The Authorities, page 21
Albert said, “It’s nothing to worry about. It just means you have to descale the boiler.”
“Do I have to wear a chef’s hat to do it?” Rutherford asked.
“It’s not a chef’s hat,” Albert said. “And it’s not a mushroom cloud either.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s supposed to look like a plume of high-pressure steam being vented.”
Back in the van’s second row of seats, Max said, “Megan, I’m sorry, English is not my first language. What is the difference between a cloud and a plume?”
“I think a plume rises more violently,” Sloan said. “And I think enough steam would still form a plume that’s shaped like a mushroom, so in a sense it is a violent mushroom cloud, but of steam instead of smoke. I don’t know if that makes any real difference.”
“Oh, it makes a big difference,” Professor Sherwood said. “Smoke is only dangerous if you inhale too much of it. Steam can scald you quite badly on contact.”
“Not helping!” Rutherford said.
Sloan said, “We know.”
Albert’s disembodied voice added, “Rutherford, it’s nothing. Really. Sometime within the next couple of days, while the van is parked, you just need to set it for a descaling cycle. The van is like anything else that boils water. Minerals will build up and make the boiler less efficient. Descaling just breaks up the minerals into tiny bits and blows them out the smokestack. That’s why all Stephenson-drive cars have that big pipe pointing straight up.”
Rutherford said, “I thought those were just for show, to remind people of trains.”
“Nope,” Albert said. “They are functional. They vent the superheated steam in a safe direction. Don’t worry about the descaling. It’s a quick, perfectly safe procedure.”
“Can we do it in the garage when we get back this evening?”
“No! Sorry, uh, yeah, we can’t do it indoors. No, tonight you’ll have to find an open space, like a parking lot, to do it in.”
“But it’s perfectly safe.”
“Yes, as long as you do it in a large, open space.”
So now, on top of everything else, Rutherford had to think of a suitable spot where he could run the van he didn’t want through some sort of controlled detonation. He didn’t mind, or rather he minded quite a bit, but at least all of his various issues left no room in his mental RAM for the things he’d learned about Sloan.
He’d spent the entire morning in the office using every bit of willpower he possessed to keep from watching her and trying to deduce which ankle was electronic and which fingers were mechanical.
Sloan, for her part, had more or less kept to herself all morning. Rutherford understood that she had wanted the basic information shared to avoid awkward questions, but the silence this morning had felt plenty awkward.
I guess in her situation a certain amount of awkward is unavoidable, Rutherford thought. The only thing she can control is what kind of awkward she gets, and how much of it.
It seemed she’d had enough awkward silence for the time being, because she started talking again as they approached the widow Arledge’s house.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sloan said in her upbeat, synthesized voice. “I’d like to try something different today. Rutherford, have you ever played Good Cop, Bad Cop?”
“We role-played it at the academy,” he said. “They never let me be the bad cop.”
Max smiled. “The fact that you needed them to let you might help explain why that is.”
Sherwood said, “Wait, are you really talking about doing Good Cop, Bad Cop? Is that a real thing that cops even do? Isn’t it kind of obvious?”
“Only if you’re obvious about it,” Sloan said. “You can put a suspect on the defensive while getting them to open up at the same time. But if you want it to work, you have to tone it way down. It’s more like Sympathetic Cop, Suspicious Cop. It takes some acting ability to sell it, usually, but I figure that since the two people who will do most of the talking look like Santa Claus and Serpico, we’re already halfway there. Oh, and Rutherford, go heavy on the cigar.”
Sloan explained her plan. Max would do most of the talking, with Rutherford adding an occasional follow-up question or statement. She would direct them as necessary. Beyond that, it was just a matter of keeping a certain attitude in mind. She wanted Max to seem as if he believed Mrs. Arledge was innocent in all things, and she wanted Rutherford to seem as if he doubted every word out of her mouth.
When they finally arrived, Max rang the doorbell. Sloan stood behind him. Rutherford, at Sloan’s request, brought up the rear. Since Sherwood had already thoroughly scanned the house and his presence would just add another variable, it was decided that he would listen in from the van.
Olivia Arledge answered the door, greeted Max warmly, and invited them in. She showed signs of discomfort at the sight of Sloan, but that was no surprise. Rutherford stopped her dead, or rather, his e-cigar did.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry. “You can’t smoke in here.”
Rutherford fought every natural urge he possessed, and instead of apologizing and telling her that he understood, simply looked her in the eye and said, “I’m not.” He sucked in on the e-cigar, making the LED in its tip glow, then exhaled a medium-sized blue-white cloud to punctuate his point.
Mrs. Arledge hadn’t expected an outright denial. She tried to hide her annoyance, but she stood her ground. “Yes, you are smoking, sir, and I don’t allow it in my house.”
“It’s not smoke,” Rutherford said. “It’s a fake cigar. It just puts out water vapor. Think of it as a very small humidifier.” He drew another mouthful of vapor and exhaled it through his nose.
Max cleared his throat uncomfortably. Sloan said, “Well done,” but of course, Mrs. Arledge couldn’t hear that.
