Blameless (23 page)

“What?” Diana demanded, sitting ramrod straight.

“He said that according to his sources on the police department, the Hutchins case is starting to look like a shitcan.”

“A shitcan?”

“Police slang for ‘homicide not likely to be solved.’”

“Really?” Diana’s heart pounded in relief. She slumped into the chair.

“Apparently,” Valerie continued, “they haven’t been able to confirm Jill Hutchins’s alibi either. And the other guy—your patient?”

“Ethan Kruse.”

“Yeah. Well, they still can’t seem to find him—so he’s got no alibi whatsoever.”

“So we’re all equal?” Diana asked.

“You’re all nothing—three suspects with no alibis in a case with no evidence doesn’t add up to much. Although they apparently did discover that your Mr. Kruse has got quite a long rap sheet.”

“That’s no surprise.” Diana knew of a few of Ethan’s encounters with the police, but knowing what Ethan was capable of, she assumed she only had a small piece of the picture.

“Mitch didn’t give me any details, but the important thing is that it looks like you really are in the clear on this one.”

“I think I’m finally starting to believe that.”

“Good,” Valerie said. “It’s about time things began to turn around for you.”

“Thanks.” Diana was caught off-guard by the warmth in Valerie’s voice. “Thanks for everything.”

“All in a day’s work,” Valerie said gruffly. “I’ll be in touch.” Then she hung up.

Diana smiled as she replaced the phone in the cradle.

Less than an hour later, after Diana had only begun to digest her statistics, she heard Craig’s key twist in the lock. She jumped from her chair and ran up the stairs. Something was wrong. Craig never came home from work in the middle of the day. But there he was, smiling and holding out a bouquet of carnations.

Slightly breathless, she asked, “What’s going on?”

“Smelling the coffee, or the roses, or the carnations—or whatever,” he said, coming over and putting his arms around her. “Don’t you think we deserve it?” He kissed her before she could answer his question.

“Is this spring fever in November?” she finally asked, pulling away and smiling up at him. “Are you playing hooky?”

He nodded, and then his expression sobered. “Sort of. I just wanted to be with you. To enjoy this day. To celebrate a little for how everything has turned out.”

And so they did. Most of Diana’s patients hadn’t yet returned, so her afternoon was open. She didn’t even go back down to her office, she just grabbed her jacket, and they headed outside.

Craig loved walking through the city as much as she did, and they meandered along the Christian Science mall while Diana chattered about her astonishing research results, the libel suit Valerie wouldn’t let go of, and Valerie’s report of Mitch Calahane’s shitcan. They had lunch at the deliciously expensive Cafe Budapest—the same restaurant where they had gone, stunned and starry-eyed, the night they had become engaged—and toasted their turn of fortune.

Then, hand in hand, they walked along the brick sidewalks of Marlborough Street talking about Craig’s latest plan for the fantasy mural in the nursery. “It’s going to go across all four walls,” he explained. “A complete circle of fairy tale and Disney characters—we’ll forget the hobbits. I’ve even thrown in a few inventions of my own.” They discussed cribs and the toy box Craig was going to build, and whether, now that Diana’s practice was picking up again, they might be able to afford to have someone come in and take care of the baby, rather than putting her in day care.

The soft air flowed around them like a mother’s caress, all the sweeter for its unexpectedness and the knowledge that it would soon be gone. Other couples strolled as they did, and they smiled at each other, happy co-conspirators, stealing a May afternoon to be relished in late November.

Dusk came too early, as it does on the edge of winter, and Diana and Craig headed toward home, full of themselves and bittersweet nostalgia for the day not yet gone. But when they turned the corner onto St. Stephen Street, they came to a simultaneous stop.

A police cruiser was parked in front of their house.

19

D
IANA WATCHED IN HORROR AS A FAMILIAR BEANPOLE
of a man, sweating slightly from the warmth of his wool sport jacket, climbed from the black-and-white police car. He unfolded himself to well over six feet and stepped to the bottom of their front stoop. Pressing a handkerchief to his forehead, Herb Levine turned and looked at them expectantly.

Diana swayed for a moment, and Craig grabbed her arm. She closed her eyes, feeling as if a steel door had slammed shut behind her, separating her from the world as it had existed just a moment before and thrusting her into a new, and unwelcome, reality. “Valerie said not to say anything without her,” she whispered to Craig.

