Regrets Only (19 page)

She looked again at what she assumed was Morgan’s handwriting, then flipped open her cell phone and dialed Gail Ripley.

“Hello? This is Gail.” The woman who answered had a perky voice.

“Yes,” Lucy said, suddenly wondering how someone interested in a $3.9 million residence was supposed to sound. Her experience in high-end real estate came from glancing at advertisements in the back of glossy magazines; she’d never even looked at a condominium as a potential purchaser. “I’m interested in one of your properties. I understand you’re the listing agent.”

“Which one is that?”

“In Gladwyne. A rather spacious stone house, or at least it appears that way from the brochure. And that’s what I want.”

“Oh yes.” The woman sighed. “Greaves Lane, just off Conshohocken. It is a beautiful estate. But I’m sorry to say it’s already under contract. I do have several comparable properties. Perhaps something else might interest you.”

Lucy was startled. There couldn’t be that many houses on such a short street. Was it coincidence? “When was it sold?”

There was a pause. “I’m really not at liberty to disclose. But as I said—”

“I’m not interested in something else,” Lucy interrupted.

“I can take your name and number and get back to you if something changes.”

“Yes. All right. That would be
lovely
.” She gave her cell phone number.

“And your name again?”

She hesitated a moment before responding. “Lucille,” she said. “Lucille Haverill.” Somehow, for this one, “Detective O’Malley” didn’t sound quite right.

11:43 a.m
.

Gun control in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania was lax to say the least. Nobody needed a license or permit to purchase a handgun. Registration occurred only on subsequent transfers. Criminal background checks were done through the NICS—the National Instant Criminal Background Check System—a system that, because of its speed, often missed information. And, basically, police chiefs and local sheriffs could issue permits to carry concealed weapons to anyone. There was no safety training or other requirement of familiarity with safe storage or handling practices. Lucy had often wondered whether it would have affected her decision to go into law enforcement if she’d known beforehand how easy it was for the average or—a much scarier scenario—the unusual man on the street to get and carry a firearm.

Why spend so much money on a great police force ostensibly to keep citizens safe if virtually anyone had access to something that could inflict serious bodily harm or death in an instant? Statistically, many more people were killed with their own weapons—mishandlings, accidental shootings—than effectively defended themselves or others by brandishing their own weapon. She’d even seen a personal handgun used against its owner. Although she’d never pretend to understand either politicians or lobbyists, or to begin to fathom the power of the National Rifle Association, it was frustrating nonetheless. At least with the 1993 passage of the Brady bill, those with psychiatric histories were now denied permits to carry. Or at least they were supposed to be.

Now she was relying on this requirement to get access to Calvin Roth.

She quickened her pace toward the offices of the Inspector Headquarters Division, the department that kept all registration and concealed carry permit records. It was already close to noon and she didn’t want to find the file room closed, its clerks on lunch break.

“Hey Beth,” she greeted the Head Clerk as she stepped inside.

Elizabeth Brogan had to be approaching seventy, but somehow she’d managed to avoid mandatory retirement. Lucy guessed that the various agencies overseeing her employment simply looked the other way. She had an almost photographic memory, the fastest filing fingers Lucy had ever seen, endless patience for even the dumbest of questions, and a smile that quite literally lit up the dingy, overcrowded space. Apparently she was the Gertrude Barbadash of gun permits. A successor would be virtually impossible to find.

“What brings you here today?” Beth asked. When she spoke, her mouth formed an O shape.

“I need whatever you can give me on Calvin Roth,” she replied, reading his date of birth off the copy of the court documents.

Beth placed the spectacles around her neck onto her nose and then typed information into her computer. “Let’s see what we can find.” Lucy couldn’t see the monitor, but she watched the changing expressions on Beth’s face; curiosity became concern when something apparently unexpected came up on the screen. “I should get the file,” she said without providing any details. “I’ll be right back.”

As she punched in a code and disappeared through the locked door that led to the storage room, Lucy propped herself up on the counter, leaned over, and glanced at the screen. The angle at which she was standing obscured some of her view and made the light blue letters difficult to decipher. She flipped her legs over and jumped down on the other side.

