Past Tense Page 12

  “They cut his throat, huh?” I said.

  “Ear to ear.”

  “His name is Paul Romano,” I said. “He’s a doctor from New Jersey. He was looking into buying a pediatric practice here in Cortland.”

  Vanderweigh nodded. He already knew that. “Let’s talk,” he said.

  He led me away from the crowd to an unmarked sedan, and we leaned against the side. “You want some coffee?” he said.

  “Desperately.”

  Vanderweigh got the attention of one of the uniformed Cortland cops, lifted his cupped hand to his mouth in a drinking gesture, and held up two fingers. The cop nodded.

  Vanderweigh turned to me. “So tell me about Dr. Paul Romano.”

  I told him what little Romano had told me.

  “You had supper with him last night, I understand.”

  “Not really. He sat with me for a few minutes. But I ate in a booth and he moved to the counter.”

  “You had an argument.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I just let him know that I preferred to eat alone. I didn’t like him.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “Not my kind of guy, that’s all. He was making suggestive comments about the waitress. He hinted that he had a woman ‘lined up’—I believe that’s the term he used—for the evening.”

  “And you found this offensive?”

  I smiled. “I found it boring.”

  “Did he mention who this woman he had lined up was?”

  “No. At the time, I didn’t necessarily believe him. He struck me as one of those guys who like to brag about their conquests.”

  “And that kind of guy bores you.”

  “Yes. Even when I was a teenager I thought they were boring. I figured they were all lying. I’d rather read the sports page than listen to that crap, and that’s more or less what I told Romano. He got the hint and moved to the counter.”

  “The way I hear it,” said Vanderweigh, “it was more than a hint.”

  “I don’t know how you heard it,” I said, “but we did not exactly exchange blows. I was sitting peacefully in a booth, and he came along and sat across from me, and I made it as clear as I could in the most civil manner I was capable of that I’d prefer not sharing my booth, and he moved to the counter. If you’ve got yourself some witness who wants to make a motive for murder out of that …”

  Vanderweigh patted my arm. “Relax, Mr. Coyne. I’ve questioned plenty of eyewitnesses in my day.”

  The uniformed officer came over with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. “Hope black is all right,” he said to Vanderweigh.

  Vanderweigh shrugged and gave me one of the cups.

  I took off the lid, sipped it, and felt a tiny spark of life tingle in my veins.

  Vanderweigh blew on his coffee. “Any thoughts on who might want to kill Romano?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “But … ?”

  I shrugged. “I just didn’t find him a likable guy, that’s all. In fact, I thought he was quite obnoxious. Maybe somebody else reacted the same way.”

  “Like who?”

  I shook my head. “If you killed everybody you didn’t like, there wouldn’t be many people left.”

  Vanderweigh smiled and sipped his coffee. “So,” he said, “what brings you to Cortland?”

  “I’m looking for Evie Banyon.”

  He nodded. I had the feeling that so far, at least, I hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. “Any luck?” he said.

  “I haven’t found her, no.” It wasn’t a lie, at least not technically. I hadn’t found Evie. She had found me.

  But if Vanderweigh knew that Evie was hiding in my motel room at that very moment, I doubted he’d be tolerant of a technicality.

  It was wrong to deceive a state police homicide detective, especially with a murdered body sitting in a nearby car. But I’d said it, and I would stick with it.

  “What made you think Ms. Banyon was in Cortland?” Vanderweigh asked.

  “She wasn’t home. She lived here before she moved to Concord. I figured she had friends here. Anyway, this is where Larry Scott lived, and since you guys seem to think she murdered him …”

  “I never said that,” said Vanderweigh.

  I nodded. “But you think it. So anyway, I thought Evie might have an idea of who actually did kill Scott and came here to figure it out. Or maybe she just came here to get away from it all.”

  “To hide?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Any idea if she actually did come here?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t found her. It was a dumb idea, me coming here. But I was worried, and I missed her. It made me feel better, doing something. Better than sitting around waiting for her to call.”

  “Did you know that Romano had a room here in this motel?”

  “No. He never mentioned that.”

  “Both of you eating at the same diner, staying in the same motel, huh?”

  “Here I am again,” I said, “at the scene of the crime. Opportunity, means, and a damn good motive.”

  He shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

  “As far as I know, that diner and this motel are the only places to eat and sleep in this town.”

  “Did you tell Romano why you were here in Cortland?”

  “No. I told him I was a lawyer and couldn’t talk about it. So he told me a lawyer joke. You can’t tell Polish jokes or blonde jokes anymore. But lawyer jokes are still supposed to be funny.”

  Vanderweigh smiled. “Did he think you were involved in buying the doctor’s practice?”

  “He might have thought that. It’s more or less how it sounded, I guess.”

  He ran his hand over his bald head. “Well,” he said, “here’s the thing. First Larry Scott from Cortland is stabbed to death in Brewster on Cape Cod, and then a week later Dr. Paul Romano from New Jersey has his throat cut in Cortland.” Vanderweigh arched his eyebrows at me.

