A Simple Act of Violence (47 page)

‘I’m not sure that I understand what you mean.’

‘There is a very famous quote, Detective Miller. It was made by the Marquis Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord at the Congress of Vienna in 1814. He was asked what treason was . . . he said it was merely a matter of dates. Do you understand that, Detective Miller?’

‘I’ve heard that before.’

‘I didn’t ask whether you’d heard it before . . . I asked whether or not you understood it.’

‘Sure I do . . . it means that if you support something, a government or whatever, then it can become an act of treason if that government then becomes unpopular.’

‘Indeed so.’

‘And this has something to do with what we’re talking about?’

‘It has everything to do with what we’re talking about, detective.’

‘Enlighten me, Professor Robey, because right now all I have is a false alibi for your whereabouts last Saturday and a lot of other stuff that makes no sense at all.’

‘Would you consider yourself a patriotic man, detective?’

‘Sure, I s’pose so. As much as anyone else.’

‘Your patriotism to the United States of America remains despite the climate within which we now find ourselves?’

‘The climate?’

‘We are becoming the unpopular aggressors, wouldn’t you say? What with Iraq, and goodness knows what else, don’t you think the world is finding our arrogance and bullishness a little tiresome?’

‘I try not to think about it too much. In my line of work I am far more concerned about what Americans are doing to other Americans, rather than what we might or might not be doing to the rest of the world.’

‘Me,’ Robey said. ‘I am very much the one to take a wider view. I look at things globally, internationally. I look at the long-term not the short-term. I look at the season rather than a single game. You can lose a single game, and as long as you don’t lose too many you can still take the Superbowl, right?’

‘Right, but I still don’t know what this has to do with anything we’re talking about, and I definitely don’t see what it has to do with where you actually were last Saturday.’

‘Where do you think I might have been last Saturday, Detective Miller?’

‘Professor Robey, I really don’t think it’s an appropriate time to be playing games. Me and my partner—’

‘My partner and I.’

‘What?’

‘You said “Me and my partner” . . .’

‘Don’t even go there, professor. I didn’t come over here to get a grammar class. I want to know where you were last Saturday. You told us you were at the Brentwood Park Ice Rink. You told us you were watching someone train there, and we have spoken to this person and confirmed that they were not training last Saturday, in fact they were nowhere near the damned ice rink. So I’m asking you again, real nice and everything . . . where were you last Saturday?’

‘And I ask you in return, where do you think I was last Saturday?’

‘Why are you doing this, professor?’

‘Doing what, detective? You haven’t arrested me. You haven’t given me any indication as to how you think I might be able to help you with your investigation. You have mentioned the names of two dead women, and I can only guess that you think I might be connected in some fashion. But even now, coming to me twice on the same day, waiting for me outside my place of work, you are still being circumspect and evasive. You tell me where you think I might have been, and I will tell you where I was.’

‘Okay, fair enough. I think you were with Catherine Sheridan.’

‘Catherine Sheridan . . . one of the dead women.’

‘Right, the one that you said you didn’t know.’

‘I said that, yes.’

‘And if you didn’t know her, and you’re sticking to that, then how come we have found three pictures of you standing right there beside her? One picture I can understand, maybe even two, but three?’ Miller turned to Roth. ‘What was that thing you told me about conspiracies?’

‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times you have a conspiracy.’

‘A conspiracy?’ Robey said. ‘I think that’s a very apt turn of phrase considering the nature of what you’re getting into.’

‘What I’m getting into is your alibi, professor.’

‘So an explanation of my whereabouts last Saturday has taken on the color of an alibi. For an alibi to exist there is ordinarily a crime. Are you accusing me of being involved in a crime, Detective Miller?’

‘I’m not playing games, Professor Robey. This is a conversation I don’t want to have with you, and you’re beginning to annoy me. Answer the questions please. Where were you last Saturday? Why did you tell us you were somewhere when you evidently were not? Lastly, how come there are three photographs of you with a murder victim named Catherine Sheridan and yet you say you don’t know her?’

