You Have the Right to Remain Silent (30 page)

“But you did go along with the murders.”

“Page killed them before I knew what was happening! Even when he pulled out a gun and had me handcuff them together, I didn't think he'd
shoot
them! Then Page told me I was an accessory, so I had to keep quiet.”

Easily led
, two people had said of Edgar Quinn. Marian went on, “You still haven't told me why. Universal Laser isn't losing money. Do you endorse Page's politics or what?”

He shook his head. “I don't care anything about that. It's true Universal Laser isn't losing money, but we aren't going anywhere either.” Quinn sighed deeply. “When my father was running the company, every year there was some big leap forward. But ever since I took over, people like Conrad Webb and Elizabeth Tanner kept telling me we were standing still. I thought keeping the FBI supplied with laser guns year after year would put us right at the top of the field.” He shook his head again, as if he still couldn't believe what had happened. “I didn't know Page wanted those weapons for his own purposes. I thought I was dealing with the FBI.”

Marian looked a question at DiFalco. He shook his head and motioned to the nearest uniformed officer. “Take him in and book him.”

So that's what it all boils down to
, Marian thought.
Everybody wants to be bigger than Dad
. She stood up and turned to see Malecki, Sanchez, and Romero standing behind her. “Did you hear all that?”

They nodded. “Page just used him, looks like,” Ivan volunteered.

DiFalco planted himself in front of Ivan. “Who the hell are you?”

Ivan raised an eyebrow, but identified himself. “Sergeant Malecki, Thirty-second Precinct.”

“What are you doing on my turf?”

“I called him, Captain,” Marian interposed. “We needed help. Ivan's my former partner.”

“Why didn't you call your present partner?” Marian just looked at him; he knew why. “Urn, yah.” He pointed a finger at Romero. “You called Intelligence too?”

“I called Romero, yes. And Sanchez. They were all in on the bust.”

DiFalco started to say something and then thought better of it. He turned to Ivan. “What'd you say your name was?”

“Malecki. Ivan Malecki. Sergeant.”

DiFalco grunted and turned away.

“Nice work, people?” Sanchez prompted.

He turned back only to say, “That was a good kill, Larch. Probably won't even be an investigation.”

Marian nodded automatically, vaguely wondering why DiFalco thought the police might need to investigate an FBI shooting.

“Yeah, it was,” Romero said approvingly. “You got 'im right through the eye! Pow! Is that poetic justice or what?”

Marian looked at the three of them nodding at her and it finally hit her: they thought
she
had shot Page. She turned and ran after DiFalco. “Captain! Wait!”

“Later, Larch,” he said over his shoulder. “I have to make a statement to the press.”

“But I wasn't the one—”

“I said later.” He was swallowed up by a mob of people.

He's going to do it again
, Marian thought. He was just too eager to get out in front of those cameras and microphones. She tried to work her way through the crowd of newspeople, but they weren't budging an inch. Finally she gave up and went looking for Holland.

She found him standing alone, arms folded, watching all the activity around him with a look of bemusement. “DiFalco thinks I shot Page,” Marian told him.

“What!”

“He's in such a hurry to see his face on TV that he wouldn't stop to listen.”

Holland laughed his sarcastic laugh. “Leave it to DiFalco. He ought to—uh-oh.”

Marian followed his glance. A man in a brown overcoat was bearing down upon them, fire in his eye. He stopped before Holland.

“Curt Holland,” the man in the brown coat said. “You know, we used to have an agent named Curt Holland, but our computer doesn't seem to know anything about him.”

“Hello, Starbuck,” Holland said with a weary sigh. “I rather thought you'd show up.”

“When one of our agents goes down,” Starbuck said, “we want to know why—even when it's an agent who's turned. I know there was bad blood between you and Page, Holland,
bad
blood, going way back. If I find any evidence that you set up this little scenario as an excuse to kill Page, I'll see to it you'll spend the rest of your days in Leavenworth.”

Marian was appalled. This was wrong, all wrong.

“Trevor Page was a murderer,” Holland said icily. “What's more, he was using the Bureau as a cover for moving arms illegally.”

“We know that now. But that doesn't give you the right to execute him. We have laws for that, or have you forgotten?”

