“Time will tell. In the meantime, do you want some scrambled eggs?”
“Breakfast, he offers me.” She was pouring her own cup of coffee. “Since it’s not Valentine’s Day or my birthday, should I find that suspicious?”
“I’m killing time. Got a text from Alec, but I can’t call him until seven.”
“Good news or bad?”
“No idea. So do you want some eggs?”
“Yes. Two. Fried, not scrambled.”
“You know I always break the yolks.”
“Since I get to sit and watch, I will restrain my criticism. Wheat toast, please.”
For a wonder, only one of the yolks broke. As he set the plate in front of her, she said, “If Terry Maitland killed that child, the world has gone insane.”
“The world is insane,” Howie said, “but he didn’t do it. He has an alibi as strong as the S on Superman’s chest.”
“Why did they arrest him, then?”
“Because they believe they have proof as strong as the S on Superman’s chest.”
She considered this. “Unstoppable force meets immovable object?”
“There is no such thing, sweetheart.”
He looked at his watch. Five minutes of seven. Close enough. He called Alec’s cell.
His investigator answered on the third ring. “You’re early, and I’m shaving. Can you call back in five minutes? At seven, in other words, as I suggested?”
“No,” Howie said, “but I’ll wait until you wipe the shaving cream off the phone side of your face, how’s that?”
“You’re a tough boss,” Alec said, but he sounded good-humored in spite of the hour, and in spite of being interrupted at a task most men preferred to do while occupied by nothing but their own thoughts. Which gave Howie hope. He had a lot to work with already, but he could always use more.
“Is it good news or bad news?”
“Give me a second, will you? I’m getting this shit all over my phone.”
It was more like five, but then Alec was back. “The news is good, boss. Good for us and bad for the DA. Very bad.”
“You saw the security footage? How much is there, and from how many cameras?”
“I saw the footage, and there’s plenty.” Alec paused, and when he spoke again, Howie knew he was smiling; he could hear it in the man’s voice. “But there’s something better. Much better.”
8
Jeanette Anderson rose at quarter of seven and found her husband’s side of the bed empty. The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee, but Ralph wasn’t there, either. She looked out the window and saw him sitting at the picnic table in the backyard, still in his striped pajamas and sipping from the joke cup Derek had given him last Father’s Day. On the side, in big blue letters, it said YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT UNTIL I DRINK MY COFFEE. She got her own cup, went out to him, and kissed his cheek. The day was going to be a hot one, but now this early morning was cool and quiet and pleasant.
“Can’t let go of it, can you?” she asked.
“None of us will be letting go of this one,” he said. “Not for awhile.”
“It’s Sunday,” she said. “Day of rest. And you need it. I don’t like the way you look. According to an article I read in the New York Times Health section last week, you have entered heart attack country.”
“That’s cheering.”
She sighed. “What’s first on your list?”
“Checking with that other teacher, Deborah Grant. Just a t to cross. I have no doubt she’ll confirm that Terry was on the trip to Cap City, although there’s always a chance that she noticed something off about him that Roundhill and Quade missed. Women can be more observant.”
Jeannie considered this idea doubtful, perhaps even sexist, but it wasn’t the time to say so. She reverted to their discussion of the night before, instead. “Terry was here. He did do it. What you need is some forensic evidence from there. I guess DNA is out of the question, but fingerprints?”
“We can dust the room where he and Quade stayed, but they checked out Wednesday morning, and the room will have been cleaned and occupied since then. Almost certainly more than once.”
“But it’s still possible, isn’t it? Some hotel maids are conscientious, but plenty just make the beds and wipe the rings and smudges off the coffee table and call it good. What if you found Mr. Quade’s fingerprints, but not Terry Maitland’s?”
He liked the flush of Junior Detective excitement on her face, and wished he didn’t have to dampen it. “It wouldn’t prove anything, hon. Howie Gold would tell the jury they couldn’t convict anyone on the absence of prints, and he’d be right.”
She considered this. “Okay, but I still think you should gather prints from that room, and identify as many as possible. Can you do that?”
“Yes. And it’s a good idea.” It was at least another t to cross. “I’ll find out which room it was, and try to have the Sheraton move out whoever is in there now. I think they’ll cooperate, given the play this is going to have in the media. We’ll dust it top to bottom and side to side. But what I really want is to see the security footage from the days that convention was in session, and since Detective Sablo—he’s the State Police’s lead on this—won’t be back until later today, I’m going to take a run up there myself. I’ll be hours behind Gold’s investigator, but that can’t be helped.”
She put a hand over his. “Just promise me you’ll stop every once in a while and acknowledge the day, honey. It’s the only one you’ll have until tomorrow.”
He smiled at her, squeezed her hand, then let go. “I keep thinking about the vehicles he used, the one he used to kidnap the Peterson boy and the one he left town in.”
“The Econoline van and the Subaru.”
“Uh-huh. The Subaru doesn’t bother me much. That one was a straight steal from a municipal parking lot, and we’ve seen plenty of similar thefts since 2012 or so. The new keyless ignitions are the car thief’s best friend, because when you stop somewhere, thinking about whatever errands you have to run or what you’re going to put on for supper, you don’t see your keys dangling from the ignition. It’s easy to leave the electronic fob behind, especially if you’re wearing earbuds or yakking on your phone, and don’t hear the car chiming at you to take them. The Subaru’s owner—Barbara Nearing—left her fob in the cup holder and the parking ticket on the dashboard when she went to work at eight. Car was gone when she came back at five.”
“The attendant doesn’t remember who drove it out?”
“No, and that’s not surprising. It’s a big garage, five levels, there are people coming and going all the time. There’s a camera at the exit, but the footage gets wiped every forty-eight hours. The van, though . . .”
“What about the van?”
“It belonged to a part-time carpenter and handyman named Carl Jellison, who lives in Spuytenkill, New York, a little town between Poughkeepsie and New Paltz. He took his keys, but there was a spare in a little magnetic box under the rear bumper. Someone found the box and drove the van away. Bill Samuels’s theory is that the thief drove it from mid-state New York to Cap City . . . or Dubrow . . . or maybe right here to FC . . . and then left it with that spare key still in the ignition. Terry found it, re-stole it, and stashed it somewhere. Maybe in a barn or shed outside of town. God knows there are plenty of abandoned farms since everything went blooey in 2008. He ditched the van behind Shorty’s Pub with the key still in it, hoping—not unreasonably—that someone would steal it a third time.”