24
THEY’D HAD TO WAIT
to see Alexander Hagen. A conference had taken him to Ocean City, and Finn hadn’t been able to book with the funeral director until Monday morning.
The Parkview Funeral Home stood as an impressive terra-cotta mammoth on Fort Avenue, a mere half dozen blocks from Eales’s Gettings Street home. The Queen Anne–style structure, with its soaring brick chimneys and high-pitched slate roof, loomed over a shallow lawn bordered by an imposing iron fence.
Finn had sensed Kay’s unease entering the perfumed interior of the home. The weekend seemed to have done her good. She seemed rested this morning, Finn noted when they sat down in the director’s office. Still she was fidgety. Hopped up on caffeine or just pent-up anxiousness about the case, he couldn’t tell which. As they sat in the high-backed, leather-upholstered wing chairs in Hagen’s office, Finn tried to ignore Kay’s fingers’ drumming against her notebook, and he focused on Patricia Hagen’s father.
Hagen was a tall, angular man with long, square fingers and a firm handshake. His tapered face was accentuated by a centered strip of balding and two slicked-back tufts of dark hair on either side of his narrow head. His nose
looked as though it had been broken once, and deep lines bracketed his serious mouth. Still, he had an air of solace. It was his voice, Finn decided: resonant and calm. Every word carefully calculated. Finn wondered if they taught that in mortuary classes.
“It’s a location issue,” Hagen explained as he filled a packing box. “People don’t feel safe coming down here anymore, so I’ve bought a building up in Overlea. I’m hoping to be out of here by the end of the month.” He closed the box and hoisted it on top of several others with apparent ease. Finn imagined the man handling the stiffs in the basement embalming room, wondered if Hagen still did the work himself.
“So this Regester girl,” Hagen asked, starting a new box, “the murder you say you’re investigating, why would you think I’d know her?”
“We don’t necessarily. But we think her death is connected to Bernard Eales,” Finn said.
The man’s spine stiffened visibly. A fleeting reaction, there and gone as he shuffled papers. “I haven’t seen Bernard in years.”
“Oh. We assumed you had at least
some
contact with him, given his relationship with your daughter.” Finn had waited all weekend to see Hagen’s reaction to the news he doubted Patsy Hagen had shared with her old man.
“Pardon me?” What little color there had been in Hagen’s cadaverous complexion bled out.
“Your daughter is seeing Eales,” Kay said, clearly going easy with the news.
“But he’s incarcerated.”
“That apparently hasn’t stopped her from visiting him. Twice a week.”
Hagen shook his head. When he turned his gaze out the window to the shaded grounds and the street beyond, Finn
watched the man’s heart-rate rocket, his pulse beating wildly along a purple artery that snaked across his temple.
“Actually,” Finn said, “from what we understand, your daughter and Eales are engaged. It also appears your daughter’s been paying Eales’s legal fees. Any idea where she’s getting that kind of money?”
“Her inheritance, I suspect.” Hagen’s deliberate voice sounded broken now. “From her mother.”
“Do you know if your daughter was seeing Eales prior to his arrest?” Kay asked.
“Clearly, I’m not the one to ask.” The old man’s prominent Adam’s apple lifted and dropped sharply several times. “What do you want from me, Detectives?”
“We’re trying to establish some background on Eales, and since he worked for you—”
“That was a long time ago, Detective.”
“You fired him, is that right?”
“The first time he quit. The second time that I was foolish enough to hire him back, I fired him.”
“And why’s that?” Kay asked.
“I’m really not comfortable discussing that.”
“We heard there were accusations of impropriety,” Finn said.
“Impropriety? Not at my funeral home.” But in Hagen’s voice, in the flash of his milky blue eyes, Finn knew the man was lying.
“So you never, say, caught Mr. Eales doing anything—”
“I resent what you’re implying, Detective.” In light of the accusation, Hagen’s apoplexy rose and his shoulders squared. “This home has been in my family for three generations. To even suggest the presence of anything untoward is an insult.”
Finn held up both hands. “That wasn’t my intent, sir. I do apologize.”
