Camouflage (Nameless Detective Mysteries) (14 page)

There were other things, too. Her account of what’d happened seemed a little too pat, as if some or all of it had been quickly made up and then gone over and refined several times before his arrival. And why had she volunteered information to the homicide inspectors when she’d been warned not to? There was something else, too, something off-key she’d said or done before Darby and the police showed up that kept eluding him.

It all came down to a measure of premeditation: Bryn had gone to the flat to confront Francine, lost it when she saw Bobby hurt again, and in the heat of the fight that followed picked up the kitchen knife and stabbed the woman. That would explain Bryn’s near hysteria when she called; the aftermath of violence, even anticipated violence, throws most people into a panicked state. It would also explain the calm: resignation once she gathered herself, then the decision, the determination, to alter her account to protect herself.

But the problem with that was, Bryn was neither a liar nor a violent person. He couldn’t see her willfully taking anyone’s life, even a woman she hated as much as Francine Whalen. Or fashioning a net of lies to cover up a homicide. Totally out of character.

Or was it? How well did he really know her? Only a short time since they’d met; only a few weeks since they’d become intimate both physically and emotionally. She was complicated, high-strung, damaged by the stroke, her husband’s betrayal, the custody loss of her son. He wasn’t a shrink, couldn’t probe down into the psyche of a woman like Bryn. Just wasn’t equipped. The trouble he’d had dealing with his own demons was proof of that.

He
could
be wrong about her. Didn’t want to believe he was, but the possibility was still there. Wouldn’t go away until he knew exactly what had happened in Robert Darby’s flat yesterday afternoon.

*   *   *

Dragovich’s law office was on Grove Street close to City Hall. As successful as his criminal law practice was, he didn’t believe in spending money on jazzing up his workplace. His private office had the usual shelves of law books and an oversized desk, but there were none of the expensive trappings—leather furniture, polished wood paneling, mirrors, paintings, wet bar—that some high-powered attorneys went in for. Strictly functional. Runyon didn’t much like lawyers as a general rule—too many of them were self-promoting, profiteering sharks—but Dragovich was an exception. A man as straightforward and businesslike as his surroundings.

In his late forties and small in stature, not much more than five eight and a hundred and forty pounds; even with his chair jacked up high, the desk dwarfed him. Thinning sandy hair, a beak of a nose, a pointy chin. Habitually he wore a gray suit, a pale blue shirt, and a striped red tie, a kind of signatory outfit like the TV lawyer Matlock. Except that no matter what time of day you saw Dragovich, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, the knot in his tie was loosened, and his suit had a rumpled look. The compensation for all of that was his voice—deep, booming, commanding. He used it to maximum effect in a courtroom.

Runyon was admitted promptly to the attorney’s private office. Dragovich shook his hand, waved him to a client’s chair. As soon as they were both seated, Runyon said, “I just came from the Hall. Do you know why they AdSeg’d Bryn?”

“Yes. It happened after I consulted with her last night—I saw her again early this morning. I wish you’d told me about her stroke.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Badly agitated after she was booked because she wasn’t allowed to cover the damaged side of her face.”

“Why wasn’t she?”

“Jail rules. No scarves—the standard suicide concern. She begged for a towel, but the matrons wouldn’t give her one for the same reason. While she and I talked she tried to cover her face with toilet paper.”

Toilet paper. Jesus Christ.

“After I left her,” Dragovich said, “apparently some of the other prisoners made fun of her condition and she had what the matrons called a temporary breakdown. They were afraid she might harm herself—that’s why she was AdSeg’d.”

Runyon’s hands bunched into fists. As sensitive as Bryn was about her face, the humiliation she’d felt must’ve been acute. The thought of her being harassed by women without conscience or compassion was galling.

“Is she all right now?”

“Better, yes. Resigned. And very concerned about her son.”

“But still segregated. How long before I can see her?”

“I wasn’t given a time line.”

“Not until her arraignment?”

“It’s possible.”

“Is there anything you can do to get me in to see her?”

“You mean in my presence?”

“Alone, preferably.”

Dragovich gave him a long, shrewd look. “Is there a specific reason you want to see her alone? If there is, you’d be well advised to tell me what it is.”

