Sleep of the Innocent (24 page)

Grainne shut her eyes as the car darted into a tiny space between a truck and a van, to the accompaniment of loud horn-honking. In the momentary silence, Lucas filled in, “She's a—”

“I'm a graduate student,” she said firmly. “At the Faculty of Music. Opera school. I should have finished this spring, but I took a year off. I'll be going back in the fall.”

“How exciting,” said Tricia. “A singer. I love opera. The only trouble with it is that Bertie keeps falling asleep—especially during Wagner. It goes on for so long, you know. And if I poke him to wake him up, then he jumps and starts applauding and everyone glares at him. Very embarrassing. Maybe you'd like to come with me instead. What a brilliant idea. Let's do it. I promise I don't hum, and I'm very careful not to applaud in the wrong places, and we have absolutely wonderful seats.”

“Tricia,” said Lucas. It was a warning growl, a grimness in his voice that Grainne hadn't heard before. “Shut up and stop harassing Grainne. She's been through enough already.”

“She's not harassing me,” said Grainne. “Offering me a ticket to the opera hardly constitutes harassment.”

“That just proves how innocent you are. Survive that, and she'll start asking you to family parties—”

“And knitting? Are you the person who knits?”

“That's me,” said Tricia, changing lanes to pass a truck on the left, two cars on the right, and then another truck on the left. “I love knitting, and Bertie hates thick wool sweaters. They make him itch, he says. And they're too hot. So I knit for Robin. I keep hoping my little sister will get married and have some children—then I can shower them with booties and little sweaters with bears on them. And, Robin, speaking of sweaters, there's a sweatshirt back there. Fold it up and put it under Grainne's head. She might as well take a little nap while we're getting there.”

“Are you sure?” asked Harriet, looking up at the stuccoed front and blinking neon sign that announced the restaurant La Celestina. “I didn't realize they actually served food here. Isn't it one of those places where you rent a plastic hamburger to leave on your table in case the dive gets raided?”

“You're hopelessly out of it, Harriet. No one does that anymore. I can guarantee that there really is lunch, cooked by a real live chef, and served by real waitresses with sore feet and at least three kids each. Anyway, we have no choice. I told Dubinsky to meet us here.”

Addie greeted them with muted warmth. “Morning, Inspector,” she said. “You here to eat or ask questions?”

“Eat, mostly,” said Sanders. “We're expecting my partner. If you happen to notice him, send him over.”

“He's hard to miss. By the way, what in hell did you say to Randy?” she asked, leading them to a quiet table in the corner. “Tips doubled over the weekend. You must've put the fear of God in him.”

“I think he's just considering the error of his ways,” said Sanders. “We'll have an Amstel. Each, that is. And what's worth eating today?”

Harriet watched until Addie was out of earshot and turned to John. “What was the waitress talking about?”

“Oh, that. Randy was skimming tips. We just sort of prodded him, that's all. Nothing much. He seems to scare easy. It's nice Addie's getting her money.”

“He's the bookkeeper.”

“Right. And if cash is being skimmed wholesale out of this operation, Randy has to know about it.”

“Is cash being skimmed? And why does he have to know about it? Maybe he just keeps everything straight from this end—so much coming in every day, so much going out in food and heat and light and salaries and whatever. He hands the balance over. And then Neilson gets his hands on it and grabs a huge chunk instead of putting it in the bank. Easy. And so poor little Randy is innocent of any thing—except cheating Addie and the rest of them out of their tips, of course,” she added uneasily.

“Right. Skim tips today, skim entire operations tomorrow. Anyway, he used to be a big-time embezzler. And I want to know why Neilson hired him. Would you hire an embezzler to do your books and handle all the cash from a profitable operation? No, you'd have to be crazy. But he wanted someone with experience. In fraud. One question is, did he want Randy because he could recognize fraud? Or perpetrate it? The other one is, when you hire a crocodile to protect you, how do you keep it from eating you first? Which leads me to wonder if Neilson had something very big on him, to keep him in line.” He waved in the direction of Ed Dubinsky, who was threading his way through the tables in their direction. “And that makes me wonder what Randy was doing on the afternoon that Neilson was killed.”

“Was Neilson a blackmailer?” asked Harriet. “Along with everything else?”

