Ed McBain - Three Blind Mice

She was now hearing that he had taken the boat out twice that day.

“This is what Stubbs told me,” Bannion said. “Charlie Stubbs, he owns the marina, sixty-two years old, a grizzled guy looks like Jonah and the whale.”

“Told you Leeds took the boat out twice ?”

“Twice,” Bannion said. “First time in the afternoon, around four-thirty, tide was still good, second time at night around ten-thirty, tide coming back in, Leeds could’ve got the boat in and out easy.”

“Did Stubbs see him both times?”

“Saw him both times,” Bannion said. “Talked to him the first time, but not the time at night.”

“Does he seem like a reliable witness?”

“Is my mother reliable?”

“I’m sure she is,” Patricia said, “but how about Stubbs?”

“Very, you ask me. Sober, sharp, a very good witness, you want my opinion.”

“What’d they talk about?”

“They talked twice actually.”

“I thought you said…”

“Three times, in fact.”

Patricia looked at him.

“He drives over in the afternoon, he parks the car, stops by the marina office to tell Stubbs he’s taking the boat out, they chat about how hot it’s been, Leeds takes off. Stubbs watches him go up the creek into the Intercoastal, he hangs a right, which means he’s heading north toward Calusa Bay. He comes back in around six, talks to Stubbs again, tells him how beautiful it was out there on the water with God, and so on. That was the second time.”

“And when was the third time?”

“Nine o’clock that night. Stubbs is still in the marina office, catching up on his paperwork, the phone rings, it’s Leeds on the other end. He tells Stubbs it’s such a beautiful night, he’s thinking of taking the boat out for a moonlight spin, doesn’t want…”

“Were those his exact words?”

“Exact. There was a moon the night of the murders, by the way.”

“Okay.”

“Tells Stubbs he doesn’t want him to be alarmed if he hears the boat going out…”

“Was that the word Leeds used? Alarmed?”

“Yeah,” Bannion said, and looked at her, puzzled. “Why is that important?”

“I like to know exactly what people say,” Patricia said.

“That’s exactly what he said. Alarmed. Or at least that’s exactly what Stubbs said he said.”

“Okay.”

“True to his word, Leeds shows up around ten-thirty. Stubbs is home by then, he lives in this little house behind the sheds where they’ve got boats up on trailers for storage. He sees the car pulling in…”

“What kind of car?”

“A Maserati. Stubbs told me it’s the wife’s car. It’s got her name on the license plate. A red Maserati.”

“What does the plate say exactly?”

“Her name, Jessie, and then the number one.”

“Spelled out? The number?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Ask him. And then check the plate with Motor Vehicles.”

“Okay. So Leeds gets out of the car and goes straight to where his boat is tied up…”

“What’s the name of the boat?”

“ Felicity.”

“What a pissy name,” Patricia said.

“Yeah.”

“Was it backed into the slip?”

“No. Not when I was there.”

“Then Stubbs couldn’t have seen the name on the transom, right?”

“From his house, do you mean? I don’t think so. He was in the kitchen getting himself a bottle of beer when Leeds backed out. The kitchen windows face the dock area, but I don’t think he could’ve seen the name.”

“What I’m looking for…”

“I’m with you. You want to know did Stubbs see Leeds get on a boat named Felicity instead of some other guy getting on a boat named Lucky Lady or Serendipity .”

“You’ve got it.”

“I’ll go back later, check out the sight lines, talk to him again.”

“Also, if Stubbs didn’t speak to Leeds…”

“Yeah, how did he know it was Leeds and not some other dude?”

“Did he say?”

“He said it was Leeds.”

“But how did he know it was Leeds?”

“The hat. And the jacket.”

“What hat? What jacket?”

“A hat Leeds always wears on the boat. This yellow billed cap some beer company was giving out a few years back. He wears it all the time.”

“And the jacket?”

“A yellow windbreaker. One of these with snaps up the front and at the cuffs. Leeds was wearing it the night of the murder.”

“Get a search warrant this afternoon…”

“Can’t do that till Monday when the courts…”

“No, do it today. Find yourself a circuit court judge…”

“They don’t like being disturbed on Saturday, Miss Demming.”

“And I don’t like evidence being destroyed on Saturday.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but…”

“Someone has to be covering at the courthouse…”

“Well, I’ll try, but…”

“Don’t try , Bannion. Do it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And then go out to the farm and get that jacket and hat for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Unless the wife’s already burned them,” she said.

“Patricia Lowell Demming,” Andrew said, “thirty-six years old…”

“She looks younger, though,” Matthew said.

“Born in New Haven, Connecticut, where her grandfather was a superior court judge. Lowell Turner Demming. Ring a bell?”

“No. Is that where she got the middle name?”

“Presumably,” Andrew said. “On the other hand, Lowell means ‘beloved’ in the Anglo-Saxon, so perhaps her parents named her adoringly.”

“Perhaps.”

“Knew she wanted to be a lawyer when she was seven years old and saw Gregory Peck in To Kill a …”

“Where’d you get that ?”

“In an interview she gave to the Herald-Tribune when she joined the State Attorney’s office.”

“Which was when?”

Andrew lifted his glasses onto his forehead and consulted his notes. Wearing the glasses, he looked scholarly, almost judicial. With the glasses on his forehead, he looked like an eager cub reporter. Dark curly hair, brown eyes, an aquiline nose, a somewhat androgynous mouth with a thin upper lip and a pouting lower one. Cynthia Huellen once told Matthew that Andrew reminded her of Mick Jagger. Matthew said he could not see a resemblance. Sex wise, Cynthia said, and went back to her typing.

“Joined the staff just before Christmas,” Andrew said.

“Where was she before that?”

“I’ve got this in chronological order,” Andrew said. “It’d be easier if I…”

“Okay, fine.”

“She was graduated from high school at the age of sixteen…”

“Smart.”

“Very. Attended Yale University for two years and was kicked out one fine spring semester for smoking dope in class.”

“Dumb.”

“Very. She went from there to Brown , no less, where she graduated Phi Bete. There was only one incident there…”

“Dope again?”

“No, no. A fist fight. With a football player who called her Pat.”

“Where’d you get that ?”

“Brown faxed me an article from the school paper. The incident made her a celebrity. Apparently this oaf … her word, oaf …”

“Nice word, oaf. ”

“Very. This oaf came up to her and said, ‘Hi, Pat, my name’s…’ and she popped off and hit him. She later told the paper that pat was what you did to the head of a child or a dog, or Pat was a drunk sitting at the bar with his pal Mike, but Pat was not what you called someone you didn’t know when her name was Patricia, which, by the way, means of the nobility’ in Latin.”