Greenwich (20 page)

“I like that, too,” David agreed. “My father said that during the Vietnam War, there was a tremendous peace movement, and their slogan was, Make love, not war.”

Thirty-six

K
nowledgeable residents of Greenwich said of the local police department that it was not as bad as its severest critics said it was, but ever since the still unsolved Moxley murder, two decades before, the police had been the butt of constant criticism; nevertheless, Greenwich had its own Criminal Investigation Department, headed by John MacGregor, a fifty-year-old veteran of New York City Homicide. MacGregor had served his time in New York, and he was pleased with his new job in Greenwich, the more so because in twenty years Greenwich had had less than half a dozen murders. He looked upon the town as a good place to live out his years without too much stress.

He happened to be at the police station when a 911 call came in, informing them that a double murder had taken place at the Castle home out in the Back Country. Actually, he was on his way cut, and Ginny, the woman at the front desk, caught him at the door.

“Who called it in?”

“An hysterical woman. But it's the Castle place out off North Street.”

“Real?”

“Yes, sounds real.”

“There are two cars north of the Merritt. Head them over there. Give me the address. And tell Seeber to get his ass out here. Got the address?”

She handed him a paper slip.

“And tell them not to touch anything. Just seal it off.”

Cal Seeber appeared, a plainclothes detective in his forties, heavyset, with a perpetual frown.

“Come with me,” MacGregor said, handing him the slip of paper. “Do you know where this is?”

“Sure. The Castle place.”

“Then, let's go.”

Driving across town, from Mason Street and police headquarters to the Back Country, MacGregor said, “I understand we got Castle's son in the cooler and that this Manelli guy has dropped the charges. How long have we had him?”

“Since midnight yesterday. That lets him out.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” MacGregor said. “We got no time yet on the killing.”

“Castle was with them when they took the kid away.”

“That lets him out.”

“Manelli dropped the charges, so we have to let him go.”

“I want the kid held until we get back. Or better yet, bring him out to the house. I want to talk to him. What's the kid like?”

Seeber made the call on the car phone.

“Seventeen, eighteen, snotty little bastard,” Seeber said. “Rich-kid syndrome. Drives a two-seater BMW. He's a package from Castle's first wife.”

“So talk about Castle.”

“Very rich, even by Greenwich standards. Big four-million-dollar house. I hear he used to be in the government, Assistant Secretary of something, years ago. Now he's an investment banker. Dumped his first wife and married one of them trophy wives. That's a Greenwich expression for number two or three.”

“What's number two like?”

“Like about forty,” Seeber went on. “She's a real classy woman. Strawberry blond, even in the roots. And built. I heard she ain't much on the brain side. I went up there once to talk about the kid, when he smashed up his car. She's a weeper, and she turned me over to Castle. He seemed like a decent enough guy, tried to give me a couple of hundred to go easy on the kid. I don't take. But he didn't go into a rage, like some of them do.”

“And wife number one?”

“She's in L.A. Drugs, white soldiers. I got an inquiry from L.A. when they arrested her. She's out on parole by now, but it don't look like no woman's job.”

“You'd be surprised. When we get there, you call State Forensics and tell them to send down a fingerprint man. Who's in the prowl cars?”

“I think Johnson and Lowsky.”

“They'll call an ambulance, won't they?”

“I guess so—if either of the two are alive.”

“Trouble with Greenwich,” MacGregor said, “is that you don't have enough homicide to establish a routine.”

“Maybe it'll improve, Chief, now that you've taken over.”

“And I don't like smart-ass, Seeber. I ask; you tell me. Plain?”

“No problem,” Seeber replied.

Following Seeber's directions, MacGregor pulled into the driveway of the Castle estate. Seeing nothing moving, he followed the driveway around the house to the pool and pool house, where two police cars were parked, the two uniformed policemen talking with a young, attractive black woman in a maid's dress and apron.

“She found the bodies,” one of the uniformed cops, name of Johnson, said to MacGregor.

“Where are the bodies?” MacGregor asked.

