Dead Ringer (34 page)

“I didn’t want you to think I was some type of corporate shill. I respect you. What you do, who you are.”

“And I appreciate that.” Bennie had sensed as much. He wanted her approval. “And I respect you too. What you do, and who you are. So could you do me just this one favor, based on our mutual admiration society?”

“Yes.”

“Wait a year to make this decision. Accept my invitation about coming to the office and seeing my friends. If you still feel the same way in a year, and you decide to chuck it all and save the world, I’ll think it will be the smartest thing you ever did.”

“I don’t know, Bennie.” Julien pursed his lips. “A year?”

“I’ll settle for nine months.”

“How about three?”

Suddenly Bennie’s cell phone rang in her purse, and she flipped open the leather flap and reached inside. She checked the bench to see if it was David calling, but he had lowered the paper and was watching her with interest. “Excuse me just one minute,” she said, and Julien nodded. She flipped open the phone and turned away. “Hello.”

“Boss.” It was Carrier, excited as usual. “News update. I’m right, once again. It’s all Linette, all the time. I talked to the coroner and he said that Robert’s wounds were consistent with the knife from the Palm. He made a point of saying that it wasn’t
the
knife necessarily, just that it was just one of the possible knives. His report isn’t typed up yet, but you’ll have to yell at him to get a copy. It’s not public record, so we struck out.”

“That’s okay. Good work.” Behind her back, Bennie heard the ringing of another cell phone. Julien’s. Dueling Motorolas; it was truly a modern moment. Julien slid his cell from his back pocket and answered it, and Bennie put a finger in her free ear to hear Carrier better.

The associate was saying, “Also, Murphy drafted the papers for your restraining order, it’s ready to go. But you have to appear in person and answer questions under oath.”

“I figured. Wonder how soon I can get that done.”

“Next week, she called the clerk. And she found out that Linette didn’t sign back in at his office last night. She got a copy of the sign-in log and a marriage proposal.”

Whoa
. “Thanks. Call you later. See ya.” Bennie flipped the phone closed, her thoughts racing. So Linette hadn’t gone back to the office last night. She slipped the phone back into her purse and turned to Julien.

But he stood stunned, cell phone in hand, with his handsome features frozen into a shocked expression. He closed the phone numbly. “That was my uncle. The police just called.”

“What happened?”

“They have a suspect in my father’s murder,” he said shakily.

And Bennie’s mouth went dry.

28

Bennie pushed through the POLICE ONLY sign on the swinging half door that led to the cramped, cluttered squad room at the Homicide Division. The phones rang constantly and detectives conferred in small groups, clustered around messy desks of battleship gray, or searched file cabinets covered with Eagles bumper stickers, yellowed memos, and a stick-on decal of an Irish flag. The shirtsleeved detective manning the front desk was on the phone, and Bennie took advantage of the chaos to barrel past him.

“Stop! You can’t go back there,” he barked, covering the receiver, but Bennie caught sight of Detective Needleman coming out of interrogation room C.

“I’m a friend of Detective Needleman,” she said, and met him as he was closing the dark blue door behind him. The suspect had to be in the interrogation room, handcuffed to a chair, just as she had been. “Long time, no see, Bob. I hear you got a suspect in St. Amien. He in there?”

“We didn’t release that information yet.” Needleman frowned. To his right stood a cabinet with skinny drawers labeled BODY CHARTS, SUBPOENA BLANKS, and INJURY FORMS. He was wearing his suit, and tie, and a grayish five o’clock shadow. “How’d you hear that?”

“I was with the family when you told them.” Bennie put a hand on the knob of the interrogation room. “Can’t I see him?”

“It’s not a zoo.”

“It’s not?” Bennie sidestepped him, yanked on the knob, and stole a glimpse of the suspect before Detective Needleman closed the door.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” she said, but she’d gotten her mental picture. A young white man slumped in the chair, smoking a cigarette. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with tall combat boots, and his hair had been shaved into a fade that hinted at a militaristic bent. “So who was that fine citizen?”

“Did you put the brother up to calling me?” Needleman pressed her away from the door, his eyes flinty behind his glasses. Two detectives bustled past, putting on their jackets with a backward glance.

“No, I didn’t. He called on his own. I gave you good press, but I guess he had a few questions. He’s upset.”

