I mean, it’s her own language she’s speaking. The statements are equal, but not quite the same. And it’s not Portuguese.”
“No?”
“It’s Spanish. I know Portuguese, Morgan. My grandmother and my father speak it at home. This is Spanish. I don’t really speak either but I understand both.”
“She’s from Brazil, it should be Portuguese.”
“Who? Is this the woman who died?”
“Yeah, Maria D’Arcy.”
“I think she is not from Brazil. Perhaps from Chile, maybe Peru. She speaks like a South American, and not Portuguese, not on this tape. Maybe she had Spanish friends, maybe it’s for them.”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said, retreating to his desk to think things over.
Morgan decided that when the errant Mr. D’Arcy turned up, he could straighten this out. He would have to come in from the cold on his own, though. His employees weren’t going to turn him over. Under a glossy veneer of professionalism, D’Arcy’s staff had given an ominous impression of loyalty, as if, from the receptionist on up, they had sworn a blood oath of some sort, or belonged to a cult.
Sitting back with his feet on the desk, he perused the medical examiner’s report. As Ellen had said, a skin swab turned up traces of poison: coniine and pancuronium, along with a blend of talcum powder, and minute particles of ground glass. She had appended a note explaining that the mixture would be rapid acting, the symptoms post-mortem would indicate death by asphyxia, the talc was an adherent and would bind with the the glass to create nearly invisible lacerations to allow the poison a subcutaneous entry into the system. A similar concoction had been used over the last decade or so in Papua New Guinea, on Madagascar, and also in Dublin, according to her research. No probable connection.
No mention was made of the break-in or of the body being washed down by ghoulish intruders. That was speculation, based on the scent of wildflowers that was no longer there. But the report was unequivocal: Maria D’Arcy had been murdered.
Morgan walked to the door marked Superintendent of Detectives and pushed it open.
“Come on in.”
“No,” said Morgan. “Not here.”
“What do you mean, not here?”
“I need to talk to you about Harrington D’Arcy.”
“Yes.”
“I need to interview you.”
“You what?”
“Could we go somewhere else?”
Morgan turned and led the way to an interrogation room. Rufalo followed like an animal in pursuit. As soon as Morgan closed the door, Rufalo wheeled on him. “What the hell!”
“Easy, sir. I need to ask a few questions.”
Perhaps it was Morgan’s ironic deference or his own ingrained respect for procedure, but Rufalo became immediately conciliatory.
“Of course,” he said. “Whatever I can do.”
“Let’s sit down,” said Morgan.
“I’m not a suspect, am I?” said the superintendent cheerfully, trying to relieve the tension.
Morgan did not smile. “No,” he said. He paused. “But you might be an accessory.”
“Good God, Morgan. The man called me. He told me his wife had been murdered. I am a policeman, that was a reasonable thing for him to do.”
“He was sure it was murder?”
“There was no doubt at all.”
“He called you at home? You called me from your place?”
“Yes …” Rufalo gazed around the room for a moment, seeming to see it for the first time as an unfamiliar and oppressive place. “He and my wife are business associates, both lawyers. The legal community at their level is small. We’ve met a few times. He wasn’t asking for favours.”
“One favour?”
“He did ask specifically for you, yes.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd, a murder suspect determining who should investigate the crime?”
“He suggested, Morgan. I determined. And it did not cross my mind that he was a suspect. Is he?”
“Yes. He virtually insisted on it.” Morgan grimaced at his own break with procedural decorum as he confessed: “We had breakfast together.”
“He can be charming, can’t he?”
“Dangerously so, it appears. And yes, I do have my doubts, but at this point he is the only suspect we have.”
“Fill me in.”
“I’d rather not, Alex. Right now, I’d like to keep you out of the loop, for your own sake. He’s disappeared.”
“D’Arcy! Disappeared?”
“Like the Cheshire Cat.” Inappropriate: he left no smile in his wake.
“You want me to stand down?”
“From your job? Heavens, no. The accessory bit was just to get your attention. Why do you think he asked for us?”
“You and Miranda? Because you’re the best. That was his assumption, not mine. It was my decision, though, not his.”
“Let’s put modesty aside and assume he’s right — about us — that means he wants to get caught.”
“If he did it, Morgan.”
“Yeah.” Morgan was thoughtful. “Or it could mean the opposite: a back-handed compliment. If we can’t crack the case, no one can. Get by us and he’s home free. Or, of course, it could mean he’s innocent.”
“Anything else? No? Good. And by the way, you keep saying us. Your partner is out of the country.”
“Yeah.”
“Let me know if there’s anything you think I should …” He didn’t finish his sentence.
As Alex Rufalo left the room he looked back. Morgan was still lost in thought. Rufalo closed the door firmly behind him.
Morgan sat slouched at the interrogation table for more than an hour, letting facts and impressions swirl in his mind. He felt like he was caught at the edge of a whirlpool, unable either to break free or plunge through. This was a case where Miranda’s capacity for deduction would be invaluable. Revising his water imagery, he thought of pebbles tossed in a pond, their ripples confusing the surface — she was good at inferring who threw them from their intersecting patterns.
But she was busy by now on her novel. Her story about
