Straw Men (10 page)

“Meaning you're pumping Jim about what happened with Teresa, like he somehow needs to apologize for the fact that she came to him. He's been honest. He did the right thing. Now you give
us
something.”

“Let's get something straight,” the D.A. said. “We don't owe—”

“Fair enough,” Kiger interrupted. “Tell me what you wanna know, Miz Kennedy. I'll answer you if I can.”

Dagnolo's mouth hung open until he slowly winched it shut. But he recovered quickly. “I would remind you, Chief, that these investigations regarding the phone calls and the shooting incident are ongoing. We need to be very careful.”

Kiger offered a patient, condescending smile. “Well, I'll just be real careful then.” To Brenna: “Miz Kennedy?”

“I want to know if you're investigating DellaVecchio as a suspect in either the calls or the shooting.”

Kiger laced the fingers of his hands together. “We are,” he said.

Dagnolo shook his head in disgust. Kiger ignored him.

“If we didn't take a look at him, we'd be a few bricks shy of a load,” the police chief said.

“You have reason to suspect him, or you haven't ruled him out?”

The police chief squinted at Brenna. “We got some questions we want answered. Until we get those sorted out, it's wide open.”

“So you're not investigating DellaVecchio exclusively?”

“No.”

“But you're not actively investigating anyone else,” Brenna said.

“Didn't say that, ma'am.”

“Who then?”

“Nice try.” Kiger smiled, but there was no hostility in it. “We're tryin' to keep an open mind, is all. That's a promise.”

Christensen sensed Brenna's agitation level rising. “Why is he a suspect, though?” she challenged. “You've got no idea where those calls are coming from.”

She turned to Dagnolo, who was studying his perfectly manicured fingernails. “You're watching that bracelet like a hawk to make sure he's tucked in at night, and you've probably got someone watching him during the day. My guess is if Carmen was pulling any of this, you'd have him back inside already.”

She turned back to Kiger. “So why is he a suspect? What questions need to be answered? Maybe I can help.”

Kiger rubbed the end of his nose, watching her, evaluating the risk of talking more. “All right, here's why we got questions. Maybe a half dozen times since he's been out, your boy's got out of his daddy's house without anybody noticing. Early evening, usually. Manpower being what it is, we got somebody on the front door, but nobody on the back. He disappears off the radar scope for hours at a time. Next time we see him, he's walking in the front door right about curfew.”

“So what?” Brenna snapped. “He can come and go as he pleases between seven and eleven. You've read the judge's order. As long as he's back home by eleven, it's nobody's business.”

Kiger spread his hands. “No question. And we're allowed to keep an eye on him if we want. We're just kinda curious where he's going is all, why he feels like he needs to sneak off.”

He nodded to the bandage on Brenna's head. She seemed suddenly self-conscious.

“I'd think you'd wanna ask him about it too,” Kiger said. “Been pushing that curfew every time he's done it. Rolls in right about eleven, slick as spit. He's smarter'n he looks.”

Brenna reached over and took Christensen's hand. The obvious question was hers to ask, but would she?

“Was he out last night?” she said.

“Yes.”

“And no one knew where he was.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Christensen watched Kiger's eyes. The police chief seemed to understand the power of what he'd said, so he let the possibility settle like a weight.

“That's just pathetic,” Brenna said. “That's it? You can't find him, therefore he's a stalker? He must be out taking a shot at his own attorney? Gimme a break. The guy's been in jail for eight years. I'd go out, too.”

“If that was all we—”

“Tell me, Chief, where's DellaVecchio going to get a gun in this town without somebody ratting him out?” Brenna asked. “He's still got a record, so he couldn't buy legally. His picture's on TV every day. He's the
Scarecrow,
for God's sake. The real-life bogeyman!”

“That's not all—”

“Besides,” Brenna said, “those shots were fired about 10:30. How's he gonna get from Shadyside to Lawrenceville by eleven?”

“The 911 call came in at 10:22,” Dagnolo corrected. “Not 10:30.”

Kiger nodded. “Nine minutes from Shadyside to Lawrenceville that time of night if he makes the lights at Liberty and Penn. Eleven if he doesn't. We ran the route twice.”

“He doesn't even have a car!” Brenna said.

“That's true,” Kiger conceded.

“What then? The only way you'd be pushing this ridiculous idea—”

Brenna stopped herself as suddenly as if she'd been interrupted. Christensen sensed, too, that there was a card not yet played. Brenna studied the faces of Dagnolo and Kiger for clues, but Christensen knew she couldn't turn back.

“What else do you have?” she said. “Please don't play games.”