“Don't be a fool, Starbuck,” Holland said sharply. “I did not ‘execute' him. Nothing was further from my mind.”

“Hand me your weapon.”

Holland's eyebrows rose, but then he smiled sardonically and handed over his gun.

Starbuck sniffed the barrel. “It hasn't been fired. Well, maybe you are in the clear.”

Holland took his gun and looked at Marian, amused. “It just gets better and better, doesn't it?”

Marian didn't think it was funny. They were going to have to get this cleared up … and send Holland off to Leaven-worth? They'd saved each other's lives in there.

Starbuck spoke. “Where's this Sergeant Larch who's supposed to have shot him?”

“Right under your nose,” Marian said.

He seemed to notice her for the first time. “Starbuck, FBI,” he said unnecessarily. “Sergeant, I need to hear it from you. You and Quinn were the only other ones up there.”

And Quinn fainted while the fight was going on
. “Yes,” she said cautiously.

“I want you to tell me straight out if Holland had anything to do with Page's death.”

“Oh, this has gone far enough,” Holland said tiredly. “I only said I didn't
execute
him. I didn't say I—”

“Quiet, Holland, I'm talking to the lady.”

“Yeah, Holland, keep quiet,” Marian said. “He's talking to me.”

Holland's eyes narrowed as he began to suspect what she had in mind. She glared at him, willing him to keep his mouth shut.

Starbuck said, “Sergeant Larch, if Holland is in any way responsible for the death of Trevor Page, I want you to speak up right now.”

Do I have the RIGHT to keep it to myself?

“Well?”

Marian remained silent.

Starbuck nodded. “So Holland didn't shoot him after all. I just couldn't believe he'd pass up the opportunity.”

“Want to sniff my gun?” Marian asked.

He smiled. “No, I'm sure your ballistics people will do all the testing that's necessary. Holland, I'd like you to come back with me for a debriefing.”

“I have resigned from the FBI,” he said, looking stunned. He couldn't take his eyes off Marian.

“Urn, we kind of figured that out. But we want you to fill us in just the same. Come along. Goodbye, Sergeant—thanks for your help.”

Holland allowed himself to be led away, still looking as if he'd been hit by lightning. Marian watched them go, wondering if she'd done the right thing.

DiFalco's press announcement was about ready to begin; the cameras and microphones were all in place. Marian wandered over to where Malecki, Sanchez, and Romero were lounging against an RMP; she found an unused piece of fender and joined them. They had a good side view of DiFalco.

“Kelly Ingram is furious with you,” Sanchez told her. “Because you wouldn't let her hang around and see how it came out? I put her in a cab and sent her home, like you said.”

“Thanks, Gloria. I'll call her tomorrow.”

“Here we go,” Romero announced.

DiFalco gave the reporters only the essentials. Trevor Page was planning illegal shipments of a laser gun currently being developed by Universal Laser. His accomplice in these plans was the president of Universal, Edgar Quinn. Page had killed the four men found in East River Park eight days ago because one of them was threatening Page's plans. Page himself was dead, brought down by police fire during the successful rescue of Quinn, whom Page had kidnapped.

“We were able to bring this matter to a successful conclusion,” DiFalco said smoothly, “because of a special task force headed by Sergeant Marian Larch of the Ninth Precinct. I want to give credit to everyone who participated. Sergeant Larch's task force was made up of Detective Gloria Sanchez, also of the Ninth Precinct. Detective Jaime Romero from Intelligence. Sergeant Ivan, uh, Maleski, of the Thirty-second Precinct. And Agent Curt Holland of the FBI. It's this kind of selfless cooperation among the various departments and agencies dedicated to law enforcement that makes effective police work possible.”

The four lounging against the RMP groaned and laughed softly. “So now we're a task force!” Romero hooted, not too loud.

Sanchez rolled her eyes. “Appointed by guess who. We shoulda known.”

“He got my name wrong,” Ivan complained.

“Shh,” Romero cautioned. “Listen.”

One of the reporters was asking if this Trevor Page was the same Agent Page of the FBI with whom Captain DiFalco had held a joint press conference only yesterday morning. DiFalco admitted that it was. There was a buzz among the reporters. One of them said, “You stood up there with a murderer and fed us a line of bull?”

