Idyll Threats (18 page)

“Yes, they are.” I didn't elaborate.

“Who's manning the emergency-care station?” he asked.

Inside my folder was an underlined note from Mrs. Dunsmore. “EMERGENCY CARE IS THE FIRE DEPARTMENT'S REPONSIBILITY!!!”

“That's the Fire Department's responsibility. And where is Captain Hirsch?” I asked.

“He doesn't attend the committee meetings,” Mr. Neilly said. “Busy putting out fires.” He chuckled at his wit.

“Right. Any other questions?” I asked.

“You only have two men assigned to the arts-and-crafts areas,” Mrs. Mullen said. She worried the tail of her gray braid. “But we need more support! There's thousands of dollars in merchandise. Some booths aren't well staffed.”

“I'm afraid two officers are all we can manage.”

“But—”

“Now, Mrs. Mullen,” said Mr. Neilly. “This is Chief Lynch's first Idyll Days. He's not familiar with the procedures. I'm sure he'll incorporate our feedback and give us revised copies of his plans at the next meeting.”

“There's another meeting?” The circle of faces looked at me, astonished at my ignorance.

“Next week. Same date and time,” the mayor said.

“I'm sorry, but I can't make it.”

“What?” Mrs. Kettle asked. Her bangles sounded the alarm as she raised her arms. “Now, Chief,” she began.

“Look, I'll provide police support for this large and important town event. But I have other work. I'm running a murder investigation.
I'm sorry, but I can't attend more meetings. My proposals are based on prior years' needs and this year's estimated attendance. And they're final.”

A woman came into the room. “Chief Lynch? You've got a phone call from the police station. He said it's urgent.”

“Excuse me.” My chair scraped backward. I followed her to a cramped office dominated by stacks of telephone books. She pointed to the phone and left.

“Hello?” I said. “Lynch here.”

“Hi, Chief,” Billy said. “You still there?” I'd had the foresight to tell him to call me at Town Hall, just in case I was trapped there after an hour.

“Just leaving. Thanks.”

“You need anything else?” he asked.

“No, thanks. Have a good night.” I hung up and looked around. Phone books. I had one for Idyll, but not for neighboring towns. They'd come in handy for the names on Elmore's list.

You don't need Elmore's list. You've got Gary Clark.

But did I? I wanted him to be our man. No one wanted it more.

Perhaps the men on the course were witnesses.

The gay men could've fled after the shots were fired. Scared. Afraid to come forward, to admit why they were there, what they were doing. Any defense attorney would love to get at those witnesses. Perverts committing filthy acts on a golf course? It would be a slam-dunk. No wonder they hadn't come forward, volunteered what they knew. Would I in that situation?

I picked up three area phone books. Just in case.

The air in the station was charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. The men crackled with purpose. Even Yankowitz strode with his chest out, shoulders back, as he carried his ticketing booklet. Everyone knew we had a man in our sights.

Our arguments were forgotten, for now. Wright reported to me, without attitude, that Mr. and Mrs. Gary Clark owned a home in Cheshire and a cottage on Nantucket. Mrs. Clark came from money. Poor Gary had to earn his. At his last job, he'd gotten into hot water. A sexual-harassment complaint was filed. He'd left the company and gone to Liberty Insurance. Where Cecilia let him harass her. Finnegan said that all of Clark's poker buddies had recanted their prior statements. Revere told me that Gary didn't own a registered gun, but his wife did. Not our model. That didn't sink our hopes. He could have bought one illegally. Borrowed one.

I was reaching for the phone when it rang.

“Hi, Chief, it's Jenna Dash. I just finished reviewing his files. There's something you might be interested in.” I noticed she didn't mention Gary Clark by name. Did she think we taped our calls?

“I'm all ears,” I said.

“Do you know anything about STOLIs?”

“Isn't that vodka?”

“Um, yes, but STOLI is also short for stranger-originated life insurance.”

“Not familiar with it.” I grabbed my notepad.

“STOLIs represent when someone offers another person a life-insurance
policy and says, ‘Hey, you don't have to pay the premiums or the interest on this. I'll take care of it for you, for say, two or three years.' Then at the end of that period, the payer asks the insured person if they want to pay the accrued interest and principal.”

“Okay,” I understood this, sort of.

“But most older folks are on fixed incomes. They can't afford a large policy. So whoever's been paying keeps doing so, and when the insured person dies, the payer get the money. And since most STOLIs are targeted to the elderly, they don't wait too long for payday.”

“Is this common?” It seemed like betting, only on death rather than on dogs or horses. Death was a surer proposition.

“It's becoming more so, and it's worrisome. If an elderly person has a STOLI taken out on him, he can't purchase another life-insurance policy, and if he can't afford the one that's been taken out on him, then he's pretty much screwed.”