“You’re welcome to humidify outside if you must,” she said. “You’ll have to stop if you want to stay in here.”
Rutherford smiled and said, “Of course.” The rest of the team worried that he’d dropped character and reverted to his natural, more apologetic personality. He took the e-cigar from his mouth and said, “It’s your house.” One’s natural expectation would be for Rutherford to grind out the cigar and discard it, but of course it was an electronic cigar, and he could not simply toss it aside. He held the cigar in his hand, as if he could put it back in his mouth at any moment.
Mrs. Arledge said, “Could you please put it away?”
Rutherford said, “No need. It’s only activated if I inhale through it. It can’t put out any vapor otherwise.”
“Well, would you please put it in your pocket?”
Rutherford said, “I’d rather not. It’s covered with spit.” He held up the mouth end of the cigar so Mrs. Arledge could see. Her eyes narrowed and her voice lowered, but she said, “Just come in.”
Max thanked Mrs. Arledge for agreeing to see them again. He promised that they wouldn’t take much of her time. She told Max that she was happy to do anything to bring her late husband’s killer to justice, but she eyed Rutherford warily as she said it. She led them into the sitting room where they’d questioned her less than forty-eight hours before, and they all had a seat.
“Mrs. Arledge,” Max said, “we’ve been interviewing your husband’s patients, and we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Arledge said with a sigh. “I suppose you do.”
“And I bet you know what we’re going to ask about,” Rutherford said.
“I assume it’s about the clown.”
Rutherford nodded.
Mrs. Arledge turned back to Max and asked, “Have you spoken to her?”
“Yes,” Max said. “We have.”
“What did she say?”
“That she thought a great deal of your husband.”
Mrs. Arledge laughed once, humorlessly, through her nose.
Max chose to clarify. “I mean that she admired him and was grateful to him. According to her, what other people have called an affair never went beyond a single kiss, and they both felt terrible about it afterward.”
Mrs. Arledge considered this for a long moment, then sighed. “I suppose she doesn’t have much reason to lie about it now.”
“Quite the contrary,” Max said. “If she lied to make it seem more sordid, she could tell the story to the press and perhaps make some money.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Mrs. Arledge said.
In his earpiece, Rutherford heard Sloan say, “Bad cop, ask her why she didn’t tell us.” He wasn’t going to be comfortable asking it, but it was a good question.
“I’m wondering why you didn’t mention it, Mrs. Arledge.” As he said it, he gestured toward her, thrusting the cigar as if it were a pointer.
“Because it was humiliating! I found out from a bad comedy video that my husband cheated on me. With a clown! She’s not even one of those Cirque du Soleil, sexy-unitard clowns, or even a proper circus clown! She does children’s parties! What could be worse?”
Sloan said, “A rodeo clown.”
Rutherford nodded silently.
Sloan said, “No, say it. A rodeo clown.”
Rutherford gritted his teeth and said, “A rodeo clown.”
Mrs. Arledge glared at Rutherford until Max drew her attention.
“I’m certain it was very hard for you,” Max said. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk about it, but that was the kind of information we would have liked to know when we were looking for suspects.”
“Why? Do you think she killed Dan?”
Max didn’t say no, but he subtly shook his head while he said, “We’re investigating various possible suspects.”
Mrs. Arledge muttered, “Investigating possible suspects.” She looked Rutherford in the eye and said, “You think I killed my husband, don’t you?”
Sloan said, “Soft pedal it.”
Rutherford exhaled heavily and said, “We’re just trying to follow the logic.”
She turned back to face Max. “I couldn’t have done it. I was with friends.”
Max threw Rutherford a fake reproachful glance, then leaned forward, rested an elbow on his knee, and looked Mrs. Arledge in the eye. “Yes, we know that. We’re not saying you weren’t. It’s just that, logically, you could be involved without having actually committed the crime.”
Mrs. Arledge looked more insulted than hurt. She turned away from Max, who had said the thing that insulted her, and rolled her eyes at Rutherford, whom she clearly blamed.
“Involved,” she said. “Like what? You think I hired a hit man or something?”
Rutherford poked his cigar at her and said, “That’s an interesting idea.”
Mrs. Arledge said, “Please, I wouldn’t even know where to find such a person. Craigslist?” She turned back to Max. “I love . . . loved my husband. I was angry with him, but I didn’t want him dead. I’d already punished him. I made him miserable for a couple of weeks, and I may have held it over him in arguments, but that’s all.”
Sloan said, “Press her on the financial angle.”
Rutherford said, “There are other possible reasons.” He worked through the angles on the fly as he spoke. “Maybe you thought the clown was just the beginning. If he left you, you would’ve gotten half of everything at best. If he died after he retired, you would’ve gotten all of his retirement savings. That’s better. But, if he died before he retired, before he signed the practice over to Dr. Shaw, then you’d own all of your combined savings, the practice, the building, and all of the money his partner has paid toward it. And that’s exactly what has happened, isn’t it? Of course, Shaw could sue, but you could throw some money at him to keep it from coming to that. Extortion is usually cheaper than lawyers.”