Once she was standing in Beth’s place, the information was crystal clear. Four registrations: a .22, a .35, and two .38s. The man had a small arsenal. And one CCP. Calvin Roth had a concealed carry permit for a .35 caliber, the same type of gun that killed Morgan.

Lucy jumped back over the counter and began to scribble an outline of information she could use to support a showing of probable cause. With any luck, she could have a draft of an affidavit in support of a warrant on the Assistant District Attorney’s desk by the end of the day. She was still writing when Beth returned with a thick manila folder in her hand.

“This should give you what you need,” Beth said, as she laid the file on the counter and opened it. Some of the pages were torn at the edges. One sheet of pink paper was folded over. Beth opened it. “I won’t bother to repeat what you have already discovered,” she said with a smile. “Yes, I did see you jump over our well-established barrier, so you know Mr. Roth is a gun owner. I suspect you were also clever enough to discern he has a permit to carry his thirty-five caliber.”

Lucy nodded.

“Don’t worry, I won’t report you. This time . . .” she said, shaking a finger at her.

“Thanks.”

She adjusted her spectacles again and read from another sheet of paper. “What I suspect you weren’t able to glean from my screen was that this CCP application was originally denied. Mr. Roth apparently has a psychiatric history. But he appealed. They often do. Nobody likes to take no for an answer, especially in this arena. If I hear one more person go on about his constitutional right to bear arms, even I may throw up my hands and leave this dear job to someone else.”

“So what happened on appeal?”

“His treating psychiatrist submitted a certification of mental stability—basically a report that he was of sound mind and judgment. According to the file, based on that submission, he was subsequently granted the permit. That was just about a year ago.”

“Only a year? Who gave him the certification?”

She flipped through several pages, ran her index finger along one line, and then said, “A psychiatrist named Morgan Reese.” Her expression softened with recognition. “Isn’t that the poor woman who was found over at Faimount Links? Dear God, it never ends,” she said, shaking her head as she turned the file so that Lucy could read for herself.

July 29th—just five months before Dr. Reese filed her own application for a restraining order because she felt threatened, because her patient was out of control.
Based on my experience as his treating psychiatrist, it is my opinion that he is mentally fit and emotionally stable enough to obtain a permit to carry a handgun.
Despite Lucy’s disbelief, the words couldn’t have been clearer.

How could this have happened? What did it even mean to be “stable enough”? It shouldn’t be a question of relative degree. And how could the same person vouch for the sanity of someone she thought might kill her? More important, Roth’s permit should have been revoked the moment Morgan appeared in court seeking protection. Another case falling through the bureaucratic cracks. More than ever, she felt as if being a homicide detective made her part of an enormous government clean-up crew, one assembled to deal with the mess left behind when other agencies didn’t coordinate information. Or follow through on it.

“May I make a copy of that report?” she asked.

“Most certainly,” Beth replied, pointing in the direction of a copying machine in the corner. “It may take a moment to warm up.”

Lucy laid the single sheet of paper facedown on the glass top, inserted a dime, and listened to the outdated machine hum for several moments before a light crossed once over the document and snapped back to its original position. A second later, a warm piece of paper came out from the side. “Thanks,” she said, returning the original.

“We aim to please, dear,” Beth said. “Good luck.”

14

6:02 p.m
.

L
ucy wandered along Belmont Avenue before turning east to the Schuylkill River. She loved this winding tributary that emptied into the Delaware. It seemed friendly, manageable; it was narrow enough to see what was happening on the opposite esplanade, so it offered a diversity of views. Early-evening joggers passed her and she watched them, wishing she could share in their carefree spirit, could go for a long run and enjoy the flow of the river’s current, could forget events of the last two days. But instead, everything she learned increased her uneasiness.

Her affidavit in support of the search warrant was complete. Assistant District Attorney Nick Santoros would review it. Provided there was no problem with the establishment of probable cause, they could get a magistrate’s signature and be authorized to go by early afternoon tomorrow. Now all she could do was wait. The law required patience. Plus she’d promised Jack.

