“Not till the next day.”
Of course, Michael thought.
“This Cytrop guy,” Max said. “Where does he live?”
“I don’t know, man. I see him at my friend’s house.”
“You have his phone number?”
“No.”
“Then how do you talk to him?”
“I told you, he comes over. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“But you trust him with your car. So give us the friend’s name.”
It went on like that for a while, Max letting Jerome drone on about this fictitious Cytrop who had taken his car, providing the alibi that supposedly made it impossible for him to have shot Bob.
Then Max threw in a twist. “You know, Jerome, we have video that shows you in your car that night, minutes before the murder.”
He looked at Max now, straightening up and rubbing his mouth again. “No way.”
“You went to the gas station before going to the U-Haul store. We have video of you, not some guy named Cytrop. You were alone. We have a witness who saw you there.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I told you we look kind of alike.”
“Well, you have to produce this guy so we can see that for ourselves.”
Jerome said nothing.
Michael studied the suspect’s posture on the screen, wishing the picture was sharper, that he could see his expressions more clearly, whether his top lip was sweating and his hands were shaking.
“We found the gun in your car,” Max said. “Was it registered to you?” Max already knew the answer. It wasn’t registered. But Michael knew that Max was trying to catch Jerome in more lies to impeach his testimony.
“No, it was his.”
“He just left it in the car?”
“Guess so. I didn’t even know it was there.”
“You own a gun?” Max asked.
“No, man. I hate guns.”
Michael shook his head. Henderson must have been high the night of the shooting if he’d forgotten to dispose of the murder weapon.
After a while, Forbes stood up and leaned against the wall, letting the guy know that he was getting impatient. His size was intimidating, and his age gave him a gravitas that Max’s youth didn’t convey. “We’ve got a few problems with your story, Jerome,” he said. “We know it was you in the car, and your prints are all over that gun. And that’s too bad for you, because that gun was the murder weapon.”
The guy looked toward the door, as if calculating his escape path.
“How did you know Bob Cole?”
“I didn’t know him. Man, you got the wrong guy.”
Max gave a long-suffering sigh. “You were identified in the lineup. At least one witness saw you shoot him. You had the murder weapon in your car.”
“Are you charging me with murder? Because you ain’t read me my rights.”
“We read you your rights before we brought you in.”
“Yeah, but that was for drug charges, not murder.”
“Still applies.”
Michael closed his eyes. He wished Al hadn’t spelled that out yet. Now that Henderson realized he was about to be charged with murder, he would ask for a lawyer. Then the interrogation would end, and the only answers they’d get would be filtered through the attorney.
Michael rubbed his mouth and realized his own lip was perspiring. He pulled out his phone and texted his brother.
Max, play the good guy. Sympathize. Try to get him to say if somebody else paid him to do this.
He watched the screen as Max read the text. Max’s lips tightened, and for a moment he was silent.
Henderson squirmed.
Max looked back up. “You need some water?”
Henderson nodded. “Yeah, I could use a smoke too.”
“I’ll get you some water,” Max said and came out the door. In seconds the door where Michael stood flew open. “What do you think you’re doing?” Max asked. “Texting me while I’m interviewing a witness! You know, I don’t have to let you be here.”
“I’m just saying, you’re pushing too hard. He’ll ask for an attorney before you find out who he’s working with.”
“I know how to do my job.”
“I know you do. You remind me every time I suggest anything about a case. But we can’t afford for you to screw this one up!”
“I’m not the one who screws them up.”
Michael bit back his flaring anger and threw up his hands. “Okay, no more interference.”
Without answering, Max left the room and closed the door. Seconds later, he reentered the room on the screen, a bottle of water in his hand. He tossed it to Henderson, sat down, and slid his chair up to the table across from him. Henderson guzzled the water.
Max sat down and leaned on the table. “Look, Jerome,” he said after a short silence. “I can tell you’re a good guy. And maybe this wasn’t premeditated. If it wasn’t, that’s a huge difference in the charges we’ll bring. We’re talking the difference between life and death, and decades in prison.”
Henderson stared at him through narrowed eyes.
“Did somebody ask you to do it? You had a bunch of cash in an envelope. Were you paid?”
Henderson sat back in his seat and looked down at the floor.
“Because I can understand how it would happen,” Max said. “You need some drugs, you’re low on money . . .”
Henderson looked up at him.
“Somebody offers you cash to do a hit. Easy money. Just follow him, hit him when he gets out of the car, get paid. It’s all over. Maybe you didn’t even know the guy.”
Henderson shifted in his chair again, no doubt the one that Michael had used when he was a cop—the interview chair that had the front two legs a slight bit shorter than the back ones, so that the man had to lean forward and couldn’t get comfortable. It always left the interviewees slightly off balance.
“If you gave us the name of the person who wanted Bob Cole dead, it would help your case a lot, man. Otherwise, it’s going to be bad for you.”
Henderson stared at Max as if thinking it through. Michael lowered himself slowly into the chair in front of the screen and locked in.
