Nantucket Five-Spot (5 page)

Canvassing the girl's neighborhood, several people told Franny that they could place the time of death exactly because of the daytime television shows they were watching when they heard the gunshots. It seemed an ostentatious way to murder someone in broad daylight, but it set the time of the murder with unique precision. Franny tracked the killer's escape route down through the brush below the house to the next street on the hill. One of the residents there mentioned seeing an unfamiliar Toyota pickup truck parked on the street that day. She thought it might be a workman's truck, but it was gone after she came back from some errands in the early afternoon.

Franny ran everyone involved with the case for their car registrations and got a hit with Roy Elkins. So she went to the actual post office the next Friday, poking around on her own time. When she saw that they opened up a courtesy window for express mail, she asked—did they only do it when the place got jammed up and they had the extra staff? How about the date in question? They looked it up: yes. Then she checked out the clerk on duty that day. And guess what? He had recently bought a flat screen TV with cash. He'd been eating at nice restaurants, shopping at Nordstrom's. There was a post office record of the express mail package. But that slip could have been filled out any time. It was obvious then. Elkins paid the clerk to mail it, using his home label, on the day of the murder, so he could plausibly paint himself as crushed on line behind fifty Mexicans when the crime was going down. All he needed was an official time-stamp for his whereabouts.

Elkins had been working in law enforcement for almost twenty years, so he knew how to manufacture an alibi. But he got careless. He missed one detail. He didn't know about the express window. The clerk didn't care. He took his money and did what he was told. The easiest five grand ever.

The only problem was Special Agent Frances Tate, who had to see everything for herself and never quit until all her questions were answered.

The FBI confiscated Elkins' computer and Franny retrieved his deleted e-mails. He was in love with the woman. He wanted to marry her. She was selling him drugs and he was using heavily. When she dumped him he lost it. An ordinary crime of passion, but Elkins was meticulous in its execution. All that care and planning paid off. The FBI had no hard evidence—no prints, no DNA, no eye-witnesses. Franny's evidence was circumstantial, and without a confession the DA warned that they could easily go to court and lose. They brought Elkins in on the drug charges, Tornovitch sweated him for seventeen hours in the interrogation room, but he stuck to his story. Even after two nights without sleep he knew it was good enough to save him from the lethal injection needle.

So they compromised. Elkins walked on the murder, which was never officially solved. They convicted him on the drug charges, and he got ten years in jail. With some counts suspended for cooperation with the ongoing investigation and time off for good behavior, he was due to be out of jail in less than six months. He might go back to cocaine and he might even commit murder again, but we had the cold comfort of knowing he wouldn't be financing his habits with a police pension or hiding behind a badge.

As Jack liked to point out, it was still a significant case, a major scandal rehabilitated by the vision of a new LAPD, stringent in its standards and willing to work with the FBI to police itself. Despite his failed interrogation, Jack was remembered as the man who broke up an important police drug ring. Franny was furious and heartbroken.

Jack told me, “Write it off as a victory and walk away.” That was what he did. He got promoted and went back to Washington. Franny let it go and followed him.

I used the case in my “true crime” book. I told the truth about Elkins. He threatened to sue me and the city. He was still in jail, but he managed to hire one of the toughest litigators in L.A.

I withdrew the book, but I got fired anyway.

And that was it. Six months later, I was living on Nantucket.

Franny and I committed no crimes of passion in those days, though we both wanted to. When I kissed her cheek at LAX I suspected I'd never see her again.

But here she was.

“I want to look at Delavane's e-mails,” she said to me now. We were standing by the car again, stealing another moment before we had to go inside. It wasn't the moment I would have liked.

“You're going to need more than the fact that someone bought a voice machine with his stolen credit card.”

She pulled her fingers through her hair again. The sun beat down on us. She blew out a breath.

“I almost wish you were right about that.”

“I am right about it! Being a random burglary victim doesn't constitute probable cause in a felony investigation. Not in America.”

She winced, pulling all those pretty features together. Another familiar look. I was demanding too much. “Talk to Jack about it. I just do the tech work.”

“Right. I remember that.”

A gentle breeze stirred the damp air, ruffling the flags, setting their chains clanging.