Robey was silent for an uncomfortably long time. He looked at Al Roth, his gaze unflinching until Roth glanced away, and then he turned his attention to Robert Miller, holding his stare even as he raised his coffee cup, sipped from it, returned it to the table. All of this without looking away, without averting his gaze for a second.

‘I am forty-seven years old,’ Robey said eventually. ‘I work at Mount Vernon College as a lecturer in English and American Literature. I have been there since May of 1998. Before that I was involved in a great many things, most of them of an academic nature, and as a result of my work I came into contact with a great many people. There have been trips to the Far East, to South America, to England, Paris, Prague, Vienna, Poland, and many others I cannot even bother to recall. Some of those trips were to other universities and colleges, some as a guest of the government, other times as an independent observer into foreign education systems. Other people went with me, sometimes people who had been on other trips. Perhaps I had my picture taken. Perhaps I was part of a group, and this woman was beside me or behind me. I’m only guessing, detective, but right now I don’t have any better or clearer explanation than you. That’s the point here I’m afraid . . . that what occurred and what you think might have occurred are not the same.’

‘And last Saturday?’

‘Last Saturday I cannot tell you where I was.’

‘Because?’

‘For no other reason than I choose not to.’

‘So it’s not that you cannot, it’s that you will not?’

Robey nodded in the affirmative.

‘You place us in a very awkward position, Professor Robey. We are investigating a matter of great importance and you choose not to cooperate.’

‘I consider that an unfair analysis of the situation, detective. You have approached me twice in the same day. You delayed my arrival this morning and then waited outside the college until I finished work, and you are questioning me again. You have offered no cause for your concern about my activities. You have not arrested me. You have not read me any rights. You have not suggested I seek legal counsel, yet because I choose not to answer one question you suggest that I have been uncooperative. I don’t see that I could have been any more cooperative detective.’ Robey rose from his chair. He lifted his cup and drained it. He set it down and reached for his overcoat and briefcase. Miller watched him as he gathered up the armful of assignments and edged out from behind the table.

‘So that’s the end of this conversation then?’ Miller asked.

‘I believe it must be, Detective Miller, or I would not be leaving.’

Miller rose. He took a step around the table and faced Robey. The tension in his chest was unbearable. He could feel a thin film of sweat across his shoulders and down his back. For some reason he felt scared. Scared and angry, the way he’d felt at Brandon Thomas’s house, the way he’d felt when he saw what had been done to Jennifer Irving.

‘I am sorry not to have been of more help—’

‘Professor Robey. You seem to have absolutely no understanding of the seriousness of your situation.’

‘Quite the contrary, Detective Miller. It seems that you are the one who fails to appreciate the seriousness of your situation.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Good God no, I don’t need to threaten you. You are in enough trouble already without any assistance from me.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

Robey paused. He smiled and nodded his head deferentially. ‘We shall meet again I’m sure, though next time I suggest you come a little better prepared.’

‘Prepared for what?’

‘What you want to know, detective.’

‘I believe I have made it very clear what I want to know. Your relationship with the Sheridan woman, and where you were at the time of her death. I don’t know that I could have made that any clearer.’

‘You are asking about the what and the when, detective, not the why. Good day gentlemen.’

And Robey was away toward the door and gone before Miller could gather his thoughts sufficiently to respond.

Roth rose to his feet. ‘Jesus,’ he said quietly. ‘What the fuck was that?’

Miller couldn’t speak for some time. It was there. The feeling he’d had before. The sense of being watched, of being observed, the feeling that there was so little he knew, and so many people who knew more.

Lassiter shook his head. ‘No, just tell her exactly what Robey said.’