“And that's legal?”

“Yes, but it's not best practice.”

“And Gary Clark was offering these policies?”

“He's handled policies where the insured party is not the same person paying the premium. And the payee doesn't appear to be a spouse or family member. I'm going from what I can see on my computer. The paper files would have more information.”

“But if it's not illegal, he wouldn't be in trouble, right?”

“Yes and no. Legally, he's within bounds, but six months ago, Liberty Insurance issued a memo to all agents insisting they not handle STOLIs. The company is being sued by a couple who claim we defrauded their father by offering him a STOLI. Until that's settled, agents shouldn't complete these deals.”

“Could he be fired?”

“Yes.”

“Could Cecilia have known?”

She gave it some thought and said, “She couldn't have seen his caseload, and, honestly, even if she had, I don't think she'd have known how to interpret this stuff.”

“But he might have told her.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If they were close, like you said.”

I asked a few more questions about the policies. “Don't suppose there's any way the company is likely to let me peek at those files?”

“Not without a warrant,” she said.

“Then I'll get one.”

“You really think he killed her? Over STOLIs?” she asked.

“I'm not sure why he killed her, but he's looking better and better for it. Thanks for your help, Jenna.”

“Don't mention it. Please. I don't think my employer would be happy about my helping you.”

“Mum's the word.”

Did Cecilia and Gary Clark fight the night she died? Had she threatened him? Made him fear for his job? How badly did he need to work? His wife had money. Or was Cecilia unhappy about being the mistress? Had she wanted more?

Time to share what I'd learned. The pen was dim with smoke, the air thick with testosterone. I explained about the STOLIs. I didn't tell them how I knew, even when asked. I wanted to keep Jenna's job safe.

“You think our victim found out about the policies?” Revere asked.

“He might've told her.”

“How did he plan to keep them secret? Wouldn't they eventually be found?” Billy asked. Good question.

I repeated what Jenna had told me. “The files appear to be pending, though they're months old. Maybe he hoped to keep them like that until Liberty settled its STOLI lawsuit.”

“Seems dangerous,” Wright said. “What if Liberty ends up paying through the nose and banning all future STOLIs?”

“I'm told it's unlikely. STOLIs generate revenue, and no court has faulted an insurance company for offering the policy. Most likely, he'll be in the clear.”

“He killed her because of insurance?” Billy asked.

“Maybe not. Maybe she threatened to tell his wife.”

He crossed his arms. “I don't think she'd have done that.” Everything
about his body said he wanted to believe Cecilia was a good girl. And good girls didn't sleep with married men. But he'd seen the diary.

“Billy, if you can't keep an open mind about the victim, say so now.”

He uncrossed his arms. “I can. It just doesn't fit her profile.”

Finnegan exhaled cigarette smoke in circles that expanded and wobbled through the air. Billy, easily distracted from his anger, clapped. Wright said, “You should be in the circus.”

“Time to pick Clark up. Who wants the honor?” I asked.

Billy shot his hand up in the air. We all pretended we hadn't seen him. After a few seconds, he lowered it and said, “Oh.”

“Wright?” I said. He probably wasn't the smartest choice. He was the type to bump Gary Clark's head into the cruiser door while saying, “Watch your head.” But I needed to make a peace gesture, and I didn't much care if our suspect got a bruise on his way in.

He grabbed his keys and said, “Time to get the bad guy.” He hummed as he left.

Revere said, “What's with him?” He asked Finnegan, “He has a hard-on for men who hurt women?”

“How'd you know?” Finnegan asked.

I recalled Anthony Fergus. How Wright had wanted to fit him up for this killing.

Finnegan stubbed out his cigarette butt. “His mother got knocked around some when Wright was growing up. Makes him a bit zealous when it comes to guys like that.”

I felt a flare of anger. That I hadn't known this. It would've helped. I would've understood why Wright wanted Anthony Fergus so badly. But then, I hadn't made much of an effort to understand. Too busy playing solitaire in my office, staying away from my men. Not getting too close, as I had with Rick. People can't hurt you if you don't let them near.

Revere offered to fetch the warrants. Said he knew the judge on roster. “So we want his home and car, right?” he said. He ran his hand over his buzz cut.

“I want access to his work files too.”

“That's gonna be a tough sell. Privacy concerns for the clients, yada yada.”

“Sway the judge to our side. If the files don't pertain to the case, I'll gladly return them. But the victim told her aunt she suspected something wasn't right at the company. If Mr. Clark knew she'd talked—”

He interrupted with, “Did he kill her because of his job or because he didn't want her talking to his wife? Pick a motive and stick to it. I don't want to be arguing two separate cases.”

