The Fregoli Delusion (25 page)

“Any chance Crocker caught wind of
this?” Karen asked.

“No way,” Raskin laughed. “I’ve
done this sort of thing for a very long time, Detective Stainer. Nobody catches
wind of anything before Mr. Jarrett wants them to. Period.” He looked at his
watch. “Look, if there’s nothing else, I really gotta go to this next meeting.”

Down in the Crown Vic, Karen
started the engine. “I still say it’s Holland, but I’m willing to play along.
Let’s go have a chat with Crocker.” She shifted into reverse and backed out of
their parking space. “Unless you’d rather take Truly, since you and her have
been working this angle already.”

“You’re on a roll,” he said. “Do
your thing.”

She grinned back. “Fire in the
hole.”

29

They caught up to Perry Crocker at
slip twenty-one of the Federal Point marina, where he and Chrissy Jarrett were
just coming ashore after an afternoon on the water.

Karen’s nostrils flared at the
scent of salt in the air. She loved the smell. She stepped up to Perry Crocker
and badged him. “Detective Stainer, Homicide. Lieutenant Donaghue and I have a
few follow-up questions for you, Mr. Crocker.”

Crocker glanced at her badge and
shifted his eyes to Hank. “Really, Donaghue. I thought you’d have gotten the
idea after ransacking my home and confiscating my car that I had nothing to do
with your investigation. Can’t you just leave us alone? We’re trying to put
this all behind us.”

“Perry’s right,” Chrissy said to
Hank. “Can’t you see he didn’t have anything to do with it?”

“Mrs. Jarrett,” Karen said, “we
haven’t met. I’m Detective Karen Stainer. I’m very sorry for your loss. Believe
me, the lieutenant and I are fully committed to nailing whoever murdered your
husband. It’s important that we discuss a few details with Mr. Crocker right
now. Is there somewhere you could wait for him until we’re done?”

Chrissy opened and closed her
mouth, looking at Hank.

“Maybe in the Captain’s Run,” Hank
suggested, referring to the seafood restaurant behind them, next to the marina
office. “It won’t be long.”

“All right,” Chrissy said. “After
all, it’s happy hour, isn’t it? I’ll have a drink, and be happy.” She shifted
her small handbag to her left hand and held out her right hand to Karen. “Thank
you for your sympathies.”

Karen shook her hand. “You’re
welcome, Mrs. Jarrett.”

Chrissy gave Hank a long look and
brushed past him, walking quickly down the pier.

“Nice boat,” Karen said, stepping
up next to Crocker. “Must have cost you a fortune.”

“My yacht is no concern of yours,”
Crocker said.

“No, come on,” Karen said. “I love
boats. I’ve searched them before. Busted people on them before. Boats and I get
along just great. Love the name.
Croc Runner
. How much did you pay for
it?”

Crocker looked over the top of her
head at Hank. “Donaghue, can we just get this over with?”

“Detective Stainer’s conducting
this interview,” Hank said. “Answer her questions, Mr. Crocker.”

“Jesus, you people.”

“Play along, Skippy,” Karen said.
“It won’t hurt. Tell me about your boat.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. It’s a
fifty-two-foot 2010 Predator. Cherry wood, teak floors, seven-hundred-horsepower
Volvo engine, three cabins, all the extras. I paid one point two million for it
in March. Okay? Are we done now?”

“See?” Karen smiled. “Not so hard.
Next question isn’t so hard either. Does Mrs. Jarrett know you tried to buy her
from her husband before he got offed?”

“You have to be kidding. This
conversation’s over.” He tried to move around her but Karen shifted, blocking
his way.

“I’d love to book you on
suspicion. Just keep it up. You’ll find the inside of a cell an interesting new
experience.”

Hank said, “We know about your
failed attempt to buy out Mrs. Jarrett’s prenuptial agreement. It gives you
plenty of motive for murder. Answer Detective Stainer’s questions or we
will
take you downtown and book you.”

“Does Mrs. Jarrett know about it?”
Karen asked again.

“No, no. Christ, no. She’d kill me
if she found out.” He realized what he’d just said. “Figuratively, I mean. No,
it was just a bad idea. A bad idea. I wanted to see if Jarrett would back out
of the picture. I didn’t know he actually had feelings for her. He refused, so
I dropped it.”

“It didn’t occur to you it was a
brainless, thoughtless thing to do? That you can’t buy a woman like that, like
she was a business or a yacht or something? I’m just curious.”

“It was a bad idea,” Crocker
repeated. “I’m crazy about her. What can I say? Their marriage was like a
business deal. I thought, I don’t know, maybe he’d go for another deal. I was
wrong.”

“Did you know that Jarrett had
begun a creeping takeover of your company? That he was buying up CrocComm stock
on the q.t.?”

