The Fregoli Delusion (4 page)

“I take it we can confirm all this
with his shrink.”

“We’ll provide you with written
consent.”

“And we can search his room for
the gun you say he’d never use.”

Walter frowned. “This is a
sidebar, Detective, without Brett and his legal counsel. My son gave me
permission to discuss his condition, as you heard, but I’ll thank you not to
push it too far. Entering our home for any purpose other than an interview will
require a warrant.”

“Okay, okay. But let me guess
where you’re heading with this. I’m going to go back into that room and ask him
again who he saw on the bike path this morning. Now that we’ve had this little
chat, you and his lawyer are going to back off and let him tell me, right?”

Walter nodded reluctantly.

“Okay, great. But then you’re
going to insist he’s not a reliable eyewitness because of this Fregoli thing,
right? Because he believes that a bunch of different people are the same guy,
following him around?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“I never went to Harvard,” Karen went
on, “but I bet I’m smart enough to guess who he’s gonna tell me he saw. Am I
right?”

Walter stared at her, then dropped
his eyes and nodded. “That’s right, Detective. He said he saw Richard Holland.”

4

The captain’s office had a
television set, so they crowded inside at 2:00
p
.
m
. to watch
the news conference. Chief Bennett was at the podium making his statement when
Hank turned it on.

“Good afternoon, everyone.”
Bennett stared into the camera with his usual arrogance. “I understand it’s
very warm in the room and I apologize for our air conditioning, which is being
serviced as we speak, so I won’t keep you very long. I’ll make a brief
statement, we’ll take some questions, and then I’ll let you go so you can make
your deadlines.

“I have with me Deputy Chief
Douglas Barkley of our Investigations Division and acting Commander Ann
Martinez of the Detective Services Bureau.” He gestured behind him, where
Barkley and Martinez sat stiffly on plastic chairs. “Commander Martinez made a
statement this morning at the scene regarding the shooting death of a white male,
aged sixty-eight, who was murdered while riding a bicycle on the bike path
along Cumberland Avenue in Granger Park. We’re here to announce that the victim
was Herbert Joseph Jarrett, president and chief executive officer of Jarrett
Corporation. Mr. Jarrett was riding his bicycle on the path when he was met by
an unknown subject. Evidence suggests that he stopped his bicycle to talk to
this UNSUB and was shot once in the head from a distance of four to six feet,
dying almost instantly from his wound.”

Bennett paused for a moment to
allow the noise to die down as the journalists reacted to the identity of the
victim. “Mr. Jarrett’s wallet was found about twenty yards down the bike path
from the body, thrown under some bushes. The wallet contained no cash or credit
cards. We’re considering the possibility that Mr. Jarrett was the victim of a
robbery, but we’re also going to pursue the theory that Mr. Jarrett knew the
UNSUB and that the wallet was a ruse to throw us off the scent.”

“He’s more FBI than the FBI,”
muttered a robbery detective standing next to Hank. Apparently Hank wasn’t the
only one who was annoyed by the chief’s continual use of FBI terminology such
as “UNSUB,” slang for “unknown subject,” a hangover from his days with the
Bureau.

“We’ve interviewed a witness who
was present in the park when the shooting occurred,” Bennett went on. “He did
not witness the shooting itself. He was a fair distance around the bend in the
bike path, with trees and bushes between himself and the scene. He heard the shot
in the distance and walked over to find the body. Nine-one-one was called and
our responding officers arrived within five minutes. We’re still talking to the
witness in case he might have any further information that will be of use to
us, but at this time we’ll be vigorously pursuing all other leads.

“Our condolences go out to Mrs.
Christine Jarrett and the rest of Mr. Jarrett’s family, friends, and
colleagues. That’s all I have for you at this time.”

Questions had erupted from all
quarters. Bennett pointed to someone in the first row.

