Name Games (26 page)

“Here we are,” he said, huffing up to the top step, nudging the door closed behind him with his hip. In each hand he carried a six-pack of beer. The odd-size bottles and unfamiliar packaging made it clear that the brew he’d fetched was an exotic import, which I figured would be some boutique German brand—after all, he was snobbishly loyal to French
vin,
so I assumed his beer would be
Bier.

But no. “Chinese,” he said, plunking both six-packs before us on the kitchen’s center island, “I think you’ll really enjoy this. Care to try one now?”

“I’m afraid we—” Pierce started to answer.

“Now, Ben,” Mary scolded without rancor, “the boys can’t dally here, drinking with you.
They’re
not retired.”

We all laughed—they were such an easy, likable couple. It was twice now that she had referred to Pierce and me as “boys,” and I was surprised to find this diminutive term curiously comforting, perhaps mothering. I didn’t know if the Tenellis had children (who would be about my age), but Mary certainly fit the maternal role, which was underscored by her name as well as by her words.

Mary had also spoken the word
dally,
which of course had a resonance that was neither comforting nor mothering, not after our protracted discussion of the etymology of
dalliance,
the word that had flagged our attention in the bogus extortion note, presumably written by Carrol Cantrell’s killer. I had to remind myself that the word was nothing more or less than standard English, available for anyone to use on a moment’s notice. Yes, the term was a tad unusual, a bit outdated, but there was surely no reason to suspect that sweet Mary Tenelli might be the Dumont strangler, a homicidal psychopath. The notion was absurd.

“Thanks a million, Ben,” Pierce was saying as I mulled my rambling thoughts. Hefting his six-pack, he told the doctor, “I’ll put this to good use later tonight.”

Lifting mine, I thanked Tenelli, adding, “I’ll share this with Neil, and we’ll toast you and Mary.” Checking my watch, I told Pierce, “We’d better run.”

“It’s such a pleasant afternoon,” said Tenelli, “I’ll walk you out to the car.”

Mary piped in, “Me too,” and the four of us headed through the house toward the front door. It was a peculiar little procession, not required by etiquette and in fact rather awkward. I couldn’t imagine why the Tenellis seemed so eager to escort us to the car—the weather wasn’t
that
nice, and they were both in the midst of preparing their evening meal.

Arriving at the curb, Pierce and I stowed our bottled booty on the floor of the backseat, then got into the car. Starting the engine, I lowered my window to bid farewell, expecting the doctor and his wife to retreat into the house. But they just stood there on the parkway, arm in arm, waving at us—you’d have thought we were embarking for Mars. Pulling away from the curb, I returned their wave, feeling downright foolish, and drove a few yards toward the corner. As I passed their driveway, I glanced at the garage. Then I braked.

The garage door was still open, and parked there was a big Bavarian V-8, just like mine, but green.

I looked back at the Tenellis, who were now laughing. The doctor called to me, “Told you we liked it! Ours is brand-new—picked it up yesterday.”

“Enjoy it,” I called back to them. And I drove away. Raising my window, I told Pierce with a laugh, “I guess that explains why they kept yapping about my car.”

“It does,” he agreed. “But it leaves something else unexplained.”

I finished the thought for him: “What was that car doing out at Star-Spangled Video yesterday morning?”

Pierce suggested, “Maybe the good doctor has a taste for smut.”

“Maybe. But then why would he issue a report aimed at shutting down the porn shops?”

Pierce thought for a moment. “It doesn’t add up.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

W
ORKING AT MY DESK
the next morning, I glanced up from a proof of the
Register
’s editorial page and noticed Lucille Haring, my managing editor, walking across the newsroom with a willowy, athletic-looking man. He was younger than I, nicely dressed, and they were headed in my direction. Rising from the desk, I met them at the doorway to my outer office.

“Mark,” said Lucy, “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Daniel Kerr of the sheriff’s department. He was kind enough to agree to meet with me this morning regarding our election endorsement.”

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Mark Manning.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manning. I appreciate the opportunity to talk, actually.”

