Nothing but the Truth (60 page)
The rest of his records were similarly disappointing. His bills and check register revealed nothing unusual— phone, electric, rent, credit card payments. If he hired operatives, he kept no records of them here. There weren’t any random keys. Apparently he didn’t own a gun.
When Glitsky could free up another inspector or two, by Christmas, he intended to do a similar search on the offices of FMC, although he’d believed that his best hope on Thorne was an unexpected search of his apartment.
But maybe he was wrong.
After another few minutes, he heard Batavia move behind him. “Well, that was a slice.” Glitsky turned around and saw the sergeant was returning the large stack of pamphlets, letters, other reading material back into the suitcase. “All of these are older. Weeks, even months. Nothing on Pulgas.”
He closed the suitcase and stood up. “I’ll keep looking.”
Glitsky heard a key in the front door. He pushed the chair back and stood up as a short, well-dressed man appeared in the alcove. He wore a hat with a small feather in it, gloves, a tweed overcoat. Behind him stood the building manager who’d let Abe into the apartment and then, apparently, called Thorne at his work.
The dapper man stared at Glitsky with a dead expression, transferred it to Batavia as he entered the living room from wherever he’d been. His tone was completely uninflected. “What is the meaning of this outrageous intrusion?”
“You’re Mr. Thorne I presume.” Glitsky had his search warrant in his pocket. He extracted it and held it out to the man, who glanced at it contemptuously, making no move to examine it. Glitsky shrugged and in a few words introduced himself and explained the basic situation. “I’m afraid,” he concluded, “that I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises while we continue here.”
Thorne didn’t even blink. “No, sir. I refuse to do that. I’ve called my attorney and he’ll be here shortly and put an end to this.” He was taking off his overcoat, hanging it on a peg in the alcove, planning to stay.
“He won’t be able to do that, sir.” Glitsky held all the cards here, and he knew it. “This is a legal search conducted pursuant to a murder investigation—”
“Baxter?” The manager interrupted, shifting from foot to foot in the still-open doorway. “If everything’s all right here, I’ve . . .”
“Sure, Daniel.” Thorne thanked him courteously and he backed out of the alcove, closing the door behind him. But the suspect hadn’t lost the thread. He came back to Glitsky, asking quietly, “Whose murder?”
“James Allen Espinosa of Pescadero.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was the victim of the Clean Earth Alliance attack on the Pulgas Water Temple the other day.”
“That again.” This time he allowed a tone of suppressed anger. He rolled his eyes.
“Again?” Glitsky asked.
Thorne ignored the question. “And you think I had something to do with that? On what grounds?”
“Justifiable grounds, Mr. Thorne,” Glitsky replied. “A judge signed the warrant. That’s all you need to know. Now I’m not letting you into this apartment until we’re finished here. As a courtesy, we’ll bring a chair over and I’ll let you remain in that alcove. With your lawyer when he shows up. But nobody’s touching anything here until we’re done. Do you understand?”
The men were standing two feet apart. Thorne huffed, replying, “Perfectly.”
Glitsky crossed the room, said a few words to Batavia, and went back to the desk. The cable car went by again as Batavia brought two chairs from around the kitchen table through the living room and into the alcove. Then he lifted Thorne’s overcoat from its peg, as Glitsky had instructed him.
“Hey! What do you think . . . ?” For the first time, Thorne’s voice rose.
Glitsky was up as if shot out of his chair, his own voice harsh with authority. “You stay right where you are. Jorge, make sure he does. While you’re at it, have him give you his wallet and check his identification.”
“I won’t . . .”
“You damn well will,” Batavia said.
Glitsky took the overcoat from his sergeant and now held it up to his face. He’d smelled a strong odor as Thorne had removed the coat and hung it up. It hadn’t been there when Glitsky and Jorge had entered the apartment and then, suddenly, with Thorne’s arrival, there it was—gasoline.
Reaching into the pockets one by one, his hand closed around what felt like some kind of charm. Extracting it carefully, he instantly placed the piece. It was at least an exact replica, but Glitsky would bet it was an original, of one of the handblown Venetian glass elephants that he’d last seen dancing across the mantel over Hardy’s living room fireplace.
Sergeant Coleman was having trouble getting through to Jim Pierce, whose patience had all but run out. Coleman’s had as well. He’d been kept waiting for nearly a half hour, and now, as he’d finally been admitted into the vice-president’s office, had been told by Pierce’s secretary that the next meeting started in ten minutes.
Pierce was behind his desk. Distracted. No handshake. Papers to be signed, decisions to make. He looked up at Coleman. The inspector, he said, could talk but he’d better talk fast. These continual interruptions had gone far beyond reasonable, near to the point of official harrassment. If they continued, there were likely to be consequences.
The power play had its effect on the young inspector. The corner office was vast, ornate, intimidating. Windows and views, high enough to be over the fog. Coleman squirmed in the ultramodern wooden chair—really more a stool with sides than anything a body would choose to sit in or on.