“Sarah Hume, CNN, Chief Bennett.
Given that Jarrett Corporation is the seventh-largest company in Maryland, with
revenues exceeding one-point-two billion dollars last year, and given that H.J.
Jarrett was the state’s fifth-wealthiest individual, with a net worth of more
than a billion and a half dollars, is it safe to say that your department is
assigning this homicide its highest priority?”

“Absolutely,” Bennett replied. “I
can tell you that we’ve formed a special task force to investigate this heinous
crime, reporting to Commander Martinez. Our top investigators will be working
on this case night and day until it’s solved.”

The robbery detective standing
next to Hank grinned. “A task force, huh? Must be your lucky day.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

On the television, the questions
continued to fly.

“Have you spoken to the governor?”
the correspondent from CBS was pressing the chief.

“I haven’t,” Bennett frowned, “but
Mayor Watts has, and the governor has been assured that the Glendale Police
Department will solve this case in a timely manner and bring the perpetrator to
justice.” It was obvious that Bennett felt miffed about not having spoken to
the governor himself.

The correspondent from Fox News
put up his hand. “Can you tell us who the witness is, Chief Bennett?”

“At this time,” Bennett said
slowly, “we’re not going to release his name.”

“Is he a suspect? Do you think he
shot Jarrett himself?”

“No, no. Well, let me just say
that we’re pursuing all leads right now.”

“What’s he saying? Did he know Jarrett?
Did you find evidence that he might have robbed Jarrett?”

Martinez stood up and joined
Bennett at the podium. The chief gratefully yielded the floor.

“To answer your question,”
Martinez said, “no, we found no evidence to indicate that the witness robbed
the victim. He told us basically what the chief told you, that he heard a shot,
walked back around the bend along the bike path, found the victim already
deceased, and no, while we’re actively considering all possibilities, we don’t
think the witness is the person who shot Mr. Jarrett. I’ll mention now that he
was tested for gunshot residue with negative results. We’re treating him
strictly as a witness, and one who may only be able to help us on a very
limited basis. We’re concentrating our efforts in a number of other
directions.”

“Have you found the gun?” asked a
newspaper correspondent.

“Not at this time.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“Not at this time.”

“Do you have any leads?”

Not at this time
, Hank thought.

“We’re pursuing several lines of
inquiry,” Martinez replied, “and we’ll provide an update as soon as possible.
That’s all for now.”

Bennett reclaimed the podium and thanked
them for coming. The broadcast switched to a news anchor who began to summarize
what had just been revealed. The murder of the fifth-richest man in the state
was about to become one of the top stories of the year.

Hank turned off the television,
and the crowd emptied out of the captain’s office. He closed the door behind
him as Karen strode into the bullpen area from the elevators.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

Karen held up her black leather
portfolio. “All set.” She and Assistant State’s Attorney Leanne DiOrio had just
paid a visit to the courthouse to obtain a set of warrants for the Jarrett
mansion and the corporate offices in the downtown headquarters known as Jarrett
Tower. “How did the press conference go?”

They walked back to the elevators.
“It was short and sweet.” Hank stabbed the button.

“The networks were there, right?”

“Yes.”

“We’re gonna be under the
microscope.”

“I imagine.”

“What’d they say about Parris?”
Karen punched the elevator button impatiently.

“Martinez cleared him as a suspect
and said he’d be of help on a limited basis only.”

“Okay,” Karen said. “That’s fine.
There’s not a chance in hell he shot the vic. It just doesn’t work for me. But
I think he could still be a witness. He was pretty damned sure about what he
was saying.”

“Maybe,” Hank replied
noncommittally. “We’ll need to talk to Dr. Caldwell to get a better sense of
his reliability.”

Karen looked at him. “Can I ask
you a question? And you won’t get pissed?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“What the fuck was Truly doing in
our interview with old man Parris? Has she transferred to Homicide or something
and I didn’t get the memo?”

