The Innocent (18 page)

WHEN CINGLE GOT to the police station she used her phone call to reach her boss, Malcolm Seward, the president of Most Valuable Detection. Seward was retired FBI. He opened MVD ten years ago and was making a small fortune.

Seward was not thrilled about the late-night call. "You pulled a gun on the guy?"

"It's not like I would have shot him."

"How reassuring." Seward sighed. "I'll make some calls. You'll be out in an hour."

"You're the best, Boss."

He hung up.

She went back to her holding cell and waited. A tall officer unlocked the holding cell door. "Cingle Shaker."

"Right here."

"Please follow me."

"Anywhere, handsome."

He led her down the hallway. She expected this to be it- the bail hearing, the quick release, whatever- but that wasn't the case.

"Please turn around," he said.

Cingle cocked an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?"

"Please turn around."

She did. He cuffed her hands.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't speak. He escorted her outside, opened the back door of his squad car, and pushed her in.

"Where are we going?"

"The new court building."

"The one on West Market?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The ride was short, less than a mile. They took the elevator to the third floor. The words OFFICE OF THE ESSEX COUNTY PROSECUTOR were stenciled on the glass. There was a big trophy case by the door, the kind you see in a high school. Cingle wondered about that, about what a trophy case was doing in a prosecutor's office. You prosecute killers and rapists and drug dealers and the first thing you see when you enter is a bunch of trophies celebrating softball wins. Weird.

"This way."

He led her through the waiting area, past the double doors. When they stopped, she peeked inside a small, windowless space. "An interrogation room?"

He said nothing, just held the door. She shrugged and entered.

Time passed. A lot of time, actually. They had confiscated her possessions, including her watch, so she didn't really know how much. There was no one-way mirror either, like you usually see on TV. They used a camera here. There was one mounted in the corner of the wall. From the monitoring room, you could zoom the camera in or change the angle, whatever. There was one sheet of paper taped down at a funny angle. That was the guide spot, she knew, where you put the release statement so that the camera could tape you signing it.

When the door finally opened, a woman- Cingle assumed that it was a plainclothes investigator- stepped into the room. She was a tiny thing, maybe five-one, 110 pounds tops. Sweat drenched her body. It looked like she'd just stepped out of a steam room. Her blouse stuck to her chest. There was dampness under her pits. A thin coat of perspiration made her face glisten. She wore a gun on her belt and had a manila folder in her hand.

"I'm Investigator Loren Muse," the woman said.

Wow, that was fast. Cingle remembered the name- Muse was the one who'd questioned Matt earlier this evening.

"Cingle Shaker," she said.

"Yes, I know. I have a few questions."

"And I'm going to choose not to answer them right now."

Loren was still catching her breath. "Why's that?"

"I'm a working private investigator."

"And who would your client be?"

"I don't have to tell you."

"There is no such thing as PI-client privilege."

"I'm aware of the law."

"So?"

"So I choose not to answer any questions at this time."

Loren dropped the manila folder on the table. It stayed closed. "Are you refusing to cooperate with the county prosecutor's office?"

"Not at all."

"Then please answer my question. Who is your client?"

Cingle leaned back. She stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles. "You fall in a pool or something?"

"Oh, wait, I get it. Because I'm wet? Good one, really. Should I get a pen, you know, in case you come up with more gems?"

"No need." Cingle pointed to the camera. "You can just watch the tape."

"It's not on."

"No?"

"If I wanted to tape this, I'd have you sign the release."

"Is anybody in the monitoring room?"

Loren shrugged, ignored the question. "Aren't you curious about how Mr. Hunter's doing?"

Cingle didn't bite. "Tell you what. I won't ask any questions if you don't."

"I don't think so."

"Look, Inspector… Muse, is it?"

"Yes."

"What's the big deal here? It was a simple assault. That hotel probably has three a week."

"Yet," Loren said, "it was serious enough for you to pull a gun on a man?"

"I was just trying to get upstairs before it got any more dangerous."

"How did you know?"

