Laura Lippman - To The Power Of Three

Lenhardt had a dog, a sweet mutt who barked her head off if someone outside the family so much as touched the front door.

The Delacorte residence, however, had walled itself off behind a fence, with an electronic gate across the driveway. Lenhardt pressed the button on the intercom system, checking his watch. Ten was a little early for a Sunday visit, but that’s why he had chosen this time. More likely to find people at home, assuming they skipped church as he did.

The voice that came back to him was alert, harried even. “Maurice? What are you doing at the front gate? You know you’re supposed to come to the side.”

“Mr. Delacorte? I’m Sergeant Harold Lenhardt from the Baltimore County Police Department, and I need to speak to you.”

“Now? What about?”

A fair question. The man had no way of knowing that his gun had been used in the Glendale shooting, may not even know it had been stolen, given that there was no report on it. The only information released to the media so far was that the shooter had used a licensed handgun.

“It’s not something I can talk about over an intercom.”

“I’ll open the gates.”

The gates rolled open, and Lenhardt found himself thinking of Graceland, a trip to Memphis when he and Marcia were about six months into their relationship, that time when it’s still all roses and valentines-no voices raised, no disappointments. You couldn’t go fifteen years without a few shouts and recriminations, of course, especially when raising kids. There was no doubt in Lenhardt’s mind that the long haul was better, overall, than the superficial pleasures of those early months, when nothing was at stake. Still, there was something to be said for beginnings, especially when they were behind you.

The house in front of him was an expensive, showy affair, even by local standards. Everywhere Lenhardt looked, he saw expense-the triple-hung windows, the heavy door, the beige brick, the landscaping.

The owner, so quick on the intercom, was slow to answer the door.

“Will this take much time?” he asked, panting as if he had come from a long distance. The man presented puffy-round-cheeked, with deep creases beneath his eyes, a stocky figure not unlike Lenhardt’s, but softer, doughier. “I have to go to my office, and I want to be there by noon.”

“On a Sunday you can get to downtown Baltimore in thirty minutes.”

“I don’t work in Baltimore.”

“D.C.?”

“ Harrisburg.” There was an impatient edge to the man’s voice, as if Lenhardt should have known where he worked. The name Delacorte did sound slightly familiar, but it didn’t bring up any ready associations.

“This will take just a few minutes, I’m sure.” People started out high-handed with detectives all the time, but the law-abiding types usually settled down pretty fast.

Delacorte led him into the living room, which looked unused, as most living rooms did these days. But this one was antiseptic in a way that Lenhardt couldn’t pinpoint, like a room in a model home.

“I have to ask you a few questions about your gun.”

“I don’t have a gun.”

Lenhardt took out his notes, although he was sure he had it right. There couldn’t be another Michael Delacorte in Glendale.

“State police records show that Michael Delacorte has a.22 registered to this address, has had for the past year.”

The guy’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s my wife. Michael.”

“Your wife? My mistake. You see a name like Michael, you don’t even think to glance at the gender.”

“She’s used to it. In fact, she rather likes it.”

“So…”

“So?”

“Is she here? Mrs. Delacorte.”

“She moved out a month ago.” That explained the bare look of the house. The wife had gone through, taking all those little personal things that women strew about, photographs and candlesticks and vases.

“And did she take her gun with her? Or say anything about it being missing in the past few weeks?”

“Until five seconds ago, I didn’t even know my wife had a gun. I’m still trying to process that information. It’s an interesting footnote to everything that’s been going on around here.” He laughed in a self-deprecating way, as if Lenhardt should be intimate with his troubles. Yet Lenhardt still didn’t have a clue who the guy was, had yet to learn his first name, in fact. “Why do you care?”

“A.22 registered to Michael Delacorte was recovered Friday from Glendale High School.”

“From Glendale -oh, my fucking God, that’s all I need.”

Could this guy be more self-involved? But then it hit Lenhardt-Delacorte. Stewart Delacorte. Another business guy under indictment, or about to be, something to do with stock manipulation in a furniture company that had been in his family for generations, gone public, then gone pretty much to hell.

“We’re trying to figure out how the gun came to be in the girl’s possession.”

Delacorte was in responsible-citizen mode now, keen to help. “We had a baby-sitter, a regular, came every Thursday. I think she was a Glendale girl.”

“You know her name?”

“I might, if I heard it.”

Lenhardt carefully read off three names, although he didn’t need to refer to his notes to do that. He just wanted to make sure that he didn’t lead this guy in any way, that each name was repeated in the same careful, uninflected tone.

“Katarina Hartigan. Josie Patel. Perri Kahn.”

“Dale’s daughter? But she was the one who was killed, right? Poor guy. When I read that in the paper, it reminded me there’s always someone whose troubles are worse than your own.”

“So Kat was your baby-sitter?”

“Oh, no. I just know Dale from, you know, around. He’s a good guy. So I recognize Kat, but those other names-it could be either one. I’m sure it was one of those y names. Josie. Perri. Terry.”

“But you saw the baby-sitter, would know her if you saw her again, right?” Perri’s parents had already confirmed that their daughter baby-sat for this family, but Lenhardt was keen to determine that the other girls couldn’t have procured the gun. The Kahns’ lawyer would sure as hell find out if they had access, if Kat or Josie had so much as rung the doorbell in the past three years.

Delacorte looked a little sheepish. “I suppose so. I-I worked a lot. That’s the reason Michael left. Part of the reason. The baby-sitter was…thin. Kind of bony.”

That description could apply to Perri Kahn or Josie Patel.

“Tall? Short?”

Delacorte shrugged.

“Um, ethnic?”

“Ethnic?”

“Like, Asian or Indian. Not American Indian but the other kind.”

“Oh, no. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone like that in the house.”

“And there was only the one baby-sitter?”

“On Thursdays. She came in on the nanny’s day off, because, you know, God forbid Michael would have to spend an entire day alone with Malcolm.”

“Why did your wife have a gun?”

Delacorte gave Lenhardt what he obviously thought of as a man-to-man smile. “I don’t know, but believe me, I’m thinking about it.”

“How do I get in touch with her?”

“Beats me. She won’t tell me where she’s living and hasn’t let me see my son since she moved out. Is that even legal?”

“Not exactly. But you need a family lawyer-”

He held up a hand. “I know. The question was largely rhetorical.”

“You got a number for your wife?”

“A cell. She won’t answer when I call, though. She always makes me talk to voice mail.”

“I thought I could call it.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” Delacorte began to wander the room, pulling open drawers in various end tables and chests, looking for paper and pencil. Lenhardt felt a stab of pity, watching a man roam his own home, incapable of finding so much as scrap of paper.