“Don’t panic,” he ordered. “Maybe it’s nothing. Lift up your head and look him right in the eye.” He gripped her elbow more tightly, and they walked toward the house. “Don’t make it seem like you have anything to hide,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nice to see you again, Dr. Marcus,” Levine said, his smile pleasant. He nodded to Craig. “Mr. Marcus.”

“Frey,” Craig said. “My name is Craig Frey.”

“I’m Detective Levine. Herb Levine.” He shook Craig’s hand and then pulled a badge from his pocket. “Homicide.” He turned back to Diana, his smile even wider. “Sorry I wasn’t more help with your journal.”

Rooted to the sidewalk, Diana swallowed hard and stared at the detective. She didn’t seem to be able to get her brain to work. Her synapses refused to fire, and she felt incapable of either speaking or moving.

“What can we do for you, Detective?” Craig asked.

“I came for your wife’s help,” he said, then turned to Diana. He glanced down at her stomach and smiled. “Please don’t be upset, Dr. Marcus—I just need some psychological advice. Can you spare a few minutes for me to pick your brain, or should I come back some other time?”

Craig smiled at Diana and nodded. “Please,” he said, raising his keys and motioning the policeman up the stairs. Craig gave Diana’s arm a gentle tug and propelled her forward.

After Levine refused Craig’s offer of coffee, but gratefully handed over his jacket, the two men climbed up toward the great room. Diana hung behind to call Valerie, but Craig shook his head at her. She hesitated, then slowly followed, knowing that Craig was right about not looking guilty, but nonetheless feeling vulnerable without the knowledge Valerie was on her way.

Herb Levine ducked as he walked through the doorway, then settled himself comfortably into the leather chair. Diana and Craig perched on the edge of the couch. Levine didn’t say a word. He just crossed his long legs and looked around as if he were a dinner guest waiting to be served cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Diana and Craig shifted in their seats. Diana leaned forward and rearranged the magazines that littered the coffee table. Still the policeman said nothing.

Craig cleared his throat. “So how can we help you, Detective?” he asked again.

“Well, as I said, it’s really your wife’s help I need. On the Hutchins case.” He leaned toward Diana. “It’s about Ethan Kruse. I understand he’s also a patient of yours?”

Diana hesitated. Although his words were reassuring, she still wished that Valerie was coming.

“We were under the impression that this case was going to be closed,” Craig said before Diana could answer the policeman’s question.

“The Hutchins case?” Levine asked, his gray eyebrows pulling upward. “Unsolved homicides are never closed. There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” he added, smiling pleasantly at Diana.

Diana knew she should hold Levine’s eye, that to look down would imply guilt. But she was afraid he would see the reflection of the terror his words had sparked in her. She leaned over and pulled up her sock.

“We heard it was a—a ‘shitcan,’” Craig said, then barked a false-sounding chuckle.

Levine didn’t seem to notice that Craig’s chuckle wasn’t real, and he began to laugh also, a huge belly laugh that lit up his face. He was obviously amused by some private joke that Diana and Craig were not privy to. A joke Diana worried was at their expense.

She looked over at Craig; he shrugged his shoulders and laughed along with Levine. As Diana tried to smile, she had the fleeting and irrelevant thought that Herb Levine must be a fun guy at a party.

“A shitcan!” Levine finally gasped, blotting his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “A shitcan!”

“But it isn’t?” Craig asked.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Levine answered, still chortling. “Gregg. Who I think you met?” He looked at Diana questioningly.

She returned his gaze, confused.

“Detective Gregg,” he repeated patiently, still smiling slightly. ‘Didn’t he stop by to talk to you the other day?”

Diana nodded slowly, a muddled memory emerging that one of the detectives she had spoken with had a name that started with “G.”

Levine smiled sympathetically. “When my wife was pregnant, she forgot everything. ‘Prego-amnesia,’ she called it.”

Diana’s answering smile was weak.

“Anyway,” Levine continued conversationally, “Gregg moved over to Special Investigations, and Hutchins got added to my caseload.” He paused and glanced from Diana to Craig and then slowly back to Diana. Suddenly he didn’t look like such a fun party guest after all. “I don’t believe in shitcans.”