What could he say? That he was afraid she was either lying or telling half-truths? That he was afraid she might actually be guilty of the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought?

“Personal reasons,” he said. “You already know everything I know about Francine Whalen’s death.”

“I hope so.”

“Will you do what you can to get me permission?”

“Of course. But I’m not in a position of strength on this issue.”

Runyon changed the subject. “Concerned about her son, you said. Bobby’s welfare, what his father might say or do to him?”

“Yes.”

“She has good reason.”

“I don’t know Robert Darby, except by reputation.” The attorney’s mouth quirked wryly. “There seems to be some question as to whether he upholds the highest standards of our profession.”

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“I have a call in to him. Of course he’s under no obligation to speak to me at this time. He may decide to wait until Mrs. Darby is arraigned.”

“If he doesn’t return your call, can you find out how the boy’s doing some other way?”

“The inspectors in charge should know. I’ll check with them when they come on duty this afternoon.”

Runyon asked Dragovich what he thought Bryn’s chances were. Unlike some criminal defense attorneys, he was never overconfident; cautious optimism was the limit of his pretrial position on any case. It was likely that the judge at Bryn’s arraignment would uphold the homicide charge and the DA’s office would prosecute, in which case Dragovich would advise her to plead not guilty. The DA might or might not opt to proceed on the first-degree charge, depending on how convinced he was that willful premeditation could be proven. Dragovich’s best guess was that it would be knocked down to either second degree or manslaughter, both of which offered the DA a better chance of conviction.

In any event, and as Runyon had surmised, self-defense would be difficult to prove without a witness to Whalen’s death. But still it seemed the best option under the circumstances. Juries were notoriously unpredictable, but they tended to side with a defendant mother in a homicide case involving child abuse—if the abuse was proven to their satisfaction. Testimony by the victim was the best way to accomplish jury sympathy, but when Dragovich had broached the subject to Bryn this morning she’d been adamant against it. Didn’t want Bobby put through any more pain and suffering, she’d said. Even if she changed her mind, they’d have her ex-husband to contend with.

If Bobby didn’t take the stand, then it was up to Bryn and Runyon to do what they could to verify the scope and nature of the boy’s injuries. Whalen’s history of violent behavior would have to be established as well. Runyon named Gwen Whalen, Kevin Dinowski, and Charlene Kepler as witnesses who could be subpoenaed to testify. Tricky business, Dragovich said, if that was the way they had to proceed. How much those individuals would be willing to admit to under oath and how much of their testimony would be ruled admissible was problematic.

“Odds for acquittal at fifty-fifty, then,” Runyon said.

“Slightly better than that, I’d say. Based on the facts we have now and contingent on witness cooperation.”

Based on the facts they had now. All the facts? One way or another, he had to find out.

17

ALEX CHAVEZ

He liked dogs. Elena liked dogs. His kids and his in-laws liked dogs. Even Elmo, the wirehaired terrier, liked other dogs.

But Chavez didn’t like Thor, not one little bit.

Neither did Elmo.

As soon as the terrier spotted the big Rottweiler, the wiry hair on Elmo’s back rippled up and he whined and scooted around behind Chavez, wrapping the leash around his legs, and stood there quivering. Thor didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. But those yellow eyes of his …
Dios,
it was like looking into the eyes of a demon.

The woman—Jane Carson, from the boss’s description—didn’t seem any happier to see him and Elmo than the Rotweiller did. He was already halfway up the driveway when she came out of the house carrying a cardboard box; the gate stood open, an invitation to walk right in. The hatch on the Ford Explorer parked there was raised and she quickly slid the box inside as he approached. No welcoming smile, no expression at all in her bright blue eyes. She was wearing dark-colored sweats, a headband around her short blond hair.

He said through a wary smile, “You ought to put that pooch of yours on a chain. He looks pretty mean.”

“He’s not. He’s friendly and well trained.”

“Elmo doesn’t think so.”

“Elmo?”

“My terrier here. See the way he’s shaking? Scared to death.”

“If you want to board him—”

“That’s one reason I’m here,” Chavez said. “The other is, I’m looking for a place to live and the bartender down at The Dog Hole says you have a room to rent.”