Crocker’s face went blank. His
eyes shifted out over the water, then slowly back to her. “What’s your source?
How do you know Jarrett was behind it?”

“You didn’t know, did you? You
didn’t see it happening.”

“No,” Crocker reluctantly admitted.
“But if Jarrett was behind something like that, I can understand why.”

“So can we,” Hank said.

Crocker rolled his eyes. “I see
where you’re going. Forget it. I had no idea, so it wasn’t a motive for me to
kill Jarrett. Forget it, people. You’ve already taken my computer records and
e-mail and every other goddamned thing that wasn’t nailed down. You won’t find
a smoking gun connected to this takeover you’re talking about because I had no
idea. Dead end. I was clueless. He was coming at me from my blind side. Christ,
what a bastard.”

“Where were you between eleven and
one today?”

“What? I was at sea. Didn’t you
hear me say we were out on the water?”

“What time did you leave?”

“Shortly before ten. We just got
back.” Crocker shook his head. “Tomorrow’s her husband’s funeral, for crying
out loud. The governor’s supposed to be there, and a lot of other VIPs. Not to
mention all the media. She’s under huge pressure. I’m trying to take her mind
off it.”

“You’re saying you took your boat
out at ten, and the marina can verify that?”

“I got clearance going and
coming,” Crocker said. “I stayed in U.S. water the whole time, so I didn’t
report to customs, but the marina’s log, inside, will give you the times I
called in to them. Why? What’s so special about this morning?”

“When Jarrett turned you down on
your bonehead offer,” Karen said, “what was your reaction? Did you get mad?”

“What? Yes. No. I didn’t get mad.
I was upset, but not mad. Not angry. Disappointed. It would’ve made things a
lot easier.”

“Well, they’re pretty easy right
now, aren’t they?” Karen folded her arms. “What’s your beef against Brett
Parris?”

“Who? I don’t know who that is.”

“Brett Parris,” Karen repeated.
“Don’t you like him, or something?”

“I don’t know who Brett Parris
is,” Crocker repeated. “I know who Walter Parris is. Oh, wait. Brett’s his son.
Why?”

“Somebody ran him down this
morning,” Karen said. “If we go look at your car in the parking lot, are we
going to find damage on the front of it?”

“What next?” Crocker complained. “You’re
welcome to take a look, please do. You’ll see it’s in perfect condition. The
way it always is. I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, but you’re
just as far off base as ever.” He looked at Hank. “
Now
are we done?”

Hank looked at Karen. Karen rolled
her eyes.

“Thank you for your time, Mr.
Crocker,” Hank said.

“Yeah, whatever.” Crocker shook
his head and walked away.

They trailed behind, watching him
leave the pier and cross the pavement to the restaurant. They walked back to
the parking lot and found Crocker’s car. It was intact. Completely undamaged.

“Lou,” Karen said.

“Yeah, I know.” Hank turned away,
looking back at the yachts moored at their floating slips along the pier.

“It was Holland. Both times.”

He ran a hand through his frizzy
hair, his thoughts shifting.

“Listen,” she went on, “we can go
in and check on Crocker’s story with the marina, but I don’t see the point.
What we
should
do is go talk to Peggy Kelly again. She’s a smart lady. I
want to know why she doesn’t like Holland. She knows stuff she didn’t tell us
the first time. Let me talk to her again. I’ll behave myself.”

He looked up at the blue sky,
inhaling the warm salty air.

“Holland did it,” she said.
“C’mon, Lou. He’s just over the next hill. The dogs are howlin’. They can smell
him. It’s time to nail his sorry ass.”

Hank looked at her. “Let’s go see
Kelly.”

30

Peggy Kelly lived in a very
comfortable Colonial-style house on Stamford Road in Granger Park. The house
had four dormer windows on the third floor, six shuttered windows on the second
floor, and two large bay windows on the ground floor. Karen rang the front door
bell. Kelly let them in and led them through a set of French doors into a sun
room that looked out onto the rear of the property. They could smell food
cooking. It smelled good. Roast beef.

Kelly had made a pot of coffee. As
they sat down, she poured cups for them and offered cream and sugar. When they
were settled, Karen opened on a conciliatory note.

“Thanks for meeting with us on
short notice. You said your husband's coming home this evening?”

Kelly nodded. She was dressed
casually in jeans, moccasins, and a simple jade-colored top. She glanced at a
mantle clock on top of a bookcase. “He should be home in about an hour.”

“He's driving down from Norfolk?”

“Yes. He'll be with me at the
funeral tomorrow.”

“This won't take long.”

“You said you had some follow-up
questions.”

“Yeah, about Richard Holland. When
we talked about him before, you said he was the son of some guy who used to
work with your boss.”

“Yes. Gerald Holland.”

