Читать книгу Let Justice Descend - Lisa Black - Страница 10

Chapter 2

The house had been built one hundred years before but lovingly preserved, and kept clean if not neat. The wool carpets were barely worn, the heavy windows sparkled, and the hardwood floors gleamed despite minor scars. It smelled of dust and ammonia and stale takeout. The entryway presented them with a staircase, a pristine living or sitting room on the right, and a cluttered office/dining room/reception area on the left. Maggie clicked a few overall shots of the pristine side, then ignored it to turn to the messy office. Cardboard boxes held printed brochures with Diane Cragin’s face prominently displayed above the phrase BRINGING JOBS BACK TO OHIO, and Maggie took a moment to study what her victim had looked like when alive. Not really much different than she did when dead, it seemed, though happier, with blond hair and blue eyes and the figure of a middle-aged woman who watched her weight. She formed the perfect, neutral picture of a strong and competent woman. Only her smile kept her from appearing generic: a wide, almost impish grin, as if she knew something that no one else did and had every intention of keeping it that way.

The dining table, which served as a desk or perhaps merely a staging area, also held myriad papers, newspapers, and a list of voting precincts and their captains. Maggie said, “There’s a lot here about polls.”

Riley poked one with a finger. “‘Getting out the likes campaign.’ What does that mean?”

“Facebook,” she told him.

“Ye gods. Hydrocarbon forecast?”

Jack said, “EPA business.”

Riley continued. “Here’s ‘Green hammer points.’ Not green as in environmental, green as in Joe Green. If they’re running against each other, that makes him suspect number one, but isn’t that too . . . what’s the word?”

“Cliché?” Maggie said.

“Easy,” Jack suggested.

“Yeah. Besides, I don’t think politicians assassinate each other as often as they would like. Hell, if they ever shot anything more than rhetoric at each other, the streets would run red and we’d have all the overtime we could handle.”

Just then, one of Maggie’s paper bags started ringing. She had put Diane Cragin’s purse and briefcase into paper bags and left them in the foyer to get them out of the elements, and now the victim’s cell phone rang. No song or cutesy voice, only an insistent beep beep beep like a kitchen timer.

It stopped by the time Maggie pulled on latex gloves and retrieved it from the purse, holding it up for the detectives to see. The screen read “Kelly” with a thumbnail of a young woman with chopped black hair. Automatic screen alerts told them that she had already called twice that morning, at 7:15 and 8:10. It was now coming up on nine a.m. and Kelly had grown impatient, hanging up and then immediately calling a fourth time.

They let this call go to voice mail as well and kept moving through the house. The kitchen had butcher block counters, antique linoleum flooring, and not much food in the fridge among the cans of Red Bull and Mountain Dew. “She likes caffeine,” Maggie commented.

Riley peeked at the shelves. “That stuff will kill you even without two-twenty.”

A modern laundry room at the back of the house had no clothes in the washer or dryer and a door leading to a sort of alley without a yard or a parking space. The back door had both a chain and a deadbolt, both fastened from the inside. Nearby steps led to a cellar with a dirt floor and a set of folding chairs, covered in dust. Aside from that and a number of cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations, it did not appear to be used for anything. Maggie did not think the killer had found the metal grate in the victim’s cellar. Nothing similar to it seemed to be around, nor were there any rectangular-shaped gaps in the dust.

They made their way to the second floor.

“I’m guessing she’s not married,” Maggie said. No one had mentioned family, and she saw no sign of male clothing in the small bedroom.

“Don’t know, actually,” Riley said. “She has two kids, grown now. I only know that because according to Green, they’re both the big corporate types who walk over the little guys she’s supposed to be working for.”

Her paperwork might be messy, but the woman took good care of her clothes. Each item either hung in the closet or sat folded in a drawer, with a few pieces resting in a plastic laundry basket. Cosmetics and creams covered half of the bathroom counter, with two empty coffee cups and a box of tissues on the other side. Maggie had the impression that Diane Cragin spent most of her time in Washington; her local possessions seemed sparse and impersonal. Drawers and cabinets held only aspirin, decongestant, and an expired bottle of lisinopril, 10 mg.