Sanders nodded.

“Who was he blackmailing?” asked Harriet. “That you know of?”

Sanders opened his mouth and suddenly thought of the pictures of Lydia—Harriet's friend Lydia—in bed with two men and a boy. But Dubinsky and Addie arrived simultaneously, saving him from having to answer. Sanders turned to Addie as she handed his partner a menu. “Was Randy here the afternoon Mr. Neilson was murdered?”

Addie paused for a moment. “Sure. Well, most of the time, as far as I know. He was here at lunchtime, and then he must have gone out for a while. Couldn't tell you when. I only remember because Mr. Horvath was looking for him that afternoon. There was a major screw-up on the ordering, and we needed him. I called the office, and they didn't know where he was—maybe doing something for Mr. Neilson. We even thought about closing. Not because of Mr. Neilson's death or anything. No one gave a damn about Mr. Neilson,” she added, lowering her voice, “but because we'd run out of stuff, head office was going crazy, and we needed authorization to buy emergency supplies. The chef was ready to quit.”

“But you opened.”

“Yeah. The chef went into the till, took all the cash, and sent the busboy out to a supermarket. Problem solved. Horvath worries about doing everything according to procedure. You know. Randy got back in time to straighten things out anyway.” She paused. “I don't know what was going on at head office earlier, but it can't have been because of Mr. Neilson. They called Randy to let him know what happened just before we opened. Between five and five-thirty.”

“So Randy was in and out. How about Mr. Horvath?”

Addie looked shocked. “Mr. Horvath was here all day. He's always here. Except when he was out shopping with the busboy, of course. But no—he was here.”

Sanders looked over at the impeccable elegance of the manager and wondered. “Have the corned beef sandwich, Ed,” he said gloomily. “It's Monday, the chef's hung over, and the goulash didn't turn out.”

“Okay—and a beer,” he said to Addie's retreating back. “According to Miss Cavanaugh, no one called the chauffeur and told him not to pick up Mark Neilson. The only people who ever dealt with the chauffeur—who even knew the telephone number—were Cavanaugh, that bitchy receptionist, a person they called the office manager, and maybe Randy West. I got that same story from everyone, by the way. But remember, the chauffeur wasn't sure, but he thought probably it was a woman who called. I asked all of them, including West, and they all said that it was the last thing on their minds when they found out about Neilson's death. Which, by the way, wasn't until just before five. And the chauffeur must've gotten that call before three-thirty, when school gets out, or he would have driven Mark Neilson to the airport when he picked him up. And before three-thirty, we didn't even have the identification of the corpse. So that call—if it existed—came from whoever shot Carl Neilson.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Okay. No one called the chauffeur, no one around this place was thinking of anything but food, and no one at the office knows anything about anything. That leaves us with Mr. Neilson, or Lucas's girl in the apartment. She seems to me to be the likeliest candidate. She was there, her prints are all over the place, her prints are all over the other girl's apartment, and she's disappeared with one of the investigating officers.”

“And where is he?”

“Dead,” said Dubinsky flatly. “Probably didn't expect any girl to be that dangerous. Nice guy, but he had his limitations, you know. No respect for the power of women.”

“Then who called the chauffeur?”

“No one. The chauffeur and the girl are in it together. He probably picked her up lots of times, got to know her. That's where the weapon's gone. He took it away, and as soon as he was safely gone, she called us.”

“Motive?”

Dubinsky shrugged his shoulders. “Money. Probably. How do we know there wasn't another suitcase stuffed with it that he hung on to? They keep telling us Neilson's cash is disappearing—well, that's where it went.”

Sanders pushed his sandwich away and picked up his beer glass. “Not very plausible.”

“Why not?” asked Harriet.

“Why in hell would anyone in her right mind help to commit a murder and then, before the corpse has stopped twitching, call in a report on it? And if the girl and the chauffeur had the money, they would have disappeared together. We would never have laid eyes on either one.”

“Not if they wanted to go on living in the city,” objected Dubinsky stubbornly. “As soon as they took off, the whole world would be out looking for them.”

“Anyway, I just can't see Lucas dead somewhere in a snowbank. Or being part of it, either. And your crazy theory doesn't take into account the report from the motel.”

