Milo said, “I’m still not sneezing.”
“No, of course not,” said Rifkin, not quite convincingly. “But that’s nothing long-term for someone like Charlie, who still thinks he’s a financial genius. It didn’t take long for him to plow through most of it and start howling that we sold too cheap. Unfortunately for him, he’d been involved every step of the way and we had documentation.”
“How much is most of it?”
“All but half a mil. Then he had the gall to ask us to represent him so we could cook his books and beef up the deduction. Meanwhile, he’s still threatening to sue us. Refusing him politely took some self-control.”
“So he had a half million left.”
“He goes to Europe several times a year, flies first-class, stays at the Crillon, eats at Michelin star restaurants. If he’s got a hundred K left, I’d be shocked. I can’t believe he’s still screaming about the sale. It’s been a while since I last heard from him and I figured he’d finally moved on.”
“How long?”
“I’d say… two years… hold on and I’ll tell you precisely… here it is, twenty-eight months ago. Charlie bitching that he needed a new car and Leona was refusing to pay for one. Why should she? He’s a lousy driver, no sense cracking up another one. But it wouldn’t have mattered if Leona had bought him a brand-new Rolls. Every time he gets what he wants, he comes back for more. As I said, he lives in a dream-state. Hearing about that murder probably got him fantasizing about being lord of the manor. Or he just wanted to prevent himself from feeling like an ass, so he twisted reality. Because Leona was right. Eight mil was a fair prize then, but the value of the lot has skyrocketed. If they sold today, they’d probably get twenty-five mil.”
“With a nice house on it.”
“Even without a house, Lieutenant, a parcel that size is highly desirable.”
“The folks they sold it to, DSD,” said Milo. “Tell me more about them.”
Silence.
“Mr.Rifkin?”
“I’m been forthright, Lieutenant, within the limitations of my professional standards.”
“Charlie’s fair game for discussion but DSD isn’t?”
“There’s an agreement.”
“Confidentiality.”
“Binding confidentiality.”
“Can you tell me why, Mr. Rifkin?”
“Certainly not, Lieutenant. That’s the point.”
“Everyone DSD has done business with seems to be held to secrecy.”
No reply.
“Mr. Rifkin, are we talking some big-time political types?”
Silence.
“Foreign intrigue, Mr. Rifkin?”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”
“A criminal investigation trumps a civil agreement, sir.”
“You’ve gone to law school, Lieutenant?”
Milo wiped his face. “Let’s shift gears for a moment, sir. Is there anything you think I should know about Charlie or anyone else as it relates to murder?”
“You think Charlie could’ve killed someone?”
“Two people were murdered.”
“May I ask how they were killed?”
“Gunshot and strangulation.”
“Well,” said Rifkin, “Charlie does own firearms but the ones I know about are antiques, inherited from Lan. Would he use them if he got angry enough? I suppose. His temper is nasty and he is unstable.”
“What about strangulation?”
“Doesn’t that take strength, Lieutenant?”
“Strength and persistence.”
“Then I doubt it. Charlie’s health is subpar. Liver, heart, prostate, diabetes, arthritis. Leona pays his medical bills and they’re extensive. And I have to be honest, he’s a blowhard but I’ve never actually known him to follow through on anything.”
“Is there anything about the sale to DSD that could conceivably link to murder?”
Rifkin said, “Good try, Lieutenant.”
Milo said, “All this hush-hush is making DSD look more and more suspicious.”
“Be that as it may, Lieutenant. Good luck with your murders.”
Doyle Bryczinski was on his third can of 7UP.
Milo sat down close, scooted closer. “Okay, Doyle, what’s the story?”
“About what?”
“Going back there with those bolt cutters.”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Bolt cutters and talk about crime and fire isn’t nothing.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Milo ’s big hand landed on Bryczinski’s scrawny shoulder. “Doyle, if there’s something you want to tell me, now’s the time to help yourself.”
“What do I need help with?”
“Think about it, Doyle.”
“I’m thinking I don’t need help.”
“Why’d you go back?”
“It’s my place, that’s all.”
“Your place?”
“My job. I know it better than anyone.”
“Exactly,” said Milo.
“Huh?”
“What strikes me, Doyle, is that doing a murder there would be tough for someone who wasn’t familiar with the place. It gets real dark at night, that rear staircase is hidden away. You’d have to know where to find it, be super-careful walking up those wooden stairs without being heard. Though your shoes do look pretty quiet.”
“They’re okay. Only I never did nothing. And no matter any shoes, I’da been heard.”
“Why?”
“My leg’s fucked up, it drags.”
“Even with those quiet shoes?”
“They got soft soles,” said Bryczinski, “but also steel arches, real heavy to lift.”
Milo eyed the soda can. “If you’re thirsty, feel free.”
“I’m okay.”
“Let’s go back to the night of the murders and where you were.”
“Zactly what I told you.”
“Sleeping and taking care of your mother.”
“Buying the diapers for my mom. This time I got the receipt.” Pulling a scrap from his shirt pocket. “Nine forty-eight, like I told you, I’m at the CVS.”
Milo examined the date. “You found the receipt because you’ve been working on an alibi, Doyle?”
“You asked me all those questions the first time,” said Bryczinski. “So I looked for the receipt. Now you got it.”
Milo waved the paper. “This is okay, as far as it goes, Doyle, but it really doesn’t mean much. You coulda gone home, driven back.”
“Maybe coulda, but didn’t.” Bryczinski’s eyes remained calm.
“Monte,” said Milo.
“What?”
“Who’s Monte, Doyle?”
“Ain’t that a card game?”
“It’s also a man’s name.”
“Not any man I know.”
“Why the cutters, Doyle?”
“What I said, an emergency.”
“It’s a crime scene, Doyle.”
“It’s a crime scene now, but it’s not gonna be a crime scene forever. You don’t give me the key to that chain, I got to get in.”
“Emergency,” said Milo. “Like the place burns down.”
“What I said was just in case the place burns down. I need the job, want to do it right.”
“You think of it as your place.”
“I know it better than anyone. They didn’t.”
“Who?”
“Those two. Look what happened to them,” said Bryczinski. Reaching for the soda can, he took a long, slow sip.
“Their fault?”
“I’m not saying that, I’m saying it was stupid to go in there at night.”
“What’s your theory about the murders, Doyle?”
“They went up there to fool around, I dunno, maybe some psycho crashed the party. That’s my point: Way the chain was before, anyone could get in.”
“So you should be happy I put on a new one.”
“Leave the key, I’ll say thank you. Now I need to get back there. Can I have that ride?”
“Happy to arrange it, Doyle. If you take a polygraph before you leave.”
Bryczinski’s eyes widened. “Company gave me a poly when they hired me. I passed with honors, ask ’em for a copy.”
“So you wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
Bryczinski thought. “Hell, why not? If it don’t take too long.”
Detective Three Delano Hardy was the closet to a polygraph specialist the day shift had going. He hadn’t administered the test in over a year, wasn’t even sure where the gear was, but he agreed to look for it.