Murder by Moonlight Page 15

  Kindler is nervous. He won’t make eye contact with me. He drinks some more of his beer, sets the pint glass down, unbuttons the top button on his starched white Oxford collar.

  “Does it matter what I think?” I offer.

  A waitress approaches us from behind the bar. She’s tall, full-figured, and beautifully auburn-haired with deep green eyes. She asks me if I want a drink. Budweiser, I tell her. Only the best swill for this detective.

  Jonathan blinks. “It does to me,” he says. “I want the person taking my mother’s money to believe in his cause.”

  The waitress brings my beer. In order to get at it, I have to reach around Jonathan and take it off the bar. I don’t offer an “excuse me” and he doesn’t bother to move an inch. I grab the beer, take a cold drink, repeat the process in reverse, setting the beer back down. But this time I kind of knock into the kid’s solid steel arm with my elbow. Kind of on purpose.

  His face contorts enough for me to notice.

  I grin.

  The testosterone builds.

  “I’m not taking your mother’s money,” I explain after a beat. “I’m earning it. That makes you and me on the same team, kid. Whether you like it or hate it.”

  Kindler chiming in: “Moonlight has a theory about the prosecution’s star law witness that just might provide the fuel we need to have Christopher released on parole.” I sense that he’s trying to tell Jonathan to be nice. In so many words. That even though I’m being paid by his severely injured and traumatized mother, I do in fact believe in her cause. Which, I’m guessing, I obviously do not.

  “What theory?” the kid says, never taking his eyes off me. “And why should we trust you?”

  “I’m pretty sure Bowman paid Jim O’Connor to back up his theory that your mom was able to finger your brother, Chris, as the perp immediately after having suffered a traumatic head injury. He’s probably also being paid to back up a fairly convincing string of circumstantial evidence that appears to link Chris directly to the crime. His Jeep being spotted outside the house, for instance, on the morning of the murder and attempted murder.”

  “Lots of people spotted my brother’s yellow Jeep. Our neighbor claims to have seen it in the driveway on the morning of September 15th.”

  “But it’s still circumstantial. Jeep Chrysler has manufactured and sold more than one yellow Wrangler. Terry will back that up. Won’t you Terry?”

  The lawyer nods.

  “What about a mud stain on the back?” Jonathan queries. “Some people are saying the mud stain is as good as getting a license plate number.”

  “Your neighbor Maxwell Okey get a picture of that Jeep with the mud stain?” I pose. “Or did he read about it in the papers and only think he saw a Jeep with a mud stain? Power of suggestion, maybe.” Keeping my eyes on the navy man.

  The kid nods, takes another drink of his beer, sets it back down in precisely the same condensate ring it sat in before. Military efficiency and accuracy. I don’t tell him how sure I am that Okey did see Christopher’s Jeep, and that it did, indeed, have a mud stain on the back.

  “I’ve also been looking into the Freddie Parker connection. He’s pretty angry at your parents for testifying against him.”

  “You saying my distant cousin could be the murderer?”

  “I’m saying he had motive. More than your brother. Because of his, ah…let’s call them ‘associations.’ He also had the means to carry such a murder out and, at the same time, make it look like Christopher did it.”

  Kindler’s eyes light up. His defense attorney radar is out.

  “However,” I go on, “I just spent part of the afternoon with Freddie, and I’m not sure he could kill a house spider much less go after your mom and dad with a fireman’s axe. Doesn’t mean I’m right, though.”

  Hard blue eyes glaring into my brown eyes. “Now, what you’re saying,” Jonathan says, “in your cheap, private dick way, is that despite my cousin’s mob connection, the courts are still more likely to believe my baby brother committed a hack job on my parents?”

  “Yup. As twisted as it might seem, Jonathan. And I don’t come cheap, by the way. Just ask Kindler here.”

  Terry looks like he swallowed a judge’s gavel. Judging by the Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his neck, that is.

  “Chris pretended to be a rich kid in front of his college friends,” I add. “He lied to them, told them his mother and father were wealthy property owners in Connecticut. Why do you think he’d do that, Jonathan?”

