Dead Ringer (10 page)

The two officers who had disappeared into the house came back along the hallway toward the front door.

“Maybe the police will let you go inside and phone him now,” I said.

“It's all clear, if you'd like to come in,” a female officer said.

I followed Mrs. Landolfi into the living room. She settled herself in an armchair and picked up the receiver of the telephone set on a round side table. While she spoke to her son, the police officers conferred on the front porch. I tried to listen in on their conversation but couldn't make out their words.

I thought back to the figure I'd seen fleeing from the side of the house. Surely it wasn't a coincidence that someone had broken into Jeremy's suite mere days after his murder. But if it wasn't a coincidence, did that mean I had caught a glimpse of Jeremy's killer?

It had been too dark around the side of the house to see the intruder's face, so it wasn't as if I could identify the person, but the thought of being in such close proximity—­yet again—­to what might have been Jeremy's murderer creeped me out.

I thought about calling JT but remembered he was working in his studio all evening. I considered calling Hans instead, but rejected that idea almost immediately. Even if I hadn't had any doubts about his innocence, I wasn't sure that our relationship was at the point where I could call him for comfort and reassurance.

Mrs. Landolfi said goodbye to her son and hung up the telephone. “He'll be here within the hour,” she told me. “He wants me to stay with him for a few days.”

“That's probably a good idea.” I knew I wouldn't want to stay alone in a house that had just been broken into.

I heard new voices out in the foyer and my ears perked up. I thought I recognized Detective Bachman's voice. Yes, I decided after another moment, it was definitely him talking.

I wasn't surprised that Bachman had an interest in the break-­in, but I hadn't expected him to show up quite so soon. I moved closer to the foyer so I could pick up some of his words.

“ . . . know he was blackmailing Clausen . . . maybe . . . connection . . .”

Stunned by what I'd heard, I stepped out into the hallway. Bachman and Salnikova were both there with two of the uniformed officers. All four heads turned in my direction.

“Jeremy was blackmailing Hans?” I couldn't believe it.

Bachman cleared his throat. “Ms. Bishop. You seem to be turning up everywhere.”

I narrowed my eyes, unsure of what, if anything, he was insinuating. “I came to talk to Mrs. Landolfi about Jeremy. I didn't realize there was anything wrong with that.”

“We're not suggesting that there's anything wrong with it,” Salnikova said in a placating tone.

I wasn't sure I believed her, but I was more interested in what I'd overheard. “Are you sure Jeremy was blackmailing Hans?” I wanted them to tell me that I'd misheard.

Neither detective answered my question, but I could tell from their expressions that they were certain. I was at a loss.

“Why?” I asked. “What reason would he have to blackmail Hans?”

“That,” Detective Bachman said, “is something you'll have to ask him.”

He and Salnikova passed by me to join Mrs. Landolfi in the living room while the two uniformed officers headed out the front door. I remained in the foyer, too stunned and confused to move.

Jeremy had blackmailed Hans.

Hans. Blackmailed.

Reality was sinking in, slowly but surely. But as it did, one question continued to repeat itself in my mind.

Why?

 

Chapter 10

I
WAS STILL
in the foyer when Salnikova emerged from the living room a moment later.

“Ms. Bishop, I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened.”

With effort, I forced myself to think of something other than Hans. “I don't really have much to tell, but all right.”

“Shall we sit down somewhere?” the detective suggested.

I led her back to the kitchen and we settled in at the table, Salnikova with her notebook and pen out. I recounted how I'd heard noises from the basement and how I'd seen someone emerge from the stairwell at the side of the house.

“Did you get a good look at this person?” Salnikova asked.

I shook my head. “It was too dark. He was wearing a dark colored hoodie, and I'm pretty sure there was white lettering on the hood, but that's all I could make out. I didn't even catch a glimpse of his face.”

The detective made a notation in her notebook. “So it was a man?”

Her question made me pause. “Actually, I'm not sure.” I replayed the memory in my head, focusing on the shadowy figure I'd seen. “It could have been a woman. If it was a man, he wasn't all that big.” It was hard to form a precise mental picture of the person's size. I'd seen the intruder for less than five seconds, and for part of that time he or she had been standing down in the stairwell.

A thought struck me like a lightning bolt. “You don't think it was Hans, do you?”

Salnikova's face gave nothing away. “Do you?”

“Of course not!”

“Because the intruder wasn't the right size and build, or because you don't want to believe him capable of breaking and entering?”

Both!
I wanted to yell. But was that the truth?

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Why would Hans break into Jeremy's place?”

Salnikova didn't reply, but I could see the answer in her eyes. Jeremy had blackmailed Hans. If Hans had killed Jeremy because of that, maybe he wanted to destroy some evidence.

Another thought struck me, this one giving me more hope. “If you already knew that Jeremy was blackmailing Hans, what would be the point of Hans trying to destroy evidence?”

