Coming Unclued Page 9

  I had another insight. “And you need to get past him being found in my bed. That’s just circumstantial. Like I said, you’ve got to look deeper.”

  The detective didn’t say anything. He was too busy digging around in his mouth with his tongue. He hit pay dirt somewhere in his lower left molar, and then had what looked like a satisfying chew. “I’m having a real hard time getting past where the deceased was found. Kind of like finding your Sunday roast on the floor all gnawed up and the dog lying by the fire bloated and farting and having a snooze.”

  It seemed that I was the bloated farting dog of this case. “And another thing you haven’t thought of,” I added, “and honestly I’m a little surprised it hasn’t come up, is that it’d be pretty stupid of me to kill Mr. Potter in my own bed and then call 911. It makes no sense at all.”

  Detective Crowley shook his head like he too was bemused by the whole situation and then looked at his watch. “Frankly ma’am, that’s why you’re still free. I’ve got to get moving here. Anyone else in the office today?”

  “Ben’s here. And Douglas is around somewhere.”

  “Good. I’ll swing by and have a chat with them.”

  He seemed genuinely indifferent to my insights. Swing by and have a chat. It was pretty clear that he felt it was an open and shut case and the only thing left to do was get a few more people to reiterate that I was a notoriously violent drunk who was quite capable of sticking a carving knife into my boss.

  Detective Crowley stood up and gazed around the office. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed where we can easily find you. Like I said, we want you down to the station tomorrow. Ten o’clock work for you?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll be at Julie’s. Now who else are you investigating? I’d be happy to help you work on a list of suspects.”

  “Is that right? Well … I’m a bit of a lone wolf, comes down to it. So you figure there’s a whole list of people that wanted your boss dead?”

  Anybody that had to get within two feet of him. His dentist for sure. “Maybe not a long list, but it only takes one right?”

  “That’s right. It only takes one. You have a good day Ms Valentyn.”

  Det. Crowley sauntered off to chat up Ben and Douglas and I could feel the office closing in on me. I had to get out of there. And go where? Ten-thirty on a Monday morning. Everyone I knew would be at work, going about their lives, carefree, joyful; not worried that at any moment their freedom could be yanked out from under them. And why weren’t more people calling me, frantic with worry? What kind of friends did I have?

  Angie was sitting at her desk leafing through a fashion magazine when I came by. She put it aside and gave me a cheerful smile.

  “How’d it go? What did he ask you?”

  “The same questions. I don’t have any new answers.”

  I started buttoning my coat.

  “You leaving?”

  “No point in being here,” I told her.

  “Yeah. I’m going to put a message on the machine and head home as soon as that cop finishes with me. You going to the funeral? Oh jeez. Of course you’re not.”

  “Why would I not go to my boss’s funeral? You know, out of respect.”

  Angie tapped her finger on her chin as she surveyed me. “Oh I don’t know. Can’t see you being welcome. I don’t think Sophie’s going to be saying, “Oh look, Val’s here. Harry was always so fond of her.”

  “I’m not saying this again. I didn’t kill him.”

  “Un huh. Look I’m not holding it against you; these things happen.”

  These things happen! What kind of a sociopath was she? “Aren’t you bothered at all that Mr. Potter is dead?”

  Angie thought about it for a moment. “It’s like you’re looking through the paper and you see someone was killed in a car accident. How upset are you? You can’t be getting all worked up about every person that dies or you’d go crazy.”

  “Except that we knew him. You worked for him for twenty years.”

  “I never got that attached.”

  Wow. Maybe the police should be looking closer at Angie. I’d always known she was a little rough around the edges, perhaps a little lacking in the warmth of human kindness, but I hadn’t pegged her as being this callous. “I think you’re probably more upset than you realize.”

  She thought about it a moment. “No. I’m fine. My grieving process is pretty quick. It’s not as if he was a little Russian orphan or a baby penguin. What do you want me to tell the cop? I don’t know what he’s doing back there. Ben wasn’t even at the party. Melissa wouldn’t let him out of the house.”