“What’s that for?” Jack asked, crowding into the tiny bathroom with her. His proximity didn’t unsettle her as much as it used to, despite knowing how many criminals he had murdered without benefit of due process.

Perhaps how many, she corrected herself. She probably didn’t know about them all. Jack had been a little fuzzy on details, but then, she hadn’t pressed. The more she knew, the less she could justify her complicity in her own mind.

Best not to ask. Best to focus on the task at hand. And he had abandoned that habit now . . . or so he said.

She told him, “High blood pressure. A mild dose, and high blood pressure doesn’t mean you have a weak heart. I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think it would make her any easier to kill—with electricity, I mean.”

Riley poked his head into the small bathroom. “Anything interesting?”

“BP meds and aspirin,” she said.

“No cocaine? What kind of a senator was she?”

“This whole house feels empty to me. Of course, it’s not that big.”

“She played that up—not living high on the taxpayer’s hogs—but Green says it’s because she spent as little time here as possible,” Riley said. “I guess they rank our representatives every year for how much time they spend with their own constituents, and she’d always be near the bottom.”

“You pay pretty close attention—” Maggie began as she opened a tall, narrow cabinet and promptly forgot what she’d been about to say. Because instead of bath towels and shampoo, she now stared at a tall, narrow safe. “Okay, now we got something a little more interesting.”

Both detectives crowded against her to see—not that they could help it; the room had only about ten square feet of floor space, and the open cabinet door blocked the entryway.

The safe might have been custom built to fit the cabinet, as it cleared the six-by-three-foot interior by millimeters. The logo read PATRIOT SAFE COMPANY, and though it had an oversized combination dial and a heavy handle, it seemed much too shiny to have come with the house.

“That is interesting,” Riley said.

“Nothing strange about having a safe, though,” Jack said. “There’s no one here most of the time. Anyone could look up her schedule online and know the house would be empty.”

His partner said, “But in the bathroom? Why not behind the picture of some ancestor in the living room like it’s supposed to be?”

“Did you watch a lot of Scooby-Doo when you were a kid?” Maggie asked.

“Why do you think I became a cop? Besides, what’s she got to keep in a safe? There’s barely any personal property around. I doubt we’ll find her mother’s pearls on the top shelf.”

Jack ignored these asides. “The search warrant covers this, right?”

“Don’t touch it!” Maggie said. “Let me process for prints first . . . though I doubt I’ll get anything. Why people make safes with a textured finish when that’s the one place you’re really going to want a fingerprint to show—” she grumbled, but the men had already turned away. Raised voices could be heard outside, and Riley crossed the bedroom to look out the window.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

Riley turned to say, “I think it’s Kelly.”

* * *

Kelly Henessey turned out to be a slender woman in her late twenties in carefully conservative slacks; athletic shoes carefully designed to look like dress shoes; and short, swingy hair carefully designed to look as if it had been cut with a pair of garden shears. “I’m Diane’s chief of staff. I handle her schedule, delegate the tasks she needs done, do research, fend off lobbyists, and issue press releases. Basically every single thing she does in a day, I either start it or finish it.” She paused in her agitated pacing along the flagstones—the detectives weren’t ready to let her into the house, even though the killer most likely never went inside and they weren’t sure what clues they were even looking for, anyway. But Kelly Henessey didn’t seem to care or even notice the dead leaves crunching under her feet. “I’m sorry, that sounds really egotistical. I don’t mean that I was, like, the power behind the throne or anything . . . Basically I’m a secretary-slash-gofer, but that’s what I’m supposed to be, and it was well worth it to work with Diane. I’m learning everything from her. Learned.” She paused long enough to face them, her eyes blank and uncomprehending. “Is she really dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” Riley said.

Jack studied the woman, blocking the front door and keeping a close eye on her travels. He didn’t want her near where the wires had been, though all the evidence had been removed and Maggie had done all she could with the screen door. They had left Maggie upstairs, working on the safe, but he doubted she would find anything. The entire house had been locked up tight, so if Diane Cragin had been killed for the contents of her safe, and if those contents had since been removed, it had been done by someone who had access to the house, had the combination to the safe, and knew exactly what they were looking for.

Perhaps someone, he thought, like Kelly Henessey. He watched her eyes to see if they would flicker to the outlet, the kegerator, the stoop where the metal plate had lain. Nothing.