Kiger pointed out the living-room window. “Shots were fired from the roof of that empty building,” he said. “Crime lab folks guess it was a SIG-Sauer nine-millimeter, probably with some kinda sightin' scope.”

“That's a $3,500 handgun even without the sight,” Brenna said. “Where would Carmen get that kind of money?”

“Good question,” Kiger said.

Christensen sat forward. There had to be some other reason they were focusing on DellaVecchio.

“Whoever did it was up there quite a while, maybe a couple different times before last night,” Dagnolo said. “We found other evidence we need to check out. Some footprints, probably useless. No tread at all. Chewing gum. Main thing is he's a smoker. Camels. Unfiltered. The perch looked like an ashtray, maybe a half a dozen butts.”

“Your boy DellaVecchio smokes like a refinery fire,” Kiger added.

“Camels,” Dagnolo said. “Unfiltered.”

Christensen heard Brenna swallow, a harsh, dry sound. He watched her eyes, knowing how resilient she was in situations like this. He'd seen her recover from worse. “Him and a million teenagers,” she said. “Ask any high-school kid. Joe Camel rules.”

“Know any high-school kids who might take a shot at you?” Kiger asked.

“Besides, if they're Carmen's, how hard would it be to steal his ashtray and drop the butts in the right spot?”

Kiger smiled. “It's just something made us want some answers. So we're gonna take a look, have the lab run some tests, see if maybe our sniper left his DNA in the spit on those things.”

“Or on the wall,” Dagnolo added.

Christensen and Brenna turned at the same time. “The wall?” Brenna asked.

“The low wall around the roof,” Dagnolo said, gesturing through the living-room window. “We figure he was there at least once before he took those shots, maybe more than that, watching … whatever. The perch is directly across from your bedroom window, as you know.”

The D.A. looked suddenly uneasy. Brenna flushed. With her complexion, it was something she couldn't hide.
The miniblinds,
Christensen thought. The goddamn miniblinds.

“Looks like he liked what he saw, 'cause there's a stain,” Kiger said. “If it's semen, we might have something solid. So we got the lab on hurry-up. This works out, we'll know for sure one way or the other if your boy was up there.”

Brenna closed her eyes. “When?”

Kiger shrugged. “The lab folks push this to the front of the line, should only take a few days. We let 'em know the story. They know sooner's better'n later.”

“We'd obviously like answers before the hearing,” Dagnolo said. “I'm sure you understand. I might be willing to petition Reinhardt for a postponement if you're—”

“Worried?” Brenna said. “Not a chance.”

From the kitchen, the low, steady rumble of boiling water erased Dagnolo's smug smile. He looked around, apparently confused by the sound. Brenna seized the moment.

“Tell you what, J. D.,” she said. “If your evidence doesn't put DellaVecchio on that roof, if it's somebody else's DNA up there, I want a public statement from you clearing DellaVecchio of suspicion. And I want it before the hearing. You talk to Myron Levin pretty regularly. How about leaking something besides hysterical bullshit for a change? Agreed?”

The whistle rose in pitch. No one moved. How much of a gambler was Dagnolo?

“Agreed,” the district attorney said. “It's not his DNA, I've got no problem with that.” He winked at Kiger. “Now I've got a deal for you, Ms. Kennedy. Ready?”

Brenna nodded.

“If the genetic evidence we found up there puts DellaVecchio on that roof, you call it off, the whole thing,” Dagnolo said. “You withdraw your motion to overturn his conviction in the Harnett attack and we leave things just as they are, with DellaVecchio in jail to finish whatever is left on his sentence. I'm sure Judge Reinhardt would understand your change of heart, all things considered. Plus, I file a second charge of attempted murder.”

“Moot point,” Brenna said. “You place Carmen on that roof, you'll file no matter what. So why should I withdraw—”

“Just hold on,” Christensen said. “You're all forgetting somebody here: Teresa. She's the one who put all this in motion, but you're writing her completely out of the equation.”

The four of them sat frozen to their seats as the pressure in the kettle rose. The whistle lost its softness, building into a harsh squeal. Christensen jumped up just as Kiger said, “I got an idea.”

In the kitchen, Christensen twisted the stove dial and the squeal trailed off. He poured the hot water into the four mugs Brenna had left on the serving tray. He opened tea bags and dropped them into each mug, then filled a cream pitcher with milk. He pulled the bear-shaped squeeze bottle of honey from the cupboard and set it on the tray, then picked the whole thing up and headed back into the living room.

Everyone was watching him as he entered.

“What?” he said.

“The chief had an interesting idea,” Brenna said.

