The Company She Kept (33 page)

Sam had gotten close enough by now to reach out and take the shovel. “Can I help? I'm pretty handy with one of these.”

Looking up from her crooked stance, Regina flashed her a broad smile. “Well, I'm not going to say no. Generosity and good manners are a rare thing nowadays, and I won't turn either one of them down. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Young people these days seem to have much more on their minds than we did when I was their age. Back then, we were more concerned about society and parties and who was who on the social register. When I think back, I'm staggered by how much energy we wasted on snobbery and prejudice.”

Through this and much, much more, Sammie merely applied her shoveling skills to the walkway, working her way slowly toward the street, Regina dogging her heels and talking nonstop. Given the inner dialog Sam had been suffering during the ninety-minute drive here, she was in fact relieved to coast along on the hard work and endless patter, finding both refreshingly therapeutic. By the time she'd heaved the last load of snow onto the buried lawn, she was feeling pretty much like her old self: employed, engaged, and forwardly mobile, her nagging self-doubts strung out behind her like cans trailing a newlywed couple's escape car.

Thoroughly warmed by her exercise, she leaned on the shovel and smiled down at the old lady, interrupting her in mid-sentence. “Ms. Rockefeller, I'm from the police. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

Rockefeller laughed outright and seized the shovel to bring it back to the porch. “Good luck with that, young woman, I'm well known for not letting most people get a word in edgewise. I can't understand that myself, since my mother used to say I was a good listener. As you can imagine, a compliment like that wouldn't have been given to a blabbermouth. I personally can't bear people who won't shut up. That was one reason I so enjoyed having Susan as a renter. She was as quiet as a mouse.”

And on it went, Rockefeller in the lead, bent over and shuffling in a pair of basketball sneakers, using the shovel as a cane, and Sammie behind her, taking in the bright blue sky and radiant if ineffectual sunshine, listening with the not-quite total inattention of a long-suffering sitcom spouse.

Once inside, Sam began to overtalk Regina as she struggled to remove a few of the odds and ends she'd been wearing. Sam's earlier hope that she might have better luck conducting this interview woman-to-woman had effectively been vaporized. “Ms. Rockefeller, as you know, we're investigating Susan's murder, and I wanted to let you know, first and foremost, how grateful we are for your help and cooperation so far.”

By then, Regina's patter had faded away as she'd realized Sammie was speaking. She dropped a shawl on the back of a nearby chair in the entrance to the ornate living room, and twisted her head around to fix her guest with an appraising look, revealing the intelligence lurking beneath her caricatured manner.

“But you'd like to know something more,” she suggested.

Sam smiled, impressed by the brevity. “Yes, we would. About the night this all happened—before Susan was found the following day.”

Rockefeller blinked at her twice before saying, “Would you like some tea?”

“No.”

The terseness of Sam's response stilled her for a moment. She then indicated one of the elaborately upholstered but worn armchairs near the darkened fireplace. “I'm sensing that the little-old-lady routine isn't working with you. Have a seat.”

Sam hesitated, her mouth half open. “It's an act? Why, in God's name?”

Rockefeller walked to a chair and settled down with a sigh. It was evident only then that the curved back and hunched-over posture took a daily toll in discomfort. “Not an act; not really. I do like to talk, but it's also a bit of a wall I put up. People see me—at my age, in this huge old house, renting out rooms—and they take liberties with their advice. My talking them half to death keeps them at bay.” She smiled impishly. “And I get to say almost anything I wish and get away with it.” She tapped her temple with a gnarled finger. “Only the polite ones think I'm eccentric. The rest consider me quite nutty.”

Sammie sat opposite her. “Well, for what it's worth, it's working. One of the reasons I'm talking to you now is because nobody else felt up to it.”

“Ah, yes.” She nodded enthusiastically. “The two young men. I thought I might have scared them off. Not that I have much to say. You do realize that, don't you? I never would have been playful at the expense of finding Susan's killer.”