“Get me a warrant for the files, his car, and his home, and I'll get you one solid motive.”

Revere huffed, but he said, “I'll try,” before he walked to his much newer, nicer patrol vehicle.

While I'd jawed with Revere, Billy had updated the board. Gary Clark was front and center, and a picture of his car was pinned to a town map.

“Has anyone been able to establish that he and the victim were together the day he lied about his car accident and she called in sick?” I asked.

Finnegan said, “Her mother said Cecilia was out most of the day. Said she went out to return library books and to get medicine. Her mother offered to do both, but Cecilia insisted.”

“Did she return the books?”

“Yup. Two of 'em. I checked with the library.”

“Did she get medicine?”

“No. When her mother asked, Cecilia got upset and said she didn't know what to buy since she wasn't sure if she had a summer cold or some other bug.”

“So she makes it to the library but not the drugstore,” I said.

“You think she met him after the library?” Billy asked.

“It's possible. But where? The cabin isn't the safest bet during daytime,” Finnegan said.

We thought about it but had no answers.

“Come to me when you've got a confession,” I said as I walked to my office. I needed to be out of sight when Gary Clark came in. Just in case he recognized me.

I passed an hour moving papers on my desk. Trying to figure out where he might've dumped the gun. When I couldn't stand the sound of my own breathing, I did twenty push-ups. It helped. But not enough. So I cracked the door and yelled Billy's name.

He arrived, flushed. “Yeah?”

“How's it going?” I pointed to the interview room.

He worked a piece of chewing gum, hard. “Finnegan and Wright are tag-teaming him. Clark spent his call on his wife. He told her he was working late tonight.”

“How long they been in there?”

He glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes.”

“Keep me updated.”

He nodded. “Will do.”

The next few hours were torture. I wanted to be in that room, getting in Clark's face, pushing his buttons. I was good at it. Rick used to call me “Secret Spanish,” as in the Inquisition. First time we handled a murder, I got the killer to confess in less than two hours.

“Damn, Tommy, that was fucking A-one stuff!” Rick had high-fived me, his hand small against mine. “At this rate, we'll have all the killers in this precinct locked up by Christmas!”

We didn't. Of course we didn't. But our solve rate was better than average. At least until things started to sour. I don't know why he first tried the stuff. He'd always been a booze guy. The great Irish way. But I knew when he started because no one visits the john that often unless they've got problems. He had a problem. He was developing a cocaine habit.

“Chief?” Wright stood outside my door, ajar just enough for me to see any major activity.

I rubbed my forehead, as if I could massage it empty of troubled thoughts. “Come in.”

His shirt was creased. Damp under the armpits. The interview room was hot. We kept it that way. Wright rubbed his graying hair and said, “He's admitted to seeing her, even said they were at that cabin by Hought's Pond. But he swears he dropped her off near the golf course and never saw her again.”

“Convenient.”

“Plus, he's got this story about two guys at the cabin.”

My stomach fell six stories.

“Two guys?”

“Yeah. He says he and the victim were ‘getting intimate' and these two guys stormed inside the cabin. Accused him and Cecilia of trespassing. So he and the victim left. But now he's saying maybe it was these two guys who followed them, and after Cecilia got on the golf course, maybe they shot her.”

“He give a description of these men?”

He smiled. “He says one was a cop. Claims he had a badge. The other guy was smaller and older.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I swear, he's going to say he saw Jimmy Hoffa there next.”

I forced my mouth into a smile. “Great. He lawyered-up yet?”

“Yes.” He tapped his belt. “But I didn't recognize the name.”

I got up and stood in the doorway. Finnegan was smoking, talking to Revere. Revere started laughing. I should be happy. And I couldn't be.

Wright said, “We got Billy calling the lawyer now. Figured he earned it by fingering the cabin for their meeting place first.”

Billy. Not me. Right. I said, “Has Clark said anything else damning?”

Wright scratched his chin stubble. “Other than that he's the last person to have seen her alive and he dropped her at the murder site? Nope.”

“What about the STOLIs?”

“Oh, man. He about wet himself when we mentioned those. Kept saying, ‘I could lose my job' over and over. Like that's his big worry. I swear, this guy…” He shook his head, confounded by our suspect's priorities.

“Great. Let him sweat, then give him his lawyer.”

Ten minutes later, Billy recounted the conversation with Clark's lawyer for us. The guy was a real-estate attorney who knew Mr. Clark through insurance work. When called, he went into shock. “Gary's
accused of what?” followed by denial, “But I can't handle this!” And then anger. “Why would he pull me into this?” He quickly moved on to acceptance, the kind that involved passing the buck. “I'll call my friend, Lou,” he said. “He's done some criminal law.”