  “The Cortland connection,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “And I was present in these off-the-beaten-path places both times,” I said.

  “If Ms. Banyon happens to be in Cortland, as you think she is, then she was present both times, too.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Where were you around ten last night?” he said.

  “Is that when it happened?”

  “Give or take half an hour, according to the ME. One of the guests here spotted the body only about an hour ago.”

  I tried to think. When Evie came to my door, the Dirty Harry movie had ended. It had started at eight and probably ended sometime around ten. I’d been dozing. So Evie had appeared after ten. If she needed a ten o’clock alibi from me, I couldn’t provide it.

  That made two alibis I couldn’t provide for her.

  “I was alone in my motel room watching television,” I said. “It was a Clint Eastwood movie on cable. I dozed off and missed the ending. That was probably around ten.”

  “So you can’t account for your whereabouts last night between—what, eight in the evening and five this morning?”

  “Oh, I can definitely account for my whereabouts. I was in my motel room.”

  “But you don’t have a witness.”

  “I was all alone at ten o’clock. No witness. And I didn’t kill that man, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Well, of course it’s what I’m getting at. Though damned if I can think of a single reason why you’d do it.”

  “He was boring.”

  “True,” he said. “Not the worst motive I can think of.” Vanderweigh pushed himself away from the car. “Let’s go take a look at your room.”

  “Bloodstained clothing,” I said. “Murder weapons.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I hoped Evie had had the presence of mind to slip away. If she was still hiding in the bathroom, there wouldn’t be much I could do.

  As Vanderweigh and I skirted the crowd, I saw that Dr. Paul Roma
no’s body had been bagged and strapped on a gurney. An ambulance sat nearby with its motor running and its back doors open, and a tow truck had backed up to the silver Oldsmobile.

  Vanderweigh and I went around the corner of the building to my room. I made a point of rattling the doorknob to warn Evie—if she was still there—that we were coming in.

  I unlocked the door and held it open for Vanderweigh. He stepped inside, and I followed him.

  The bathroom door was still shut, the bed was still unmade, and Evie’s soapy feminine scent still lingered in the air. I knew a forensics expert would have no problem coming up with a long strand of auburn hair on a pillow or on a damp bath towel or in the bathtub drain and deduce that it hadn’t come from my head.

  Well, if she was still hiding in the bathroom, even a rank amateur would notice her.

  “Why are we here?” I said to Vanderweigh.

  He was opening the bureau drawers. They were empty. “I’m looking for clues,” he said, “like a good detective.” He opened the closet door. Nothing in there, either. I had brought in only my overnight bag from my car. It sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. I hadn’t bothered to empty it.

  “Did you recover the murder weapon?” I said.

  “Not yet.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. Then I noticed Evie’s sunglasses sitting on the bedside table where she’d left them. I casually picked them up and slipped them into my shirt pocket.

  Her hat, which she’d left on top of the bureau, was gone. That, I assumed, meant Evie had gotten out.

  I hoped she’d retrieved her panties from under the bed.

  Vanderweigh opened the bathroom door, poked his head in and looked around, then came over to where I was sitting and looked down at me. “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Ms. Banyon.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He folded his arms. “She was here. Now she’s gone.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It’s so obvious that even Sergeant Dwyer picked up on it. He mentioned it to me when he brought you over. Told me he smelled sex in your room.” Vanderweigh smiled. I’d noticed he had a nice, cynical sense of humor, but there was no humor in this particular smile. “It’s really important,” he said, “that from now on, you tell me the truth.”

  I nodded. “Evie was here, yes.”

  He sat on the bed beside me and dangled his arms between his legs. “I’m going to overlook the fact that you’ve been lying to me, Mr. Coyne,” he said softly. “But I strongly advise you not to lie anymore.”

  “Actually, I didn’t lie,” I said. “I was quite precise. I told you I didn’t find her. What happened was, Evie found me. She came here.”

  “I know the difference between the truth and a lie,” he said. “You lied. Why?”

  I shook my head and said nothing.

  “You think she killed Paul Romano, right?” he said.

  “No, of course not. Why would she?”

  “You tell me.”

  “She wouldn’t,” I said. “Evie wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  Vanderweigh blew out a quick breath. “Listen,” he said. “The longer Ms. Banyon hides out and slinks around and keeps finding herself in places where people get killed with knives, the worse it looks for her. Whether she’s innocent or not, the sooner she talks to us, the better off she’ll be. Meanwhile, she’s acting guilty as hell.”

  I nodded. I had told Evie the same thing.

  “And you,” he said, “are looking more and more like an accomplice. Maybe a killer. At least somebody who’s obstructing justice.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m a—”

  “No, damn it. You listen to me.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t give a shit whether you’re a lawyer or the chief fucking justice of the Supreme Court, Mr. Coyne. I’ve got two vicious murders here, and you and Evelyn Banyon are right in the middle of both of them, and neither of you is cooperating. You’re lying and she’s hiding.” He looked at me and shook his head. “I ought to arrest you, you know that?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “It would give me satisfaction,” he said.

