The Drowning Pool (29 page)

“So she stabbed him afterwards.”

“But she already thought he was dead. We never made public the actual details regarding Bradshaw’s death. She just kept on thinking that she killed him and acted accordingly.”

“By going on to kill Sonny who’d know her alibi was a lie.”

“I’m not certain she did kill Sonny. Remember, she acted in a fit of passionate rage. Killing Sonny would have taken an act of premeditation. Besides, I’m not sure she had the opportunity even if she did have the motive.”

“So I guess we’ll have to see the lady again and talk to her,” Bert concluded.

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

* * * *

Mrs. Walling’s lawyer was less than thrilled about being bothered on short notice, but Gardner had suggested him to represent both Mr. and Mrs. Walling, and he was appreciative of the business thrown his way. Not that Mat Simmons really needed the work; he was the shrewdest and best-connected criminal lawyer in the county. However, Gardner felt he ought to suggest the best since he promised to be fair to Mrs. Walling.

The jail itself was a depressing place. Like other county facilities, it was usually the first place a person was sent after he or she was arraigned. Although far from the worst in the state, it was not a place pictured in travel brochures.

The ominous brick building, set off in a field without fence or sign to identify it, had been built in l934 as a Depression era WPA project. It was a massive, solid, gloomy facility. The woman’s section was in need of paint, Gardner noted. The barred windows were bare, and the sooty brick unadorned. The long line of steel cages left no doubt that this was indeed a place of incarceration.

Joan Walling appeared before them looking more gray than tan. There was a weary expression on her face and when she saw who was visiting her, she became agitated.

“I have nothing more to say to either one of you. You can talk to him from now on.” She pointed at her attorney.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Walling. Lieutenant Gardner thinks it may help your case if you cooperate.” Simmons spoke in smooth tones.

“How are you going to help me?” She let out a sullen, bitter laugh.

“You said that you hit Mr. Bradshaw on the back of the head with a baseball bat and then left, believing he was dead. Had you ever seen a corpse before?”

She shook her head.

“Did you go back later to use the knife on him or did you stab him right after using the bat?” He waited tensely for her response.

She looked up at him in surprise. “What knife?”

“Didn’t you stab Mr. Bradshaw with a knife?”

“No, never. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She looked at him as if waiting for an explanation, but he wasn’t about to give her one.

“We’ll be talking to you again very soon.”

Simmons walked with them and smiled when Gardner thanked him for his help, his mouth a display of dazzling, capped teeth. Handsome bastard. Good courtroom image. These days, it didn’t hurt a trial lawyer to look like a movie actor.

“So you think we’ll be able to do business with the prosecutor on this?”

“I think so. How’d it go with her husband?”

“We’ll make a deal. He has something to offer: the names of the others involved in those robberies. He’s not looking at much time. In fact, I can probably get him probation.”

“The guy’s a creep,” Bert said with disgust.

“Justice is blind,” Simmons said with a cynical smile.

“You said it!”

Simmons left them in the parking lot and Gardner took a breath of the warm, summer breeze.

“So you don’t think Joan killed Bradshaw after all?” Bert sounded let down.

“How does it look to you?”

“Same way,” she conceded. “But damn, that means we have to start all over again.”

“Not exactly.”

As they got into the car, Gardner couldn’t help thinking that the landscape in this area was bleak, even in summer. There was nothing much on either side of the highway except for some small, scrawny fir trees closely massed together. Somehow, the term Garden State did not seem quite applicable to this part of New Jersey.

“We know that everyone left the pool by eight o’clock that evening. Sonny told us he locked up then. We have to work on the assumption that when Sonny closed the club for the night, everyone else had gone home and Bradshaw was lying unconscious in the equipment room.”

Bert looked annoyed; the whites of her eyes glistened. “Do you know the implication of what you’re saying? According to that, none of those people could have killed Bradshaw. You’re saying he was locked in there and no one could get to him except Sonny, the Walling woman, Martha Rhoades or the other two lifeguards.”

“I suppose that is the implication.”