  “Tell him the truth obviously. You can’t lie to the police and there’s no reason to anyway because I have nothing to hide.”

  “The truth is you were extremely drunk, you spent a lot of time talking to Harry and you staggered into a cab together. I blame it all on Annette. If she hadn’t wanted a no spouses party, Sophie would have been there and none of this would have happened. She would have made sure you stayed away from her man.”

  It couldn’t be possible that I was so drunk that I was flirting with Mr. Potter. The thought made me nauseous.

  “I’m sure we were just talking business.”

  “What business? A monkey could do your job. No offense.” That was the thing about Angie. She was one of those people who thought she could say anything at all as long as she said no offense afterword. A monkey could do my job?

  “A smart monkey,” she added helpfully.

  I graduated in the top ten percent of my high school class. In university, where I majored in history, I was a very capable student. Not brilliant, but I received quite respectable marks. Certainly none of my professors had reason to ponder whether a chimp could have turned in a more astute paper on the War of the Roses. Where did it all go so wrong?

  “I’ll see you Angie. I’ve got some things to take care of.”

  “I’ll bet. Good luck with everything.”

  We’d gone out for lunch together dozens of times over the past few years. I’d been to her home. Good luck? “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your effusive good wishes in my time of need.”

  “No problem,” she smiled, going back to her magazine.

  So that’s the way it was going to be. I was on my own.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was freezing out. The snow had stopped, but it was a cold, grey winter day that would challenge the perkiest of souls.

  My cell phone rang. Evan.

  “Hi Hon.”

  “Hi Mom — how’re you doing? I just spoke with Julie. She said the police called to confirm you are coming in tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry. They just want to tie up a few loose ends.”

  “Where are you? Mikel has arranged a meeting for you with Walter. He can fit you in right away if you go now. His office is on King St. across from the old brewery. Easy to find.”

  Who’d have thought it would come to this — me having a meeting with Walter Fink? He had a reputation for defending the scummiest of the scum, the murderers and sleezeballs that everyone knew were guilty. And now he was going to defend me.

  “That is very kind of Mikel, but I’m not sure I need someone like Walter Fink. I haven’t been charged with anything.” Yet. “This could all be cleared up by tomorrow. And he’s very expensive. I’m probably out of a job.”

  “Don’t worry about the money. He is seeing you as a favor to Mikel. How about you meet with him just in case? We need to be prepared for the worst.” Well that was Evan, always preparing for the worst. He got that from his father.

  What did I have to lose? “Okay sweetie. If it would make you feel better.”

  Evan gave me the address and I headed to the subway for the ride downtown. I walked with a determined stride. I was going to stay positive. First I had to get positive. I was going to get positive and then stay there.

  Mikel met me in the surprisingly shabby reception area of Walter’s office and took me right in to see her boss. She didn
’t quite genuflect as she entered his office, but close. She quickly introduced me and then nodded and awkwardly backed out of the room. Fink’s corner office was the size of the boardroom at Secure Future, with large windows looking out on a small parkette. He had a huge cherry wood desk, paintings that looked like real art and a nice couch and chair arrangement for criminals to curl up in for a nap. Walter Fink was a lot larger than he looked on the news and had the high coloring of a man who had to keep a careful watch on his blood pressure.

  I sat down in the chair across from his enormous desk, but rather than feeling relieved that I was safely in the hands of a famous defense attorney, I had a feeling reminiscent of grade five and being sent to the principal’s office. I could feel myself sweating and I wiped my hands on my pant leg.

  “I’ve done a little background work on your case Mrs. Valentyn. Interesting stuff. How about you give me the facts of the case as you see them?”

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. This was Walter Fink and he wanted to help me. “First of all,” I said, “I want to thank you for seeing me. And I want to emphasize that I’m innocent. I’m sure all of your clients say that and obviously most of them are lying, but I’m not. I really am innocent.”

  “Mrs.Valentyn, if you say you’re innocent then you’re innocent. That’s the way I roll.”

