Madison Avenue Shoot (15 page)

“All right,” he said. “Come with me, Mrs. Fletcher.”

He returned to the door through which he’d just come, and I quickly followed. I didn’t dare glance behind me because I knew there must be consternation on the faces of the two officers, who would now be concerned that others in the room might make a similar fuss. Sure enough, I heard Dan Howerstein speak up. “Do I have to do that to get any attention around here?”

Chesny motioned for me to take a chair across a small table from another empty chair. He was a middle-aged man with a touch of gray at the temples and deep pouches under eyes that were, at once, keenly perceptive but not unkind.

“You’re the mystery writer,” he said flatly.

“That’s right.”

“They told me you were involved.”

“I’m not sure I’d use that word.”

“Suit yourself. You know who did it?”

“Well, no, not yet. I mean, I haven’t even thought about that. You see, my grandnephew—”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know.”

“It’s not as if I wouldn’t be glad to help you. It’s just that—”

“I hate to disabuse you, Mrs. Fletcher, but our police are perfectly capable of solving crimes without your help. However, as long as you’re here, I might as well get your statement.”

“All right,” I said, “but first I have something to ask of
you
.”

He sighed and said, “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m beat, and I don’t have a lot of patience. I’ve had a long day, been in court since early this morning, and now I catch this case, so I’d appreciate it if—”

“I know,” I said.

“You know
what
?”

“That you were in court today.”

Quizzical creases dominated his face.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to forgive me. My mind is going in a dozen different directions at once. I noticed the wrinkles on the back of your jacket, and I know that officers spend a lot of time in courtrooms testifying, sitting around, and if you’d been in your office, you’d probably have hung up your suit jacket before sitting—but in court you don’t have that luxury, so I assumed the wrinkles came from—” I shook my head. “I am sorry, Detective. As I said, my mind is a roller coaster since this terrible thing happened. Yes, of course, take my statement. But before you do, there’s the matter of a missing nine-year-old boy, Frank Fletcher—he’s my grandnephew—and he’s gone and I think finding him should take precedence over anything else you and your officers do. Please! His father and I are worried sick about him.”

“His father is Grady Fletcher. Right?”

“Yes, that’s right. Where is he?”

He ignored my question and took the chair opposite mine.

“Are you doing anything to find Frank?” I asked.

“We have an APB out.”

“An all points bulletin?” I was indignant. “Frank’s not a suspect.”

“He’s a person of interest.”

“What about an Amber Alert? He may have been kidnapped.”

He shook his head. “We can’t do that yet. We don’t have confirmation of an abduction. And we don’t have a description of a kidnapper or a vehicle. The law is very specific about when we can use an Amber Alert. But his mother is bringing up a photograph we can distribute to the officers searching for him.” He looked at his watch. “I expect her any minute.”

Poor Donna. She must have been devastated when she learned Frank was missing. Did Grady call to tell her? Or did she have to hear it from a police officer? How terrible either way. She must be miserably unhappy, driving alone, not sure where she’s going, not knowing where her child is, or even if he’s alive. I hoped she and Grady would be able to comfort each other and not allow recriminations to push them apart at such a distressing time.

I took a deep breath. “Thank you,” I said on a sigh. “Have you searched the building already?”

“Some of my men are doing that now, and I’ve requested backup to lend a hand.”

“That eases my mind a bit.”

“But we haven’t found him yet.”

“If he’s still somewhere in the building, you will. I pray that you do.”

“In the meantime,” he said, “mind if I ask you a few questions?” He pushed a button on a small tape recorder on the table.

“No, of course not.”

“Tell me what happened today, Mrs. Fletcher. You said you and your nephew found the body.”

“That’s right.”

“And how did Miss Archibald die?”

“I imagine the medical examiner will determine that.”

“But I’m asking
you
, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I didn’t see any external wounds—and there wasn’t any blood on her sweater—but there was a hole in her blouse, and we found a nail gun nearby. We thought someone might have used it to kill her.”

“Where was this nail gun you found nearby?”

“In the cart that blocked our view of her body.”

“You didn’t see her and yet you knew the body was behind the cart?”

“We saw her hand, and then we moved the cart.”

“And you found Miss Archibald. What made you suspect she was dead if you saw no blood?”

“It’s not unusual for there to be no blood. If she was killed instantly, her heart would have stopped pumping, and there wouldn’t be any blood. But I imagine that’s not news to you. As a detective, you—”

“Sounds like you looked at the body pretty carefully, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Well, a little. I think she might have been dead for a while. Her jaw—”

“Oh? You’re also a coroner?”

“Of course not.” I waited for him to interrupt me again, and when he didn’t, I went on. “I’m an author of mystery books, but you already know that.”

“Does that make you an expert on time of death?”

“Not at all. But I’ve learned quite a lot over the years.”

“Talk to me about that when you have a medical degree. I don’t want to hear your opinion otherwise.”

“Very well.”

He stood and paced the floor in front of me. “I understand Frank got himself into quite a bit of trouble today,” he said.

“That’s just it, Detective Chesny. He didn’t. He was wrongly accused.”

“Wrongly or rightly, Miss Archibald believed he caused a lot of damage to the production equipment, didn’t she?”

“Yes. She was very upset.”

“From what I hear, ‘upset’ is putting it mildly. I’m told she was livid.”

“I suppose that’s an apt description of her demeanor.”

“And she attacked Frank in front of a lot of people.”

“Verbally, yes.”

“And you came to his defense.”

“Of course. He’s nine years old. He couldn’t defend himself. She was being abusive, and as it turns out, he didn’t cause the damage at all. Someone else did.”

“But you were pretty angry at her, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Angry enough to confront her later on?”