“Okay. We don’t think Joan had any reason to return. And except for Sonny, no one else might have a motive for touching Bradshaw. You think the kid killed him after all?”

“Then who killed Sonny?”

“We never asked Joan about him,” Bert said.

“I don’t think we have to.”

“But you can’t be sure. I just wish we were done with this case. It’s beginning to piss me off.”

* * * *

Back at headquarters, Gardner went to his desk and put in a phone call to the pool club. There were five or six rings before anyone picked up the receiver. It was the girl called Beth who finally answered, and she got Martha Rhoades for him.

“I’m surprised to hear from you,” she said with irritation, “I thought everything was settled.”

“There are still some more questions.”

“We’re awfully busy today,” she said in a voice that would have made a walrus look for an overcoat. “I can’t tell you how many gum and candy wrappers we’ve picked up already. Little children have no manners, and these young mothers pay no attention to what their children do. It’s a disgrace.”

“Yes, I understand. This will just take a moment of your time.”

“What do you want to know?” She would never be accused of graciousness.

“Are the spotlights left on at the pool after closing?”

“No, never,” Miss Rhoades said. “A total waste of electricity. We have the pool lights on Tuesday night only. That’s our movie night. We call it Family Night because we only show films suitable for the entire family. I personally make the selections.”

He ignored her unnecessary, self-serving comments. “Mr. Bradshaw wasn’t killed on a Tuesday night and the lights were on. You told us that was why you checked on the pool that night.”

There was a significant pause at the other end of the wire. “I can’t explain it. The lights should not have been on. Sonny had strict instructions from me. To the best of my knowledge, he always did what he was told.”

“Is there anyone else who has keys to the club?”

“No, I’ve already told you that.”

“What about the owner, Mr. Page?”

There was another hesitation. “I suppose he might. He was the builder.”

“Does he come around much?”

“He is very fastidious where the complex is concerned. He pops in for brief visits now and then. Sometimes he plays golf at the course and then drops by for a swim. He always checks on the flowers. He likes to make certain they’re being watered properly. He was favorably impressed by the red and white petunias this year.”

“Are his visits always in the daytime?”

“I don’t know. Sonny did mention that Mr. Page occasionally dropped by for a swim in the evening.”

“And left around closing time?”

She did not seem eager to answer the question, as if she thought there might be something improper about it.

“I couldn’t say,” she said finally in a guarded tone of voice. “Only Sonny would have known that.”

Bert, who was listening in on the extension, shot Gardner a sharp look. Gardner nodded his head at her. His mind flashed with a clear understanding of what had been left unsaid.

“Why didn’t you tell us before that Mr. Page had his own keys to the pool?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

He thought she was lying but supposed the reason behind it was loyalty to her employer. He decided to let the matter drop, satisfied to have found out that his hunch about the builder was correct.

“Maybe we should have a word with Cheryl McNeill,” Gardner remarked after getting off the phone with Miss Rhoades. “We ought to find out if Page and Bradshaw knew each other.”

“You think she’d know?”

“Can’t say, but it’s worth a try.”

Before they could leave, Drew Mitchell came over to them. He looked Bert up and down with an insulting stare.

“I really like big women,” he said. “Especially big, black women. I hear they’re hot in bed.” He gave her what only could be described as a leer.

“Get lost, before I report you for sexual harassment.” She folded her arms over her breasts and stood tall and straight.

“Saving yourself for Gardner?”

Her eyes glittered like shards of steel as she turned and stalked away.

Mitchell turned to Gardner. “I was just kidding around with her. She’s got no sense of humor.”

“Leave her alone, Mitch. Call it a friendly warning.”

“Sure, Mike.” His smile was crooked. “I wouldn’t try to claim your territory. Hey, you see the article in the newspaper today about the mayor asking for an investigation of the chief?”

Gardner indicated that he had.

“The Chief’s really pissed. Nash told me the old man’s worried about the department getting a black eye in the public image. If nothing else, it’s bad for morale.”

“So what’s he going to do about it?”

