Питер Ловси - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 926 & 927, November/December 2018

The homicide detective made his decision. “You’ve got until six tomorrow evening,” he said.

I waited until after Julius had a short conversation with Zack and we were walking back to his townhouse before telling him that he’d been bluffing earlier. “You can’t possibly know that Prescott is innocent. Even if he was being set up to auction off a bogus case of Lafite Rothschild, he still could’ve killed Duncan in a fit of rage.”

Julius took out his cell phone so that he wouldn’t appear to be a crazy man talking to himself. “Prescott wasn’t lying, Archie.”

“He could’ve been. Outside of all that blinking, he could still have a damn good poker face.”

“He doesn’t. I was able to pick up his tell; it shows as bright as a flashing red light when he’s lying. It’s when you see him struggling not to blink.”

I searched through the video I had recorded that night, and I didn’t see Prescott do that once. “How’d you pick up that tell if he didn’t show it?”

“He did, Archie. Just not tonight.”

“When, then?”

Julius’s jaw muscles momentarily tightened. “A year ago when he promised me he’d put aside a certain vintage of pinot noir that I wanted.”

Of course. Still, as I chewed on that I couldn’t see how Julius could possibly know that he’d solve this murder by six tomorrow, and I told him this.

“The original plan must have been to slip the counterfeit Lafite Rothschild back into the storeroom without the theft ever being noticed. I have to believe framing Prescott for Duncan’s murder was hastily improvised.” Julius snorted, which was the first time I’d ever seen him do that. “If I can’t uncover the murderer by tomorrow evening, I deserve to eat only at The Happy Pig Whistle until my last day.”

Julius might’ve been knee deep in a murder investigation he had promised to solve by six P.M... but that didn’t deter him from his usual routine. The next morning he awoke at six-thirty, spent the next two hours engaged in a rigorous martial-arts workout inside the private studio he had built on the top floor of his Beacon Hill townhouse, and then showered and shaved before dressing in a conservative gray suit and dark gray tie, slipping on a pair of light gray oxfords, and heading downstairs to the kitchen. He brewed a pot of his favorite French roast, then brought a cup of coffee, a croissant slathered with imported strawberry jam, and the day’s newspaper to his office. After he was settled comfortably behind his desk, he gave me a list of instructions and commenced with his breakfast and reading the paper.

At ten-thirty on the dot Julius’s internal clock must’ve dinged, because he put the paper down, wiped his hands with a cloth napkin, then used the same napkin to dab at his mouth. He was finally ready to turn on his brain and go to work.

“Archie, are Tom, Saul, and the others available?”

The Tom and Saul he referred to were Tom Durkin and Saul Penzer, two of the best freelance P.I.s in the business. The others were Stan Green and Alvin Stubbs, a couple of freelancers that Tom recommended.

“They’re ready and waiting.”

“Good. Any trouble scheduling the appointments?”

“Just a little. So far Griff has lived up to his word and kept Duncan’s murder out of the press, and I was able to use the pretense that Prescott hired you to find out which of his employees stole the Lafite Rothschild. I had to strong-arm one of them to agree to come here, hinting that you’d pick him as the thief if he didn’t. No fuss with the other three.”

“Which one was resistant?”

“Gary Parker. He manages the stockroom, and my money’s on him. His job involves receiving and shipping the high-priced fermented grape juice, and it’s doubtful anyone would’ve noticed him sneaking out an extra case.”

I filled Julius in on the background information I’d been able to collect for the four suspects, and there wasn’t much. I couldn’t find a link between any of them and Desmond Grushnier, nor could I find any large sums of money recently transferred to any of their bank accounts. Whichever one of them was acting as Grushnier’s stooge was being extraordinarily careful to keep that fact a secret.

At eleven o’clock I saw on the outdoor webcam a skinny, smug-looking thirty-two-year-old man walking up the private path to Julius’s door. I knew he was thirty-two because I had earlier hacked the DMV to get copies of all of the suspects’ driver’s licenses so I’d know what they looked like.

“Your first appointment is right on time,” I told Julius. “Bill Haisley, Boston Premiere Wines’ webmaster.”

Julius waited until the doorbell rang before pushing himself out of his chair so he could greet his guest and bring him back to his office. Something about the amused cat-who-ate-the-canary grin etched on Haisley’s face made me wonder whether he could be the murderer. It made sense that someone savvy with computers would be able to keep his contact with Grushnier hidden.

Julius’s tone took on a brusque note as he asked Haisley, “Do you find something amusing?”

Haisley’s grin turned sheepish. “Nothing,” he admitted. “This is just so surreal, that’s all. I’ve read about you in newspaper stories, of course, but I never thought I’d be sitting in your office being questioned by you, especially over something as trivial as a stolen case of wine.”

“Would you rather that I question you about a murder?”

Haisley’s grin froze. “No, of course not,” he said.

“The stolen wine was valued at eleven thousand dollars, which in Massachusetts makes the theft grand larceny, a crime punishable by up to five years in prison. Do you still find this amusing?”

Haisley’s grin was now completely gone. “I never found this amusing, only interesting,” he stated.

“Did you steal the wine?”

“That’s rather blunt.”

“I thought I’d be blunt,” Julius said. “Please answer the question.”

“No, of course not.”

“Of course not.” Julius showed a razor-thin smile. “But if you were lying to me right now, I’d probably never know it. Is that right?”

“You might, you might not. I couldn’t say.”

“Because you’re a clever liar?”

“When I want to be,” Haisley admitted. “But I’m not lying.”

Julius leaned further back in his chair as he considered the suspect. Haisley was likely a clever man and could’ve been a clever liar, as he suggested. In any case, he seemed to have little trouble meeting Julius’s stare.

I remarked to Julius that this seemed to be a game to Haisley and if he was trying to rattle him, it wasn’t working. He signaled me to wait, and then asked Haisley, “Did Jim Duncan steal the wine?”

“Smiley? I couldn’t say.”

“Why Smiley?”

“That’s Jim’s obviously ironic nickname. He’s got what could only be kindly called a sourpuss personality, which you’ll have a chance to witness firsthand when you question him.”

“I’m afraid I won’t have that opportunity.”

Haisley raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because Duncan was murdered late yesterday evening.”

Haisley looked at Julius with a half grin, as if he were expecting a punch line for a joke. The reaction could’ve been genuine or he could’ve been faking it. Hell if I knew which.

“This is a bad joke,” he insisted.

Julius didn’t answer him and for the next 1.2 seconds Haisley did his best Prescott impersonation by blinking three times in rapid succession. “This isn’t about the stolen wine, then?” he sputtered out.

“Of course not.”

Julius had Haisley rattled then. Or he could’ve been a very clever actor as well as a liar. Whichever it was, Julius let up on the throttle and began asking him routine questions about what he’d done after leaving work yesterday, trying to walk him step by step from when he left the building until after Duncan’s murder had occurred. While Boston Premiere Wines was primarily an auction house for rare wines, they were open to the public Monday through Saturday from nine to five, and Haisley claimed that he’d needed until five-thirty to finish adding a new auction to the website. He then hoofed it to the Faneuil Hall marketplace, where he used cash to buy food from a vendor, and after that sat on a park bench across the street and read a book for two hours before heading home. He doubted anyone would be able to vouch for him, claiming he wasn’t someone people noticed.