The Wrong Man Read online

“The killing had all the earmarks of a professional.”

  The chief investigator stood up, walked behind me, and placed his index finger to the back of my head. “Pop. Pop. Two shots in the head. A twenty-five, probably silenced. Both slugs were soft-tipped bullets and significantly deformed upon removal, making an eventual match impossible. Then the body was dragged into an alleyway, pushed behind some garbage cans, and remained undiscovered until a garbage truck arrived the following morning. The person who shot him was someone with the expertise to catch Murphy unawares. Very little in the way of workable forensics. Not even an ejected shell casing, which lends further credence to the notion that this was someone well trained in killing, because they stopped and retrieved those before leaving. It rained the night he was killed, pretty hard, which further compromised the crime scene. No witnesses. No immediate leads. A very difficult case from the start, without someone helpfully pointing us in the right direction.”

  He circled around and this time perched on a corner of his desk. He smiled with a slight barracuda look.

  “What was this murder? Revenge? Payback for something in his past? Maybe it was simply a robbery. His wallet was cleaned out. But the credit cards were left behind. Curious that, right?” He paused. “And your own interest in this case? It stems from precisely what?”

  “Murphy was peripherally involved in a case that I’m looking into.” I guarded my words carefully.

  “An investigator spoke to every client he had. Someone took a look at every case he was working. Every case he’d ever worked. Which interests you?”

  “Ashley Freeman,” I said cautiously.

  The chief investigator shook his head. “That is most interesting. I wouldn’t think there is much of a story there. That was one of his smaller jobs. A couple of days invested, no more. And resolved, I think, sometime before the murder. No, the person who killed Murphy was connected to either one of the drug rings he helped put away when he was a cop, or one of the organized-crime types he was looking at in his private business. Or maybe one of the police officers who were engaged in messy divorces. All those are better suspects.”

  I nodded.

  “But, you know, the one thing that really intrigues me about the case?”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “When we started looking under rocks and pulling back curtains, it seemed like everyone we spoke with was expecting us.”

  “Expecting you? But why would that be unusual?”

  The chief investigator smiled again. “Murphy tried to keep things very confidential. That is, after all, the nature of the business. He kept everything close to the vest. He was secretive; didn’t share much. Didn’t let anyone in on his business. The only person who had even the vaguest idea what he was up to on a day-to-day basis was his secretary. She did all his typing, billing, and filing.”

  “She was unable to help you?”

  “Clueless. Utterly clueless. But that wasn’t the issue.” He paused, eyeing me closely. “So how is it that all those people knew he was looking at them? Now, certainly some of the subjects he was engaged with were bound to have figured out in some way or another that he was snooping around their lives. But that would be the smaller percentage. Yet, somehow, that wasn’t the situation. I repeat: People knew. Everyone. When we showed up at their doors, they were waiting, alibis and excuses all intact. That’s wrong. One hundred percent wrong. And there lies the real question, does it not?”

  I stood up.

  “You want a real mystery story, Mr. Writer?” the chief investigator said as he shook my hand and returned to his side of the desk. “Well, answer that question for me.”

  I kept my mouth shut. But in that moment, I knew the answer.

  27

  The Second Intrusion

  Hope hated the quiet.

  She found herself walking across campus, attending the final practices of the season, getting ready for the winter, anxious. She was constantly on edge, but unable to get a grasp on her feelings. She would find herself pacing down the campus pathways as if in a hurry when she wasn’t. She would suddenly feel her throat parched, her lips dry, and her tongue thick, and she would gulp away at bottles of water. In the midst of conversation she would realize that she hadn’t heard much of what was said. She was distracted by fear, and as each day went by in benign silence, she imagined that much worse was happening somewhere.

  She did not, for a single second, imagine that Michael O’Connell was out of their lives.

