He had made copies of the bills for the police. He had gone through the numbers, noting those he recognized and which were personal or job related, and then he had called each number to ask who it was and how they knew his daughter. He had made handwritten notes in the margins. The police had asked him to do this, and I would have asked the same. The receipt showed that the police had taken-
(1) Apple laptop computer
(1) Panasonic 5.8 GHz cordless phone
(1) Samsung cell phone
(1) red leather address book
(1) blue checkbook
(assorted) papers
The papers would have been bank statements, phone bills, and any notes or scribbles they found. The receipt was signed Det. R. Darcy.
I gestured at the desk and the boxes.
“These are the things Darcy and Maddux returned?”
“Some of it, yes. They returned whatever they took, those items there on the receipt. Most of these things we packed up ourselves.”
“How about Bastilla and Munson? Did they take anything?”
Mr. Repko thought for a moment.
“No. The criminalist was back here, but the detectives mostly stayed out in the front with us. The boys were back here, keeping an eye on things.”
“This is when Bastilla and Munson were telling you about Byrd.”
“That’s right.”
“So it was an informational visit. They didn’t ask any questions.”
“A few, I guess. They wanted to know the same things you and the other detectives asked about. I think they were making conversation until the criminalist finished.”
“That’s probably it.”
The box held a few assorted paperbacks and magazines, and some pots and pans Debra had probably bought for when she wanted to cook. Her computer was back on her desk here at home just where it had been before she moved out, and her cell phone was in the little change dish where she had probably always kept it. Mrs. Repko had hung Debra’s clothes and returned her toiletries and makeup to her bathroom. They had put everything back in its place as if she had never left. It was so sad I wanted to cry.
I searched the box and desk, then went to the closet and studied the clothes. She hadn’t been wearing any of these things when she was murdered. Everything in the closet had been safely back at her apartment, so it made no sense to search for fibers unless Bastilla and Munson believed someone else was involved.
I said, “Lots of clothes. It must have taken the criminalist a long time.”
“He was back here for a long time.”
“You were talking with the detectives all that time?”
“That’s right. It was very emotional for us.”
“I’m sure. I’m curious, Mr. Repko-did Bastilla and Munson ask about anything, other than informing you about Byrd?”
“You mean about Debra?”
“Yes, sir. About Debra. All that time you were talking, I’m sure they had questions.”
He thought some more.
“Men. Boyfriends. That kind of thing. They asked about her job.”
“At Leverage?”
“Who she liked, who her friends were, if she mentioned anyone. That kind of thing. I don’t think we were very much help. I didn’t see what it had to do with this man, Byrd.”
“So they were interested in Leverage?”
“I guess you could say that, but like I said, I think they were making conversation-”
Then he frowned as a thought occurred to him.
“Well, there was the one thing, but I don’t know if this is what you mean-”
“What’s that?”
“Detective Bastilla wanted the guest registry from the burial service. They wanted to make a copy of it.”
“Was she suggesting Byrd might have come to Debra’s burial?”
“It seems unlikely, don’t you think, considering?”
I didn’t tell him I thought the idea of Lionel Byrd attending her funeral was absurd.
“That’s an interesting notion, Mr. Repko. Could I see it?”
“They haven’t returned it yet. When she returns it, would you still like to see it?”
“Yes, sir. That would be good.”
He walked me back to the living room. The brothers looked up as if they thought I was going to announce the big breakthrough, but all I could do was tell them I would call with any developments. Mrs. Repko was not with them, but Michael handed me a short list of names and numbers. When Mr. Repko showed me to the door, Michael started to follow, but Mr. Repko stopped him.
“I’ll walk Mr. Cole to the door. I’d like a word with him alone.”
Michael met my eyes, and I followed his father out. When we reached the entry, Mr. Repko hesitated before he opened the door.
He said, “I really don’t know what to say to you.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
He stared at the floor, then straightened as if it took an enormous effort. He studied my face. His boys had marked me up pretty good.
“Michael told me what happened. I guess you could have had them arrested. I imagine you can still sue us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He looked away again, as if the weight of maintaining the contact added to his burden and he had to drop it before continuing.
“Those first few weeks, all I thought about was what I would do when the police found him. All those terrible fantasies you have, shooting him at his trial, hiring a mobster to kill him if they sent him to prison.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, when they didn’t, I was so scared he would get away with it, and then they did, but now-”
He trailed off, and I could see the weight of his pain crushing him-his face sagged, his shoulders slumped, his back bent. It was awful to see, but I had seen worse and would see worse again.
“I’m sorry for what the boys did, Mr. Cole. I would not have allowed it. Please let me pay for any damages.”
“I’d better get going, Mr. Repko.”
I left him without looking at him or saying anything more. I walked down his lovely drive and into the lovely street, and stood by my car, wondering why Connie Bastilla would want the funeral registry. Murderers often attended their victim’s funerals, and sometimes left flowers or cards. It was possible Bastilla checked the registry for Byrd’s name as a pro forma part of her investigation, like dotting an i or crossing a t, but it was also possible she was checking for a different signature-someone whose DNA was currently an unidentified blind sample in anonymous tests.
I was still thinking about it when a grey Crown Victoria eased up the street and took forever to reach me. It idled to a stop, and two men in sunglasses stared at me. The passenger and the driver were both in their early thirties with short dark hair and ties but no jackets. They wore short-sleeved shirts and the flat, empty faces that came with having to wear bad clothes while riding around in a bad car. The passenger’s window rolled down.
I said, “You’re either cops or the Men in Black. Which is it?”
The passenger held up his badge, then tipped it toward the backseat.
“I’m Darcy. He’s Maddux. Let’s talk about Debra Repko.”
I didn’t want to get in their car.
“So talk. I can hear you.”
Darcy glanced in his side-view like someone might be behind him. Maddux leaned across his partner to see me.
“You’re Cole, right? The dude who got off Lionel Byrd?”
“Tell you what, Maddux-how about you kiss my ass?”
“We don’t think Byrd killed her. Now get in, and let’s talk about it.”
I got in, and we talked.
19
MADDUX PULLED into the shade of an enormous elm, but left the engine running with the AC on high. Darcy was the larger of the two, with fleshy hands and the slow moves of a man who thought things through. Maddux was different. He flicked and fluttered like a man wound tight by a grudge. Once we were parked, they hooked their elbows over the top of the front seat, propping themselves sideways. Darcy faced me, but Maddux glanced everywhere as if he was worried someone might see us.