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The next day was Sunday, and Haydon went with Nina and Gabriela to the early church services. His family had always gone to early services, and Gabriela believed that anything the family had done before his parents’ death automatically fell into the category of tradition upon their decease. For an hour he watched the sun on the stained glass windows, stood when everyone else stood, sat when everyone else sat, bowed when everyone else bowed, and tried not to think about Powell.
Driving home he remained preoccupied as the royal blue Jaguar Vanden Plas filled with the saccharine fragrance of Juicy Fruit gum, which Gabriela parsimoniously administered in half pieces from the back seat as she had done every Sunday since Haydon was a boy. He and Nina took their pieces from the old Mexican woman and dutifully chewed them as they listened to her review the details of the dresses of the women she had seen at church. Nina was patient with her, attentive to her comments, reciprocating with her own observations. As they pulled into the gates and circled the drive to the porte cochere, Gabriela changed the subject and gave a single pointed opinion about a specific aspect of the morning’s sermon. This was always done in conclusion to the drive home, and in a manner meant to bring to their attention that her morning in church had not been totally devoted to the superficial appraisal of women’s fashions.
Throughout the afternoon Nina was reserved. She took her pad and pencils into the living room to sketch in its abundant north light, while Haydon roamed around in the library cataloging books, paging through the new arrivals he had not yet shelved and listening to more of Bach’s clavier. On Monday morning Haydon met with Dystal, Mooney, and Lapierre for one of Dystal’s celebrated breakfasts at the JoJo’s on Loop 610 near the Galleria. All three men were already there when Haydon walked in. His late arrival had been deliberate. He wanted to see all of them together, to try to get a feel for the group’s collective attitude toward him, and toward the unusual arrangement Dystal had put together. Although Haydon had talked with Mooney once or twice during the past five months, it was the first time he had seen Lapierre since he had been on leave. He was especially concerned that Lapierre should feel comfortable with the roles each of them had to play.
They ordered but did not go directly into the business they had to discuss. Instead there was small talk over their first cups of coffee and on through breakfast. The detectives told Haydon about changes in departmental policy and personnel that had come about, or were anticipated, since Haydon had been gone. Lapierre said they had torn the squad room ceiling out again because the new air conditioning system had not met with building codes. The place was going to have to endure another summer under construction with telephone and computer cables draped from the superstructure of the lowered ceiling and their only cooling coming from the tunnel fans set up in the hallways. Mooney relayed some choice bits of gossip about the personal lives of some of the division’s Don Juans and reported a couple of rumored divorces. These he speculated about with a few theories of his own thrown in to back up his hunches. Dystal listened to all this with good humored distance.
They did not need to say that the speculation about Haydon’s leave of absence had been the main subject of similar gossip for weeks on end after his departure. He could, and had, imagined the extent of such theorizing.
When they had finished eating and Dystal had poured fresh cups of coffee, it was time to get down to business.
Haydon looked at Mooney and Lapierre.
“I know we’ve all been briefed about how this is going to work, so we don’t have to review the arrangement that Bob’s already set into motion. But I wanted both of you to know that I appreciate your willingness to work with me under these circumstances. We’ve worked together before, so I don’t think there’ll be any surprises about my approach. I’m sensitive to your vulnerability regarding the press, and you know my own attitudes about that. If somewhere down the line you begin to feel uncomfortable about the way I’m handling things, then feel free to come to me with it at any time. I mean anytime.” Haydon looked at Mooney. “Okay?”
Mooney nodded, seeming to feel a little awkward but taking it seriously. He cleared his throat. “Everything sounds good to me.”
He looked at Lapierre. It was for the cautious Lapierre that Haydon had the most concern, and despite Dystal’s earlier assurances Haydon wanted all of them to face the issue in one another’s presence. It was essential that they feel comfortable with Haydon’s position.
Pete Lapierre was of medium height and stocky, with thick black hair that he kept short in an effort to control it. He had smoky eyes that never portrayed anything but calm self-possession. In manner he was as circumspect as Mooney was loose, and though he was a neat dresser his clothes were reflective more of sensible economy than style. He had a reputation for writing the most lucid reports in the division and was a stickler for precision. Some people thought he was humorless, too stern, but Haydon understood his impatience with the locker room bullshit that was part of the squad room atmosphere. He was perceptive and thoughtful and never failed to offer his help or express sympathy and concern whenever it was appropriate. Although he kept very much to himself, he was liked by everyone.
“I don’t have any problems with any of it,” Lapierre said, looking Haydon in the eyes and seeming to understand what he was trying to do. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Well,” Dystal said with elephantine expansiveness, relieved that all that had been gotten through. “I guess we ought to kind of get on to this Powell thing then.” He picked up the coffeepot, but everyone refused. He poured some for himself. “Awright. Ed, why don’t you start it off with the latest on Jennifer Quinn.”
