False Accusations (32 page)

MANHATTAN WAS ONE OF THOSE places that, with rare exception, was considerably less attractive following a snowstorm. Unlike the Sierra or the Andes Mountains, where the snow accentuated the natural beauty of the surroundings, snow in Manhattan quickly turned to gray and black slush, with some yellow sprinkled in here and there from a dog whose bladder needed relief.

On most of the busiest side streets, mounds of snow lay piled against the curb, the result of a snowplow’s pass earlier that morning. Those people whose cars were parked at the curb would find an unanticipated wall of hard-packed snow holding their vehicles prisoner. The sight of angry businessmen and -women in suits heaving the frozen white stuff away from their cars with folding shovels at the end of a long workday was not an unusual one in certain parts of the city. Those who were fortunate to be able to commute by subway, bus, or cab enjoyed a definite advantage.

As the cars swished by on the densely trafficked venues, a light rain fell. In the past, whenever the temperature fell into the teens, thin sheets of ice coated the sidewalks—and caused an unusually high number of people to report to emergency rooms or chiropractic offices with slip-and-fall injuries.

This morning, Denise had taken Noah to day care. She and Chandler made plans to meet for brunch at ten o’clock to give him time to check in at the office and deal with the imminent tongue-lashing he was likely to receive from Hennessy.

“I hate driving in the city,” Chandler said to the Iranian man who was weaving in and out of traffic with the reckless abandon of a seasoned New York City cabbie. “It’s like a war fought without guns. People use their cars to take out their aggression.”

The taxi driver, periodically launching into a barrage of vile language aimed at certain vehicles he cut off en route to his destination, curtailed the expletives long enough to agree with his passenger. “I consider myself a soldier, a soldier who wins most of his battles. That is why I get you where you want to go on time,” he said, pulling up at the Police Academy building on East 20th Street.

After he paid the man and exited the cab, Chandler ascended the slush-covered steps of the square, gray-brick building that had been built in the 1970s. He paused at the doorway and filled his lungs with cold air. It felt good to be home again, on his own turf.

Inside, he walked across the slate entryway, glancing over at the glass-enclosed academy gymnasium. He flashed on his days in training, when he was young and eager to graduate and become a beat cop. That was before he moved to California to put distance between himself and his father. He shook his head at the irony that left him showing up on his dad’s doorstep nearly ten years later, disabled and without a job.

He took the elevator to the eighth floor and waved at Nick in the evidence lab. Nick gestured for him to come answer a question. Shouting that he would be hack in a little while, Chandler proceeded down the hall and stopped outside the door of his boss. “Capt. James Hennessy” was lettered in black on the dimpled glass. He grabbed the dented brass knob, twisted it, and braced for the worst.

Hennessy was seated behind his fifty-year-old wooden desk, which was mounded with papers. A dim fluorescent fixture hung from the ceiling and a half-eaten sandwich in crumpled tinfoil lay on the desk next to an open bottle of Yoo-Hoo chocolate drink. A steady stream of hot air blew up from the grating in front of the window on the far wall, where files were piled into not-so-neat stacks.

Hennessy, a man just shy of five feet and in excess of 175 pounds, looked up and saw Chandler as he walked through the door. “Chandler, you fuckin’ asshole. You just waltz in here and expect to pick up where you left off? Is that what you expect? Leave me to answer for your whereabouts with Gianelli while you’re out sunning yourself on the beach in California? You dick-faced cock. Nick’s been working double tours trying to get your work done. Do you care? Nah, you ain’t got the goddamned balls enough to care. All you care about is yourself.”

Chandler calmly sat in the metal chair in front of the desk. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah, I’m finished.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

“Don’t give me that bull-fucking shit. You’re not glad to see me. I’m gonna ride your ass till you retire.”

Chandler nodded knowingly, then said, “Before I forget. I’m taking an early lunch today. Ten o’clock. I should be back by eleven-thirty. Wife has a doctor’s appointment. I’ll stay until seven to help Nick out with whatever it is that he needs help with. Starting tomorrow, I’ll come in two hours early every morning until I’m up to speed on things. And I’ll find something on that Bobby Lee Walker case to bail you out of your jam. That sound okay to you?”

Hennessy made a noise that was a cross between a grumble and a growl, but Chandler took it as a yes.

