A Simple Act of Violence (46 page)

‘How long have you known him?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘Jeez, I don’t know. Patrick died about five years ago . . . yes, it was November 2001, and John used to come down before that. I don’t know, maybe for a year or so. I s’pose about six years, something like that. I started training with Patrick when I was twelve so I guess I was about sixteen when I first met John.’

‘You didn’t mind him coming down and watching you, even after Patrick died?’

‘Mind? Hell no, he’s no trouble. He just sits right at the back and watches. Most of the time I don’t even notice he’s there. Sometimes he comes late, like I’ve already started my work-out, and then I stop for a moment and look up and there he’ll be, all the way in back with a bag of donuts or something. He’s harmless enough.’

‘You never got the impression that there was anything improper about his interest?’

Sarah laughed. ‘What’s that? The polite way of asking me if I thought he was a kiddy-fiddler?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Miller said. ‘It’s not an easy question to ask. I didn’t want to upset you.’

‘It’s okay. Me, I’m bulletproof. Remember, I’m from another planet and I’ve got parents who figure they’ll do better than each other at their age. So did I think he was a pervert? No, not at all. He wasn’t like that. It’s not difficult to spot when someone looks at you that way. You sort of get a sense for what they’re thinking. John’s just a friendly guy. He knew Patrick and Patrick died, and maybe he figured he should carry on coming over to see me train so I didn’t feel like Patrick was the only reason he ever came. I like him . . .’ Sarah paused and looked up. ‘And now you’re gonna tell me that he is a kiddy-fiddler, right? Or that he’s a mass murderer or something really freaked out like that?’

‘Nothing like that,’ Miller replied. ‘Like I said, we’re just following up on something. Thank you for your time. I really appreciate it.’

‘Whatever,’ Sarah said. She rose from the chair, took her bottle of water, the towel she’d been sitting on, and she turned toward the door.

‘If I need to get hold of you again . . . ?’ Miller asked.

‘You’ve got Per’s number. He can reach me.’

‘Okay. Thanks again.’

‘No problem. Say hi to John for me.’

Miller nodded. ‘I will.’

Miller and Roth watched her go.

‘Nice kid,’ Roth said.

‘Who just demolished Robey’s alibi for the time of Catherine Sheridan’s murder.’

‘You’d think he would have checked, right? If he’s so smart, as smart as she says he is, then you’d have figured he would’ve checked that she was training before he gave her as an alibi.’

Miller smiled, shook his head. ‘That’s the point though, isn’t it? Guy like that, if he did this thing, then he’s nuts. That’s the disadvantage, however brilliant they might be. If they do this kind of shit then they’re crazy, and crazy doesn’t serve you so well when you’re trying to avoid being investigated.’

‘So we go see him again.’

‘Sure as hell we do. I wanna speak to Lassiter, just make sure we do this by the book, use every angle we can, and then we go pick him up. Want Riehl and Littman there, want to hear what they found out from the dean of the college.’

‘We can call ahead from the car,’ Roth said.

They left the health club, drove west back towards the Second, something at the back of Miller’s mind, something that Robey had said during their conversation in the diner. He’d used a strange phrase, and when he’d said it Miller had barely paid attention, but now - thinking back - it seemed out of place, an anomaly.

‘What’s a squall?’ he asked Roth.

‘A squaw . . . like an Indian’s wife or something?’

‘A squall . . . double l at the end.’

‘A squall. I think that’s like a strong wind or something, like a sudden strong wind. Why d’you ask?’

Miller shook his head. ‘Something Robey said . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing. I’ll call Lassiter, get this meeting together.’

Roth nodded, slowed for the lights at the junction of Florida and Eckington, and then the lights were with him, the conversation forgotten. There were more important things ahead; the right way to use their one chance with John Robey and learn what he really knew.

Quarter after two. They were all present, everyone except Littman; there in the same second-floor office that overlooked the street. Lassiter, Riehl, Metz, Oliver, Miller and Roth. Littman was still down near the college. He was parked outside and across the street, keeping an eye open for Robey’s departure.

Lassiter held court. He asked questions, repeated those questions until he felt he’d drawn everything he could out of the answers. He wanted to know about Dean Edgewood, what the Bishop girl had said, each of them corroborating the other’s view that Robey was a loner, a man of few words.