His tone was not what I expected. After all, this was the detective who was trying to unseat Sheriff Pierce—his own mentor and one of my best friends. I’d presumed that Deputy Dan would come across as a cocky little guy, but neither his manner nor appearance fit that notion. I wanted to study him a bit more, so I asked Lucy, “Where did you plan to conduct your interview?”

She jerked her head—“Conference room down the hall.”

I suggested, “Why not use my outer office? It’s much more comfortable.”

“Great. You’re the boss.” Reading my intentions, she added, “If you have a few minutes, why don’t you join us?”

I checked my watch and surveyed the activity in the newsroom.

“Well,” I hemmed, “I suppose I could sit in for a while.” With a sweep of my arm, I waved them into the room.

They entered, and the three of us arranged ourselves around the low table. Lucy carried a thick folder of notes, her pen and pad, and a small, black tape recorder. She arrayed these items in front of her and cued up a cassette. Neither Kerr nor I carried anything. I didn’t even have my pen and was tempted to go get it, but resisted, as any note-taking would be inconsistent with my role as the “casual observer.” Kerr did not dress as a cop, but as a businessman, like the sheriff. The deputy’s deep blue suit looked good on him that morning, nicely setting off a thick mop of straight, dark hair, but the outfit was basically workaday; Kerr may have aspired to the sheriff’s sense of style, but he hadn’t yet attained it. As for me, I’d been caught in my shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up. I offered, “Coffee, Lieutenant?”

“No, thank you, sir. And please, sir, call me Dan.”

I winced—
sir
twice. At forty-two, I was barely comfortable with the concept of middle age, and I still stumbled on sir. From a child, fine—but from a thirty-five-year-old detective? Please. “Thanks, Dan. And do call me Mark.”

Lucy got down to business. “As you know, Deputy, the
Register
endorsed Sheriff Pierce for reelection in last Saturday’s edition. As for our reasoning, that was spelled out clearly enough in the column, which I’m sure you’ve read. However, circumstances have changed considerably since Saturday, and the paper now finds itself in the embarrassing position of needing to reconsider its endorsement.”

As she spoke, I watched Kerr, trying to read his reaction to her words. Granted, we’d called him to this meeting on a false pretext—I had no intention of retracting my endorsement of Pierce, and our real purpose in talking to Kerr was to explore our suspicions that he’d had a hand in planting the extortion note. Unless he was extremely clever, though, he had no reason to doubt Lucy’s words, so I assumed he’d hear her message with a measure of glee—he was getting a second crack at securing the town’s only meaningful endorsement in his bid for local election. But he didn’t appear to gloat in the least. Rather, he listened soberly, hands in his lap, picking at a nasty hangnail that glowed red.

Lucy continued, “Sheriff Pierce has now been implicated in the very murder he was attempting to solve, and as a result, he’s turned over the investigation to you. There’s an irony here, of course, that I’m sure has not escaped you, namely—”

“I know, ma’am,” he interrupted. “It strikes you as fishy that
I
found the note. I’m Doug’s opponent in the election, and the note has serious implications for the outcome of the election. Look, ma’am, I want to win it—that’s why I’m running—but I want to win it fair and square. I realize that the note looks like high jinks. It slurs Doug, and it makes
me
look like an opportunist—or worse.” He paused, gathering his thoughts.

The man was far more perceptive than I’d anticipated. Was he cunning as well, attempting to cover his tracks and win our confidence? Or was he simply being candid? Though I had little to go on, I was inclined to take him at his word.

Leaning toward us, elbows on knees, he continued, “Doug and I are very different people, but we’ve always respected each other. Without him, I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have in the department. I really
like
the guy—so does my wife, so do my kids. The note makes public a sensitive issue that’s been the topic of lots of speculation for years, and I can imagine how rough this is on him. If Doug is gay, that’s his business. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is this: he’s a great cop, and he would never stoop to murder, not even to salvage his career.”

His words had a familiar ring. With a soft laugh, I told him, “Doug says the same about you.” I hadn’t intended to participate in this discussion, but it had taken an unexpected turn. We could drop the pretense that this was an endorsement interview.