“How is it that you do this to me, Chandler? Everyone here hates my guts. They’re scared of me. You, you don’t seem to care what the fuck I say.”

Chandler smiled and arose from the chair. “I know what others don’t. That underneath that gruff exterior is a caring man.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t shatter my illusion,” Chandler said, stepping out of the room. “I’ll be with Nick,” he yelled over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.

He expected to hear Hennessy scream after him—but it sounded like he flung a magazine or book at the door instead. And then it came: “Asshole!”

The office of Dr. Jason Bloom was newly remodeled: sleek halogen spotlights were recessed into the taupe-colored ceiling, with new hardwood floors and lush upholstered chairs that matched the reception room wallpaper.

Chandler let out a slight whistle. “Remind me to let Jason pick up the check next time we go out to dinner.”

As they took a seat, a smile brightened her face. “Remember when I first started seeing Jason? All your friends thought it was weird for us to be friends with your gynecologist.”

A slight smile spread Chandler’s lips. “Yeah, well, show me five guys who’re man enough to handle with that. One of my college buddies, who I drank beer with and went to Jets games with, was going to be sticking his fingers in your—”

“Denise?” A nurse was standing at the doorway holding a chart. “Come on back.”

The examination went well. Dr. Bloom kept the conversation light but professional while he poked and prodded her breast. He felt it methodically and carefully, and then had her lean forward and move her arms into various positions.

“I think we’re fine. The lump is mobile, it’s small, there’s no discharge from the nipple, and the skin isn’t dimpled.” He reached for a prescription pad from City Radiological Imaging. “I’m convinced it’s nothing, honestly. You know I’d tell you guys if it wasn’t. But for peace of mind, I’m going to send you for a mammogram. It’ll be good to establish a baseline for the future anyway.” He signed the slip and handed it to Chandler. “And while we’re at it, we’ll get a blood draw and run a pregnancy test. Maybe we’ll have some more good news.”

“Denise wants a girl.”

Bloom smiled. “Girls and their daddies are a special thing, Chandler.”

“That’s what everyone tells me. But I wouldn’t complain if we had another boy.”

“Knowing you,” Bloom said, “you’d probably throw a party.” He leaned over and gave Denise a peck on the cheek. “Keep him in line. I’ll see you guys on Saturday.”

After the nurse performed the blood draw, they left his office. “This is good, Denise,” Chandler said, taking her hand as they walked to the elevator.

She nodded weakly. “I’ll feel better once I get the results back from the mammogram.”

After visiting City Radiological Imaging and getting the x-rays squared away, Chandler hailed a taxi for each of them.

As the cabs pulled over to the curb, he gave Denise a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to put in some time at the lab, and then I’ll be home. I’ve pushed Hennessy about as far as I can.” He took her in his arms and squeezed tightly. “I’m glad I was here to go through this with you.”

Denise stroked his face with her fingertips. “Me too.”

When Denise arrived home, there was a message from Jason Bloom on her machine. According to a preliminary reading from the radiologist, the lump appeared to be a benign fibroid mass—which jibed with his exam findings. “So don’t worry, Denise,” the message said. “We’ll follow up in six months and do a comparison. Meantime, I’ll call you with the assay from the lab on the pregnancy test as soon as I have it.”

Later that evening, after she relayed the results of the mammogram to Chandler, he smirked.

“I know that look,” she said.

“What look?”

“That look that says ‘see, I told you.’ You always think you know it all.”

He held up a hand. “First of all, that’s not true. No one knows it all. I just know more than most people.” He grunted as the pillow from the couch flew across the room and struck him square in the face. Before Chandler knew it, he was flat on his back. Noah was bouncing on his stomach, Denise was tickling him, and the dog was licking his face.

He finally rolled onto his side to catch his breath. “It’s good to be home.”

After dinner, Chandler checked in with Johnny Donnelly again to see if Ronald Norling had been located. Johnny confessed that he’d had no luck with the hospitals, unemployment office, or junior colleges.

“I checked the utility companies to see if he’d applied for electricity, water, or phone service. Again, nothing. I was beginning to think the PO Box was just a dead end, when sly old Ronald called me asking about his reward. I told him to hold his gombunies, that he’d get it as soon as we got to talk to him. The youngster’s a slimeball, Junior. Not sure how good a witness he’s gonna make.”

