Premeditated Murder (8 page)

Zack looked at his friend for a few seconds before picking up the next part of the file and starting to read again. “Maybe,” he said.

Oak Park, Michigan

TO LENA, THE WHOLE THING SEEMED PRETTY sketchy.

According to Giselle's mother, on the very same night that Mr. LeClerq had a heart attack, his home was broken into by burglars who didn't bother to take anything of value. Despite the fact that the police said nothing of the sort happened.

Sketchy City.

But so what if Giselle's mother had some off-the-wall theory that underachiever thieves were to blame for her father-in-law's death? As long as Giselle and her mother were willing to talk to her, Lena was interested in hearing what they had to say. And she had been more than happy to meet them at Mr. LeClerq's home in Oak Park.

The first thing that Lena noticed when she walked through the front door was that Phillipe LeClerq was a lot neater than she was.

Well, okay. Just about anyone who was able to see their floor was a lot neater than Lena was. But Phillipe LeClerq was pretty exceptional.

From the tidy entryway with its little table and vase of dried flowers, to the formal dining room, with the lace tablecloth and the sideboards featuring lovely china, to the gleaming but somewhat outdated kitchen, to the living room with the surprisingly modern entertainment system, everything was clean, and everything was in its place.

But Giselle's mother was much more interested in having Lena look at the den. That's where she said that the men who broke into the house had gone. Lena checked to see the reaction of Giselle, the only witness to the supposed break-in. There was none. She could well have been the quietest girl that Lena had ever met. Maybe in a little while, she'd feel more comfortable around Lena and open up.

The den was lined with bookcases filled with books, dozens of framed rare coins—apparently Mr. LeClerq was a coin collector—and the kind of memorabilia that a well-loved high school math teacher and soccer coach accumulates over thirty years. Class pictures, yearbooks, and team photos were everywhere, as well as a few autograph-covered soccer balls, trophies, certificates, even a framed picture of Mr. LeClerq with a famous foreign soccer player that Lena's father used to talk about all the time. He had one name. Pepé, or something like that.

But the desk was clearly where Giselle's mom wanted Lena to look. There really was nothing special about it, except that for Phillipe LeClerq, it was ridiculously messy. Drawers were opened, and papers and file folders were scattered around on its surface. A computer monitor flashed a screen saver message repeatedly.
I love my granddaughter … I love my granddaughter … I love my granddaughter …

Lena cleared her throat. “Is this the way you found the desk after, um, after Mr. LeClerq was taken to the hospital?” One of the file folders held the closing documents for the sale of the house to Mr. and Mrs. LeClerq back in 1971. Another held insurance information. One contained several articles on teaching strategies for kids with learning disabilities.

Giselle's mom nodded emphatically. “My husband and I came over later that day and found it just like this. We didn't touch a thing. Neither did the police,” she added, with a disgusted sound. “Like I told you, they don't think anyone was here. Even though I told them that they took my father-in-law's CDs.”

“You mean from the living room?” Lena asked.

“No. His computer CDs.” The woman crossed her arms. “They were here on the desk.”

Lena moved the mouse and the screen saver disappeared to reveal the program manager screen. “Did your father-in-law do anything unusual with his computer?” she asked.

“Not unless you call e-mailing with his family unusual.”

“Did they check for fingerprints?” Lena asked.

“Oh, yeah. They spent about two minutes talking to Giselle, and then about two more minutes looking around for fingerprints and whatever, but they said they didn't find anything.”

Lena turned to the little girl. “What did they say to you, Giselle?”

The girl looked up at her mother for a second, and then back to Lena. “They kept saying how brave I was, and kept asking how I knew CPR.” She spoke in a small voice. “I told them I learned it from a book I read in the library.”

“Wow,” said Lena. “That's impressive. I don't think I knew CPR until I went to college. You know, something I was wondering was how you knew to call 911 so quickly. I know that some people—”

Giselle cut her off. “I didn't call 911. I even told the police that, 'cause they thought I called, too.”

“You didn't call? But how did the ambulance know to come here?”

“Grandpa called 911 about the break-in,” she replied.

“He did?” Lena said. “That's funny. I thought you called about your grandfather's heart attack.”

“Nuh-uh. Like I told the police. I was already in bed. I only came downstairs because I heard the door slam. And Grandpa was on the kitchen floor, and the phone was next to him.” Suddenly, her voice broke, her lip started to quiver, and a single tear ran down her cheek.

Okay. This was getting weird. When Becca had called Lena and told her about this, she'd specifically said that Giselle had called 911 because her grandfather had had a heart attack. It wasn't like Becca was making this up. She had been reading from a police report.

“How did you know your grandfather called about a break-in? Couldn't he have been calling about his heart?”

“That's what the lady on the phone told me. The 911 lady,” the child replied.

“Oh,” Lena said. “So you picked up the phone, and the 911 operator was already on the phone?”

“Yeah.” Giselle's mother gave her a tissue, and she blew her nose loudly.

“Giselle,” Lena said, “I know this is hard, but I was wondering if you remember the name of the police officer that you spoke to.”

The little girl sniffed, and wiped her face with her hand, but didn't hesitate. “His name was Officer Halsey,” she answered.