Olivia Arledge shook her head in disgust. “I’ve already told my attorney to draw up the paperwork to sign the practice over to Tyler.” She turned back to Max. “It was the right thing to do. He’s already worked so hard and paid so much money.”
“That’s very fair-minded of you,” Max said.
“He offered to keep paying for the two more years he and Dan had agreed on, but that price was based on the value of the practice with Dan at the helm until he retired, not . . .” She trailed off, trying not to lose control of her emotions. When she had her grief back in check, she said, “Not gone. His name was a big part of the draw. Now that things have ended this way, it has to be worth less.”
Max said, “I think you’re right. You think very highly of Dr. Shaw, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Dan did too. He even tried to bring him in on his book. When they published, his name would have been attached as a coauthor.”
“He must have been excited about that,” Max said.
“I’m sure he was. With Dan retiring, it would have set Tyler up as the working authority on those kinds of low-grade social disorders. But I don’t think that will happen now.”
“Can’t Dr. Shaw pick up where your husband left off?”
“No. I mean, Dan kept good notes, and I’m sure they discussed things, but most of the work was still in Dan’s head. He wasted all that time hanging around with weirdoes. It’s such a shame.”
They asked a few more questions and got clear, direct answers. Eventually, Sloan announced that she’d heard enough. Max said their good-byes. Rutherford slinked out of Mrs. Arledge’s house as if he was irritated and embarrassed, which took no acting skill whatsoever.
When they got to the van, Sloan said, “That went well,” in her chirpy, computer voice.
“So you think she did it?” Professor Sherwood asked.
Sloan said, “No.”
“But you said it went well.”
“Yes. We learned things. We learned that she wasn’t angry enough to kill, that she didn’t see a financial motive, that she went ahead and gave the business to Dr. Shaw, and that Rutherford makes a pretty good ventriloquist’s dummy.”
“I’m glad you’re happy,” Rutherford said, pulling the van out of its parking space and into the road. “I looked like a complete A-hole.”
Sloan’s voice in his ear said, “Laughing. Laughing. Isn’t that pretty much your job description?”
Rutherford said, “It isn’t that funny.”
“I agree,” Sloan said. “This thing can’t differentiate between a full laugh and an ironic chuckle. Albert’s working on it.”
TWENTY
The team’s next stop, both according to logic and Terri’s schedule, was to interview the last member of the late Dr. Arledge’s therapy group. They drove to his neighborhood, found his address, parked the van, and interviewed him at length. Now they were walking back to the van in a sullen silence, because every step of that process had gone badly.
Traffic over the lake had been predictably wretched, and maneuvering the van around the narrow, confusing, congested streets of Capitol Hill had been a nightmare.
The van’s torque-heavy drivetrain made driving on steep hills quite easy, which should have saved Rutherford a great deal of stress. But he was still surrounded by normal cars that were having difficulty, so he couldn’t relax. His ability to hold his position and move forward effortlessly did nothing to prevent the car in front of him from creeping backward into the van, or crawling uphill at a snail’s pace. Then he got stuck at a three-way stop that, from above, would have resembled a gothic capital K. The intersection of three roads boasted four stop signs. Four vehicles, one of which was the van, reached the intersection at the same time. All four drivers motioned for one of the other three to go first, and they became mired in an intractable battle of wills. No red-blooded Seattleite is ever going to go first and let some jerk in another car think that he or she is more courteous than they are.
The best parking space Rutherford could find was at the back of a paid lot three blocks away from their goal. As he eyed it, he said, “I think this space is as close as we’re going to get. Is everyone cool with walking a few blocks?”
He’d said everyone, but it was clear that he meant Sloan.
Sloan said, “Yeah, I’m sure we’re all fine, thanks.”
She’d said thanks, but it was clear that she meant don’t ever ask again.
They abandoned the van and made their way on foot to the third-floor walkup of Mr. Dustin O’Reilly.
Dr. Shaw had implied that Dustin’s particular antisocial quirk was that he compulsively made comments of a sexually provocative nature. Sadly, that was accurate. From the moment they entered until the moment they left, every word out of the man’s mouth either had a smutty double meaning or a smutty single meaning. Rutherford suspected that even if the interview had taken place in the men’s room at his old precinct house, someone would still have asked him to tone it down.
They asked questions and received a mixture of roughly forty percent answers and sixty percent increasingly blatant and profane attempts at sexual humor. Eventually Max did remind him that a lady was present, which was a mistake. Sloan’s silence and icy demeanor was off-putting to most men, but that was how all women treated O’Reilly. He saw it neither as an insult nor as a challenge, but simply as par for the course, and he wasn’t going to let it stop him.
Talking to O’Reilly was an acutely unpleasant, ultimately fruitless experience. Aside from having a solid alibi, he had taken up a great deal of their time, delivered very little information, and left them all with the vague feeling that they needed a bath.
Rutherford shook his head as they continued their trek toward the van. “Don’t guys like that understand that the more they talk about sex, the more certain everybody is that they aren’t having any?”
