Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (19 page)

I wasn't surprised. And who could fault them? I doubt that the prosecutor's office examined Angel's family tree. And why should any investigator have troubled to discover the job history of Angela's dead cousin?

“Yeah.” Temple's voice was thoughtful. “I was the one who kept after them. The night of Murdoch's murder, Chavez was baby-sitting across the hall in her apartment house.” He squinted at the ceiling. “I even remember the parents' name. Dorman. They wouldn't budge on their story. They got home ten minutes before Curt Murdoch was shot
and they saw Chavez walk into her apartment. And she couldn't have gotten across town unless she flew. She sure as hell didn't jog. She'd just had some foot surgery and was still all bandaged up. Oh yeah, it was a solid story—and I know damn well she was lying in her teeth. But I don't know why. Oh, I don't think she shot Murdoch. No, that was little Miss Candy. Chavez was in her apartment, but I'll never believe she was on the phone with Candace Murdoch when that gun went off. Hell, they could give me an affidavit from the Pope, and I still wouldn't believe it. Chavez is lying. But nobody will ever prove it, Henrie O.”

I had to agree with that.

I got back to the J-School about four. There was only one file left now. I settled into rereading my notes about Howard Rosen and Gail Voss. But I kept my eye on the time. At five to five, I hurried downstairs. I was waiting for Angela when she came down the side steps.

“Angel.”

She looked up with her usual equable smile. “Hi, Henrie O. Have you made any progress in your house hunt?”

“Yes.” I reached out, patted her arm. “I'm sorry about your cousin Loretta.”

Her face congealed in shock. Then, like shutters closing, her expression smoothed into a stolid blankness. She ducked her head, began to walk swiftly toward the parking lot.

I kept pace. “I know what happened.” I spoke gently. “Your cousin died because of Curt Murdoch. At least, that's what you believe.”

For an instant her walk checked, then she picked up speed again.

I can move fast, too. “Angel, you went off to L.A. to visit a friend. You left the morning after Murdoch was killed. But I'm sure your aunt kept you informed. There were no tears in Mudville over his death, not from anyone in your family. I imagine your aunt told you when Candace was arrested and maybe even sent you clippings about the murder investigation, so you knew Candace had put out a plea for the woman who called that night to come forward. Then you came back to town—”

We reached a green Honda. Angel yanked her car keys out of her purse.

“—and the trial was underway and everyone laughed about Candace's silly little story; wasn't it just like her to come up with such a dumb alibi. But you make calls for several charities—Habitat for Humanity and the Hospice of Derry Hills—and you saw what you could do—and you did it.”

Angel opened her door, slid behind the wheel, slammed the door.

When she looked up at me, she was no longer the kind and thoughtful woman I'd come to know. She looked angry and fiercely determined and utterly satisfied. “Henrie O, it's just like I told Maggie; you'll never prove it.”

The motor roared to life.

I stepped back and the Honda squealed into reverse, jolted into the lot, then bucked forward.

I watched the dust whirl.

Yes, I expected that was precisely what Angel had told Maggie.

I wondered if Angel had heard the hint of admiration in my voice.

Justice?

Who can say? Certainly not I.

I turned and walked back toward the J-School.

And the Rosen-Voss file.

A
T seven o'clock, I pushed back my office chair, stretched, and realized I was hungry. In the newsroom, Duffy fished french fries out of a sack from the Green Owl. Eric March was back in his place as deputy city editor. The glow from the monitor cast an eerie pall over his somber face. Buddy Neville, no longer at the helm, lounged in his chair reading
G.Q.
, his sneakered feet on his desk.

I'd put in some good work. Every time you study a mass of material, you pick up something new. This time I'd paid particular attention to the feature stories. Like a crow salvaging bright objects, I was adding to my store of interesting (and sometimes poignant) facts about the 1988 murders in Lovers' Lane:

 

The night of the murders, Stuart Singletary invited his girlfriend—Cheryl Abbott—over for pizza. Singletary took Cheryl home about eleven.

Howard Rosen and Gail Voss were at the Green Owl from eight to almost eleven. They had pizza—and champagne. They'd brought their own bottle to the café.

Eleven, eleven. Numerals glistened in my mind like neon dice.

The contents of Rosen's car, after it was returned to his family, included an ice bucket, a half-f fifth of champagne, two plastic champagne glasses, and pink paper streamers.

 

Across the years I could almost hear laughter and the fizz of champagne. I wondered if Howard and Gail got engaged that night. I checked again the contents of the car. No mention of a ring.

 

Gail Voss had knitted a sweater for Howard's birthday. It was a soft blue. Singletary said Howard thought it was kind of girly, but he wore it to please her. He had it on the night they died.

