Deception (36 page)

“Amazing what you don’t know about people you work with,” I said.

“Clarence’s report says Chris Doyle was on the chess team,” Ray said. “Turns out he was also into drama big time. Four years. Six plays. Three starring roles.”

“Doyle?” I said. “You gotta be kidding.”

“But get this. His dad taught at the University of Pennsylvania. According to Clarence’s notes, Doyle said his dad taught history.”

“Yeah?”

“He did. Two years. But his main subject, for twenty years, wasn’t history. It was philosophy.”

“Doyle’s father was a college philosophy prof?”

“Yep. Like he said, his mother was from England and was hands-on with the kids’ education.”

“A cop with a white collar background,” I said.

“Something else. He declared bankruptcy five years ago. Had a gambling problem. Impulsive buyer. Turns out he’s a rich kid who squandered his inheritance, mostly from his mother’s side. This was interesting: When he was twenty, he lied on his résumé to get a job at a retail stationery store. Didn’t get fired, but his employer put it on record. Also, he’s been in therapy.”

“You mean counseling?”

“It’s in department records, but it’s confidential.”

“How does a private eye get into police records?”

“I’ve done some favors for cops. Including one in records.”

“They must’ve been big favors.”

Manny’s phone rang. He nodded a couple of times and said, “Okay, be there in fifteen.” He hung up. “Gotta go,” he said and was gone. No tears at his parting.

“What about Brandon Phillips?” I asked Ray.

“Got some police personnel stuff. You know the competency tests?”

“Yeah?”

“He scored second highest in the department. Near genius.”

“I was highest?”

He laughed. “Not quite. But among the detectives, you were third out of ten. Phillips scored one of the highest in the physical fitness tests too, the ones with aerobics, weight lifting, and flexibility.”

“He outscored me there, too?”

“Slightly.”

“Years ago Phillips and I played together on the precinct fast-pitch softball team. He could knock a home run from either side of the plate.”

“Something else,” Ray said, putting a check mark in his notes. “Phillips has lots of money … and unlike Doyle, he hasn’t run out of it.”

“I’ve seen his Audi,” I said.

“And his wife drives a six-month-old Porsche. But here’s something odd. She doesn’t work outside the home. And have you seen their house?”

“No. Heard it’s nice.”

“Ninety-eighth percentile nice. CEO type nice. I drove to it. So where does the money come from? Not a detective’s salary. Not an inheritance—parents alive on both sides. He’s a heck of a card player, I hear, but that’s a lot of lifestyle to buy with poker winnings.”

“Check it out, will you?”

“I’ve got his date of birth, but I can’t find a Brandon Phillips who was in high school near Irving, Texas, during those years. Okay, the other person with a history of violence was your partner, who just left us.”

“Fortunate for you,” I said. “Manny was a gangbanger. Took down some rival gang members.”

“Always a fighter. Expelled his sophomore year.”

“Then went back and got his GED. I know.”

“Did you know he was convicted of assault and battery twice, and assault with a deadly weapon as a sixteen-year-old?”

“I knew it was serious and he did time as a juvie. Don’t know details. Manny’s not the type to open up over a latte.”

“He might get mad enough for his violent instincts to be triggered,” Ray said.

“Manny has a go-nuts button. I try not to push it. I’m not one to pick a fight.” I looked at Clarence, who didn’t look back.

“Four years ago,” Ray said, “Manny’s wife went down in a hit-and-run.”

“She nearly died,” I said. “Still limps. Lots of rehab.”

“Never found who did it, right?” Ray asked.

“Two witnesses, but neither got the license. Drove him crazy that it was a hit-and-run.”

I stood and extended my hand to Ray Eagle. “That’s the whole gang. I gotta say, you’re good, Ray. Not the kind of incompetence I expected from a private eye. You ever want to be a real detective again, I’ll give you a reference for Portland Police.”

“No thanks. Left that behind me in Detroit. I like my freedom. Call my own shots. I figure out the best way to do it, then I just do it. No bureaucracy. Don’t have to raise my hand and ask to go to the bathroom. Don’t get called into the chief’s office. Plus, I can go to my kids’ games. And usually my wife isn’t wondering whether I’ll be shot today.”

“On second thought, keep me in mind if you ever want to hire somebody.”

He laughed. “I’ll do that. Listen, I wasn’t sure if I should mention it, but I did check out somebody else.”

“Who?”

“Detective Ollie Chandler.”