Out on the river, several shells moved swiftly along the water’s surface, and she paused to watch the unity of the oar strokes and to hear the call of the coxswain. She thought of Archer, his strong shoulders and his muscular thighs. He had the body of an athlete and could easily have rowed crew but sports held no interest to him. Or at least that’s what he’d said on several occasions. Whether that was the truth, though, she now wondered.

Time had blurred since Saturday night and her dinner at the Haverill estate. With Morgan’s murder, she hadn’t taken a moment to process what she’d discovered that affected her personally—that Archer had hidden his heritage from her. She hated the nagging feeling of doubt that swelled inside her, a feeling she’d repressed by fixating on her investigation and the trauma he was experiencing. Before pulling into his elegant drive she’d had no reason to doubt the genuineness of a single thing he’d told her, but the pure and simple fact was that his omissions called everything into question. She wanted a person to be what he appeared. Life was too short, too precious for charades.

Questions to which she had no answers raced through her mind. Was it such a big deal that he was from an old-money family? Was their relationship any different simply because she’d learned he was rich? Was she suspicious of him or, if she were really honest, did she now doubt her own motives?
Had
she been overly impressed?

She envisioned Paul Doherty driving his Porsche onto the McGrath Highway. She’d stood in the parking lot of Dunkin’ Donuts and watched him disappear up the ramp. Before that afternoon in early July, Paul had been her boyfriend for nearly three years, since tenth grade. His father had been the coach of the Somerville High School football team. During the winter of their senior year, Mr. Doherty had been offered a job as head coach for Boston College. With his father’s appointment, Paul could attend that institution on full scholarship, so Mr. Doherty gave his son the money he’d carefully put away over the years. “It was saved for his education and now I’m able to give him a better education than I could ever have paid for,” he explained. Shortly before high school graduation, Paul spent the substantial sum on a royal blue sports car. He hadn’t owned the vehicle for a month before he broke up with Lucy, just after he’d taken her for a ride and consumed a small box of Munchkins. “I just can’t be tied down now. There’s tremendous opportunity,” he’d said, patting the steering wheel as if the leather interior would propel him into a life and world he’d always wanted. She’d managed to climb out of the bucket seat without saying a word and had watched him drive away, the tires screeching as he took a sharp right. Paul wanted the trappings of wealth and his father had been able to make that dream come true. Last she’d heard, he’d parlayed his $60,000 car into an engagement with a North Shore girl, apparently one easily impressed by four expensive tires and a piece of metal assembled abroad.

But it had never been something she craved.

Lucy wanted to discuss the reasons behind Archer’s omissions—his deception—but there had been no opportunity. He hadn’t been home when she returned from the Rabbit Club yesterday. That he’d gone to work seemed hard to imagine, but the last time she’d checked before falling asleep, the clock read 2:47. Then she’d left for Dr. Reese’s office without so much as a perfunctory “Good morning.” The only voice she’d heard before she departed belonged to the television newscaster reporting a traffic problem on Interstate 95.

Now she crossed the river and headed in the direction of Rittenhouse Square. Before she knew it, her ambling had led her to the front door of The Arch. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.

The place was virtually empty. A lone patron sat at a table by the door with a newspaper and a beer. From his tousled hair, unshaven face, and dirty fingernails it was difficult to tell whether he was starting his bar activity early or whether he’d simply hung on from the night before. The smell of spilled liquor and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. A collection of empty bottles and glasses covered one end of the long bar. A poster announced the night’s reading event. Haiku. She’d pass.

Scanning the walls, she was surprised by the black-and-white photographs of downtown Philadelphia. Although the lighting and shadows created a noir effect, the subject matter was conventional: the bas relief panels depicting the zodiac signs above the ground-floor windows of the former Drexel and Company Building, the white steeple of the Old Swede’s Church, the mansard roof of the Union League. She’d grown accustomed to Archer’s eclectic taste and wouldn’t have expected this work to appeal.