“But she was fine last night! Fine,” the woman repeated, and began the restless movements again, as if physically circling around to the truth she didn’t feel ready to reach. “Did she go to the hospital? Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“Did Ms. Cragin have any health issues?” Riley asked. Kelly seemed to assume, as most people would, that the death had been natural, and they saw no reason to enlighten her.

“No! Not that I knew of, anyway, and I made her doctor’s appointments. She didn’t always eat right, of course—way too much high-fructose corn syrup—and she drank alcohol now and then—and she didn’t exercise, per se . . . but seriously she must have logged twenty thousand steps a day. I gave her a Fitbit for her birthday to find out.” She shook off this memory and asked, “What was it? Heart attack? Stroke?”

“We’re not exactly sure yet. But you say her health was good?”

“Yes, but . . . she was in her sixties.” Which to a woman Kelly’s age must have seemed ready for a rest home. “She was fine last night. A bundle of energy, just like every single day I’ve known her.”

“Tell us about yesterday,” Riley said in his avuncular way, notebook already in hand. “How long had Diane been in town?”

The answers came promptly and firmly. “Since Friday night. Day before yesterday.”

“And you came with her?”

“Yes, a Delta flight, Dulles to Hopkins.”

“Do you live here?”

“No! I mean, not in this house—and not in Cleveland, no. I have a brownstone in DC. When we’re here I stay at the Marriott. I’m from Cincinnati, originally,” she added, as if that might help her standing among them.

“Can you walk me through Diane’s schedule yesterday?”

She didn’t hesitate, either in speech or step, continuing to move as she spoke, brushing the leaves aside as if she were angry at them. “Eight a.m. breakfast with the Capital Management unit at city Hall. Nine-thirty visit to RNC—”

“RNC?”

“Republican National Committee HQ. Because the election is Tuesday—and don’t ask me what the hell we’re going to do now!”

This thought so upset her that it took a gentle prod from Riley to get her thoughts back on the timetable.

“We were supposed to visit the river site at ten, but Carlyle cancelled, so we rescheduled for today, even though it’s Sunday. We . . . we were supposed to be there at eight this morning, but she didn’t show up. The ribbon cutting is at ten! I’m going to have to call—”

“You weren’t going to pick her up?” Riley interrupted.

“She likes to drive herself. She’s not pretentious that way . . . ‘not one of those old-money Republicans,’ she always says. Of course, Devin follows her.”

Riley’s eyebrows swept up, and a severe tone crept into his voice, speaking on behalf of taxpayers everywhere: “Does it really save any money to have the Service guys in a separate car?”

“No, but driving around and sleeping is the only quiet time she gets.”

Jack stood, arms crossed, watching her as she spoke. Thoroughly discombobulated but not devastated—and that seemed appropriate. Diane Cragin had been her boss, not her mother, so it didn’t seem odd to him that her thoughts already turned toward replacing candidates rather than abject grief. Even if she hadn’t quite moved the woman into the past tense.

And the pacing had slowed. Now Kelly stayed on one flagstone, feet planted as if the grass had become moving water and she must stay balanced to avoid a soaking. “Because Carlyle cancelled, we were early for lunch at Lola with the money half of Vepo. In the afternoon, a stop at the public employees’ union and a tour of Medical Mart with the Google Analytics reps. Three o’clock meeting with state party accountants. Then she came home to freshen up before the fund-raiser.”

“What time—”

“It started at five, and she was on time for once. Her speech went well. About nine, I think, she told me she was leaving and to make sure Ken and Andre and Jade had everything they needed.”

“Did she have any plans to stop anywhere?”

“I didn’t ask, but I doubt it. She didn’t say anything, and she looked pretty tired.”

“Not surprising. That sounds like a pretty busy day.”

She blinked at Riley as if this statement baffled her. “They’re all like that.”

“Where was this fund-raiser?”

“City Club. It’s on Euclid—”

“Yes, I know,” Riley assured her. The City Club, established 1912, had been in its current location for 35 years. “Did she have any arguments with anyone in town? Any beefs?”

A hint of a smile, the first one Jack had seen from her, at the old-fashioned term. “Beefs? About a million, but nothing unusual. Everyone is on the same page as Diane—they know she’s doing what’s right for the state and for Cleveland. Carlyle is a pain, but—”

“Who’s Carlyle?”