“Whatever. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Why not? I haven’t interfered with the police all day. All I did was visit the family, which you knew I was going to do. You even said it was okay.”

“Like it matters what I say.”

“On the contrary, I crave your approval.” Bennie smiled. She was trying to lighten the mood, and failing. “Of course, I had to come down when I heard. I wanted to see the suspect. Find out what you have on him. Who is he? What’s the story?”

“What do you want to know?”

Bennie groaned. “Needleman, can you give me a break? I’m not the enemy, I’m just a lady who cares about this case. Is that so terrible? It’s gonna be in the papers anyway.”

“Okay, fine.” Needleman pursed his lips. “The story is, his name is Ronald Johnson. Twenty-six years old. Unemployed. Record of three ag assaults in the nineties.”

“What weapon did he use for the aggravated assaults?”

“Knife, all three times. A onetime member of a militia group, white supremacists, out in western PA. The FBI got a file on him. Fits the serial-killer profile to a T.”

“Sounds like it.” Bennie was trying to be supportive.

“We placed him under for the Chiamel murder. That’s Claude Chiamel, the Belgian banker. He’s suspected of the St. Amien murder, too, but we don’t have enough for that yet. It’s just a matter of time, which is what I told the brother. Georges.” Needleman cocked his head. “How the hell you pronounce that anyway?”

“Just like Curious George. So Johnson is under arrest for the Chiamel murder, but not the St. Amien. He’s only a suspect in St. Amien.”

“Correct.
The
suspect.”

“What’s the evidence to support the murder charge in Chiamel?”

Needleman shook his head. “I’m not giving that up, Rosato.”

“Don’t be that way, Detective. I just taught you French.”

“Sorry, I told you the same thing I tell the press. You’re not the defense and you’re not the family. End of story.”

Bennie gritted her teeth. “I was with the victim’s son, Julien, when you spoke with his brother. Julien wanted to come down here with me, but I told him to stay home. I didn’t want to put the kid through it. You really want me to bring him? I could call him right now.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right, and maybe I don’t need to. Does Mr. Johnson have a lawyer?”

“He’s waiting on a public defender.”

“What a coincidence! I’m a defense lawyer. Perhaps I should offer my professional services, twenty years’ experience in murder cases. Then I’d be defense counsel, entitled to everything. Should I do that?”

Needleman scoffed. “You want to defend the knucklehead who killed your client?”

“I don’t know that he killed my client. In fact, I highly doubt it. He may have killed the Belgian, but I’m not buying into your tourist-killer theory yet.”

Needleman leaned over. “You are
such
a pain in the ass.”

“Come on, let’s be friends.” Bennie forced a smile. “So tell me what you have on Ronald Johnson to support the charge in Chiamel.”

“Ample physical evidence.”

“Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

“That’s it.”

Bennie bit her tongue because she had officially quit cursing again. “Fibers, blood, prints? Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

“Ample physical evidence.”

“Do you have ample physical evidence in St. Amien?”

“The tests aren’t back. When the tests come back, I believe we’ll have ample physical evidence against Johnson.”

“If the results go the way you expect. But right now, you have no ample physical evidence linking Johnson to St. Amien.”

“Technically.”

“Technically matters. It’s the difference between the right guy and the wrong guy.”

“He’s the doer, Rosato.” Needleman’s mouth set in a firm little line that Bennie was beginning to think he should patent.

“When will the tests come back?”

“Some of them, day or so.”

Bennie nodded. So that meant they had fibers and maybe a print or two. Stuff they could test here, in the Roundhouse. DNA, as in blood, had to be sent to Maryland for testing, which took weeks. “What’s Mr. Johnson have to say?”

“Nothing. He’s not talking until his lawyer gets here. But I’ll tell you what you’re gonna see on the TV news, only because one of the witnesses went live at five. Johnson bragged to a couple guys in a bar on Juniper that he was on a one-man campaign to ‘clean up America.’ Admitted out loud that he killed Chiamel, and St. Amien, too. Said he was gonna get himself an A-rab next. And he wasn’t even drinking. Three witnesses heard it, and they’re all willing to testify.”

“So you got a tip.”

“Yes.”

Bennie considered it. “Did Johnson give you an alibi on Chiamel or St. Amien before he clammed up?”

“No, he wanted a lawyer from the jump.”

