Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011
- Автор: Коуди Лиза, Faherty Terence
- Год: 2011
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- ISBN: ISSN 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011». Краткое содержание книги:
It would have been perfect, except for the damned watch.
The 911 call came in at 10:23 P.M. Cortney’s analog watch had stopped at 10:08.
That was when Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension Investigator Jarvis Abernathy came on the case. He went through every inch of Gleason’s story like a proctologist. The story played out in the Star-Tribune and on the local TV stations, the police saying Gleason’s story didn’t hold up, while Gleason’s lawyer proclaimed the police had settled on his client, a Good Samaritan who tried to help, just to close a case. He became the focal point of debate in the Twin Cities. Some wanted his hide, while others took Gleason’s side, viewing him as an unjustly persecuted man.
Gleason had cringed when he heard Cortney’s grandfather was some big celebrity in Hollywood, knowing it would keep the story alive. The family did try a civil suit, but Gleason’s lawyer managed to get a continuance while the police investigation was pending. As his lawyer explained, a stalled case could help get the suit tossed.
It had been months since the paper or the TV stations had run a story, but with tomorrow being the one-year anniversary, Gleason planned to stay home, ducking any reporters who might want a follow-up story. He just wanted the whole memory to fade away, especially from his own mind.
Gleason opened his eyes as the car slowed. Looking out, he saw that Noel was stopping at the accident scene on Black Farm Road.
“This is where it happened, isn’t it?” Noel asked as he put the car in park, leaving the engine idling. “Lake Calico, a few miles before the turnoff for the Brandywine development?”
“Yes,” Gleason managed to croak out of his dry mouth. He uncapped the water bottle and took a long pull.
“It was the lost fifteen minutes that made the police disbelieve your story. They couldn’t reconcile why that much time had passed.”
“Her watch was slow.” Gleason’s lawyer had used that line often in the accident’s aftermath. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense. I didn’t delay reporting the accident. Why would I do that?”
“They suggested you were trying to get sober.”
“I only had one drink that night. I was sober.”
Noel looked at Gleason. “Sully, what if this were your night to be visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past? If we went back one year and stood here, would we see your Escalade weaving drunkenly along the road, forcing the Cavalier into the water? Would we see you standing there while that young girl pounded on the window until her hands bled?”
“No,” Gleason said firmly. “It was that other driver, in the Mustang. He cut her off. I did nothing wrong.”
“Think of Marley, Sully. Scrooge tried to console Marley’s ghost by calling him ‘a good man of business.’ The ghost wailed that he had discovered too late that mankind was his business.”
Within Gleason was a voice longing to shout out, Yes, I did it! I killed her! But the consequences were too much to bear. Gleason turned to face Noel and looked him in the eye.
“I told you what happened. I’m not responsible for that girl’s death.”
That’s the only story I’m left with, Gleason’s mind added silently, and I’ll cling to it until the day I die.
After a moment, Noel’s face broke into a wide smile. “I knew it! I knew you were innocent. Some in my office believed the police, but I told them they were mistaken. Thank you, Sully. Thank you so much.”
Sleepiness consumed Gleason. He drank down the last of the water and dropped the empty bottle back into the holder.
“Please, Charles, can you get me home? I’m very tired.”
“Of course, Sully.”
He turned into the driveway of Gleason’s home. Using the remote clipped to the visor, he opened the garage and pulled up inside, putting the Escalade into Park. Gleason was lost in a dreamless sleep. From his coat pocket Noel took a piece of paper, leaving a note for Gleason. Then he got out and closed up the garage. He walked down the driveway, softly humming “Silent Night.”
The winter sun had already sunk low in the sky when BCA Investigator Jarvis Abernathy arrived at the Bice home in Chaska. He’d called to alert them that he was on his way.
It was Cortney’s grandfather, Quentin Cooper, who answered the door. Several times over the last twelve months Cooper had come out from California to be with his daughter’s family, helping them cope with Cortney’s death.
“Good to see you again, Jarvis.” Cooper’s rich tenor voice was familiar to the investigator, as it was to most people in the country. Along with a film career that covered a half-century, he did numerous voice-overs for ads. He’s not God, but he sounds like Him, was how the ad executives put it.
It was still strange for Abernathy, seeing in the flesh a man he’d grown up watching on a movie screen. The actor’s sandy hair was now silver and cropped close to his skull, though his skin remained unblemished. When Abernathy asked how he’d managed that, Cooper had chuckled and said, “Moisturizers and special effects.” The detective found he liked the man immensely, for although he was a fixture in Hollywood — an actor who disappeared into his roles like a male Meryl Streep — in person he was warm and devoid of the egotism one expected in an actor. Abernathy had to admit, his feelings about Cooper made the message he’d come to deliver personally all the harder to handle.
“Where are Ruth and Brad?” Abernathy asked.
“Waiting in the living room.”
The parents were seated close together on the couch, their hands entwined. They looked at him with hopeful, guarded eyes. Hopeful the man responsible for their daughter’s death would finally face punishment; guarded from past disappointments. Abernathy took a chair across from the Bices, while Cooper perched on a chair arm off to the side of the room.
“There will be an announcement made within the hour about Cortney’s case,” the detective said.
“You said you were going to arrest him this morning,” Ruth Bice said. The loss of Cortney along with the unresolved case had worn hard on her. She was a string stretched taut, almost to the snapping point. For Abernathy, the worst part of any murder or manslaughter investigation was seeing the violence echoing in the lives of the victim’s family.
“That was the plan. After we got Maggie Ferigami to tell the truth about the night Cortney died, everything fell into place.”
Gleason had used Maggie to bolster his claim that he hadn’t been drinking, and she’d maintained that story throughout the year. Then, last week, Abernathy heard an attempted reconciliation with her husband had fizzled. He’d kicked her out, and when she’d turned to Gleason for support, he dumped her. Abernathy interviewed her again, offering her immunity for any previous false statements. This time she told the story straight, including how they’d polished off a bottle of rum during their Christmas Eve tryst, with Gleason doing most of the polishing. It had taken a few days to finish not only crossing the t’s, but hammering those crossbeams in place, before they were ready to arrest Gleason.
“What happened?” Brad asked.
“Do you know what ipecac syrup is?”
Both Bices looked blankly at Abernathy.
“I’ve heard of it,” Cooper said. “Decades ago doctors recommended that households have it available in case of an accidental poisoning. It induces vomiting. Why do you ask?”
“Gleason went to Jimmy’s Tavern last night. Witnesses say he took ill.”
“Jimmy’s Tavern,” Brad repeated. “That’s where he was drinking the night Cortney died, isn’t it?”
“Yes. This morning we found a small bottle labeled ipecac syrup on a ledge outside the tavern’s door.”