“You checked on me?”

“Are you a Portland homicide detective?”

“I didn’t ask you to check on me.”

“So … you’re off limits? You don’t want to hear it?”

“I’m guessing I already know it.”

“In your case I didn’t go back to high school. They didn’t keep records in those days, or they were all on papyrus and it’s crumbled.”

“You should be on TV.”

“I did get access to some department records. You’ve got a history of insubordination. And anger management issues.”

“That’s your best shot?”

“According to a couple of records you’ve got a serious drinking problem. In at least one case, you blacked out.”

“I … where did you get that information?”

“That same somebody who owed me a favor.”

“That somebody could lose their job.”

“They could but they won’t. Since your file says you’re known for taking shortcuts, I figured you’d understand. Then there was the investigation into the police brutality charge.”

“I was cleared of all charges. The guy was on drugs and was threatening innocent people. I was doing my job.”

“I figured you were, but—”

“You don’t have to figure anything.”

“The last thing was about some difficult things in your own family history. Especially your wife and your—”

“Stop right now! That’s enough!” I was standing, my finger pointing at him.

“Oookay then,” Ray said. “Sorry. I thought.” He looked at Clarence.

“Anything else you want me to do?” Ray asked.

“No.”

“I could check everybody’s alibis.”

“I’ve got that covered.”

“I could double-check, and we could compare notes.”

“It’s covered. Your job’s done.”

I was out the door in ten seconds, stalking game in the asphalt jungle, looking for a jaywalker I could take down and handcuff.

After my forehead sweat was cooled by the wind, I started to wonder what Ray and Clarence were discussing right now. I suspected there might be mention of drinking and anger management.

And I resented it.

32

“You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
A S
CANDAL IN
B
OHEMIA

S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
22

ALL
YOUR
LIFE
you’re a wannabe, until you wake up one morning, and you’re a has-been.

And you think, where was that part in the middle when you arrived, when you were living the dream?

Did I miss it?

This is why days off aren’t the draw they once were. With time on my hands I find myself asking these kinds of questions. In lieu of answers I consult the bottle, which disappoints, but I know that, so my expectations are low. Anesthetics don’t have to offer anything great—pain relief, though temporary, is often the best offer on the table.

I told myself I wouldn’t start drinking until after lunch. Since I hate violating my commitments, I adjusted that to not taking my third drink until after lunch.

I opened up the Palatine file, now three folders. Unlike 90 percent of us Oregonians, Clarence and Ray go to church Sunday mornings, like Jake does. They look to the Bible for inspiration. Others look to the newspaper. I look to my case notes.

Seven thirty that evening, Ray Eagle called, waking me from a postpizza nap.

“Turns out Tommi’s brother and the professor were the same year. On the same water polo team. Looks like he’s a dentist in Portland—names and ages match anyway. Don’t know if they hung out besides that. I’d have to call people in their class. I’ve got some names. Worth my time?”

“Low priority.”

“Also, did you know Tommi has a medical condition?”

“No.”

“Severe migraines. She takes Imitrex. Comes in pills and injections—she uses the injections.”

“Never seen her do it. Or heard her mention it.”

“She’s had it for years.”

“Can you really afford to contribute all this work, Ray?” I was being extra nice after walking out on him the day before.

“Even though Clarence can’t put into print all I’m doing, he gave me a favorable mention in his last article.”

“I noticed.”

“I’ve already gotten four phone calls. Two of them are new jobs. It’s paying off. And even if it wasn’t, I’m glad to help.”

Every police detective should have a Ray Eagle.

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
23, 10:15
A.M
.

The chief left a message that he wanted me at his office by 9:30. I took files and phone and set up for business in his waiting area. I brought in a Coke, an apple, dry-roasted peanuts, a Swiss Miss Pudding cup, and a plastic spoon.

Okay, maybe I was making a point. It wasn’t lost on Mona, who repeatedly insisted I clean up. I cheerfully ignored her. I overheard her explain to someone around the corner that her duties now included working with the chief periodically at his home office, and, yes, it was perfectly fine with the chief’s wife, who was always home anyway.

I file information, never knowing when it’ll come in handy.

Lennox finally emerged and stared at everything I’d spread out on the table. “Pick up your mess.”

“Yes, sir. Didn’t know the wait would only be forty-five minutes this time.”