“Bob Cole was a prominent doctor, a good man. Had a wife and two young sons. It’s going to be all over the news, and trust me, it won’t look good.”
“That’s a crock. Dude wasn’t as lily white as you think.”
Michael went rigid and leaned forward, staring at the screen.
“So you admit you knew him?”
“No. I admit I heard of him. You think he was just an innocent victim. But he had dirty hands,” Jerome said.
Michael sat stiffer, taking it in. Dirty hands? What did that mean?
“Define dirty hands,” Max said.
“He was into some stuff. Made some people mad.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I don’t know details, man. I just heard things.”
“What people did he make mad?”
“I don’t know. It’s just rumors.”
Max stayed calm, and Forbes sat back down. “So were you hired to execute him?” Forbes asked.
“No,” Henderson said.
“Then what? Come on, I need specifics. You gotta help me out here if you don’t want a capital murder charge.”
Henderson jittered again.
“You started down this path,” Max said. “Giving us information could help your situation. You’re not stupid. You know how this works. What do you know about Bob Cole?”
Henderson sighed. “I know he wasn’t the way he seemed. That’s all I know. I never met the guy.”
“So the first time you were ever close to him was when you shot him?”
“I’ve never been close to him.”
“Then explain to me how your gun winds up being the murder weapon. How your prints were all over it. Why you just lied to us about whose gun it was and who had your car.”
Now Michael could see the man’s sweat. “Man, I’
ll take rehab. I got a problem. I need help.”
Michael wanted to laugh. Drug charges often went away in favor of rehab. But not murder charges.
“Work with me and we’ll see what we can do.”
The man glanced to the door, as if assessing the possibility of escape. “I want a lawyer,” he said suddenly.
Michael groaned.
Max sat still, staring at him. He looked up at Forbes. “All right. We’ll get you one.”
“You do that.”
“You want to call your own or should I get you a public defender?”
“I’ll call my own.”
Max slid his chair back and stood up. “You can wait in the cell until he gets here.”
Often, that was enough threat, but this guy wasn’t afraid of jail. “I don’t care if it takes a week,” he said.
So it was over. Michael rubbed his aching temples. All they’d gotten from that was that Bob’s hands might be dirty. They didn’t even know for sure whether that was a lead in the case or just a red herring to distract them.
In a few minutes Max was back in the doorway. Michael looked up at him. “Guess that’s that.”
“Like you could do any better.”
“I didn’t say I could,” Michael said. “So what do you think he meant about Bob Cole?”
“No idea, but it didn’t sound good. What do you know about him?” Max asked.
“I haven’t been around him that much,” Michael said. “He’s out of town a lot and usually if I go over there with Cathy, he’s at work. Seems like a good dad, good husband, nice enough guy. I was with him helping Holly move yesterday. He seemed quiet, maybe a little distracted, but he got the job done.”
“I need to look into this,” Max said, “find out if he did have any shady dealings.”
Michael shook his head. “I think Henderson was just blowing smoke.”
“Could be,” Max said. “So now that he’s lawyered up, we’ll have to dig for this ourselves. We won’t get anything else out of him for a while.”
Michael nodded. He stood up and let out a hard sigh. “Thanks for letting me listen, man.”
“Sure.”
Michael started to the door.
“I know it’s tough for you, watching from the sidelines.”
Michael hesitated and turned back. “Yeah, well. What can you do?”
It was the first compassionate thing his brother had said to him in a couple of years, but it helped.
CHAPTER 12
Juliet stood on her feet for hours the night of the visitation, as friends and colleagues and people she didn’t know lined up in her church sanctuary to offer their condolences. Abe and Zach had long ago disappeared with their friends to somewhere else in the church. She hoped Jay was keeping an eye on them.
Cathy stood at her side, eager to get her water, help move the line along, or encourage her to sit. But these friends and family had come to offer their support, so Juliet wanted to greet them.
But when would this be over? The line snaked down the sanctuary aisles, out into the atrium, and down the stairs. She had no idea how long it was beyond that.
Bob had so many friends, so many colleagues. It shouldn’t surprise her there was a crowd.
Earlier today, she’d had an anxiety attack and threatened not to go. “Who came up with this stupid ritual? How come I have to get dressed, put on makeup, and stand there making conversation with strangers while my husband’s dead body lies next to me in a coffin? Zach is right. I can’t do it, either!”
“Don’t, then,” Holly had said. “We’ll just cancel the whole thing.”
“Juliet, you’ll regret it if you don’t,” Cathy said. “When Joe died, I didn’t want to stand there, either. I just wanted to fade into the Sheetrock. But people said such nice things about him, and somehow, when it was over, I felt good about it.”
Juliet stared at the outfit they’d laid out for her. She’d never intended to wear the navy-blue dress for funeral clothes. “But do I have to open the coffin? I don’t want the kids to see him like that. I told the funeral director to open it, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We’ll tell him to keep it closed. And if you get too tired to carry on, we’ll end the visitation.”