  I winced a little at that one, but forged ahead. I told him what I knew and he seemed to be paying careful attention. Every now and then he jotted something down in a notebook.

  “Hmm,” Walter said, scratching his chin and gazing at me with a dispassionate look on his face.

  “It’s a completely circumstantial case,” I told him. “You can’t convict someone on circumstantial evidence.”

  Walter nodded his head like he agreed with me, but apparently that was just the way his head rolled. “That’s a common misconception. Actually the jails are full of people convicted on circumstantial evidence. When I was younger I lost a first degree murder case where there wasn’t even a body. Juries can get awfully convinced by that pesky circumstantial stuff.”

  The sweat was now trickling down by back. I had to lean forward a little so I wouldn’t stick to the back of the leather chair. “So what’s next? How do I get out of this? Are the police even looking for the real murderer?”

  “Here’s the problem, the way I see it,” said Walter. “My contact down at forensics tells me they found evidence of blood on a carving knife in your kitchen. Guess you’d used it to cut yourself some date bread.”

  “Banana bread. Banana pecan.”

  “Right. You didn’t cut yourself did you? Any chance it’s your blood?”

  “No.” I felt queasy and faint. I’d used the murder weapon. I had to grip the sides of the chair so I didn’t topple over onto Fink’s Persian rug.

  “So, it’s working up to be quite a strong circumstantial case. The deceased is in your bed, there’s no sign of forced entry or any evidence that anyone else was in the apartment and then there’s the somewhat callous use of what might be the murder weapon to cut yourself a slice of bread. And of course if it’s the deceased’s blood on your kitchen knife that would be even more incriminating.”

  “Am I going to be arrested?”

  “That is a strong possibility. The victim was a respected member of the community and the police are going to be under a lot of pressure to bring his killer in quickly.”

  “Arresting me will be a miscarriage of justice.”

  Walter gave a faint little smile. “We’ll have to see what the lab turns up. Unfortunately the public is going to be clamoring for action on this one.” He gave me a little smile. “You know — someone kills Santa Claus, they don’t like it.”

  “One time he was Santa Claus,” I protested. “One time. And he was terrible. He made a kid cry.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Walter.

  I waited for him to continue, but he’d put his reading glasses on to check his Blackberry. Be that as it may what? People paid 600 an hour for this?

  “And if I’m arrested will they continue to look for the real murderer?”

  Walter looked out the window for a long moment. “That’s not really the way it works. Once you’re arrested that’s kind of the police department’s way of saying they think they’ve got the right person.”

  “What about suicide?”

  Walter’s placid features finally showed some expression. “Are you feeling suicidal?”

  “Not me. Mr. Potter. What if he committed suicide?”

  “He was stabbed multiple times in the back. That pretty much precludes suicide.”

  I was suddenly filled with insight and pumping with adrenaline. I jumped out of the chair, grabbed a pen off Walter’s desk and mimed stabbing myself in the back. “It’s not difficult at all. Look — stab, stab, stab. And you know, he wasn’t the happiest guy, he was always griping about something. Have the police even considered suicide?”

  Walter started doing his head nodding thing and once again I was lulled into thinking he was startled by my brilliant insight into the case. He wasn’t. “Mrs. Valentyn — I’m quite confident that the police are not investigating this as a potential suicide. A victim who has been stabbed in the back doesn’t scream self-inflicted injury. There is also the issue that forensics may find the victim’s blood on the knife in your kitchen.”

  “Well obviously he had to stab himself with something.” A wave of nausea washed over me as I pictured myself using that knife to cut my banana bread.

  “There was no indication of blood on your floor. The victim was clearly stabbed in your bed — so how did the knife get wiped off and back into your kitchen?”

  How was I supposed to know? I wasn’t a detective. “I haven’t worked out all the details. I’m simply suggesting an alternative theory to the misguided one that I killed Mr. Potter.” I spoke in a nice, slow, calm voice so that Walter would see what a reasonable, non-homicidal person I actually was.