  “Chris likes the finer things in life,” he says after a beat. “He always thought my dad should practice law privately, make a shitload of money. Like our friend, Mr. Kindler, here.” He smiles, genuinely. It’s a first.

  “Make a million dollars that he could then pass on to Chris,” I suggest. “Makes sense. I understand your father had trouble making Chris’s tuition payments.”

  He nods.

  “I’m guessing you opted out of college because your dad couldn’t afford it—”

  “Moonlight, what the hell’s any of that have to do with—” Kindler, interjecting.

  “I’m talking with Jonathan,” I bark, eyeing the lawyer. I drink some more beer, then turn back to the kid. “You and your brother get along, Jonathan?”

  “Sure.”

  “Always get along?”

  “Always.”

  “What was he like as a kid?”

  “Kind of a loner. He played in the woods a lot behind the house. Spend the day out there. Alone. He’s an Eagle Scout.”

  “First class,” I say. “I know. You think your brother was capable of attacking your parents?”

  “Moonlight, please.” Kindler jumping in again.

  This time, Jonathan and I both toss him a look.

  “No,” he says, eyes back on me. “I. Do. Not.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I say. Then my gaze back on Kindler. “When do you want to meet with the prosecutor?” I ask. “Sooner the better.”

  “How’s about later this afternoon?” he says. “How do you know he’ll acquiesce so easily? It’s not like you have any physical evidence or solid alibi that proves Chris wasn’t at the scene.”

  “I have a plan.”

  “Care to let me in on said plan?”

  I pick up my beer bottle one last time, drain it. “No.” I set the bottle back on the bar, outside the original condensate ring. “Nice meeting you, Jonathan,” I offer.

  “You never answered my initial question, Moonlight,” he presses. “And I believe you didn’t answer it because deep down inside you think my little brother killed my father and tried to kill my mother.”

  Me, smiling. But not happily. “You’re not the one signing my checks,” I tell him, “and I don’t care what you believe.” It’s a lie, but it feels real good to say it anyway. “Your mother hired me to do a job and I intend on doing it right.”

  I leave the bar without paying for my beer.

  Back in the hearse, I dial Ferrance again.

  This time he answers. “Crime desk.”

  “Can you meet me at the Albany County Courthouse later this afternoon? Kindler is trying to set up a meeting with the prosecutor, Bowman, and a judge.”

  “You really going to get Chris out of jail? Word up is that the neighbors are pulling together to raise the two-hundred-fifty Gs bail scratch.”

  That’s the kind of news that turns my warm blood to ice. If Chris is guilty in the public eye…if he is so creepy…how the hell can he manage to generate an outpouring of financial support? It’s exactly how I pose it to Ferrance.

  “Beats the shit out of me,” he answers.

  “I think if they…whoever the hell they are…do indeed get up the money and if you show up, pen and paper in hand, he’s got a chance. They know I’m onto the O’Connor payment. They see both you and me there, I’m guessing they’ll let him go. Last thing the prosecutor and Bowman want is bad press over losing a possible capital offender over a suspected illegal cop payof
f.”

  “Can you prove Bowman paid O’Connor?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve sure as hell proven it to myself, just judging by their reactions to my accusations. In any case, I can get a judge to subpoena the Bethlehem Police petty cash fund or their piggy bank.”

  “That is, if Bowman didn’t pay him off with his own money. Or Christ, maybe union slush fund money.”

  “Nice touch. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I’ll make myself available. Call me with the appointed time.”

  “How much time you need?”

  “Twenty-three seconds. That’s how long it takes me to leave my desk, exit the building, be in my car, on the way to a super scoop.”

  “Sounds like you’re going out for ice cream,” I laugh. “I’ll give you twenty-five ticks as a cherry on top.”

