Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

I said, “That his usual getup?”

Fletcher laughed softly. “I guess you’d call it his uniform. I told him he could keep it on as long as he left the hood down. So as not to obscure his peripheral vision, you know? Can’t have people bumping into each other, especially not someone his size. But he’d forget.”

“Is this the only photo you have of him?”

He paged forward, finding a second candid. Useless, because Triplett had spotted the camera and was averting his face, blurring his features.

I said, “He didn’t like having his picture taken.”

“You got that right,” Fletcher said. “Shy boy. Afraid of his own shadow, except when he got into the work.”

I pointed to the adjacent photo. “What’s that?”

Fletcher squinted. “The rocker? Julian made it. Based on a Hans Wegner design. I’d gotten him away from my stuff, away from Chippendale, the usual. I wanted him to have a broader notion of what was possible. Yeah, I forgot about that. He worked on it a long time. The original has a woven seat, but we didn’t want to start messing with caning, and the grain was nice, so we kept it plain mahogany. Real pretty. And that’s before we put the stain on. Finish it in cherry, you get some good depth of color.”

I said, “May I?”

He waved consent, and I slipped the print out of the sleeve. I turned it over to read the date printed on the back: Mar-19-03.

“Chairs were his thing,” Fletcher said. “He loved making them. Regular sitting chairs. The rocker was a one-off.”

I’d sat in one of Julian Triplett’s chairs, in the reverend’s office.

I’d seen the rocker, too, before. Or its twin.

“What’d he do with it?” I asked. “Did he sell it to someone?”

“I told him he should go around to the local stores, he could get some good money. He didn’t care, gave all his work away. Mostly we auctioned the pieces off. We do an auction every June, to raise money for this place.”

“This particular piece, though, the rocker,” I said. “Any idea who has it?”

“Shoot, I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

I nodded. “Mind if I borrow this? The ones of Julian, too. I’ll get them back to you, promise.”

He hesitated, then removed the prints from their plastic, taking a last look before handing them over to me. “You’ve seen it, now. He did some fine, fine work.”

Hustling to my parked car, I called Tatiana. She didn’t pick up.

“Call me,” I said, getting in. “It’s important.”

I drove to my office.

It was eleven thirty, the building sleepy. In the squad room a single DC sat at his desk, a rookie named Jurow. He did a double take as I entered.

“Can’t stay away, huh?”

“Working for God and Country.”

“And overtime.”

I gave him a thumbs-up and went to my computer. I propped the print of the rocking-chair-in-progress against the monitor and opened the Rennert file, scrolling through the flicks Zaragoza had taken at the scene.

Exterior; body; downstairs; second floor.

Attic.

The rocker only appeared in a couple of shots, and when it did, it was off to the side, or out of focus in the background, caught in the frame as Zaragoza captured something of greater evidentiary value.

I called Jurow over.

“Take a look at these and tell me if you think it’s the same chair.”

He set down his coffee mug, studied the screen, the print. “Could be.”

“Not definitely.”

“This one” — the print — “looks lighter to me.”

“It’s unfinished,” I said.

“Hold the phone. This guy has seven thingies. And this one has eight. Right?”

I saw what he meant: spindles. The one on the screen appeared to have fewer, which would blow my theory out of the water.

“It might be the angle,” I said. “Or this one here has a broken spindle.”

He shrugged. “You asked. I’m telling you what I see.”

“Yes or no?”

“Gun to my head?” he said. “Sixty — forty, no.”

“Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

“You too,” he said, mystified.

En route to my apartment, I tried Tatiana. Voicemail yet again.

“Hey,” I said. “I really need to talk to you. I’ll be home in ten minutes. If you get this before, call me. I need to get into your father’s house. Call me, please. Thanks.”

Back at my apartment I put all three photos on my coffee table and began pacing around the living room. I kept stopping to stare at the print of the unfinished rocker, straining to match it to the image in my mind of the one in Rennert’s attic.

Why was it so hard? I’d just seen the goddamn thing, twenty-four hours ago. Ellis Fletcher had better recall for detail than I did, and it had been more than a decade for him. But he was a professional. His brain trafficked in shapes and colors.

Really, though, I knew I was correct. Had to be. Because the photo solved a problem that had been gnawing at me ever since I’d opened the drawer to find the gun gone.

Why would anyone — either a random burglar or Triplett himself — proceed straight upstairs to the attic? Ignoring the art, the porcelain, furniture, televisions.

He went there with a goal in mind.

He knew what he wanted and where to find it.

He’d seen it before.

He’d been there before.

Although Tatiana hadn’t said so, I had to believe the same problem had occurred to her. Possibly not. The violation of the break-in left her distraught. Learning Triplett’s name had staggered her all over again. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

Footsteps thumped up the stairs, uneven gait on the uneven carpet.

I glanced at the clock on my DVR.

Two thirty-nine a.m.

The lock turned and Tatiana entered in a burgundy cashmere sweater, skinny jeans, and heels. She saw me and bristled. “I said don’t wait up.”

“Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

She stooped to remove her shoes. “I didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

“Can I borrow the key to your dad’s house?”

She straightened. “Why?”

“I need to check something.”

“What?”

“Maybe nothing. Can I have it, please?”

She stared at me like I was crazy. I’m sure I looked it.

“What’s going on, Clay?”

Hands on hips, eyes blazing.

No way to avoid the truth. I showed her the print. “That, I believe, is your father’s rocking chair.”

“So?” She brought her face closer to the picture. Only then did I realize that she reeked of pot. Green irises, red sclera. Like Christmas come early.

“In the attic,” I said. “You don’t recognize it?”

“I never noticed every piece of furniture he has. It’s chaos up there. Does that make me... what, unobservant? Why’s it matter?”

“It might not,” I said. “That’s why I need to go over there. To find out.”

“You’re weird,” she said. “Who gives a shit?” Giggling. “You’re the chair -man.”

I tapped the photo. “This was made by Julian Triplett. I spoke to a man tonight who knew him personally. He made furniture after he got out of prison.”

A beat. Then her gaze snapped back toward the coffee table.

I’d carelessly left the candids of Triplett in plain view.

She said, “Is that him ?”

She snatched up one of the prints, gripping it with two hands.

“Careful, please. It’s not mine.”

“That’s him,” she said. “God. He’s huge. He’s a... a monster.”

“Tatiana.” I gently pried open her fingers, extracted the print before she could damage it. “Sit down. Let me get you some water.”

“I don’t want any water,” she said, grabbing at my arm. “I want to look at him.”