Sullivan's Law (22 page)

H
ank turned to Carolyn when they reached his police unit after leaving the building on Wilshire. “Let's stop somewhere and have lunch. I don't think I've ever seen you put anything in your mouth outside of those stupid protein bars.”

“Don't be silly,” Carolyn said. “I eat all the time. I thought we had a one o'clock appointment. It's already past twelve. Where are we meeting Armstrong?”

The detective smiled. “About five blocks from here.”

“How did you arrange that?”

“I told him that's where I wanted to lease ten thousand square feet of commercial real estate for my new investment banking firm.” Hank pulled into a strip shopping center. “I don't want to waste time. We need evidence. Kevin Thomas at the DA's office should have the requests for warrants ready by the end of the day.”

They entered a popular spot called the China Garden, taking a seat at the counter rather than waiting for a table. The restaurant was packed and noisy. They ordered their food, then Carolyn looked over at the detective. “If Houston called him, Armstrong probably won't show.”

“He'll show,” the detective said, handing her an egg roll as soon as the waiter set down the plate. “Trust me, all Armstrong was thinking about when we talked were dollar signs. What difference does it make if he's tipped off that we're cops? The cat's already out of the bag. I know where to find him.” A platter of rice mixed with shrimp arrived, and he spooned a large portion onto her plate. “Anyway, eat your food. You might be able to get away with only a few hours' sleep, but you can't live on air.”

 

Carolyn spotted Liam Armstrong as soon as they stepped into the lobby of the Wilshire West Towers. “That's him,” she whispered to Hank.

Armstrong wasn't as tall and fit as Nolan Houston. He walked stiffly and appeared to have a problem with his left leg. His face hadn't changed that much. A few lines shot out around his eyes and mouth, and his hair was sprinkled with gray. Carolyn recalled how excited she'd been when he'd asked her out on their first date. Even now, he was an attractive man. Wearing a pin-striped suit, a royal blue shirt, and a matching tie, he was carrying a briefcase and had a cell phone plugged into his ear.

“Are you Liam Armstrong?”

“Excuse me,” he said, glancing at Hank's inexpensive suit and scuffed shoes. “I'm in the middle of a conversation.”

Hank reached over and jerked the earpiece out of Armstrong's ear. Flashing his badge, he said, “Detective Hank Sawyer with the Ventura PD. Where can we go to talk privately?”

Liam Armstrong gave Carolyn a curious look. “I don't understand,” he said, turning back to the detective. “You must have the wrong person.” He reached into his pocket and handed them both his business card. “I'm waiting for an important client. He should be here any minute. What's the problem, Officer?”

“Your appointment has arrived,” Hank told him, tossing Armstrong's card into the closest trash can. “We're investigating a number of serious crimes. They all seem to be connected to the death of Tim Harrison.”

People were streaming through the double doors, returning from lunch. One of them bumped into Armstrong and almost knocked him to the ground.

“Tim's been dead for years,” he told them, limping to the far corner of the lobby. “The man responsible was sentenced to prison for life. Whatever crimes you're investigating can't have anything to do with me.”

“We can either talk here or take a ride to the police station,” Hank told him. “It's your call, pal.”

Armstrong's phone emitted a high-pitched sound. He reached in his pocket and turned it off. “I guess we could talk at the site,” he said. “The previous tenants have already moved out. This is a prime spot, the entire eighth floor. Space like this seldom becomes available along the Wilshire corridor.”

Hank had told him who they were and why they were there, yet he acted as if he thought they were still interested in leasing space. Houston had been rattled, Carolyn thought, but Armstrong was either suffering from a serious case of denial, intoxicated, or high on drugs. She moved closer, attempting to see if he had alcohol on his breath. If he was a drinker, he must use a lot of mouthwash.

“It's been a long time, Liam,” Carolyn said once they were in the elevator. “I'm hurt that you don't remember me. We dated when we were in high school.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I saw a lot of girls when I was in high school. What's your name?”

“Carolyn Sullivan,” she told him. “My father taught math.”

They finally got a reaction out of him. “Certainly this isn't about—”

“No,” Carolyn said, reaching over and hitting the button for the eighth floor.

They waited while Armstrong opened his briefcase and fumbled around for a key, then placed it in a slot in the elevator. “I'll turn the air conditioning up,” he said, pulling his collar away from his neck. “It must be eighty degrees in here.”

