I
’ve been beating my head against this Cullrane murder all day long,” I said to Kerry that night after dinner, “and all I’ve got for the effort is a headache.”
“Well, I hate to say it, but that could be because you’re trying to build a case where none exists.”
“I don’t think so. Angelina Pollexfen could be guilty, sure, and the shooting could’ve happened the way Yin and Davis have it figured, but there’re too many inconsistencies—Pollexfen gathering her and Cullrane together in the library, feeding them drinks that were almost certainly drugged. The three-hour time lapse. The doors apparently being bolted from the inside for no good reason. Plus the kind of man Pollexfen is, plus the blackmail and revenge motives.”
We were in our mom-and-pop chairs in the living room, a wood fire going, cups of espresso on the table between us. Emily was there, too, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, reading
Pride and Prejudice
for
her school English class. Behind her, Shameless lay draped half on the couch and half on her shoulder in one of his typical cat poses, purring loud enough to override the crackle of the fire. Entire family in after-dinner repose, everybody comfortable except me.
“There’s a wrongness about the crime scene, too,” I said. “I was in the library only three or four minutes, but I must’ve picked up on something because it didn’t feel right afterward, still doesn’t feel right.”
“In what way?”
“Well, for one thing, it seemed staged. The more I think about it, the more everything about the case seems staged.”
“The missing first editions, too, you mean?”
“Yes. All part of the same plan.”
“So you’re saying Pollexfen took the books?”
“More likely him than anybody else.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Start the ball rolling. Set up a motive for his wife to kill her brother.”
“But the murder method … that’s what doesn’t make sense.”
“It will if I can figure out the how and the why. How do you arrange a shooting inside a locked room so you have a perfect alibi when it happens? And why use a shotgun, a weapon that makes a hell of a mess? Most of the carnage was confined to the fireplace, but there were blood spatters on some of the book spines. As passionate as Pollexfen is about his collection, why risk the damage?”
“Maybe he didn’t realize how much of a mess there’d be.”
“He’s too smart to overlook something like that.”
“The shotgun was the only weapon in the library?”
“The only gun in the house. Kept loaded and prominently displayed.”
“Then it must’ve been a necessary part of whatever the trick was.”
“Sure. But a big, heavy piece like that … cumbersome, impossible to gimmick.”
Kerry sipped her espresso. “Is it possible Pollexfen shot Cullrane
before
he left for the auction? Recorded the sound of the shot, say, and set a timer so it played when it did?”
“Good theory, but no, that’s not the answer.” I glanced over at Emily and lowered my voice. “The room stank of burned powder and all the blood and gore was fresh. The shot we heard in the hallway is the one that killed Cullrane, no doubt of that.”
“Well, then, I’m totally baffled. I can’t imagine any other explanation.”
“Neither can I. But there has to be one. He staged it all, right down to handing me his key so I’d be the one to unlock the two dead holts. And with precision timing.”
“Are you certain the timing was so precise?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems incredible that he could arrange the shooting to the exact moment you and his secretary were in the house with him. How could he know he’d arrive home exactly when he did? He might’ve gotten stuck in traffic driving back from downtown.”
I rattled that around inside my head. “You’re right,” I said. “The shooting didn’t have to be perfectly timed. For that matter, Pollexfen didn’t have to’ve been in the house at all for the plan to work.”
“Just luck he was there when it happened?”
“From his point of view. Cullrane could already have been dead when Brenda Koehler and I came in. All Pollexfen really needed was a couple of witnesses to testify to the fact that the library door was locked. But that still doesn’t help explain how he managed the shooting.”
“There’s another thing I don’t understand,” Kerry said. “Why would he devise such an elaborate scheme in the first place? I mean, if you’re going to kill one person and frame another, why do it in such a complicated way?”
“Give himself a perfect alibi.”
“Still. It seems so … overblown.”
“Yes, it does. Bothers me, too, but—”
“Maybe he did it that way because he wanted to fool you, Dad.” Emily, from her cross-legged slouch on the carpet.
Kerry said, “Emily, you’re supposed to be reading, not eavesdropping on adult conversation.”
I said, “No, wait a minute. What did you mean, maybe he did it to fool me?”
“You and the police,” Emily said. “You said he collects mysteries and he’s a big fan. What if he worked out a puzzle he thought nobody could solve, like in Agatha Christie’s books? Only instead of writing it, he actually did it because he thinks he’s smarter than real-life detectives.”