“Well, he’s wrong; we don’t.”

“Already rented?”

“Yes, already rented.”

“You wouldn’t have another available, would you? I mean, I’m kind of desperate for a place and this neighborhood is real convenient to my job—”

“One is all we have.” She flicked a glance at Elmo. “And we’re not taking any new dogs right now.”

“No? How come?”

She was making an effort to hang on to her cool. Irritation leaked through anyway. She said as she wiped a thin beading of sweat off her forehead, “We’re full up.”

Chavez moved a little forward and to one side, dragging Elmo with him and keeping a watchful eye on the Rottweiler, so he could get a better look at the Explorer’s interior through the open hatch. Full of boxes, piles of clothing on hangers, odds and ends.

“Looks like you’re moving,” he said.

“What?” Sharp look. “No. Donations for Goodwill.”

He showed her the smile Elena had labeled Butter Wouldn’t Melt in Your Mouth. His wife had a name for all his smiles and grins; the one he liked best and used on her three or four times a week was his Watch Out Tonight,
Querida
leer. “Spring housecleaning, huh?” he said.

“Yes, that’s right. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“When do you think you’ll be ready again?”

“… Ready for what?”

“To take in more dogs.”

“Come back the first of next month.”

“Be okay if I have a look around now?”

Bought him a narrow-eyed stare. “What?”

“At the kennels. Make sure it’s the right place for Elmo.”

“No, it wouldn’t be okay. Can’t you see I’m busy?” She turned abruptly, started back toward the house.

Chavez took the opportunity for a squint down the driveway. Couldn’t see much except part of a wire-fenced dog run and an outbuilding behind it that had to be the kennels. He said quickly, “How about I leave my name and phone number? In case the room opens up.”

She stopped and turned, no longer even trying to hide her annoyance. “There’s no point in that. The tenant we have now plans on an indefinite stay. Now will you please go away?” That last was neither a request nor a dismissal—she said it like a threat.

He’d pushed it as far as he could. Anything further and she’d make a real issue of it. Might even be suspicious as it was. He put on his Piqued and Pouty smile and said, with just the right amount of edge, “Sure, lady, whatever you say. I don’t think I’d have liked living here anyway.”

Nothing from her.

Chavez took the terrier back down the drive. Elmo was relieved; by the time they reached the street, he’d quit shivering and his stubby tail was wagging again. The woman, Carson, had disappeared back into the house.

His dependable old Dodge was parked on 20th Street, one house down. He ran Elmo into the backseat, slid himself into the front. Drove off, circled half a dozen blocks, and then rolled back along Minnesota to where he had a pretty clear view of the McManus house and the SUV from that direction. Carson was still inside, the driveway empty—but she’d been back out at least once, because now the front gate was closed against further visitors. Chavez eased over to the curb, shut off the engine. Then he slouched down low on the seat, shifted his behind until he was comfortable, and reported in to Tamara.

She wasn’t disappointed that he hadn’t been able to get into the house. Matter of fact, there was an undertone of excitement in her voice when she said, “So they’re moving out?”

“Sure looks that way. They’re still loading up the SUV, both of them now—the other one just showed.”

“Leaving as soon as they’re done, you think?”

“Could be. Carson seemed pretty anxious to get rid of me. Want me to run a tail?”

“Oh yeah. Even if only one of them leaves. Did Carson get a good look at your car?”

“Doubt it. She didn’t see me coming and she was already in the house when I drove away.”

“Good. Keep me posted.”

Chavez said he would and clicked off.

“Elmo,” he said then, “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. Seemed like a good idea when I left the agency, but now you’re stuck with me. Might be a while before either of us gets home again.”

Elmo didn’t seem to mind. He stretched up and licked the back of Chavez’s neck.

*   *   *

Most investigators hated stakeouts, the waiting, the downtime, but Alex Chavez wasn’t one of them. Elena claimed it was because he was basically lazy and would rather sit on his fat
culo
than do anything else. But she was only teasing him. She knew he had more energy than most men his age, knew it better than anybody because of how often he demonstrated it to her in bed. Besides, his
culo
wasn’t fat.