  “Val, I’m going to do my best to convince the police that they’re barking up the wrong tree. And if you are arrested and this case goes to trial I’ll do my best to come up with an effective defense for you. But what I won’t do is to suggest that the victim stabbed himself multiple times in the back, somehow beamed himself into your kitchen where he made a cursory effort to clean off the knife and then miraculously got back into your bed without leaving a drop of blood on the floor. That is not a line of defense I intend to pursue.”

  When he put it that way it did seem like a ridiculous theory. Though not impossible — I had to give it some more thought. I stuck Walter’s pen back in its slot and sank back down on the chair.

  “So what’s next?” I asked him. “The police want to interview me down at the station tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  “Yes, Mikel informed me of that,” said Walter. “Unfortunately, I have a previous engagement, but one of my colleagues will attend with you as counsel.”

  “Are they going to arrest me?”

  “It’s my opinion they are going to wait for all the forensics to come back. Mind you, I think they are going to move quickly on this one. When’s the funeral?”

  “I don’t know. Wednesday maybe.”

  “Probably Thursday they’ll come for you. That’s my guess.”

  “On Thursday I’ll be arrested?” I was in shock. It was really happening.

  “Or sooner. As I’ve suggested, it depends what the lab turns up. But if they find your fingerprints and the victim’s blood on the same knife, I’m thinking they’ll be confident enough to issue an arrest warrant. But look, you called 911. You’ve been nothing but cooperative. No criminal record.” He gave me a little smile. “I can work with that.”

  My heart was pounding again. Of course they were going to find my fingerprints on the knife and who else’s blood but Mr. Potter’s would it be? It’s not as if I’d slaughtered a chicken recently. I had to get out of Walter’s office before I had a full blown panic attack. I said goodbye and
thank you in the most dignified way I could muster. When I reached the door I turned around and asked him, “Tell me the truth, do you think I’m guilty?”

  “I don’t make those kind of judgments. It’s immaterial to me whether you are guilty or innocent.”

  “But you think you can get me off?”

  “I will certainly take my best stab at it.” At least he had the grace to look a little embarrassed at his choice of words. “We’ll do the best we can for you. Mikel is a valued member of our team.”

  It was still bitterly cold outside, but I felt like walking. I huddled inside the shabby brown coat I’d borrowed from Julie and soon cursed myself for not wearing gloves. I needed something to warm me up and fortunately in downtown Toronto there is a coffee shop on nearly every corner. I stood in line behind a woman who must have been buying donuts for the entire office and seemed to be overwhelmed by the responsibility. The restless stamping of my feet did nothing to hurry her along. I finally got my coffee but I was too agitated to sit down and drink it so I headed back out into the cold. The downtown streets were full of people, heads down against the wind, grim looks on their faces as they went about their business. Why weren’t they relishing their freedom, reveling in the knowledge that they weren’t going to be living out their years in a ten by ten cell? If they gave me fifteen years I’d be over sixty when I got out; an old woman. Or an oldish woman. Definitely late middle-age. And jail was probably very aging. As I waited at a red light, I noticed a beautiful old church and decided I would go in and say a prayer. I hadn’t been to church in years and wasn’t exactly a true believer, but these were desperate times. I climbed the steps of the church and yanked on the heavy wood door but it was locked. Weren’t churches always open so that people in despair, like me for example, could find solace? Was solace only for Sundays at ten-thirty? I sat down on the chilly steps and finished my coffee. My nose was starting to run from the cold and I didn’t have a Kleenex. I sniffed loudly and watched as an attractive young mother and her son walked down the street toward me gaily chatting away. The little boy looked much like Evan did when he was four or five and I gave him a friendly smile. The little boy whispered something to his mother, then darted over, put something down beside me and ran back to his mom. His mother gave him a little hug and rubbed his head. Two dollars. He gave me two dollars. To that sweet little boy, I was a runny nosed, ugly-coat wearing homeless woman in desperate need of a meal.