Justice Page 15

  For a moment Henry lost track of where he was and what he was doing, the Audi drifting to the right and lurching suddenly as its right wheel dropped onto the soft shoulder of the road. He recovered just in time, finally bringing the big sedan to a stop without going into the ditch. Annika was still talking, her voice disembodied and surreal over the hands-free, until she finally stopped. Henry did nothing to fill in the silence.

  “Henry? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something just ran out in front of the car, that’s all.”

  “Oh. You still driving?”

  “No, I stopped.”

  “Poor girl,” Annika said breathlessly, “I didn’t really know her, just to say hello, but she seemed really nice. Anyway, Lori said things are moving pretty fast and they know who did it. They may have him already, so that’s a good thing.”

  Henry didn’t bother asking who it was. He already knew.

  “It’s, uh, Alex Stromberg,” Annika said, waited for some kind of response. She didn’t get one.

  “Henry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you all right, Henry? You sound funny.”

  It took him a moment to come up with an answer.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just remembered something I have to do. I’ll come in later.”

  Henry ended the call. It was his shop and he ran it his own way, and even though Annika was young and attractive he’d retained just enough common sense to keep things professional. The age difference helped, gave him authority and distance. She was a smart girl anyway, never went to his parties at the lake, dressed conservatively in the office, never referred to him as ‘Henry’ in public. It also helped that she felt no personal attraction to him at all. She was in her mid-twenties and to her Henry Whittaker was a dinosaur. She tolerated his antiquated ‘secretary’ terminology, rebutted with a withering stare any innuendo from members of the Strothwood morality squad that if she was working for Henry Whittaker there had to be something ‘going on’. Annika had one of the best jobs in town and she was smart enough to know it. She was also smart enough not to challenge or question him, because she wanted to keep it. She considered covering Henry’s sometimes quixotic and unexplained absences an inviolable trust, part of her job description.

  Henry knew that, and after Annika’s phone call he’d just sat in the Audi for a few minutes, maybe longer. He didn’t know how long it had been and afterward he wouldn’t remember. Finally he just turned the Audi around, held himself together long enough to go back to the cottage and find a bottle of something and stare out at the lake. All he wanted to do was pull back and rage at the circumstances that had exposed Karen to a fucking animal like Stromberg. He was even angry at her, maybe especially angry at her, for not seeing what she and Henry could have been together, something that would have altered her life’s trajectory so far beyond the constricted little orbit of that fucking bar and those fucking people that she’d be alive right now and they’d both be happy and fuck it, it was too fucking late to think about any of that even though he knew that would be all he’d be thinking about.

  He didn’t come back into the office until the next day. He needed that long to make sure his emotions didn’t betray him.

  He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think anyone was aware of his connection with Karen, if connection it really was. In a lot of ways Karen had just been a guilty fantasy, his alone, but if anyone knew or found out he was past caring, was proud of it. Annika had simply deposited the dispassionate police report on his desk to await his arrival in the office. He’d come in for work when she was away on her break, and even after he got into the office it took a few minutes before he could compel himself to read it. It was hard, and when Annika got back he opened his office door only long enough to tell her that he was working on the file and didn’t want any interruptions.

  Annika didn’t question that either, at least not until Ed Cunningham called.

  41

  The big pickup fishtailed as Frank swung it into his driveway, wheels spinning as he took the incline and brought it to a stop by his side door. He just sat there for a long moment, listening to the engine tick over and staring straight ahead. It was, he thought, time to go. He’d tried the homecoming, years too late, and it hadn’t worked out. People here were just as venal, just as flawed as they were in any other place in the world – maybe not in the same way that he’d encountered for years in Pittsburgh, but in other ways that were every bit as perverse. He’d turned Strothwood into a fantasy, a construct, something he’d built up in his mind into something that probably hadn’t existed in the first place. He was surprised at how long he’d actually believed in it, but Adrienne and Emily had changed all that, and he knew he’d been complicit in it. Now he was a pariah, expertly ostracized in a way that only small towns could do it.

  The metallic knock on the tailgate startled him and he instinctively reached for the Python, knowing it would have been too late anyway. He looked into the wing mirror and flushed with embarrassment. It was Laura Henderson, a local attorney who, if he remembered correctly, was not his biggest fan. He sighed heavily and climbed out of the driver’s seat.

  She was wearing a dark blue coat and a light blue scarf that contrasted sharply with her dark, reddish hair. The overall effect was stylish, businesslike, and entirely out of context, considering the state of his driveway. He hoped she wasn’t wearing expensive shoes. She gave him a tight smile.

  “Hello, Frank.”

  That sounded disarmingly informal – whatever contact they’d had over the years had been limited to a professional environment, either in a courtroom or in the police station. First names were rarely involved and the contact was usually adversarial. In spite of that she would have been one of the first to know when his relationship with Adrienne Simmonds had blown up in his face and cost him his job as police chief.

