a woman. Marian knew the men, both sycophantic social butterflies whom she couldn't stand. But the woman—the woman was new. Tall, chic, with hair so blond it was white, hanging straight to her collar bone where it had been cut to razor-edge sharpness. Younger than Marian. The blonde was clinging to Brian's arm with a familiarity that made it plain the two had not met tonight for the first time.

“Hello, Brian,” Marian forced herself to say, and nodded to the others.

“Ah, you're wearing your red ‘power' dress, I see—I've always liked that one,” Brian said with an insincere smile. He shot a glance at Holland. “And you brought a friend—how nice. Or is our little opening so threatening you felt you needed moral support?”

Marian couldn't believe her ears; she'd never heard Brian be so …
bitchy
. She pointedly did not introduce Holland, who stood silently watching and listening.

Brian said, “Diane, love, I want you to meet Marian Larch.
Sergeant
Marian Larch.”

The blonde's eyebrows rose. “Sergeant? Uh, like in the army?”

So she didn't know who Marian was. “Police.”

“Oh. That's nice.” The other woman's smile was friendly.

Brian disengaged Diane's arm so he could put his own arm around her waist, dropping his hand so that it was resting low on her hip. “Diane is a model. Isn't she lovely?”

One of the male butterflies snickered. “Don't they make a
super
couple?”

That was why Brian had wanted her to come? To see her replacement?
He set me up again
, Marian thought, stunned.
The son of a bitch, he set me up again!
“Brian,” she said wonderingly, “I had no idea you could be so petty.”

Brian and the butterflies all laughed as if she'd said something wonderfully witty; Diane joined in, although it was clear she had no idea of what was going on. The same butterfly who'd spoken before said, “You're not going to make a scene, are you, Marian?”

Don't you wish
. Marian ignored him and spoke to Brian. “You didn't have to do this. Does it make you feel taller? You could have just let it go.”

“Oh, I'm never one to let things go,” he answered airily. “I firmly believe in tying up loose ends. You don't mind being referred to as a loose end, do you, Marian?” He smiled at his own double entendre.

Even Diane caught the insult; something like comprehension was beginning to dawn in her face. She looked from Brian to Marian and back to Brian again.
That's right, honey
, Marian thought;
if he did it to me, he can do it to you
. She looked her ex-lover straight in the eye. “Now that I've seen what I was meant to see here,” she said evenly, “there's no point in my staying any longer. Goodbye, Brian.” She put a finality into the last two words that no one could possibly misunderstand. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and left with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Oh, don't go away mad!” a butterfly voice wafted after her.

Outside, Marian walked rapidly back toward her car, her face burning. How dare he? How
dare
he? She didn't even know the Brian she'd just left; he wasn't the same man who'd given her so much joy in the past. Marian cursed herself for a fool, for allowing herself to be set up again. People lied to her all the time in her job and she could almost always tell when; but she'd not once questioned the seductive lies on her answering machine. She should have anticipated something like this, she should have been able to see through Brian better—she certainly had enough to go on. But no, she'd hung on, trying to make a go of it, unwilling to admit she'd made
that big
a mistake in judgment.

“I apologize,” a voice said beside her. Startled, Marian jerked her head around; she hadn't even realized Holland was walking with her. “You were right,” he said. “I had no business being there.”

Marian sighed. “Holland, couldn't you just discreetly disappear?”

“I intend to. But first—are you all right?”

“That's a dumb question,” she muttered. They'd reached her car; she unlocked the door and climbed in.