Bennie was trying to keep an open mind. “You really think he’s the doer in both murders?”

“Yes.”

“The MO is the same?”

“Identical.”

“Why don’t you fill me in? Convince me.” Bennie glanced around the room. “Come on, everybody’s too busy to care if we actually get along. Maybe we can help each other. We both want the same thing. You tell me stuff, and I tell you stuff.”

Needleman stepped closer. “Okay, I’ll bite. Here’s the MO. Victim is taken from behind, at the mouth of an alley. Same time of night, same type of vic. Older man, well dressed, foreign, speaks with an accent. Stabbed in the back with a common knife, dragged into an alley, turned over and knifed until subdued. Ten to twelve stab wounds, indicative of rage. Robbed and left for dead.”

Poor Robert.
Bennie was so glad she’d talked Julien out of coming. It was tough even for her to hear. Detectives were usually present at autopsies and heard the findings. Needleman was essentially telling her what was in the autopsy report.

“Also, Johnson lives a few blocks from both scenes, in Center City. Twice divorced. Lives with mom, she works at night. You know the profile, the skinhead type. Impulsive, angry, underachiever. Badly socialized, a loner. Can’t hold a job or a marriage. Blames his problems on everybody else. A victim.”

Bennie’s eyes narrowed. “But this killer should be a planner, if your theory is true. He follows tourists around and systematically kills them. He’s cleaning up America. It’s part of a plan.”

“Not that well organized a plan. Opportunistic.”

“So he’s a planner, but a bad one. Like me,” Bennie said, and they both laughed. “Detective, I’m trying to believe, but it just isn’t working, partly because the other possibilities make so much more sense to me. And if you would investigate them, maybe we’d find the aforementioned ample physical evidence. But you’re not looking, and now you think you got your man.” Bennie wanted so badly to persuade him. “What if Johnson didn’t kill St. Amien, only Chiamel? They’re similar victims, you’re right, but they’re still two different men. St. Amien was involved in a very contentious lawsuit, worth millions of dollars, and he was represented by a woman with a very nasty twin.”

Needleman laughed again. “Okay, tell me what you know, Nancy.”

“Brace yourself,” Bennie began, and she filled the detective in on her history with Alice, telling him the details of the night at the river and the break-in at her house. Detective Needleman listened politely, which Bennie regarded as progress. “Well, whaddaya think?” she asked when she had finished.

“I’m trying to believe, but it just doesn’t work for me,” Detective Needleman answered, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Why not? We know my twin is trying to get me.”

“Rosato, if your twin is out to get you, why wouldn’t she just get
you?
Why kill your client?”

“She’s toying with me, Detective. She’s closing in. By killing someone I care about, who is important to my business, she hurts me. She’s saying, I can take you anytime. Then she makes her move.”

Needleman frowned with genuine concern. “If you think this, you should have security.”

“I do. Thanks. And I’m getting a TRO against her, for what that’s worth. Look, even if it’s not Alice, there are suspects far more likely than some skinhead.” Bennie launched into telling him about Bill Linette and his whereabouts last night, taking him through her interview with the waiter he had missed and about the steak knife and Mort Abrams. “Well?”

“I have to tell you, I listened to you, I really did, but I just think we got the bad guy, right in there.” The detective nodded at the door behind him. “I been in this business too long, and I like this guy. I really like him.” Bennie knew the term was detective-speak for he’s a killer, but didn’t remark on the irony. “He’s the type of scumbag we’re looking for. Not some broad who’s got a grudge against her sister, or some fat-cat lawyer or his client. The two murders, back to back, it is too clear a pattern, especially in Center City, which never gets this kind of action.” Detective Needleman nodded, more convinced as he went on. Bennie knew the syndrome. She did the same thing. “My hunches come out of thirty years’ experience on the job. I wouldn’t have told the brother unless I was sure. Johnson is the guy who killed both men.”

“Why do you dismiss the others so easily?”

“I don’t dismiss them, and I didn’t. But right now I got the doer in Chiamel, and when the tests come back, we’ll see what they tell us on St. Amien. If it doesn’t pan out, it doesn’t pan out.” Needleman touched her shoulder, in a comforting way. “I know you care about your client, and I know you’ve been under a lot of strain. Why don’t you just do your thing, and let us do ours, with Johnson.”