“Had I seen her later on, I might have been. But Frank seemed to have weathered the incident well and was acting normally, so probably not.”

“Then you’re saying you didn’t meet up with her again.”

“No.”

“How did you happen to be in the room in which Miss Archibald died?”

“Grady and I were looking for Frank. The two of them had been in that room earlier in the day. It had been used as a carpentry shop. We were trying to think of where Frank might have gone and were retracing all of his steps for the day.”

“So you just happened to be in that room and discovered the body.”

“I told you, we didn’t just happen to be there. We were looking for Frank.”

“And Miss Archibald was there.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure she wasn’t alive when you entered the room?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t believe so. When we found her, she was already dead.”

“You’re telling me she wasn’t alive when you entered the room?”

“As far as I know.”

“Why don’t I believe you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I don’t know why you don’t believe me, Detective Chesny. I’m telling you the truth.”

“You know what I think the truth is, Mrs. Fletcher? I think it’s possible that Betsy Archibald was very much alive when you found her, and that you and Mr. Fletcher got into an altercation with her, and that one of you picked up the nail gun and killed her.”

“I assure you, that is
not
what happened.”

“We have the nail gun, and we’re checking it for fingerprints. Any chance I’ll find your prints on it, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I doubt it. But Grady took the nail gun out of the cart.”

“Why did he do that?”

I knew it was going to sound ridiculous, but I said it anyway. “To help lighten the load. The cart was too heavy for us to move, and he—”

“I can’t believe he thought the weight of a nail gun would make a difference. Did
you
think it would make a difference?”

“He took out the compressor and the electrical cable, too.”

“Heavy. Heavy.”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Detective. I’m trying to explain what happened.”

“You might also be trying to make up a story to cover what you and your nephew did. We now know that his fingerprints are likely to be on the nail gun. And we know that he was angry at Betsy Archibald, possibly angry enough to kill her. Are you trying to cover up for him?”

“No!”

“I think you are, Mrs. Fletcher. And it will do you no good.”

“What do you mean?”

We both turned at the sound of the door opening.

“This is the mother of the missing kid,” an officer announced. He stepped aside to allow Donna to enter.

I jumped to my feet and Donna ran into my embrace.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said between sobs. “Where can Frank be? And the police won’t let me see Grady.”

“The police are doing all they can, Donna. They’re searching the building, and they’ve put out alarms. I’m sure he’ll be found safe and sound any minute.”

She looked past me to the detective.

“This is Detective Chesny, Donna. He’s in charge of the murder investigation.”

“The
murder
investigation,” she said. “A murder? And now Frank’s missing. Oh, Aunt Jessica.” She ended on a wail.

“Please, sit down,” I said, leading her to my chair. She took it, and I knelt next to her, holding her hand in hopes of calming her.

“Where’s Grady?” she asked no one in particular.

I looked up at Detective Chesny. “Yes, where is my nephew?” I said, rising. “He should be with his wife to comfort her. Please, can’t you bring him in here?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s not in the building at the moment.”

The look on my face and on Donna’s reflected our confusion.

“Where is he, for heaven’s sake?” I asked.

“We brought him down to headquarters.”

“Why?”

“He’s being held for questioning in the murder of Betsy Archibald.”

T
he police were located in a building that housed the Department of Public Safety for a small suburban city of New York, only a half hour out of town. We drove by a series of chain stores and low-rise buildings on either side of the highway that led to it. But as we entered the downtown area, we passed many taller buildings with more under construction. Office complexes, shopping malls, and residential high-rises dwarfed the older homes and other low buildings from the municipality’s earlier days, and echoed its much larger neighbor to the south.

At headquarters, we found our way to a tan brick wall, behind which were the police dispatchers. Only a glass window that didn’t open allowed communication with the officers in the back. Donna and I went to the window and waited to be acknowledged. A series of notices taped to the glass directed visitors to go to Records for copies of all reports, and for fingerprints (ten dollars for the first card, five dollars for each additional card). There was a list of towing companies on duty for the month, and another list of bail bondsmen with their telephone numbers. A card leaning against the window said NO VISITING WITH PRISONERS. Someone had added another sign next to it as an afterthought: THANK YOU. I didn’t know if Grady was considered a prisoner, but I intended to talk with him no matter what.

“Aunt Jessica, I don’t feel so well,” Donna said, slumping against my side. She had been very brave when Detective Chesny told us that Grady had been taken in for questioning, and had managed not to break down when she’d handed the detective a photo of Frank to be distributed to officers searching for him. And she’d held it together when Chesny had allowed us to leave, and while she drove us from the office building where the commercials were being filmed to the police headquarters. But the stress of a missing child, and a husband in custody, were taking their toll on her. One look told me her nerves were frayed, her muscles knotted, and her stomach was churning.

“Let’s get you sitting down over here, Donna,” I said, assisting her to a line of plastic chairs bolted to the wall. “Do you need some water?”

She slumped in the seat. “I think I have a bottle in my bag.”

“Are you dizzy? Put your head between your knees.” I found the water bottle in her shoulder bag, opened it, and pressed it into her hand. “Here, just take a few sips. You should feel better in a minute. This is a lot to handle in one day.”

I sat beside her and rubbed her back until she was able to sit up. Her face was very pale.

“Oh, Aunt Jessica, what are we going to do?”

“Now, listen to me, Donna Mayberry Fletcher. We’re going to make a plan right now, that’s what we’re going to do. I don’t know if Grady will be able to leave with us tonight, but if not, we’ll go back to the apartment right away. We have a lot to do. We may need to call a lawyer for Grady. But most important, we should call the news media to put the word out about Frank. We’ll get everyone in New York looking for him.”