Hermit Page 19

  Mike pondered. It was ad lib enough to be genuine. At the very least, it would give him leverage if he talked to Megan, which he was now convinced he needed to do. Dana wanted a second opinion on her anyway; this would be useful as a bombshell if he felt she was holding out.

  However, he still had the besotted puppy-dog lover of Lou’s wife, definitely in the store where Lou was stabbed. And recently, too.

  Mike leaned forward. ‘You’ve seen the photos of Lou, right? In the living room? By the marital bed? Big, meaty guy; tall, shaven head; put you through a wall if you’re screwing his wife?’

  Lynch re-smoothed his tie. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘And you know that, well, Lou’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Mike thought Lynch’s tell would seep through if he’d been the killer – Lynch wasn’t that good a liar. Or he’d reckoned Megan would have told Lynch straight away – the next call after ringing her mother this morning, in fact. They were still waiting on the final phone records to prove it either way.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  Lynch’s skin slid to ashen. Mike had known a couple of people – professional actors – who could make themselves do that to order. But Lynch probably wasn’t one of them.

  ‘What happened?’ Lynch’s wide eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘You haven’t got me here . . . you can’t . . . wait . . . no.’

  ‘No? Your fingerprints are a corpse’s fall from the dead body, genius. You know exactly who the victim is. You’ve admitted you know where the store is, and having been inside it. A small child could see you have motive. I’m betting you alibi Megan, and Megan’s your alibi; and neither of you has corroboration for the time in question.’

  Mike stopped. He noticed that Lynch’s breathing seemed a little laboured and a little noisy. A small rattle in it, as though someone was shaking a packet of peanuts in another room. Lynch lurched forward and fell to his knees.

  ‘Are you okay, Spence?’ Mike stood up.

  ‘Water, now, please. Heart.’

  Mike rushed out and grabbed a water bottle off a colleague’s desk. ‘Emergency!’ he called as he went.

  Lynch was grappling with the blister pack, his fingers now inept and useless. Mike helped him out, hearing a whispered ‘two’ from Lynch as beads of sweat formed on the lawyer’s nose.

  After swallowing the tablets and glugging half the bottle, Lynch puffed his cheeks several times and gulped in the air. He rubbed his hand across his face, seemingly disgusted by how wet it was. Mike nodded to two colleagues watching anxiously at the threshold. When they closed the door behind them Mike settled back in his chair.

  Mike passed him some tissues. ‘Need a doctor?’

  Lynch smiled weakly as he re-sat. ‘No. Good, thanks. Touch of angina. Pills control it. Doesn’t usually come that fast. Sorry to worry you.’

  ‘Let me know if you need the doc.’

  Lynch nodded and put down the water bottle. ‘What happened to Lou?’

  Mike considered how much to tell. Lynch wasn’t the prime suspect right now, but he was a chance. So was Megan. Mike had to hedge his bets. Lynch’s ignorance had taken Mike by surprise. Even in the most benign scenario, he was still sure Megan would have called Lynch straight away; was bemused that she apparently hadn’t done so.

  ‘He was stabbed to death in his store. Early morning, dawn. Megan didn’t mention you when she told us her own whereabouts.’

  Lynch fiddled with the blister pack – his fingers still trembled. ‘No, no, she wouldn’t have. But I was there . . . at her place, I mean. All night. Left about six-ish, as you say. Is that after time of death? Or do you need to know where I went after that?’

  Mike wouldn’t be committing to anything at this point. ‘Where’d you go?’

  ‘To my golf club. There’s a gym and showers at the clubhouse. Cameras everywhere in there.’ Lynch paused, took another swig. ‘Neither of us had any idea something had happened to Lou. God, how awful.’

  ‘You a gym-bunny, Spence?’ Mike sat back to overtly appraise Lynch’s waistline. ‘Doesn’t show. Or is there a Mrs Lynch you were trying to avoid?’

  Lynch sat back, grabbed yet more water. ‘The only Mrs Lynch in my family is a ninety-year-old who sits around playing bridge with her cronies, bemoaning that her only nephew never married, Detective.’

  ‘So I was right to say you and Megan alibi each other?’

