Archer Mayor - Three Can Keep a Secret

“But why didn’t Carolyn say anything?” Sam protested.

“From everything we’ve heard,” Joe said, “Carolyn was a walking zombie when she was at the hospital, which is definitely not the description I got from the Shelburne librarian I just interviewed. Could be that Carolyn was kept artificially demented all these years. That would take a pharmacologist or someone to say with any credibility, but I can imagine a woman in that situation-madder than hell but locked in suspended animation-really blowing a gasket if she somehow got lucky enough to break free.”

“How did she locate Marshall and get a key to his apartment?” Lester challenged him.

“I think she found him through the Internet,” Joe replied. “And as far as access goes, we found out Nancy Kelley and she knew each other. Could be Carolyn got hold of somebody else at The Woods and finagled a way to get a key. Either that or Kelley’s holding back. We can squeeze her later and maybe find out.”

To the silence he received from his colleagues, he added, “I don’t have all the answers, guys, and I’m not sure I’m right about any of it. It just fits. Finding that baby’s birth certificate wouldn’t hurt, though.”

Lester had been looking out the side window at the entrance to Whitledge’s building, and now interrupted, “Oh, oh. Folks? Hate to break this up, but our mark just came home.”

“You go ahead,” Joe told them. “I won’t be long.”

As it turned out, they all met Aaron Whitledge at about the same time. Checking his mailbox in the lobby, he was joined by a downstairs neighbor, and escorted her to her door on the second floor, loitering to chat as Les and Sam kept out of sight.

The two cops were therefore still introducing themselves at Whitledge’s apartment on the top floor when Joe came climbing up the stairs to join them.

Whitledge-young, slim, well dressed, and haughty in expression-looked surprised at Joe’s arrival.

“Three of you?” he said. “What is this?”

“Maybe the most important conversation of your life,” Joe said as he stepped onto the landing, despite not fully knowing who this man was.

Sam, however, picked up on the line. “Invite us in, Mr. Whitledge, so we can read you your future.”

Whitledge demurred, placing his hand protectively against the doorjamb. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not as far as we’re concerned,” Sam continued, taking the lead. “It depends entirely on you.”

She left it at that, allowing a telling silence to settle. Whitledge looked from one of them to the other and finally dropped his arm and backed up, still holding his mail in the other hand.

“Might as well find out what the hell’s going on,” he said, half to himself.

They were in a large room-with Oetjen’s big front windows-that served as living room and kitchen, combined. It was airy, nicely appointed, but not pretentious, although Sammie wondered how Oetjen could ever have taken her boyfriend for an embarrassed file clerk. These were clearly richer digs than that.

Whitledge dumped his mail on a coffee table and nodded toward some armchairs and a sofa. “Sit,” he said, choosing a chair for himself. Joe considered the body language and interpreted a man working very hard to appear unconcerned.

Sam apparently came to the same conclusion and walked over to stand close to their host, forcing him to look awkwardly up at her.

“Just for the record, you are Aaron Whitledge?”

He shifted slightly in his seat. “Yes.”

Lester and Joe, also still standing, spread out to either side of her, a couple of paces back.

“And you are romantically involved with Dolores Oetjen?” she continued.

His voice betrayed his confusion. “Yes.”

“Who is your employer, Mr. Whitledge?”

“Sheldon Scott and Company.”

Joe kept silent, although startled by the name coming up twice in the same afternoon.

“What do they do?” Sam asked.

“We’re a lobbying firm.”

“And your job description there?”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I’m a sort of gofer. A special projects guy.”

“What kinds of projects are those?”

Joe could tell the younger man was still inside his comfort zone. “They vary in scope and complexity. Sometimes, it’s research; other times, it’s just acting as a glorified messenger boy. It’s like the title indicates-a jack of all trades.”

“That’s interesting, Jack,” Sam challenged him dismissively. “But even more interesting is that you seem to have no curiosity about my bringing up your girlfriend. Don’t you like her?”

Whitledge crossed his arms and legs. “Sure I do. Sweet kid.”

“Who happens to be your exact age, correct?”

“Okay,” he said uncomfortably.

“But still no ‘Oh, is she all right?’ Or, ‘Did anything happen to poor Dolores?’” Sam pressed. “What’s wrong, Mr. Whitledge? There something about her you don’t want us to know?”

“No,” he protested loudly, and used that to struggle to his feet, trying to avoid bumping into Sam in the process. He spoke as he moved toward one of the windows, where she immediately followed him. “What’re you saying? Did something happen to her?”

Sammie again crowded his personal space. “Not a thing, Aaron. Did you do something to her?”

“Of course not. You were the one saying that. I don’t understand this. What have I done?”

“We actually know what you’ve done, Aaron, and how you set up that sweet kid, as you call her, to take the fall for it. Who do you report to directly, Aaron?”

Joe answered that. “We know that, too. It’s the boss himself.”

Whitledge’s quick flicker of the eyes betrayed his fear. “I answer to whoever gives me the assignment.”

“Which in this case was Sheldon Scott,” Joe persisted.

“Was it your idea or Scott’s to use Dolores’s phone?” Lester asked, adding to the chorus.

Whitledge opened his mouth and then shut it again.

“Who is Travis Reynolds?” Sam demanded, closing in so that their bodies were almost touching.

Whitledge pressed his back against the window frame. “Who?”

“The man you called at ten forty-three on the night you made sure Dolores got good and drunk and was passed out in her bed. That Travis Reynolds.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” But the voice was sulky now, having lost its edge.

“The man you ordered to enter Gorden Marshall’s apartment,” Joe reminded him.

“The same Gorden Marshall,” Sam picked up, “who was murdered the day before.”

“Did you order that done, too?” Lester asked. “Or did you do it yourself, as a special project?”

Whitledge’s mouth dropped open. “What? Hell no. What’re you talking about?”

“We’re talking about who all this leads back to, Aa-ron,” Sam said loudly, drawing out his name.

“You actually think you’re the only one who knows how to stab someone in the back?” Joe asked. “You haven’t figured out that Sheldon Scott was doing this sort of thing before you were even born?”

“That’s where he’s put you, Aaron,” Sam picked up. “You’re the meat on the end of the hook, custom-made to satisfy our appetite. How do you think we found you?”

Joe approached in turn, speaking in a softer, paternal tone, “Now’s your chance to wake up and make it stop. Tell us the truth. You have your whole life ahead of you. Or your whole life to throw away.”

“And I’ll guarantee you one thing,” Sam threw in. “Sheldon Scott won’t give a rat’s ass what happens to you, so be careful about thinking how any loyalty will be repaid.”

Whitledge made to speak, but Joe cut him off. “Aaron. You’ve probably seen on TV where the cops and the suspects sound like they’re playing verbal chess. That’s not what’s going on here. We’re not make-believe. We’re conducting a murder investigation. You’re our primary suspect because of the phone call you made to Travis. You either tell us who wound you up and pointed you in the right direction, or we call it quits, throw the book at you, and go home.” He put his face an inch away from Whitledge’s and slowly asked, “Do you understand what I just said?”