Nodding toward the pool house, the other patrolman said, “In there. That's Mr. Castle's office.”

“Who?”

“Castle and the downstairs maid. Her name is Josie Brown.”

At this, Donna began to weep. The second cop, whose name was Lowsky, put his arm around her and said, “Easy, kid. Just work easy. You'll be all right.”

“Either of you touch anything inside?” MacGregor asked the cops.

“No, Chief. Just tried a pulse on the black kid in there. No pulse, she took two in the chest. Castle had his brains shot out.”

“Where's the wife?”

“Donna here got her into the house. She's taking it hard, according to this kid.”

“Did you call for an ambulance?”

Lowsky nodded.

“From the car phone, I hope. You didn't touch the phone in there,” pointing to the office.

“No, Chief.”

“OK. Take Donna into the house, and keep her and the wife there. Don't question them. Anyone else around?”

“No one.”

MacGregor turned to Johnson: “You drive out to the front, and park so no one else gets in here except the ambulance. Me and Seeber, we'll be inside here or in the house. If her lawyer comes, let him in. Anyone else, come and ask me.”

Then MacGregor and Seeber went into Castle's pool-house office. MacGregor opened and closed the door with his handkerchief. The cops must have done the same. He could see that it was wiped clean. Stepping carefully to avoid the pools of blood, they stood and stared at the bodies.

“She must have come in when the perp had the gun in his hand,” Seeber observed. “Fell and slopped the coffee she was carrying.”

“He's got blood on his shoe,” MacGregor said.

“Might be one of the cops. The computer's on.”

“Sometimes, they leave it on. Something about the processor. Go out and call State and tell them to send a computer guy down with the fingerprint man. Not with this phone. Step out and use the car phone.”

MacGregor continued to look around him. Except for a large wood and metal desk, the computer, printer, and a facsimile machine, there was nothing there. Not even a picture on the wall. The desk had three drawers on each side and a drawer in the middle and on the desk, there were two glasses, one partly full, and a bottle of scotch. Again using a handkerchief carefully, MacGregor opened the six side-drawers. The middle drawer was locked, he took out a pocketknife and slid the blade in without result, damning the fact that it was a square bolt. The other drawers were empty.

Apparently, it was a very new desk. On its surface, which contained a brass desk set, pen, and letter opener, the desk was smooth, shiny, and empty, except for one uneven spot where the finish was slightly marred. He ran his fingers over the marred spot, and then bent over the desk and smelled the spot. Something had been burned there, he decided. Who burns something on the top of a new, steel-topped desk? A cigar? There was a faint tinge of cigar scent in the room, but this was somehow different. Something had been burned on the desk. A cigar, partly smoked, was on the floor.

Seeber returned. “State doesn't have a computer expert they can send on a Saturday. They say we should find one here or ask Norwalk.”

“Screw Norwalk. What do you do when your computer goes haywire?”

“There's a place on Mason Street.”

“The hell with that! Is the ambulance on the way?”

“Should be here any minute.” Seeber held up a bullet. “It must have gone straight through her. I found it outside the door in the grass.”

“Good. Bag it, and we'll send it up to State.”

MacGregor's spirits were rising. It was all very well to talk about a peaceful and pleasant retirement, but after twenty-five years of New York City homicides, the peace and quiet of Greenwich had begun to wear on him. He had little imagination for other things than violent death, but within the scope of his experience he was as good as the best. He was a short, stocky man, born in Glasgow; and while his wife would be disturbed by this interruption, he was professionally delighted. Until now, he had dealt with burglaries, a new field and not too engaging. Here, he was at home.

He went through Castle's pockets, hoping he would find the key to the desk drawer. No key. But the killer might have found the key. MacGregor began to crawl around the room on his hands and knees.

“What in hell are you up to?” Seeber asked.

“This!” MacGregor announced, holding up the key. “Right here in the corner. That's where the perp threw it.”

MacGregor opened the desk drawer, gave a small leather date book to Seeber, and opened the file. “Go through it page by page,” he said. “Find something useful.” But how would Seeber know that something was useful? Spreading the papers in the file folder, MacGregor went through them.

