Spinelli, no hump either, had stuck obstinately to the facts and displayed impressive restraint when she tried to prod or lead him into conclusions and conjecture. All in all, he was a tough egg to crack.
But I’m as competitive as the next guy. I searched my brain for what she’d left out, and then asked Spinelli, “Have you searched her car yet?”
“Yeah… her car. There was some nondescript smudge marks on the side, from the struggle probably. That’s it.”
“No fingerprints, no footprints, no hairs?”
“Didn’t I just say only smudges?”
“Right.” Prick. I asked, “And your best guess at motive?”
“Theft. A woman workin’ late… comin’ out into an empty parking lot… her purse stolen-”
“That’s really your conclusion?” Janet interrupted.
“That’s really my working hypothesis… and all that implies.”
“But why would a thief kill her from behind?”
“Who says it was only one? There coulda been a backup man. In a public parking lot, breakin’ her neck that way-no noise, no attention, no evidence… Makes sense, right?”
Yes, it did. And Janet replied, “Perhaps.”
I said, “So what’s next, Mr. Spinelli? What are you doing to find the killer?”
No cop likes to be asked this particular question. It’s smacks of accountability, and public servants are allergic to the entire concept of responsibility and liability. But sometimes it’s because they have good and well-thought-out plans and don’t want them compromised. Other times it’s because they haven’t got a clue. They intend to tie all the proper procedural bows and knots, and wait breathlessly for the next crime so they can stuff this one in the unsolvable drawer.
Spinelli regarded me a moment, then replied, “If it’s a robbery, the killer was probably some punk from D. C. or the suburbs. I’ve notified the local authorities and asked for lists of known felons who operate this way. I traced her charge cards and military ID and notified the Post Exchange and Commissary to be on the lookout. I notified her banks that if there’s any attempts to charge on those cards, I’m to be informed.”
In short, everything Spinelli’s procedures required when the felony is robbery. He probably had a file reserved in the unsolvable drawer.
Janet asked, “And do you expect to get anything?”
“I’m optimistic.”
I glanced at Janet and she glanced back at me. Bullshit.
I said to Spinelli, “Do you really expect him to be idiotic enough to use her charge cards?”
“Crooks do all kinds of stupid shit. It’s why they’re crooks.” Spinelli then bent forward and asked, “We done yet?”
“Yes, thank you,” Janet replied. “You’ve been very helpful.”
He smiled. Then he stated, “Let me be even more helpful, then. I catch you or him stickin’ your toes in this, I’ll slap you both with charges for obstructin’my investigation. We clear on this point?”
She conceded, “It would be hard to be more clear.”
His rodent eyes turned to me. “You clear on this point?”
“Oh… me? I’m the chauffeur, right?”
He gave me a nasty, distrustful squint, then looked at Janet and added, “Also, I’d get very pissed to discover you withholdin’ relevant information or evidence. Should I explain the deep pile of shit that can get you into?”
“I’m aware of the penalties, Mr. Spinelli.”
Before you knew it we were all shaking hands, pleased to have had the pleasure of one another’s company we all agreed, which was, of course, bullshit. Nor did Spinelli offer to escort us out of the station, which struck me as perfectly in character. In fact, the session had gone pretty much as I had anticipated-a waste of time-and Spinelli had been every bit the unlikable asshole I recalled.
Outside, walking through the parking lot, I asked Janet, “Did you get what you wanted?”
“I got what I expected.”
“Which was what?”
“Confirmation.”
“Go on.”
“They’re headed in the wrong direction.”
It struck me that Miss Morrow sounded more certain about this than me. If, in a day or two, some hophead was apprehended in D. C. for charging a stereo or something with Lisa’s charge card, I could live with that. Eight years of trying criminal cases had taught me that first impressions are often wrong impressions, and clues that may appear very complex often turn out to have very simple solutions. But I detected no hint of doubt in Miss Janet Morrow and I obviously wondered why. Wanting to find out why, I asked her if she wanted a drink, but she begged off, claiming it had been a hard and emotionally draining day.
It had indeed.
And what I should have done at that moment was drop her off at her hotel, wish her all the best, and disappear. But I wanted Lisa’s killer. And I enjoyed hearing Lisa’s voice, even though it belonged to a different body and personality. So I took her back to her hotel and we agreed we would stay in close touch and share everything we learned.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He began tracking Julia Cuthburt as she pulled out of the parking garage underneath her Connecticut Avenue office building at 5:30. She drove a silver 2001 Toyota 4Runner with a six-cylinder engine and four-wheel drive that had probably never once, not since the day she’d bought it, ever been engaged. Her choice of automobile was in character with her general profile: practical, reliable, and best on the market for holding its value. The car conveyed an outdoorsy, rugged, and adventurous image, three qualities Julia Cuthburt roundly admired and sorely lacked. Poor Julia was a glorified clerk who wanted to be a princess in a Disney movie. Following her was too easy.
It was rush hour in Washington, and the traffic was dense and sluggish. She was a cautious, meticulous driver who rarely changed lanes and signaled far in advance of every maneuver. She drove like a snail.
At 6:15 she took a left off M Street in Georgetown, drove downhill half a block, and turned right into an underground garage. He waited fifteen seconds before he followed her in, just in time to see her taillights turning to the right. She went down three levels. He went down three levels. She pulled into an open space and he parked twelve spaces away.
He was quietly congratulating himself, when, suddenly, things went haywire. She locked her car and walked directly to the handicap elevator instead of the stairs. He was just stepping out of his car as the elevator doors closed and her guilty grin disappeared. The lazy bitch should’ve taken the stairs, instead of abusing the public trust.
He rushed for the stairwell, sprinted up three levels to the ground floor, and barged through a pair of heavy double doors just in time to knock a mother and her little children flat into a wall.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking frantically around, as the mother glared nastily and one of the children wailed, bouncing up and down on a hurt foot. He found himself on the ground floor of a two-level indoor mall, filled with expensive and exclusive shops. Julia Cuthburt wore a dark blue business suit. The crowds were light, and spotting her should be easy. If she was there. For five minutes he searched with increasing despair.
He gritted his teeth and cursed as he rushed toward the M Street exit from the mall. He stormed out onto a street thick with pedestrians, mostly young people and college kids wandering in noisy swarms and barhopping. He looked both ways and Julia Cuthburt in her blue business suit was nowhere in sight.
He had not considered this. Not from her. His computer had rated her a three. Tiny children with their naive trust of strangers and frivolous ways were twos. Julia Cuthburt was barely two steps above a drooling paraplegic in a wheelchair, he thought, as he shrugged with bewilderment and pondered his options. The simplest solution would be to go back into the parking garage, linger beside her car till she returned, and try something different. That option was canned nearly the moment it popped into his head. Bad enough that Lisa Morrow had required a script revision. One, okay, but Julia’s role was sacrosanct.