  That was it, he realized. It had to be something to do with Adrienne, or more likely her daughter. In spite of the prevailing town opinion he’d done nothing wrong there, but Frank knew that wouldn’t make any difference to a freelancing lawyer in pursuit of billable hours or a pro bono showcase. He still had his pension from twenty years on the job in Pittsburgh and he was able to pay what few bills he had, but in spite of her antipathy for him he couldn’t see Adrienne coming up with some kind of lawsuit. For one thing, she valued her privacy too much. More importantly, he hadn’t done anything wrong. The quick shuffle of thoughts must have shown on his face, because a hint of insolence crept into Henderson’s smile.

  “Sorry to sneak up on you like that,” she said, although she looked more amused than repentant. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  That embarrassed him. She must have seen him jump when she knocked on the tailgate. Reflexively he looked back down his driveway, saw the late model Honda Accord parked across the street. It had either been there all along and she’d been waiting for him or she had just pulled up and walked all the way up behind him without him being aware that she was even there. Either way it was a disturbing indication of how far he’d let himself go.

  “I did try to call,” she told him.

  “What can I do for you?” he kept his voice just on the friendly side of neutral. From what he’d seen of her she could be a ballbreaker.

  She looked around her.

  “Could we do this inside?” she asked.

  Frank hesitated long enough that she caught it.

  “Frank, this has nothing to do with Adrienne.”

  An ADA once, Frank forgot who it was, had said that about her. She was intuitive and quick. She could also be lying. Frank knew that she and Adrienne were friends, as much as Adrienne Simmonds could be friends with anybody. They were both smarter than hell, far better educated than most of their Strothwood contemporaries, saw themselves as professionals hunkered down among the great unwashed.

  He didn’t want her in the house anyway, regardless of what she wanted. It had been embarrassing enough when Angie had
seen it. The place was a mess. Bad enough that she’d seen how jumpy he was now, just as bad or worse that she see how he was living. It would inevitably get back to Adrienne. To hell with it, he thought. He was getting tired of his own paranoia and he was getting even more tired of caring what Adrienne or anyone else thought. He turned around and led her back up to the house. He didn’t say anything about the FOR SALE sign in the front yard. She didn’t either.

  He unlocked the side door but didn’t stand aside to let her in first. He walked in ahead of her, scanned the kitchen, tried to spot the worst of it before she did. A few dirty dishes still in the sink, the half-empty bottle of Famous Grouse stowed discreetly in the corner under the cupboards. Visible, but at least it wouldn’t look like he’d been drinking it for breakfast.

  “Can I get you something?” he asked.

  He watched her eyes move to the bottle in the corner. Not so discreetly after all.

  “I meant coffee.”

  “No, thank you.”

  She stayed where she was, only a couple of feet inside the room. Good. Better to keep her in the kitchen – he couldn’t remember for sure but thought there was a better than even chance that the couch in the living room still had a pile of blankets lying on it. She’d already seen enough, and she was lousy at trying to hide her disdain at what she saw, assuming she was trying to hide it at all. Frank felt a rising tide of annoyance, both that she’d put him in this position and that because of his upbringing he still felt some kind of obligation to be hospitable. Even if this really did have nothing to do with Adrienne Simmonds and her daughter he sensed he was being played. Laura Henderson was an attractive woman and she wasn’t afraid to use that to her advantage. He’d seen her do it before, both in the courtroom and at the station itself. It usually preceded an attempt to cut somebody’s balls off.

  “Is it all right if we sit down?” she asked, “I know you’re …. on hiatus right now, but I wanted to talk to you about something. Off the record.”

  Hiatus, Frank thought, like he was in between seasons on a sitcom. He shrugged, motioned toward one of the two battered chairs at the kitchen table. She hesitated almost imperceptibly and then took the other chair, the one nearest the door, the obvious and unspoken message that she couldn’t trust him not to tear her clothes off. God knew what Adrienne might have told her. Even without that the rumor mill would have been enough. Frank sat down too, kept his eyes on hers even when she crossed her legs and the folds of the coat parted to reveal a flash of thigh. His guard was still up and he intended to keep it there.

  “Okay,” his voice was harsher than he’d intended but he was pissed off, “so what is this about?”

  She looked genuinely surprised.

  “You haven’t heard about this, have you?”

  “Heard about what?”

  Henderson took a deep breath, her eyes hunting the room. Finally she looked back at him.

  “I’m sorry, Frank. I thought you’d know by now.”

  “What are we talking about?” It took an effort to keep his voice steady. Something bad had happened, and this visit was beginning to have the feel of visits he’d had to make too many times himself.

  “Frank, I have to be careful here. Do you know a woman named Karen Dennison? Works at that bar Ted Saunders owns? Is she someone you know?”

  That clinched it. Frank didn’t spend a lot of time in Ted Saunders’ place but inevitably he’d come across Karen Dennison. She’d made an impression, a good one.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “That was stupid of me, Frank.” Henderson looked annoyed with herself. “I apologize. She was found dead in her apartment. Early this morning.” She looked genuinely concerned. Frank reminded himself that she was a lawyer, would be good at looking concerned when it served her purposes.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Frank assumed the impassive mask that every cop learned to flip on and off like a switch. Laura Henderson didn’t need to know how well he’d known Karen Dennison or even if he’d known her at all. Henderson kept her eyes on his a moment longer. Then she threw her own switch and moved on.