“Jarrett caught the guy stealing, canned
him, and the guy committed suicide. You figured your boss felt sorry about the
whole thing and hired Richard Holland after he graduated from college, then
helped him up the ladder. Something like that.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“I got the impression you don't
like Holland very much, Ms. Kelly. I think you said he was an over-achiever.
How the hell did he make it as a VP? Help me out here. Holland said he's been
with the company twelve years. Started as an advertising account manager or
something. Is that right?”

“More or less. He worked for us
before that as an intern, while he was finishing his MBA, then Mr. Jarrett
instructed me to find him something in the company, so I found an opening for
him as an account executive in public affairs. Three years later he was
promoted to manager of the advertising account unit, and three years after that
to general manager after a reorganization of our marketing and advertising section.”

“I see. Sounds like he knew what
he was doing.”

“His primary skill is using other
people around him.”

“I guess you could say that about
most managers, couldn't you?”

“Of course. Managers need to
surround themselves with people who are excellent at what they do. The most
successful ones, though, are themselves very detail-oriented. Richard lacks
that particular skill. He's more just
.
 
.
 
.
manipulative of other people.”

“Okay, so he makes general manager.”
Karen pinched her nose, thinking. “Then what?”

“In 2010 the vice-president's
position came open in corporate and regulatory affairs.”

“The one he's in now.”

“Correct.”

“But if I remember right, someone
else got that job first.”

“Yes. Mr. Forrestall.”

“So what happened to him?”

Kelly looked down at her hands.
“He committed suicide. In a hotel room in Baltimore. You may have seen it in
the news. The police discovered he had been using male prostitutes up there for
quite a few years. His wife was devastated.”

“And this was when?”

“October, 2010.”

“Forrestall had already been
appointed vice-president?” Karen asked.

“Yes, in August.”

“And no one had any idea this
other stuff was going on?”

Kelly shook her head.

“And there was Holland, in the
right place at the right time.”

“You could say that,” Kelly said. “Oh,
he'd lobbied for the job for himself, quite shamelessly, but the board
preferred Mr. Forrestall. After his death, my recommendation was that we begin
a new search for candidates, and most of the chief executives backed me on it,
but Mr. Jarrett chose instead to insist that Richard be appointed to the job.”

“Jarrett insisted.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Did Holland have something
on him? Something he was using to force his way up the ladder?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. But
Mr. Jarrett said to me once he thought he saw something of himself in Richard,
and he wanted to see if he was right or wrong about it.”

“Okay.” Karen switched gears.
“Let's go back to something. We understand that Holland's mother still lives in
town somewhere. Do you know her at all?”

Kelly shook her head. “I've never
met her. Her name's Mary Holland. She lives in Springhill.”

“You know where in Springhill?”

“Yes. I sent her flowers and a
gift every Christmas in Mr. Jarrett's name.”

“Really. That's very interesting.
Could you give us that address now?”

“It's in my tablet. In my purse in
the other room.”

“We don't mind waiting.”

When Kelly left the room, Karen
looked at Hank, who was sipping his coffee. “Right place at the right time, my
ass.”

“Could be dirty tricks,” Hank
said, putting his cup down.

“She’s still not giving us the lowdown.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know. Or it’s
professional caution. Avoidance of slander.”

“Someone else must know what was
going on, somebody not afraid to spill the beans.”

Hank motioned with his chin toward
the door. Karen turned and watched Kelly walk back into the sun room, intent on
the tablet in her hand, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“You like that thing?” Karen
asked.

Kelly looked at her over her
glasses. “Pardon me? Oh, yes, I do. I don’t know what I’d do without it. Do you
have one?”

“Me? No. I wouldn’t have a use for
it.”

Kelly recited Mary Holland’s
address. Hank wrote it down.

“Thanks,” Karen said. “One more
thing before we get out of your hair. Is there someone else in the company we
could talk to who might know a little more about Holland from day-to-day
experience, working with him?”

“You could try his EA, I suppose.”

“Who’d that be?”

“Ellen Moore. I could give you her
home coordinates.”

Home coordinates. “That’d be
great,” Karen replied. “How long has she worked for him?”

“Only five or six months. Here it
is.” Kelly recited the address and telephone number of Ellen Moore.

“What about before that? Someone
who maybe worked with him before?”

“Support staff tend not to stay
with Richard for very long. I suppose you could see if Celestina might be
willing to answer a few questions. She’d know him better than the others.”

Celestina Flores, it turned out,
had been Holland’s secretary in 2003 when he was advertising accounts manager.
After two years she became executive assistant of the general manager,
Holland’s boss, but continued to deal with him on a daily basis. When the
section was reorganized and Holland became general manager in 2006, Celestina
transferred out of the division rather than remain and have to work for Holland
again. She was now the secretary to a manager in the testing area of their skin
care division. Kelly gave them her address. They thanked her for her time and
left.

