“He sounded like that, and when he got to the door, I could hear him fumbling a lot with his keys. Dropped ’em once or twice. Put the wrong key in the lock a few times. I haven’t tied one on like that for many years.” The old man smiled, his eyes unfocused.
“How long did Wiethop stay in his apartment before heading out again?”
“Five minutes. Maybe not even that long.” Borden made a whistling sound and snapped his fingers. “In and out, just like that.”
“And his car is gone?”
“Take a gander for yourself, Chief. If you look out my bedroom window to the right, you’ll see his spot in the alleyway is empty.”
“Would you know the make and model of Wiethop’s car?”
Borden laughed. “Rod must have had a sense of humor.”
“How’s that?”
“Don’t know the year, but his car is an old Ford Crown Victoria like all the police cars on the TV.”
“Color?”
Borden nodded. “White.”
When Jesse finished his coffee and stood to leave, Perkins knocked and came through.
“It’s all been photographed, bagged, and tagged, Jesse,” he said. “I’m going to run it to the station. The state forensic guys will be over here after they get done going over Wiethop’s cab.”
“I’ll meet you back at the station.”
Jesse shook Borden’s hand and left. When he got to the head of the stairs, he about-faced, dipped under the crime scene tape strewn across the threshold of Wiethop’s door, and stepped into the apartment. He stood there in the dingy front room trying to figure out what bothered him so much about finally making some progress.
44
Silent tears poured out of Al Franzen’s eyes as he stared at the photos. Seeing his late wife’s possessions like that had the effect of bringing Maxie back to life for him while once again forcing him to experience the pain of her death.
“Are these her things?” Jesse asked.
Franzen nodded.
“Is that a yes, Mr. Franzen?”
“Yes.”
“Please look at the photo of her wallet and the contents. Is anything missing?”
“All of her credit cards are gone,” Franzen said, choking down his tears.
“Did she carry cash with her?”
Franzen smiled sadly. “Did she carry cash with her? My God, she didn’t go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without bringing cash. She had at least five hundred dollars with her always. She said it was a scar from how she was raised. I grew up poor. I understood. I was glad to give her money. I have enough of it. Why, was there no cash in her wallet?”
“There was only some spare change in the bottom of the bag. See?” Jesse pointed at one of the photos. “But that was it. No bills.”
Franzen’s mood changed from grief to confusion. “But I don’t understand. Where did you get these things from?”
“We found them in the apartment of the cabdriver who took Maxie up to the Bluffs.”
“Why would he have them? Are you telling me he killed Maxie?”
“That’s not what I’m telling you.”
Franzen became agitated, rising up out of his seat, his face turning bright red. “Then what are you telling me, for chrissakes? Why did this man have my wife’s underwear? Did he rape her? Oh my God, he raped her and robbed her.”
Jesse put a hand on Franzen’s shoulder and gently urged him back into his seat. “Relax, Mr. Franzen. He didn’t rape her. We know she didn’t have intercourse the night she died. It might be that he came back up to the Bluffs after Maxie committed suicide and took the things she left behind. Or he took her up to the Bluffs and robbed her. We don’t know.”
“But her underthings! How did he get them?”
“We don’t know that, either.”
Franzen was out of his seat again. “Why don’t you know that? Won’t he tell you? Let me talk to that bastard. I’ll get him—”
“We don’t know the answer because the cabbie’s gone,” Jesse said.
“Gone where?”
Jesse ignored the question. “We’ll find him.”
“Can I please go now, Chief Stone? I’m not feeling very well.”
“Sure. I’ll have someone drive you back to the hotel.”
He watched Suit walk Franzen slowly to his office door. Jesse thought about how particularly unfair the end of a long life could often be. How to a man like Al Franzen it might feel like punishment. He wondered if Franzen would go to his grave asking himself what he had done to deserve it. Then, as Franzen reached the office door, he stopped. He turned back to Jesse.
“You know what I think, Chief Stone?”
“What’s that?”
“Most of the time he loses, but sometimes the devil wins.”
Jesse couldn’t disagree. He had been a cop for too long, worked too many homicides, seen too much of the pain and damage humans can inflict on one another, often over insignificant things. He had his doubts about the devil, but he had no doubt there was evil in the world. And he didn’t have to look beyond the borders of Paradise to find it. There was another thought in Jesse’s head, one he didn’t want to share yet, certainly not with Al Franzen. After Suit led the old man out of his office, Jesse called Tamara Elkin.
45
He met Tamara at one of those big chain restaurants in a shopping center in the next town over. A cheery hostess greeted them and led them to a booth. They sat silent as they half listened to an even cheerier server ramble on about two-for-one drinks and the sizzling shrimp fajita special. Jesse ordered coffee. Tamara ordered a Diet Coke.
“What’s going on, Jesse?”
“I’m not sure, but I figured you’d be the person to talk to.”
She said, “I didn’t figure you for a fan of these types of restaurants.”
“When I was in the minors, a place like this would have been beyond my means. Ate a lot of eggs, canned soup, and hot dogs and beans.”
“Sounds dreamy.”
“I would trade everything I’ve ever had to have those days back.”
Tamara was skeptical. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
His tone left little room for her skepticism.
“Okay, Jesse, come on, why the cloak-and-dagger? Why meet here?” she asked, noticing he wasn’t wearing his PPD hat or his ever-present Paradise police jacket.
“I have to talk to you about something and there’s still too much press in town. I didn’t want to give them anything to speculate about.”
She said, “We could have met at your house again.”
He shook his head. “We can’t do that every night. Not even my liver can take that. And this is kind of official in nature.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of this, Jesse. What is it?”
“Is there any possible way Maxie Connolly’s death wasn’t a suicide?”
Tamara Elkin looked gut-punched. She wrapped her arms around her midsection. Jesse didn’t think she was even aware of it. She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could say a word, the waiter arrived with their drinks.
“Have you had a chance to look at the menu?” the waiter said, cheery as ever. “I’d recommend the corn chowder. It’s—”
Tamara cut him off. “Scotch,” she said. “A double, neat.”
The waiter looked perplexed even as he kept that practiced smile on his face. He then explained that scotch wasn’t part of the two-fers. Jesse shooed him away with a promise of a big tip and kept quiet until the waiter was out of earshot.
“What’s wrong, Doc?”
“How did you know, Jesse?”
He was confused. “Know what?”
She got that gut-punched look again. “About what happened to me in New York.”
“I don’t know anything about what happened to you in New York.”