Gail was a Green Peace volunteer. She collected rabbits, all kinds, made out of ceramic or china or silver, even cardboard. Big plush bunnies, rabbit pictures, rabbit puzzles. Her favorite piece of jewelry was a silver charm bracelet, all rabbits. Her family placed it in her casket.

Howard Rosen was always the life of the party. You could hear him all the way across the newsroom in an ordinary conversation. When he really got going, his voice rose to a shout. He clowned around constantly. But he didn't seem to have a single close friend. Just Gail. The two of them spent every minute together they could.

The English department awarded the first annual Howard Rosen Writing Award in 1989 to Sylvia Maguire. The award, funded by the Rosen family, was presented by Dr. Thomas Abbott, chair of the English department.

 

I tucked the file under my arm, grabbed my coat and locked my office.

Duffy studiously ignored me.

That was fine. I suppose he was afraid I might ask him to serve sentry duty in a graveyard next.

I stashed the file in my car and headed for the Green Owl. As I hurried toward the restaurant, I was sharply aware of geography.

Maggie had eaten dinner in the Commons. She walked out into the dusk and met her killer. The possibilities, people who were in the area at that time and might have had reason to strangle her, included:

Rita Duffy, the angry wife.

Dennis Duffy, the philandering city editor.

Eric March, Maggie's boyfriend.

Kitty Brewster, the object of Maggie's disdainful cruelty.

Angela Chavez, the mystery witness in the Murdoch trial.

David Tucker, Thorndyke's president when the dean of students disappeared.

Stuart Singletary, Howard's roommate.

I knocked Rita off the list because she could not have searched either Maggie's apartment or my house.

Dennis, Eric, and Kitty, so far as I knew, would have had no reason to search Maggie's files and should not have cared at all about Maggie's research into the unsolved crimes. However, it
was
possible that any one of the three might have been concerned that Maggie could have recorded some kind of quarrel or disagreement.

Angel Chavez might well have had reason to fear
Maggie's revelations. But what could Maggie do with her suspicions? Why shouldn't Angel simply respond, as she had to me and as she claimed she had to Maggie, “You'll never prove it.” Was Angel willing to kill to avoid public embarrassment?

Tucker was still a dark horse. If his story was true, he was out of it. But if he had lied…

And then there was Stuart Singletary.

Stuart Singletary, who was in Evans Hall, where Maggie was supposed to go.

Stuart Singletary, who had radiated uneasiness when I talked to him about Maggie.

Stuart Singletary, who took his girlfriend home “about eleven” the night his roommate died.

But why would Stuart Singletary have killed either Howard or Gail?

The question burned in my mind as I opened the door to the Green Owl. It was cheerful to step inside, escaping the dank November night, even though I carried with me a ghostly picture of two happy college students sitting in a back booth, sharing champagne and laughter.

As always, the Green Owl hummed with activity. I spotted Helen Tracy, looking quite satisfied and happy, in a nearby booth. And with her was the object of her interest, Dr. Tom Abbott. They were deep in conversation. Abbott gestured emphatically, his freckled face intent.

Helen hadn't seen me.

I was tempted to foist myself upon them. I definitely wanted to talk to Dr. Abbott about his son-in-law.

But I had a strong sense that Helen wouldn't welcome an interruption. She was flashing a vivacious
smile and bouncing a little in her eagerness to entertain.

Then I saw another familiar face.

As Helen had said, if you came to the Green Owl often enough, you'd see everyone you knew.

Larry Urschel wasn't looking my way. His face was somber in repose. A man at the end of a long, tough day.

If I were after a story, I wouldn't choose to approach a man at the end of his workday, a man staring into his beer. I wondered what he saw, what he was remembering.

But I wasn't after a story.

I was after a killer.

I'd spent a lifetime asking people questions they didn't want to answer. I could do it one more time.

Urschel's head jerked up when I stopped beside his table. For an instant I thought he didn't recognize me, then I realized I had indeed caught him with his thoughts far away. He blinked. His gaze sharpened. Abruptly, a wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Still after it?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. May I join you?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

I slipped into the chair next to his.

We gazed at each other for a moment.

I wondered if I looked as tired as he did.

Urschel's crew cut looked more gray than brown tonight and his skin had a sallow tinge. Deep lines grooved his face. He looked like a man who'd seen it all and found no pleasure.

His eyes flicked to the diamond-burst pin on the lapel of my navy suit.

Not a man to miss anything.

“Thanks for the background stuff on the old cases.”

“Sure.”

The waitress brought me water and I jerked my head at Urschel's mug. “Same, please.”