“Mr. Hagen”—Kay’s voice was soft now as she drew herself to the edge of her chair and closed her notebook— “we’re going to need a list of your employees.”
“What? Why?”
“Past employees, sir. Especially anyone who was here around the time Mr. Eales was. It’s just as part of our investigation into Mr. Eales. I hope you’ll accommodate us.”
“I don’t see how that’s going to be possible, Detective.” Hagen waved a hand over the room of boxes and taped-up file cabinets awaiting the movers. “It could be weeks before I get to unpacking up in Overlea.”
“I’m afraid we’d need those names sooner. Perhaps you could point us to the appropriate boxes and we can save you the trouble?”
“I can’t authorize that. There’s confidential information—”
“Sir, we need those names.” And in Kay’s firm tone, Finn knew Hagen had to have heard the words
court order.
“You’re asking for two decades of employees.”
“I understand. And the Department appreciates your cooperation.” When Kay stood and extended her hand, Hagen looked forced to accept the handshake.
They left him then, his formerly straight and proud silhouette looking suddenly withered. Finn wondered how long it would be before Hagen called his daughter and what the outcome of the confrontation would be.
Finn had to hurry to catch up to Kay as she steered herself down the carpeted corridor, past the showrooms of polished caskets, and out the front doors.
“He’s hiding something,” she said even before they’d reached the bottom of the wide stone steps.
“Agreed,” Finn said.
“We might have to get a subpoena for those records.”
“If we have to, we will. But I say give the old man a
couple days. Let him digest the news we’ve just thrown at him. I think he’ll come through with the list. In the meantime, we oughta go over Eales’s records again. See if there were any police reports filed in connection with this place.”
Kay was shaking her head. “I’ve been over those files so many times, Finn. I’ve never seen Hagen’s name.”
“Well, maybe it’s time we looked into Mr. Hagen then. After all, his daughter didn’t exactly tell us
who
was accusing who, now did she?”
25
FROM THE PARKVIEW FUNERAL HOME,
Kay drove them to Headquarters. Leaving the Lumina in the last available spot on the top floor of the Department parking garage, she and Finn walked down through exhaust fumes, the smell of old grease, and cigarette smoke to the battered steel door that served as the back entrance. Still, she couldn’t shed the pall that had crept into her very pores while in Hagen’s funeral home.
The air had been musty and cloying. Perfumed decay wafting through the floor vents, choking her with the memories of her mother, laid out in a casket with what few trimmings her father could afford. Eleven years old, and what Kay remembered most about her mother was that she looked as though she were made of plastic before they put her in the earth.
Kay hated the lies of funeral homes: the catalogues of caskets and trite verses on headstones. None of it had anything to do with the reality of death.
When they reached the sixth floor, Gunderson caught
them at the elevators. His tie hung loose and sweat stains marked his shirt.
“Your pretty boy Arsenault’s here,” he said, shoving a thumb at the closed door of Interview Room One as they followed him.
“Already?” Kay asked.
“You sure were right about this guy.” Finn lifted the sheet of paper permanently taped over the eight-by-ten-inch reinforced window of the door and snatched a glimpse.
“I need an update when you’re done,” Gunderson said, then turned down the corridor. “I’ve got the captain all over my ass on this one. At least pretend you’re onto something,” he added, disappearing into his office.
Behind her, Finn let the paper settle back over the window. “It’s your move, Kay. You predicted this wiseass would come in. We’ll play this your way.”
“Let me just grab a couple files.”
When she returned, she gave Finn a nod, straightened her jacket, and opened the door.
Arsenault looked crisp. In his crease-free pants and his starched shirt, he paced the length of the narrow room, hands in his pockets. His suit jacket hung precisely over the back of one of the three vinyl chairs. He looked relatively calm until he spotted Finn behind her.
“Hello, Scotty. Nice to see you. Have a seat.” Finn gestured to the chair against the back wall.
