And Leave Her Lay Dying (12 page)

“Yes, yes, so I understand,” Robinson added. He seemed preoccupied and unaccountably nervous.

Raymond Robinson was sketched in shades of grey. His silver hair and moustache were immaculately trimmed and he wore a subtly-patterned grey suit over a white shirt and grey paisley tie. Even his glasses were silver-grey, poised on a patrician nose set between two grey eyes that seemed to be evading McGuire's.

To McGuire, Robinson was a man who avoided spotlights, preferring to remain in the background of events.

“As it happens we're both investigating the same person,” Robinson was saying. He swung the chair to his left, brought a hand to his chin, and stared out the window.

“Would you mind explaining that in detail?” McGuire asked, opening his notebook.

“My area is not criminal law, Lieutenant,” Robinson replied, his focus on the scene beyond the window. He scratched his ear, smoothed his eyebrow and adjusted his tie. “But I have clear evidence that Miss Cornell was systematically defrauding my client, Irene Hoffman, over a two-year period prior to her death. These losses had a direct impact on the store's financial condition and led to its bankruptcy.”

McGuire nodded as he made notes. “Any idea how much money was involved?”

“As much as fifty thousand dollars. Not an astounding amount, perhaps, but Irene's was a small exclusive shop with the usual retail cash-flow problems. Further, my client had recently completed extensive renovations which stretched her financial capacity. When she was unable to pay her suppliers' invoices, they ceased shipping new merchandise. The store, I might add, had built its reputation on offering the very latest in ladies' wear. Not being able to offer new merchandise had a negative impact on sales. Soon she was unable to meet her bank loan and things quickly tumbled from there.”

“When did you discover the fraud?”

“Officially, when an audit was conducted on . . .” The lawyer swivelled in his chair to examine his notes. “August twenty-eighth of this year. Unofficially, there were deep suspicions daring back to June.”

“When in June?”

Robinson's eyes fastened on McGuire for the first time. “I beg your pardon?”

“When did your client, Irene Hoffman, discover that Jennifer Cornell was robbing her blind? And where is your client now?”

“I'm not sure that's relevant—” the lawyer began, his eyes skipping from McGuire to his window.

“I'll decide what's relevant.” McGuire bit off each word. For years he had harboured a casual distaste for lawyers. Now it was developing into a finely-focused hatred. “Was it early in June? Late? Middle of the month?”

Robinson's eyes dropped to his desk and he began shuffling his papers again, moving them delicately with the rips of his well-manicured fingers. “I would say it was early in June, but I can't be more specific than that.”

“Which would make your client a suspect in this homicide investigation,” McGuire said. “Discovering a major theft by the victim, especially one which resulted in the failure of your client's business, would constitute a motive for murder in the eyes of a grand jury. So where is she?”

“I must respect my client's confidentiality,” Robinson replied. He began sliding the sheets of paper on his desk into a file folder.

“Until I obtain a subpoena,” McGuire said. “You try to hide her after getting one of those and you'll be facing a charge—”

“Lieutenant McGuire,” the lawyer began.

“—of obstructing justice.” McGuire stood up, his hands in his pockets. “You got anything else to add?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I have,” Robinson said, rising from his chair. “Please understand, Lieutenant, that what I am about to do has no bearing whatsoever on my legal obligations either to my client or to the community at large. Nor does it constitute any obstruction of justice in the opinion of my colleagues.”

McGuire remained standing, puzzled. When lawyers begin talking like textbooks, he reminded himself, it's time to duck, because they'll probably be throwing one at you.

Robinson walked to a doorway concealed in the panelled wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows. He opened the door slightly and stepped aside as McGuire approached. “It has been a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant,” he said with excess formality. “I expect we may have occasion to meet again.”

McGuire refused the lawyer's outstretched hand, returning Robinson's bland expression with a glare as he pushed through the open door into what he thought would be an outer hall. Instead, he saw three men sitting at a conference table, watching him with interest. He cursed and began to turn back but the door closed behind him, the lock sliding into place with a precise metallic click.

