‘True.’ He liked the comeback – she wasn’t simply soaking up what he was suggesting. His previous partner had been a little lazy and very passive: he’d accepted instantly anything Mike said, even if it contradicted a conversation from five minutes before. Dana did not do that. ‘But Whittler strikes me as brighter than that, and nothing about his demeanour suggests he’s a team player.’
Yes, thought Dana. Nathan Whittler’s demeanour loomed large; she had a nagging feeling it was crucial. The type of person Nathan Whittler was, could be decisive.
‘All right,’ continued Mike, ‘so there’s the deviation from known behaviour: both forensically, and to commit a murder. Because we’ve nothing on him, and certainly nothing violent.’ He tilted his head to indicate either/or. ‘But he does have means and opportunity, which is why we count him in. That leaves… motive. He has no apparent motive.’
That was, at this juncture, true. But they might find a connection later.
‘So who has?’
Mike pointed at the screen, where Megan Cassavette’s picture held his gaze.
‘Well, she probably has. Or drives the person who has. Cherchez la femme, and all that. When you first came from Fraud, you looked for rational and logical connections that led to motive. You wanted, especially, a financial reason for crimes. You still do, to some extent. If you want me to pick up on potential missed opportunities, I’ll always go back to that. You want motives from spreadsheets. Whereas I want motives from bedsheets.’
She had no problem yielding that point. It was in her nature to go digging in data, as though every answer lay there. She was still learning – usually from Mike – about all manner of alternatives. Learning, in her view, too slowly.
‘You think she has a lover and he killed Lou Cassavette?’
Mike grinned. ‘Or she. Twenty-first century, right? Or maybe Lou has a lover and it’s her angry husband. Or Lou finished it and the lover objected. Stabbing is close up, personal; often driven by passion, even if it’s in the moment. Nathan Whittler doesn’t seem like a passionate person, does he? I don’t see him as someone driven by high-enough emotion to stab someone in the heart, and high emotion is what it takes.’
Dana chewed her lip. It was a strong point. Nathan Whittler was too frightened even to look at her and had broken down in the first interview. Did he have the ferocity, the heightened anger or jealousy? He didn’t seem to, and she couldn’t yet picture something monstrous enough to cause it. Whereas a jilted or determined lover? Maybe they would.
‘Good job, Mikey. If we’re going to pursue that angle, then the rubbish bin on Megan’s lawn looked out of place. No other house had it. That could be a signal, if Megan is the one with the lover. Or maybe Lou left it out last night, to signal no-go to his paramour: hence, they meet at the store. See what Tech can find from the laptops: lovers usually give themselves away. So I’m told.’
Mike made a note.
‘Where are we with the rest of it?’ she asked.
‘I have a call in to a buddy in Intelligence, so waiting on him. Financials and phone records will be through shortly. I put in a call to the store’s bank to check the business finances, too. Waiting on a reply. Dennis is starting on the computers from the Cassavette house. Search of the house turned up nothing significant, but Megan’s going to stay at her mother’s for a few days, so we have a clear run if we need to go back there. Inventory of that rucksack from the store is on your desk – eclectic mix of ridiculously cheap items, for some reason.’
‘You’re so all-encompassingly thorough, Mikey.’
‘The phrase you’re looking for is “obsessive neat freak with a control fetish”.’ To prove it, Mike tapped a pile of papers into a flawless bundle.
‘Ha. I bet they all swipe right when they see that under your photo.’
‘My zany single life ended many years ago.’
‘And a nation breathed a sigh of relief that day.’ Dana stood up, a zing of pain from her knee as she did so. ‘Okay, thanks, Mikey. I’ll go push Whittler for a firmer fix on where he’s been hiding out. Keep Bill in the loop as you work through those details – he can feed me anything vital.’
Chapter 8
Nathan seemed more relaxed when she looked in through the mirror. Slumped casually, holding the paperback in one hand and gently swirling the water in his cup with the other, he looked placid, almost contented. Already she considered herself so connected to him that she felt responsible for his wellbeing. She had to consciously note that her primary duty was to Lou Cassavette’s memory and to finding the truth.
But when the door handle squeaked he snapped to attention. Jumped, almost. He spilled a few drops of water as he put the cup back on the table. His posture became stilted and wary. She’d broken into his own peculiar brand of reverie.
Dana took a deep breath and entered. She resumed her seat and flicked on the tape machine.
‘How’s the book, Mr Whittler?’
Nathan glanced at the cover – a weathered man in a black hat squinting as he fired at a dusty foe, Monument Valley icons behind him. ‘Terrible, I’m afraid.’
Dana nodded as she set out her paperwork and files. ‘Yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t find anything better at short notice. The best thing about Zane Grey is the name of the author. After that, it’s downhill all the way.’ She looked up at him. ‘I sense you’re a big reader, Mr Whittler?’
Nathan reached for his cup again but merely held it in two palms, like hot chocolate on a cold night. ‘Yes, whenever I can.’
She waited for him to expand, as most people would, then chastised herself. That was not how he operated. The rhythm she was trying to engender would have to be driven by her.
‘Soothing, isn’t it? Someone else’s world?’ She tilted her head to one side and was silently thrilled when, seeing her shadow move, he unconsciously mirrored it. ‘When you get a good book, it’s like someone gifted you a piece of their imagination.’
Nathan blinked hard at his cup. ‘Yes, quite so. You were a child who escaped to the library, then?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘There were a bunch of us who did that.’
Although, she recalled, never together: just an archipelago of individual, quiet souls among the shelves, breathing slowly, grateful for the solitude and acceptance. They didn’t have to justify or explain themselves – they were appreciated for their mere presence. She would see the others like wraiths, a horizontal splinter of another child between book and shelf. Like her, she imagined, praying the sun would magically stop setting and the clocks become still.
‘What sort of thing do you normally read, Mr Whittler?’
This seemed to stump him. He looked again to his hands for tell-tale blood lines. ‘Uh, well, anything I can get, really. I don’t always have a full choice, so I pretty much read anything. Especially in the evening.’
‘Too busy in the daytime?’ She left the question hanging.
Nathan took a sip. She understood that he wanted the water as much as a prop to hide his unconventional body language as for the refreshment. Dana pondered whether he’d be more forthcoming without the cup to hide behind, or if it was helping him to feel more respected and trusted – because he had asked for something and got it.
‘Well, actually, I find my eyes get strained if I read too much.’ He nodded to himself, as if he’d escaped a tight corner.
Dana pretended to write – her own prop. ‘Mr Whittler, I mentioned the last time we spoke that I’d return to the subject of your address. May I do that now?’
‘Yes, Detective Russo. If you wish.’