Hank shrugged. “She’s asking for a
transfer. I’ve told her we can’t take anybody right now, but I wanted to see
how she handled herself. She took it all in and kept her mouth shut.”

“She’s a slug, Lou. Her street
experience is nil and she’s got the personality of a fucking traffic cone. She
wouldn’t last five minutes in Homicide.”

Hank said nothing.

“They’re all duds in CCU,” Karen
went on. “Cold case, frozen brain. Look at Waverman. A complete tool.”

Hank’s cell phone vibrated. He
took it out, looked at the call display, and thumbed the green button.
“Donaghue.”

“Hank, it’s me,” Horvath said.
“We've got a big problem.”

“What kind of problem? Are you
still in Chinatown?”

“Yeah, we’re here. But I need you
to get the hell over here right away.” Horvath lowered his voice, and Hank
couldn’t catch what he said next.

“Didn’t get that, Horvath. Say
again.”

“I said, Peralta’s had some kind
of a breakdown. She’s fallen apart. I called her husband and he’s on the way
but I need you ASAP. Jarvis is here and I don’t want him talking to her like
this.”

The elevator doors opened and
Karen stepped inside. Hank followed, caught her eye, and shook his head.

“I’ll be right there,” he told
Horvath.

5

There was no one to give him a
ride, so Hank caught a taxi. The home invasion had taken place at 1437 King
Street, half a block from Columbia Street in the heart of Chinatown. He told
the taxi driver to let him off on Columbia, just short of King. He walked
around the corner and showed his identification and badge to officers at the
wooden barriers blocking vehicular traffic.

This section of King was a mixture
of tenements and small houses converted into grocery stores, tea houses, and
souvenir shops. An old man sitting on the bottom step of one of the tenements
watched expressionlessly as Hank walked past. A dog on the top step lifted its
head, following him with its brown eyes. Next door someone parted the curtains
in an upstairs window. A crime scene van trying to work its way down to
Columbia blipped its klaxon to warn off the clusters of young men smoking
cigarettes and talking in the middle of the street. By this time, Hank figured,
the scene would be processed and the technicians would be heading back to the
lab with their findings. He could see a number of police cruisers and unmarked
vehicles ahead, light bars and dashboard bubbles still flashing, but it looked
as though the medical examiner’s office had already transported the bodies and
cleared the scene.

At the yellow tape bordering the
crime scene, Hank gave the leather wallet containing his identification and
badge to the uniformed officer controlling access to the house where the
invasion had taken place. She wrote down his particulars in the log on her
clipboard and handed back the wallet. Hank had never seen her before. Small and
blond, she looked young enough to be his daughter.

“I hear it’s pretty bad,” Hank
said.

“These people are animals.”

Hank put the wallet back in his
jacket pocket and lifted the yellow tape. He walked up the steps onto the
porch, where the front door was propped open by a black equipment case
belonging to one of the crime scene technicians. The building was a duplex.
Next door, the other half was taken up by a tiny grocery store with dusty bags
of rice in the front window. A family by the name of Chee had lived in this
half, a couple in their late fifties with two grown sons.

Hank stepped into the hallway,
nodding at a uniformed officer on his way out. The first thing was the smell, a
wave of vomit, excrement, and blood. Then it was Bill Jarvis, pointing a finger
at him.

“Out of my crime scene, Donaghue.”

“Where are Horvath and Peralta?”

“Look,” Jarvis said, moving into
Hank’s personal space and tapping him on the chest with his index finger, “didn’t
you get the word? The chief’s decided that all violent crime in Chinatown will
now belong to my task force. Oh wait, that’s right, you don’t report directly
to Bennett, like I do. It takes time for news to filter down the food chain.”

Lieutenant Bill Jarvis was
forty-two years old. He was short and a little thick around the stomach. His
dirty blond hair was thin and straight, his blue eyes were narrow, and his lips
were thin and tended to curl away from his teeth in a grimace he thought looked
friendly but wasn’t. Hank found him annoying and obnoxious, but he’d spent the first
four years of his professional life with the FBI and understood how to sell
that experience to the current administration.