"Pardon me?"

"The fight was on the fifth floor. You were outside in your car. How did you know that someone was in trouble?"

"I think we're done."

"No, Cingle, I don't think we are."

Their eyes met. Cingle did not like what she saw. Loren pulled out the chair and sat down. "I've just spent the last half an hour in the stairwell of the Howard Johnson's. It's not air-conditioned. In fact, it's hot as hell. That's why I look like this."

"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"

"It's not a simple assault, Cingle."

Cingle eyed the manila folder. "What's that?"

Loren dumped out the folder's contents. They were photographs. Cingle sighed, picked one up, froze.

"I assume you recognize him?"

Cingle stared at the two pictures. The first was a headshot. No question about it- the dead man was Charles Talley. His face looked like raw meat. The other was a full body shot. Talley was sprawled on what looked like metal steps. "What happened to him?"

"Two shots to the face."

"Jesus."

"Feel like talking now, Cingle?"

"I don't know anything about this."

"His name is Charles Talley. But you knew that, right?"

"Jesus," Cingle said again, trying to put it together. Talley was dead. How? Hadn't he just assaulted Matt?

Loren put the pictures back in the manila folder. She folded her hands and leaned closer. "I know you're working for Matt Hunter. I also know that right before you headed for that hotel you two met in your office for a very late-night chat. Would you care to tell me what you discussed?"

Cingle shook her head.

"Did you kill this man, Ms. Shaker?"

"What? Of course not."

"How about Mr. Hunter? Did he kill him?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't even tell you when he was killed." Loren tilted her head. "How could you possibly know that he wasn't involved in the man's death?"

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

Cingle took a breath. Loren did not.

"How about retired detective Max Darrow?"

"Who?" But Cingle remembered that name from Matt. He had asked her to check him out.

"Another dead man. Did you kill him? Or did Hunter do it?"

"I don't know what…" Cingle stopped, crossed her arms. "I have to get out of here."

"That's not going to happen, Cingle."

"Are you charging me with something?"

"As a matter of fact, we are. You threatened a man with a loaded handgun."

Cingle crossed her arms and tried to regain her composure. "Old news."

"Ah, but see, you're no longer getting sped through the system. You'll be kept overnight and arraigned in the morning. We're going to prosecute this to the full extent of the law. You'll only lose your license if it all breaks your way, but my bet is, you'll serve jail time."

Cingle said nothing.

"Who assaulted Mr. Hunter tonight?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"Oh, I will. Because- and this is interesting- when we found Mr. Talley's corpse he had a stun gun and a pair of brass knuckles. There was fresh blood on the brass knuckles." Loren did that head tilt again, moving in a little closer. "When we run a DNA test, whose blood do you think will match?"

There was a knock on the door. Loren Muse held the gaze a moment longer before she opened it. The man who escorted Cingle from the station was there. He was holding a cell phone.

"For her," the man said, gesturing toward Cingle. Cingle looked at Loren. Loren's face gave away nothing. Cingle took the phone and put it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Start talking."

It was her boss, Malcolm Seward.

"It's a sensitive case."

"I'm on the computer network now," Seward said. "Which case number?"

"There isn't a case number yet."

"What?"

"With all due respect, sir, I don't feel comfortable talking with the authorities here."

She heard Seward sigh. "Guess who just called me, Cingle. Guess who called me at home at three in the morning."

"Mr. Seward-"

"Actually, no, don't guess. I'll tell you because, hey, it's three in the morning and I'm too tired for games. Ed Steinberg. Ed Steinberg himself called me. Do you know who that is?"

"Yes."

"Ed Steinberg is the Essex County prosecutor."

"I know."

"He's also been my friend for twenty-eight years."

"I know that too."

"Good, Cingle, then we're on the same wavelength here. MVD is a business. A very successful business, or so I like to think. And a big part of our effectiveness- yours and mine- depends on working with these people. So when Ed Steinberg calls me at home at three in the morning and tells me he's working on a triple homicide-"

"Hold up," Cingle said. "Did you say triple?"

