He looked surprised. “Yeah. How did you know that?”
“She’s the owner of the blouse. I should have mentioned that at the meeting; it’ll be in my daily report Harriet is typing up. I’m going to see if I can chase her down after I see Harrowsmith, so you can cross her off your list.”
He grimaced. “Thanks a heap. She’s probably the best-looking in the bunch.”
“I hope so.”
The District Courthouse had been built on the sharp point of the isosceles triangle formed by Park Place at the base, and Putney Road and Linden Street on the sides; it was also right across Linden from the Municipal Building. Despite certain similarities, such as the fact that they were both built of red brick and had oversized dormers defining their rooflines, the new courthouse was as different from its former abode as Charles Dickens is from Harold Robbins. Where the older building exuded a sense of creaky antiquity and cooped-up dusty nooks and crannies, the newer one looked fresh and airy and sunlit.
Which it was, for the most part. It was also a rabbit warren of hallways, offices, and dozens upon dozens of doors. Keeping the public from the staff, and both of them from the inhabitants of the holding cells, necessitated a staggering number of locked barriers. I walked and/or parlayed my way through six or seven of these before I was ushered into the antiseptic wool, wood, and whitewalled retreat of the Honorable Alfred J. Harrowsmith.
He greeted me noncommittally and read through the affidavit. Watching his profile-bushy eyebrows, hawk nose supporting half-glasses, a strong lantern jaw over a skinny, sinewy neck-I felt like a small boy in knee socks presenting a report card to his grandfather. The rules all but require the requesting officer to present the affidavit in person so he can answer any questions the judge might have, although it is wise to have already anticipated those questions in the wording of the application. The goal of the process is to establish that “more probably than not,” there is justification for the issuing of a warrant. In other words, fifty-one-percent or more probable cause. I was hoping I had that much.
Harrowsmith stopped reading, looked ahead for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, and then turned to me. “Any reason to suspect that Mr. Jardine’s business dealings had anything to do with his death?”
“Suspect? Absolutely, but we can’t be certain till we look at his records. Certainly the connections between Jardine and Wentworth grow stronger the more we dig, and Wentworth played a major part in the creation of ABC Investments. He introduced the two partners and might have had a hand in supplying some of the start-up funds.”
I knew I’d stumbled as soon as the words came out. “Might? I might have invested in that myself, or I might even have murdered Mr. Jardine. Why else should I sign this? Right now, it sounds like a fishing trip.”
Knowing Harrowsmith, I actually took hope from his words. Had he thought the request was trash, I would already be standing on the curb. “Your Honor, as I pointed out on page two, the circumstances surrounding the birth of ABC Investments are extremely suspicious, more so than any other aspect of Mr. Jardine’s life.” I’d omitted any prejudicial references to Charlie’s bedroom and the coke. “From a one-time glorified bottlewasher, Mr. Jardine was abruptly catapulted to the protégé of a finance hotshot, hooked up to a veteran stockbroker, and encouraged to set up shop for himself in a business he didn’t seem to know existed just a few years earlier. We strongly suspect the roots of his death can be located in those business files.”
Harrowsmith grunted. “You realize this warrant has to stand on its own merits, not on whether your suspicions are borne out later.”
“Yes, sir, I realize that.”
“And that if it doesn’t, chances are good it’ll be suppressed by a later judge and all the evidence you collected under it thrown out.”
I didn’t answer. He stared at me for a moment, and finally signed his name. “I can live with seeing one of my warrants suppressed. You better think how you can live with seeing your whole case destroyed in court because you jumped too fast.”
I thanked him and took the warrant. He had a good point. Too many cops thought that if they got the proper paperwork, their asses were covered and their cases were sanctified. But this instance didn’t weigh as heavily on me as Harrowsmith thought. Unless we found a letter written by the killer telling Jardine his days were numbered, I seriously doubted his business papers would hold any earth-shattering news. What I was hoping for was a crowbar-some piece of information I could use to pry either Clyde or Wentworth or whoever else cropped up off balance.
But I would leave the finding of that crowbar to Ron, Justin Willette, if he agreed to help, and Dennis, to whom I delivered the warrant, while I went instead to the Brattleboro Museum and Art Center, where Blaire Wentworth, according to the woman who answered her home phone, was working as a volunteer.
The BMAC, as it was locally known, was a converted railway station, built of solid stone on the bank overlooking the railroad tracks and the river below. Its front entrance, with a stolidly attractive wrought-iron and glass awning, was located on the Canal Street level; its rear, with the platform still serving the once-a-night Montrealer, was two flights lower down.
I found Blaire Wentworth at a desk on the middle level, in a dark and narrow hallway, typing some correspondence. Behind her, extending into the gloom, were piles of boxes pushed to one side so that the corridor was reduced to half its already restricted width. There was a single strip of dusty fluorescent tubing overhead. Despite knowing where we were in the building’s overall scheme, I felt we were meeting in the fourth sub-basement of some large and ancient penitentiary.
“Miss Wentworth?”
She looked up from her typing, her almost platinum-white hair shining in the light. “Yes?”
She was stunningly attractive, which made me instantly think back to Klesczewski’s comment. Her eyes were pale blue, her cheekbones high, her mouth full and mobile, quick to smile. She was slim and angular and stylishly dressed and reminded me of a racing yacht ready to unfurl its sails to the wind. There was no air-conditioning in the hall, but she looked cool and fresh. Seeing her that way made me wonder how I looked, which was rarely a concern of mine.
“My name is Lieutenant Joe Gunther. I’m with the police department.”
She stuck out her hand, but stayed seated. “I’ve heard of you.”
Her voice was subdued, which made me study her more closely. Indeed, behind the initial impression of fashion-model imperturbability, I sensed she was at once tense, sad, and very tired-a woman grieving.
I jumped in with both feet, spurred by her appearance and my own pure instinct. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She looked at me for a long few seconds, her face unchanged by the sudden turmoil of thoughts I was convinced were crowding her brain. This was no Rose Woll. Behind the distress was a mind in motion, analyzing the reasons for my presence and pondering the appropriate responses. The intelligence in those very attractive eyes sharpened my own mental focus; I instantly sensed that unless I was lucky, I wasn’t going to leave this interview with more than she wanted to give me.
“Thank you,” she finally answered, in a neutral voice. “I will miss him.”
There were no questions concerning who we were talking about, or how I had known to come see her, or even how I knew she’d be in the bowels of this building.
“How long had you known Charlie?”
“Four years.”
She still hadn’t moved from her seat, nor had she offered me one, which would have been difficult in any case. I gingerly parked myself on one of the wooden crates, my back against the wall.