Marv Rosen leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. Two men sat flanking him. All three watched McGuire from across a long rosewood table inlaid with an ornate geometric pattern.

“Hello, McGuire,” Rosen said with his singsong delivery. “Sorry about the surprise, but there was no time to have invitations printed.”

McGuire glanced from the lawyer to the other two men. One was Rosen's young assistant, who stared at McGuire with a bored expression while pulling at errant hairs in his enormous moustache.

“You already know Ivor here,” Rosen said. “He was a witness to our courtroom drama.” The assistant allowed himself a small smile, his fingers still worrying his moustache. “This other gentleman is Mr. Lorne Marshall, who has been retained by me.” Marshall, on Rosen's left, looked blankly at McGuire through thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Marshall is a private surveillance officer,” Rosen added.

“I've got nothing to say to you, Rosen,” McGuire spat. He turned to grasp the knob of the door behind him. It resisted his attempt to twist it open.

“My friend Raymond likes his privacy,” Rosen smiled. “Actually, he's a little embarrassed at all of this, but he owed me a favour. Professional courtesy. One of my contacts told me you were working on a case involving a client of Raymond's. Knowing your complete thoroughness and utter dedication to detail, I suspected you would contact him eventually and when you did—” He shrugged. “There's a door behind us here which exits directly to the outside corridor, so you can leave any time you wish. See? No coercion at all.”

“I don't talk to scum,” McGuire said quietly, “unless I'm arresting them.”

Rosen waved away the insult, still smiling. “Please, McGuire, pay attention, will you? I'm not asking you to talk to me at all. I'm just asking you to listen for a few moments. That's what you're good at, isn't it? Listening? Don't forget, you can leave any time at all.” He angled his head in the direction of the door behind him. “Just walk out and be on your way. Or you can invest maybe two minutes in hearing what I and my colleagues have to say.” He held out a hand, indicating a chair across the table from him. “Won't you sit down? There's coffee in the carafe on the side table over there.”

McGuire folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Go ahead and talk, Rosen,” he said.

Rosen shrugged, widened his eyes and rolled them at his assistant. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.” He turned to the balding, dark-skinned man on his left. “Lorne? You want to read your report?”

Marshall cleared his throat, passed one hand across his mouth and lifted a sheet of paper from the desk. He began speaking in a scratchy, nasal voice with a distinctive cockney accent. Not a voice McGuire would want to hear on a regular basis. Not a voice he wanted to hear now.

“On November twenty-second, the subject departed Hutch's Bar and Grill, having consumed two bottles of beer in the presence of what appeared to be a contingent of fellow law enforcement officers. He drove directly to his residence, arriving at approximately eight thirty-five p.m., where he was joined by a woman subsequently identified as Homicide Detective Janet Parsons at eight forty-three p.m.”

McGuire closed his eyes briefly before fixing them on Marshall again.

“Mrs. Parsons, who at the time was residing with her husband on Bartlett Crescent in Brookline, was observed leaving the premises at ten-fifteen p.m. On the following evening, Wednesday, November twenty-third—”

“Shove it, Marshall.” McGuire had heard enough.

Marshall turned to Rosen, who nodded. The lawyer placed his elbows on the table and his hands under his chin. He studied McGuire in silence before speaking. “You know the procedure, McGuire. Incidentally, we have photographs. Taken from the apartment of one of your neighbours. Or, I should say, several of your neighbours. A group of students sharing some rooms directly across Commonwealth Avenue from you. Infrared prints through your bedroom window. Very revealing. We didn't show them to Max Parsons—who, by the way, is a very broken man. But we did pass along your telephone number and suggested he call it the next time his wife said she'd be late arriving home from work. Sloppy stuff, McGuire. Should be more aware of surveillance techniques these days. Oh, and we also have some transcripts of telephone conversations. Which,” Rosen added quickly as McGuire began to speak, “are not admissible in a court of law, but that's beside the point.”

“You tapped my telephone?” McGuire said in a low, threatening voice.