"You see? You don't even know how deep this doo-doo goes. Ed Steinberg, my old pal, very much wants your cooperation. That means I, your boss, very much want your cooperation. Do I make myself clear?"

"I guess so."

"Guess? What, am I being too subtle here, Cingle?"

"There are mitigating factors."

"Not according to Steinberg. Steinberg tells me this all involves some ex-con. That true?"

"He works at Carter Sturgis."

"Is he a lawyer?"

"No, he's a paralegal."

"And he served time for manslaughter?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then there's nothing to discuss. There's no privilege here. Tell them what they want to know."

"I can't."

"Can't?" There was an edge in Seward's tone now. "I don't like to hear that."

"It's not that simple, Mr. Seward."

"Well, then let me simplify it for you, Cingle. You have two choices: Talk or clean out your desk. Bye now."

He hung up the phone. Cingle eyed Loren. Loren smiled at her.

"Everything all right, Ms. Shaker?"

"Peachy."

"Good. Because as we speak, our techno people are on their way to MVD's office. They'll comb through your hard drive. They'll scrutinize every document you've got in there. Prosecutor Steinberg is right now calling back your boss. He'll find out what files you accessed recently, who you talked to, where you've been, what you've been working on."

Cingle stood slowly, towering over Loren. Loren did not back up a step. "I have nothing more to say."

"Cingle?"

"What?"

"Sit your ass down."

"I prefer to stand."

"Fine. Then listen up because we're coming to the end of our conversation. Did you know I went to school with Matt Hunter? Elementary school, actually. I liked him. He was a good kid. And if he's innocent, nobody will be more anxious to clear his name than yours truly. But your keeping mum like this, well, Cingle, it suggests you might be hiding something. We have Talley's brass knuckles. We know Matt Hunter was at the murder scene tonight. We know he got into some kind of fight in Room 515- that was Mr. Talley's room. We also know that Mr. Hunter was out drinking at two bars this evening. We know that the DNA test on the brass knuckles will show that the blood is Hunter's. And, of course, we know that Mr. Hunter, a convicted felon, has something of a history of getting into fights where someone ends up dead."

Cingle sighed. "Is there a point to this?"

"Sure is, Cingle, and here it comes: Do you really think I need your help to nail him?"

Cingle started tapping her foot, looking for a way out. "Then what do you want from me?"

"Help."

"Help with what?"

"Tell me the truth," Loren said. "That's all I ask. Hunter is already as good as indicted. Once he's in the system- him being an ex-con and all- well, you know how that'll go."

She did. Matt would freak. He'd go nuts if they lock him up- his greatest fear come to fruition.

Loren moved a little closer. "If you know something that might help him," she said, "now is the time to say it."

Cingle tried to think it through. She almost trusted this little cop, but she knew better. That was what Muse wanted- playing good cop and bad cop in one package. Christ, an amateur could see through this charade and yet Cingle was almost ready to bite.

Key word: almost.

But Cingle also knew that once they got into her office computer, there would be huge problems. The last files she accessed were the photographs from Matt's cell phone. Pictures of the murder victim. A video of the murder victim and Matt Hunter's wife.

Those would be the final nails in any ex-con's coffin.

As Investigator Muse had pointed out, they already had enough with the physical evidence. The photographs would add one thing more: motive.

Cingle had her own career to worry about too. This had started out as a favor to a friend, just another case. But how far was she willing to go? What should she be willing to sacrifice? And if Matt had nothing to do with the murder of Charles Talley, wouldn't cooperating right from the get-go help bring the truth to light?

Cingle sat back down.

"You have something to say?"

"I want to call my lawyer," Cingle said. "Then I'll tell you everything I know."

"I HAVEN'T CHARGED you with anything," Loren said.

Cingle crossed her arms. "Let's not play semantics games, okay? I asked for my lawyer. The interview is over. The end.
El fin
."

"If you say so."

"I say so. Get me a phone, please."

"You're entitled to call an attorney."