Urschel lifted his mug, drank deeply. And waited. He didn't owe me polite conversation.

“I've been talking to a lot of people,” I said quietly.

“No law against it.” His voice was weary.

“And now I'd like to talk to you, really talk to you—”

He held up his hand. “Mrs. Collins, I've done what I can do for you. Like I told you earlier, those cases are still open and—”

“You know anything about guilt, Lieutenant?”

His eyes met mine, old eyes in a middle-aged man's face.

“Because that's why I'm here, Lieutenant. I'm guilty of sending a young woman to her death. Oh, I didn't intend it, of course. And that's the easy answer, isn't it? To say,
Nothing you can do about it now. Don't blame yourself
. And yes, she was arrogant. But so was I, Lieutenant. I told her what kind of stories I would accept. I told her she had to find new facts.
I told her, Lieutenant
. So that's why I'm pushing and pressing and scratching. It isn't for a story. It's for atonement.”

He drank his beer, wiped his hand against his mouth. His eyes still met mine.

“I know you're a good cop. You'd never reveal anything that would compromise an investigation. But, Lieutenant, I swear before God—if you'll talk about the past, talk as if no one can hear you—that I'll never betray you.”

He put down the mug, then turned it around and around between his hands.

My beer came. I took a deep, refreshing draft, and waited.

Finally, reluctantly, he lifted his eyes. “So what've you got in mind?”

“Death in Lovers' Lane. And Stuart Singletary.”

“The Rosen-Voss kill.” His voice was reflective. “Yeah. Anybody—” He carefully, intentionally didn't look toward me. He was a man talking to himself, reminiscing over a beer. “—who thinks that setup was cockeyed is right on. Lovers' Lane was fishy as hell. Park and pet, that was the fifties. My big sister used to come in late with her angora sweater misbuttoned and I thought she was a wild woman. In the eighties, they started screwing in grade school.”

He looked across the room, his face bleak. Without being told, I knew he was staring at the booth where Howard and Gail had spent their final evening. “Yeah, I looked at Stuart Singletary. He and Rosen shared an apartment. But they weren't big-time buddies. They'd only met that fall. I thought of every motive on the books—sex, jealousy, drugs. Maybe Singletary offed the guy because he had something on Singletary. But that came up zero, zero, zero. Maybe Singletary wanted to steal Rosen's thesis. Grad students'll do anything to score. Couple of years ago a grad student in chemistry went nuts and started stalking his adviser. But Rosen and Singletary weren't doing the same kind of work. Rosen's thesis was some nonfiction thing. And Singletary did something on poetry. But I was desperate at that point. I asked to see Singletary's notes. Very neat notes, wouldn't you know. Yeah,
the harder I looked, the more I found out about Singletary, the weirder it got. He's the original Mr. Perfect. Won every scholarship he ever applied for. Top grades, every prof's favorite student.” Urschel downed the rest of his beer. “Yeah, I looked at him hard. I'm still looking. I get that goddamn file out every year and try again. But I never find anything that opens this case up. As for Singletary, that man's got good karma. Slid through a murder investigation like a greased eel, graduated with top honors, landed a job here at Thorndyke. Then he married his girlfriend and her old man's loaded and now Singletary gets to live like a prince.”

I felt a quiver of excitement. “Maybe that's it! Maybe it comes down to money. Maybe Cheryl was interested in Howard Rosen, and Singletary was determined to marry her.”

“Not unless everybody's lying.” Urschel tugged at one ear. “Of course, people lie a lot. But as far as I was able to find out, Rosen was crazy about Voss; Voss was crazy about Rosen. Nobody ever told me anything different. And besides, the Abbott money didn't come until later, when the old man's book hit it big. No, it all comes down to karma.” His mouth twisted as he spoke.

I wondered about Larry Urschel's karma. He didn't wear a wedding ring. And he was eating dinner by himself on a Tuesday night. No one to go home to? And his eyes held shadows and a sense of pain. I'd figured correctly that he was a man who understood about guilt. There are so many kinds of guilt. A marriage goes sour and everybody feels guilty.

“All I can tell you”—now he looked at me directly—“I think Stuart Singletary's a lucky bastard.
But I don't know whether he got away with murder.” Urschel picked up his check and pushed back his chair, “If you do find something, Mrs. Collins, don't play it the way Maggie Winslow did. Come and get me, Mrs. Collins.”

I watched him walk across the room.

No swagger.

No heroics.

Yes, I'd be glad to call on Larry Urschel.

Anytime.

 

When I got home there were two messages on my voice mail:

 

M
ESSAGE
1—8:23
P.M.

M
ESSAGE
2—8:52
P.M.