“Not physically, McGuire,” Rosen smiled. “You know very well that's not necessary any more. Just the usual radio pickup from a van on the street. Besides, I can have the transcripts destroyed and both of my colleagues here will swear I made no reference to the matter. In fact, as Raymond Robinson will attest if necessary, you stumbled into our meeting here in this room while exiting his office after a routine interrogation.” He smiled and blinked several times. “Like I said, McGuire, the door is open any time you want to leave.”

McGuire breathed deeply, forcing himself to stay calm. “What do you want?” he asked, speaking each word distinctly.

“Obviously, your resignation,” Rosen replied. “There are a few local scandal-sheet reporters who would be very excited about your activities over the past few days. They could spin it into a series: ‘Affairs between members of Boston's elite detective unit breaking up marriages.' ‘Award-winning cop has love nest on fringe of Back Bay area.' So it's very simple and very persuasive, McGuire. You simply throw in the towel and I drop all charges against you, the department and the city of Boston. And don't kid yourself, McGuire. There's more than one heavyweight cop downtown who would be pleased to hear that you're leaving and taking my lawsuits with you. Jack Kavander and some others will be happy. I'll be happy. And even you'll be happy, McGuire. Because I'll destroy all my material. I won't send it to Max Parsons. And I won't send it to the media either.” He extended his hands, palms up. “It's what you call a win-win situation, right?”

“It's what I call extortion.” McGuire took a step towards the table. In reflex, the other three men simultaneously leaned away from him. “If I resign from the force—”

“Nobody has to know why,” Rosen interrupted, his infuriating smile growing wider. “Just a quiet walk away from duty, that's all it is.”

“And Arthur Wilmer? What the hell does his retrial turn into? The jury will know that you and I are already responsible for one mistrial. And you'd be sure to ask me on the stand about my resigning from the force. No jury in the world would buy my testimony completely. You know it, I know it, Don Higgins knows it. In fact, Higgins probably wouldn't even waste the taxpayers' money on another trial. And you would have another acquittal on your slimy record.”

“My client is innocent—” Rosen protested.

“
Your client is an animal that should be shot and pissed on!
”
McGuire shouted. He lowered his voice and rested his hands on the table, leaning even closer to the three men who sat frozen by the glare in his eyes. “And I'll risk everything I have,” McGuire hissed, “to see that he is caged for the rest of his miserable life!” He straightened up and began walking quickly towards the far end of the table.

Rosen pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. “McGuire, you are the agent of your own misfortune.”

Rounding the end of the table, McGuire seized the metal coffee carafe from the sideboard and, in the same motion he would have used to toss a sidearm curveball, flung it through the air in the direction of the three men, who ducked to avoid its path. The carafe struck the polished surface of the table in front of them and careened away to collide with an elaborately framed Victorian-era print on the wall at the other end of the room. The impact knocked the picture and its heavy, ornate frame to the floor with a clatter of splintered wood and shattered glass.

The three men leaped to their feet, dripping coffee. “Jesus Christ!” Rosen's assistant muttered while Rosen quietly withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and brushed at the coffee on his suit jacket.

McGuire smiled and nodded politely before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind him. He paused, took a deep breath, and realized that, for the first time in several days, he felt good about himself.

“We ain't open.”

The frowzy waitress looked up as McGuire entered Pour Richards. She stood behind one of the small tables in the dining area, a cigarette dangling from her lips, filling a salt shaker from a large container.

“Don't try to seduce me, Shirley,” McGuire joked. “Today I'm a man of steel.”

“Any rusty parts?” The whisky voice came from somewhere behind the bar. McGuire stepped between two stools and leaned across to see Marlene Richards kneeling on the floor, stacking glasses on a lower shelf. She looked up and grinned. “How about that, McGuire? I didn't even know who I was talking to. You suppose that's how I got my reputation as a tart?”

McGuire smiled back and swung his legs astride a stool. “How's chances of getting a coffee?” he asked.