  While I wait for Kindler’s call with the specific time for meeting with the prosecutor, I meet up with Aviva at the Stage Coach coffee shop on State. It’s late in the afternoon and school’s out for the day. She’s wearing a long black sweater that also serves as a short skirt over black tights and Italian leather, knee-high boots. Her dark hair is clean and lush. She smells like lavender and if it would not seem entirely out of place, I might make out with her right there on the couch inside the coffee shop.

  “So you’re sure Bowman made a payoff to a law professor who’s willing to prove the prosecution’s argument that Christopher Parker killed his father, tried to kill his mother, and that Joan Parker was coherent when she pointed him out as the perp.”

  She inhales a deep breath.

  “All that and more,” I agree.

  “But you don’t know for sure they paid him off.” It’s a question posed while she cautiously raises her coffee cup to her mouth, takes a slight sip with thick red lips.

  “As a former cop, I’ve been trained to recognize liars,” I point out, sipping my own coffee. “Facial expressions tell it all. Flushing of the cheeks, rapid blinking of the eyes, dilated pupils, broken eye contact…In the case of a man, bobbing of the Adam’s apple.”

  “Did you recognize these behaviors in Bowman and O’Connor when you confronted them?”

  “Bowman kicked me out of his office. O’Connor tried to choke me.”

  She stares at me with wide brown eyes that I want to dive into, swim around in a little. She laughs. “You can’t be serious.”

  “O’Connor followed me out to the parking lot, reached into the hearse window, grabbed hold of my neck. If a student hadn’t been there to stop him, I might own a chunk of Albany Law School by now. Or my estate might, anyway.”

  “And where would that leave me, Moonlight?”

  “You’d be a suddenly single woman who would be forever grieving the passing of her true love.”

  She smirks, drinks a little more coffee. “I never said I loved you. I said I was in love with you. There’s a difference. Plus, we don’t live together and we’re not quite significant others…Yet.”

  I look into her eyes, look for signs of dilating pupils, flushing of the cheeks, broken eye contact. As for the Adam’s apple, I’m SOL.

  “I do believe you’re lying, Aviva,” I protest. “You love me plenty. And you’re plenty in love.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “My built-in shit detector is finely tuned these days. Besides…”

  “Besides what, Moon?”

  “Nobody drives to my house with nothing on but a fur coat without being hopelessly devoted.”

  She sits back on the couch, leans into me, kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll keep you,” she says. “For now.”

  “Well,” I say. “Ain’t that reassuring.”

  I get the call from Kindler just after Aviva and I have finished our coffee and gone our separate ways. She for her apartment, and me for the Caddy.

  As it turns out, there’s not going to be a meeting between the defense, the prosecution, and the Bethlehem police, after all. Especially now that Detective Bowman’s body has just been found inside his car in the parking lot behind the Bethlehem Police Department, the back of his head blown out by a self-inflicted 9 mm gunshot.

  Before eating his piece, he left a note confirming my hunch: that he did indeed pay off O’Connor for backing up his story about Chris being an axe murderer.

  “Was the note written by hand?” I pose to Kindler.

  “I didn’t think to ask.”

  “Is it a crime to pay an expert witness, Terry?”

  “Not if the payoff is aboveboard and both sides have access to the expert. But in this case, where the police clearly paid O’Connor to lie for them, that’s perjury and a felony. Bowman got found out and before he faced probable demotion or expulsion without a pension, he killed himself. Simple as that.”

  “It doesn’t feel right to me. It’s bad that Bowman paid off O’Connor, but it isn’t so bad he has to die for it.”

  “People commit suicide for other reasons, too, Moonlight. Isn’t that right?” Here it comes…“I mean, no offense or anything. But isn’t it usually a combination of things coupled with depression, a sense of hopelessness?”

  “Believe it or not, Terry, I’m not an expert. I went through a bad spell, got drunk out of my gourd, and almost did something very stupid and selfish. You want a suicide expert, go ask a shrink.”

  He laughs. “I would, but he might never let me go.”

  “I’m going to head over to the Bethlehem police, do a little snooping.”

  “You sure that’s necessary, Moonlight?”

  “No, I’m not sure it’s necessary. But I want to see the scene for myself.”

