Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

A middle-aged woman raised her hand.

"Mrs. Jacobson?" Sandy said.

"Mr. Kinsolving," she said, "I've lived in the building for only three years, a shorter time than you and the others. I've had little or no contact with Mr. Wills, but I wonder if we're going to be comfortable with having a man in the building who has been charged with murder?"

It was time to bully these people, Sandy thought. "Mrs. Jacobson, if you have even the slightest doubt of Thomas's innocence in this matter, then you should not sign this letter. I would like to say, though, that I am the injured party here; it was my wife who was brutally murdered, and my driver who was attacked. And I will not entertain for one moment the possibility that Thomas Wills harmed either of them. Now, I think we all know what the problem is; those of you who feel comfortable doing so may sign the letter along with me. As to the others, I thank you for your kind attention."

Sandy stood at the desk and glared at his audience, practically daring them not to sign. Then one by one, each of those present, including the recalcitrant Mrs. Jacobson, signed the letter and went home.

Sandy was in his office early on Monday morning. As soon as his secretary came in he gave her the residents' letter and asked her to messenger it to Murray Hirsch. That done, he called his travel agent and asked her to arrange air passage to London for himself and Cara, then faxed the Connaught for reservations for Angus and his girl. Then he called Sam Warren.

"Sam, I'm going to be out of the country, in London, for a week or so. Is there anything we can't handle by fax and phone during that time?"

"Nothing, Sandy. We won't have the closing documents on the vineyard until the end of next week at the earliest."

"Did my son, Angus, come to see you about an account?"

"He did, and I've opened one for him. I've also arranged for a Platinum American Express card for him, which will be FedExed to him in London, and I've alerted our European network of associate banks, in the event he needs any assistance while he's traveling."

"Perfect. You can reach me at the London shop from tomorrow." He gave the banker the phone and fax numbers.

"Have a good trip," Warren said.

Sandy hung up and turned to business. He worked steadily through the morning, approving buys of wine in France, California, Australia, and Chile, answering correspondence and talking with employees. Shortly after eleven o'clock he received a phone call from Murray Hirsch.

"Yes, Murray, how did the bail hearing go? Did you receive the letter in time?"

"Mr. Kinsolving, are you sitting down?"

"Yes."

"Thomas Wills hanged himself in his cell late last night."

Sandy's heart nearly failed. "How is that possible?" he asked weakly.

"It's possible, believe me; happens all the time. I feel a little responsible myself. Knowing the distress he was in I should have asked for a suicide watch on his cell."

"I don't see how you could have anticipated this," Sandy said. "You certainly aren't to blame." He knew exactly who was to blame. He himself was. No, he reminded himself, Peter Martindale was to blame.

"There's something else," Hirsch said, "good news, of a kind."

"What do you mean, 'good news'?"

"Thomas was guilty of your wife's murder."

"What?"

"He left a note in his cell, confessing to the murder, taking full responsibility."

"Why the hell would he have done that?" Sandy demanded.

"A guilty conscience, I presume. God knows, I thought he was innocent, and I know you did."

"Oh, Jesus, how could this have happened?" Sandy asked aloud.

"Mr. Kinsolving, I assure you, this happens regularly. Some people in jail are hardened criminals; others just can't face the guilt associated with their acts."

Sandy took a few deep breaths. "What do we do now?" he asked helplessly.

"There's not much we can do, actually," Hirsch replied. "Mr. Wills had no family; apparently, his church was his family. I suppose I should get in touch with his pastor and ask him to make arrangements for claiming the body and effecting interment."

"Yes," Sandy said wearily, "I suppose that's the thing to do. I'm leaving the country on business tomorrow, and I'd appreciate it if you would handle whatever needs to be done."

"I'll be glad to do that," Hirsch said. "And Mr. Kinsolving, there will be no fee for my representation of Mr. Wills."

"Thank you, Murray. Please tell his pastor that I'll pay the costs involved, and, " he thought for a moment, "and tell him that I'll be making a twenty-five-thousand-dollar donation to the church in Thomas's memory."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Kinsolving."

"Please get in touch with my banker and tell him to whom the check should go." He gave Hirsch Sam Warren's number."

"I'll do that, Mr. Kinsolving. I'm sorry this has turned out the way it has."

"Thank you, Murray." Sandy hung up and slumped over his desk. Would this never end? Would Peter Martindale's insane behavior keep having repercussions in his life and in those of other innocent people? He sat there, immobile, for the remainder of the morning.

Alain Duvivier waited on the hard bench outside his captain's office. Shortly, a sharp rap on the glass above his head told him that the captain would see him now. He got up, walked into the office and took the offered chair, which was also very hard.

Captain Morello, a short, balding man of sixty, looked at him balefully. "Well, I hear you cleared a homicide this morning, huh, Al?"

Duvivier shrank inside his suit. "In a manner of speaking, sir."

"Saved us and the taxpayers a lot of time and trouble, huh?"

Duvivier said nothing.

"Only now I hear things," Morello said. "I hear things up and down the halls of this building."

"Sir?"

"I hear that…" he shuffled papers on his desk until he found the name, "Thomas Wills, aka Morris Wilkes, didn't do it. Or, at least, you don't think he did it."

Duvivier closed his mouth.

"I hear you think the victim's husband offed her, or rather, had her offed. I hear you arrested Wills just to put pressure on the husband. Is this just an idle rumor, Al? Talk to me."

"I had enough evidence for an arrest," Duvivier said quietly.

"Speak up, Al, I can't hear you," Morrello said.

"I had evidence," Duvivier repeated.

"Good, good; always nice to have evidence. Tell me, do you think Wills offed the woman?"

Duvivier shrugged. "I have some doubts."

"How serious are those doubts?" Morrello asked.

Duvivier squared his shoulders. "All right, captain, you're right; I think the husband did it, and I arrested Wills to put pressure on him. I think Kinsolving is, mostly, a decent man, and I thought that if he thought an innocent man might go to prison for his crime, he might talk to me."

"So now an innocent man is dead," Morello said.

"Yes, sir," Duvivier replied, tired of being quiet.

"Only he's not innocent; he left a note, confessing; is that right?"

"That's right, sir."

"So now we're marking this one down as cleared, is that right?"

"Yes, sir, I suppose so."

"Well, I'm not supposing," Morello said. "I'm marking it down as cleared. Do you know what that means?"

"It doesn't mean that I still can't go after Kinsolving," Duvivier said.

"Of course it does. It means just that very thing." Morello stood up and started pacing. "Just look at the position you've put the department in, Al. You've arrested a man you believe to be innocent in order to put pressure on the guilty party. Only, the innocent man surprises you and confesses, then offs himself. Do you see the position?"

"I'm not sure I do, sir."

"Well, let me explain it to you. Now, in the unlikely event that you're ever able to make a case against the husband, and you arrest him and send him to trial, his lawyer is going to say to the jury, 'My client didn't do this murder, another man has already confessed to it, felt so guilty about it that he offed himself.' You getting my drift, Al?"