“I'm comfortable,” Hank said. “What about you, Carolyn?”

“I'm married, you know,” Armstrong said for no apparent reason. “I have three children.”

“Where were you this past Monday night?” Hank asked.

“Home with my family,” he answered. “Why? Why are you here? Why did you pretend you were a client? Whatever questions you needed to ask me, you could have asked me over the phone.” He turned his attention to Carolyn. “Are you a police officer now?”

“I'm with the Correction Services Agency,” she told him. “I was assigned to supervise Daniel Metroix.”

“You mean he's out?”

“Yeah,” Hank said. “You didn't know? Didn't your buddy Nolan Houston call you?”

“Jesus,” Armstrong said, “I haven't talked to Nolan in years. How could a man sentenced to prison for life be back on the street?”

Hank walked over to the windows, then turned around. Armstrong was perspiring now. “What about Wednesday? Can you account for your whereabouts between ten and three?”

Armstrong gulped. “I was seeing clients, I believe. My secretary will have to check my schedule for that day. These crimes you mentioned, where did they occur?”

“Ventura.”

“Were they serious?”

“I'd say an explosion and a shooting were serious,” Hank answered. “Do you agree, Carolyn?”

“Absolutely,” she said, resting her back against the wall. There was no furniture, so they had no choice but to remain standing.

“But I don't understand why you suspect me of being involved, regardless of what types of crime were committed,” Armstrong protested. “I've never been arrested for anything in my life. I work hard, provide for my family. I can give you dozens of references. Don't you need some valid reason for intruding on my life this way?”

“You're not under arrest,” Hank said. “We're trying to determine what really happened the day Tim Harrison was killed.”

Armstrong's eyes glistened with tears. “Five years ago,” he told them, “I lost my left leg to cancer. I thought that was behind me. Yesterday my doctor told me he saw something suspicious on my X ray. Tomorrow I'm going in for an MRI.” He paused, collecting himself before continuing. “I told everything I knew about Tim's death on the witness stand. I'm fighting for my life right now. If you want to ask me any more questions, you'll have to call my attorney.” He opened his briefcase again, then handed them another card.

If Armstrong was involved, Carolyn thought, he should win an Academy Award. His story touched her to the point where she almost shed a tear. Lack of sleep wreaked havoc on a person's emotions, she told herself. She'd passed out on the sofa Sunday, but the kids kept waking her up. Rebecca and Lucy were becoming inseparable. They'd wanted to go to the movies, then watch TV. Carolyn had finally fed the girl dinner and sent her home.

“We're questioning everyone who was involved in the original incident,” Hank said, rubbing his chin, “hoping it might shed some light on these new crimes.”

Armstrong looked even more bewildered. “It would help if I knew what you were looking for, Detective. Who was shot?”

“Daniel Metroix,” Carolyn told him, knowing he could pull up the events of the last few days over the Internet.

“I can't help you on that,” he told them. “All I know is, Tim's father was torn up over his death. Chief Harrison is a powerful man. He was tough on Tim. He thought he could become a professional football player if he applied himself. Tim was a great quarterback. Ran like the wind and the best hands around. I doubt if he would have made it to the pros, though. College ball was a given. All the scouts were courting him.”

Carolyn was curious. “When you say Tim's father was tough, what precisely do you mean?”

“Oh,” Armstrong said, “I don't know all the particulars. Tim was scared of him. Once when he partied too much and fumbled the ball, he turned up the next day with a fractured jaw. He told everyone he was injured in the game. I thought it was strange because he hadn't mentioned anything in the locker room the day before.”

“You think his father hit him?”

“Possibly,” he said, his eyes trained on the floor. “After Tim was killed, I quit the team. I don't even watch football on TV. Tim Harrison was my best friend.”

“Call us if you think of anything,” Hank told him. “Good luck on your tests.”

Liam Armstrong shook Carolyn's hand, then limped to the other side of the room, motioning for her to join him. The detective was already waiting by the door. She assumed it was more than Tim Harrison's death that had caused the real estate broker to lose interest in football. For a former athlete, losing a leg must have been devastating.

“I'm ashamed at how I acted that night,” Armstrong told her. “I was young, you know. I thought the world and everything in it was mine for the taking. I appreciate that you didn't tell your father or the police. In a way, it might have been better if you had. Then I would have got my act together a lot quicker.”

Carolyn didn't know what to say. “It sounds like you have a wonderful family, Liam. I'm sure they're very supportive. I'll keep you in my prayers.”