  I smiled. “Please don’t.”

  “So where is she, then?”

  “Evie? I don’t know.”

  “Listen—”

  “I really don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know where she’s been staying down here, and I don’t know where she went this morning. She ran into the bathroom when Dwyer knocked on the door. I guess she slipped away when I was over there talking with you. She didn’t tell me anything. She just came here to tell me to go home.”

  “Like she doesn’t want to get you involved.”

  “Not really. More like she wants to do whatever she’s doing by herself. Evie is a very strong-willed person.”

  “But you arranged to meet her here, spend the night with her.”

  “I didn’t arrange it. I didn’t even know she was in Cortland. She came to my room last night when I was dozing. I didn’t expect it.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I didn’t notice,” I said. “Like I said, I was asleep.”

  “Before or after ten o’clock?”

  “After, I guess.”

  “And she spent the night with you?”

  I nodded.

  “A safe place to hide, she figured.”

  “Certainly if she’d killed Romano, this motel where you found his body would hardly be a very safe place to hide.”

  “So she wanted your help.”

  “No, I told you—”

  “What is she doing?”

  I shrugged. “She came here to my room to tell me to go home. She wanted me not to try to help her. All I can tell you is that she’s frightened. She thinks you’ve pegged her for Larry Scott’s murder.”

  “Smart girl.” Vanderweigh sighed and stood up. “Tell you what, Mr. Coyne. If you promise me you’ll bring her to me next time you see her, I won’t arrest you. Deal?”

  “No deal.”

  “No?”

  “If I see Evie again,” I said, “I will once again suggest that she talk to you. I can promise you that much. But I won’t force her, and I certainly won’t rat her out.”

  “‘Rat her out’?” He laughed quickly. “Did you say that?”

  I smiled. “I guess I did.”

  “You’re not going to do what she wants, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go home.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not going home. Not yet.”

  “Good.” Vanderweigh went over to the door, put his hand on the knob, hesitated, then turned to face me. “You know,” he said, “Roger Horowitz was right.”

  “What about Horowitz?”

  “He said you were a pain in the ass.”

  “He was joking,” I said.

  “Horowitz,” said Vanderweigh, “never jokes.”

  ELEVEN

  After Vanderweigh left, I took a shower and then walked over to the motel office. An elderly man sat behind the counter reading a magazine. A radio sitting on a shelf behind him was tuned to a religious service.

  “I’m in room ten,” I told him. “I’d like to have it for another night.”

  He looked up at me. He wore thick black-rimmed glasses. Behind them, his magnified eyes looked startled. “We got plenty of rooms,” he said. “You like number ten, it’s yours. I’ll need your credit card again.”

  I handed it to him, and he ran it through his machine and gave it back to me.

  I thanked him and headed for the door.

  “Hey, you hear about the excitement?” he said.

  I turned. “What excitement is that?”

  “Murder, right out back. Happened last night sometime. Some rich doctor got his throat cut in our parking lot. They found him sittin’ in his car. They figure that woman who killed one of our local boys a week ago done it.”

  “Why?”
I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why did she do it?”

  He shrugged. “Damned if I know. One of them sex things, I suppose.”

  I bought a Sunday Globe from the machine out front, then headed for the diner. I had gone less than a mile when I noticed the Cortland PD black-and-white in my rearview mirror. It stayed on my tail all the way, and when I parked in front of the diner, it pulled in two cars over from me.

  I grabbed my newspaper, went over to the cruiser, and tapped on the window. It slid down. A female officer was sitting there grinning up at me.

  “Why don’t you come in, have breakfast with me,” I said.

  “I already ate,” she said.

  “Have some coffee, at least.”

  “I don’t think I’m supposed to socialize with you.”

  “We don’t have to talk,” I said. “We can share my Sunday paper. You can have the front page. I got first dibs on the sports.”

  She smiled. “No, thanks. I’ll just sit right here. Don’t you go slipping out the back door on me, or they’ll have my ass, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I always cooperate with law enforcement officers.”

  The diner was mobbed at seven-thirty on this Sunday morning in August. They had two waitresses on duty, and they were working hard. They looked like high-school kids. Both of them were wearing green uniforms like the one Ruth had worn.

  This would be my third straight meal here. Lunch, then supper, and now breakfast. A number of the patrons glanced up and squinted at me as I stood there looking around. None of them nodded or waved at me, but at least my arrival didn’t bring conversations to a halt in midsentence. I was beginning to feel like a regular.

  I found an empty stool at the end of the counter, propped the sports section up in front of me, and a minute later a mug of coffee appeared beside it. I looked up. One of the young waitresses stood there with her pencil poised.

  I didn’t bother looking at the blackboard. “Three eggs,” I said, “over easy, on corned-beef hash, wheat toast, home fries, giant OJ. I like the whites cooked and the yolks runny. Keep the coffee coming.”

  She scribbled on her notepad, turned away, hesitated, then turned back to me. “You’re that guy, aren’t you?”