Kiger took his time. He squeezed so much honey into his cup that Christensen thought it might overflow, then stirred it like a man in no hurry to speak. The police chief set his spoon in the saucer with a delicate
clink!
and took a wary sip, his pinkie extended like a cotillion chaperone. “Thanks,” he said at last, then smiled at Christensen.

“What am I missing?” Christensen asked.

“Here's my idea,” Kiger said. “Miz Harnett came to you. That tells me two things: one, something's got her pretty rattled, and two, for some reason she trusts you. God knows there's little enough of that with this bunch. She wants to talk to you, that's fine. Fact is, sir, we need her to remember this thing right. Nobody wins if she's got doubts. Nobody.”

“No agenda?” Christensen asked. “Because I won't push her one way or the other.”

“No agenda,” Kiger replied. “We know you're plenty qualified to work with her, assuming you wanna do it.”

Dagnolo didn't flinch—a grudging concession. Christensen watched the D.A. carefully before he committed. “Work with her toward what end?” he said.

Kiger looked first at Dagnolo, then at Brenna. “Wherever it leads,” he said. “Miz Harnett started this ball rollin', let's see where she takes it. Let her work this out. We all stay out of it, 'less of course she comes up with something we need to know to bury this thing once and for all. She does that, then you and her tell us. All of us. Whatever it is. No secrets. We'll help you with your corroboratin' if we can.”

Christensen felt a hollowness in his stomach as he studied the three faces of this uneasy alliance. He could imagine any one of them pressuring him to reveal Teresa's confidences as she struggled to rebuild her most traumatic memories. Especially Brenna.

“Let's clarify one thing,” he said. “I don't want any misunderstandings. Nobody here is going to put me in the position of betraying her trust, is that right?”

“You got my word,” Kiger said. “We all agreed on that?”

“Fine,” Dagnolo said.

Brenna nodded.

“Nobody here wants to be in this spot, but here we are,” Kiger said. “So let's make this work.”

Christensen looked at each one in turn, reassured by their nodding assent. His resistance evaporated.

“I have a counseling office in Oakland.” He heard the uncertainty in his voice, and was sure the others heard it, too. “Have her call me there tomorrow.”

“I'll do that,” Kiger said.

Brenna squeezed his hand. “Baby, we're on your turf now.”

“I'm starving.”

He turned toward his desk, where his secretary's voice pleaded from the phone's speaker. His watch read 12:18, nearly twenty minutes after Dagnolo had told him to expect Teresa Harnett. He picked up the handset.

“Thought you were gone to lunch already, Lynn. Sorry.”

“I wasn't sure how to read the schedule for today. What's with the big X through the next two hours? Somebody coming in or what? There's no name, just the X.”

“Didn't mean to confuse things. I do have someone coming in, but not a regular client. Don't wait. Please. Take a couple hours if you want. Just set the machine to pick up before you go.”

“Lunch until two-thirty? Really?”

“For today, anyway.”

“What's the catch?”

“Just bring me back a salad or something. Oil and vinegar. And a Perrier. I can get that down before…”

“Colleen Donegan at three.”

“Plenty of time. That's it.”

“You know, you keep eating like that, you're gonna die. How about a foot-long from Dirty O's?”

He thought about it—the crisp snap of the first all-beef bite, the pungent brown mustard, the sweet onions. If running five miles every other day had an upside, it was moments like this. “You little temptress. Go with an O's, mustard and onions. And a Coke. Got any Altoids out there?”

“Fresh box. All you want. You can give me the money when I get back.”

Christensen stepped back to the window and watched as the white blob of Lynn's overstuffed ski jacket moved out the building's front entrance. She'd pulled her white knit cap low over her ears, and from where Christensen stood she looked like the Michelin Man. At the opposite end of the parking lot, a high-end black sport-utility splashed into a spot against the far wall. Christensen could see the distinctive three-pointed Mercedes-Benz star on the front grille.

The Mercedes's driver opened the door as Lynn passed, and Christensen was surprised to see Teresa Harnett step out in a long, elegant dark-wool coat. He'd pegged her as a Ford Taurus, maybe some midline Mercury. Lynn seemed surprised, too, to find herself face-to-face with the city's most recognizable crime victim. His secretary raised her hand in greeting, then seemed to reconsider. She hurried off without a follow-through.

Christensen heard the
chirp!
of an alarm as Teresa locked the car with her remote key. Two minutes later, the elevator door slid open. Christensen met her in the hall, and she offered him a wary smile. He extended his hand, and she took it in her strong grip.

“The stairs are a little quicker,” he said. “Trees go up faster than this thing.”

She stepped forward with her uneven gait. “Elevator's easier for me.”

