He started with the desk drawers, which had the usual desk paraphernalia and papers, envelopes, pads. The filing cabinet had neatly arranged folders labeled for bills and IRS filings. There was a folder labeled Cards, and in it birthday and Father’s Day cards from Lily.
Dacey called him back. “Hey. Good news. They’re pulling into the Westin garage on Huntington. Guess the kid’s got an appetite.”
“Or maybe he’s buying her one at Neiman Marcus.”
“Find anything?”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
Thank God? Clear Neil, and hang yourself.
“Yeah,” Steve muttered, and checked his watch. At minimum, they had picked up thirty minutes, more if they went shopping and dining.
He finished going through the drawers but found nothing. He headed back into the bedroom.
“Fuck!” shouted Dacey in his ear. “I lost him.”
“What?”
“They got into an elevator and went up to the fourth. By the time I got up there they were gone. I checked the stores and restaurants but couldn’t find them.”
She sounded out of breath. “Where are you now?”
“…to the garage.”
“Dacey, you’re breaking up.”
“I’m heading back…garage…can’t fucking believe…”
“Dacey, can you read me?”
“Yes…batteries.”
“Let me know if their car is still there.”
“Affirmative.”
But a few minutes later Dacey buzzed him back. “Can you read me? It’s still here.”
“Affirmative, I read you. Good news.”
“I’m getting back in.”
He could hear her close the car door. “Stay with it. Better than running all over the mall.”
“Okay.”
The closet was a walk-in with men’s clothes on hangers and a wall rack for T-shirts, polo shirts, and various footwear—several pairs of running shoes to a line of black and brown dress shoes. Steve recognized some shirts and ties hanging from a wall rack. Again, everything was lined up and arranged according to some fastidious principle. And again he remembered what Neil had said about psychopaths being obsessively orderly. Maybe that was a confessional slip.
On the top shelf was a steel box where Neil kept his service weapon. It was not locked. He opened it. The weapon was gone.
At the far end of the closet hung two garment bags. He unzipped them. They were tightly packed with women’s clothes. Probably his wife’s favorite pieces Neil could not part with.
“Oh…the kid…”
“You’re breaking up, Dacey. Say it again.”
“…in the car…girlfriend…”
“Lily’s in the car with a girlfriend?”
“Affirmative…is low.”
“Where’s Neil?”
Nothing.
“Dacey, can you read me? Can you read me? Where’s Neil?”
Nothing. Dacey’s PDA was dead. All he got was that she had spotted Lily and a girlfriend getting into Neil’s car. Maybe he was going to join them. Maybe they were just dropping off packages and were rejoining him for dinner. Or maybe they were going to swing around front to pick him up and bring him home. The latter was the worst-case scenario, which meant that he had no more than five minutes to finish and get out. If that was the case, Dacey would find a public phone to call him. He set his PDA on vibrate and zipped up the garment bags.
Pushed into the corner was another chest with two small top drawers and three larger ones below. The top right was full of women’s underpants, all different colors and folded neatly. The left contained brassieres, slips, panty hose, camisoles, and other things he couldn’t identify. They were probably Ellen French’s, appearing not to have not been touched since her death. He could not shake a worm of discomfort for doing this—for violating the dead wife of his own partner. But he also reminded himself that he was doing this not to incriminate Neil but to absolve himself of the shuddering fear that he was a psychotic killer.
He crouched down on his knees and opened the bottom drawer. On top he saw a folded pair of black stockings. His heart almost stopped. He put his hand on the sheer bottom to remove the garment when he heard something.
“Find what you were looking for?”
It was Neil, and his gun was two feet from Steve’s head.
65
“Do you have a paper, Lieutenant?”
“No.”
“Then I could kill you.”
“Yes, you could. But it wouldn’t be a good idea.” Steve turned his head to look at him.
“Straight ahead and don’t move.”
“Neil, let me up.”
“You’re an intruder going through my things.”
“Shooting your partner point-blank in the back of the head won’t stand up.”
“It’s dark and I couldn’t make you out. All I have to do is flick the switch.”
Like you did in Farina’s bedroom, he thought. “Neil, don’t do this. You’ve got a kid.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a kid.”
“Let’s do this right. Let me up and put the weapon away.”
Steve began to turn when Neil stopped him. “Put your hands on your head.”
Steve put his hands on his head, thinking that in the next second a bullet would explode his brain. And Neil would stage it so he’d get away with murder.
“How much have you creeped?”
“Why’s that important?”
“You’re wearing gloves. Did you go through all the drawers and desk? Look under the bed? Check the other closets? Do a full-blown process?”
Steve didn’t answer.
“You’ve been trying to pin this on me since day one.”
Neil’s voice sounded flat, without affect. No anger or guile. Just flat.
“That’s not true. When you admitted that you and Farina were lovers you became a witness.”
“And I somehow graduated to suspect. How’d that happen?”
“Put the gun away and let’s do this right.”
“There is no right. You told the papers I was taken off the case. That I was given a temporary suspension. And there’s speculation of improprieties—that I’m a suspect.”
“Where the hell did you hear that?”
“Calls from the Globe and Eyewitness News.”
“That was probably Pendergast’s lawyer—maybe getting back for his death.”
“You don’t bullshit well, Steve. Never have. That was you because no one else wants to discredit me.”
“Why would I want to discredit you?” Steve’s mind scrambled.
“In fact, you could be planting evidence for all I know.”
“Jesus, man, what the hell would be my motive?”
“To keep them off you. You knew her. You had a thing for her. And you may have been the last person to see her alive.”
Steve felt goose skin flash up his trunk. “What’re you talking about?”
“I knew you were after me so I did some snooping of my own. Does Conor Larkins ring a bell?”
“Conor Larkins?”
“Don’t go stupid on me.”
“You mean the pub?”
“Yeah, the pub right across from Northeastern. I knew she liked to go there to do her homework. So I asked around, showed her picture. Seems that she was there the afternoon she was killed and she wasn’t alone. Nope. With a guy who may have been you.”
Steve felt as if he were walking through a minefield. “If you thought it was me, why didn’t you bring it to Reardon?”
“Because I only found out today, and when I showed the waitress your picture she wasn’t too sure, but she said it could have been you. It’s been three weeks and her memory was fuzzy. But I’m thinking that maybe it was you after all. You had all the answers,” he said. “You did her and decided to try to hang it on me. Maybe get a medal and make up for the Portman shit.”