"That's who I plan on calling."

Loren thought about this. She didn't want Cingle warning Hunter. "You mind if I dial the number for you?"

"Suit yourself," Cingle said. "I'll need a phone book though."

"You don't know your attorney's home number by heart?"

"No, sorry."

It took another five minutes. Loren dialed and handed her the phone. She could always check the call log later, make sure she didn't sneak another call in. She turned off the microphone and moved into the monitoring room. Cingle, wise in the ways of the camera, turned her back to the lens, just in case someone could read lips.

Loren started working the phones. First she tried the cop sitting in front of Hunter's residence in Irvington. He informed her that Matt and Olivia Hunter still weren't home. Loren knew that this was not good news. She started a quiet search because she didn't want to sound off too many alarm bells yet.

She'd need to get a subpoena for both Matt and Olivia Hunter's recent credit card transactions- run it through TRW. If they were on the run, they'd probably need to access money at an ATM or check into a motel- something.

From the monitoring screen, Loren could see that Cingle had finished her phone call. Cingle held the phone up to the camera and signaled for someone to hit the audio switch. Loren complied.

"Yes?"

Cingle said, "My attorney is on his way."

"Sit tight then."

Loren switched off the intercom. She leaned back. Exhaustion was starting to set in. She was nearing the wall. She needed a little shut-eye or her brain would start going hazy. Cingle's attorney wouldn't be here for at least half an hour. She crossed her arms, threw her feet on the desk, and closed her eyes, hoping to doze for just a few minutes, just until the attorney showed.

Her cell phone rang. She startled up and put it to her ear.

It was Ed Steinberg. "Hey."

"Hey," she managed.

"The private eye talking?"

"Not yet. She's waiting for her lawyer."

"Let her wait then. Let them both wait."

"Why, what's up?"

"The feds, Loren."

"What about them?"

"We're meeting them in an hour."

"Who?"

"Joan Thurston."

That made her drop her feet to the floor. "The U.S. attorney herself?"

"In the flesh. And some hotshot SAC from Nevada. We're meeting them at Thurston's office to discuss your phony nun."

Loren checked the clock. "It's four in the morning."

"Thank you, Mistress of the Obvious."

"No, I mean, I'm surprised you'd call the U.S. attorney that early."

"Didn't have to," Steinberg said. "She called me."

When Ed Steinberg arrived, he looked at Loren and shook his head. Her hair was frizzed out from the humidity. The sweat had dried, but she was still a mess.

"You look," Steinberg said, "like something I once left in the bottom of my gym locker."

"Flattering, thank you."

He motioned at her with both his hands. "Can't you- I don't know- do something about your hair?"

"What, this a singles' club now?"

"Evidently not."

The ride from the county prosecutor's office to the U.S. attorney's was three blocks. They entered via the well-guarded private underground garage. There were very few cars at this hour. The elevator dropped them on the seventh floor. The stencil on the glass read:

UNITED STATES ATTORNEY

DISTRICT OF NEW JERSEY

JOAN THURSTON

UNITED STATES ATTORNEY

Steinberg pointed at the top line and then the bottom line. "Kinda redundant, no?"

Despite the power of the office, the waiting room was done up in Early American Dentist. The carpet was threadbare. The furniture managed to be neither fashionable nor functional. There were a dozen different issues of
Sports Illustrated
on the table and nothing else. The walls seemed to plead for a paint job. They were stained and barren, except for the photographs of past U.S. attorneys, a remarkable lesson in what not to wear and how not to pose when taking a picture for posterity.

No receptionist was sitting guard at this hour. They knocked and were buzzed into the inner sanctum. It was much nicer in here, a totally different feel and look, like they'd stepped through a wall into Diagon Alley.

They turned right and headed toward the corner office. A man- an enormous man- stood in the corridor. He had a buzz cut and a frown. He stood perfectly still and looked as if he could double as a squash court. Steinberg stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Ed Steinberg, county prosecutor."

Squash Court took the hand but he did not look happy about it. "Cal Dollinger, FBI. They're waiting."

