Floating Staircase(77)

Strohman sighed and fingered the dark cleft in his chin. “I really don’t care.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I like your brother,” Strohman said. “He’s a good man. I’m trying not to embarrass his family.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You’re causing quite a stir around town. Allegations of murder and police cover-ups—”

“I never said anything about police cover-ups.”

“Whatever.” He prodded the air absently with an index finger to signal just how banal he found this whole conversation. “Westlake’s a small family community. It’s my job to make sure everyone stays happy. You’ve been asking a lot of questions about stuff that doesn’t concern you, bothering people in the process. I figured I’d give you the opportunity to ask them directly to me.”

“I want to know why the investigation into Elijah Dentman’s supposed drowning was quashed.”

Strohman grinned. He was roguishly handsome. “You sound like Columbo.”

“Humor me. How come David Dentman was let off the hook so easily?”

“Why shouldn’t he be?”

“He’s got a criminal record, a history of violence. His statement on the record says he’d been watching Elijah from the house that afternoon, but your officers missed something. I missed it too at first.” I explained about the trees from the crime scene photographs, although I neglected to tell him from whom I’d gotten them. Probably in a town Westlake’s size, there was only one crime scene photographer, and Strohman didn’t need to ask.

“Where are these photos?”

I groaned inwardly. “Probably somewhere over Pennsylvania by now.” Strohman frowned.

“I had them with me at the cemetery. They blew away after Dentman punched me in the face, then handcuffed me to the fence.” Now it was my turn to frown. “How come you haven’t asked me what I was doing out there, anyway?”

“I already know.”

“How?”

“Dentman phoned it in this morning.”

“Son of a bitch. He admitted to it?”

“Phoned it in anonymously,” Strohman said. “From a pay phone in West Cumberland. But I know it was him.”

“Well, shit.”

“I’m going to share something with you.” Strohman got up from behind his desk and went to the door, opened it.

A round little woman with silver hair stood on the other side, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in her hands. I hadn’t even heard her knock. Strohman took the cups and thanked the woman, then closed the door with his shoe. After he handed me one of the cups, he sat in front of me on the edge of his desk. I heard the wood creak in protest.

“This is what you wanted to share with me?” I said, savoring the warmth radiating through the cup. “Coffee?”

Again, Strohman grinned. My mind summoned an image of a young Kirk Douglas. “In situations like the one that happened to the Dentmans, the families are always the prime suspects. We always address the parents first. In this case, I spoke personally with both the boy’s mother as well as his uncle. The mother”—he waved a hand to indicate her mental instability—“she was of limited capacity, let’s say. Of course,” he added, leering at me from over the rim of his cup, “you’ve met her, so you know.”

He slurped his coffee. “I questioned David Dentman extensively. His story never changed.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“We had no body and no evidence that a homicide had taken place. What I’m saying is there was no probable cause to even make an arrest.”

A glimmer of hope ignited within me. I leaned forward in the chair. “So you believe he killed the boy?”

Strohman set his coffee on his desk, then folded his hands in his lap. “I did seven years in Los Angeles as a uniformed officer and another two in homicide. I love this little town—it’s pretty and peaceful, and I got a wife and a litter of youngsters who’re much better off here than back in L.A.—but I’m aware of its shortcomings. I’ve been here four years, and we’ve only worked two wrongful death cases in all that time. And only one of those was an honest to God homicide. A squabble down at the ‘Bird, fists flying, some guy pulls a knife. That’s hot news around here. Most of my officers have never seen blood let alone worked a homicide investigation.”

That tabloid celebrity smile returned. He had perfect teeth. “But I’ve worked some pretty gruesome cases. I could tell you stuff that would make you spend the rest of your nights sitting up in bed, listening for every little creak in your house. When it comes to doing those sorts of things, well, that’s my bread and butter. And just because I moved my family out here for a better life doesn’t mean I’ve surrendered all my training and instincts. You don’t leave those things at the airport security checkpoint, so to speak. You catch me?”

“What about the fact that the kid’s body was never found?”

“My guess is it’ll show up sometime in the spring when the lake thaws. Point I’m trying to make is I’m not sitting around here with my thumb up my ass. I know how to run an investigation. I don’t need you sniffing around in my shit. Comprende?”