DiFalco fielded that one deftly. “It wasn't bull, except for the name of the man behind the laser gun plot. We had to count on your understanding when the whole story came out. Page insisted on the press announcement, and we didn't want to arouse his suspicions by refusing. We didn't yet know where he was hiding Edgar Quinn, you see.”

“Then you knew all along Page was behind it?”

“Of course,” said DiFalco.

“Why, that lying son of a bitch,” Sanchez muttered. “No shame, no shame at all.”

Marian felt as if she'd been pushed off a cliff. She knew better than to expect DiFalco to admit he'd been wrong about the case, but she'd never anticipated his taking credit for solving it. Credit for
her
work.

Ivan looked at Marian with sympathy. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know yet. The worst thing I can think of.”

The press conference was over. The crowd had thinned considerably, once the police gave the all-clear and the Bleecker Street residents started returning to their various buildings. Romero stood up straight and stretched. “I'm going home. Thanks for calling me, Marian. It was a good gig. As for DiFalco—well, he's a captain and you're a sergeant. Think it over very carefully before you do anything.”

Marian promised she would and said good night.

Ivan waited until Romero was gone and then asked, “Are you all right?”

She sighed deeply and said, “Right now I'm kind of numb. But I'll be all right.”

Sanchez put her hand on Marian's arm. “It's not a good idea to be alone now. Maybe I'd better stay with you.”

“That's a nice offer, Gloria, but I just want to go home and collapse. Thanks anyway.”

“If you start having nightmares,” Ivan said, “give me a call.”

She said she would. She told them both good night and then turned and walked away from the scene at Bleecker Street.

Four
A.M.
Marian sat yoga-fashion on her sofa staring at the television, the sound turned off. She watched Greer Garson say something heartfelt to Walter Pidgeon and didn't even wonder what it was.

The painkillers the medic had given her had reduced the ache in her leg to a point where it was barely noticeable; but they hadn't made her drowsy at all, a side effect she'd earnestly been hoping for. She needed the escape of sleep. Her big plan for flinging the solution to the East River Park murders in DiFalco's face along with her resignation—what a laugh. It was bad enough that DiFalco should steal the credit, but she couldn't even get the man to listen to her. Maybe she should go to the
Times
or one of the TV stations and tell the full story there. Announce her resignation publicly.

Except that she could never tell the
full
story. Only she and Curt Holland would ever know who really shot Trevor Page. Marian didn't credit Starbuck's suggestion that Holland was deliberately executing his old enemy; but the thought nagged at her just the same. After what she and Holland had been through together, she ought to know by now whether he was deserving of trust or not. She ought to know, but she didn't. The man was less remote now than he'd once been, but Marian didn't kid herself for one moment that she truly knew him.

Sanchez and Romero had been a pleasant surprise. She'd always known she could count on Ivan, but finding two friends where she didn't know she had friends had given her a lift. But something Sanchez had said … Kelly. Call Kelly in the morning. Early, before she had a chance to see a paper or a newscast.

Walter Pidgeon was saying something heartfelt to Greer Garson.

Marian sat there, dully watching the screen, wishing for sleep, wishing for answers. Sitting and watching.

The doorbell rang. At four in the morning. Marian dragged herself off the sofa and went to the door. Now who do you suppose could get past downstairs security so easily? She knew who it was even before she checked through the peephole.

She opened the door. Holland stood there with his fatigue sitting on him like a lead weight, but he still held his head up. They looked at each other for a long moment without speaking.

Then he said, “I have one more thing to ask of you. May I … come in.”

“Yes,” said Marian.

About the Author

Barbara Paul is the author of numerous short stories and novels in both the detective and science fiction genres. Born in Maysville, Kentucky, she went on to attend Bowling Green State University and the University of Pittsburgh, earning a PhD in theater history and criticism. She has been nominated for the Shamus Award for Best PI Short Story, and two of her novels,
In-Laws and Outlaws
and
Kill Fee
, have been adapted into television movies. After teaching at the University of Pittsburgh for a number of years, she retired to write full-time. Paul currently resides in Sacramento.