Well, by God, I thought. My thirteen-year-old logical minded, casually brilliant daughter.
Out of the mouths of babes.
I
couldn’t sleep. Cullrane’s murder, the elusive wrongness of the crime scene, the gimmick that I couldn’t quite figure out. And Emily’s insight into Pollexfen’s motives, which I should have realized on my own. Cullrane had as much as presented me with the same insight on Tuesday:
He’s a schemer, you’re a private eye. If you’re smarter than he is, you’ll figure it out like Mickey Spillane.
Pollexfen, the mystery buff. Pollexfen, the sly manipulator. Completely in character for him to have devised what he considered a perfect crime and then to set it into motion, not only as revenge against two people he hated but as a match of his wits against those of trained investigators. It would explain the “stolen” first editions, the report to the police, the insurance claim—all part and parcel of a twisted and deadly game. Hell, he’d even thrown out little clues. His request to Barney Rivera that Great Western assign its best investigator to the case. Quoting the Sherlock Holmes dictum to me. A goddamn open challenge.
Yes, but what about the time element? Cullrane had been blackmailing him for a long time; he’d hated his wife for a long time. Waiting until he figured out the right gimmick? One factor, probably, but there had to be another—a trigger of some kind, the final push across the line between intellectual game and actual murder.
Something Cullrane had done, maybe an increased demand for money? Possibly. The poor state of Pollexfen’s
health? More likely. His age, his heart condition, those increased insurance premiums. Say he’d been told or intuited that he didn’t have long to live. So why not go out in an egocentric blaze of glory, one suited to his intelligence, his passion for crime fiction, the nature of his victims, his penchant for manipulation. End his life basking in the glow of his cleverness and final triumph. Also perfectly in character.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Not if I could help it.
How to prove his guilt to the police? Everything I had so far was circumstantial or speculative. They wouldn’t listen unless I could offer some proof, or at least a plausible explanation of how the murder was committed.
What
was
it about the library, the crime scene, that had struck me as wrong? Concentrate. I visualized the room again, replayed in stop time the few minutes I’d spent in there.
The shotgun in relation to Cullrane’s body?
No.
The position of the body?
… Yes, but that wasn’t all of it.
Angelina Pollexfen’s position?
No.
What then? Something else, something else …
The books.
The stack on the couch. And the blood-spattered rows next to the fireplace.
Yes, dammit, the books!
TUCKER DEVRIES
H
e hated bowling alleys.
Too many people crowded into a confined space on these league nights. And the noise—too much noise. Hard rubber and plastic balls racketing on polyurethane lanes and metal returns. Pins crashing, crashing, crashing. Yells, loud voices, loud laughter. An unending din that set up a pounding in his head until he felt like screaming.
They were unclean places, too. This one had sticky tabletops, soiled booth cushions and banquette seats, stained carpets. Dirt everywhere. He had to get up and go into the men’s room every few minutes to scrub his hands and face. Not that it did much good. The filth had crept into his pores, making his skin crawl. The only way to completely cleanse himself was to stand under a hot shower, lather his body over and over with rough-textured soap, and it would be many hours before he could do that.
Tonight, though, the feeling of contamination was more
tolerable than on the other Thursday nights he’d come here to Los Alegres Lanes. He felt too good otherwise. Excited, but in that tamped-down, controlled way. Ready for the first execution, with the second soon to come.
He watched Cliff Henderson step up to the ball return, heft a gaudy, marbled blue ball in his big hands, then hook it powerfully down the lane. Strike. Henderson’s teammates cheered, made raucous comments, slapped his back. Ninth frame of the third game and they were winning this one as they’d won the previous two.
Now.
Devries got up from the banquette seat, walked to the bathroom to rewash his hands and face. Straight outside then and around to the north side of the building. He’d parked the van there because it was a semideserted area, not as well lighted as the big lot out front, crowded with thick shadows created by a low bluff that flanked the property on that side.
He unlocked the rear doors first, not hurrying, he had plenty of time; keyed the driver’s door open and leaned inside. From the glove compartment he transferred the roll of duct tape to his left jacket pocket, then the gun he’d bought to the right one. A .45 automatic, lightweight on an aluminum frame but bulky—it made a bulge in the pocket. That was why he’d kept it in the van until now. Careful.