“If that was Lucas,” said Dubinsky. “And even if he was traveling around with her for a while, all she had to do was wait until he fell asleep. We haven't had a whisper about him for a week or two. And they're looking for him all over the place.”

“Three coffees,” called Sanders in the direction of the tired-looking waitress. “You have a point. And we'd better start taking the chauffeur apart on that phone call.”

Grainne woke up as the Jag pulled to a stop in front of a three-story warehouse on King Street West. “Where are we?” she asked, looking nervously around.

“When did you two meet?” asked Tricia. “It's home, sort of. Okay, Robin, love. We're here. Any special instructions?”

“Just don't let anyone know who she is, don't leave her alone, and don't let anyone, especially the police, into the apartment.” He leaned forward and caught Grainne by the shoulder. “Take care of yourself. Don't call me, just in case. I'll be in touch. You're much safer with Tricia than you are with me right now.”

Tricia got out of the car and walked around to the trunk, opened it with elaborate care, and scuffled noisily about inside for Lucas's suitcase.

He pressed his cheek against Grainne's. “Stay hidden,” he said hoarsely. “I'm not sure I'd survive if anything happened to you.” He let go abruptly and jumped out of the car. Grainne turned to watch him stride casually up an alley beside the warehouse.

“What if they're watching for him?” she asked in panicky voice as Tricia got back in the car.

“He said it doesn't matter. But he doesn't live here. His apartment's up on Adelaide Street. He just didn't want them seeing this car with you in it.” Tricia gave her a comforting pat on the knee, put the car in gear and made a rapid and heart-stopping U-turn.

Minutes later, Tricia pulled up in front of a soaring building down by the waterfront. She jumped out, tossing the keys to the doorman. “My cousin's gear is in the trunk,” she said. “Could you have it brought up?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Lucas.” He didn't twitch a muscle as Tricia opened the door and assisted a woman with one boot on and the other in her hand up the stairs and into the building.

The elevator took them directly to the top floor. Grainne limped into a huge apartment and sat gratefully down on an enormous chesterfield that gave her a view of the lake; Tricia tossed her coat onto a chair and sat down near her. “It's getting late,” she said. “We'll have some lunch, and then we'll put you to bed for the time being. You look very tired.” She turned and called over her shoulder. “Mrs. Henderson.”

An efficient-looking woman in a white uniform appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Mrs. Lucas?”

“Something nice for lunch for my cousin as soon as you can manage it, please. And would you call Mrs. Kovacs and say that I am much too ill to attend the meeting this afternoon? I think we should put Miss Hunter in the small bedroom—it's quiet and cheerful. She'll be staying for a few days.” As soon as she left, Tricia turned back, kicked off her shoes, and curled herself up in the corner of the chesterfield. “I'm so glad Robin called me,” she said. “It's not easy being a stepmother to someone who's practically your own age, you know. This is the first time he's ever let me do anything for him.”

“Except knit him sweaters,” said Grainne. “It's a beautiful sweater. He let me borrow it once when I was very cold.”

Tricia laughed. “You can't mother someone who's twenty-eight, can you? I've tried treating him like any other male friend, but that doesn't seem to work, either. So I knit.”

Just as Grainne was opening her mouth to explain to Mrs. Lucas how her stepson viewed her offers of friendship, a heady smell of rich soup drifted in from the dining room and wisdom prevailed. “That smells wonderful,” she said. “I'm absolutely starved.”

“No, he can't call me back. I'll call him later.” Rob Lucas slammed the telephone receiver down. He looked at his watch. One-thirty. The bored voice at the other end of the line had told him that Inspector Sanders had gone to Freyfields to interview Mrs. Neilson “a little while ago.” He tapped his thumb against his upper lip and considered his options. Was it worth driving out to Freyfields on the chance that Sanders would still be there, and could be reasoned with, before this whole thing got even more desperately out of control? It was risky. He had borrowed Kelleher's name to make the call, but his voice on the telephone had probably been recognized. Someone in the department was probably figuring out right now what Lucas was likely to do, and would turn up at the estate to pick him up. But as long as Lucas had an opportunity to talk to the inspector first, it didn't matter so much. He would chance it.