“Not as good as they are of getting a frog beer. Shirl and I finished the first pot and the lunch coffee isn't ready yet.” Marlene stood up and reached for McGuire's hands, clasping them in her own. “Hey, sweetie. Your hands are freezing. What's the matter, don't you have anybody to tie a string on your mittens and hang them through your sleeves? And what've you been up to? You look too smug for your own good.”

“I just threw a pot of coffee at a lawyer,” McGuire grinned.

“My hero!” Marlene cried. Dropping his hands, she squeezed his cheeks and pulled him towards her, planting a wet kiss on his lips. “Did you hit him, or just fire it across his bow?” Before McGuire could respond, she turned away and went back to preparing the bar for the lunch crowd. “Did I give you my lawyer test?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Okay, here goes.” She turned back to face him and thrust one hip against the counter behind the bar. “You're lost in the desert and you come walking over a sand dune. In front of you are an honest lawyer, a dishonest lawyer and a unicorn. Which one do you ask directions from?”

McGuire shrugged. “Beats me.”

“The dishonest lawyer. You want to know why?”

“Desperately.”

“Because the other two are figments of your imagination.” She erupted in laughter so loud that the waitress dropped the shaker she had been filling, spilling the salt across the table.

“I need to use a phone,” McGuire said. “Couple of local calls.”

“No problem.” Marlene reached under the counter and retrieved an extension phone. “I'll go back and check on the coffee. Give you some privacy.”

McGuire flipped through his notebook and dialled Fleckstone's number. The producer barked his name at the other end, the voice hard-edged and impatient.

“It's McGuire. Homicide.”

“Yeah, what's up?” In the background, McGuire could hear several voices in urgent conversation until Fleckstone said “Just a minute” and then, dropping the receiver, “Hey, shut the fuck up!” The background noise disappeared and Fleckstone returned to ask what McGuire wanted.

“You said Andrew Cornell made an appointment to see you,” McGuire said.

“Yeah. Wanted a screen test, drop off his comp sheet. I already told you that.”

“Do you remember the date?”

“What, when he called me? Or when he was coming over to see me?”

“When he was coming over.”

There was a long pause. Then: “Okay, I'm in a mixing studio right now,” Fleckstone said finally, “and I'll have to check my book to be a hundred percent sure. But I'm pretty certain he was coming in on the Monday after Jennifer died.”

“And he never showed.”

“I told you that too.”

“But when did he call, all excited about his sister? How many days before that?”

Another pause. “I don't know. Probably the Thursday before. Yeah, because I remember saying ‘Hell, come on over today. Or tomorrow.' And I can hear that funny voice of his saying he'd rather make it Monday.”

“What was so funny about his voice?”

“He had this kind of lisp. And a southern accent. But I know accents. Used to be married to a dialogue coach and I've got a good ear anyway. If I hear a cracker order a beer, I can tell you what part of any state he's from and give you a town within three counties, too. But I had trouble with that guy's.”

McGuire scribbled “Accent?” in his notebook and thanked Fleckstone, who hung up without replying.

“Tell me more about Andy Cornell,” McGuire said when Marlene returned and slid a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Like what?” she asked, resuming her position against the back counter.

“Did he have an accent?”

“Accent?” She studied the ceiling. “I don't remember any accent. You mean like New England?”

“Southern.”

“Southern?” she snorted. “Hell, no. He was no peckerwood. I would have remembered that.”

McGuire frowned. His eyes ran down the notes he had made during their first meeting. “You told me you could see something in their eyes, his and Jennifer's.”

“I said I could tell they were brother and sister and they were both horny. Had the same
look
in their eyes. Funny thing, though. Hers were blue and his were brown. Deep sexy brown.” She shrugged. “I guess that could happen in the same family.” She pushed away from the counter and leaned against the bar, smiling at McGuire. “You staying for lunch? We've got shepherd's pie with mushroom gravy. Warm the old bod on a day like this.”

McGuire pocketed his notebook and slid off the stool. “Better not,” he said, returning her smile. “I've got a car to dig out.”