“Well, this is romantic,” she said finally.

“Yeah. You and me and Jack, like the old days. I can't help thinking the guy is an arrogant dick who has no idea what's really going on, and I know he feels the same way about me—and what really worries me is, this time we may both be right.”

She took my arm. “All you can do is your job, Chief Kennis. Protect and serve.”

“Yeah.”

“And take me to dinner tonight.”

I put my arm around her shoulder. “Eight o'clock?”

“We're staying at the Harbor House. I'll be waiting in the lobby.”

She released one arm and pirouetted out from under the other. She trotted for the station and I hurried to follow her.

Chapter Four

Mountains and Molehills

Tornovitch took over Haden's office, which surprised me. I expected him to take mine. But Haden's was on the second floor adjacent to the Emergency Response conference room Jack would be using as a command center.

“Besides,” he said to me, “This is still your bailiwick, Kennis. I respect that. I don't walk into a man's house and throw him out on the street. We're going to be working together. I want you on my side. And I want you at your best. Sticking you in a cubicle somewhere doesn't do that for me.” He extended his hand and I shook it, startled by this new level of pragmatic civility. We'd see how long it lasted.

Walking out of the office, he noticed my police band scanner. “Keeping track of everybody, Kennis?”

“I find it soothing.”

“Admit it, you're a control freak, just like me.”

I paused in the doorway, blocking him. “A real control freak wouldn't own up and give you the satisfaction, Jack. So if I disagree I'm admitting you're right.”

He showed me a mouth full of sharp white teeth, compressed cheeks narrowing his eyes in a predator's warning. Any resemblance to a smile was a trick of evolution, a Darwinian caprice designed to lull the unwary. “That's why I handle the interrogations, Kennis.”

“I remember a seventeen hour one, Jack. How did that work out for you?”

“Take a look. It should be obvious.”

I called a meeting half an hour later and he gave us our marching orders. Everyone settled in the Emergency Response room. Boyce, Donnelly, Krakauer, all the ranking uniforms. Jack stood at one end with Franny by his side. She stood quietly, hands clasped in front of her, letting him do the talking.

“All right, people. News travels fast so you know who we are. I'll learn your names as it becomes necessary. I'm aware of the fact that some of you don't take this threat, or our visit, seriously. But at Homeland Security we have to take every threat seriously. This isn't a game—we can't afford to lose a point. We have to win every time. If we lose, people die. I am tasked with preventing that and you are tasked with helping me in every way you can, including obeying orders that you don't agree with or even understand. I welcome your questions—after the fact. Obey orders and discuss them later. I know I have the Chief's backing on this.”

Everyone looked at me. I nodded.

“We are currently looking at three suspects. Ricky Wynand, who called in a false bomb threat to the Steamship Authority two years ago. He is currently employed at On-island Gas on Sparks Avenue. I want him in custody this afternoon. The same goes for William Delavane, and for Rashid and Patel Lashari, proprietors of The Souk clothing store on Broad Street. I have National Security Letters granting me access to all business records of that store, as well as the gas station and Folger Construction, Delavane's employer.”

“Pat Folger ain't gonna like that,” Charlie Boyce said. A knowing chuckle rose up and subsided, extinguished by Tornovitch's glare, which descended like one of those dunce-cap candle-snuffers. There was nothing he could do about the curl of amused provincial smoke that rose off the chastened group, though. They all knew Pat, some of them had been on the sharp end of his temper, and they'd back him against most terrorists and any DHS agent, especially this one.

“Stick around,” Tornovitch said. ”I'll have your individual assignments in a few minutes.”

People shuffled out. I could see Franny pulling him down a little so they could have a whispered conference. He nodded and started to answer, but she interrupted him and he went back to nodding. A change of plans was obviously in the works. I wondered if he'd acknowledge Franny when he made the announcement. Not likely. The room cleared out. Haden and I lingered at the door until Jack called us over.