A half eye-roll. “The EPA inspector for the crib renovation.”

“Crib?” Riley asked.

“The water intake facility,” Jack said. Riley’s eyebrows raised again, apparently surprised that a relatively recent transplant like Jack would know the term. The “crib” took in water for the city’s supply from a structure about three miles offshore in Lake Erie. Like the senator’s home, it had been there for about one hundred years and carefully maintained, but still some extensive upkeep was due. Jack had read about the reno job in the Herald once or twice.

Kelly went on. “He’s making a fuss about it, but that’s what the EPA does—makes a fuss. Diane wasn’t worried, the facts will back us up. Wait—has anyone called her kids?” Already pale, she blanched further. “Will I have to do that?”

“We can make notification,” Riley soothed, and asked where the family members lived.

“Her daughter’s in Texas and her son’s in Washington—the state, not the city. She has one grandchild . . . I’m not sure if it’s her son’s or her daughter’s. Hey, she has some sort of a niece or something in town here—she can tell Diane’s kids. They’d be, like, cousins, right? So that will work.”

“What’s the niece’s name?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know. And we’re going to have some sort of state funeral! I don’t even know how to do that!”

Riley continued with the softened voice. He was good at it, much better than Jack. “I’m sure someone in Washington has experience with situations like this. Did she—”

“The RNC will know what to do, but I’ll have to—” Kelly Henessey mused, lost in thought over discreet coffins and invitation lists. Doing her job to the end, Jack thought—admirable but perhaps not helpful right then. If Diane Cragin had any enemies bitter enough to murder, or had gotten mixed up in a deal dirty enough to kill, they would have to overcome Kelly’s professional reticence. Political second-in-commands existed to protect their bosses from every sling and arrow, and she would continue to polish Diane’s star even in death, out of either a sense of loyalty or a sense of polishing her own résumé at the same time. No one in DC would want to hire someone who couldn’t keep a secret. “The governor has to appoint someone for the rest of the term—no problem since he’s the same party, but it seems silly for two days . . . he’ll only pick his choice for the new candidate anyway—but the election. Oh my God, the election!”

“Miss Henessey—”

A breeze swept through the yard, and the chill seemed to jolt Kelly back to herself. The sky remained gray, and the temperature hovered in the midsixties—not bad for November in Cleveland. “Why are we standing out here? Can we go inside?”

“Not yet. We’re still processing.” But this time Riley’s tone couldn’t smooth over the logic. The young woman became still as she stared at him.

“What do you mean, processing?”

He told her that they needed to establish all the facts about her boss’s death, due diligence, giving the care and attention, etcetera, and all the while Jack watched Kelly Henessey as a hawk watches a mouse, looking for any sign that she already knew what had happened.

He saw none.

When Riley finally confessed that Diane Cragin’s death had been anything but natural, Kelly reacted by not reacting. He may as well have spoken in Swahili.

“What do you mean, homicide? Someone killed her? On purpose?”

“Extremely on purpose,” Jack said.

“How? Why? I mean—who? Did they shoot her?”

“No,” Riley said. “We’d like to ask—”

“Was she stabbed?”

“No—”

“Then how can you be sure she was murdered?”

“We’re sure,” Jack said, and his tone must have convinced, because she accepted it—that her boss was not only gone but willfully gone—and then her eyes changed and focused and became hard.

“Where the hell was Devin?”

“The Secret Service agent?”

“Yes, the Secret Service agent! The guy whose job it is to protect Diane?”

Riley told her how the senator had banned the agent from accompanying her inside, that he checked the courtyard and saw it was empty, waited for her to lock the gate behind him, said good night, and left, the same as every other night.

The routine of this procedure must have been true, because Kelly did not argue it, only ran her hands through her hair in apoplexy.

“So he did it, then. That fat fu—um, they did it. I can’t believe they actually killed her.”

“Who did?” Riley asked.

She burst back into full-on agitated, stalking to and fro across the fallen leaves, hands increasing the lift of her hair, voice moving up a decibel or two with every fresh obscenity, until Jack demanded, “Who?”

“The Democrats,” she snapped. “Who else?”