“But you didn’t,” I persisted.
The smile crystallized. “That wasn’t the basis of our arrangement. Our backgrounds were entirely different.”
I let it go; he apparently wasn’t going to break down and confess to anything. “I understand; we run into that in the police department, too, sometimes. So you just kept it professional, right?”
His face had regained its previous haughty rigidity. “It did seem the best way to go.”
I pushed on the arms of my chair and stood up. “Well, I’ll leave you be. If you think of anything that might help us out-some personal or business detail that might tie in to Charlie’s death, even vaguely-give me a call.”
Again, he didn’t get up, didn’t offer his hand. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
Especially after I get that subpoena, I thought, as I showed myself out.
8
I paused at the building’s entrance, blinking away the bright sunlight and trying to reacclimate to the heat. I was wondering how many such brutal contrasts would eventually lead to pneumonia when I recognized Ted McDonald’s official, antenna-festooned WBRT car parked diagonally across the street. McDonald was just pulling his bulk out from behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the upper windows of the building I’d just left. I recalled then seeing a small “ABC Investments” sign perched on the sill behind Arthur Clyde’s desk. That meant the cat was out of the bag-that either Brandt had held a press conference revealing Jardine’s name, or McDonald’s old-boy network had yielded him another golden nugget.
I was still standing in the shade of the doorway, I hoped unobtrusively. I waited until McDonald ducked back into his car to retrieve his recording gear, and then I cut north, away from him and toward the Paramount Theater.
My next planned move had been to visit Rose Woll at her job in the Vermont National Bank Building, the front entrance of which was directly beyond McDonald’s car. Now, dreading any encounter with the press, I thought a flanking maneuver was in order.
I strolled to the pedestrian crossing where High Street dead ends into Main, and waited for the traffic to stop. Leaning against the far side of the lamppost, I peered back at McDonald jaywalking in a beeline to Jardine’s office. I let out a sigh of disappointment.
From my current vantage point, it was a straight shot to the Dunkin’ Donuts on the opposite corner, which, given my sudden change of mood and my gastronomic proclivity, was an extremely inviting harbor. It was also a necessary one, as I saw it. I hadn’t eaten since the night before and, like Pavlov’s dog, I reacted with a jolt as soon as I saw the pink and orange sign. Sacrificing all to camouflage police business from the media, I ordered a coffee, a Bavarian creme, a double honey-dipped chocolate, and an orange juice. By the time I finished, I figured I’d have a clear shot at the bank’s rear entrance via the Harmony parking lot.
Even if there hadn’t been a press conference, I wasn’t too surprised McDonald had put the name to Jardine’s body. I sometimes thought both he and Katz had more connections inside the police department than I did. Any fact that became part of almost any document usually found its way into their hands sooner or later, regardless of the restraints put upon it, which is why Brandt had stressed we keep the Wolls’ involvement in all this to ourselves.
The irony was that most cops pride themselves on keeping their mouths shut. Among themselves, however-and the greater fraternity of deputy sheriffs, state policemen, state’s-attorney investigators, and prosecutors-they often felt free to talk confidential shop. It was the same age-old human impulse that had given “I’ve Got a Secret” high ratings for years. And given the sheer number of people that were finally involved in this grapevine, I was more often surprised when McDonald and his colleagues actually missed a story now and then.
The Harmony parking lot occupies the entire center of Brattleboro’s primary business block and is entered through a low, narrow, vaulted tunnel reminiscent of the entrance to a medieval castle. Inside, the encircling buildings form a near-solid courtyard-like wall. There’s an abrupt lessening of the hustle-bustle here; the strong, weathered, ugly backs of the buildings, the recently planted trees among the parking meter islands, and the presence of a café poised on the roof of a single-story outcropping all lend to the area a feeling of cloistered serenity.
From the parking lot, I cut a diagonal path to the bank’s back door. Rose Woll worked in customer relations, a small cluster of desks in the corner of the bank’s recently revamped lobby. There were few people needing help this morning, and all of them were at tellers’ windows, so Rose was sitting at her desk alone, staring at a computer display. I noticed as I approached that her hands were in her lap, idle, and that her eyes were vacant and unmoving. The computer might as well have been off.
“Rose?”
She jumped in her seat and looked at me, her face pale. “Lieutenant.”
“Are you all right?”
“Of course.” But a sudden trickle of tears down her face made a lie of it.
“Can we go somewhere to talk?”
She nodded without speaking or getting up. I gestured to a neighboring desk where one of her colleagues was watching us with keen interest, a sheaf of papers still clutched in her hands. “Can you cover for her for a while?”
“Of course. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. I think we’ll be okay. She just needs a couple of minutes.”
I circled the desk and took Rose by the elbow. She got up and led the way to the back of the lobby and a short hallway lined with doors. Behind one of them was a small, empty cubicle with a counter and two chairs, presumably designed for pawing through safe-deposit boxes in privacy.
“Tell me about Charlie Jardine, Rose.”
She was wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, her body shuddering with her sobs. I didn’t know her well, she was one of many spouses I saw primarily at department picnics. But her emotional state encouraged an intimacy we’d never shared.
I reached over and took her hand away from her face. Her eyes focused on mine. “Did you love him?”
She left her hand in mine and gave an exaggerated shrug, her face contorted with sorrow. “I don’t know. I did, but he wasn’t… It never would have worked. We always knew that. But he…” She left the sentence unfinished.
“Did John tell you about his death?”
She nodded silently.
“Did he know about you two?”
She dropped my hand and wiped both her eyes then, shutting off the tears and struggling for composure. “He’s always known. We were all friends in high school.”
“John and he were close?” I was remembering Woll’s vague comments about Jardine the night before.
“I was the link. I dated them both.”
I was so used to these kinds of interviews evolving slowly that her immediate intimacy startled me. I changed gears to keep her going. “So they were really rivals.”
She shook her head emphatically. “They weren’t rivals. I just couldn’t decide. They were so different; I was the only thing they had in common.”
“Who pursued who in the long run? Did you really want Charlie and end up with John?” Even with my scant knowledge of the three, that would have seemed believable.
“That makes it sound so bad. I chose John. I love him very much. I knew he would be dependable, and that Charlie would always be chasing rainbows.”
A practical choice, I thought, and a surprising one, given Rose’s naïve appearance. Of course, sometimes appearances are cultivated to good purpose. “Sounds like he hit the pot of gold anyhow.”
“That was later. Back then, he was wild and funny and caring. A ‘reckless dreamer,’ I called him, but undependable.” She half smiled.