Salnikova's expression was shuttered. She wasn't about to answer my questions.

My frustration level was on the rise, but I tried my best to quell it.

“You didn't answer my question,” Salnikova reminded me.

It took me a second to realize which question she meant. I sighed, releasing some of my frustration. “I think the intruder was smaller than Hans. But,” I added with reluctance, “I can't be sure.” It was almost painful to admit that.

If only I'd seen the person's face. If only I could have identified him or her as someone other than Hans.

I slumped back in my chair, tired and hungry and more than a little grumpy.

Salnikova's pen moved across the page of her notebook. “Do you remember anything else?”

“No. Nothing.” I paused for a split second before saying, “If you don't know who the person was, I take it they got away.”

“Unfortunately,” Salnikova said. “We brought in a dog and it tracked the suspect to the end of the alley, but we figure he or she must have retreated by car from that point.”

That only added to my frustration. Mrs. Landolfi's neighborhood was a residential one. Without traffic cams or surveillance video from businesses, what was the chance that the police would be able to track the intruder? Slim to none, was my guess.

If the police had caught the intruder, they probably would have been much closer to solving the murder. Now, however, the case was muddier than ever. At least, it was to me.

“Do you have any other suspects aside from Hans?” I asked, hoping for an affirmative response.

Salnikova shut her notebook. “I'm afraid I can't discuss that.”

I gritted my teeth. “And you really won't tell me what the blackmail was about?”

The detective got to her feet. “I can't.” For a second her expression softened with something close to sympathy. “I'm sorry.” She pushed her chair back underneath the kitchen table. “That's all the questions we have for now, if you'd like to leave.”

Disgruntled, I grabbed my purse and stopped by the living room to say goodbye to Mrs. Landolfi. One of the uniformed officers assured me that someone would stay with her until her son arrived, so I took my leave, hoofing it along the darkened street to the nearest bus stop.

I understood that the police couldn't discuss an open investigation, but their unwillingness to share even a shred of information still rankled. Although, if I were completely honest with myself, some of my annoyance stemmed from the fact that I had more doubts than ever about Hans.

I didn't want to believe that Jeremy had blackmailed him, but it was hard for me to have faith in him when he'd avoided my questions the last time I'd spoken to him. I was starting to wonder if he was worth the effort, if I should even bother trying to make sense of things. But at the same time, I knew my mind wouldn't rest until I'd found the truth, and part of me still craved a chance to pursue our relationship. If he was innocent.

Yet, even if he hadn't killed Jeremy, he must have a secret. Otherwise, why would Jeremy have blackmailed him?

I arrived at a bus shelter and sat down on the bench, pulling out my phone to check the time. It was getting late, but I wanted answers and I wanted them that very night. So instead of going home, I decided to visit Hans.

H
ALF AN HOUR
later I walked up the path to Hans's duplex. I hadn't forgotten about my promise to JT, and I paused outside the front door, wondering how to confront Hans without breaking my word. I didn't plan on going inside, but I wasn't sure that standing on the front porch on a dark, deserted street counted as not being alone with Hans. Actually, I was pretty sure it didn't. But I was determined to talk to him that night.

I decided on a compromise. Before knocking on the door, I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to JT.

I have to talk to Hans. I'm at his house. I
'll text you again in 10 minutes. Don't freak out!

I raised my right hand to knock on the door but my phone chimed before my fist made contact with the wood. I glanced at the display. JT had responded already.

Dori, don't!

I have to,
I wrote back.

What's his address?

I sighed, knowing that if I gave JT my location he'd probably hightail it over to meet me. I had to admit, however, that I'd feel safer if someone knew where I was. Just in case Hans really was capable of harming Jeremy. And me.

I tapped out Hans's address and then added,
Stay home. I'll be fine. Don't. Freak. Out.

I didn't wait for any more messages, rapping hard on the door with my knuckles.

My phone chimed, but the door opened before I had a chance to read the latest text.

I stared at the woman standing in the doorway, her flawless ivory skin expertly highlighted along her cheekbones, her shiny blond hair cascading over her shoulders. “Elena?”

“What do you want?”

“I . . .” My tongue seemed to have stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Is Maestro in?”

“Sorry, no.” She looked me over from head to toe. “Is there something I can help you with?”

With every passing second, my stomach sank lower. My throat had gone dry and I had to swallow before I could speak again. “No. I was hoping to speak to him about . . . something important.”

“You'd better come in, then,” she said with a sigh. “Hans should be back any moment.”

Hans. Not Maestro. Hans.

She was on a first name basis with him and she was in his home, barefoot and with an unmistakable air of belonging. I wanted to turn around and flee, to pretend that I'd never run into her there. Yet, somehow I found myself stepping into the foyer. Numbness had taken over my body and I couldn't seem to process any thoughts.

“It's Dora, isn't it?” Elena asked as she closed the door.

