Desperate Measures (22 page)

Lying in bed that Tuesday morning, he went over the incident in his mind once more; he had gone over it several times, and wished he had it to do over. But what more could he have said? Mrs. Dufault was an intelligent woman; she had understood what he meant. And she knew Rachel was in trouble. Those empty eyes, he thought bleakly.

His doorbell roused him out of bed; he pulled on his robe, thrust his feet into slippers, and went to see what idiot was calling at seven-thirty in the morning. Then, with a sense almost of relief, he saw that the waiting was over; the police had arrived.

Well, Barbara thought, pulling into the driveway, full house. There was a green sheriff's car, a black-and-white city police car, an unmarked black Ford, and Will's convertible. She parked behind the convertible and got out.

On the front porch a deputy stepped forward as she approached. “Stop,” he said. “Police business. You can't go in there now.” He was very young, blond, and nervous; his hand kept edging toward his holstered gun, then jerking away.

“Peace,” Barbara said, advancing. “Mr. Feldman's attorney. I come in peace. Take me to your leader.”

“You got some ID?”

“If I reach inside my purse for ID, you promise not to shoot?” He flushed brick red, and at the same moment the screen door was pushed open; a plainclothes detective stepped out to the porch and said, “Holloway. Crap, you shake a tree and the only nuts that fall out are lawyers. Where's Feldman?”

“And good morning to you, Detective Cummins,” she said pleasantly. She smiled at the deputy, whose hands were now clasped behind his back. He stared straight ahead as she entered the house.

“Good morning, Will, Dr. Minick,” she said then. Dr. Minick, in his robe and slippers, looked pinched, both angry and frightened. “Is there any coffee?” she asked him. “Would you mind putting on some?” He nodded in relief and left the living room. A detective followed him. Barbara turned to Will. “Have they taken anything out yet?”

“No. We've been discussing the search warrant.” He handed a copy to her. “I think they're tearing up Alex's bedroom.”

She scanned the warrant quickly and nodded. “Will, please make a note of how many armed officers are present, what they're all doing, and their names.” She pulled her camera from her briefcase and started toward Alex's bedroom. Detective Cummins caught her arm.

“Not so fast, Holloway. We're here with a lawful warrant to search and seize certain materials. Just park it on a chair and wait until we're done.”

She quickly aimed her camera and took his picture. He drew back. “Detective, that warrant says you're looking for pornography, weapons, drugs, and/or materials associated with related activities. I intend to see that it stops with that and that you don't leave this house looking like a tornado struck. Don't touch me again. I intend to get a pictorial record of what takes place here today.”

For a moment he glared at her. He was forty-something, very muscular and trim, even good-looking, with close-cut brown hair and brown eyes. At the moment he looked carved from wood. He moved aside. “Don't get in the way,” he said. “And I asked you before, where's Feldman? I have instructions to take him in for questioning.”

“And I have a court order that says you can't do that.” She pulled a copy of the restraining order from her briefcase, handed it to him, then walked on into the bedroom and began taking snapshots. Drawers had been dumped out onto the floor; two detectives had already torn the bed apart and appeared ready to start slitting the mattress.

“You can tell by close examination if it's been opened and resewn,” she said clearly, taking another picture.

Behind her Cummins said, “Pick up that stuff and leave the bed alone.”

One of the detectives began to toss socks and underwear back into a drawer. Barbara did not say a word; better a mess in the drawer than on the floor. After that she simply followed them from room to room, watched and took pictures as they continued their search for illicit materials: they took pictures off the wall and examined the backs, searched through books more carefully than she had done in Hilde's house, inspected the bottoms and sides of drawers, the bottoms of chairs and tables….

Then Cummins was back at her side. He handed her a cell phone. “For you.”

“Holloway,” she said, keeping her gaze on the detectives.

“Ms. Holloway, Lieutenant Kreiger here. We seem to have a bit of a misunderstanding. Our department requires a statement from Mr. Feldman.”

“No objection,” she said. “My office at a time convenient to all parties.”

