“Mr. O’Malley is ready to talk,” says Chief Baines when he radios us at the radio station.
Andrew Meyer is burning us a CD of what was recorded when Cliff was bumped off the air.
“Big Paddy and his lawyer have already left the Rolling Thunder,” the chief continues, “and are currently en route to headquarters to complete their interview with you two.”
“We’re on our way,” says Ceepak.
“Good. The lawyer says he’s bringing in a witness to corroborate O’Malley’s story.”
“Any idea who?”
“Of course not. The shyster’s slicker than an eel in olive oil. He’s building suspense, trying to play us like he plays the poor saps in the jury box.”
“We may need to question Mr. O’Malley about a second death.”
More dead air on the radio, this time from the chief. Even though he’s a couple of miles away, I can see him tugging at his mustache, trying to pluck the thing out of his lip. It’s what he always does when one of us gives him a new ulcer.
“Second death?” he says finally.
“Yes, sir. New evidence recovered inside the home at number One Tangerine suggests that Mrs. O’Malley’s death last week may have been something other than a heart attack.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Numerous vials of potassium chloride, several of which were empty.”
“You’re telling me somebody poisoned Mrs. O’Malley?”
“No. I’m saying that is what the evidence recovered so far would seem to suggest.”
“That’s what I just said, John.”
“If I may, sir, there is a difference. Until we find evidence linking the drug ampoules to the deceased and/or a suspect, all we have is proof that someone was in possession of a very powerful poison that they, most likely, removed illegally from a pharmacy.”
“You’re right,” says the chief. “Let’s take this thing one step at a time.” I think that last bit was aimed at himself.
We hit the house, head straight for the interview room.
Big Paddy, Loud Rambowski, and Golden Boy Kevin are seated at the table. So is that fiery redhead from the funeral: The lady I pegged to be Mrs. O’Malley’s sister. In this light, her hair looks orange.
“Officers,” says the lawyer, standing up, pointing to two chairs, like he’s in charge.
Ceepak? He finds a different open chair. Stands behind it.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says to the orangehead.
“Frances Ryan.”
“My sister-in-law,” says Big Paddy.
“She can tell you where Dad was when the girl was murdered,” adds Kevin.
“Indeed?” says Ceepak, finally sitting down. So I grab a seat, too. “Can she also explain why we found potassium chloride in the medicine chest at number One Tangerine Street?”
“Huh?” This from Daddy O’Malley.
“What the hell are you trying to pull here?” says Rambowski. “Have you made a connection between this … this …”
Ceepak helps out: “Potassium chloride. When delivered in a lethal dose, it causes the heart muscle to stop beating, leading to death by cardiac arrest.”
“So?” says the lawyer. “Is there any connection between what you found and my client?”
“Not at this time. However, we have established that your client, Mr. O’Malley, was a frequent visitor to the house.”
“No you have not,” says Rambowski. “Not to my satisfaction.”
“You wanna see the videos?” I ask.
Every drop of blood drains out of Mr. O’Malley’s face.
“Goddamn that Johnson. Arrogant prick.”
“Pardon?” says Ceepak, like we’re at a tea party and somebody just farted.
“Keith Barent Johnson! He’s the one who wanted the cameras in every bedroom! Said the videos were the only thing that got him through July and August when Bruno rented out the house to tourists and we all got busy making our nut for the year, couldn’t screw around with the girls.”
Mrs. O’Malley’s sister has her purse in her lap and is twisting the straps like crazy. I think right about now she’d like to tear one off and use it to strangle her brother-in-law.
“Gentlemen,” says Rambowski, “let’s talk about why we’re actually here. This morning you intimated that you had enough evidence to arrest Mr. O’Malley for the murder of Ms. Gail Baker. Is that what you intend to do, now that you’ve uncovered somebody’s stash of potassium chloride, even though, if I might remind you, Ms. Baker did not die from a heart attack?”
“We have not yet written up an arrest warrant,” says Ceepak, somewhat reluctantly.
“Good. Because my client has an ironclad alibi. Patrick?”
I can tell Mr. O’Malley is still thinking about the lethal injection and the heart attack.
“Hmm?” he says.
“Tell these gentlemen about the telephone call. Thursday night.”
Mr. O’Malley sits there. Nods a couple of times.
“Dad?” Kevin prods him.
“Right. The phone. Okay.” He reaches into the coat of his seersucker suit. Pulls out a cell, which he places on the table in front of him. “This is my main phone. 609-555-9566. I didn’t want to turn it over earlier because, frankly, there are some rather embarrassing text messages and photographs stored in the memory. I should’ve erased them.”
The sister-in-law flings daggers at him with her eyes. When she runs out of those, her eyes chuck spears.
“Anyway, we dug through the folders and, yes, you will find Ms. Baker’s final text message,” says the lawyer in what I take to be a stupid move.
“It says, ‘I need 2 c u now,’” reports Kevin. “It arrived, as indicated in the phone records, shortly after midnight, first thing Friday morning.”
Wow. The whole team is helping us out.
“The phone call to the mayor’s house is in there, too,” says Mr. O’Malley.
This is pretty incredible. I’m leaning back in my seat, they’re making this so easy. Ceepak, however, is leaning forward. Elbows on the table. Hand stroking his chin.
“Now, whoever had the phone,” says the lawyer, “erased the message they texted back to Ms. Baker from the ‘Sent’ file.”
Ceepak’s ears perk up. “What do you mean by ‘whoever had the phone?’”
32
“I must’ve grabbed the wrong one when I left the office on Thursday night,” says Mr. O’Malley.
“And how could that happen?” asks Ceepak.
“Easy. We have a half dozen of these things sitting in chargers behind the counter at King Putt. Same make and model. We use them like walkie-talkies as we travel around town, managing our properties. Anyway, I just called Skippy at the golf course. Told him to find out who the hell had my phone Thursday night. Whoever it was, he’s your goddamn killer.”
“Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak, “while I appreciate your being candid about the embarrassing evidence on your cell phone-”
Big Paddy slides the phone down the table like he and Ceepak are playing air hockey. “Here. Take it. Maybe you can un-erase the text message whoever did this thing sent back to Gail.”
Ceepak blocks the shot. Moves the cell sideways. “Rest assured, Mr. O’Malley we will attempt to do just