“It occurs to me that bringing in this Delavane character might be a mistake,” he said. Haden had noticed the brief conference with Franny. He shot me a look. Jack saw it, of course. “You have something to say, Krakauer?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now let me lay this out for you. If Delavane isn't the one we're looking for, we'll have needlessly antagonized an ordinary citizen. More importantly, if he is the one, then we'll have alerted him, which will make it much tougher to monitor his activities and gather any substantial evidence. He might go underground completely until we're gone. Much better to put him under surveillance, at least for now. Franny can check out the gas station, talk to the owner. Wynand doesn't need to know anything. Kennis—you and I are going to pay a call on our Muslim friends. We'll have the element of surprise in our favor.”

“I bet they've been expecting us for the last decade or so.”

“Then we're long overdue. Get your people out on the street, pick someone to tail Delavane, and let's get moving. It stinks up here. Someone's been smoking. You'd better deal with that. I don't like cops breaking the law. I fired an agent for littering once. Franny can tell you. She was there.”

I glanced at her. She nodded. Her eyebrows lifted a little in mockery and fatigue.

“He was a highly qualified agent,” she said. “An encryption specialist. And he spoke fluent Arabic.”

“That had nothing to do with it,” Tornovitch snapped.

Franny looked down. “Of course not.”

“Though you have to wonder—why study the language of Islamofascism if you're not interested, know what I mean? Most people study French. Or Spanish. This kid chose Arabic. I guess he wanted to read the Koran in the original.”

Downstairs, I found Randy Ray by the coffee machine in the break room, dumping cream and sugar into a mug of Starbucks Morning Blend.

He still had his football physique and his fast metabolism, but his body had some unwelcome surprises in store for him. He was the perfect candidate for a middle-aged beer gut.

“How would you like to do the surveillance on Billy Delavane?” I said.

“Me? Really?”

“You're a local, you know Madaket. You blend in.”

He set the mug down on the chipped Formica counter. “Listen, Chief, I was thinking about this. Some friends of mine are working on a crew, painting one of those houses on Maine Avenue. I think it's like two doors down from Billy's place. It's the perfect observation post. You're outdoors all day, you can see everything and the best part is, you're actually supposed to be there. No one looks twice at you.”

I nodded. “Sounds good. You can have the day shift. Drive your own car down there and park it out of sight. Keep track of the mileage and gas.”

“Thanks, Chief. I'm on it.”

Tornovitch was waiting for me outside. I drove him into town and we found a spot in front of the old police station on Chestnut Street. It was clouding over and the wind had shifted around to the northeast. The streets were crowded. Summer specials were chalking tires and writing tickets. Most of the tourists looked miserable, gritting their teeth through another family nightmare, despite the ice-cream cones and smoothies and cell phones everyone was clutching. I was the only one on the street with my hands free. I reached down to catch a pair of five-year-olds as they careened into my legs. They twirled away from me and kept going. We turned the corner and their mom brushed past us, yelling and apologizing in the same breath. “I'm so sorry—Billy! Tommy! You come back here!”

Tornovitch blew out a disgusted breath. “No discipline. Those kids are running wild.”

“At least they're safe here. In the city she'd be right to panic.”

He laughed at that—the usual dismissive grunt.

“It's true.”

“I have a term for people like you, Kennis. Truth procrastinators. You don't deny it. You put it off as long as possible. Like this bomb threat thing. You think I'm making mountains out of molehills. Maybe I am. But this place feels like Mount St. Helens to me. And you're the kind of guy who buys real estate on the side of a volcano because you don't believe nice places blow up. Well, they do. I've seen it happen. I know the signs.”

Maybe, but he didn't find any at The Souk, or at their out of town storage space, except dull financial records and boxes full of clothes and trinkets. But Jack scared the crap out of the Lasharis. That seemed to mollify him a little.

And there was news waiting for us back at the station.

Charlie Boyce and Kyle Donelly shuffled and shifted outside my office. Charlie was ten years older than Kyle and his hair was starting to thin, but they looked like brothers—two big men who had held down the Nantucket High School Whalers' defensive line in different eras. Kyle had never gotten farther away from Nantucket than Christmas shopping at Marshall's in Hyannis. Charlie had been to John Jay College in New York City and worked for the Boston Police Department. He wasn't suited for big city life, though. Maybe none of us were.

He took my arm and pulled me a few steps away from Jack.

