The Assailant (5 page)

“I don't know. I might have heard her talk with Rita about a boyfriend. But that was a while ago.”

“How long ago?”

“I don't know. Maybe a couple of months.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. Rita probably would, though.”

“Rita who?”

“Rita Liu.
L-I-U
. I can have her meet with you here.”

“Why don't you give us her address and number instead.”

“Well . . .”

“That would work better for us.”

“Okay.”

“Regarding Reesa, did she have substance-abuse issues?”

“You mean drugs? No. I don't allow that.”

Hastings said, “You sure?” Using his cop's voice now.

“I know what you're thinking, Lieutenant. Most pimps use drugs to trap women into this lifestyle. Or exploit a woman who's using. That's not the way I do business. And if you understood how this business worked, if you thought about it from a different perspective from that of a puritanical cop, you'd understand why I don't want fucked-up girls working here. Besides, if she was using, I think I would have known.”

“Okay,” Hastings said. “Well, let's have the guy's name. And all the other people she's seen.”

“How far back?”

“Since she started here.”

“I'll give you what I have.”

They reached the Adam's Mark Hotel clerk by telephone and were informed that Geoffrey Harris had checked out at ten o'clock that morning. The clerk told them that he presumed he had flown back to New York, where he was from.

Hastings was driving while Klosterman was the one on the phone with the clerk. He didn't like the drift of what he could overhear.

Klosterman said, “Do you know what airline he was booked on?”

“No, sir, I'm afraid I don't. I remember that he asked for directions to the Central West End.”

Klosterman said, “Yes?”

“I mean, he acted as if he had a lunch date there.”

“What restaurant?”

“I'm not sure.”

“But he's not there anymore?”

“No, sir. He took his luggage and got into a cab this morning.”

“Hold on a minute.” Klosterman lowered the cell phone and turned to Hastings. “What do we do?”

Hastings exhaled. “Tell him we're sending someone to talk to him. Howard or Murph. Get Ronnie Wulf on the phone.” Ronnie Wulf was the chief of detectives.

Hastings peeled off the interstate at the Jefferson Avenue exit. Made a series of turns and then gunned it hard as he put the car back on the highway and drove west toward the airport.

Klosterman was holding his cell phone now, breathing through his nose.

Then: “Chief? Joe Klosterman. Sir, I'm here with Lieutenant Hastings. We're investigating the murder of a call girl found down by the Mississippi this morning. . . . Yes, sir, that's ours.”

Hastings said, “The airport.”

“We believe that she was with a gentleman named Geoffrey Harris, that's with a
G,
from Westchester County, New York. With him last night. He's either left town or he's about to. . . . No, sir, we don't know what airline.”

Klosterman nodded his head. “Yes, sir . . . Yes, sir, that would help us a great deal. You can reach me at this number. . . . We're on our way there now. Thank you.”

Klosterman clicked off the phone. “He's calling the airport police now.”

The chief of detectives had more clout than either of them and he would be able to find out which airline the suspect was on before they could. The hope was that Ronnie Wulf would find out and give them the information before they reached the airport.

He did. The call came back as they rolled up to the airport departure lots. The police light was on the dash, blinking on and off. There was a uniformed officer there, and they got out of the car as a St. Louis County car pulled up behind them, its lights on as well.

Klosterman said, “Okay,” into his cell phone. Then to Hastings: “United Air. He was about to board first class, but they've delayed it.”

Hastings said, “Does he know we're coming?”

“No. They just told him it was a delay.”

Hastings turned to the two uniformed officers behind him. After a brief greeting, he said, “I don't want this guy spooked. Hang back and wait for my signal. Okay? As of now, he may be only a witness, and we don't want to create a stampede.”

They walked quickly down the long path of one of the airport's wings, passing the gates and coffee stands. They got to the gate in question, and Hastings could see the apprehension on the ticket attendant's face. She saw the uniforms, and Hastings made eye contact with her.

The woman nodded in the direction of a man of about sixty, bald on top with gray hair on the sides. He was wearing a blue blazer and pressed white shirt.

Hastings made a signal to the uniforms and they stopped walking. Klosterman began a wide arc that would ultimately bring him behind the old man.

Then Hastings walked up to him.

The man held his raincoat over his lap. He was looking out the window, perhaps to see if the weather would prevent him from leaving town.

Hastings said, “Mr. Harris?”

The man looked up.

Hastings had his identification out. “My name is George Hastings. St. Louis police.”

“Yes.” Harris's voice was one of authority. Regal and British. He addressed the policeman as he would address a bank clerk.

Hastings said, “You were with a young lady last night who goes by the name of Ashley.” He didn't make it a question.

Harris said, “What business is that of yours?”

“It's police business. Where is she now?”

“How should I know? What is this, some sort of attempt to extort me? If that's your game, Officer, you've picked the wrong man.”

“Mr. Harris, you're mistaken.” Hastings glanced over the man and saw that Klosterman was close behind him now, his pistol at his side, pointed down. No scenes, please, Hastings thought.

Hastings said, “Sir, do you know where she is now?”

“No. See here, I've done nothing improper. You want to arrest me for—Well, you've got no proof.”

“No proof of what?”

“Of—well, you know. Really, this is ridiculous.”

“Mr. Harris, I'm afraid we can't let you board that flight. The girl is dead and we need to question you about it. I can read you your Miranda rights here in front of all these people or we can go someplace private.”

“Oh, Christ,” Harris said, his regal expression crumbling.

