Simple (31 page)

“Let's quick start with the new cases,” he said.

Two of his oldest detectives, Hrznak and Nellins, reported on the attempted homicide. They had a white male in Allegheny General, near death, of a series of gunshot wounds. The man claimed he didn't know who shot him or why. He had been watching the Steelers game in a bar on Saturday night; on the way home he was shot. That case was already taking some intense looking at neighbors, friends, bar patrons, and a history of the victim. Hrznak and Nellins had started it, but because they were working on a Sunday, finding people was slow. Also, those two detectives were slow. Christie wrote on the board,
Kolkowski
, who was the victim, and he put eight men on the case, including several of the best young detectives because the primaries needed the boost.

It was his great luck that the clearer homicide case had fallen to Coleson and McGranahan. It would keep them busy. The crime was committed (apparently) a full twenty-four hours after the game, but still connected. A guy had stabbed his brother twelve times. Both men were in their twenties. An uncle called it in, though all the talk in and around the incident was confusing and not consistent. The perp had been bingeing on drink and Ecstasy. But so had the victim. And it was probably the uncle who was the seller of the drugs.

People needed a high from something. Sports ecstasy was one way (Marina told him it was universal, a need for communion, an attempt at a world soul, and he supposed she was right). Sometimes it was just face paint and innocent revelry. At other times that great feeling of brotherhood led straight to violence and insanity.

Christie put six people on that case.

“Catch you up on Cassie Price,” he told his squad then. “Dolan has traced the phone that made some calls to her, but it was registered in her name. Go ahead,” he said to Dolan.

“She had a second phone. Prepaid. Sprint. Cash payment. That's all we have except it was registered to her. She gave it to somebody to call her. We don't know who. Could have been her sister.”

“Not her sister,” somebody barked. It was Hrznak.

“Well, we're looking into it,” Dolan said mildly.

“Also,” said Christie, “she got a call from a pay phone in East Liberty the night of the homicide. We're looking into that, too. It was a short call. Could have been a wrong number.”

“Maybe she was—”

“She was not turning tricks,” Christie said, and the room went silent.

Coleson and McGranahan, now clearly off the case, looked at the toes of their shoes.

Having brushed by the phone evidence, and sidestepped the Connolly connection, Christie said, “Plus. More evidence. Our friends at Forensics have done the impossible. They have come up with—way ahead of the schedule—a bit of the science. Here are some surprises. One: There is no plaster dust in Cal Hathaway's car. Two: There was powder inside the work gloves. The powder was the sort that is used on those plastic gloves. Latex gloves. The kind you buy in multiples in a box or a bag. It seems the person who killed Cassie Price wore
both
plastic gloves and the work gloves. That fact suggests a certain amount of premeditation.” He paused.

He waited for somebody to say, “If not framing.”

“That points away from Hathaway, you mean?” Hrznak blurted, trying to get right with his commander.

“Yes. It looks like. So far there is no evidence that Cal Hathaway ever had or used plastic gloves. Or polypropylene, if you recall.” He paced, studying them. “Add that to the funny position of the lock shavings. Add that to the lack of footprints—again this might mean premeditation. And of course the wrong-handed strangling.” Dolan gave him a subtle thumbs-up. “Add one more thing. Our friends at the lab did push for some DNA evidence. This is interesting. There was nothing much on the floor or on Cassie Price's clothes. The perp was covered up—we think. There was nothing to examine. Again—premeditation in the lack of trace evidence.”

“I love this case,” Dolan said. “Just a side note.”

“Yes, it has its puzzles. The lab hasn't worked on the clothes in her closet yet. That's a big job. The only other thing they could test quickly for us was the spot of blood that turned out to be a dead insect. If you're still counting, here's number three: Mosquito, you remember? They expected to find either Hathaway's or Price's DNA on that blood sample, though—this is important—the prison doctor never did find a clear bite on Hathaway, and the medical examiner says Price did not sustain a bite. Here's the thing. The DNA is somebody else's. Nobody we know so far. That's it. So I consider this case still under investigation. I don't see a clear conclusion yet. How we're going to trace some of this other stuff I'll let you all know as I figure it out. Those of you on the new homicides can go and get started.”