‘These characters,’ he said. ‘They’re always the quiet types, always on their own.’

He wanted to know the exact and specific tone of Miller’s conversation in the diner. He paused between each answer, he made notes, he asked the same questions in a different way, and after an hour, perhaps longer, he rose from his chair and walked around the room.

‘You were right,’ Lassiter told Miller. ‘We don’t arrest him yet. Littman’s down at Mount Vernon and will contact us as soon as Robey shows. He took his lunch inside, right?’

Riehl nodded. ‘Couple of times I went in there, walked the corridors. The dean was very agitated, didn’t like the fact that we were on campus. Robey took his class and, like you said, he didn’t leave at lunchtime. They have a canteen in there for the students and the teachers. We assume he ate there.’

‘Or doesn’t eat lunch,’ Metz interjected.

‘So we have an alibi for the time of the Sheridan woman’s death that is bullshit. That tells us nothing more than he didn’t want us to know where he was on Saturday afternoon.’

‘Over on Columbia beating the poor bitch to death,’ Oliver said. ‘He’s our guy . . . he’s our fucking guy, I tell you. There’s something about this motherfucker that I don’t like.’

‘Funny that,’ Roth said, ‘because he said the same thing about you.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Lassiter interjected. ‘We’re assuming nothing. We’re jumping to no conclusions here. Just because the guy doesn’t want us to know where he goes on a Saturday afternoon doesn’t mean he’s Hannibal Lecter.’

‘But he likes cute ice-skaters,’ Metz said.

‘Hey, who the fuck doesn’t like cute ice-skaters,’ Oliver retorted.

‘That’s enough with the wisecracks,’ Lassiter said. ‘We have one shot at this guy. He may be someone, he may be no-one, but we fuck this up and not only do we not get a second chance, we’re also up against the D.A.’s office on a harassment thing. We go after him with nothing behind us and we’re fucked.’ Lassiter paused for a moment. ‘The question is this: Miller . . . you figure you can get him to talk to you again? Could you suggest that there’s a question regarding his whereabouts that afternoon?’

‘I can try, sure.’

‘Okay, so we do it this way. Miller and Roth . . . you guys go down and pick him up after college has finished. You take him somewhere social, a coffee shop, whatever. Ask him if he doesn’t mind answering another couple of questions. Suggest there has been some difficulty ascertaining the truth of his alibi, that Brentwood was closed on Saturday, and if he bullshits you again tell him that we have more than one picture of him with the Sheridan woman. Gauge his reaction to the alibi thing before you throw the second thing at him. I wanna do this bit by bit. I don’t want to show him the whole hand before he makes a play, you know? We arrest him on nothing and he’ll have a lawyer get him out in twelve hours, and we’ll be up in the D.A.’s office asking ourselves why we’ve got a pending lawsuit. He seemed willing to speak with you before. If something happens and we have a live one here, then I wanna make his arrest so fucking watertight it’ll take Clarence Darrow working overtime to get him out, you get me?’

A murmur of consent from Miller and the others.

‘Littman can stay down there at the campus. Miller, Roth . . . go down there and wait for Robey. You guys,’ Lassiter nodded at Metz and Oliver. ‘You guys go take a look in Homicide, see if there’s anything on the Natasha Joyce thing. If there’s something you can help with then do so, but don’t get caught up in anything that’s gonna take you out of the city. I need you on call in case this thing goes anywhere.’

The gathered ensemble rose collectively and made their way out of the room. Lassiter nodded at Miller, asked him to stay back with Roth.

‘So what’s your take on this guy?’ he asked.

Miller sat down. ‘I don’t have one,’ he said. ‘And that’s the odd thing. This guy . . . he didn’t seem anything other than calm the whole time. He took the whole thing in his stride, like he wasn’t even concerned that we were after him.’

‘Which means?’

‘That he has nothing at all to hide, or he has everything to hide and he’s very good at hiding it.’

‘And which way would you go on it?’

‘I don’t know, I really don’t. Usually you get something, some kind of feeling for someone, whether they’re the one or not. Like that thing last year, the thing with the college girl that drowned in the pool. But this guy . . . John Robey—’

‘Why the fuck does that name ring a bell with me?’ Lassiter asked.