He talked at me, not to me, for ten minutes. “You’ve been living off the fat of the land around here. You better wake up and smell the coffee. Keep your fingers crossed, mister, because I have the power to take you down. And don’t think I won’t.”

“Yes, sir. You are a mover and shaker. A force to be reckoned with.”

“You’d better believe it!”

“It’s always darkest before the dawn,” I said. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

“Who do you think you are?”

My plan to anger him was working. We were at war.

“To be or not to be.”

“Get out!”

I turned, and as I did something fell out of my hand.

“Pick up that garbage.”

I pretended not to hear him. As I looked back I saw him pick up the wrapper and put it in his wastebasket.

I joined Clarence and Manny in a small conference room. Clarence had stopped returning Manny’s glares since breaking his ribs, but Manny was his typical cheery self, with all the charm of a DMV employee.

“Been checking on family members,” Manny said. “Brandon Phillips’s wife and Linda Glissan took a class with the professor last year.”

“How could so many people have been in that guy’s classes?” Clarence asked.

“The department has an arrangement with Portland State,” I said. “Spouses of officers can take classes at reduced rates, something like fifty bucks a class. Dozens of PPD wives have done it. Some are working on degrees. Sharon took a couple of classes with Linda. Palatine’s taught twenty-five years. He was popular. Maybe it’s not as odd as it seems.”

“Brandon’s wife’s a looker,” Manny said.

“I noticed. The professor would’ve definitely noticed. Phillips never mentioned his wife was in Palatine’s class. You worked with Phillips while Cimmatoni and I were away, right? I think Cimma’s knee went out, and I was …”

“Sharon had just died.”

“Anyway, what were his habits?”

Manny turned up his palms. “We were on two stakeouts.”

“You must have missed my stakeout wit and charm.”

“Phillips keeps his mouth shut. I like that.”

Manny and Clarence looked at each other, Clarence nodding. Glad to give them this bonding moment.

“He must have drunk a gallon of coffee,” Manny said. “And he ate a half dozen granola bars.”

“Granola bars? Soft or crunchy?”

“Who cares?”

“I’ll bet they’re crunchy.”

I walked out the door to Phillips’s desk. He was out. I looked at his keyboard closely, with the light on my keychain. Down between the keys I saw yellowish-brown particles. I looked both ways, then opened two of his desk drawers. At the back of the second, I found his stash—six Nature Valley pecan crunch granola bars. I took one and shut the drawer.

I showed Manny and Clarence my discovery. They weren’t impressed. I decided not to explain. Nero Wolfe holds things back from Archie, like Sherlock Holmes did from Watson, so at the unveiling of a crime’s solution, his deductions seem more brilliant.

Manny took off, and Clarence and I settled down at my workstation. I pulled open a file drawer between us. Clarence spotted a file in the front. He pulled it out.

“
The Bacon and Cheese Murders?”
he asked. “Wait … it says Ollie Chandler. You wrote this?”

“It’s my first fiction.”

“You’ve written nonfiction?”

“Just that article I gave you the other day.”

He flipped through it, then read aloud: “Frankie the Knife tried to shake me, but I stuck to him like a mustard plaster. Frankie was hog ugly, face like a bucket of mud. Walking down Broadway, he was as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake. When I jumped him on Alder, the streetlight showed the vein in his forehead beating like a ragtime drummer on bathtub gin. Next thing he knew I was slapping him around like a pinball machine with body English.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I’m speechless,” Clarence said. “A pinball machine with body English?”

“Pretty cool, huh? Raymond Chandler was the greatest writer of hard-boiled detective stories. Lots of people ask if we’re related, but I’ve never found a link between my Chandlers and his.”

“You think about crime, you read about crime, apparently you even write about crime.” Clarence stopped, appearing to weigh his words. “Off the record, could you have killed the professor?”

“I’m capable of it, if that’s what you mean.”

“Really?”

“So are you. Suppose somebody murdered Geneva and got away with it. He was cleared, but you know for a fact he did it. And suppose you know he’ll kill someone else, even your own kids. He’s threatened to do it. So tell me, would you just turn the other cheek? I’m not saying I’d kill him. But if no justice was coming and more people were in danger? I’d consider it.”

“I’d take him out in a heartbeat.” It was Manny, who’d suddenly reappeared at his desk. Manny has no future in politics.

“I’d like to believe I’d leave justice to God,” Clarence said, “not take it into my own hands.”

Manny groaned, putting his hand on his rib.