  “Obviously, you haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Some Brockley Drive neighbors raised the cash for Christopher’s bail. Judge Cross has already granted Chris’s release based on Bowman’s suicide note. Kid’s being processed as we speak. We couldn’t have done it without you and your fine work tracking down that payoff to Dr. O’Connor.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Don’t sound so enthused, Moonlight. Tell you what, I’m having a little get-together at my house tonight at seven. Why don’t you come by. We can have a drink, let our hair down. So to speak.”

  First Bowman blows his brains out, now Chris’s release. All of it happening in the same afternoon. The veteran dick’s suicide aside, I should be ecstatic. I not only accomplished what Joan hired me for, but I uncovered a sneaky pay-for-testimony plot by the local cops and their expert witness. Only trouble is, another life has been lost in the Great Society of Bethlehem and it doesn’t sit very well with me. What also doesn’t sit too well is a free Christopher Parker, even if that has been the point of my recent employ.

  “I’ll be there,” I tell him and hang up.

  For a minute, I just sit behind the wheel of the hearse and breathe. If I were still a smoker, I might fire one up, contemplatively blow the blue smoke out the cracked-open window, stare out onto busy downtown State Street, the Hudson River visible just beyond it.

  I guess some PIs in my position would call it a day, maybe head home, catch a nap before the big party, maybe order up a whole bunch of new business cards:

  Moonlight Private Detective Agency.

  We’ll Do Anything for Money.

  But then, my damaged brain still houses a conscience; my body, a soul.

  Or does it?

  I pull out onto State Street with just that disturbing thought in mind.

  As I arrive at the Bethlehem Police Department some fifteen stop-and-go minutes later, it’s going on five in the afternoon and the winter sun is already beginning to set. The lot behind the precinct building is full. Not only with the usual blue-and-white cruisers and employee rides, but also with an EMS van. The old Buick I take to be Bowman’s has been cordoned off with yellow Do-Not-Enter-Crime-Scene ribbon and several plainclothes men and women are working it.

  I pull off to the side of the road and park the Caddy funeral coach behind some trees. In a place w
here it’s not so visible. Otherwise, everyone’s gonna think I’m here to pick up Bowman’s body. Getting out, I make my way across the lot to the ribboned-off Buick.

  “Help you?” asks a beefy blue-uniformed cop protecting the scene.

  I pull out my wallet, show him my laminated PI license. “Name’s Moonlight. I’ve been working the Parker case.”

  “He’s OK,” interjects a woman coming up behind me.

  I turn, peer over my shoulder. It’s Darleen from a couple of days ago. The black woman who poked her head inside Bowman’s office, kindly asked if we wanted coffee.

  She approaches me, stands beside me, sighs.

  “When they find him?”

  “Little over an hour ago,” she says and exhales. “Said he was going to the Four Corners for coffee. Even asked us if anybody wanted one.” She sticks a finger inside her too tight uniform collar, pulls on it, makes room for her neck. “I asked for a double latte with skim milk, no sugar.” Shaking her head.

  Bowman took a coffee order before heading out to the car and blowing his brains out? How messed up is that? Or maybe there was nothing messed up about it at all. That is, what appears to be a suicide turns out to be anything but.

  “Who found him?”

  “We heard the shot from inside. It wasn’t loud. It was just so obviously a pistol discharge.”

  “You would know.”

  “Right on, sugar.” Nodding. “I. Would. Know.”

  “Any reason why he did it?”

  “Why does anybody do it, Mr. Moonlight?”

  She’s got a point and for a change it appears someone in SmAlbany has no idea about my past emotional difficulties. But there’s more to this story than her rhetorical question, and she knows it.

  Time for more fishing. “I heard there was a note. Think I can get a look at it?”

  “That would still be in the car with the forensic junkies,” she points out. “I can get you a look if your stomach can take it. It’s not S.O.P. while forensics is working, but it’s a suicide and this ain’t Manhattan.”

  “I’ve seen gunshot victims before,” I reveal. It’s a not a fib. Unfortunately, I’m one of them.