The answer to all the above was sitting in front of him.
35
Tad Crispin left not long after that.
Myron and Win settled into the couch. They put on Woody Allen’s Broadway Danny Rose, one of Woody’s most underrated masterpieces. What a flick. Rent it sometime.
During the scene where Mia drags Woody to the fortune-teller, Esperanza arrived.
She coughed into her fist. “I, ahem, don’t want to sound didactic or fictitious in any manner,” she began, doing a great Woody impression. She had his timing, the speech delay tactics. She had the hand mannerisms. She had the New York accent. It was her best work. “But I may have some important information.”
Myron looked up. Win kept his eyes on the screen.
“I located the man Lloyd Rennart bought the bar from twenty years ago,” Esperanza said, returning to her own voice. “Rennart paid him in cash. Seven grand. I also checked on the house in Spring Lake Heights. Bought at the same time for $21,000. No mortgage.”
“Lots of expenses,” Myron said, “for a washed-up caddie.”
“Sí, señor. And to make matters more interesting, I also found no indication that he worked or paid taxes from the time he was fired by Jack Coldren until he purchased the Rusty Nail bar.”
“Could be an inheritance.”
“I would doubt it,” Esperanza said. “I managed to go back to 1971 and found no record of him paying any inheritance tax.”
Myron looked at Win. “What do you think?”
Win’s eyes were still on the screen. “I’m not listening.”
“Right, I forgot.” He looked back at Esperanza. “Anything else?”
“Esme Fong’s alibi checks out. I spoke to Miguel. She never left the hotel.”
“Is he solid?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Strike one. “Anything else?”
“Not yet. But I found the office for the local paper in Narberth. They have the back editions in a storage room. I’ll go through them tomorrow, see what I can dig up on the car accident.”
Esperanza grabbed a take-out container and a pair of chopsticks from the kitchen and then she plopped down on the open couch. A mafioso hit man was calling Woody a cheesehead. Woody commented that he had no idea what that meant, but he was confident it wasn’t a good thing. Ah, the Woodman.
Ten minutes into Love and Death, not long after Woody wondered how old Nahampkin could be younger than young Nahampkin, exhaustion overtook Myron. He fell asleep on the couch. A deep sleep. No dreams. No stirring. Nothing but the long fall down the deep well.
He woke up at eight-thirty. The television was off. A clock ticked and then chimed. Someone had laid a comforter over Myron while he’d been sleeping. Win probably. He checked the other bedrooms. Win and Esperanza were both gone.
He showered and dressed and put on some coffee. The phone rang. Myron picked it up and said, “Hello.”
It was Victoria Wilson. She still sounded bored. “They arrested Linda.”
Myron found Victoria Wilson in an attorney waiting area.
“How is she?”
“Fine,” Victoria replied. “I brought Chad home last night. That made her happy.”
“So where is Linda?”
“In a holding cell awaiting arraignment. Well see her in a few minutes.”
“What do they have?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” Victoria said. She sounded almost impressed. “First, they have the guard who saw her entering and leaving an otherwise abandoned golf course at the time of the murder. With the exception of Jack, nobody else was seen going in or out all night.”
“Doesn’t mean nobody did. It’s an awfully big area.”
“Very true. But from their standpoint it gives Linda opportunity. Second, they found hairs and fibers on Jack’s body and around the murder scene that preliminary tests link to Linda. Naturally, this one should be no problem to discredit. Jack is her husband; of course he’d have hair and fibers from her on his body. He could have spread them around the scene.”
“Plus she told us she went to the course to look for Jack,” Myron added.
“But we’re not telling them that.”
“Why not?”
“Because right now we are saying and admitting to nothing.”
Myron shrugged. Not important. “What else?”
“Jack owned a twenty-two-caliber handgun. The police found it in a wooded area between the Coldren residence and Merion last night.”
“It was just sitting out?”
“No. It was buried in fresh dirt. A metal detector picked it up.”
“They’re sure it’s Jack’s gun?”
She nodded. “The serial numbers match. The police ran an immediate ballistics test. It’s the murder weapon.”
Myron’s veins iced up.
“Fingerprints?” he asked.
Victoria Wilson shook her head. “Wiped clean.”
“Are they running a powder test on her?” The police run a test on the hands, see if there are any powder burns.
“It’ll take a few days,” Victoria said, “and it’ll probably be negative.”
“You had her scrub her hands?”
“And treat them, yes.”
“Then you think she did it.”
Her tone remained unruffled. “Please don’t say that.”
She was right. But it was starting to look bad. “Is there more?” he asked.
“The police found your tape machine still hooked up to the phone. They were obviously curious as to why the Coldrens found it necessary to tape all incoming calls.”
“Did they find any tapes of the conversations with the kidnapper?”
“Just the one where the kidnapper refers to the Fong woman as a “chink bitch” and demands one hundred grand. And to answer your next two questions, no, we did not elaborate on the kidnapping and yes, they are pissed off.”
Myron pondered that for a moment. Something was not right. “That was the only tape they found?”
“That’s it.”
He frowned. “But if the machine was still hooked up, it should have taped the last call the kidnapper made to Jack. The one that got him to storm out of the house and head to Merion.”
Victoria Wilson looked at him steadily. “The police found no other tapes. Not in the house. Not on Jack’s body. Nowhere.”
Again the ice in the veins. The implication was obvious: The most reasonable explanation for there being no tape was that there was no call. Linda Coldren had made it up. The lack of a tape would have been viewed as a major contradiction if she had said anything to the cops. Fortunately for Linda, Victoria Wilson had never let her tell her story in the first place.