Diana placed both palms protectively over her stomach. “Of course not,” she finally managed to say. “Of course not.”

Levine’s eyes followed Diana’s movements, and when he looked back at her, his expression was gentler. “So do you have any idea where Ethan Kruse might be, Dr. Marcus?”

She shook her head and explained to him about Ethan’s frequent disappearances and apologized for not being able to give him more information due to doctor-patient confidentiality.

He nodded and wrote the few things she said in his notebook. When she had told him all that she legally could—which wasn’t much—he stood. “Just one more thing,” he said. “What kind of printer do you own, Dr. Marcus?”

“Printer?” Diana asked, standing also.

“Don’t you use a computer in your work?” Levine’s voice was patient. “I thought I remembered seeing one the last time I was here.”

“Oh, my printer,” Diana exclaimed. “Yes, of course I have a printer.”

“And exactly what kind of printer is it?”

“It’s a—a—” She turned and looked to Craig for help, her brain locking up.

“An NEC Pinwriter,” Craig said quickly, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Either a P6 or P7—it’s right downstairs. Why?”

“Is it one of those lasers?” Levine asked, ignoring Craig’s question. “Or …” He paused and flipped a couple of pages in his notebook. “Is it a dot matrix?”

“Dot matrix,” Diana said. “But it has a very good letter-quality setting,” she added foolishly.

Levine nodded. “Hutchins had a laser.”

“What does that mean?” Craig demanded, shoving Levine’s jacket at him.

The detective took his jacket and shrugged nonchalantly. “Probably nothing. It’s just that Hutchins’s sister received a suicide note that was printed on a dot matrix printer and, according to her, he had one of those newfangled lasers—” He checked his notes again. “Hewlett Packard. She showed it to me.”

“She didn’t save her brother’s body or the gun that killed him,” Craig said, his tone thick with disgust, “but she saved his printer.” He looked piercingly at Levine. “Seems kind of suspicious, don’t you think?”

The detective nodded. “Yes, it does.” Then he turned to Diana. “You wouldn’t mind going downstairs and printing a page or two off your printer for me, would you?”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “But my lawyer told me to check everything with her first.”

Levine nodded and smiled. “That’s fine. Fine. I didn’t come here for that anyway.” He held his hands up. “No problem. I can get a warrant if it turns out to be important.”

Diana nodded and led him out of the room.

“Did James Hutchins ever mention his landlady—a Mrs. Manfredi?” Levine asked as he ducked through the great room doorway.

Diana stopped on the landing. “Just that he helped her out sometimes—shoveling snow, taking in the garbage cans, that kind of thing.”

“Seems that she thinks she remembers hearing footsteps right after the shooting,” Levine said. “Running down the stairs. She says she’s sure they were a woman’s footsteps. Says she knows they weren’t a man’s. But …” He paused and looked at Diana. “Frankly, Doctor, she just doesn’t seem all there, if you know what I mean. So I was just wondering if you knew anything about her. Like if you think I should take her seriously?”

“But the murder was over a month ago,” Craig said, stepping between Diana and Levine. “How come she’s just reporting this now?”

Herb Levine looked a bit sheepish and smiled. “Because we never asked her before.”

“If she really had heard something, don’t you think she would have told you without anyone having to ask?” Craig persisted. “And isn’t almost five weeks an awfully long time for a memory to remain credible?”

Levine nodded seriously, as if Craig’s suppositions were actually causing him to consider the facts in a new light. Then he turned back to Diana. “You told Gregg and Kimberle you were working in your home office at the time of the murder?”

“Yes,” she croaked, then cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes,” she said more clearly. “We went through this whole thing with my lawyer.”

“But no one can verify that claim?”

“My wife works alone a lot of the time,” Craig answered for Diana. “It’s the nature of her job.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Marcus—”

“Frey.”

“Mr. Frey,” Levine corrected. “It’s just rather unfortunate in this particular situation.”

“But we understand that neither Jill Hutchins nor Ethan Kruse have alibis for that afternoon either,” Craig said.

Levine’s eyebrows shot up again and he looked closely at both of them. “That was true a few days ago,” he said slowly.

Diana gripped the banister, unable to ask the question that she needed to have answered.