He found nothing that appeared to connect.

“I got something,” Seeber said.

“Show me.”

“It's a date book. Not many entries. He must have another date book, maybe in the house. But here, look, today's date, ‘250 M to Larry.'”

Seeber rose in MacGregor's estimation.

“Two hundred and fifty grand, that's one hell of a piece of change. Anything else about Larry?”

“No. Want to go through it again?”

“Later.”

At that moment, the ambulance arrived. MacGregor took a piece of soft chalk from his pocket. “Draw a line around the bodies. Don't need to be perfect. Just position them.” He turned to the two ambulance men, “One of you a doctor?”

“I'm an intern,” the younger man said. “What a bloody mess. We don't have anything like this in Greenwich.”

“You got it now. Can you give me something about the time of death, Doc?”

“Like in the movies? Well, they were shot this morning. I was never asked that question before,” the intern said, as if the question were more important than the grisly scene on the floor. “Maybe two hours ago, maybe more. The room is air-conditioned, so that throws it off.”

“You'll do an autopsy?” MacGregor asked.

The intern shrugged. “I don't know. I never been in a situation like this before. Usually, autopsies are only done with permission from, or at the request of, the family. I'll find out at the hospital. Where can I reach you, Officer?”

“At the station house. My name's MacGregor.”

“Why didn't you ask him to keep his mouth shut about it? We'll have TV trucks and reporters all over the place,” Seeber said.

“We'll have them anyway. Let's go into the house and talk to the ladies, and take the Larry book with you.”

The pool was behind the house. Donna let them in at the back door. They walked through a utility room into the kitchen. MacGregor was amazed at the size of the kitchen.

“Where's Mrs. Castle?” MacGregor asked.

“In the living room, lying down on the couch. She's just a wreck, poor thing.”

“You like her?”

“She's a sweetheart.”

“And Mr. Castle?” MacGregor asked.

“He's all right. He pays Josie and me good money—oh, God forgive me! Poor Josie.”

“Take it easy, Donna,” MacGregor said. “Sit down.”

“I got to bring some coffee to Mrs. Castle.”

“In a moment, Donna. Now tell me, how long you been working for the Castles?”

“Six years. Josie got me the job when I graduated from high school. What am I going to tell her momma? Josie's her only child. She lives up in Norwalk. What am I going to tell her?”

“We'll take care of that,” MacGregor said gently. “You give her address and telephone to Detective Seeber here. Now Donna, you know of any friend of Mr. Castle whose name is Larry?”

“Larry what?” Donna asked.

“Just Larry.”

Donna shook her head.

“All right. You think about that, and maybe you'll remember something. Bring the coffee in, and then come back and give the information about Josie to Detective Seeber.”

MacGregor followed Donna into the living room. Sally sat oh a couch, her legs tucked under her, her face streaked with weeping, and a box of tissues next to her. Even drawn as her face was with grief, MacGregor saw a beautiful woman. She wore a T-shirt and jeans, her feet bare. MacGregor noticed that her toenails were not painted. During his years on the New York police force, he always noticed fingernails and toenails.

“Please, have some coffee,” Donna begged her. “I brought you a hot roll.”

Sally shook her head.

“Leave the tray here on the coffee table,” MacGregor told Donna, “and go back to the kitchen and talk to Detective Seeber.” Then he pulled a small chair up to the couch and said gently, “I'm Captain John MacGregor of the Greenwich police, Mrs. Castle. Do you feel you can talk to me?”

At first, Sally simply stared at him without replying. Then she whispered, “I'll try.”

“Good. Thank you. Can you tell me what happened this morning—only what happened to you?”

She took a deep breath, and about a minute passed. MacGregor waited patiently. Finally, Sally whispered, “I woke up, and Richard was up. He almost always gets up first. I put on blue jeans and a T-shirt because I know he likes that and then I went down to the kitchen.” She spoke slowly and with effort, and then paused.