“Okay,” Sam asked her. “To that point, then: What did you see or hear that night, let's say from dinnertime on?”

Rockefeller looked mournful. “Not much. I assumed Susan was out of town, since I didn't hear her usual back-and-forth. I don't know if I mentioned it, but she and I share that front entrance you just shoveled out. Anne—the back renter—has her own door. That means I'm generally more aware of Susan's comings and goings.”

“But there was nothing that night?”

The old woman hesitated. “Not nothing, exactly. In the middle of the night, there was some activity. I only heard it because at my age, I'm up every two hours to go pee, and I was sitting on the pot when someone came in, climbed the stairs, and went out again. I assumed it was Susan because only she and I have keys, and she was being very quiet, no doubt thinking I was asleep. At least, that's what I thought. Do you think it was someone else?”

Sam avoided answering. “Are you sure that Susan never had the key duplicated?” she asked. “Maybe for a close friend?”

“Oh, no. We discussed that. I asked her specifically to let me know if she ever wanted another one made, and I also stressed that I didn't give two hoots who she brought in to share her bed.” She glanced around. “Anything to give a little life to the old place.”

“Did she have friends over?”

Regina Rockefeller chuckled knowingly. “Lady friends, you mean? What we used to call bosom buddies?”

“You knew she was gay?”

“I wasn't always the bag of bones you see now,” she countered, if a little obliquely.

“Any men at all?”

Rockefeller shook her head. “No—not that I ever saw. And not that many women, either.”

“Did you know any of them?”

Surprising Sam, Rockefeller's face colored slightly. “Oh. Well, I guess it's all right, considering what's been in the papers. Still…”

“The governor?” Sam prompted her.

She looked relieved. “Thank you. It was so awkward, seeing her here that one time. She was obviously uncomfortable. I felt for her.”

“Fair to say that's all in the past now,” Sam commented. “Who else besides the governor?”

“There were maybe a couple of others—only one I met, but she was quite awhile ago.”

“Can you describe her?”

“Oh, goodness, no. I doubt I could describe you five minutes from now. I'm terrible with faces. I'm always asking people I know quite well what their names are.”

“How 'bout how she struck you?” Sam asked. “Something about her that stayed in your mind?”

“Just that they seemed to know each other well. They were laughing and joking like very good friends.”

“Did they arrive in the woman's car that you might've seen outside the window?”

“No,” Regina said apologetically. “I'm afraid I took no notice. I'm feeling very useless to you with all this. I wish I could be more helpful.”

“You're doing fine, Ms. Rockefeller. It's hard. Let's go back to the night you heard someone come and go. Was Susan inclined to do that, ever? In the middle of the night?”

“Oh, yes. It would happen now and then, especially when the legislature was in session. They work all hours sometimes, and I would hear her come in and out, I suppose to get some paperwork or something. I never asked.”

“So you thought it was the same thing on the night we're discussing?”

But here Regina reflected before answering, “I did
think
so, but there was something…”

“What?”

“It's hard to explain. As I said, I was in the bathroom when she climbed the stairs, but I'd finished when I heard her coming back down, so I walked over to the hallway door.…” She interrupted herself to point out a door opening onto the central hall. “I called her name just as I saw her back—or someone's back—disappear into the front lobby, but she didn't answer, and I heard the door slam instead.”

“It didn't look like her?” Sammie asked.

Regina shook her head. “No, no. That's not it. I couldn't tell who it looked like, since it was too dark and too fast. No, what I mean is that Susan would have stopped and answered. You've heard my voice. It's not the most delicate instrument in the whole world. But the other thing is that the door actually slammed. Susan would never do that. Remember what I said about her? Quiet as a mouse. That included how she shut the door.”

“What did you make of it?” Sam wanted to know.

“I just assumed she'd been upset by something—probably the reason she'd come back home in the middle of the night—and that she was angry enough to ignore me and slam the door. I was going to ask her if everything was all right, the next time I saw her, because I was concerned.”