Armstrong smiled for the first time. “Still the good Catholic girl, huh?”

“I don't know how good I am,” Carolyn told him. “That wasn't a line, though. I do pray.”

C
arolyn, Hank Sawyer, and Assistant District Attorney Kevin Thomas were seated in Judge Arline Shoeffel's inner office at four-thirty on Monday.

Hank had placed the case in the hands of the DA as soon as he'd learned of the possibility that Downly might be involved. After reviewing all the pertinent facts, Thomas had said he was willing to prepare search warrants for the residences of Charles Harrison, Nolan Houston, and Liam Armstrong. He wasn't certain, however, if they could convince a judge to sign them. The attorney was elated when he learned that Carolyn had already pitched the case to the presiding judge. That is, until he heard her reaction.

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Thomas,” Arline Shoeffel said coolly, her glasses perched low on her nose. “However, the events of this past week may have no bearing whatsoever on the original crime. I refuse to allow you to execute these search warrants until you bring me more substantial evidence that Mr. Houston and Mr. Armstrong were involved. These men appear to be law-abiding citizens. Neither one of them has a criminal record. A certain amount of discretion must be exercised when you're dealing with prominent people in the community.”

Carolyn said, “With all due respect, because Houston and Armstrong are successful businessmen doesn't mean they aren't guilty. Their success goes toward establishing motive.”

Judge Shoeffel's mouth compressed into a thin line. Obviously, she didn't take well to people questioning her judgment. Kevin Thomas wisely kept his mouth shut. Arguing against one of the other judges was one thing. Getting on the wrong side of a presiding judge could destroy his career.

Arline adjusted her glasses, then thumbed through the pages of the file again. “Regarding Mrs. Harrison,” she said, her voice so low they had to strain to hear her, “is she a voluntary or involuntary commitment?”

Thomas turned to Hank, who slowly shook his head.

“Can one of you please respond?” the judge asked, her frustration level rising another notch.

“We don't know,” Hank finally admitted. “I didn't see any reason to contact the hospital. Mrs. Harrison has been institutionalized for almost twenty years. She's too sick to even attend her husband's funeral.”

The judge closed the file, then placed her hands on top of it. “For one thing, Detective,” she said, removing her glasses. “I was informed that Mr. Harrison wouldn't be having a funeral, that his remains had already been disposed of by the funeral home. Is that correct?”

“Well, yes,” he answered, fidgeting in his seat. “People still have services, though.”

“But Mr. Harrison isn't having a service.”

“No,” Hank said. “He made arrangements prior to his death for the funeral home to pick up his body and cremate it. His housekeeper said he wanted to keep the costs down.”

“Do you believe Mr. Harrison is dead or alive?”

He shrugged. “We're not sure.”

“Neither am I, Detective,” Judge Shoeffel told him, picking up her glasses and shoving them back on her nose. “Although I'm not prepared to issue warrants regarding Houston and Armstrong until more evidence is produced, I will sign the one for Charles Harrison's residence.” She pulled out the form, signed it, and handed it to the district attorney, along with the file.

“Now,” she continued, “let's use a little intelligent reasoning, shall we? You've consumed a considerable amount of my time without adequately investigating this matter. Was Mr. Harrison in control of his faculties until the time of his alleged death Friday evening?”

“According to his doctor,” Hank told her, “Harrison's liver was shot, but his mind was fine.”

“When did the doctor last see him?”

“Approximately two weeks ago,” he advised, anticipating her next question. “Harrison's doctor said that unless he received a liver transplant, he'd die. The doctor was upset that the housekeeper didn't call him when she found him dead.”

The judge propped her head up with one hand. “And why is that?”

“Because he didn't expect him to die right away. See,” Hank said, scratching his chin, “that's why we aren't entirely certain the man's dead. His doctor said he may have lived another year, even longer. Then again, his liver condition could have taken a turn for the worse the other night and killed him. An autopsy would have helped, but that isn't gonna happen now.”

“No one suffers more in the death of a child than the mother,” Arline Shoeffel told them. “This is evidenced by the fact that Mrs. Harrison is currently in a mental institution, whereas her husband didn't suffer any mental impairment whatsoever. The woman not attending her husband's funeral is immaterial, since his precise instructions were that he not have a funeral. Are we in agreement on this issue, Detective Sawyer?”

“I guess so,” he said, shrugging.

