'Kiwasee was a professional burglar. He specialized in Clamden. The Johnny Appleseed case has been in all the papers, he could have read about it in Bridgeport, he could have read about it in jail. Inge Schrag was listed as missing in the police log in the Clamden Forum.
With a little diligence, Kiwasee could have read that. Assume he has a grudge against McNeil for whatever reason and hits on the bright idea of making him a suspect in the Johnny case.'
'So he calls me up, says check out McNeil, steals something from Hill's house that can be traced, and plants it in McNeil's garage where I can find it. So why didn't I find it the first time?'
'Maybe you just didn't see it.'
'I found it in a rug. I'd spread that rug out flat before believe me, it wasn't there.'
'Maybe you got there before Kiwasee thought you would. Maybe-I don't know why.'
'And how would Kiwasee know Inge was a victim unless he was there-or McNeil told him?'
'He wouldn't have to know. All he had to know was that she was missing-that would be enough to make a link of suspicion,' Becker said.
'I don't have all the pieces to a theory, Tee. But it sounds better at first blush than your notion that McNeil is stupid enough to plant that kind of evidence on himself.'
'To each his own,' said Tee.
Metzger had hoped to speak to the chief alone, but since the discovery of the latest body the chief had not been alone. He was forced to see him with Becker in attendance.
'There was-uh-an incident the other night that I didn't put on my report because it didn't seem really significant at the time,' he said, avoiding the chief's eyes. 'I think I was maybe wrong about that. You know, in light of everything else.'
'Okay,' said Tee. 'What was it?'
Metzger told Tee and Becker of his nighttime discovery of the unfinished grave, the light in the woods-he did not refer to it as eerie-and his subsequent check of the cars in the vicinity. 'I ran the plates through the computer and they were all where they belonged except for one.'
Metzger read from his notebook. 'One car was parked in a driveway where the owner did not live, as far as I can determine. It was a four-year-old Chevy Caprice, a beige four-door sedan, and the registration was to something called Lovely Works, which listed an address in Westport. I checked out the address, it's a box in the Mail Box outlet, you know, where they rent you post office boxes. The manager said the box was paid up for three years in advance. Paid in cash. Registered to Lovely Works. He doesn't have a clue who paid him, or what he looked like, it was over two years ago.'
'A company has to give names for the drivers of the car for insurance purposes,' Becker said.
'Yes sir, I know that. I looked into that, too, because I was hoping there was a logical explanation for it all. The driver listed is a Mr.
T. F. Schilling, who lives at Sixtytwo Ledgewood.'
'Have you talked to Mr. Schilling?'
'No sir, not yet. I thought I should tell you about this first. '
'Let's go see Mr. Schilling,' said Tee, who was on his feet with an alacrity that Becker had not seen in him in years. 'We'll screw his feet to the floor.'
Schilling couldn't have been more surprised to have three cops suddenly arrive on his doorstep, asking questions about a car he knew next to nothing about.
'I don't know what car you're talking about,' he said. 'I don't know anything about Lovely Works, whatever that is-I've never heard of it.
What the hell is this all about?'
'A four-door beige Chevy Caprice,' said Tee. 'You don't know what that is?':'No, why should I?' 'Because it's parked in front of your house right now.'
'That's not my car. That's the Emros' car.'
'Who are the Emros?'
'Our neighbors. That's their car. I think it belongs to one of their kids, they leave it parked out there most of the time.' Schilling's house was at the end of a cul-de-sac that swelled into a bulb-shaped rotary at its terminus. Three driveways fed into the bulb. It was a common arrangement in the more recently developed sections of the town, and the circular curves at the dead end of the roads made one of the few places in town where a car could be parked outside a driveway without arousing suspicion.
'At least I think it belongs to one of their kids, they've got a boy and a girl in college, or just out of it, I'm not sure-we don't talk that much. I've never actually seen anybody in the car.'
'You mean it just sits there all the time?'
'No, somebody drives it. It's not always parked in the same place, so somebody moves it around. I've just never seen them do it.'
'Can you tell us why you're listed as a driver of that car on the insurance policy?'
'Chief, it beats the shit out of me. I've never so much as sat in the car in my life.'
'It just moves back and forth in front of your house and you don't know anything about it?'
'It's not in front of my house. Does that look like it's in front of my house? It's closer to Emro's driveway than it is to mine. Sometimes it's on the other side of his driveway. It could even belong to the Canils, I don't know.'
'Who are the Canils?'
Schilling pointed to the third house that shared the end of the road.
All three houses were set well back from the road, the Emros' and the Canils' partially obscured by intervening woods. 'You mean that car's been there for two years and you never reported it to the police?'
'Report what? Call the police on my neighbors because their kid — keeps his car on the street? That would make me pretty popular.'
'And you know nothing about a firm called Lovely Works?'
'Nothing at all. What do they do, what do they make?
What kind of firm are they?'
'We were hoping you could tell us.'
'Chief, I think you've come to the wrong house.'
'You really screwed his feet to the floor,' Becker said, as they moved toward the Emro house.
'What did you want me to do, use my truncheon?' 'Do you still have one? You almost never see a good truncheon anymore.'
'I didn't notice you doing any cleverly incisive FBI questioning there.'
'That's because I didn't want to.'
'Reason enough. Let me just stand there repeating myself. 'Is that your car? No, it isn't. Is that your car? No, it isn't.'
'I believe him,' Becker said. 'I'd check him out, but I believe him. I don't think he had any idea what you were talking about.'
'I hate to say it, but I think you're right.'
'What's more,' Becker said, 'I'll bet you that Emro has always thought that the car belonged to Schilling or Canil, and that…'
'Canil thinks it belongs to Emro. I hate it when we think alike.'
'But… how about the fact that Mr. Schilling's name is on the insurance?' Metzger asked.
'All you need for the registration or the insurance is a name with a good driving record. You don't need the body, you just need the name and the driver's-license number to put down on the application. The insurance company checks to be sure this is a driver who is insurable, and that's it. Whoever actually owns this car, whoever Lovely Works is, just needed Schilling's driver's-license ID number.'
'And anyone who ever asked to see his driver's license when cashing a check for him would have access to his ID number,' Becker added.
'Schilling could have been chosen for a reason or he could — have been picked at random. Mr. Lovely Works parked the car in front of Schilling's house-or approximately in front of Schilling's houseclose enough that if the police ever bothered to check out the plates for whatever reason, they would see that it was driven by Schilling,