Celestina Flores lived across the
river in Wilmingford, in a neighborhood Karen and Hank both knew very well. It
was a rough area that had seen its share of homicide investigations over the
years. Celestina lived in an apartment above Gomes Used Appliances & Repair
on Sifton Street. It was a small building, perhaps a family home in a previous
lifetime that had been converted into a business on the ground floor, with
living quarters above. Most of the businesses on this block, including the used
appliance store, looked as though they’d been abandoned for some time. As Karen
got out of the Crown Vic, a police cruiser rolled to a stop next to her. The
cop in the passenger side lowered the window.

“Can I see some identification?”

Karen showed him her badge as Hank
leaned over the roof of the Crown Vic from the passenger side, amused.

“Thanks, Detective,” the officer
said. “Hour ago there was a b-and-e two blocks over. We’ve been trawling for
suspicious movement. You never know.”

“You’re looking for someone who
looks like a plainclothes cop?”

“No, m’am,” the officer flushed.
“We saw the Crown Vic and were hoping you could keep your eyes open while
you’re down here. Just in case.”

“Be glad to.”

“Thanks.” The window went back up
and the cruiser rolled away.

“That kind of neighborhood,” Hank
said.

They went through an open doorway
and up a flight of stairs. There was only one door in the short hallway. Karen
pounded on it. It was opened almost immediately by a pretty young African-American
woman with an enormous head of frizzy hair, tinted, large-framed glasses, tight
black t-shirt, and blue jeans. A television set was blaring in the background.
The woman waved a lit joint at them and grinned.

“Hi, who y’all looking for?”

Karen grinned back, badging her.
“Boo.”

“Omigod, it’s not what you think!”
The young woman backpedaled into the room and threw her joint into a potted
plant. “It’s just herbs. From the health food store.”

“Sure it is,” Karen said, making a
production of sniffing the air, which was heavy with the pungent smell of
marijuana. “We’re looking for Celestina Flores. You her?”

“She’s in the bathroom. Celestina!
It’s the police! They’re looking for you!”

“Okay if we come in?” Karen asked,
walking into the room. Hank followed, moving to her right.

“Yeah, sure. I just have to go do
something in my room. I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the next room and
closed the door.

“Out the window,” Hank said.

“Down the fire escape.” Karen
heard a toilet flush from behind another closed door. She walked over and
rapped on it with a knuckle. “Celestina Flores? Glendale PD. Can you come out
and talk to us for a minute? It’s about your place of work. It’ll only take a
few minutes.”

The bathroom door cracked open.
Karen held up her badge. “Detective Stainer, Homicide. We’re not narks. Are you
Celestina?”

The door opened wider on a tiny woman
in her mid-twenties. Her dark, curly hair was shoulder length, her complexion
was mottled, and she had prominent dark circles under her eyes. “Yeah. What’s
this about?”

“Come on out and sit down over
here, we’ll talk about it.” Karen pushed the door open the rest of the way.
“This is Lieutenant Donaghue.”

Hank held up his badge and
identification. Celestina turned off the television set, to their collective
relief, and they all sat down in the tiny living room. The place was small and
cramped, but the furnishings were solid and well cared-for, as though they’d
come from someone’s house and were being kept here as a last resort.

“Nice stuff,” Karen said, looking
around.

“It was all my grandma’s,”
Celestina said. “I was her only relative, so I got all her things when she
passed.” She looked around. “I kept as much as I could, when I moved from my
old place. It was bigger than this. You want coffee or something?”

“No, thanks. We won’t be long.
When did you move?”

“I guess it was a few years ago,
now. I had a nice place downtown that was a real short commute to work but I
couldn’t afford to keep it after I changed jobs, on account of my salary going
down. And, I had to find a roommate. Good ones are hard to find.”

“Yeah,” Karen glanced at the
closed bedroom door, “you got a real keeper there.”

“I didn’t know she did weed until
after she moved in. I hate that stuff. It gives me migraines.”

“So throw her out.”

“I can’t afford to. It’s hard to
find roommates who’ll live in this neighborhood, and I need someone to split
the rent with. Even a dump like this is expensive, with the hydro, the phone, Internet,
all those things. Plus a security system and insurance for Grandma’s stuff.
There’s a lot of break-ins around here.”

“So we heard.” Karen folded her
hands. “So tell us about changing jobs. You work at Jarrett, don’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’ve been
there fourteen years. Got hired right out of high school as a typist, and I’ve
been there ever since.”

Karen glanced at Hank, who looked
comfortable in an overstuffed armchair with a hand-crocheted antimacassar and
arm protectors. He crossed his legs, notebook open on his lap, and tilted up the
corners of his mouth at her.

Such a smartass.

“We understand you worked as a
secretary for Richard Holland, is that right?”