“He personally phoned the mayor and asked him to come over later to talk.”

“Did Ryan agree?”

“Looks that way. The captain just asked me to make sure that a special parking spot be marked for the mayor in our lot as a welcome. It’s supposed to separate him from the patrol cars as a sign of respect.”

“Sounds promising,” Gardner said.

Yet it puzzled him; this sudden courtesy on the chief’s part seemed out of character. The truth was, neither man had any regard for the other. But he had other things to worry about and decided to put the matter out of his mind.

He’d told Bert they were close to solving the Bradshaw case, yet he wasn’t certain. Things weren’t going smoothly; he was afraid they were chasing down false leads. Still, he had to make the effort. He’d felt ever since he met George Page that the builder had a part in this. He was definitely hiding something. Maybe Cheryl McNeill could confirm it. It wouldn’t surprise him to find out she’d held back on some piece of important information.

SEVENTEEN

As Cheryl McNeill opened her apartment door, Gardner was again reminded of Bradshaw’s excellent taste in furnishings as well as women. He and Bert St. Croix were ushered into the elegant green velvet living room and seated on chairs too good to actually sit on.

“I thought it was all over with. Why do you want to see me again?” She tapped long, vermilion fingernails on a rosewood end table and gave him a suspicious look. “When can I leave for California?”

“Ms. McNeill, we do have a few more questions for you. I hope it won’t be necessary to delay your departure. However, you are the one person who knew Mr. Bradshaw best. You also knew his friends.”

“Not all of them.” Her expression was guarded.

“You knew George Page, didn’t you?” His voice was polite but firm.

He watched the tall, slender brunette carefully. Her expression barely changed, yet he could tell the mention of Page’s name somehow upset her.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she replied, sitting in a stiff manner.

“I was given to understand Mr. Bradshaw introduced you to Mr. Page.” He was playing a hunch. But his unique intuition was rarely wrong.

“I never heard of the man. Look, Joan confessed to killing Rick. Doesn’t that end it? I want you both out of here. I’m not going to say another word. I didn’t kill Rick. I don’t know anything. Leave me alone! I’ve suffered enough.” She pushed her long dark brown hair back from her face, eyes blazing.

He rose abruptly, realizing it was pointless to try and interrogate her any further at this time. “The question of who killed your friend is far from settled. You’ll have to postpone your plans and remain in New Jersey somewhat longer. If you do happen to recall anything about Mr. Page or anyone else, give us a call.”

She received his final comments less than enthusiastically and slammed the door behind them as they left the apartment. Gardner remembered having once thought that Cheryl McNeill had qualities similar to his daughter Evie; he decided the analogy had been faulty.

* * * *

The Page residence was large and impressive, and about as easy to get into as Fort Knox. They first had to state their business to a man at the front gate. The grounds were surrounded by a high stone wall that extended around the front of the house, and as far as he could tell ended somewhere deep in the woods. Gardner thought of the implications of the poem by Robert Frost: were fences meant to keep people out or to keep people in? Why did Page need a veritable fortress?

They’d done their homework. Bert had phoned Page’s office earlier, and after a run-around of being put on hold countless times, finally discovered Page was working from home that day, not from his office.

A male servant opened the door to the Page residence. The face was bearded and there was a sharp, aquiline beak overshadowing the rest of his features. The most impressive thing about him was his build. He looked more like a linebacker than a butler.

‘You want somethin’?” The sandpaper voice had a thick New York City accent.

“The fellow at the gate cleared us. We’re police officers here to see Mr. Page.” Gardner would have to be blind not to notice the look of cold contempt on the other man’s face or the bulge under his jacket.

“It’ll be a while. Mr. Page is busy.”

“We’re willing to wait,” he responded without any trace of emotion.

“Let me see some I.D.” When the butler was satisfied, he left them standing in the large vestibule on the best pink Italian marble that money could buy. A window of Madonna and Child in stained glass faced him. An ornate chandelier of fine crystal loomed over them. For a moment, Gardner wasn’t certain whether he was in a private home or a Renaissance cathedral.