The Fregoli Delusion (7 page)

8

“Funny story,” Karen said as she
floored the accelerator of the unmarked black Crown Victoria Police Interceptor
and shot over to the inside northbound lane of Howard Boulevard. “Johnny Go was
having a coffee the other day at this little sidewalk place down on Pritchard
Street in Little Italy. Across the street he sees one of his guys come out of a
shoe store, walking his beat. As he heads up the street, the guy’s firearm
suddenly falls off his belt and drops onto the sidewalk behind him. Apparently
the holster was one of the swivel types. The swivel broke and the gun fell
right out. The guy never even noticed.”

“Good lord,” Hank said.

“I’m just getting started. A
little old lady is walking behind him. Short little thing with the long black
dress, big black shoes and a black kerchief over her head, big black purse on her
arm. Typical Italian grandmother. She bends down, picks up the gun, and starts
after the guy with it, holding it out in front of her.”

“Oh, oh.”

“You got it. The guy’s partner
comes out of the next store, sees this short person with a black robe and black
headdress trotting after his partner, holding out a gun, and he thinks he’s
suddenly in the middle of some kind of terrorist action.”

“Shit.”

“Now I’m thinking, Johnny’s gonna
tell me the partner drew his weapon and shot the old lady dead.” She shook her
head. “The guy tackles her from behind, down onto the sidewalk. Bam.”

Hank smiled.

“By this time Johnny Go’s dodging
traffic to get across the street. When he gets there the guy’s still lying on
top of her, and he’s trying to pull the gun out of her hand. She won’t let go,
and she’s yelling, “Is
his
, is
his
!”

Hank started to laugh.

“Johnny gets there and pulls them
both up. By this time, the first guy’s turned around and walking back, trying
to figure out what the hell’s going on. The old lady holds out the gun to him
and he stops dead, thinking that whatever it is, it ain’t over. So he reaches
for his sidearm and, what do you know, it ain’t there.

“The old lady says, ‘Hey you, you
droppa you gun! Take it!’”

Hank looked out the window,
laughing.

“So the guy takes his gun and
Johnny says to the other guy, ‘Apologize to the lady for knocking her down.’ So
the guy apologizes. She hauls off and hits him right in the marbles with her
purse.”

“Ouch.”

“Johnny says to me, ‘Lesson Number
One, Stains, be aware of your firearm at all times. Lesson Number Two, make
sure your equipment never lets you down. Check it before and after every shift.’
And Lesson Number Three?”

Hank looked at her.

“Never judge by appearances.”

Hank listened to the silence
between them for a block.

“Most of the guys figured Peralta
was a lifer, but I knew better,” Karen said, throwing a glance over her
shoulder and changing lanes. “She was too quiet. Most guys, when they’re coming
down from the adrenaline high, they want to talk about it, tell jokes, make
some noise. Not her. She bottled it all up and pretended it wasn’t there.
People who take that route, they better be good at unplugging from the emotion
or it’s going to eat them alive. Peralta couldn’t unplug from it, no matter how
much she pretended she could.” They rocketed through an amber light. “Only a
matter of time, Lou.”

“You may be right.”

“I am.” She glanced over at him
again. “I know a lifer when I see one.”

Hank pretended to be confused.
“What? Are you talking about me, now?”

She grinned at him, but it was
gone almost as quickly as it had come. “We’ve got that much in common, my
friend. We’re both lifers.”

Hank said nothing.

“So let me get this straight.” She
braked for a red light at the corner of Bowley and Woodfern. “This country club
we’re going to doesn’t allow women?”

“Correct.” Hank had made two calls
as they were leaving Jarrett Tower, the first to Richard Holland, who assured
him he’d wait in the grill room of the Woodfern Golf and Country Club until
Hank arrived, and the second to the general manager of the club, Tate
Bernhardt. Hank was well known to Bernhardt as a long-standing member of
Woodfern whose family had been prominent members for several generations. Just
the same, Bernhardt expressed strong misgivings when it was explained to him
that Hank would be accompanied into the club by a female detective. Karen had
listened with amusement as Hank smoothed the man’s ruffled feathers. When Hank
put away his phone she’d had a pretty good crack on the tip of her tongue, but
Hank had switched subjects to explain what had happened to Amelda Peralta in
Chinatown, and the joke disappeared. Now she was ready to change the subject
back to cavemen and their private caves.

“No women at all?”

“None at all. No female members,
no female employees, no female guests.”

“Unbelievable.” She turned onto
Woodfern Avenue. The entrance of the country club was only two blocks away.

Hank was flipping through the
pages of his notebook. “According to DMV, Holland drives a 2011 Ferrari 599
GTO, Maryland tag two juliet tango bravo forty-six.”

“Nice ride. Silver?”

“Silver.”

Brett Parris had told them he’d
seen Holland running to a silver sports car. He didn’t know what kind of car it
was and hadn’t seen the license plates.

“Probably has a navigation system
that can tell you everywhere it’s been.”

“Could be.”

They reached a t-intersection that
marked the end of Woodfern Avenue. The entrance of the country club was
straight ahead. Karen drove through the massive stone gate and started up the
driveway. They passed a short spur on the right in which a yellow and black car
sat nose-out.

“Rent-a-cops,” she remarked.

She parked in the half-empty
parking lot. As they walked toward the club house, Karen amused herself by
pointing out cars. “Porsche. Lexus. Lamborghini. Horvath would love this place.
He’s such a wannabe.”

She spotted Holland’s Ferrari.
“Wow. Nice.”

Hank stared in through the
driver-side window. “Look at this stuff. I’d have no idea how to drive it. What
are all those round things for?”

Karen shielded her eyes from the
sun as she bent down on the passenger side. “They’re just control knobs and air
vents, Lou. Just like any other car. Your problem is, you’re car illiterate.”