That left him with his team of six, handpicked: himself, Dolan, Potocki, Greer, Denman, and Hurwitz. When the room had cleared, he said to his select few, “We're going to have a mini squad meeting. I have some sensitive material. We have to keep gathering information. I've called the DA to tell him the way this looks. I might recommend we don't charge Cal Hathaway tomorrow.”

“He's listening?” Dolan asked.

“He was skeptical, but he listened. Let's see what we can learn today.”

Denman and Hurwitz both turned to look at the door, presumably to see if anyone lingered. They both looked swelled with pride to be among the select.

“The confidential material I am about to tell you—if it leaks at this point … Let's just say it would ruin the career of anyone who leaked it.” Having made everyone terribly nervous, he continued. “It's likely Senator Connolly—I don't know why I keep calling him senator—”

“Try governor,” Dolan wisecracked.

“Yeah. The problem in a nutshell. It seems likely he was having an affair with the deceased. He had a lot to lose. I need some surveillance on him. Nothing obvious. I also need surveillance on his handler, Todd Simon, who is the guy we think put the margaritas in Cassie Price's system. I need Potocki on computer”—he saw Potocki grimace—“to check the history of both men in terms of any sexual harassment claims that maybe went away with a little money. I need Greer to go solo with Todd Simon to face him with the evidence of the date he had with Price. I'd go in with her, but my gut tells me he will talk better to her alone. He might assume she's a pushover for his charms.”

“Thanks,” she quipped.

“We know better. He doesn't. Besides, you liked him.”

“I found him
interesting
.”

“That's magic in my book. Pin him down about the cocktails. Also see if you can break him down on his alibi—I hate this home in bed all night stuff, though unfortunately it could be true.” He paused. “Depending on what he says, I'm back to Connolly to get specific about the phones.”

Hurwitz and Denman looked restless.

“You two,” Christie said, “need to tag Connolly, get his patterns of movement down. Dolan is going to Haigh to check on Connolly's alibi. I'll shadow Greer while she talks to Simon. When Potocki is finished with all he can find by computer, he can take over the shadowing and he and Greer can tag Simon for the rest of the day. It could be terribly boring. Gear up for that. Saturday I put in the paperwork to get the locations of the phone calls. I'm betting they were made from the road, most of them, in proximity to the motels, but I sure would like to have the paper evidence. Might have it late tomorrow. Cal Hathaway's hearing is tomorrow at ten thirty. I could request an extension, but we might be ready.”

They stared at him. They were asking in silence, “You're going to get him off?”

His motive wasn't totally pure. If Cal Hathaway was released from custody, one way or another, that news would shake things up. Somebody would get nervous.

*   *   *

COLLEEN, SITTING IN
her office cubicle, took a deep breath before she pressed in the numbers for Todd Simon. She was so prepared for a runaround, for voice mail, that she was taken aback when he answered. She identified herself, saying, “We talked in the conference room.”

“I'm not likely to forget.”

“Names. People forget names.”

“I don't. I'm in the business of names.”

“Right. All right. Well, we'd like to talk to you again. We have a few questions.”

“Ask them.”

“Not over the phone. Do you want to come to police headquarters? Or do you want me to come up to the Connolly firm?”

“Actually I wasn't going in today. I was—oh, you don't want to hear my day.”

“Sure I do. More travel?”

“Yes. More travel.”

“Well, what works? I'll get to where you need me to be. Where do you live?”

“Regent Square, but in a few minutes, I have to be in Shadyside.”

“A restaurant there?”

“How about a coffee shop?”