She sighed deeply and slumped in her seat. When she spoke again, Sam could hear the emotion in her voice. “Poor girl,” she said quietly. “I had no idea I would never see her again. What a terrible world it's become.”

Amen, Sammie thought.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Joe was signing in at the reception desk of the forensic lab when the side door to the lobby opened and David Hawke stuck his head out. “We ought to get you an office here,” he said cheerfully. “Cut down on the commute.”

Joe hung his visitor's badge around his neck and crossed to shake hands. Hawke escorted him into the building's inner sanctum, still speaking. “How goes the battle? Seems almost lucky to me that the governor made her announcement when she did. That must've taken some heat off you, no?”

“I suppose,” Joe answered vaguely. But in fact, he'd been saddened that the sexual preferences of a head of state had proven more interesting to the media than someone's killing—even a prominent someone. On a personal note, however, Joe had been happy to see that Gail's revelation had done her some good, as well. Her precampaign numbers were on the upswing, and she seemed more determined and more comfortable than ever in her public appearances—a self-confidence he'd noticed as well when he'd talked to her about putting pressure on HSI.

“You said on the phone that you wanted to see everything we had,” David said. “As I mentioned, it's not a huge amount, and we already passed along the interesting stuff. What do you think you're looking for?”

“Hard to say, David. You know how it is, sometimes. You've got to return to the scene and stand there for a while, look at it with fresh eyes, I guess.”

“Meaning you're stumped.”

“We're not flush with ideas,” Joe answered cautiously, at once coy and yet trusting that none of this would go beyond the two of them. His reluctance was mostly instinctual—no cop of experience reveals much, even to a colleague of Hawke's standing—but it had a touch of the superstitious, as well. Joe's instincts told him he was close to a solution, but he had yet to locate the keystone that would lock it all into place.

Hawke escorted him to a secure room, where an array of objects, photographs, computer printouts, and fingerprint cards had been laid out across a long table for display and analysis.

“There are naturally more avenues to pursue,” David said as he closed the door. Joe cast an eye over the collection. “There always are, assuming there's cause and money enough to justify it. Like that time you drove down to Brookhaven National Laboratory to get that blood examined. Wild guess is that you don't have anything like that up your sleeve this time, though.”

“No,” Joe answered him. “You're right. On the other hand, I don't think I'm facing quite the brick wall I was then. Whoever did this acted spontaneously. It wasn't planned. At least that's the theory. So, if we're right, that means he had to have made mistakes, or made compromises, while he was working under the gun and against the clock.”

He was traveling the length of the table, scrutinizing Hawke's findings as he spoke. He came to a row of fingerprint cards. “I take it these were all from the passenger seat position?”

“Mostly. Your colleagues have been collecting comparison prints right and left, which has been a huge help. But passenger seats are historically tough. Prints overlie one another, get smudged, or they're just too random to discover within the general population. I mean—I know it doesn't apply in this case—but think of a carpooling situation, or a mom using her vehicle as a virtual school bus. There can be hundreds of prints left behind. Raffner was single, had no kids, and the car was relatively new, but still…”

Joe came to a neat arrangement of pennies, quarters, sales slips, paper clips, a Black Jack gum wrapper, a movie ticket stub, two pencils—one broken—even a pair of shoes, and several wadded-up, dirty tissues, among other random jetsam.

He pointed to the entire section. “Under the seats, I'm assuming?” he asked.

“Right. She was actually neater than most, or had recently cleaned her car. Lucky, considering what I heard about her two residences. Word is she was a real pack rat.”

“That she was,” Joe replied distractedly, still moving down the line. He came to the clothing he'd seen Beverly's diener remove at the autopsy. “I'm guessing you got nothing from these?”

David had been walking along behind him, looking over his shoulder. “Nothing tangible. The cuts in the clothing appear consistent with the type of instrument used on her chest, but that's not saying much. Beverly sent us microscopic swabs from the inner aspects of the incised letters, thinking we might pick up some transfer from the blade, but there again—shy of the kind of equipment the super labs have—we found nothing.”