  “They’ve already got somebody in custody. Alex Stromberg.”

  “One of our frequent fliers. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “No one is. He and Karen had been seeing each other for a while so they all assume it was him.”

  “Probably was.”

  “Probably’ doesn’t cut it, Frank,” she snapped. “You of all people should know that. Do you want to know the rest of it or not?”

  “You’re here.”

  Henderson didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at him as if trying to decide whether it was worth continuing.

  “What they have,” she said finally, “is circumstantial at best. The other night Stromberg and Karen got into a very public argument at the bar. From what everyone said it was a real gong show. One of the bouncers stepped in and Stromberg just flattened him and stormed out. Karen stayed at work, closed up the bar, and went back to her place.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Stromberg.”

  This was too cute for words and her expression said she realized it.

  “He went to her apartment early that morning, you know, to try to patch things up. He still had a key and he used it to let himself in. She was already dead, in the bedroom. He says he must have gone into shock or something and it took him a few minutes to get himself together before he could call 911.”

  “I bet.”

  She ignored him.

  “It’s not right, Frank. The cops aren’t even looking for anyone else.”

  “I wouldn’t be either.”

  “He wouldn’t kill her and then call 911 on himself.”

  “Sure he would. Happens all the time.”

  She bit her lip. In spite of himself Frank almost felt sorry for her.

  “Ms. Henderson—”

  “Laura.”

  “Laura, right – you got something you’re not telling me?”

  She squirmed a little and then took the plunge.

  ”They’ve got a witness. Woman in the apartment next door, Edith Springer. She says she heard a commotion in the middle of the night, woke her up. She went to the door and saw Stromberg stomping away down the hallway.”

  “Dead bang, Laura. You’re wasting your time.”

  “Eyewitnesses, Frank,” she snapped. “You know how unreliable they are. Edith Springer is elderly, it was the middle of the night, and she was half asleep. Her apartment is farther down the hall than Karen Dennison’s and Karen’s apartment was between Edith’s and the only stairway. She insists it was Stromberg but it’s only a few steps from Karen’s doorway until you start down the stairs. She couldn’t have gotten that good a look at him – he would have had his back to her.”

  It was weak, and Frank could tell even she knew it.

  “So right now,” Frank told her, “you’re taking Alex Stromberg at his word. He’s telling you hell no, I’d never do such a thing, and that’s enough for you.”

  “The presumption of innocence is enough for me. If I don’t give him that who’s going to?”

  “I get that. I just don’t understand why you’re telling me.”

  “I wanted to get an opinion from you, maybe some advice.”

  Laura Henderson had never struck him as someone who solicited advice from anybody. She was smart, a product of a fairly big time law school, and basically overqualified to be practicing criminal law in a place like Strothwood. There’d always been a kind of contained arrogance about her, as if she was slumming. Maybe she was, and there were times when Frank thought he could be accused of the same thing.

  “Laura, I hope you’ll excuse me for saying this, but you’re the attorney, not me, and if I remember correctly you’re pretty good.” She allowed herself a small smile, enough for Frank to know she completely agreed with that assessment. “You’ve gotta know I have zero influence over there right now, and
even if I did it doesn’t sound like you or your client have a hope in hell anyway.”

  “I wasn’t asking for your influence. Frank. Let’s just say I’m trying to level the playing field.”

  42

  True to form Ed Cunningham had gotten involved early and summoned both Henry and Brent Williams to his office. That was where they were now, sitting outside in reception while Ed kept them waiting just long enough to show how important he was.

  As with so many other things where Ed was concerned, the meeting had more to do with his own self-interest than anything else. Technically there was no need for his involvement at all, and Henry could have blown him off with every justification in the world. Realistically, though, that would only have delayed the inevitable. Not for the first time Henry had decided it was better to be inside the tent pissing out than outside it pissing in.

  Finally Julie’s phone buzzed and she looked over at them and smiled.

  “Ed will see you now,” she said.

  He and Brent exchanged a weary glance and went in. They both had better things to do than massage Ed Cunningham’s ego.

  Ed had apparently decided this was worth orchestrating a bit. He was in a shirt and tie, his suit jacket hanging in a corner near the desk. The tie was knotted but loose, top button of the shirt undone, sleeves rolled up evenly just over the elbows, busy Servant of the People 101. He stood up behind his desk and came around to meet them, guiding them to a round table and chairs. He didn’t bother with the usual banalities and that was fine with Henry. It was three o’clock on a Friday afternoon and this was the last official ritual he’d have to go through this week, the last time he’d have to pretend that his only interest in what had happened was purely professional.

  “So,” Ed looked across the table at them, “obviously a horrible, sad thing. I just wanted to get you both in here for a snapshot of where we are at this moment.”

  Snapshot, Henry thought. Another of Ed’s terms that he’d gotten from somewhere. He took a sidelong glance at Brent and saw from his expression that he didn’t much like ‘snapshots’ either. Then, true to form, Brent erased any hint of that from his face and addressed Cunningham with the same deference he always did.