“Of course,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. About that, anyway.”

He hung her jacket on the coat rack, then followed her through the waiting area and into his office. The first time, they'd talked in his utilitarian university office five blocks away. It was like hearing confession at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Now that she was here, he wondered how Teresa might react to a space he'd designed specifically to dilute tension and encourage trust. With some difficulty, she eased into the wing chair at the center of the office's sitting area and studied the room—the ficus tree near the window, the inflatable Wham-It stress-relief toy on the coffee table, the gentle pastel walls, the impressionistic landscape lithographs.

“Design by Prozac,” she said.

Christensen laughed. “We'll be a little more comfortable than last time, anyway.”

“If we can stay awake.”

This was a formidable woman, probably with some psychological training of her own. She'd initiated this, but he still expected her to be skeptical about working with a psychologist. It was a cop thing. Christensen had counseled a few of them, mostly in the aftermath of officer-involved shootings. Teresa probably would rather have her teeth drilled without Novocain than talk to him about the things that scared her most. To do that was to lose control. To a cop, control was everything. And yet, here she was. This was her choice. There was a storm raging behind those uneven eyes, Christensen knew, and Teresa wouldn't be here if there were any way she could ride it out alone. Something had her scared.

“We can go somewhere else. Your call,” Christensen said, ceding control where he could. “Wherever you'd like.”

“Fiji's nice.”

Christensen assessed her answer, then clapped his hands together. “Fiji it is, then!” He followed an idea across the room to the stereo cabinet and ran his finger along a shelf of compact discs. “Check this out,” he said, pulling one. “
Ocean Moods.
”

He slid the CD into the machine, hit the Play button, and began to read from the liner notes. “ ‘Experience the wonderful stereo effects of long, rolling waves breaking on great stretches of sandy beach. Sixty minutes of pleasurable listening to the dynamic sounds of the sea.' ” The low rumble of a breaking wave began in the speakers on the left side of the office, then rolled across the room to the speakers on the right.

Teresa laughed, and her facial features seemed to fall out of order. Rebuilding them into a natural expression took conscious effort and an uncomfortably long time, or so it seemed to Christensen.

“That what you're looking for?” he asked.

She smiled, a more cautious reaction. “Fiji would be better.”

Christensen grabbed two bottles of Avalon water from the small refrigerator and set them on the coffee table between them, then sat in the chair across from her. He folded his hands in his lap. “Tell me why.”

Teresa's face turned serious. Or was she pretending to look serious?

“OK, you got me,” she said. “I hate my father. Wow, you're fast.”

Christensen twisted the cap from his bottle. She leaned forward and did the same, struggling a bit, taking a delicate sip when the cap was finally loose. Swallowing for her seemed a deliberate process.

“Let's try this, then,” Christensen said. “Tell me what changed your mind about going to Dagnolo.”

She ran a finger around the bottle's plastic rim, avoiding his eyes. “What we talked about before, the doubts … I've tried everything I can to sort this out on my own. I can't. And I couldn't get back up on that stand next week and tell the same story when I know … when I'm not sure. I had no choice but to tell him and Kiger what was going on. Plus, the calls, then the shooting…”

“And here you are,” Christensen said. “Dagnolo's more reasonable than I gave him credit for.”

“Oh no, he went berserk,” she added. “You should understand that. But he knew at that point his case was already in the toilet. He still wants me to testify, but cooperating with you was his only chance, his only choice. Or at least the only choice I gave him.”

Teresa smoothed her dark hair down over her lower jaw, obscuring the subtle scars there. “I'll tell you this much right now. If David finds out I'm talking to you, he's gonna shit major bricks.”

“Your husband?” Christensen conjured an image of bulk muscle. “He doesn't know about this?”

“Chief Kiger asked me not to tell him, to keep a tight lid on the whole thing. I told David I was going to my sister's in Clairton this afternoon. Had to get her to cover for me. It feels a little weird, to tell the truth.”

Too weird,
Christensen thought. “Any idea why? I mean, we're here with everybody's consent. There's nothing to hide. I'd think the chief would want him on board, as supportive as he's been all these years.”

Teresa nodded. Christensen thought he saw a tear pooling in the corner of her right eye, but she blinked and it was gone. “He's been right there with me, you know, since the beginning. Even when I didn't know who I was, who he was. He was just some total stranger hanging around the ICU when I came to. For weeks, months. Holding my hand. Talking to me. Always there, talking me back.”

Christensen nodded his encouragement, but said nothing. She was leading now.

“Not that I could talk to him with the feeding tube. Couldn't even move well enough to scribble notes to anybody. But he was there. All the time. So yeah, it feels a little strange going behind his back.”

