Wrapping up, one said to her, “I’m surprised by the mess in your living room. Burglars used to do it all the time, but DNA typing stopped that.”
“So the fact that this guy shat here tells us something,” the other officer said.
“What?” Hallie asked.
“Either he has no record or he doesn’t give a — sorry — or he doesn’t care. That would make him an addict or crazy.”
They were less surprised than she had been by the undisturbed basement. “Either he heard you coming and booked or he didn’t think that stuff was worth stealing,” one said. “Though it is strange that he left a hundred bucks in that teapot in your kitchen. Most burglars can smell cash. But again, you probably scared him off.”
Day Three: Thursday
9
“My name is Mary Smith,” Hallie said.
“Where do you work?”
“Citibank.”
“How tall are you?”
“Six feet, six inches.”
“What is your occupation?”
“Truck driver.”
The plump, pink little polygraph examiner said, “Thank you for lying, Dr. Leland. We have a deception baseline now. Are you comfortable?” His name was Albert Landry, and his voice was high and squeaky.
“Not bad, given all this.” “All this” referred to pneumatic tubes wrapped around her chest and belly, gold-lined metal sleeves on two right-hand fingers, and a rough fabric ring Velcroed around her left thumb.
Landry frowned. “It looks like I need to recalibrate something. Just take a second.”
Hallie’s mind wandered back to her conversation with Agent Luciano, earlier that morning, in his office at FBI headquarters.
“I apologize for the short notice on this, but it couldn’t wait,” he had told her.
“Why not?”
“There’s been some interest in your case.”
“My case?” Hallie wasn’t from Baltimore, but she had never minced words, either. “Does that mean you people suspect me of doing something wrong on the expedition?”
“Look at it this way: Three people go down into a cave. They discover something that could ultimately be worth millions. Maybe billions. Only one comes out.” He shrugged.
“You believe I had something to do with Kurt and Devan’s deaths?”
“I believe in things like facts and the weight of evidence. Do you know the legal definition of ‘probable cause,’ Dr. Leland?”
“No.”
“Probable cause is the standard used to make arrests — or not. ‘A set of facts or circumstances which would lead a reasonable person to conclude that a crime had been committed, was being committed, or was about to be committed.’ ”
She started to protest. But she was a scientist; for her, objectivity was reflexive. She could see how the expedition looked through that lens.
“Agent Luciano, I had nothing to do with the deaths. Devan’s was an accident and Kurt’s, suicide.”
Luciano nodded. “I hope not. You seem like a nice lady doing science that could help people.” The words were kind, but his eyes were not. He looked at his watch. “Time to see the wizard.”
And here they were. Landry finished fiddling, noted the date and time, and began again. He asked some basic factual questions, then got to the heart of it.
“Do you know what happened to Kurt Ely?”
“No.”
“Do you believe that he died in the cave?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do anything to contribute to the death of Devan Halsted?”
“No.” But she should have checked Halsted’s gear and sent him down first.
“Did you do anything to contribute to the death of Kurt Ely?”
“No.” But she should have searched.
“Did you kill Devan Halsted?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Kurt Ely?”
“No.”
“Did you want Devan Halsted to die?”
“No.”
“Did you want Kurt Ely to die?”
“No.”
“Did you feel threatened by Devan Halsted?”
“No.”
“Did you feel threatened by Kurt Ely?”
There had been something — faint, ineffable, but there. Or it could have been Talisto. Caves worked on you. “No.”
“Did you stand to gain anything from the death of Devan Halsted?”
“No.”
“Did you stand to gain anything from the death of Kurt Ely?”
“No.”
“Is your name Hallie Leland?”
“Yes.”
“Have you answered all of the questions in this interview truthfully?”
“Yes.”
Landry typed something on the machine’s keyboard and looked up. “Done.” Whistling cheerily, he separated her from the machine. “That wasn’t so painful now, was it?”
“Not really. What did the wizard say?”
“He said your heart beats, you’re breathing, and you have healthy skin.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I can’t discuss results.”
“For the record, I was truthful.”
“I’m sure you were, Dr. Leland. Everyone always is.”
10
Hallie had cleaned up the living room floor as soon as the officers left. She got home after the polygraph test and finished putting her house back together. It was almost six when she remembered that Stephen Redhorse was coming.
They had agreed on seven, and he arrived closer to eight. When they kissed on her front porch, she smelled liquor.
“Come on in,” she said. He usually asked for coffee or a soft drink, and she offered those.
“Have any Scotch?” he asked.
“Sure. Walker Black. Water and ice?”
“Neat.”
She got their drinks. Redhorse had taken the old red leather chair she’d appropriated from the farm, so she sat in the heavy oak chair her grandfather had made.
He said, “It stinks in here.”
“Somebody broke in yesterday while I was gone. They crapped on the floor over there.”
“Jesus Christ, Hallie. What did they take?”
She told him, and told what they had left, as well.
“Still have your gun?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Living out here all by yourself.” He looked away. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the hospital.”
“I wasn’t on my deathbed.”
Neither spoke for a while. “Hey, did you rearrange the furniture?” he asked.
“No, it’s the same.”
“Huh. Seems different.” He finished his Scotch, asked for another.
She brought it, sat. “Stephen, we need to talk. Something has changed.”
“Not the furniture, though?” He grinned, and his eyelids floated down and back up. She saw that he had had more to drink than she’d thought at first.
“No. Something important.”
He sat up straighter. “What?”
“Us.”
“Us is fine. All good.” He glanced toward the bedroom.
She took his meaning, but said, “I don’t think so. Something is different.”
He swallowed Scotch, shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It started when we visited your mother. Something happened out there.”