Thomas Perry - Dead Aim

“Oh?”

“It’s part of the strategy. I’m sorry to tell you this, but you don’t look like a multimillionaire, even by Santa Barbara standards. You buy a pair of shorts from some store on lower State and then wear them practically until your ass shows through. You look like maybe an unemployed construction worker.”

“That’s pretty much what I am.”

“I suppose it is, but that’s not what you want to be when the police are looking for a suspect. So I hired you a lawyer that only a rich guy can afford, with a name they know.”

“That gets me off the hook?”

“No, it prevents you from getting on. If they discover in the next day or two that she had help shooting herself, or find that she’s been raped, you’re the only one who admits having seen her. If they know who you are, they keep looking. And it’s not as unfair as it sounds. You wouldn’t believe how few middle-aged multimillionaires are out there murdering total strangers and then telling the police about it. So we not only make them aware that you’re not going to be easy, but also that you’re highly unlikely to be anything but innocent. He’s on his way here, and we’re meeting with him in my office at four.”

At a quarter to four, Mallon was sitting in Diane’s office, waiting. Brian Logan did not arrive alone. When the door opened he was preceded by a small woman in a business suit and a white shirt that was cut a bit like a man’s but was soft silk. Her eyes were sharp and her movements quick and birdlike. Once she had entered, the next one in was a young man whose function seemed to be to carry a couple of huge leather cases and lean his body against doors so they would stay open for Brian Logan.

Logan entered last. When he stepped through the threshold, Mallon felt as though he had seen him before. After that instant, Mallon wasn’t sure whether he had seen him on television talking into a microphone outside some courthouse, or had seen him as one of the legal experts on some talk show about a big murder, or if he simply looked like the kind of lawyer who was on television. He seemed to be slightly younger than Mallon, and that gave Mallon a few seconds of discomfort, but he reminded himself that a forty-year-old was not a beginner, and the man’s appearance was probably calculated to please juries. He had dark brown hair that was short, but thick and shiny as a dog’s coat, and he wore a charcoal gray suit that looked like the outfits that major politicians wore on international visits, only with a better, more subdued tie. His shave was fresh, his nails were manicured, and the impression he gave was of a cleanliness like some clerics had, which gave him an aura of sanctity. He smiled at Diane, said “Thanks,” and she realized he meant he wanted her to leave. She nodded to Mallon and retreated.

He glanced in the direction of Robert Mallon for only a heartbeat, and then seemed not to need to look more closely. His attention was directed to some papers his female assistant had snatched out of one of the leather cases and handed to him. “Good afternoon,” he said in Mallon’s direction, his eyes still on the papers.

“Pleased to meet you,” Mallon said, and stepped forward to shake Logan’s hand.

Logan endured the ceremony, then said, “Sit down,” and indicated the chair Mallon had just vacated. “You went to the police voluntarily and made this statement?”

“Yes, I went voluntarily.” He craned his neck to see the paper. “I assume that’s the statement I made.”

Logan suddenly focused on him. “Why did you do it?”

“It occurred to me that I was probably the only one in Santa Barbara who knew anything about what had happened, maybe the only one who had even spoken to her.”

“So far, you are,” said Logan, but his statement seemed inattentive, absentminded. He was staring at the paper again. Mallon wasn’t sure whether he was comparing the statement to what Diane had told him or was just reading it for the first time.

“Right,” Logan muttered to himself. It was clear that he had already finished reading the statement. “Is there anything else that you forgot to mention to the police?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mallon. “I was there for quite a while, and I tried to bring back every detail.”

“Good,” Logan said. He had a very warm smile when he used it, but to Mallon the effect was startling, like a bright light being switched on. “Now. The only other thing that might come up is anything from your past that we don’t know.”

He said it so carefully and cautiously that Mallon needed to reassure him. “I understand,” said Mallon. “There’s nothing that I can think of.”

Logan ignored his reassurance. “Ever been arrested?”

“No.”

“Not even a traffic ticket?” He was openly preparing to be triumphant, as though he had surprised clients with this many times.

“I’ve had parking tickets-I think three in my life-but no moving violations.”

“Ever seen a psychiatrist for any reason?”

“No.”

“You’ve been divorced.” Logan said it as though he were vindicated now that his probing had hit something undeniable.

“Yes,” said Mallon. “It was about ten years ago. Her name is Andrea, and she still lives up in San Jose.”

“If the police went to her and asked her about you, would she say good things or bad things?”

Mallon frowned. “As far as I know, nobody gets divorced because they’re brimming with delight about the other person. I assume she wouldn’t be very complimentary, but she wouldn’t say I was a criminal or something.”

“Did you ever hit her?”

“Of course not.”

“Push her or threaten her?”

“No,” said Mallon.

“Is there any chance she might say you had?”

Mallon was overcome with frustration. “It wasn’t that kind of thing at all. We had arguments, but they weren’t physical. They were pretty dull stuff. I worked too much, and she was always lonely and bored, so she spent too much. It was that kind of thing. And we didn’t argue very much-maybe if we had talked more, it would have saved the marriage. As it was, we both wanted the divorce. The biggest arguments were about that. She wanted everything we owned, had built, or inherited converted to cash instantly and split half and half. I knew that was what was ultimately going to happen, but I wanted to do it a lot more gradually: keep my business going and buy her out over time. She got her way, and we haven’t had any contact since the final decree.”

Logan said, “All right. How about other women?”

“You mean now?”

“During the marriage.”

“No.”

“Did she cheat on you?”

“I don’t really know. If she did, I never caught her at it. I think that she wasn’t involved with anyone until after the divorce was final. By then I had left town, and it was none of my business.”

“Were you in the military?”

“Air Force. In the seventies.”

“Honorable discharge?”

“Sure.”

“Were you ever formally disciplined or charged with anything?”

“Never.”

Logan scrutinized Mallon as though he were a particularly difficult witness. “Is there anyone you know of who might come forward or be turned up by the police and might say anything negative about you?”

“How can I possibly answer that?”

“I’m thinking of women, particularly. That you came on too strong, or you made them uneasy, for instance.”

Mallon held up both hands and shrugged his shoulders. “Over the years I’ve dated some women who liked me a lot, and others who didn’t especially warm up to me. I can’t imagine any of them saying I was dangerous.”

“I’m thinking especially of the time since you’ve resided in Santa Barbara,” said Logan. “After all, you are a heterosexual male who-you are exclusively heterosexual?” He watched Mallon nod. “Who has lived here all this time without forming a permanent relationship with a woman. It isn’t illegal, but it might raise questions in people’s minds.”