Detective Larry Carleson appeared
behind Jarvis and pointed with his chin down the hallway. “This way,
Lieutenant.”

“Thanks.” Hank moved around Jarvis
and nodded at Carleson, glancing involuntarily, as he always did, at the jagged
scar on the detective’s pale, shaven scalp, the result of an altercation involving
a broken beer bottle and an angry drunk when he was a rookie patrol officer.

Carleson led him down the hall to
a small staircase on the right, just short of the kitchen. “Down the stairs and
straight ahead through the door. They’re in the back yard.”

“Thanks.”

“Jarvis is a prick, but he’s
right. Didn’t you get the word?”

Hank looked at him. Carleson had
skipped shaving this morning, and the stubble on his pasty skin looked like
grains of pepper spilled on a tablecloth. He was taller than Hank by about two
inches, but much bonier. They’d always gotten along well enough in Homicide,
and Hank had no reason to believe that Carleson harbored any ill will against
him. He understood that when Jarvis had offered the secondment to his task
force, Carleson had correctly recognized it as an important career move.

“Martinez probably found out after
you sent Peralta and Horvath over,” Carleson went on. “Maybe she left a message
on your cell.”

“Maybe.” Hank went down the stairs
and through the door into a narrow space between this building and the next. He
walked down to the back yard, a small rectangle of dead grass and weeds
littered with garbage, bicycle parts, and a rusted child’s swing set.

Horvath looked relieved to see
him. He stepped forward and touched Hank’s arm, turning him around. They went
back into the space between the buildings.

“Her husband got here ten minutes
ago. Byrne cleared him to come back here; they’ve already processed the
outside. He’s talking to her now.”

“What happened?”

Horvath rubbed his face with both
hands. “It’s a bad one, Hank, but not that much worse than what she’s seen
before. The old man and woman were in an upstairs bedroom, tied and gagged.
They were tortured with knives. The woman was raped and they cut off the old
man’s dick before they shot them both in the head. Both sons were home at the
time and both were shot downstairs, one in the hall and one in the kitchen.
Looks like they broke through the front door, took out the two downstairs,
caught the parents before they could get away, and dragged them upstairs.”

“Executions,” Hank said.

“Exactly. A message from the
Dragon Head to anyone stupid enough to think they can disobey. Both sons have
the usual Triad tatts, so I’m guessing they supported the wrong side. There’s a
lot of blood. The bastards used it to scrawl Chinese signs all over the bedroom
wall. I don’t know what they mean, but I’d say they’re a pretty clear message
to whoever’s supposed to read them.”

“Peralta,” Hank prompted.

“Yeah.” Horvath swallowed. “We
were here, what, ten minutes, looking around, talking to the responding
officers, the usual, when she walked up to me in the kitchen and threw up all
over my shoes. Then she just knelt down and started to cry. I couldn’t get her
to stop. I’ve never seen anything like it before, not from a cop, you know? I
finally got her outside into the back yard here and tried to get her to calm
down. Nothing I said made any difference. She looked at me and said, ‘I can’t
do this anymore, Jim,’ and I said, ‘Sure you can, A.P. You’re a tough
sonofabitch.’ It was the wrong thing to say, I guess. She shut down on me.”

“I see.” Hank chewed on his lower
lip. Peralta was known as a competent, fearless, serious-minded detective.
Married for four years, she and her husband, the principal of a high school in
Springhill, had no children. They lived in an apartment near the university.
Peralta had been talking about buying a small house closer to her husband’s
school.

He patted Horvath on the arm and
went back into the yard. Peralta was sitting on the ground a few feet away from
the swing set. Her hands were clasped lightly together in her lap. The front of
her blouse was stained with vomit. Bob Rodriguez, her husband, crouched before
her, talking to her in a soft monotone. As Hank approached he looked around and
stood up.