“What may be vital to this case is whether Mrs. Harrison is being held in a secure facility, or if she's able to come and go at will. Of secondary concern is what type of resources the victim's mother has at her disposal.”

Hank did a double take, instantly grasping what Arline Shoeffel was suggesting. Carolyn also felt like an idiot. The district attorney slapped the file against his knee, then sprang to his feet, shooting a glance at the detective and Carolyn that said he wished he'd never agreed to get involved.

“You failed to do your homework,” Judge Shoeffel told them, seeing all four of her phone lines blinking. “Don't approach anyone else on the bench, thinking you can slip something past me. Remember, every road leads back to this office.”

 

Brad Preston walked Carolyn to her Infiniti at six o'clock Monday evening. “When did you get your car back?”

“The garage brought it over this afternoon,” she said, examining the car to make certain she was happy with the repairs. “I also scraped the front bumper on my neighbor's BMW. Now I have to pay for that as well.”

“Are you going back to school?”

“Not this week,” Carolyn told him, shielding her eyes from the late day sun. “I'm afraid to leave the kids alone.”

They stopped speaking until several people walked past them. “Veronica said you had a date with that physics professor. How did it go?”

“Great,” she said, smiling. “John likes him. Rebecca and his daughter get along fabulously, and his housekeeper is a terrific cook.”

Brad leaned against the side of the car, making it impossible for her to open the door, a downcast expression on his face. “Is this a romance or a friendship?”

“My God,” Carolyn exclaimed, “you're jealous. The man loaned me his car. He let Rebecca stay at his house. Maybe I was wrong about Amy McFarland, but don't tell me you haven't been seeing other women.”

“I told you how I felt about you the other day,” Brad said self-consciously. “Sure, I've been seeing other people. They're just girls, though. They don't mean anything to me.”

“Then the professor is only a guy,” Carolyn countered, baffled at how the male mind worked. He could sleep with a dozen women and calmly proclaim it meant nothing. The fact that she'd had dinner with a neighbor, however, had upset him. “We broke up months ago, Brad,” she told him. “I'm ashamed I let things get out of hand the other day. I care about you, I miss being with you, I even miss making love to you. I refuse to get emotionally involved again. And I definitely don't want to lose my job because of you.”

“Why don't you invite me to the house anymore? We were friends for years before we started dating. Are you going to throw everything away? John and I used to have fun together. Rebecca isn't as easy for me to get to know because she's a girl.”

John had posed the same question, Carolyn remembered. It was hard to turn a love affair back into a friendship. Once you crossed the line, everything changed. “Frank surfaced the other night.”

“How did it go?” Brad said. “Did he give you a check for the back child support he owes you?”

“Are you kidding? Even if he had the money, I don't know if I would take it. He looked awful, Brad. We came home and found him inside the house. He made a fuss over Rebecca, then gave her a phony number. How could a man hurt his child like that?”

“He's on drugs,” Brad said, disgusted. “He lives in the Twilight Zone.”

“I want him to go away.”

“What about Harrison's widow?” Brad said, changing the subject. “Did Hank find out anything this afternoon?”

“Yes,” Carolyn told him. “Arline Shoeffel is brilliant. The place Madeline Harrison is in is like a country club. She goes shopping, gets her hair done, goes to plays and ballets. I guess she feels safe living there or something. Hank thinks the bills from the hospital might be one of the reasons Harrison was so concerned about money.”

“Then it's doubtful she hired someone to take out you and Metroix?”

“After today,” Carolyn said, pushing back a strand of hair, “I'm not going to speculate until I have all the facts straight. Arline was receptive to reopening the case until she found out we had our heads up our ass.”

“Come on,” Brad said, nudging her in the ribs. “Do you really think the Harrison woman had anything to do with this? Where would she get the connections and the money to hire someone to commit these crimes? We're talking an explosion, a shooting…and the incident with you and Rebecca. Pretty sinister stuff for an old lady.”

“How do I know?” Carolyn said. “Maybe Harrison's wife has a secret bank account. The hospital claims she's in excellent health. She runs two miles a day. She's not even that old, Brad. She's only sixty-two.”

“I know,” he said, laughing. “She grabbed one of her friends from the loonie bin, rented a couple of cars, and instead of a shopping spree, they went on a shooting spree.”

“Sometimes you act like a juvenile delinquent.” Carolyn reached over and gently shoved him aside. “We can talk more in the morning.”