“All we need to do is have him tell the truth as to what he saw and heard. You get a number on him?”

“Is the pope Catholic? What kind of an investigator do you think I am?”

Chandler took the number, thanked him, and promised to get together with him soon.

“I assume we’ll invite your pop along too, right, Junior? Consider it my fee for finding this Ronald fella for you.”

Chandler was too tired to argue. “Sure, Johnny.” As he hung up the phone, he thought that perhaps it was time to make amends with his father. But that was an issue he would have to deal with some other time.

The five-dollar “witness fee” that Johnny thought would carry weight became a fifty-dollar advance, paid by Chandler. He had travel expenses to cover, he explained. Once Chandler peeled off the bills and placed them in his witness’s hand, Ronald Norling’s memory became instantly more acute. It was obviously not the first time he had played this game. Chandler wondered about Ronald’s background: where he came from, what trouble he’d been in, whether or not he had a record...things that would become credibility issues were he to testify. But that was all information he could glean from the computer at the precinct.

Right now, he had to find out exactly what Ronald saw that night in the supermarket, and how well he remembered it. He had brought a picture of Harding along, as well as a picture of Denise and Denise’s sister, Shari Moore. Before committing Hellman to a witness, he wanted to be absolutely sure that this cocky twenty-year-old could at least identify the suspect from a photo.

“As I explained to you on the phone, I need information regarding an incident that occurred while you were employed at Food & More.” Chandler pulled out his phone and poked and scrolled his way to the voice-recording app.

“Whoa,” Ronald said. “What are you doing?”

“Recording what we talk about. It’s for my boss, to prove that I was here and did what he’s paying me to do. This way, he can also listen to what you said so you don’t have to go through all of it again. You okay with this?”

“Yeah,” Ronald said with a shrug. “But if I don’t like what we say, I want you to delete it.”

Chandler nodded. “I can live with that.” He tapped the screen and started recording. “This is Ryan Chandler and I’m in Rhode Island at the rest stop along Interstate Ninety-five, near Hope Valley. I’m interviewing Ronald Norling, a former clerk for Food & More in Sacramento, California. This is being recorded on Saturday, January 9, at nine-fifteen in the morning.” He looked up at Ronald. “Ronald, you understand that we’re recording this, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And so far all we’ve discussed is the need to record this, and the fact that we’re going to talk about an incident you may have witnessed while employed at Food & More, is that correct?”

“Right again.”

“Do you remember a shouting match that occurred in the market between a man and a woman in late November?”

“The market’s in a real nice neighborhood, so we didn’t get much problems. But late November...yeah, I remember some crazy lady. She was screaming at this guy. She was real nasty, like out of her mind. Just screaming at him. I felt bad for him.”

“I have pictures of three women here,” he said, handing him the photos. “Do you see the woman from the store in any of them?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” Ronald said, popping gum between his teeth. “A real piece. I won’t forget that face. Or that body,” he said with a smile that rose slightly from the corners of his mouth.

“Ronald, can you turn that picture over, the one of the lady you said was in the store? And read me the name that’s written on the back.”

“Brittany Harding.”

“Now turn the other pictures over and read me the names.”

“Denise Chandler...and Shari Moore.”

“Do you remember what the lady in the picture—Miss Harding—said when she was screaming in the market?”

“Yeah, something about getting even. Like ‘You’ll pay for this. I’ll make you pay for this.’ She said he raped her or something. But you look at this guy, and you think he’s not the kind of guy who goes out and rapes someone.”

“You remember anything about what she bought that night?” The second most important question...and Chandler needed a home run on this one.

Ronald stood there and thought for a moment. “Not really. Just some food. There weren’t too many things. It was a cash-only fifteen-item limit line. Oh, she had beer. A six-pack. That black and gold label, what the hell’s the name of it?” he asked, gazing off at the freeway. “Not Miller, but—Millstone. That’s it. I thought like, what’s a lady like this drinking a dark beer like that? I even asked her about it. You know, just to calm her down, take the edge off. She was pretty wound up.” He laughed. “She nearly took my head off. Told me to mind my own fucking business. Said she has a right to drink anything she wants. She’s got a real mouth on her, for a lady, I mean.”