“Would it be all right with you if I talked to Kiger about this?” Christensen asked. “I'm not sure I see his logic either, and it makes me a little uncomfortable.”

“Would you?”

“I'll call this afternoon,” he said. “I'd like to clear it up before we meet again. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Christensen sipped his water. “Can I ask you about those first few weeks and months after the attack? What you said about not recognizing your husband. I remember that from your testimony, about how hard you worked on some long-term memory problems. Can you tell me more about those, specifically? You didn't recognize him. What else was affected?”

“Some things I remembered fine,” she said. “Like my senior prom in 1983. I could tell you every stitch on the dress I wore, the shade of blue of my date's ruffled tux. But my wedding to David eleven years ago? Zilch. I remembered my first car, but not the one I drove the day before this happened. First Holy Communion? Got it. But I didn't remember squat about the police academy. It's like my past was written on a chalkboard, and somebody took an eraser and went over whole big chunks of it. There was no pattern to it, from what we could tell.”

“But you eventually remembered some of those things, right?”

“Quite a few. David calls it a million-piece jigsaw puzzle with about half the pieces missing, and it's true. No matter how much I put together, the picture won't ever be finished.”

“You remembered David is your husband. You eventually remembered you attended the police academy, right? And skills. You remembered how to drive, things like that.”

She nodded. “Lot of that's because of David. He got me back to where I am now.”

“How?”

“With his goddamn photo albums,” she said, smiling. “With those goofy newspaper clippings about me in high school that I'd saved. Wedding pictures. All that. Sometimes all it took was a picture, and everything would come rushing back. Other times it might be something he said, or even the way he said it. A whole memory would just blip back on, like somebody turned on a TV. Other times I just had to listen. And trust. The man knew me better than myself at that point. I had no choice.”

“Of course not.”

“He really came through, you know, considering.”

Christensen checked his impulse to follow up. That final word was a signal. She was opening a door, but he wasn't about to push her through it. She'd go when she was ready. The silence weighed on them both, but Christensen just nodded.

“We were splitting,” she said.

“When?”

“When it happened. He'd already moved out, him and Buster, a couple weeks before. That's why the dog wasn't there that night, why there was no warning. I was the only one home.”

Christensen remembered their separation as an inconsequential part of Teresa's testimony during the DellaVecchio trial. David Harnett had a rock-solid alibi for the night Teresa was attacked: He was with his friend, Brian Milsevic, who ultimately headed the investigation. Christensen waited. Was she done?

“What changed?” he asked, giving her another opening.

“He did.”

“That happens sometimes. Not very often, though.”

“I know that.”

“Any idea why?”

“Guilt.”

Teresa winked and smiled. The gesture startled Christensen, and he found it refreshing.

“He'd been acting like a shit. That I remember. Drinking. Other women. He's older, you know. Seventeen years' difference is a lot.”

“So you just got to the point where you'd had enough?”

She nodded. “It was … there was just a lot of pressure at the time. Outside pressure along with everything else going on. We'd decided to split, at least for a while. It was only getting worse the longer we fought it. So it was mutual.”

“And that was how long before the attack?”

“Few weeks. Then this happened, and suddenly he's married to Supervictim. I'm half-dead in the ICU. People clamoring for an arrest. Every reporter in town trying to canonize me; you know how they are.”

“Black and white,” Christensen said. “Victims are always one-dimensional.”

“I've read the stories they wrote right after it happened. Made me sound like the Virgin Mary. Which I wasn't.”

“No?”

“I was angry. I wanted to hurt him, and…” Teresa checked herself. “Don't ask.”

“You don't trust me
that
much.”

“Not a chance. You were young and stupid once too, right?”

“I'll pass on that. So, then what?”

“What was the poor guy supposed to do? He could either do the right thing, or be a heartless fuck in front of the world. ‘That's the guy who walked out on Supervictim when she needed him most.' Who'd want that rap?”

Time to take a chance. “Do you think his concern and dedication to you since then is sincere?” Christensen asked.

She nodded without hesitation. “The only people who rode this out with me were the people who cared. Christ, I lost track of all the friends who stopped coming around. Family, too. Some people maybe came once or twice, early on, but months dragged into years. People found excuses to avoid us. Nobody likes to watch suffering, Jim.” She paused. “You mind if I call you that?”

“Jim's fine.”

“David suffered with me. I know that. You asked why he came back. What I'm telling you is that good old-fashioned guilt brought him back, plain and simple. He felt guilty as hell for not being there, for treating me the way he did.”

“He's told you this?”