Smoothly, even persuasively, he explained why that was not an option and then, just as smoothly, she explained that it was the only option he had. “I am charged with his well-being, and it wouldn't be to his benefit to sit in an uncomfortable chair in a police station.”

“You could be charged with obstruction of justice,” he said, not quite so smoothly.

“And you could be charged with contempt of court if you interfere with an official court order.”

There was a pause, then he said, “Two o'clock this afternoon. Where is your office?”

At eleven the officers were ready to leave. Barbara had a receipt for Alex's computer, one charcoal drawing pencil, several magazines, and a stack of newspapers. They wanted to take Dr. Minick's new laptop as well, and she had said no: the search warrant did not include any of his possessions. They settled for an on-site inspection by one of the officers.

As soon as the police were gone, Barbara said piteously, “Now, may I please have a cup of coffee?”

Will laughed, motioned her to a chair in the kitchen, and poured coffee for her. “You came on like gangbusters. Wow!”

“Got their attention, didn't I?” She sipped the coffee and closed her eyes. “Ah, I needed that. They'll be at my office at two to get a statement from Alex.”

“Will I be allowed in?” Dr. Minick asked.

“Probably not. You can wait in Shelley's office, if you like, or just hang out here. It's a formality today. They ask questions, he answers, they present him with a typed copy, and he signs it. Done. Will and I will be at his elbow.”

She drank more of the coffee. “At least now we know the approach they'll use. The stalking charge, endangering a child. Will, hasn't the Doughboy come up with a picture yet?”

He shook his head. “A couple, but she's as clean as little Miss Prim.”

“Who?” Dr. Minick asked. “You mean Rachel?”

“Rachel,” Barbara said. “I want a picture of her in her war paint.”

“Let me tell you what I saw yesterday,” Dr. Minick said. He told them how he had watched Rachel block off lover's lane. “She's deeply troubled, traumatized, consumed by guilt feelings.”

“Guilt? Why? She had nothing to do with her father's death.”

“No, no. I don't mean deserved guilt, earned guilt. I mean the guilt that sneaks in. Not just her father, but both parents. She must be going through all the little slights, the insignificant instances when she didn't take out the trash or make her bed, when she sassed or she daydreamed through church services. A thousand little things. Add them to the guilt she knows she deserves, sneaking behind her father's back to wear makeup, lying about Alex, going out with an older boy. The girl's in deep trouble, Barbara.”

“All right,” Barbara said sharply. “She's in trouble. But so is Alex. And she put him there. If she wants to untangle herself, she should start telling the truth, just for openers.”

“I doubt she's capable of doing that right now,” Dr. Minick said after a moment. “That might be too threatening to her.”

Barbara stood up. “I have to get to the office, get in touch with Alex, prepare him. After today, he can come home.”

Alex arrived at one, as Barbara had asked him to do, and he came in wearing a tan chamois beret. Shelley had been right; it was a vast improvement over the baseball cap, and it meant, Barbara added silently to herself, that Shelley must have seen him over the weekend to give him the berets.

Dr. Minick and Will arrived together at a quarter to two, and the detectives arrived promptly at two. Lieutenant Kreiger was a slightly built man with black hair a touch too long, and black eyes. His eyebrows were black, shaggy and thick. His manner was crisp. He had a stenographer with him, and another detective who seemed to do nothing except keep his gaze on the lieutenant at all times. All three had taken one look at Alex. The stenographer, a young man who looked as if he belonged in high school, blanched and looked ill.

“Please remove your hat and glasses,” Kreiger said as soon as they were all seated in Barbara's office.

“I prefer not to,” Alex said. “If you don't mind.”

The lieutenant nodded as if he had a new bit of information. It was a mannerism he was to repeat several times as he asked his questions and Alex answered them.

After covering the day of the murder, the lieutenant asked, “Where do you sell your paintings?”