Ten minutes later, they were seated in a small room at airport security. They read him his rights but did not put him in handcuffs. They told him that he could have a lawyer appointed for him if he couldn't afford one, and he shook his head during that part. And after that was out of the way, he talked to them quite freely, not so much as a man wanting to confess but as one wanting to get things straightened out.

Geoffrey Harris told them that he was an investment banker with a large house in New York. That he had started working in finance in London after graduating from the London School of Economics and had been sent to the New York office in 1991. He told them that he was married with four children and six grandchildren. He said he was in St. Louis on business.

He said, “The gentleman I worked with is named Robert Alan Gray. He is what we call in this industry a wholesaler.”

Hastings said, “Selling what?”

“Financial products. They want old men like myself to buy those products. As part of the wining and dining, they basically give us a girl. He is the one who provided me with Ashley. I shall be glad to give you his telephone number. In fact, I can give you his card.”

Hastings said, “Mr. Harris, you're not being honest with us.”

“What?”

“We've been informed that
you
requested to see Ashley. That's what the records at the escort service indicate. Your name, not Mr. Gray's.”

“Oh . . . well.”

Hastings said, “You want to try again? And let me advise you of something before you go on: you've just been informed that you have the right to remain silent. Now you can exercise that right and we can make this thing a whole lot more complicated than it needs to be with lawyers and warrants and detentions. Or you can remain silent. But what you don't want to do is try to mislead us, because that by itself can be grounds for filing criminal charges. Okay?”

It took some of the salt out of this rich and successful man, and it was intended to.

“Well,” Harris said. “Well, all right. I did telephone her. This time. The first time I was here, Robert set it up. And I'm confident your sources will verify that.”

“But you called her the second time,” Hastings said.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Well, I liked her. She seemed like a—nice woman.”

“When did you call her?”

“Friday. I called the agency soon after I arrived. I had a late lunch with Robert and some others from Enterprise Finance and then we met at the hotel.”

“She came to your room?”

“Yes.”

“How long was she there?”

“Two hours.”

“And she billed you for that time?”

“Yes. It was not . . .”

“I'm not interested in booking you for solicitation, Mr. Harris. So long as you cooperate. What did you do with her?”

“She was . . . with me for the first hour. The second hour, we just talked.”

“Talked.”

“Yes. I'm not so young anymore.”

“You just wanted companionship?”

“Yes.”

“Someone to talk to.”

“Yes.”

“But you were intimate with her?”

“Yes.”

“Any rough stuff?”

“No. Nothing of the sort.”

“From when to when?”

“From approximately four to six.”

“Six in the evening?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Then she left.”

“And you?”

“I stayed in my room. I had another drink and then I went to sleep. I'd say at around eight
P.M.
”

“Why would you say that?”

“That's my usual bedtime.”

There was a knock on the door. Hastings said, “Excuse me,” and went to answer it.

It was Klosterman. Hastings went out and shut the door behind him.

Klosterman said, “We've got his suitcase.”

Hastings said, “You haven't gone through it, have you?”

“No.”

“Okay. I'll get his permission to search it.” Hastings paused, looked off to a wall. Then he said, “Bring it in here.”

“Now?” Klosterman said. “With him in there?”

“Yeah.”

They went back into the security room. Harris was still in his seat, seeming unflappable. But he was English, and Hastings was beginning to think they could be a pretty tough breed.

Hastings said, “Mr. Harris, this is Sergeant Klosterman. As you can see, we've got your suitcase here. I can get a search warrant to go through this, but that would take up a lot of time. With your permission, we'd like to search it right now.”

Harris waved an aristocratic hand, telling them to go ahead.

While Klosterman popped it open, Hastings sat down again. He did not want to stand over this man because he suspected that if he bullied him any more than he had, the man would clam up.
Harris had been set straight once and hopefully that would be enough.

Hastings said, “Did you rent a car while you were here?”

“No. I used a taxi.”

“Do you always?”

“Yes, always.”

“And you say you were in your hotel room from four in the evening until you checked out this morning?”

“I was.”

“If we were to ask you to take a polygraph examination, would you be willing to do that?”

“A lie detector test?”

“Yes.”

“I thought those weren't admissible in the American courts.”

“They're not. But it helps us with an investigation.”

“I'll take one today if you like.”

“Good,” Hastings said. “We'll try to make it quick.” He looked over at Klosterman. Clothes were taken out of the suitcase and set on the table. Klosterman shrugged.

Hastings said, “The girl was strangled to death, Mr. Harris. And there's no evidence that she was robbed. If you're innocent of this crime, the evidence will show it. We'd like to examine some of the things in your suitcase.”

“To prove I did it?”

“Well, more to prove that you didn't. The truth is, sir, we want to clear you as a suspect if you're not the killer.”

“Eliminate me from the process?”

“It would help us out,” Hastings said. He looked to Klosterman again and knew that they were both wondering the same thing: whether there were traces of the girl's skin on the man's ties or belts or anything else that could've been used to choke the life out of her.

Hastings said, “We'd like to do that with a certain amount of discretion, you understand.”

Geoffrey Harris smiled at them for the first time. He knew a couched threat when he heard one. “I'm all for that, Lieutenant.”

Geoffrey Harris voluntarily came to the downtown police headquarters and submitted to a polygraph examination. The test was conducted by Burl Davidson, a sergeant whom Klosterman had managed to reach by cell phone. Burl Davidson was a year away from retirement and already had set up a convenience store in St. Charles. He was a slight-looking man with glasses, and he could pass for a schoolteacher. He was an expert examiner.

Hastings and Klosterman watched Davidson do his work in another room on a television monitor. Burl videotaped all his examinations unless instructed to do otherwise. Harris was informed of this.