He left the van unlocked, walked back into the lobby to the long front desk—keeping his right hand in his pocket, around the gun, to minimize the bulge. From there he could see that Henderson’s team was done bowling. Chattering
among themselves now while they changed their shoes and bagged their balls. The first time he’d come here, before the cemetery burning, Henderson and his teammates had had drinks together in the bar. The other two times, aware that he was being stalked, Henderson had left immediately and gone home. That was what he’d do tonight. Creature of habit. Couldn’t give up his twiceweekly league bowling, the only recreation he indulged in regularly. He was cautious, wary, but that wouldn’t matter. Surprise, Cliff—surprise!
Henderson putting his jacket on was the signal to move. Devries turned away from the desk, walking casually, and went outside again and down the row in the front lot to where Henderson’s pickup was slotted. An SUV stood next to it. A man getting into his car two rows away was the only person in sight.
Devries moved around to the side of the SUV, to where he had a clear vantage point. Unzipped the jacket pocket, got a tight grip on the gun. All set.
He watched the entrance. Brightly lit, gradations of grainy black on both sides, pole lights throwing glints of light off metal and glass. Perfect composition for a night study. Too bad he didn’t have time to set up a shot with his Nikkormat or even the Kodak digital. But there’d be plenty of time to create other mementos, much better ones, later on.
After two minutes Henderson came out alone, lugging his bowling bag. Devries ducked down out of sight. Footsteps in the cold darkness, coming close. The sound of the heavy bag thumping into the back of the pickup. He was
moving by then, soundlessly, the gun out and ready. Timed it perfectly. Henderson was unlocking the driver’s door, his back turned. Heard him coming but not soon enough to react.
Devries used his body to crowd Henderson against the door, jabbing the automatic hard into his rib cage, saying in a low voice close to his ear, “This is a gun. Move and I’ll shoot you dead. Promise.”
He could feel the sudden tension in Henderson’s body, the tight coiling of muscles. Heard him say, “You,” in a voice that sounded more angry than scared. Well, that would change. Oh, yes, it would.
“Start walking, Cliff.”
“You bastard, you won’t get away with this—”
Devries dug the barrel into his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt. “Walk, I said. Or you’ll never walk again.”
“ … Where?”
“North side of the building. Cut through the rows away from the lights. If anybody comes out before we get there, don’t stop or slow down. We’re just a couple of buddies on the move.”
“What’re you going to do?” Still angry, but scared enough of the gun not to try any heroics.
“You’ll find out. Walk!”
Henderson walked. Jerkily, at first, then at a more even pace. Devries stayed in close, holding on to the sleeve of Henderson’s jacket with his left hand so he could keep the automatic’s muzzle tight against the ribs. Nobody showed before they reached the corner, went ahead into the shadows.
At the rear of the van he jerked Henderson to a stop. “Listen. Step ahead a couple of paces. Don’t turn around.”
Henderson obeyed. In the cold stillness, the sound of his breathing was loud, raspy. Vapor came out of his mouth in hard little puffs, like tobacco smoke.
Devries started to open the rear door. Voices stopped him—two bowlers with bags, yakking to each other, heading around the corner toward them. He said, quick and low, “Move or make a sound, I’ll kill you.” Henderson looked over his shoulder, but that was all he did.
Devries shifted position so he could watch the two men and Henderson at the same time. Neither bowler paid any attention to them. They deposited their bags in the backseat of a car parked up near the front of the lot, got in. The engine rumbled, exhaust spumed out, backup lights flashed. If they came this way … But they didn’t. The driver backed around sharply, so that the headlights splashed out in the other direction, and the car rattled off through the main lot.
Quickly Devries opened the van’s rear door. Dark inside; he’d unscrewed the bulb. “Back up two steps,” he said to Henderson. “Then get in and lie on your belly, head toward the front.”
“You son of a bitch, I’m not going to—”
“Inside.”
“Whatever you’re planning, you won’t get away with it. The police know who you are.”
“Shut up and get inside. Last time I’ll say it. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you and put you in dead. Don’t think I don’t mean it.”
Henderson made a low, growling sound, but he backed up, hunched a little now, and turned sideways and looked into the dark interior as if he were looking into a pit. The sound came out of him again.
“Hurry up! Facedown, feet together, hands behind you.”
Henderson did as he was told. Squirmed on the mat, breathing heavily as he brought both arms around behind him.
“Where’re you taking me?” Voice muffled against the carpet mat.
Devries said, “You’ll find out,” and went to work with the roll of duct tape.