That was the end of that conversation. Cal Dollinger stayed where he was. They turned the corner. Joan Thurston greeted them at the door.

Despite the early hour U.S. Attorney Joan Thurston looked resplendent in a charcoal gray business suit that seemed to have been tailored by the gods. Thurston was mid-forties and, in Loren's view, excessively attractive. She had auburn hair, broad shoulders, tapered waist. She had two sons in their early teens. Her husband worked at Morgan Stanley in Manhattan. They lived in ritzy Short Hills with a vacation home on Long Beach Island.

In short: Joan Thurston was what Loren wanted to be when she grew up.

"Good morning," Thurston said, which felt weird because outside her windows, the skies were still night black.

She shook Loren's hand firmly, meeting her eye and softening it with a smile. She gave Steinberg a hug and buss on the cheek. "I'd like you to meet Adam Yates. He's the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas office."

Adam Yates wore freshly ironed khakis and a bright pink shirt that might be the norm on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach but not Broad Street in Newark. He wore loafers without socks, his legs too casually crossed. He had that whole Old World, came-over-on-the-Mayflower thing going on, what with the receding ash-blond hair, the high cheekbones, the eyes so ice blue she wondered if he was wearing contacts. His cologne smelled like freshly cut grass. Loren liked it.

"Please sit," Thurston said.

Thurston had a spacious corner office. On one wall- the least noticeable wall- was a smattering of diplomas and awards. They were put out of the way, almost as if to say, "Hey, I need to put them up but I don't like to put on airs." The rest of the office was personal. She had photographs of her children and her husband, all of whom- big surprise- were gorgeous. Even the dog. There was a white guitar autographed by Bruce Springsteen hanging behind her head. On the bookshelf were the usual assortment of law books, along with autographed baseballs and footballs. All the local teams, of course. Joan Thurston had no photographs of herself, no news clippings, no Lucite-block awards in view.

Loren sat down carefully. She used to tuck her heels underneath her to gain a few inches, but she'd read a business self-help book about how women sabotage their own careers, and one of the rules said that a woman must never sit on her heels. It looked unprofessional. Usually Loren forgot that rule. Something about seeing Joan Thurston brought it all back.

Thurston came around and half-sat/half-leaned against the front lip of her desk. She folded her arms and focused her attention on Loren.

"Tell me what you have so far."

Loren glanced at Ed Steinberg. He nodded.

"We have three dead people. The first, well, we don't know her real name. That's why we're here."

"This would be Sister Mary Rose?" Thurston asked.

"Yes."

"How did you stumble across her case?"

"Pardon?"

"I understand that the death was originally ruled of natural causes," Thurston said. "What made you look into it deeper?"

Steinberg took that one. "The Mother Superior personally asked Investigator Muse to look into it."

"Why?"

"Loren is an alum of St. Margaret's."

"I understand that, but what made this Mother Superior… what's her name?"

"Mother Katherine," Loren said.

"Mother Katherine, right. What made her suspect foul play in the first place?"

"I'm not sure she suspected anything," Loren said. "When Mother Katherine found Sister Mary Rose's body, she tried to resuscitate her with chest compressions and discovered that she had breast implants. That didn't mesh with Sister Mary Rose's history."

"So she came to you to find out what was up?"

"Something like that, yes."

Thurston nodded. "And the second body?"

"Max Darrow. He was a retired Vegas police officer now residing in the Reno area."

They all looked at Adam Yates. He stayed still. So, Loren thought, this would be the game. They'd roll over and maybe, just maybe, the feds would award them with a tiny doggie treat.

Thurston asked, "How did you connect Max Darrow to Sister Mary Rose?"

"Fingerprints," Loren said. "Darrow's fingerprints were found in the nun's private quarters."

"Anything else?"

"Darrow was found dead in his car. Shot twice at point-blank range. His pants were down around his ankles. We think the killer tried to make it look like a prostitute rolled him."

"Fine, we can go into the details later," Thurston said. "Tell us how Max Darrow connects to the third victim."