Lena shot a quick look at her mother, who was nodding with pride. “My girl has an amazing memory,” she told Lena. “If she says it's Halsey, it's Halsey.”

So Lena pulled out her cell phone and dialed Becca's number. Sometimes when they were working on a case, cops got a few things wrong.

But when Becca got back on the line and read Officer Halsey's report to Lena, it was clear that, in this case, there were more than a few things wrong. A lot more.

Northampton, Massachusetts

IT HAD TAKEN HIM TWENTY-TWO YEARS, BUT District Attorney Francis X. O'Neill was finally going to have a goddamn press conference. A real goddamn press conference.

As he peeked from behind the back door past the podium that they'd set up in the conference room, he saw that CNN, Court TV,
USA Today,
the
Globe,
the
Post,
and the
Herald,
as well as all four Boston local affiliates for the television networks, were covering him. There were others, but he couldn't tell who they were. He'd get Frieda to find out later.

He stole a quick look at his reflection in the glass of a window across the hallway. He'd gotten his hair cut two days ago, and he'd gotten a manicure yesterday. His suit was just dry-cleaned, and his tie was brand-new. He looked really good. He was ready to try the biggest murder case in Northampton history.

He stepped into the conference room, took his place at the podium, and began his new life.

Twenty-two years ago F.X. had signed on as an assistant district attorney working out of a nothing town called Orange, in the western part of Massachusetts. He'd started small, like everyone else. OUIs, minor-league assault and batteries, soliciting. All District Court cases.

The pathetic salaries and thankless work of assistant D.A.s caused such heavy turnover that after only four years, he was one of the senior members of the office. He started doing low- and mid-level felonies in the Superior Court. A few sex crimes, a bunch of robberies, some A&Bs with a dangerous weapon.

In his sixth year, he did his first murder trial, and within the next five years, he'd become one of the top prosecutors in the western counties. Just before Christmas, thirteen years ago, he'd been appointed First Assistant D.A. A stroke of good luck sent the elected D.A. to an early grave from a car accident four years after that, God rest his soul, and F.X. stepped in as acting D.A. until he was officially elected District Attorney seven years ago.

“Will you be heading the prosecution team?”

Jeez, it took 'em ten minutes to finally ask that one.

“Yes. In fact, I'll be trying the case myself. This one is too important to delegate to one of my staff. Of course, I'll have excellent help from Assistant District Attorney Stacey Ruben and Police Chief Darryl Brooks.”

“Mr. O'Neill, do you have any plans to try to move into other elected offices?”

Now they were talking. He'd paid his dues in this crappy little job for long enough. He was hitting his political prime. He'd be forty-eight this November. Goddamn right he had plans.

“At the moment the only thing I'm focusing on is this trial and continuing to work to make sure that the people of the Commonwealth are fairly and aggressively represented in the criminal justice system.”

“But you wouldn't rule out running for elected office in, say, a statewide contest, would you?”

F.X. flashed his most charming smile. “My mother, God rest her soul, always used to tell me, ‘Never say never.' I'm just going to do the best that I can do with the job at hand, which is to aggressively prosecute this multiple-murder case, and leave the rest to another day. Thank you.”

As he left the room, he leaned in to speak to Stacey. He didn't really have anything to say—he just wanted to look like he was very busy and important.

“How'd you think it went?” he asked in a low voice, taking her by the arm and leading her out of the room. He hoped his expression looked as if he were urgently handling the people's business.

“Fine, I guess,” she answered.

“Good,” said the district attorney, letting her arm go as soon as they left the conference room. He hurried down the hall to his office. He needed to call his wife to tell her to tape the news tonight.

Worcester, Massachusetts

EL AMIN TURNED OFF THE TELEVISION IN DISGUST. The district attorney was a pompous jackass, but that was no surprise. This entire country was a farce.

It was still puzzling that there was no announcement from the authorities, foolishly trumpeting the killings of the martyrs as some major victory over so-called terrorism. Instead, their own assassin was being tried as a common criminal. The man's prison photo seemed to be in the newspapers every day. According to public opinion, he was going to be executed. Maybe he was being punished for his failure to escape before the police arrived.

It didn't matter. The preparations for this summer's attack were already under way, and a preliminary set of small tests would likely be conducted sometime in March. In April, there would probably be a few larger tests in a remote location, and by May and June, the final plans would be made, and the operation would be put into place.

This Fourth of July was going to be one that no one would forget.

SIX

DIST. ATTY. O'NEILL:
Directing your attention to what has been marked as Exhibit 33, can you identify this for us?

MS. DEL RIO:
Yes. That is the standard lease that we use for our buildings. This was for the rental of Unit 3C, at 214 Main Street, in Northampton.

Q:
And are you familiar with the signatures on this lease?

A:
[Indicating.] Well, that's my signature, right there.

Q:
And who else signed the lease?

A:
Those were the signatures of the four men that leased the apartment: Marc Nathenson, Mitchell Nathenson, Rudolf Lange, and John Bercher.

Q:
So you met these men?

A:
Yes. We all met in my office and signed the lease together.

Q:
Are you familiar with two women named Marianne Duhamel and Helene Ghazi?

A:
No, I am not.

Q:
So they weren't renters at your apartment complex?

A:
Not to my knowledge.

Q:
And directing your attention to Exhibit 34, can you identify this?