Miller looked at the woman facing him - Assistant District Attorney Nanci Cohen. Three times he’d met her, and three times he’d been impressed by the sheer tenacity of the woman. She neither looked nor dressed like a lawyer. Her hair was not pinned back in an austere, almost masculine style; no business suit in navy blue or charcoal chalk stripe with patent leather shoes, no brusque manner or sharp attitude ordinarily embraced by such women. Nanci Cohen dressed like a middle-aged Jewish station wagon-driving mom collecting her kids from after-school Hebrew tutorials. There would be fresh-baked cookies, cold milk, washing hands before homework, other such things. But Nanci Cohen was forty-eight and single. Rumor had it she was fucking a twenty-seven-year-old paralegal from a major city law firm. Rumor had it she’d inherited a fortune from her grandfather’s delicatessen business, started when he came out of liberated Germany and made it good in the U.S. Rumor also had it there were other rumors . . . No-one knew what to believe, and very few people ultimately cared. Nanci Cohen did what very few ADAs would do these days - she came down to the precinct when help was needed and answered questions the way they needed to be answered.

‘He said that he chose not to answer the question—’ Miller started.

‘About where he was last Saturday?’ Nanci interjected.

‘Yes, about where he was. And then just before he left he said that thing about how we were asking the wrong questions, that we were asking about the what and the when, not the why.’

Nanci Cohen was writing as Miller spoke. ‘So let me get this straight. This is the second time you’re talking to him, right? You spoke with him this morning at the diner, and then he goes back to school, he does his lessons or whatever, and when he comes out of the college you’re waiting for him and he takes you for a cup of coffee.’

‘That’s right.’

Nanci smiled knowingly. ‘And this guy pays for the coffee, right?’

Miller nodded.

‘He’s a smart boy,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘You look at that from an exterior viewpoint. Look at that how a judge is gonna see it. John Robey goes into a diner to get his morning coffee, same as always. There’s a bunch of cops there who wanna talk to him about someone. They show him a picture. He says he doesn’t remember this person, either by name or from the photograph. The cops mention another couple of names and he says he’s none the wiser. The cops let him go. He’s very polite. He’s not defensive. He makes like he’s being real helpful, and then he’s on his way. Same cops are waiting for him when he comes out of school in the afternoon. They wanna ask him some more questions. He’s Mister freakin’ Polite again, he takes them for coffee right there on the campus grounds. He’s a good citizen. He doesn’t resent the police giving him a little attention. I’m surprised he didn’t buy you blueberry muffins as well.’

Miller shook his head. ‘There were no muffins.’

‘Jesus,’ Nanci Cohen said, exasperated. ‘I don’t know that you could’ve gotten yourselves into a tighter situation if you’d tried.’

‘How so?’ Roth asked.

‘How so? You’re a Jew, right?’

Roth frowned. ‘Sure I am. What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Don’t say anything else,’ Nanci Cohen said. ‘You’re being an embarrassment to our people, okay? We’re s’posed to be the smart ones around here, for God’s sake.’ She reached down into a cavernous leather bag beside her chair and retrieved a bottle of water. She popped the cap and took a generous swig. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’ she said quietly, and then she leaned back in the chair and sort of half-closed her eyes. ‘So we have nothing except the photographs and the word of a dead girl from the projects, a black girl who fathered a child with a known drug user, possibly a dealer, to say that this guy went down there to see the druggie . . .’ Her voice trailed away into silence. Miller glanced at Lassiter. Lassiter shook his head and touched his finger to his lips.

‘You have three choices,’ she said after a short while. ‘Number one, you arrest him on suspicion of attempting to pervert the course of justice. You read him his rights, he gets a lawyer, and then he either answers the questions about where the hell he was last Saturday or he pleads the Fifth. If he pleads then you might have something you can take before a judge for a search warrant on the property. You get inside the property you might find something that ties him to the Sheridan woman or another of the victims. Secondly, you can cite 1989, Lansing versus California State, where a motion to suppress an affidavit from a deceased party was overturned. You could work that in such a way as the black woman’s confirmation of Robey’s presence with Sheridan gives you reason to believe he’s lying. It’s slim - you’d need a very open-minded judge - but it could be tried. Thirdly, and this is what I would do . . . you go visit him at home and you talk real nice to him, and I mean real nice, and you hope to God he lets you into his house.’