It crossed Coleman’s mind that this might, in fact, be a special chair positioned in front of Pierce’s desk for unwelcome visitors, to keep them from getting too comfortable. To make sure they wanted to leave soon.
Homicide inspectors are not a particularly reverent bunch. Most of them had seen everything at least twice, and Coleman was no exception. But sitting in Pierce’s office, he found it next to impossible to imagine that the man who presided here would ever need to have recourse to murder. Coleman didn’t really believe it, but he did at least want to nail down the facts, if for no other reason than that he wouldn’t have to be in this position again.
“I realize you have cooperated up to now, sir, and we’re grateful for that cooperation . . .”
“Well, this is a fine way to show it. What more could you possibly have to ask me that you haven’t asked already?”
“We tried to reach you yesterday, sir, about Saturday night.”
“I know.” He reached for a fountain pen, signed something, put the pen back, blew on the signature, and moved the paper to one side. Then, immediately, he started reading the next one. He didn’t look up. “My wife told me you had come by. Again. About a police officer this time?”
“Sergeant Canetta, yes sir.”
“I do know that name. Where do I know . . . ?”
“He had worked security for Caloco at several events.”
Finally, Pierce stopped fidgeting. “That’s it. He was the man who was killed?”
“Yes, sir.”
This seemed to affect Pierce somewhat. He sighed deeply and his mouth grew compressed, his brow furrowed.“I’m sorry, Inspector. I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier. I’m under some pressure here but that’s every day and it’s no excuse. I can understand how you feel when your colleagues are . . .” He straightened in his chair. “All right. Go on. What do you need to know?”
“I’d like to know where you were on Saturday night.”
In spite of the apology, impatience thrummed under the surface. “May I ask why that would be important? What did my wife tell you?”
Coleman said nothing.
And Pierce got the message, although it didn’t make him any happier. He sighed again. “I was home until early morning, perhaps dawn. Then I went down to my boat in the Marina.”
“But you were home during the night?”
“I just said that, yes.”
“Alone?”
Pierce nodded. “Is that so strange, Inspector? My wife had gone out to a party that I didn’t want to attend.”
“Did your wife see you when she got home?”
A short laugh. “What did she tell you?” Then, ruefully. “I doubt it. I spent the night in my study.” He met Pierce’s eyes. “We fought about the party, that I wasn’t going. When it was over, I heard her come home, but wanted to see if she’d come to me and apologize. When she didn’t . . . well, I got my back up.”
“So you slept in your study?”
“Not much. I was pretty mad and couldn’t sleep most of the night. I watched some television.”
“Do you remember what?”
“I don’t know, really. Some pay-per-view sports I guess. Mindless junk. Whatever was on. I dozed on and off.”
“Do you know offhand the company that provides your television service?” Coleman asked.
“No,” Pierce said. “No idea, sorry. Do you know yours?”
“Do you mind if I check?”
“I don’t know, I . . .” But then Pierce brightened slightly, although the smile didn’t exactly light up the room. “Oh, I see. Sure, of course. Whatever you need to do.”
Coleman, with relief, pushed himself out of the chair from hell. “Thank you for your time, sir. I hope we won’t have to bother you again.”
Pierce sat still for a long beat, then shook his head in disbelief. “Before you go, Inspector, maybe you can answer me one question?”
“If I can.”
“All right. Is there any reason on God’s earth why I might have wanted to kill Sergeant Canetta? Since that’s what I presume this has been all about. He did some security work for Caloco, okay. Where? What type of security work? And then what? I didn’t even know the man. I doubt if I could pick him out of a crowd.” He paused, spread his hands, appealed to reason. “I just don’t understand. Is he related to me in some other way?”
Coleman heard him out. He really couldn’t blame him for being angry and frustrated, but he wasn’t going to give away anything that his boss had told him to withhold. “It’s a routine investigation,” he said. “That’s all it is. Thanks for your time.”
“That is a coincidence,” Baxter Thorne was telling Glitsky, “but these little elephants are widely available. You can buy one at any quality gift store. It’s my lucky charm. I’ve carried it with me for years.”
Another question, another simple answer. “As I have already told you, Dismas Hardy was, I believe, the name of the gentleman who came by my office this morning and made some threatening remarks.” Glitsky still hadn’t let Thorne enter the apartment proper. He sat on one of the chairs in the alcove and the lieutenant hovered above him. “Beyond that, I can’t say I know anything about him.”
Thorne was completely unruffled, going on again, answering Glitsky’s next question in his maddeningly even voice. He even produced a reasonable facsimile of a heartfelt chuckle. “I filled my tank, Lieutenant, then I’m afraid I committed the cardinal sin of topping off. It got on my coat.”
Glitsky was coming around to a profound appreciation of just how slick this bastard might be, when the telephone rang behind him. Batavia picked it up, listened for a moment, then held it out to Glitsky. “It’s for you. Vince.”
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