  Scott, as best she could tell, had thrown himself wholeheartedly back into his teaching schedule. Sally had returned to her upcoming divorce settlements and house closings, with a certain smug satisfaction that she had figured things out and taken the necessary steps to bring the situation to a conclusion. And Hope and Sally had once again retreated into the cold-war détente that marked their relationship. Even the smallest of affections had dissipated. There was never a caress, a compliment, nor a laugh, and certainly not a touch inviting sex. It was almost as if they had become nuns, living under the same roof, occupying the same bed, but married to some ideal beyond them. Hope wondered whether Sally’s last months with Scott had been the same. Or had she kept up appearances, sleeping with him, faking passion, fixing meals, cleaning up, carrying on conversations, while all the time slipping away at odd hours to meet with Hope and telling her that that was where her heart truly lay?

  In the distance, Hope could hear voices from the playing fields. Playoff time, she thought. One more game. Two to the semifinals. Three to the championship. She could barely concentrate on the challenges. Instead, she was caught up in some morass of feelings, about Ashley, about Michael O’Connell, about her mother, and mostly about Sally, where they mixed together in a stew of impossibility.

  As she walked along, she remembered meeting Sally. Love, she thought, should always be so simple. Meet at an art gallery opening. Talk together. Tell a joke and hear each other’s laughter. Decide to have a drink. Then a meal. Then another meeting, this time in the middle of the day. And finally a small touch on the back of the hand, a whisper, a glance, and it fell together, just as Hope had known it would from the first minute.

  Love, she thought. That was the word that Michael O’Connell used over and over, and one Hope hadn’t used in weeks. Perhaps months. Ashley had told her, He says he loves me. Hope knew that nothing he had done had anything to do with love.

  She hunched her shoulders forward.

  He was gone, she told herself.

  Sally says he’s gone.

  Scott says he’s gone.

  Ashley thinks he’s gone.

  She did not believe this.

  But she could not see one piece of concrete evidence that he had returned.

  She heard voices, and she saw the girls on her team waving, running drills, and talking together, gathered in the center of the practice field. She reached for the whistle on a lanyard around her neck, then decided to let the fun continue for a minute or two longer. Being young goes by so fast, they should enjoy every moment. Except she knew that it was not in the nature of the young to ever understand this.

  She sighed, blew her whistle, and decided that she would speak with her mother and with Ashley daily, just to make sure everything was all right. She wondered why Sally and Scott were not doing the same.

  Sally stared at the headline in the afternoon paper and felt the blood drain from her face. She devoured every word of the series of stories, then reread them all, memorizing details. EX-COP FOUND MURDERED ON CITY STREET. When she placed the paper down, she noticed that her hands were covered with black newsprint. She eyed them, as if surprised, then realized that her palms had grown so sweaty while she was reading that the ink on the pages had melded onto her fingers.

  KILLING CALLED “EXECUTION-STYLE.” The words seemed to trail after her, shouting for attention. POLICE EYE ORGANIZED CRIME CONNECTION.

  The first thing she told herself was, This has nothing to do with Ashley.

  She rocked
back, as if someone had slammed her hard in the stomach. It has everything to do with Ashley.

  Her first instinct was to call someone. As a lawyer, she had met any number of other attorneys connected with the county prosecutor’s office. Surely one of them would have more details. Some inside information that would tell her what she needed to know. She reached for her Rolodex with one hand and the phone with the other, then stopped herself. What are you doing?

  She took a deep breath. Do not invite someone to scrutinize your life. Any prosecutor even vaguely connected to Murphy’s murder would ask her far many more questions than he would provide answers to her questions. By making that call, she would inject herself and her troubles into a mix that she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be part of.

  Sally coughed. She had sent Murphy off to deal with Michael O’Connell. He had reported back successfully. Problem solved. Everyone safe. Ashley could get on with her life. And then, a short time later, Murphy is dead. It didn’t make sense to her. It was like seeing a famous mathematician, an Einstein, write 2 + 2 = 5 on a chalkboard and not hear a single voice raised in correction.