She had known they would all be there for her. Somehow, she would muddle through. Now she stood at the front of the church, next to Bob’s closed coffin, and tried to be gracious to the people in the line, even those whose names she’d forgotten.
Gordon, one of Bob’s colleagues reached the front of the line and pulled her into a hug. “Juliet, our hearts are breaking for you.”
Juliet tried to smile. “Thank you for coming,” she said for the thousandth time tonight.
“It’s just so shocking,” he said. “That this could happen to someone like him. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” Had she said that already?
His wife, Wanda, pulled her into another tight hug and didn’t let her go. Juliet told herself not to resent the intimacy; she didn’t want to be rude. After all, she’d hung out with Wanda often when they traveled to conventions with their husbands. But Juliet’s skin felt raw from all the hugs, and knots had twisted in her back.
Wanda finally let go, then took Juliet’s hands and looked into her eyes. “I’ll always remember going out to dinner with you guys on those crazy medical conference trips. Bob was so funny sometimes. He would crack me up . . . the things he’d say. And he was so caring. Why would anybody want to do this?”
“I know,” was all Juliet could say.
“We missed you both at the Denver conference in May. It wasn’t the same without you. And now . . . we’re really going to miss him. We love you, girl.”
Juliet returned the love, then turned to the next ones in line, two members from her church. As they muttered their condolences with tears in their eyes, her mind went back to Wanda’s comment. “We missed you both at the Denver conference in May.”
Wanda must have gotten confused. Bob was at that conference in May. It had been just a few months ago; Juliet’s memory of it was clear.
Before she had time to think about it, she was bruised into another hug.
When the ordeal was finally over and she was back at Jay’s house, she lay awake in bed, her feet and back aching, wondering how she would get through the funeral tomorrow. What would the kids wear? Did Abe have a clean dress shirt? Maybe she should do a load of laundry.
She got up and padded barefoot through Jay’s house to the laundry room. She sorted through the dirty clothes, threw a load of whites in, then stood staring at the washing machine.
That Denver comment came back to her again.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, fighting the dull ache starting to take hold.
Bob had gone to the conference in May. He was gone for a whole week. Maybe Wanda had misspoken. Maybe she meant some other conference. Maybe her nerves and sorrow had gotten her confused.
Still, the question wouldn’t leave her. She went back upstairs, found the suitcase where she’d put Bob’s laptop computer and a few other things she’d brought from home. She turned on the lamp, sat on the bed, and opened the computer. The screen lit up with the file from Bob’s last session on it. She closed the file, opened his calendar, and went back to May.
There it was. The Denver conference. He had it clearly entered on his calendar.
She opened his e-mail and found the folder he kept there for his electronic airline tickets. She scrolled through them until she found the one dated May of this year.
It wasn’t to Denver. It was to Nassau.
She frowned. Had she gotten it wrong? Why would he have Denver on the calendar?
The door opened, and Cathy, who’d decided to sleep over at Jay’s too, stepped into the room. “I saw your light under the door. What are you doing? It’s 3:00 a.m.”
“Close the door,” Juliet said. “I don’t want to wake t
he kids.”
Cathy quietly closed it and came toward her, wearing a pair of shorts and a big T-shirt. “Juliet, what are you doing?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Something Wanda said tonight was bugging me.”
“Wanda who?”
“Wanda Bennet. Another doctor’s wife.”
“What did she say?”
Juliet looked at her sister. Did she want her to know that her husband might have lied to her? Maybe she should leave well enough alone. But since when had she been able to keep a secret from Cathy? “Wanda said they missed us at the medical conference in Denver back in May.”
“Yeah?”
“Bob went. Or . . . he told me he did.”
Cathy frowned. “You don’t think he did? Maybe Wanda made a mistake, or maybe you heard her wrong.”
“No, I just looked. He has Denver on his calendar, but his airline ticket was for Nassau.”
Cathy came around the bed to look at the computer. “Are you sure?” Juliet showed her, and Cathy read it carefully.
“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. There was a lot going on in May. If he told you he’d changed his plans, you might have forgotten.”
“No. I always have his itinerary. I thought he was in Denver. He told me he was. He said he was staying in a hotel near Mile High Stadium.”
Cathy pulled up a chair next to her and scrolled through Bob’s other airline tickets. “All this traveling. Where did he go?”
“To drug studies. You know, the pharmaceutical companies pay all their expenses so doctors can come and learn about their new drugs. Free vacations, really. I used to go with him, but when the kids are in school, I can’t. That’s why I didn’t go in May.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s an explanation. Why don’t you ask his travel agent or his secretary? See what they remember.”
Juliet stared at the airline ticket. “Why would he lie? Cathy, do you think he was having an affair?”
Cathy stiffened. “No, I do not. Bob loved you. There’s no way.”
“But that guy . . . Jerome Henderson. Michael said he mentioned that Bob had dirty hands.”
“Jerome is being accused of murder! He was trying to get the heat off himself. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, and we’ll find it. I think you should talk to Bob’s office workers when you see them at the funeral tomorrow. Ask them to clear it up.”