“Let me just clear up a few more little things. You said you left C.J. between four-fifteen and four-thirty this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“And went back to your office?”
“Yes.”
“When did you get there?”
“Maybe quarter of five.”
“People saw you return?”
“Sure. The receptionist, Anna. Some of my colleagues. A client
…” His words trailed off. He seemed bewildered by this line of questioning.
Walsh pressed on, aware that his Columbo act was about to run out of steam. “What kind of vehicle do you drive?”
“BMW 325 coupe.”
“Is that it? No other car?” Or a white van, he added wordlessly.
“I’m one person. How many cars do I need?”
“Did you have any further contact with C.J. today?”
“No.”
“Didn’t call her this evening?”
“No. I worked at the office until six, then went home.”
“Home is where?”
“Brentwood.”
“Anyone see you arrive home?”
Nolan stiffened. “What’s this about?”
“I’m just asking-”
“You’re trying to verify my movements-is that it?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nolan,” Walsh said in his best Peter Falk voice. “It’s routine, that’s all.”
“Routine. Right.” Nolan seethed for a moment, then said reluctantly, “Hell, I don’t know if any of my neighbors saw me get in. Probably not. I didn’t see any of them.”
“And then?”
“Made dinner, turned on the TV-want to know what I watched?” he asked with sarcasm.
“Okay,” Walsh said.
“The news. The local news. Channel Four. Then a movie on HBO. Field of Dreams, the baseball thing. Around eight o’clock I got a phone call from Detective Boyle. Now I’m here.” He lifted his arms and let them fall limply in his lap. “That’s it.”
“All right, Mr. Nolan.”
“You through asking questions? Can I talk now?”
“Go ahead.”
“Good. Because I’ve got something to say.” There was no expression on his face, only a deadly stillness. “This is bullshit. You start this interview by telling me you need some background information, and you end up treating me like a goddamned suspect.”
“I’m sorry,” Walsh began, but Nolan wouldn’t let him be Columbo anymore.
“I don’t want to hear it. You drag me in here and waste my time, and what’s more important, you waste your time. Are you running this investigation?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here with me? How does this help you to get C.J. back?”
“It’s impossible at this stage of the investigation to say what will be helpful-”
“Cut the crap. You’re here so you can say you followed procedure, so you can make a check-off mark in your notebook. ‘Talked to ex-husband,’ check. And meanwhile somebody’s got C.J., and for all we know she could be dying right now.”
“Mr. Nolan-”
“Quit talking to me, and get off your ass and find her, God damn it! Just find her… find…” Abruptly he slumped forward in his chair, all the anger hissing out of him. “Oh, shit.”
He cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Walsh said.
Nolan just shook his head.
Walsh was almost sure this wasn’t the guy. But he reminded himself that Adam Nolan was a lawyer, and every lawyer he’d ever met had been skilled at deception. He’d better ask for the names of those witnesses who saw Nolan return to work. Then maybe send someone from West LA Division to talk to Nolan’s neighbors His desk phone rang. He picked it up. “Walsh.”
“Morrie?” It was Donna Cellini, breathless and tense. “We’ve got a suspect.”
He sat up straight. “You serious?”
“No, I’m joking around. Of course I’m serious. Look, I can’t go into it now. We’re setting up a command post in Hacienda Heights. Corner of Hacienda Boulevard and Newton Street.”
He’d expected her to say Reseda, where William Bowden lived. Hacienda Heights was in the opposite direction, an unincorporated district in the southeast corner of LA County. “That’s Sheriff’s jurisdiction,” Walsh said.
“Right. They’re handling it, and we’re along for the ride. Get over here fast.”
“I’m on my way.”
Walsh hung up and glanced at Adam Nolan across the desk. “Sorry, Mr. Nolan. I need to get moving.”
“What is it? Did something happen?”
“I can’t talk about it now.”
“Do you know where C.J. is?”
“I’m not sure what we know. We have your phone number. Go home and wait. When there’s news, you’ll be the first to hear it.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t tell you anything. Look, you said you wanted us to make progress. So don’t stand in our way. Let us do our jobs.”
Nolan hesitated, then stood up. “Just get her back, all right?”
Walsh wanted to say something reassuring, but there was no time. “We’ll do everything we can.”
35
The interview had gone as well as could have been expected. Even so, Adam was troubled.
He gripped the steering wheel of his BMW and sped east on the San Bernardino Freeway, cruising past the barrio neighborhoods of City Terrace and Monterey Park. He had to remind himself to stay within the speed limit; he couldn’t afford to be pulled over by a highway patrol car. It was difficult to keep his speed under sixty-five when every instinct demanded that he race back to C.J., take care of things, do it, do it now.
Damn. He really was rattled, wasn’t he?
It wasn’t Detective Walsh’s line of questioning that had him on edge. He had prepared himself for the predictable inquiries about his relationship with his ex-wife, his feelings toward her, his whereabouts throughout the afternoon and evening. He had gone to considerable pains to ensure that his answers would be satisfactory.
Take his meeting with C.J. this afternoon. He had wanted to be seen with her, seen by her fellow officers in the Newton police station, so that when her disappearance was discovered some of them would be quick to think of him. He had wanted to be called in and interrogated. What better way to establish an alibi during the crucial hours of her absence than to let the police do it for him?
They had dialed his home telephone number and he had answered. Ergo, he must have been at home. It was the simple, natural assumption to make. It was also false-hadn’t these people heard of call forwarding? A readily available, very convenient service, one that more criminals ought to take advantage of.
Criminals. Yes, that was what he was now. Breaking and entering, kidnapping, and soon… homicide. A hell of a change of pace for a guy whose worst crime prior to tonight had been running the occasional stop sign.
Well, too late for doubts now. He was in this thing, and he had to see it through.
Anyway, Walsh and his pals would never realize that the call had been forwarded to Adam’s cell phone, that he hadn’t been home when he answered. They would never even look in that direction, not when they already had a much more plausible suspect in their sights.
There had been a second purpose behind his visit to the police station. If anyone inquired further, the desk officer at Newton Station and the waitress at the coffee shop would both report that he and C.J. had smiled together, laughed a little, and seemed comfortable with each other. He doubted the investigation would ever get that far, but if it did, he wanted their testimony in the record.
Besides, it had been a kick to play with C.J.’s head.
He wondered what she was thinking right now. He didn’t know-one of the things that had always irked him about their marriage was that he’d never been quite sure what she was thinking. She had a mind of her own, did C.J.
But one thing was certain. Tonight he figured in her thoughts. She might have pushed him out of her mind and out of her life, but he had come back, all right. Back with a vengeance.
“Nobody fucks with me,” he muttered, repeating the words that had become his credo, his mantra. “Nobody makes me their bitch.”