  She seized the newspaper and reread every word for a third time.

  Nothing suggested that Michael O’Connell had had anything to do with it.

  It was professionally handled. Clearly some really bad guys that had crossed paths with Murphy were to blame. The killing went far beyond the capacity of a mechanic, computer nut, occasional college student, and minor-league criminal like Michael O’Connell, Sally insisted to herself. Really, it had nothing to do with them in the slightest, and for her to imagine otherwise was a mistake.

  She leaned back in her desk chair, breathing hard.

  No, we’re all safe. It’s just a coincidence. His death had nothing to do with their situation. After all, she had selected Murphy in the first place because of his willingness to skirt the niceties of the law. And he had undoubtedly done far worse, in his other cases, creating enemies wherever he went. One had finally caught up with him. That had to be it.

  She exhaled slowly. No, the real problem was that whatever threats Murphy had made to O’Connell to keep him in line had now evaporated. That was the biggest danger they faced. That was assuming that Michael O’Connell even knew about Murphy’s murder and would then see it for the opportunity it presented.

  Big assumptions, she told herself. Still, she reached for the phone again.

  She hated to do it, hated that it would make her seem somehow inadequate, that she had failed to handle her part of the job properly, but she realized that she still needed to call her ex-husband.

  Sally dialed Scott’s number and realized that she was sweating once again.

  “Have you seen the paper?” Sally asked abruptly.

  When Scott heard Sally’s voice on the line, his first reaction was irritation.

  “The New York Times?” he replied briskly, knowing that that wasn’t the paper she meant.

  This was the sort of oblique answer that made Sally want to strangle Scott.

  “No. The local paper.”

  “No. Why?”

  “There is a front-page story, stories actually, about the murder of an ex–police detective in Springfield.”

  “Yes. Tragic, I’m sure. So what?”

  “He’s the private investigator I sent to see Michael O’Connell, right when you were arranging to get Ashley out of Boston. He did his thing a few days after you managed her disappearance.”

  “His thing…?”

  “I didn’t ask too many questions. And he didn’t volunteer any. For obvious reasons.”

  Scott hesitated. “And this has precisely what to do with us and Ashley?”

  Sally was quick to reply, “Probably nothing. Probably just coincidence. Probably just a really bad but totally unconnected series of events. The detective reported that he’d met with O’Connell and we wouldn’t have any more troubles. And then he gets himself killed. It has taken me aback, a bit. I can’t be certain that it has anything to do with anything. But I thought you should at least be aware. I mean, it probably changes the situation, somehow.”

  “So,” Scott said, speaking in well-modulated classroom tones, “are you suggesting that we might have a problem? Damn it, I thought we had worked this whole thing out. I thought we’d put that son of a bitch behind us for good.”

  “I don’t know. Do we have a problem? I doubt it. I was just trying to inform you of a detail that might be relevant.”

  “Well, look, Ashley’s still up in Vermont, safe and sound with Hope’s mother. It seems to me that her next step—our next step—is to get her into a new graduate program, down in New York City, or maybe across the country in San Francisco, someplace new. I know that she has this affection for Boston, but we’ve agreed that starting fresh is the right idea. So she whiles away some time in Vermont, watching the leaves turn and getting snowed on, and then gets started anew in the spring semester. End of story. We should be proceeding with that sort of scenario, and not getting terribly bent out of shape at every little thing.”

  Sally gritted her teeth. She hated being lectured to.

  “Chimera,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A mythological beast of terrifying proportions that wasn’t really there.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “Just a way of looking at this. An academic way,” Sally said, to irritate Scott, something she knew she shouldn’t do, but found herself doing. Relationships that fail have certain addictions, and this was one of those for the two of them.

  “Well, perhaps. Regardless, let’s just move ahead. We need to collect Ashley’s academic records so she can reapply to graduate schools, even if she has to start on a part-time basis. Best if you or I do that, not her. Better to have them mailed to us than to Vermont.”