“I’m flattered,” said Kerr, “but I’m also worried. After all, the note casts suspicion on
both
Doug and me. If the note is genuine, Doug would have a clear motive for murder; if the note is bogus, I’d have the clear motive to plant it.”

Lucy nodded, recognizing his succinct appraisal of the situation. “We have a dilemma, then,” she told him. “Would you be willing to help us sort it out?”

“What I can tell you is limited, naturally. But go ahead and ask.”

“What’s your own assessment of the note—fake or real?”

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling loudly. “There’s very little to go on. I suppose you’ve heard that I neglected to check the laptop for fingerprints before I went to work on it.”

“We have.” Lucy underlined some detail of her notes. “This may seem like an obvious question, but did you happen to notice the time-and-date stamp of the computer the that contained the note?”

“Certainly. The note was written Sunday morning at one minute past seven.”

Lucy frowned. “That puts it
before
the murder—the coroner estimates that Cantrell died around nine, so maybe he
did
write the note.”

I told her, “Not if the computer was set to California time, two hours earlier.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Kerr. “People reset their watches when traveling between time zones, but I doubt if they bother with their computers.”

“Yeah,” said Lucy. Taking this line of thought further, she added, “And have you ever noticed how computer clocks never seem to be set correctly? They’re always off by a few minutes.”

“Right,” agreed Kerr. “So if the seven-o’clock note was really written at nine o’clock central time that morning, give or take a few minutes, that puts it very near the time of death.”

Thinking aloud, I told them, “That’s consistent with my theory that the note was planted by the killer shortly after the murder. Consider the alternative: it seems highly improbable that Cantrell would write the note one minute and get murdered the next.”

Kerr nodded. “By that reasoning, Doug is probably off the hook.”

“So are you,” Lucy told him. “Mark didn’t discover the body till around eleven-thirty, so it must have been nearly noon before you arrived on the scene.”

Kerr’s features brightened. “And the laptop wasn’t in my possession till several hours later. I can’t recall even glancing at its clock. I’ll check it first thing when I get back to the department. I’ll bet it is on California time, which would mean the note was written by the killer at the crime scene.”

There was a moment’s silence while we all pondered this. On the one hand, it was heartening to approach the conclusion that neither Pierce nor his deputy was guilty of the crime; on the other, it threw the investigation back to square one.

Then I thought of a wrinkle. Standing, I paced the office while telling them, “Sorry, Dan, but these circumstances don’t completely exonerate you. There are two possibilities that we haven’t considered. First, even though you arrived at the crime scene around noon, that doesn’t negate the possibility that you slipped up to the coach house earlier—for whatever purpose. Second, even if you had not been there before noon and you didn’t have possession of the laptop till later, you could still have reset the computer clock, planted the note to look as if it had been written earlier, then set the clock back to the correct California time.”

Lucy arched her brows, impressed that I’d suggested these scenarios. She was drawing a grid on her notepad, organizing her thoughts graphically.

Kerr had listened intently, without taking offense—he understood that my intention was not to accuse him, but merely to raise issues that would have to be addressed. He told me, “The first possibility—that I sneaked up there earlier—is easily dismissed. At nine Sunday morning, I was at church with my family, and there were hundreds of God-fearing witnesses who saw me.”

Lucy drew a big X over one of the squares on her grid.

Kerr continued, “The second possibility—that I rigged the computer clock—is tougher to disprove, and frankly, I’m not sure that I can. Truth is, I’m not all that familiar with laptops. I don’t own one, and I don’t think I’d be clever enough to rig its clock.” He asked anyone, “Is it difficult?”

Lucy wagged her head. “Not at all.” She was speaking, of course, from the perspective of a computer wiz, a true-blue techie, but I tended to agree with her—Kerr doubtless had sufficient wits to figure out the clock on Cantrell’s laptop.

Strolling behind Lucy, I glanced over her shoulder at her notes. She had scrawled a snaky question mark over one of the squares on her grid. Looking across the table toward Kerr, I said, “For purposes of this discussion, Dan, I’m assuming that the extortion note was bogus—Cantrell didn’t write it, and Doug didn’t kill him. I’m also willing to assume
your
noncomplicity in writing and planting the note. But if you didn’t do it, who could have, and why?”