“With your family’s lives on the line?” I said. “The first question about these homicide detectives is, are they smart enough to kill and have a good chance of getting away with it? In each case, given their experience and knowledge of murder investigations, the answer’s yes. Second, are they bold enough to do it? And third, are they motivated enough? You can’t answer the last question until you figure out what that motivation could be. If it’s revenge for something horrific or prevention of future crimes, that might be enough.”

“What if two detectives were in on it together?” Clarence asked.

“What are the chances of two homicide detectives working together who are both cold-blooded murderers? Okay, they might rough somebody up. But plan a murder?”

“Have you talked about how to kill someone?” Clarence asked.

“Sure.” I looked at Manny. He nodded. “But pharmacists probably discuss what drug they’d use to kill someone. And mechanics probably say if they were going to sabotage a car, that’s how they’d do it. But few of them actually do it. Especially not together. If I were going to murder someone, I wouldn’t let anybody in on it. Nobody would see me do it.”

“Nobody but God.”

Clarence has this way of ending conversations.

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
23, 6:20
P.M
.

I talked with McKay Kunz, the night shift’s head custodian at the Justice Center, about timetables and procedures for dumping garbage. Then I headed for the parking garage to bail out my car.

“I finally got around to checking out the six phone numbers from the backs of the professor’s books,” Ray Eagle said as I crossed the bridge and negotiated the ramp onto I-84 in a rainy rush hour. “Two are nonworking numbers, two belong to someone else now, and two to the original owners. But I linked up the old ones to past owners. In four cases I confirmed numbers belonging to women who at one time knew the professor. Two had been in his class; two others had dated him. One remembered him fondly; two sounded pretty cold. One ice-cold.”

“Why didn’t he put names next to the numbers?” I asked.

“For fear someone would see it? Maybe he didn’t want to have to explain why he had their numbers. But how could he remember who the numbers belonged to?”

“Probably thinking one at a time,” I said. “The girl was on his mind, and he figured he wouldn’t forget. Years later he wouldn’t care. He always had a book with him, so books were his scratch pads. Fountain pens and love letters aside, to the professor women weren’t much more than numbers anyway.”

By 7:30 Mulch was walking me through his day. I usually don’t grasp the details, but his general points come through. He’d had a good day, barked at a number of joggers, but missed me. And was thinking about bacon.

I did this interacting with Mulch in my office so whoever was listening to the recording on the chief’s behalf would know their bug was still working. When Mulch had gotten everything off his chest, including his guilt in the confiscation and mangling of a Zero candy bar I’d left on my desk, I opened my Picasa photo program, called up the Palatine murder scene pictures, and turned on the slide program. As hundreds of slides appeared for three seconds each, I looked, hoping to see something new.

I’d taken six pictures of the hallway, and the last of those showed Kim Suda, at the far end, coming out of the professor’s bedroom, talking with a criminalist. I hit the space bar, pausing it, studying the picture. Something seemed peculiar, but I wasn’t sure what.

I hit the escape key, called up the picture for editing, and enlarged Suda’s face about six times. She looked different. In particular, her hair was mussed. Usually it’s perfect. Yeah, she’d come in from the cold, but Suda’s the type to find a mirror. But there was more. Suda seemed … something about her face. She looked … nervous.

In the darkness of December 23, I gave in to Mulch’s begging, forgave him for the Zero bar, and took him for a walk. A light snow fell, swirling in the streetlights. I opened my mouth and caught snowflakes on my tongue. Mulch barked and jumped up, mouth open, and caught some flakes himself. I laughed and Mulch strutted happily beside me. He’s fascinated by the outdoors each time, like he’s never seen it before. I was that way as a kid. Snow was magic back then. Usually magic has no hold on me anymore. But the snow drew me out of myself and into something beyond me, an enchanting greatness.

There’s something about fresh Oregon air. It gives me an electric charge to the little gray cells. That’s what happened at 8:23 as we walked by the yellow house with the yappy dog who’s always on his fourth espresso. When lightning struck inside my head, I stood still ten seconds, then turned and ran toward the old brownstone, dragging Mulch on his leash. He thought it was a grand romp.

I charged in the front door, went to my office, and pulled out one of the three thick files from my briefcase. I flipped through papers.

Finally I found what I was looking for: my copy of the crime scene log sheet, signed off by officers Dorsey and Guerino. I examined it to see exactly who had been granted entry to Palatine’s house that night.

Nowhere in the log was the name Kim Suda.