“Lieutenant Donaghue.”

“Hi, Bob.” Hank shook his hand.
“Can you give us a minute?”

“Sure. No problem.” Rodriguez took
a few steps back, then caught a gesture from Horvath and moved quickly over to
join him at the corner of the yard.

Hank squatted. “What’s going on,
Detective?”

Peralta said nothing, eyes down.

“Detective! What’s going on?”

Her eyes snapped up. “Donaghue.
You’re here.”

“I’m here. What’s going on? What
are you doing right now?”

Peralta frowned again, licking her
lips. She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Taking a break, I guess.
Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Listen to
me.”

She held his gaze. Her eyes were
bloodshot and her eyelids were red.

“The scene’s secured,” Hank said.
“The task force is catching the case, so we’re off it as of now. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Give me your duty weapon.” He
held out his hand. When she hesitated, he flicked his hand as though impatient.
“Duty weapon, Peralta. Now.”

Very slowly she leaned over and
removed her sidearm from its holster on her belt. She dropped the magazine into
her free hand and gave it to Hank. He put it in his jacket pocket. She ejected
the round in the chamber. Hank put it into the same pocket. She then turned the
disarmed gun in her hand and offered it to Hank, stock-first. He dropped it
into his other jacket pocket and held out his hand again. “Back-up.”

“Not carrying it today,
Lieutenant.”

“You sure?”

She pulled up her pant leg to show
him a bare calf and ankle. “Left it at home today.”

“My back’s killing me. Let’s stand
up.” Hank stood up and, when she remained sitting, he held out his hand once
more. “Stand up, Amelda.”

She let him help her to her feet.

“Go home with Bob and take the
weekend off. We’ll talk on Monday morning. All right?”

“I’m done, Hank. That’s it. I’m
done.”

“We’ll talk about it Monday.”

“No. I want a life, Hank. I can’t
stand this anymore. I’m not going to be another Stainer. I want a life.” She
unclipped the badge and identification card on her belt and dropped them into
his hand. “I’m done.”

He walked her over to Horvath, who
led her between the buildings to the street.

Hank gave Rodriguez Peralta’s
badge and ID card. “Take her home. She’s on leave until Monday.” He put his
hand on Rodriguez’s arm before he could turn away. “She isn’t carrying her
back-up weapon.”

“I don’t know anything about
that.”

“Your first priority when you get
her home is to find it and secure it, understand?”

“I don’t think she’s—”

“When she’s over the hump she’ll
be fine,” Hank pressed, “but right now you need to make sure you’ve got all the
bases covered. Secure all weapons in your home, and stay with her. She should
see a doctor right now, she might need something to get her through the rest of
the day. Burnouts are nothing to fool around with.”

“Will this go on her record,
Lieutenant? Will it affect her career?”

“I wouldn’t be worried about that
right now. Just get her looked at and get her home. Lock up any firearms you
have so she can’t get at them. It’s an important precaution.”

Rodriguez nodded and hurried after
his wife.

On the little scrap of lawn in
front of the duplex, Hank and Horvath watched Peralta reach out to take her
husband’s hand as they walked away, down the middle of the street. Rodriguez
pulled her close as they passed the clusters of staring young men.

“I feel awful,” Horvath said. “I
should have done something. Seen it coming.”

Hank shook his head. “She’s never
been the kind to talk a lot about herself. There’s no way you’d know.”

“I’m her partner,” Horvath said.

“You handled it well,” Hank said.
“You got her outside and away from the others. How was Carleson about it?”

“He’s cool. He’s with Jarvis but
still one of us, if you know what I mean. He won’t trash her behind her back.”

“I want you to come with me over
to Jarrett Tower and help Stainer execute the warrants.”

“Sounds good to me.” Horvath
looked down at his feet. “But first I need to pick up another pair of shoes.”

Hank smiled faintly.

They turned their backs on 1437
King Street and walked away.