  Mike had to remind himself that Lynch was a clever guy, not to be taken breezily. Maybe he was planting enough innocent-ingénu and improvised responses to throw Mike off the scent. Personally, Mike couldn’t stand infidelity. He thought it was lazy callousness – someone could always end one thing before starting another, if they really wanted to.

  ‘Smart meter. Meg has a smart meter. For the electrics? One of those boxes tells you how much power your washing machine used, that sort of thing. We both got ready around dawn. So that’ll show us moving about: lights, and so on. Electric hot water, as well. I couldn’t be making the tea and Meg showering, and we’re simultaneously killing Lou in his shop. Have you tried that?’

  Mike had to admit that was a new one: being cleared by an electricity bill. He really should stay on top of this new technology: it increasingly placed people geographically and demonstrated their actions and he ought to understand what options that gave him for tracking witnesses, suspects, and others. At the very least, he should make sure Lucy was on top of it.

  ‘We’ll look into it. You have to admit, Spence, both you and Megan have a strong motive for wanting to lose Lou.’

  Lynch shook his head. ‘Wasn’t like that. Meg isn’t like that. She’s a good person, good instincts. A better person than me, you’ll be amazed to learn. But no, it’s not like that.’

  Lynch scooted his chair and risked putting his elbows on the interview room table. The tailor of his handmade suit would have wept.

  ‘I’m leaving the firm, Detective. Moving to the city, with Meg. Teaching divorce law at the university next year. I, uh, haven’t told the firm yet, you understand.’ He glanced up and appeared mollified by Mike’s raised palm. ‘Anyway, Meg was going to divorce Lou, that’s true. He’s a nice man, but they’ve drifted, and he’s married to the store, really. They lead separate lives. I’m helping Meg with the details.’

  Seemingly more than mere lovers, the couple were actively looking to move on together, leaving Lou twisting in the wind. Maybe Lynch, or Megan, was too impatient to wait for due process and paperwork. Quicker if the impediment died.

  ‘How kind of you.’

  Lynch slapped the table. Mike actually jumped.

  ‘Look, Detective, be as suspicious as you want to be, but don’t judge me, or Meg. We were trying to be nice about it all, trying to do it right. They’re business partners as well as married. It isn’t easy extricating yourself: not without wrecking things for the person you’re leaving. We didn’t want to do that. We just wanted to start our own lives. Is that so wrong? So terrible? Or are people only allowed to be happy if they meet ideally; under perfect circumstances, both free and easy and no one else in play? Life’s messy, as I’m sure you know. And I don’t have to account for myself morally to you. Neither does Meg. Check the smart meter: I’m sure you can. And then either piss or get off the pot, Detective.’

  Mike recovered from the surprise. Perhaps Megan knew Lynch had killed her husband but was distancing herself from it in case Lynch was caught. His voice was low and even.

  ‘Why didn’t she call you first thing today, tell you Lou was dead?’

  Lynch waved a hand. ‘Don’t know. Probably to protect me from this, uh, friendly chat. If she’d called me, she’d surely know that you’d find that out. Then our relationship becomes, as you know so well, the property of mature professionals who laugh at others’ private lives in the canteen. You know what? People tell me the most intimate things in my line of work and I never repeat them to anyone. Why aren’t your colleagues able to say the same?’

  His insinuation hit hom
e. Mike knew he was right: it was a shabby part of the culture Bill hadn’t been able to eradicate.

  Lynch continued. ‘Maybe she wanted to spare me all that, and spare herself that.’ He leaned forward. ‘Don’t know, Detective. Don’t really care. Meg’s a smart woman and I trust her implicitly. There’s no gap between us for you to dig into, sorry.’

  Mike nodded. That was probably all true, but he’d need to talk with Megan, and without Lynch being able to forewarn her. Lynch had been made to leave his phone at the front desk when he arrived: standard security process in an era where every phone was a camera and a recorder.

  Mike stood up. ‘I’ll need to verify some things before we can let you go, Spence. Should be routine, but might take an hour. I can get Lucy to bring you a coffee.’

  ‘A coffee would be nice, thank you. But not delivered by that young woman.’