  “I will do that. I’ll use the office address.” Sally hung up the phone, as irritated as ever, reminded that she knew her ex-husband perfectly. He had not changed in years, not since she’d first met him and not by anything that had happened since. He was as predictable as ever.

  She was still at her desk. She looked out and saw that darkness had overcome the last light of the day, and even the shadows had turned black.

  Michael O’Connell watched the same shadows lengthen from his vantage point beneath a wide oak tree less than half a block from Sally and Hope’s house. He could feel a quickening within him, almost as if he could sense how much closer he was to Ashley. Up and down the block, he could see lights start to blink on. Every few moments a car would swing up the roadway, its headlights sweeping across the lawns. He could see some activity in kitchens, as dinners were prepared, and the softer, metallic glow of television sets turned on.

  I have only a short time. He did not think he would need much.

  Sally and Hope lived on a meandering, older street. It was an odd mixture of architecture, some newer ranch-type houses, mingling with stately Victorians that dated back to the turn of the century. It was a curious neighborhood, in much demand because of its leafy streets and solid, middle-class outlook. Doctors, lawyers, professors, for the most part lived there. Lots of lawns and hedges and small gardens and Halloween parties. Not the sort of neighborhood where people invested heavily in security devices and state-of-the-art protection systems.

  O’Connell moved swiftly up the block. He knew that Sally usually stayed late in her office and Hope held soccer practice until it was too dark to see the ball. This would delay them just long enough.

  He cut across the block from tree trunk to tree trunk and, without hesitating, slid into the dark spaces adjacent to their house. There was an old wooden fence behind a driveway, which led into their backyard. He stopped for a moment when kitchen lights blinked on in their neighbor’s house, pushing himself back against the exterior wall.

  The house had been built on a small hill, so that the main living area was above his head. But, like many older houses, it had a large basement, with an old door framed
in neglected, rotting wood that was rarely, if ever, used. It took him less than ten seconds to jimmy it open and let himself in.

  He left the door slightly ajar behind him and reached into his pocket and removed his red-taped flashlight. He took a deep breath as he realized that somewhere, within feet of the dank, musty space where he was standing, was some bit of information that would tell him precisely where Ashley was. An envelope with a return address. A telephone bill. A credit card statement. A piece of paper with her name taped to the refrigerator door. He licked his lips, excited, his hands nearly shaking with anticipation. Breaking into Murphy’s office had been a familiar job. It was simply a piece of the puzzle into Ashley’s whereabouts. He thought he had handled it carefully and professionally.

  This break-in was different. This was a chore of love.

  He took a second to breathe in the thick air of the basement. If she could only see what I’ve had to do to find her, to bring us together, he thought, then she would understand why we are meant to be together. Someday, he fantasized, he would be able to tell her that he had endured beatings, broken laws, risked his safety and freedom, all on her behalf.

  And then he told himself, If she can’t love me then, then she doesn’t deserve to love anyone.

  He could feel a twitch, a muscle spasm, running through his body, and he had to fight to keep control. He could feel his breathing getting shallow, coming in gasps. For a second, he told himself to remain calm. He pictured Sally. Hope. Scott. And as he did that, he was almost overcome by anger. He could no longer separate the entwined feelings of love and hate. When he managed to calm himself down, he started to move gingerly through the basement, heading toward some rickety old stairs that would carry him up to the living areas. He wasn’t sure what precisely he was searching for, although he knew whatever it was, it was nearly within reach.

  He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and immediately figured he was in a pantry, just off the kitchen. He wanted to douse the flashlight as quickly as possible—even covered in red, the glow was far more likely to attract a curious neighbor’s interest than the overhead light. He spotted a bank of switches on the wall and flicked the first, which lit up the kitchen. Michael O’Connell smiled and switched off the flashlight.