“Car illiterate?”

She walked around the car and
patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You can still have a full and
productive life.”

They were met at the door by a man
in his middle forties wearing a navy blazer and gray trousers. He held out his
hand to Hank. “Lieutenant Donaghue? Good to see you again. Mr. Holland’s
waiting for you in the grill room.”

Hank shook his hand. “Thanks. This
is Detective Stainer. Mr. Tate Bernhardt.”

Without so much as a glance at
Karen, Bernhardt swiveled on his heel. “This way, please.”

Karen showed Hank a sardonic grin
as they fell into line behind Bernhardt. They walked through an open lounge
with comfortable furniture and a two-sided fireplace. Karen noticed that people
were staring at her. A uniformed waiter missed a step and juggled an armload of
folded white towels.

The grill room came equipped with
a maitre d’ who nodded at Bernhardt. He took one look at Karen and turned away,
disappearing somewhere into the back.

There were men scattered about at
six or seven tables in the grill room, in groups of twos and fours. Bernhardt
led them to the bar, which was deserted. Hank and Karen sat on stools. The
bartender took one look at them and walked away.

“Here’s Mr. Holland,” Bernhardt
said. “I’ll be outside in the corridor when you’re finished your meeting.”

As Bernhardt left, Richard Holland
slid onto the bar stool next to Karen and grinned at them. “Lieutenant Donaghue
and Detective Stainer, I take it.” He held out his hand to Karen, who shook it,
then he reached behind her to shake Hank’s hand. “This is something of a
historic event, and all for little old me. I’m flattered.”

He was thirty-eight years old,
about five feet ten inches tall, and one hundred and eighty pounds. He had well-groomed,
mousy blond hair, smooth chubby cheeks, and small blue eyes that glittered at
Karen with amusement. He wore a pale blue golf shirt and tan trousers. He had a
large, expensive watch, a ruby ring on his right hand, a gold bracelet on his
right wrist, and a gold chain around his neck.

“When I got your call,” he said to
Hank, “we were just starting the eighteenth.” He nodded at the table where his
fellow golfers were trying very hard not to stare. “It’s actually fun to see a
babe intrude on forbidden territory.”

Karen turned on her stool and
tapped him sharply on the sternum with her index finger. “Don’t
babe
me,
pal. We’ve got some questions you need to answer pronto, so skip the bullshit.”

Holland’s smile faded. “It’s not
bullshit; it’s a huge deal here. They don’t even allow women to turn their cars
around in the driveway. I think you’re the first female to set foot on this
property since 1964 or something, and that time was purely by accident. Some
broad got lost and stopped to ask for directions. They threw her out.”

Karen moved her face close to
Holland’s. “I’m not interested in little boys and their tree house rules. Where
were you this morning when your boss was getting smoked?”

“With a friend. I spent the
night.”

“When did you leave?”

“About eight thirty. I slept in a
bit.”

“This friend have a name?”

“Oh boy, she’s going to be mad at
me. Melissa Grove. I suppose you want her address and phone number.”

“Please,” Hank said, his notebook
out.

Holland recited the address and
phone number. Hank wrote it down.

“Did you have breakfast with her
before you left?” Karen snapped.

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“Okay, smart boy. Tell us what you
do at Jarrett Corporation.”

“I’m vice-president of corporate
and regulatory affairs.”

“So you handle all the government
liaison stuff, is that it?”

“That’s it,” Holland agreed, “and
a lot more. For example, I’m the chairman of our public policy advisory
committee that works on public health issues like the availability of certain
vaccines we produce, emergency preparedness on a state and national scale,
environmental protection, and a boatload of other stuff.”

“How long have you been with the
company?”

“Twelve years. I started as an
advertising account manager in 2000. I’m not counting 1999, when I interned at
Jarrett while I was finishing my MBA.”

“Impressive,” Karen said,
obviously not impressed at all. “Aren’t you a little young to be a
vice-president of a big company like this?”

“I’m the youngest corporate
officer by seven years, but I’ve never believed there’s a correlation between
age and ability. Take a look at my golf buddies over there.”

Karen focused her cop stare on the
table where three sets of eyes hastily swiveled to the ceiling or the view
through the sliding French doors on the far side of the room. “Looks like a
collection of deadbeat losers to me.”

Holland chuckled. “You’re a good
judge of character. The guy with the red hair, he’s fifty-two. He’s the
director of operational support for the state emergency management agency. The
guy with the goatee, he’s fifty-six. He thinks he’s an aspiring novelist but
he’s really a complete knob who happened to marry into money. Big money, a lot
of which is invested in Jarrett. And the guy with the white hair, he’s sixty.
He’s a director with a federal agency I won’t name here. A raging alcoholic
whose sickness I feed with a case of single malt scotch every month to make
sure that Jarrett Corporation stays involved at the federal level.”

He shrugged. “Next Friday it’ll be
another set of losers with another set of hidden agendas, all of them older,
all of them thinking I’m some wet-behind-the-ears kid they can take for a ride.
I beat them at golf and I beat them in here over iced tea and burgers
afterwards. It’s just another game, and it’s one that I’m really, really good
at.”

“Okay,” Karen said, “I get it.
You’re good. This place is floating with money. I’m wowed by it all. What kind
of relationship did you have with Jarrett?”

“H.J.?” Holland casually leaned
his elbow on the bar. “It was good. He hand-picked me for the vice-presidency.
The board passed me over the first time it came open because H.J. was away in
Europe and no one mentioned to him I was the best candidate for the job, but
the guy they picked didn’t last very long and H.J. made sure the board didn’t
make the same mistake twice.”

“So you’re saying you had a good
relationship with him.”

“That’s what I’m saying. He was my
mentor and I was his protégé. I like to think there was a closeness there.”