“Midori,” I corrected, my voice strained.

She didn't even seem to hear me. “You might as well have a glass of wine while you wait.” She started toward the kitchen and, like a robot, I followed her. “Red or white?”

I shook off some of my numbness. “Neither.” I hesitated in the kitchen entryway. “I should be going.”

Again she gave no indication that she'd heard me. “I'm surprised Hans isn't back already. It doesn't take that long to buy a few groceries.” She opened a bottle of red wine and took a glass down from one of the cupboards. “Are you sure you don't want some?”

I nodded, my stomach sinking even lower as I realized how familiar she was with Hans's kitchen. I took a step backward. “I should really go.”

“Don't go on my account.” Elena poured a generous amount of wine into her glass. “Don't you want a chance to confront Hans?”

“Confront him?” I still couldn't think clearly. My thoughts were scattered, racing helter-­skelter in my mind, so I couldn't pin down a single one.

“About me.” She leaned one hip against the kitchen counter and took a long sip of her wine. “I don't think you stopped by to chat about orchestra business.” She regarded me over the rim of her wineglass. “You thought you were his only lover, didn't you?”

I nearly choked. “We aren't lovers,” I said quickly.

“But things were headed that way.” She swirled her wine and took another sip. “No doubt he found you quite . . . amusing.”

My body flooded with humiliation. “You don't seem upset.” I had to force the words out through my constricted throat.

“Why would I be? I know what Hans is like. He enjoys little diversions now and then, but he always comes back to me. It's been that way for years.”

“Years?” I echoed her last word in a hollow voice.

“We met in Germany when he was working in Munich.”

Germany. They really had been together a long time. My stomach churned and I had to blink back hot tears.

“It doesn't surprise me that he wasn't honest with you,” she went on. “He does have a tendency to keep secrets.”

Secrets.

The word resonated in my head.

“Jeremy was blackmailing him,” I blurted out. Then I bit my lip, wishing I could take the words back.

“The dead guy, you mean? Yes, that's true.”

My numb mind finally kicked back into gear. “Wait. You know about that?”

“Oh, yes.” Elena refilled her wineglass. “He hadn't got around to telling me about you yet, but he did fill me in on the blackmail fiasco. I told him weeks ago that it was foolish to lie about his last job, but he's a typical man and always thinks he knows best.”

Although finding out about Elena and Hans had kept me off kilter, my desire for answers worked its way through my shock. “He lied about his job in Uppsala?”

“There was no job in Uppsala,” Elena said by way of confirmation. “He last worked in Germany, but he was asked to resign due to certain indiscretions involving a very beautiful first violinist and an equally beautiful flautist.” A superior smile flitted across her face. “Apparently, neither one was too pleased to find out that she wasn't his one and only.”

My humiliation grew exponentially. I was one in a long line. His interest in me had probably been nothing more than a game, a distraction. My stupidity astounded me. I couldn't believe that I hadn't seen through him. And to make matters worse, Elena knew all about my foolishness.

“Of course, Hans didn't want that to affect the rest of his career, so he fabricated the position in Uppsala. Yet another one of his little diversions helped him out by acting as his reference.”

“But how did Jeremy find out?” Despite my overwhelming emotions, I couldn't dampen my curiosity.

Elena drained her second glass of wine. “Apparently he knew someone in the Uppsala orchestra. They mentioned that they'd never heard of Hans and, well, I guess the guy saw an opportunity to get some extra money.”

A car door slammed somewhere outside.

“Maybe that's Hans now,” Elena said. “I'm sure you want to chat with him.”

I shook my head, backing up into the hallway. “No.” Hans was the last person I wanted to talk to right then. “I'll be on my way.”

I turned and fled for the front door, careful not to look at the living room. I didn't want to see the spot where Hans and I had shared our last kiss.

As I wrenched open the door, my throat constricted. I was afraid I would come face-­to-­face with Hans. Luckily, the front stoop was deserted. I hurried down the pathway to the sidewalk. A shadowy figure stood by the street, and for a second I thought I was about to run into Hans after all.

“Dori?”

Intense relief washed over me. “JT?”

He came toward me. “I thought you weren't going inside.”

His voice held an unusual edge of annoyance. It was catching.

“And I thought you were staying home.” I didn't mean for my words to sound accusatory, but that's how they came out. “I told you I'd be fine.”

“You don't look fine. You look . . . rattled.” Concern replaced some of his annoyance. “What happened?”

I brushed past him and climbed into the passenger seat of his blue pickup truck. He remained standing by the curb for a second before circling around the truck to the driver's side. By the time he settled in behind the wheel, I regretted my reaction from moments earlier.

“I'm sorry,” I said, clutching my purse in my lap. “You're right. I am rattled. I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

“What happened?” JT asked again. “Did Clausen do something to upset you?” His hand went to the driver's door as if he were about to get out.