Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“So you didn’t think it was suicide?”

He looked carefully at Nick. “Well, let me put it this way. If it was, someone drove her to it. Right there with her. She was entertaining, you know. That’s a crime to me, never mind what the book says.” He stopped and looked again at Nick. “No, I never thought it was suicide. They didn’t either, the Bureau boys, that was just the official line. I could never see it. They have a lovers’ quarrel and she gets hysterical and jumps out the window? Hell, by the time she got it open he could’ve stopped her. No.”

“Unless he never turned up. Maybe she got depressed, waiting, knowing he wasn’t coming,” Nick said, playing devil’s advocate.

“Oh, he was there all right. They had a drink. Now look, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to get the lay of the land here. Girl checks into a hotel. No clothes, just her nightgown-not the wool kind, the other kind. You know. And she brings her douche.” He turned to Molly. “Pardon. Then she orders a setup from room service. For two, mind you. Ice, bottle, mixer, two glasses. I’d say she had company.”

“But no one saw anybody going in.”

“No. That was a bad break. You know hotel people. Notice everything. Can’t wait to help you out, whether they’ve seen anything or not. Gets them off work. But that night-well, they had everyone running around with that dance. People everywhere. Nobody’s got time to notice anything.”

“Like somebody leaving the dance and taking the elevator to the sixteenth floor.”

McHenry looked up from his tea. “I thought about that too. Couldn’t prove it, though. Couldn’t prove it. Might have been anybody. The only one I can prove went into that room was the waiter.”

“And he didn’t see anybody.”

“No. Hadn’t got there yet. But she was getting ready for company. Said she was putting her lipstick on when he brought the setup.”

“Then how do we know he was there?”

“There was liquor in both glasses. Why pour two?”

“Prints?”

“No,” McHenry said slowly, looking at Nick, as if trying to assess where the question came from. “But he was there. He was there and he killed her. I’m sure of it.”

“Because both glasses had liquor?”

“Because it makes sense. And there were the marks on the window.” He waited for Nick’s reaction. “You see, I thought to look. Even a flatfoot could figure that out. They had those sash windows, you know, you lift it up.” He stood up to demonstrate. “Now you don’t usually push someone out face first. I mean, what would they be doing at the window in the first place, getting some air? Usually their back’s to it and you surprise them, they don’t know there’s nothing behind. Then they start falling, and the natural reaction is to grab on to something. Like this.” He turned his hands around and lifted them as if he were holding on to the sash, then fell back in the chair. “The nails dig in, you see? Then they slip. Or someone loosens them for you. And down you go. But you’d leave the scratches.”

“And she did.”

“Yes, sir, she did. But I couldn’t prove that either.” He gasped, out of breath from the demonstration, and sucked some air from the mask. “These days, there’d be all sorts of ways. Just one little flake of something under those nails and the lab boys’d have it licked in a minute. But back then-” He took more air. “We just had eyes.”

“The report says you found a lighter,” Nick said, getting to it.

“Yes, I did.”

“My father’s.”

“Yes.”

“So you think he killed her.”

“No, I don’t,” he said flatly, looking up at Nick. “Does that surprise you? You thought he did, is that it? Well, he didn’t. I’m not trying to be nice. As far as I’m concerned, he was a traitor. I’d have put him away for that in a minute. But murder, that’s something else, that’s police work. I suppose it isn’t easy having a traitor for a father.

“Course, mine thinks he has a fool for a father, so take your pick. But you don’t have to have this hanging over your head too. No, I don’t think he did.”

He took a deep breath, wheezing slightly, then continued. “Everybody else thought so. Everybody wanted it to be him. Nothing makes me more suspicious than everybody wanting it to be someone. I think, you know, they just wanted to nail him for something. They couldn’t get him for what he did do, but if they got him for this, it sure as hell would look like he did the other-why else kill her? Of course, in the end they couldn’t get him for anything. You can’t try a man who isn’t there, not even the Bureau.” He smiled. “I have to say, I guess they were frustrated, the bastards. They keep the murder stuff out of the papers, thinking they’re going to get him-you know, pull the rabbit out of the hat the way they liked to do. I kept my mouth shut. They want to say it’s suicide, fine, I can’t prove otherwise. I can see they’re just waiting. Then by the time they find out where he is, it’s too late. Who gives a rat’s ass? You can’t hang a man who isn’t there. You can’t even accuse him. No point.”

“If you’ve already proved your point. That he’s a traitor,” Nick said, thinking.

“Well, he gave them that one himself. From what I saw, they weren’t going to prove nothing. But I guess he was right to go. For him, I mean. They sure as hell would have got him for this. He had the motive, all right.”

“And you had the lighter. Why didn’t you think it was him?”

“Well, there was a funny thing about that lighter. Very funny, I thought. No prints. None. Wiped. We dusted right away, don’t let them tell you different. I knew about prints. We got hers all over the place. But the lighter’s all smooth and clean. You asked before about the glass-no prints there either. Now that I can understand. You have a drink, you kill somebody, you wipe the glass, nobody knows you’ve been there. But who’d wipe their own lighter and then leave it behind so we’d find it anyway?”

“Somebody who wanted it found.”

McHenry nodded. “Right. I mean, if you’re worried enough to wipe it, why not take it with you? Somebody else planted that lighter.”

“Who?”

“That I don’t know. They were all out to get him, but who’d want to get him that bad? Like you said, he had the motive and we had the lighter. Case closed.”

“Even if you didn’t think he did it?”

“Well, it wasn’t my case, was it?”

“No.” Nick paused. “You know, the lighter never appeared in the Bureau report.”

“It didn’t? Well, they sure as hell had it. I gave it to them myself. In a bag, sealed, everything the way it should be.”

“Why wouldn’t they mention it?”

“That I don’t know either. Who knows why they do anything there? It’s all politics over there, not police work.”

“Who did you give it to? Who specifically?”

“The guy running the case, the Canuck. French name. La something.” He snapped his fingers. “Lapierre. That’s right. One look, he’d freeze your blood. Snotty little bastard.” Again to Molly, “Pardon. Anyway, that’s who had it. After that, I don’t know. Maybe they got it over there with Dillinger’s prick, who knows?”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No idea. Still there for all I know. Well, twenty years-” He did a mental calculation. “Maybe not. Not with their pension. I wish I had it. Not this chickenshit they give you on the force.” He waved his hand around the room, living proof. “You want to see him too?”

“Maybe there’s something else.”

“Well, I doubt it. Like I said, we did everything right. What are you expecting to find, anyway? Who did it?”

“No, just who didn’t. My father did a lot of things, but I never thought he did this. I just wanted to be sure. Anyway, thanks. I’m sorry to bother you.”