‘To Catch A Thief,’ Roth said. ‘The Cary Grant film. His character is named John Robie . . . same name, different spelling.’

Lassiter smiled. ‘You’re right. That’s where it is. I saw that movie with my wife when we first started dating. Anyway, you were saying?’

‘Yes. This one I can’t tell. First impression I’d say no, he’s not the guy. But the more I think about him the more I want him to be the guy.’

Lassiter frowned.

‘Maybe it’s just my frustration. I know how important it is to put a cap on this thing.’

‘Which is all the more reason not to fuck it up before it gets off the ground,’ Lassiter replied. ‘I want a search warrant for the guy’s house. I want to start stirring up all manner of shit in his life, but I need something concrete behind our accusation. I don’t want some twelve-year-old out of law school shredding us before we even get to ask him the time of day.’

‘I’ll be real nice with him,’ Miller said. ‘I’ll be so fucking nice to him he’ll think it’s his birthday.’

Lassiter stood up. ‘One other thing . . . I know you guys haven’t had any let-up on this. When did you last take some time out?’

‘Me?’ Miller asked. ‘I don’t know . . . couple of weeks ago maybe.’

‘And you?’

Roth shrugged. ‘Saw the kids a couple of nights ago, I think. It’s been a while.’

‘I understand how it is, believe me. I know you’re pissed off at nothing coming back, but you’re the best I have for this. I can’t send anyone else to speak with the guy, you get me?’

Miller raised his hand. ‘It’s okay. I wanna see this thing through.’

‘When we’re done we’ll look at getting you a few days off, maybe a week or something.’

‘Appreciated,’ Roth said. ‘I know my wife would love you for that.’

‘So go,’ Lassiter said. ‘Go meet with John Robey and find out why he lied to you on your first date.’

 

By the time they reached Mount Vernon College it was close to four. John Robey appeared at the front of the main faculty building at twenty after. He carried his briefcase, and in the crook of his left arm he balanced a stack of work books, presumably student assignments to read at home.

Miller approached him, and when Robey looked up and saw him there was an expression on his face that said nothing at all. Once again it seemed that nothing could surprise the man, and Miller thought back to the phrase he’d used, the one about the squall that never became a storm.

John Robey paused on the college steps; he smiled, he tilted his head to one side, and when Miller was in earshot he said, ‘Detective Miller . . . so soon.’

And Robert Miller, taken aback by the man’s seemingly effortless composure, didn’t know what to say, and so he said nothing.

Robey suggested the campus coffee shop, a franchise of one of the bigger chains, and there Miller and Roth found a secluded table near the back of the room. It was decorated to conform with the college atmosphere - wooden paneling, subdued colors, leather armchairs to the right near the window.

Robey insisted on paying for the coffee, and he carried the tray to where they had taken seats.

‘So how can I be of assistance now?’ Robey asked.

‘Just a few more questions, Professor Robey.’

‘You can’t lose that can you? The professor thing.’

‘Seems to me that a man who’s earned such a title should get to hear it.’

Robey laughed. ‘So ask me your questions, Detective Miller.’

‘Just regarding your whereabouts last Saturday.’

‘You checked up on me, right?’ Robey interjected. ‘You went and spoke to whom? Sarah? Per Amundsen?’

‘We spoke to both of them.’

‘And learned that I was not at the Brentwood Park Ice Rink last Saturday, because neither were they, correct?’

Miller didn’t reply.

Robey lowered his head. ‘And now I have embarrassed myself by being caught in a simple lie.’

‘Perhaps not so simple, Professor Robey. It was important to know where you were last Saturday, and we asked you and you told us. You appeared to be very cooperative, more than happy to answer my questions, but the most important answer you gave me has turned out be incorrect. I am curious as to why you felt it necessary to lie.’

‘I wanted to find out how diligent you were. I didn’t expect you to come back until tomorrow.’

‘I don’t understand, professor. You knew we would come back?’

‘I certainly hoped you would.’

‘I think I’m missing something here—’ Miller began.

Robey looked directly at Miller, and the expression he wore was so intense it stopped Miller mid-flight. ‘No, detective, you are not missing something, or rather, it would be more accurate to say that you are only missing those things that you are supposed to be missing.’