Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
“And?”
Zack blushed and said, “She wanted me to have a vasectomy.”
“A vasectomy?” Kenner said. “That’s not asking for much.”
“Now it seems incredible, but at the time I considered doing it. I’ve always wanted children and I thought she might change her mind. I’m forty-five, that’s not too late to become a father. But she was firm. She wanted to be absolutely sure she didn’t get pregnant. We argued for weeks and she said she wanted to think about it. What I didn’t know is, she started looking around.”
Kenner arched his eyebrows, though he wasn’t surprised.
“His name is Jon Stitcher. He’s a lawyer. He lives on North Paces Ferry Road. His office is on Peachtree, a half-mile from Piedmont Hospital. I’ve driven by that office many times and I always looked, hoping Kim would walk out the door so I could see her one more time. Once she left, she never returned my calls or e-mails. She cut me off, like I didn’t exist.”
A knock broke the interview. The Atlanta cop opened the door and Brownlee walked in.
“His alibi checked out,” he said.
In the car, Brownlee used his cell phone to look up the business address for Jon Stitcher, also discovering his home address matched the registration for Kim Collins’ Escalade. They drove down Peachtree Street again and stopped at a squat brick building with an English script sign out front. It said, “The Law Complex.”
“The law is complex,” Kenner said to Brownlee and got out of the car.
The receptionist was a skinny black woman who didn’t blink when the three cops walked in and asked for Stitcher. Two minutes later a door opened and he strode into the room — yet another slender blond man. This one slicked his hair straight back and wore a dark blue double-breasted suit with a thin chalk stripe and shoulder padding. He spread his legs into a commanding stance and positioned his fists on his hips. Kenner thought he looked like an extra from a 1940s gangster movie.
“You wanted to see me?” Stitcher said.
“Kim Collins is dead. She was shot to death this morning.”
“That’s terrible news.” His voice was dry as Death Valley but his upper lip glistened with perspiration. “I know you’re here because of my relationship with Kim. I’ll be glad to answer questions. Let me call my lawyer.”
While Kenner waited, he stepped outside the building and telephoned the Honda dealership.
“It’s three-fifteen,” Kenner said.
“I was about to call you,” Nick Glass said. “I’m sitting in my office with the service rep from the security company. One camera outside was working off and on. We have a few frames you’ll want to see.”
“I need those images right away. I mean now.”
“Give me an e-mail address.”
Kenner sat down at a conference table in a back room with Stitcher and Ned Jennings. He was a lawyer Kenner had seen in Atlanta courtrooms when upper-class people committed lower-class crimes like beating up their girlfriends or buying street drugs. He was a dark-haired version of Stitcher, but ten years older. Both lawyers wore black cap-toe oxfords, a serious shoe. Kenner approved.
“My client broke up with that woman months ago,” Jennings said. “She’s ancient history. Do you think Jon Stitcher is a killer? Do you know who he is? He’s one of the top asbestos lawyers in the country.”
Stitcher’s tanning-bed glow increased ten megawatts.
“We’ve got information that says otherwise,” Brownlee said.
Kenner held up his hand and shot Brownlee a shut-up look. “He fits the description of the shooter,” Kenner said. “We think witnesses will pick him out of a lineup. He used to live with the victim. We’re going to search his home and find other evidence.”
“That’s not much. You’re wasting his valuable time. He canceled an appointment for this.”
Kenner said to Stitcher, “When did you last talk to Kim?”
He tightened his already crossed legs. “About three months ago.”
“Bad breakup?”
“It was for the best.”
“When you met Kim on the flight, what city were you going to?”
“To Atlanta. From Dallas,” he said with a cough.
“At what point did you leave your wife?”
Jennings said, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“The Escalade, how much did that cost?”
“Wait a minute,” Jennings said. “What Escalade are we talking about?”
“The Escalade registered in Kim Collins’ name at Mister Stitcher’s home address on North Paces Ferry Road. The one Kim Collins tried to pick up at the dealership this morning before she was killed.”
“I’ve never been to Millerton,” Stitcher said.
“Stop talking,” Jennings said.
Jennings and Stitcher stood and walked to a back corner of the conference room and started whispering, their voices sounding like shoes sliding across a concrete floor. Kenner looked around. Why did city lawyers always decorate their offices with fox-hunting prints?
“Counselors,” he called, “we’re feeling left out.”
Jennings walked back to the table and said, “This is bullshit.”
Brownlee opened his laptop and clicked an e-mail attachment. A grainy black-and-white photo opened showing a man in a dark shirt, light-colored pants, and baseball cap walking across the parking lot of the dealership. Brownlee clicked open a second attachment that caught the man’s profile from a distance. It looked a little like Stitcher. Kenner tapped the screen with a pencil and said, “That’s your client.”
“No more questions,” Jennings said, slicing the air with his palm.
“You mean no more answers,” Kenner said. “We’ll be asking lots of questions.”
Brownlee recited the Miranda warning. Stitcher tried to set his face into a mask of impassivity while the Atlanta cop cuffed his hands behind his back, but Kenner saw his eyes flick around the room, focusing on nothing and nobody.
“Don’t say anything, Jon,” Jennings said. “I’ll visit you tomorrow and get you out on bail. I’ll call your father.”
Brownlee drove again. It was seven at night and the rush-hour traffic had thinned. The lawyer sat like a statue in the backseat. Just south of the airport Kenner’s cell buzzed. It was Dover, from the medical examiner’s office.
“I just finished the Collins woman,” he said. “Gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach. Died instantly. Doesn’t look like she had any drugs in her system.”
“How pregnant was she? How many weeks?”
They talked two more minutes and Kenner turned off the phone. He glanced backward to see Stitcher suddenly paying attention.
“That was the medical examiner,” Kenner told him. “Don’t know if you care, but Kim Collins wasn’t pregnant.”
Stitcher jerked forward and said, “You’re trying to trick me. Why would she lie?”
“Dunno,” Kenner said, turning forward.
“I just don’t believe it,” Stitcher said. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he struggled to find a suitable position on the seat before flopping onto his side. Kenner heard him hyperventilating.
He motioned for Brownlee to exit the interstate and park in the corner of a bright convenience-store parking lot. He locked his Glock in the trunk, went inside the store, and returned with two cans of Coke. He squeezed into the backseat and unlocked Stitcher’s cuffs. Stitcher stripped off his suit coat and gulped the Coke. Sweat streaked his white dress shirt.
“Lying bitch. Now I’m going to prison because of her lies.”
Kenner said, “Why’d you get the vasectomy?”
Stitcher froze, then exhaled deeply and fell backward onto the seat.
“How’d you know? I didn’t tell anybody but Ned, and I know he hasn’t told you yet.”