Helin had parked his car next to mine in the driveway, a Lexus GS. No one followed him, I noticed. He was walking toward the Barringtons’ front door as I left the house. We met halfway.
“Do you want to know what I have so far or would you rather wait until I can put it in writing?” I asked.
“What I want, Taylor—no more conversations with anyone in the Barrington family unless I’m present.”
“So I’ve been informed.”
“I had a long discussion with Mrs. Barrington last night and … Listen, it’s not you. You’re the best investigator I’ve ever worked with, believe that. It’s all on them. What a mess.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ve had more likable clients than this one, that’s for sure. Remember Judith Marie Strobel? What a joy she was.”
“Too bad she poisoned her husband.”
“What can you do? Sometimes the people we like really are criminals. This woman, though. She is so … so…”
“Screwed up?”
“We need to keep her out of a courtroom. The minute she steps into a courtroom … Find out about the girl, Taylor. Please. Hope she ripped off a Mexican drug cartel, because right now that’s the only chance Mrs. Barrington’s got.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You know, after Eleanor admitted that what her son said was true, I came this close to walking away.”
“Freddie and I were tempted to do the same thing.”
“Why didn’t you?” Helin asked.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Professional pride, I suppose. Besides, despite everything, I still don’t believe she’s guilty.”
“At least not of the crime of murder.”
* * *
I pulled out of Mrs. Barrington’s driveway. The Chrysler 300 was waiting for me. I spoke to its reflection in my rearview mirror as I negotiated the residential streets.
“C’mon, man. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
I kept driving. He kept following. I had a thought. I pulled off the street where Pleasant Lake Road intersected Highway 96 and parked the Camry next to what used to be North Oak’s security gate. The 300 pulled up behind me. I left the Camry and walked toward the driver. He seemed anxious, so I showed him my empty hands. He powered down the driver’s side window, and I felt a blast of cold air. It was seventy-three degrees in early June in Minnesota, and he had his air conditioner on. What a putz.
“Officer,” I said, “I’m going to reach for my credentials.”
He watched intently as I slid my right hand under my sports jacket and retrieved my wallet from an inside pocket. I showed him a photostat of my license.
“I’m a licensed private investigator,” I told him in case he couldn’t read. “I work for Mrs. Barrington.”
He nodded like he knew it all along.
“May I have a moment?” I asked.
I backed away. He thought about it for a few beats before opening the door and sliding out of the Chrysler. He was a head taller than I was and dressed in full uniform. He pressed his fists against his hips and scowled at me.
“Well?” he said.
I admit I liked him better when he was sitting down.
“You’re a community service officer,” I said. “You work the mean streets of North Oaks.”
I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, which turned out to be okay because apparently he didn’t notice.
“I keep an eye on things,” the officer said.
“You picked me up almost immediately when I crossed the city line.”
“What of it?”
“Do you keep track of all the cars that come and go?”
“I try to pay attention.”
“You know which vehicles belong to the residents and which are driven by interlopers.” I liked the sound of the word so much I repeated it. “Interlopers.”
“I know who’s who.”
“Four days ago, in the evening, did you happen to see a black, two-door BMW 640i coupe leave the city?”
The question wasn’t as outrageous as it sounded. There were only three places an outsider could gain access to North Oaks, one off Highway 96 and the others off the less-traveled Hodgson and Centerville Roads.
The officer grinned at me.
“I saw nothing,” he said.
“More to the point, did you happen to see a black, two-door BMW 640i coupe return to the city sometime after ten P.M.?”
“It didn’t happen.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said.
“It didn’t sneak past you—going out, coming in?”
“Not on my watch.”
He was being a good soldier, I decided, looking out for the welfare of his employers.
“You’re willing to swear to that?” I asked.
“I am.”
“In a court of law with a jury, prosecutor, and judge hanging on your every word?”
He thought about it and slowly shook his head.
That’s what I was afraid of.