“Done.” They chose the small one on Ivy. If it was crowded she'd insist on moving to another or sitting in her car. She told Christie, and he promised to be close by. They tested her speed dial—he was number nine. It rang in five seconds. He could get to her in twenty-five seconds or so. Neither one of them thought Simon was the sort to do anything wild in a coffee shop, but still, they had to be ready.

Simon was standing outside, smoking, when she arrived. “I can't go long without smoke,” he warned.

“I used to love the stuff. You should quit.”

“I suppose so. I'm romantic about it—the old movies with pols smoking all the time. It's dumb, believe me, I know.”

He dropped his half-smoked cig and ground it out. They went inside.

Simon insisted on buying her coffee.

“This will look like bribery. We're not supposed to accept it.”

“But when a guy can't help it—”

“I know.”

“I was brought up to pick up the tab. I can't get my mind around going dutch.”

The shop was very small. There were two people on laptops at small tables. There was only one table left and some comfortable-looking sofas. She forced herself to choose the table. She saw her choice register briefly on Simon's face, but he was smiling when he returned with the coffees.

“Love this stuff,” he said.

“And cigarettes.”

“And booze, too. I'm a cliché.”

She sat up straighter and assumed a formal manner. Her assignment was tricky. She'd got it because she was a good flirt, but she had to balance the flirting with a harder police manner. “Thank you for taking this time,” she said. “I'm going to speak quietly just because of where we are. I have two specific main questions for you and probably some follow-up questions.”

She studied him again—not bad looking. Not bad looking. And there was still, even under the evident worry he let her see, an irrepressible something, a need to have fun and the rest be damned. He punched one hand into the other. “Okay.”

“First. Witnesses put you in Casbah with Cassie Price on the Thursday of the night she was murdered.”

“My God,” he groaned. He made a pained face, which she somehow didn't believe. “Long arm of the law.”

“Tell me about it: the whys and wherefores and why you didn't mention it before.”

“I'm embarrassed. I came close to mentioning it, but I didn't because I'm getting up there in age and she was a young thing and I was trying my luck with her.”

“Did you have the impression she was interested in you?”

“I thought so. She said she had this sort of going-nowhere thing with this guy who wasn't her type and she didn't know how she had gotten herself entangled with him. She pitied him in some way. She was thinking to break it off. I told her I would be in the wings, waiting. She didn't fight me off.”

“Waitresses thought you were comforting her.”

“Well, I was. She was a mooshy drinker. Two sips and she was telling me confidences.”

“Who was this guy?”

“She didn't say.”

“You're sure she didn't say?”

“I'm sure.”

“Had you seen her before?”

“No. Not outside the office setting.”

“I see. And you went home with her after the drinks?”

“No, I didn't. I followed her to make sure she got home safely. I thought to let her have her own time. Besides, there was a guy on her back porch when she went into the house. I didn't want to get into anything crude.”

“Was the guy the boyfriend?”

“I don't know. I just don't know. It sounded like that on the news. It fit what she told me.”

“What?”

“Just the two different worlds.”

Colleen felt the ground shift. He was very persuasive.

“Okay. Question number two. Your alibi.” She had to lie to ask this one. “My colleagues asked around. Apparently, one of your neighbors said you didn't come home that night.” There had been no neighbor's report, but she saw him blanch. “You told us you were home in your bed.”

“Oh. This is really embarrassing.” He closed his eyes. “It's going to make you dislike me a lot.”

“Because?”

“I wasn't at home. I was with a woman I see. She lives up in Centre County. She works for the party. She's superprivate … maybe even, to be honest, old-fashioned; she gets nervous when I stay the night. I don't know who she worries will think less of her. Anyway, I didn't see any need to bring her into it.”

“Her name.”

“Rita. Rita Sandler.”

“Jot me down her information.” She handed over her notebook and pen. “Believe me, I don't like prying into personal lives any more than you like talking about it. But you have to tell the truth in these situations. Discrepancies call up a big red flag.”

“I see that.” He took his coffee cup and hers to the counter and turned back. “Want more?”