“I’ve got a theory I wanted to run by you. I don’t think Thomas Sykes killed himself.”
“Based on what?” he asks.
I tell him my reasons, or at least Laurie’s reasons, and then add, “And I think Robert Jacoby has been behind this from the beginning.”
“Who the hell is Robert Jacoby?” he asks.
I’m not thrilled with the question. Corvallis really does seem puzzled as to Jacoby’s identity, and given how close he has been to this case, that doesn’t bode well for the accuracy of my theory. “He’s the head of a DNA lab.”
Corvallis nods as if he now remembers where he heard the name, and I continue. “He knew Timmerman, Robinson, and Sykes, and Timmerman sent him his own DNA to see if Jacoby would pick up on the fact that it was synthetic. I think he did pick up on it and saw an opportunity.”
“I can’t help you with that,” he says. “I know very little about the guy. But I can help you with something else.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Sykes definitely committed suicide. No question about it.”
“How do you know that?”
He frowns. “You may not realize this, but we do have an idea what we’re doing. And we even have forensics experts. The gunpowder residue on Sykes’s hands shows he pulled the trigger. If somebody else was holding his hand while he did, it would have distorted the pattern. So unless he complied when someone simply instructed him to shoot himself in the head, then it’s a suicide.”
It certainly wouldn’t stun me if Corvallis were lying about this, but I don’t know why he would. “So it’s the considered opinion of the FBI that Sykes blew up the house and killed Diana Timmerman?”
“Could be,” he says.
“Are you actively trying to find out who did it if he didn’t? Or is murder not a significant enough crime for you guys to deal with?”
“In this case it is a local crime unless we get information to the contrary. So it’s up to the local authorities. Our involvement in this matter is over.”
“So you’re not worried that someone might have gotten their hands on Walter Timmerman’s work?”
He smiles. “I think it’s fair to say that we’ve prepared for that.”
I nod my understanding. “You got to Timmerman’s lab in the house first, didn’t you? After he was murdered?”
Corvallis doesn’t respond, so I continue. “When I met Diana Timmerman at the house that day, she complained that the police had already searched the house three times. Yet the discovery reports show only one search. That’s because your people were in there the other two times, without telling the locals about it.”
“You’re quite a fascinating storyteller,” he says. “I’m just sorry the fifteen minutes are up.”
“I’m taking a ten-minute extension. I’d bet that not only did your scientists get up to speed on Timmerman’s work, but once you did you changed it to throw off anybody who got into that lab after you.”
“You’re on a roll,” he says.
“You were sorry when the house blew up,” I say. “Not because Diana Timmerman died, but because you were watching it to see who went in there. And you weren’t worried, because you had gotten to the lab first.
“And because you were all over that house, that’s how you know it isn’t Jacoby. If it was you would have picked him up already. You know who was there every minute, which is why it could have been Sykes. But I don’t buy it. Sykes lost the inside track at four hundred million when Diana Timmerman died. Just because he had access and could have planted the bomb doesn’t mean…”
“Is the story finally over?” he asks.
“Holy shit… ,” I say. “I need to use your phone.”
He doesn’t give me permission and I don’t wait for it. I grab the phone and dial Steven Timmerman’s number. It rings five times before the machine picks up. I can’t take the chance to leave a message.
I hang up and grab a notepad and paper from Corvallis’s desk. I talk as I write down Steven’s address. “I believe Martha Wyndham is behind this; she has been from the beginning. Please get some agents to this address; it’s Steven Timmerman’s apartment. If I’m right, she’s going to try to kill Steven and his dog. Please.”
I start to move toward the door as he stands up. “What about you?” he says.
“I’ll meet you there.”
I TELL THE CABDRIVER that I’ll give him a hundred dollars if he can get me to Steven’s apartment in less than ten minutes. Based on his driving after that, my promise is a highly motivating one.
I didn’t wait to go with Corvallis, because by the time he got downstairs and had a car brought around, it would have taken much too long. Certainly there is no way he is going to beat this cab.
I could be wrong again, but I should have known it was Martha Wyndham all along. She may well be working for someone else, but she’s been in the middle of everything from the beginning. And if I’m right, she won’t wait long to go after Steven.
It certainly answers the question of how the person who detonated the bomb knew that Diana Timmerman would be in the house. Martha was there, just starting to drive away, and she could have dialed the number from her car. And Martha had suggested I let Waggy live in that house while I decided who to award him to. It would have saved Jimmy Childs the trouble of trying to kill Waggy.
She was also there the day before the poison was thrown in our yard. We hadn’t been walking Waggy, in an effort to hide his location. But Martha saw him, and I believe that set the attempted poisoning in motion.
And Martha was one of very few people with access to Walter’s lab, and the knowledge of what he was doing. When she blew up the lab she must have felt she and her people had learned all there was to learn, of course having no idea that the FBI had been there first.
As often happens when I get myself in these situations, I don’t have a concrete plan for what I’ll do when I get to Steven’s house.
I call his number on my cell phone, and I’m surprised when he answers. “Hello,” he says. He doesn’t sound tense or upset, which is a relief.
“Steven, it’s me, Andy.”
“Andy, how are you? Checking up on Waggy?”
“Steven, have you heard from Martha Wyndham?”
“She’s right here. She came to visit and take Waggy for a walk.”
If there was a worse thing I could have heard him say, I’m hard-pressed to think of it now. I never should have made this call. “Steven, listen to me very carefully, and don’t say anything. Martha has been behind this all along, and you are in danger. Now pretend that I asked you over for dinner this weekend, and you’d like to come.”
He hesitates a moment and then says, “Dinner Saturday? Sure, I’d like that.”
“I’m going to be there with the police in just a couple of minutes. When we get off the phone, I want you to very casually go into the bathroom, and then lock yourself in. Do not come out no matter what.”
My hope is that Martha, realizing the police are on their way, will take Waggy and leave, and not worry about dealing with Steven. Even if she has a gun, she would be unlikely to use it to shoot open the bathroom door. It would attract too much attention. I hope.
“Don’t worry about Waggy, just go into the bathroom. Now say something friendly about dinner.”
“Sounds great,” he says. “What time should I be there?”
“I’m going to hang up now. Pretend to wrap up the call and then say good-bye. And Steven, you need to act as if nothing is wrong.”
I hang up and try to figure out my next step. There is certainly no way for me to storm the apartment, even if I were so inclined. It’s on the fourth floor, and there’s only a single staircase leading up to it. I would think somebody up there could hold off a SWAT team, so it’s unlikely that an unarmed, chickenshit lawyer is going to fight his way in. Besides, once Steven is barricaded in the bathroom, Martha is likely to be making a hasty exit.
I reach the apartment in what must be record time, and I jump out and drop the fistful of money through the
