Maybe they were hers. Just never been worn. Unwrapped them and tossed out the packaging somewhere else.
Go in there and tell him. Get rid of that goddamn lump before it bores a hole through you.
Nearly two hours later Reardon called Steve into his office. He had reviewed the video and made his check-up calls. Against protests that he was in bed, Neil drove back into headquarters. When he entered he looked at Steve then to Reardon. “Somebody die?”
“Close enough,” Reardon said.
“What’s that mean?” Neil said, a white stirrer in his teeth.
“I just finished reviewing the Pendergast interrogation. My concern is the guy’s lawyer gets a look, he’s going to want to know the probable cause.”
Neil’s face flared as he flashed a damning glance at Steve then looked back at Reardon. “He started off saying that he’d never been to her apartment until I mentioned the latents, and suddenly he remembered. The first thing he gave me was a fucking lie.”
“But you told him we had his prints on her bed and his hair on the sheets. Those aren’t in the forensics reports. We have no latents from the bedroom. Nor a witness who saw his car on her street. What the hell were you thinking? His fucking lawyer will be all over us.”
“I told him that to pull him out, and he did. He admitted lying to us.”
“That still doesn’t connect him to the crime, for Christ’s sake.”
“We’ve got an admission that he was dating her, that he’d been to her apartment. Plus his computer’s loaded with evidence that he could have stalked her. We’ve got motives up the grunt.”
“We’ve got circumstantials up the grunt.”
Neil shot another look to Steve. “Feel free to jump in, partner.”
The word came out like a wad of phlegm.
Reardon cut him off. “Theriault won’t prosecute unless you’ve got something physical linking him to crime. And we’ve got shit—no DNA on or near her body, no witnesses, no e-mails or phone record. Nothing but prints on a bottle. He won’t risk his reputation if we can’t connect him.”
Neil turned to Steve, his eyes saucered. “You going to sit there like a goddamn zombie or something? You know the guy’s a fucking slimeball.”
Steve wanted to support him. Wanted to say, Yeah, he’s a slimeball and we got him. Means, motive, opportunity. Enough to convince a jury he’s the one. Had me going without a history of violence, but got the goods with the latents, DNA, and witness. Except, partner, you lied about all that. And I’m back on the drill bit.
“We don’t have a case.” Steve’s words rose up devoid of inflection.
Disgusted, Neil turned to Devin. “You let him out, and in five days he’ll disappear.”
“Right now he’s going nowhere. The immediate problem is you attacking the guy with the stocking. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I was reenacting his crime.”
“You assaulted a witness during interrogation. A defense lawyer will jackboot all over you, maybe even toss a fucking lawsuit on us.”
Neil made a dismissive gesture. “We can handle it.”
Reardon’s face was bright with rage. “No we can’t handle it because you let him know how she was killed. If the media gets that, which it most certainly will, a key piece of evidence goes public. You gave away our fucking trump card.”
“I guess I got a little carried away.”
“A little carried away? That was fucking stupid.”
Tension crackled like electrical discharge. In Neil’s behalf, Steve said, “The last thing Pendergast wants to do is talk to the press.”
“But not his attorney.”
“We can get to him or her to keep quiet,” Neil suggested. “Maybe even get an injunction to quash release.”
Reardon did not look convinced. “Whatever, we’ve got enough to hold him ’til the arraignment. In the meantime, go out and get something real, okay? Check his alibi against neighbors. Check his phone record, credit cards, pay-per-view cable, people who can put him and Farina together on the night she died. And bring it in by court time.”
Steve and Neil both got up to leave, but Neil avoided looking at him.
“By the way, somebody let the word out about his prior offenses and the media want details.”
“Who let that out?”
“Who the hell knows? But the vultures are circling.”
And that pea’s a damn auger in my brain.
37
Steve did not drive straight home. Instead, he made a copy of the Farina file and the Pendergast video. After calling ahead, he drove to Belmont, a small town ten miles west of Boston, and up a sleepy little street off Cushing Square. At number thirty-two, a modest Tudor single family, he rang the doorbell. In a matter of moments the door swung open and a large woman filled the entrance. She squinted at him. “I remember the face, but the name escapes me.”
“Philo Vance.”
She laughed and gave him a one-arm hug. “How are you, Steve?”
“Just dandy.” She led him inside.
Jacqueline Levini had worked for the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI at Quantico for several years before accepting a teaching position at Northeastern University. She was an old friend and a gifted profiler and the one who gotten him the job in the evening program. In her late fifties, Jackie looked more like someone who studied subatomic particles than serial killers. She had a frizzy head of salt-and-pepper hair that looked as if it had been styled by Albert Einstein. Her face was fleshy and expressive and lit by piercing blue eyes that made you wonder if she were wearing colored contact lenses. She was dressed in an oversized T-shirt that said ITALIA. Her father was from a small medieval Umbrian town of Todi where she returned each summer to stay with relatives. In her hand was a glass of red wine.
“I’ve got a lovely bottle of Montefalco from my friend Dick Elia, and it refuses to be consumed alone.”
She led him into the living room, which was done in leather and claret Oriental carpets and soft lighting. He could feel the demon pull of the bouquet. “Sorry, Jackie, but I have to refuse.”
“It’s too late to be working, or don’t you like wine?”
“It doesn’t like me.”
“Then how about a coffee or Pellegrino?”
“Pellegrino would be fine.”
She disappeared down the hall to the kitchen.
Jackie was a widow of nearly ten years. She lived alone and her only son lived on the West Coast. She taught a graduate course in the College of Criminal Justice but spent most of her time doing research and consulting for law enforcement agencies throughout the country. She had written scholarly articles on forensic psychology, crime, and psychosexual dynamics, as well as trade books on sex crimes for the general reader. Over the years she had established herself as a favorite consultant of news networks whenever a high-profile crime was in the air. On her fireplace was a photograph of her in one of her several appearances on Larry King Live.
“How’s Dana doing?” Jackie said when she returned with his drink.
She knew Dana from happy social events and he had dreaded the question. Because he didn’t want to get into their separation he simply said that she was doing fine.
“Any baby Markarians yet?”
“Not yet.” He took a sip of the drink to change the subject. “I appreciate your help, especially at this hour.”
“No problem, besides you spare me from student theses that are making my eyes cross. Brilliant kids who can’t write for shit. So, what do you have?”
“You probably heard about this.” He handed her a photocopy of the Boston Globe story.