  Mike smirked. ‘As you wish.’

  He made it to the door before Lynch spoke again. ‘What’s my tell, Detective? You said you’d let me know.’

  ‘Oh, that?’ It was subliminal, and only in certain lights. But Mike wanted Spencer’s shiny veneer scratched a little. ‘You blink three times when you’ve been caught out. It’s quick; like a reflex. But it’s there.’

  Lynch pursed his lips sceptically. ‘Funny how no one’s ever mentioned that. All the negotiating I do.’

  Mike shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not a mystery, really. Your friends are too polite; your opponents like it.’ He held the door handle for a second. ‘Ask Megan about it. She’ll tell you straight. She’s a smart woman, and you trust her implicitly. Don’t you, Spence?’

  Chapter 20

  Dana had prepared most of her strategy for the next phase with Nathan. The endgame – the prize – was Nathan telling what took place in the store. He had no innocent reason to be there that she could see; he had blood on his hands. If there was a confession to be had, she meant to have it. If there was a viable alternative explanation, she intended to get it. But her strategy for now was to move Nathan closer to that prize without rushing him into closing down. Each conversation still held a tripwire in the dark.

  Previously, she’d had various channels and escape routes. But now, armed with the knowledge of the cave and her previous discussions with Nathan, the strategy was becoming more linear and less nuanced. This part wasn’t vastly complicated. Once she started telling Nathan that his inner sanctum was now on video, viewed by strangers and being catalogued and sifted, he would freak. No, wait, she thought: he wouldn’t actually freak. More likely he’d simmer, or withdraw, or try to avoid her entirely. Because that was how he dealt with things.

  She was prepared to let him; viewed it as both inevitable and necessary. As long as Nathan was free to simply be in his cave and avoid people, he’d achieved a type of serenity. She truly admired it, envied it. But that calmness was brittle by definition; it couldn’t survive sustained human contact. He hadn’t learned to bend and would therefore surely snap. She suspected that even he didn’t know how it would go, once she cracked the surface of his fragile wounds.

  She put on some latex gloves and opened the evidence bag containing his journal. It was unlikely anyone else had touched it, but you never knew. Since Stuart had been wearing gloves and so was Dana, it meant the forensics were simple – any fingerprints other than Nathan’s were immediately of major interest.

  The journal started six weeks after he disappeared. She’d thought that it would be reflective, philosophical. She was disappointed. It was not so much a journal, more a ledger. It held details of what food and first-aid equipment he held at any one time. It gave the impression he conducted a comprehensive stocktake at least once a day.

  But on each left-hand page was a log of what he’d stolen. And where he’d stolen it. She held her breath – it was a complete inventory of his crimes.

  She turned it over and saw the manufacturer spec: it was a 256-page book. By flipping quickly through the pages, she could see none had been ripped out or left blank. She counted from the back – twelve pages unused; so 244 pages filled. Each left-hand page held two separate dates and two separate burglaries. That meant 244 crimes in fifteen years – one every three weeks or so.

  Stuart had reckoned on the video footage that Nathan’s current food stash would last at least eight weeks. Dana thought he was underestimating Nathan’s capacity for delayed gratification and fortitude: she was convinced Nathan could stretch that to three months if needed. Taking one or two extra items each time would build up the reserve stocks Stu had witnessed earlier.

  Presumably, this morning’s foray into Jensen’s Store had been an attempt to build excess resources for the winter. Dana reasoned he’d probably eat more in winter, when the temperature required more energy. It would make sense, she thought, to stock enough for weeks when he might be hemmed in by poor weather, or it was simply too cold or uncomfortable to want to go out. She recalled what he’d said about wet cold being so much worse: he’d want enough resources that he could stay dry for as long as necessary.

  All the same, the inventory was proof – in Nathan’s own hand – of exactly how many burglaries he’d carried out. Dana couldn’t recall any period in her time at the station when anyone had suggested such a spree. She wondered how he’d managed to get away with that. It seemed impossible to believe no one had truly cottoned on, or seemingly reported it.

