09.03.2008 / EP. 36
The Investigation
Shortly after Milly delivered her negative answer to Lin, he parked down the road from Pam’s home and, for the hundredth time, considered his approach. He couldn’t fault it. Curiosity rather than hesitation governed his spirit. Milly’s attitude affected his calculations further into the contest, but not at present. They certainly didn’t dominate. Lin was more concerned with understanding Milly and taking her motives into account than following her advice. For Lin, it had always made sense to eliminate Pam and lay a faint trail, as though accidental, to Milly’s door. He worked best alone, and sweeping the drug market of its two most powerful personalities would create the turmoil he needed to take control. At the same time, Milly and Pam could accelerate his legitimate rise to power through the Governor’s committees and friendship. The question was which prevailed for Lin: politics or the drug trade, the open or secret path. One led to life for Milly and Pam, the other death and ruin. Lin had spent too long in covert fields to have a preference. The evidence he would drop from a plastic envelope lay to hand. His rifle was sighted.
Lin wasn’t foolish enough to ring the doorbell at the gate. He’d paid a pizza delivery boy to do it for him then run away. And Pam wasn’t foolish enough to open the door herself. But she did, to Lin’s astonishment. The self-confidence, no, hauteur of this self-made millionaire amazed him. Did she think she was invulnerable? Apparently so. Lin saw the red dot from his rifle wander across her face, contradicting her. He squeezed the trigger and the bullet raced to its target, as Pam bent down to pet her dog. The shot crashed into the door. Pam dived inside the house and Lin didn’t try another shot. He drove quietly away at a safe speed, just another wealthy businessman who couldn’t sleep, a New York sales rep returning from a late meeting. The choice was made for him, Lin thought. He’d chase the legitimate prize for a time. Then reconsider.
Pam tilted her head far up to meet the eyes of the investigating officer. Detective-lieutenant Brendan Shea had been assigned to the case, after much protest, because Pam Carrera and her husband Ernest were well-connected. The Governor was their friend, everyone owed them favours, they employed thousands and paid more tax than Albany’s entire police force combined. Brendan expected brusque know-it-alls, with polished nails and ethics that scraped the ground when they walked. He was pleasantly surprised. Pam seemed frightened, her mood sombre. She was succinct, but knew little that was useful. His men searched the grounds, interviewed the neighbours and left. Someone had seen a thin shadow entering Pam’s backyard. Not a big help. Brendan disregarded it. He returned later on his own to prowl the precincts of the shooting. It helped him think. He was off duty, but the attempted shooting troubled him. He lit a cigar.
For one thing, there seemed no reason for it. Nothing abrasive was upsetting the construction industry: no new minority clawing for a toehold, no contractor vying for supremacy. Pam was secure at the top of the heap. For another, why here? Pam’s office building straddled the I-90. A marksman could find a sweet spot to rest his barrel and get off a perfect round. Nobody would hear. He’d stroll to his car a few feet away and be enjoying coffee at the Wynantskill diner before the police arrived. So it was personal, thought Brendan. He retraced the direction taken by the bullet, ambling over the terrain, back and forth. The shooter probably rested the rifle on the roof of a car. He assembled the gun in the front seat and got out for the shot. Then hopped back inside. Didn’t panic when he missed. He’d try again when it suited him. All the same, it was curious there wasn’t a fall-back if the first shot missed. Professionals made their arrangements to provide an “in-case,” an alternative method, even a plan C. Unless the goal wasn’t Pam’s death, but a near miss. To do what? Frighten her? The stumbling block was lack of motive. And Pam didn’t frighten. No, the shooter wasn’t a professional. He might not have a record. Which didn’t make the attack easier to solve. The file would grow fat and attract dust with the unidentified body in the park and all the other unsolveds on Brendan’s desk. If Brendan wanted a good shot at Pam’s front door, he’d park under this tree a few houses down. He prowled through the debris along the curb and came away with a sore back and a damp ticket stub. Brendan had seen a stub like it before. He went home hoping for a few hours sleep, but stayed up staring at the torn strip of paper.
The door opened with a loud peal of bells. The owner was eccentric or hard of hearing. “Max,” Brendan called out. Max raised a hand. “In a minute,” he said. He was serving a customer. The woman’s back was bowed with age, her voice soft from passage of time. Max paid her $90 and twisted a tag around a gold dolphin. The customer left. “She pawns it every couple of months when her social security runs out,” Max said. “Then she buys it back. One of my best customers.”
Max and Brendan embraced. They’d known each other since grade six. They made a ludicrous contrast: Max was a hairy gnome, Brendan tall and utterly bald.
They talked about old times. Max made coffee. Then Max looked the question and Brendan said it was about one of Max’s customers. He gave Brendan the transparent plastic bag that contained the damp stub. “Sure, I remember this. It was a homeless guy, dumpster dives, now and then he finds something I can sell.” Max pulled out a box. “Here’s the pledge. You’ll bring it back?”
“Dumpster dives,” Brendan repeated.
Max shrugged. “That’s what he claims. He’s young enough to steal.”
“I’ll bring it back,” said Brendan.
Brendan took the box to police headquarters on Henry Johnson Blvd. He drove on automatic pilot; he had serious thinking to do. At the station, greetings were subdued. It was night; everyone was tired. Brendan cleared a space on his desk and compared the contents of the box with a photo of the scene in the park. The box contained a black doll. Max had assured him it was valuable. The photo showed a tiny leg extending from under burrito wrappers. A doll. Accidental trash, was the consensus of the detectives. Brendan had agreed. Now he wasn’t sure. Max had said the black doll in the box was worth $15,000.
A passing detective observed to a colleague that the lieutenant had cracked under his caseload. “Playing with dolls,” the detective said. The colleague ventured that the lieutenant had come out of the closet. The detective said she was Brendan’s new girlfriend. Brendan laughed without enthusiasm.
The doll looked unusual and Max had never steered him wrong. Brendan was prepared to believe it was worth a bundle. Turn the puzzle around as he might, however, he couldn’t see how the body in the park connected to the attempt on Pam’s life, or either to the doll. He didn’t see a secret compartment in the doll’s head or mysterious writing on the box. He pushed the doll around on his desk for awhile then settled back to think.
Dawn came and went, and Brendan had made no progress. He felt grimy and his mouth tasted stale. It was time to go home. The captain called him in and, naturally when a case was headed nowhere and needed concentrated effort, gave him another file to increase the pressure. Brendan headed out to where a dead body had been found in a car. It was a black LeBaron, an expensive luxury vehicle, and the man inside had committed suicide. A quick death. Slam-dunk for your friendly policeman. But the man carried a pass from a drop-in centre and his clothes looked none too fresh. A dumpster diver? It was too coincidental for Brendan. And the man didn’t belong in a LeBaron. He asked a photographer to touch up a picture so the man looked alive. Max identified him as the man who’d pledged the doll. So what, where does it get me? Brendan asked himself. Now there were three cases Brendan couldn’t understand. But he was a policeman. His job was to put one foot in front of the other. The doll in the box had come with a certificate from a French auction house and the name of the buyer was on it. The name didn’t match anyone in the Albany directory, but the buyer’s address was on a fashionable street. In the reverse directory, Brendan found the house listed. The state land registry confirmed the owner and gave her employer. A question in the right place yielded more, and Brendan suddenly found that his nested box of murders pointed at Milly Troie, loyal servant of Governor Albert T. Brull, currently making a run at the Presidency of the United States. This did not make Brendan happy.