Arsenault hesitated. His eyes went from Finn to the chair, as though aware of the psychological warfare of interrogation rooms. Whether or not Arsenault saw the iron holds bolted to the underside of the table, he knew the offered chair was reserved for suspects. Kay wasn’t surprised when he pulled the chair around to the side of the table.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Arsenault,” she said, setting the files down.
“Scott. Please.” He flashed her a tense smile, but Kay sensed the wariness behind it.
“So what can we do for you today?” she asked, sitting across from him, in the chair with his jacket. She noticed the Armani name on its label.
Arsenault held his breath for a moment. When he let it out, Kay smelled alcohol. She imagined him in a bar, tossing one back to loosen up before coming in. “I saw the papers,” he said. “You didn’t tell me you were investigating the murder of Valerie Regester.”
“Did you know her?”
“Only that she was supposed to be a witness in Eales’s trial.”
“Ever meet her?” Kay asked.
“No. But I know you’re probably looking at me as a suspect.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because of the website. I know it doesn’t look good.”
“It might help if you had an alibi, Scotty,” Finn said. He leaned against the opposite end of the table.
“That’s why I’m here.” Arsenault reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and took out two business cards, slid them across the table. “These are two associates I was out with Wednesday. The night the girl was killed.”
It was too easy. Kay saw Finn’s suspicion.
“Check it out,” Arsenault said, giving the cards another shove in Finn’s direction.
“And these buddies of yours,” Finn asked, “are they expecting my call?”
“I warned them you might be contacting them, yes.” Arsenault was bouncing his foot, his knee jiggled up and down.
“So why exactly do you think we’d be suspecting you, Scott?” Kay asked.
He took in another breath, seemed to weigh options she could only imagine. “Like I said, because of the website. And the information on it.”
“But you get the information from Patricia Hagen, don’t you?”
“Most of it.”
Kay wasn’t ready to push him. Not yet. Play him slow. Scatter him. “You know anything about Ms. Hagen’s father?”
“Not really.”
“Patricia told us there’d been conflict between her dad and Eales. She ever mention anything about that?”
“Maybe.”
“Look, Scotty”—Finn’s voice was gruff—“you actually
want
to help us here. Trust me.”
“All right, yes, Patsy did mention there’d been a falling-out the last time Bernard worked for her dad.”
“Accusations. We know. Any idea what they were about?”
“Apparently Bernard called the cops on Hagen.”
Kay shared a glance with Finn.
Arsenault saw it. “What? You two thought it was the other way around, didn’t you? That it was the old man calling the cops.” He shook his head. “Patsy told me Bernard accused her father of doing stuff with the bodies. Knowing Bernard, though, he probably did it just to stir up shit for the old man. But it’s not like I know Hagen. Who knows what his game is?”
Arsenault picked lint from his pant leg. From there he seemed concerned with his fingernails. The foot-bouncing, the grooming—all signs Kay would normally take as indicators of a lying suspect. But with Arsenault she
couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just part of his obsessive-compulsive nature.
“And what’s your take on Patsy and Bernard?” Finn asked then.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Scotty. A woman like that with someone like Eales? It doesn’t exactly jibe, know what I’m saying?”
“I agree, but it’s not like I’ve got that one figured out either. Though, sometimes I get the feeling Eales might have something on her, you know?”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea.” Arsenault checked his watch, then eyed the business cards he’d tossed on the table, clearly anxious to have his alibi verified.
Kay picked up the cards, handed them to Finn.
“Guess I’ll go check these out,” Finn said.
When the door closed behind Finn, Kay knew Arsenault’s eyes were on her. She shed her jacket and laid it across the end of the table. It was about body language now; show him she was relaxed. Keep it informal. Non-adversarial.
His voice was different now that they were alone. Softer. Relaxed. “So how are you doing these days, Detective? I mean, since Bernard?”
“Fine, thanks,” she said, surprised at the odd sense of ease she felt with him.
“I bet it’s not easy though, being a woman on the unit. On the force,” Arsenault went on. “I mean not just the whole old boys’ club, but on the streets. You’re only what, five-five? That must be a bit of an impairment in some situations.”
“I hold my own.”