Mooney slid back in his chair to get his belly away from the unyielding edge of the table, took a toothpick out of his shirt pocket, and stuck it in his mouth. “Okay. The reason Quinn hasn’t showed up is because she’s out of the state on a job. She’s also a cameraman—woman—and she works for another advertising agency, Cline, Lacey, and Lee. A lot smaller than Langer’s operation. She’s been in New Orleans for one week on a two week assignment. Had been gone about three days when Powell was killed. We’ve contacted the police down there, and they’re keeping an eye on her for us. She seems to be carrying on with business as usual.
“According to a gal who works with her, she’s been living with Powell for about six months, which means she’s been with him almost as long as he’s been in town. The gal didn’t know if Quinn knew Powell before he came down here. Quinn’s been with this agency a little over a year. Everybody seems to like her. They say she’s a hard worker, sharp, good at what she does, no nasty habits. She’s a Houston gal, so we can probably go as deep on background as you want. There’s a picture of her in their little bungalow. She’s a good looking redhead.
“That’s about it, except that several of the people I talked with at her office had met Powell and thought he was an asshole. I asked if any of them had told her about Powell’s death, and they said no. That was late Friday. I suspect they have by now.”
Haydon nodded. “I think you’re probably right. Let’s go ahead and have the New Orleans police contact her and send her back here. We want to avoid making her feel threatened. Just a message from the police that there’s been some trouble at home and she needs to return to Houston.”
“Okay,” Mooney said.
“You said you saw a picture of her in their house. Where was it?”
“In the living room.”
“Where there any pictures of her in Powell’s room?”
“I don’t remember. There were a bunch of pictures tacked up on one wall. I don’t remember if hers was there. His place had been gone through, you know, but besides that I got the impression it was probably already messed up from his being kind of a sloppy guy.”
Haydon looked at Lapierre. “What did you come up with, Pete?”
“So far all the blood that was taken from the random samples has been Powell’s,” Lapierre said, unconsciously realigning the tableware beside his plate, “although they still have a little more to run through. There was a lot of it. The footprints in the blood appear to have been made by two different sized shoes. Both leather dress shoes. Not a synthetic sole, nothing funky or unusual. Just dress shoes. Actually, there are only five prints of the smaller shoe. They were found going from the door to the editor and then back to the door. Three going to the machine, two going back to the door. None of them really left much of a track. In fact, they just barely identified the two going back to the door.
“The prints leaving the heaviest blood residue were the ones made by the bigger shoe going to the recorder. And they are the only ones of that size that are a single set, not tracked over. Looks like he went from the recorder to the shelves of film and moved around there a lot. There was another trip to the recorder from the shelves and back. A trip to the door that goes into the other lab. Each trip past the sinks he got into the blood again. Tried to get it all off with the paper towels and left.”
“He had to get the paper towels with his hands,” Haydon said. “Any prints from there?”
Lapierre shook his head. “Nothing. And all the fingerprints they’ve lifted from the place so far have belonged to employees. There’s still a few more of those to check out, too.”
“The reports said there was no tape in the editor. Was anything missing from the laboratory?”
“We’ve got the people in the lab there cross referencing the jobs Powell was working on with the film and tapes he had in the files.”
“There was no security breach?”
“Not that anyone can determine. The agency has the usual arrangement with a private security firm, and the security people say there’s no record of a breach. It seems to me there are several possibilities, though.”
He put his closed fist on the table, palm up, and unfolded one finger with each point.
“Whoever did it had a key. Or they hid somewhere within the complex until after hours and waited for Powell to come in. Or they jumped Powell someplace outside, like in the parking garage, and made a forced entry at gun or knifepoint. Or Powell knew them and brought them there of his own free will. Or they knew how to manipulate the warning system.”
“Maybe he was meeting a baby doll up there,” Mooney said. “Quinn was out of town.”
The waitress came and took away their empty plates, and Dystal poured more coffee from the private reserve that was a permanent fixture at his table. The restaurant was busy, but no one rushed them.
Haydon had often wondered at the wisdom of Dystal’s establishing this kind of routine and familiarity. It was a natural thing for the lumbering lieutenant to do, but Haydon thought of how easy it was for anyone to find him there. Over the years a policeman makes a few enemies. Some of them were crazy.
They reviewed other possibilities and potential leads, posed theories, and guessed about which way it would go. Haydon asked a few questions about the interviews at Langer Media. At the end of another half hour, Haydon took his Mont Blanc from his pocket and began writing on his paper place mat. As he wrote, he explained the approach he wanted to follow and outlined the directions in which he wanted Mooney and Lapierre to move. He told them what he was going to do and then asked what they thought of his plans. They exchanged a few more ideas, made some additions, some adjustments, and they were through. Haydon tore off the half of the place mat on which he had been writing and put it in his pocket. By ten o’clock they were gone.