“What?” I shrugged free.

“It's about the drug thing, Chief. Pat Folger's still following the guys who got his kid hooked on oxy. They caught him taking pictures of people going in and out of the house. There was a scuffle. Pat punched one of the guys.”

“Did we get a call?”

“No—that's the whole point. Why wouldn't they call the cops? Anybody normal would call the cops, right? But these guys are illegal immigrants and drug dealers so that's the last thing they want.”

“How do we even know it happened?”

“Tim Lepore called from the hospital. Apparently Pat broke a knuckle on this guy's jaw. So Pat got on the line and starting yelling at me to go in there and bust these guys. With no warrant and no evidence—nothing but some crazy contractor's random snap shots. Guy needs to be sedated.”

“I don't know. He's making more progress than we are.”

“That doesn't surprise me.” Tornovitch strode up to us. “But as it happens, we have a real case to work. And I need to see some results.”

Charlie started to speak, then deferred to Kyle. “Tell him.”

“Well, we brought in the Wynand kid? He was scared witless but he didn't do anything. He hangs out with Billy Delavane though. He gave us some names. Kid's in the group, one of Billy's favorites.”

“So?” Jack was still gruff but I could tell he was interested.

“We went to the houses.”

“How did you get a warrant so fast?”

Charlie shrugged. “We didn't need anything like that, sir. We know these people. They were happy to help out. Kyle played football with Corey Herrick's big brother. I bought my used bug from his dad, and his mom always helps out with the firehouse Halloween party.”

Jack shook his head. “You drive a Volkswagen beetle? How do you fit into it?”

“He looks like a turkey in a microwave,” Kyle said.

“I bet he does. Not the recommended way to cook a turkey by the way. So let me guess the rest, Boyce. You found the voice changing machine in one of these houses.”

Charlie ducked his head. He could feel his moment being cut short. “Yes, sir.”

“Of course the kid and his parents knew nothing about it.”

“Uh—that's right.”

“But you confiscated the machine and checked the serial number against the credit card sale, so you know it's the same machine.”

“Yes we did.”

“So put it together for me.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Do the rest of your job, Boyce. The important part. Put it together for me.”

“Well… Billy is the Herrick's caretaker. He makes sure the pipes don't freeze when they're away in the winter, stuff like that. So he has a key. He could have hidden the machine there. Assistant Chief Krakauer called Barnstable prison. Apparently Billy's been visiting his brother a lot lately. Ed was in the Army in Kuwait. He has military connections. If Billy wanted military grade explosives, Ed would be the guy to ask. Just saying.”

“There's another way to look at this,” I put in. “Corey stole Billy's credit card and bought the voice changing machine with it. He's friends with the Wynand kid, so he decided to do him one better—adolescent copy-cat behavior. He made the call from Billy's because he was there all the time and he wasn't dumb enough to call from his own house.”

“Did you find the stolen credit card?” Jack asked.

“No.”

“Did you look for it?” I said.

“No, it didn't—I didn't think of that, sir.”

I turned to Jack. “I'm not sure the caretaker angle means much. Most people leave their houses unlocked around here.”

“That's not the point. These people know him. If they caught him inside their house he could make up a dozen reasons for being there. Are you defending this Delavane character, Kennis? If you have some connection to this individual that affects your judgment or your ability to act decisively, you are obliged to disclose that information.”

“Forget it. I'm happy to arrest Billy Delavane or anyone else. If I have any reason to believe they're guilty.”

“Well, congratulations, Chief. You have fulfilled the minimum basic requirement for any police officer in any jurisdiction. Even this one. I'm glad to see you set your standards so high.”

I almost said, “And I'm glad to see that you're capable of sarcasm. You're inching your way toward an actual sense of humor,” but I thought better of it. Like most people, Jack could laugh at something he knew in advance was a joke. He could laugh at other people's embarrassments—but never at himself. And nothing else counts, unfortunately.

“All right,” he said. “With the Lasharis looking clean and the Wynand boy informing on his friends, Delavane is the best lead we've got. I want someone senior watching the house for the next few nights. Donnelly—rendezvous with officer Ray at five, debrief him and set up your position.”