  Dana phoned for the exhibits officer and watched him sign for the journal. She asked for a photocopy of every page to be put on her desk while she was with Nathan: tomorrow, someone would have to check each claimed burglary against reports of that time. Something told her they wouldn’t find any matching reports at all. Somehow, Nathan was getting in and out of places unhindered and unnoticed and his haul wasn’t being missed.

  At the very least, she mused, it cleared up the possibility Rainer had raised about Nathan keeping the Toyota and carrying out burglaries in the city. And the journal most likely precluded Nathan having some kind of sponsor or patronage; no dropped sacks of provisions at pre-arranged points.

  Nathan had sneaked around the district for over a decade. They’d never even known there were crimes to investigate.

  Mike’s fourth call to Central Intelligence finally yielded Peter Kasparov, the detective he really needed to speak to. Kasparov had spent most of his life dealing in snippets and slivers of information, splicing them together to gain a vague sense of what was going on out there. But, like Dana, his best work was done by his brain, in the darkest and quietest place that could be found.

  ‘Kaspar, just the man I wanted. You know more about the Alvarez family than the Alvarez family, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Very kind, Mikey. Possibly true. The Alvarez clan run the gamut from incredibly clever to dumb as a rock. I certainly know more than some of the rocks, since I haven’t been addling my brain from age ten. But the smartest ones? I’m not in the ballpark.’

  Mike doubted that was the case, with one possible exception.

  ‘Well, you know more than us down here.’

  ‘Ah, that’s undoubtedly true. How’s the saintly Barb?’

  ‘She’s still more than I deserve but with that bizarre blind spot that stops her divorcing me. Strangers still think I’m her dad, of course. So, we have a little murder here, and I wanted to check out any possible link with the Alvarez family. Have you ever heard of Lou Cassavette?’ He repeated the last name with NATO phonetics.

  Kasparov’s mind worked more like an old-fashioned card index than a modern computer file. When reaching for data he would physically move his hands as if he were opening and closing drawers, flicking through cards. It would look weird to the unwary. Mike could picture Kasparov in his office, one desk lamp and no other illumination. He’d be dressed in some form of sleeveless cardigan, likely one with a diamond pattern. He’d have nail polish, probably a dark shade for work. There would be a silver flask by his left hand, containing only chilled water. By now, orange peel would be in the waste bin by his
right foot.

  ‘Lou Cassavette. Hmm. Yes. Got the report now. Went to school with Alfonse and Miguel Alvarez. Ricardo, the eldest, was already beyond education and into career by then. Alfonse, as you know, Mikey, is doing thirty to life for being a complete psycho. Despite his shenanigans in maximum security, he’s basically out of the game. Whereas Miguel . . . yeah, Miguel is the one that might be relevant. I take it Mr Cassavette had a sad demise?’

  ‘He did. Killed in the store he owned, out here near Earlville. Knife through the heart at 5.30 a.m. We have a primary suspect, Kaspar; I’m covering angles.’

  Kasparov harrumphed, but Mike could hear the clatter of fingertips across the keyboard. Kasparov had a feather touch.

  ‘Now, Mikey, as you know, Miguel is something of a master at hiding and moving the money. Much as I’d like to catch him, I have to admire the skill. As they start closing in on the various tax shelters around the world, Miguel is focusing more on nearby channels, where the Alvarez tentacles can easily reach. They want their money hidden, but where they can see it. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘I getcha. Go with what they know, stick to the knitting, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Exactly. You’re a quick learner.’ More clicks, and typing. ‘There’s a lot of people that hate you, Mikey, and wish you dead. But I think you’re okay.’

  Mike sniggered. ‘Your majesty both embarrasses and entertains me.’

  ‘Ha. Yes, here he is. Your dead man. Cassavette. Ugly bug, isn’t he? Used to be the manager of the Lightning Quick store on O’Brien Street. Which would have been perfect as a laundromat for the likes of Miguel. Let me delve . . . tax authorities liked him for it, to be honest. But he had an accountant called Duran, kept them at arm’s length. Ah yes, Hector Duran. One of Miguel’s protégés and, I believe, on his way up the food chain as a result.’

  ‘Dana always says to follow the money.’