"The third victim is Charles Talley. For one thing, both Talley and Darrow lived in the Reno area. For another, they were both staying at the Howard Johnson's near Newark Airport. Their rooms were next door to one another's."

"And that's where you found Talley's body? At the hotel?"

"Not me. A night custodian found him in the stairwell. He'd been shot twice."

"Same as Darrow?"

"Similar, yes."

"Time of death?"

"It's still being worked on, but sometime tonight between eleven P.M. and two A.M. The stairwell had no air-conditioning, no windows, no ventilation- it had to be over a hundred degrees in there."

"That's why Investigator Muse here looks like that," Steinberg said, gesturing with both hands as if he were presenting a soiled prize. "From being in that sauna."

Loren shot him a look and tried to hold back from smoothing her hair. "The heat makes it more difficult for our ME to pinpoint a better time frame."

"What else?" Thurston asked.

Loren hesitated. Her guess was that Thurston and Yates probably knew- or at least, could readily learn- most of what she'd already told them. So far, this had all been about getting up to speed. All that she really had left- all that she'd have that they probably wouldn't- was Matt Hunter.

Steinberg held up a hand. "May I make a suggestion?"

Thurston turned toward him. "Of course, Ed."

"I don't want to have any jurisdictional hassles here."

"Neither do we."

"So why don't we just pool our resources on this one? Totally open communication both ways. We tell you what we know, you tell us what you know. No holding back."

Thurston glanced at Yates. Adam Yates cleared his throat and said, "We have no problem with that."

"Do you know the real identity of Sister Mary Rose?" Steinberg asked.

Yates nodded. "We do, yes."

Loren waited. Yates took his time. He uncrossed his legs, tugged at the front of his shirt as if trying to get some air.

"Your nun- well, she's not even close to being a nun, believe me- was one Emma Lemay," Yates said.

The name meant nothing to Loren. She looked at Steinberg. He, too, had no reaction to the name.

Yates continued: "Emma Lemay and her partner, a cretin named Clyde Rangor, disappeared from Vegas ten years ago. We did a fairly massive search for both of them but turned up nothing. One day they were there, the next- poof- they were both gone."

Steinberg asked, "How did you know we found Lemay's body?"

"The Lockwood Corporation had her silicone implants marked. The NCIC now puts everything they can into the national database. Fingerprints, you know about. DNA and descriptions, those have been in there for a while. But now we're working on a national database for medical devices- any kind of joint replacements, surgical implants, colostomy bags, pacemakers- mostly to help identify Jane and John Does. You get the model number, you put it in the system. It's new, pretty experimental. We're trying it out on a select few that we're very anxious to locate."

"And this Emma Lemay," Loren said. "You were anxious to locate her?"

Yates had a good smile. "Oh, yes."

"Why?" Loren asked.

"Ten years ago Lemay and Rangor agreed to turn on a nasty perennial RICO top-ten asswipe, guy named Tom 'Comb-Over' Busher."

"Comb-Over?"

"That's what they call him, though not to his face. Been his nickname for years, actually. Used to be, he had this comb-over going. You know, when he started going bald. But it just kept growing. So now he kinda twirls it around and around, looks like he stuck a cinnamon swirl on top of his head."

Yates chuckled. Nobody else did.

Thurston said, "You were talking about Lemay and Rangor?"

"Right. So anyway, we nailed Lemay and Rangor on pretty serious drug charges, pressed them like hell, and for the first time, we got someone on the inside to flip. Clyde Rangor and Comb-Over are cousins. They started working with us, taping conversations, gathering evidence. And then…" Yates shrugged.

"So what do you think happened?"

"The most likely scenario was that Comb-Over got wind of what was up and killed them. But we never really bought that."

"Why not?"

"Because there was evidence- lots of it, actually- that Comb-Over was searching for Lemay and Rangor too. Even harder than we were. For a while it was like the race was on, you know, who'd find them first. When they never turned up, well, we figured we lost the race."