“I send my art to my agent, and he sells it. Original paintings by unknown artists are placed in corporate offices, doctors' offices, some restaurants, not upper-echelon offices, CEOs and such, they get Mirós and van Goghs, but mid-level management.” He gave his agent's name and address.

The lieutenant took a drawing pencil from his briefcase and handed it to Alex. “Is that yours?”

“I don't know. It's like some of mine. I have several different kinds.”

“Do you take a sketchbook and pencil out on your hikes?” Alex said yes. “Ever stop behind the Marchand house to sketch?”

“No. I don't go near his property if I can help it. Up in the woods it's hard to know where his starts; it's not posted or anything.”

“They keep it mowed behind the house, a hundred feet or so, don't they?”

“I don't know.”

“You ever sit up there, just behind the mowed part and sketch?”

“I said no. That's the only answer I can give you. No.”

His voice was still controlled, well modulated; he had turned partly away from the lieutenant, more as if by habit than anything else, but still, hidden behind his sunglasses, it looked as if he was trying to avoid direct contact. What would he do if he lost control? Barbara suddenly wondered. Would he rant and rave, jump up in anger, lash out at something or someone? Or just become bitingly sarcastic? She did not want to find out with the police officers present.

Breaking in on the next question, she said, “Lieutenant, that's the fourth time you've asked that same question. The answer doesn't change. Can you move on?”

He shrugged, but left the question unfinished and asked instead about the arrangement Alex had with his agent, another topic already covered. Alex's patience continued.

When the lieutenant was finished, he stood up and said, “We'll get your statement typed and send it around for you to sign in an hour or so. Say at five. Will you be here at that time?”

Barbara stiffened slightly. Too soon, she thought, but she did not say a word.

Alex nodded. “I can wait for it.”

Barbara walked out with the lieutenant and his two companions. When they were gone, she opened Shelley's office door and beckoned to Dr. Minick. “Over,” she said. “You can come out now. Alex was great.”

In the office, when she returned with Dr. Minick, Alex was slumped in his chair with his face buried in his hands.

Pretending unawareness, Barbara went to sit down on the sofa. She said, “That's moving fast, to get the statement back for you to sign today. I think they want to toss the ball to the district attorney's office and let someone there carry it now. And I'll move for a very quick trial, if and when the time comes.”

“Why?” Will asked. “I thought it was in our interest to delay things.”

“They don't have a case,” Barbara said. “It's completely circumstantial, and it relies on the statement of the girl that Alex was stalking her. Strike that, and there's nothing left.” She did not look at Dr. Minick; she knew his expression would be troubled. “Alex, where do you buy your art supplies?”

“Mail-order house.” He straightened up, put his sunglasses on again. “I do all my shopping on the Internet, or mail order.”

“Nothing special about the kinds of pencils you use?”

“No.”

“Okay. I'll want the names of the companies you deal with. You were great about where the paintings go, by the way. Will your agent reveal more than you did?”

Dr. Minick answered. “I talked to him a few days ago. He'll take a long boat ride to nowhere before he tells them anything.”

“Well, it's almost three-thirty, and we have an hour and a half to kill.”

“Not me,” Will said. “I've put everything on hold today. Time to check in again. Alex, will you be my guest tonight?”

“I'd like to go home,” Alex said.

“We could go out to Will's house and collect your things now,” Shelley said timidly.

“Just be sure to be back here before five,” Barbara said. “You other guys are free to scatter.”

Then, alone, sitting on her sofa, she thought about the control Alex had shown, but her thoughts were confused. How long could he suppress his anger and fear? At what cost? She realized she had seen a new facet of him, one that she was not sure how to regard. She wanted him to stay cool, but it was nearly inhuman to be as cool as he was.

She decided to go home and tell Frank about her client before he read about it in the newspapers.

When she did, he stared at her in disbelief. “Good Christ! He's either a cold-blooded murderer, or else a psychopath!”

20

Alex and Shelley
arrived back at the office before five; a detective brought the statement and stood gazing anywhere except at Alex as he read it. Barbara read it. Alex signed, and it was done.