The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(57)

Conklin called Michael Dunn from the car and got him on the first try.

He agreed to meet us at the Hall.





CHAPTER 83


THREE HOURS AFTER leaving Sophie Dunn, Conklin and I were sitting at a small table in Interview 1 with her older brother, Michael.

Conklin took the lead, and I used the opportunity to look Michael over.

Dunn was about thirty, of medium height and build, with dark hair, a five-o’clock shadow, and his mother’s kind hazel eyes. He was wearing office-job attire: a dark-gray sports coat, blue button-down shirt, standard striped tie, gray slacks, and, notably, a wedding band. I wondered about that. Sophie Dunn had said her brother was divorced.

Conklin was telling Dunn where the shooting had taken place and the results of the autopsy. I looked at Millie’s son for signs of grief or shock, but Michael was showing very little emotion.

“She put herself in danger,” he said, “but why would someone kill her? She was harmless and not confrontational.”

“When was the last time you spoke with your mother?” I asked.

“Three years ago maybe? I don’t exactly remember. She doesn’t carry a phone—or maybe she didn’t give me the number. I stopped by the house a few times, but I never caught her at home.”

He shook his head.

“She wasn’t right in the head after my dad died. She left school, moved back home, but she detached from me, Sophie, the house. For her it was all about being with the homeless.”

I said, “That must’ve felt pretty bad.”

He shrugged and then said, “I don’t see how I can help you.”

I changed my tack. I said, “Your wedding band. Sophie said you were divorced?”

There it was, at last, a flickering, barely there hint of sadness on his face.

He said, “My ex called her ‘thoroughly nutty Millie.’ Anyway, there’s no reason to take the ring off. I like it. I don’t like change.”

And yet his life had been disrupted by his father’s death, his mother’s absence, and then a divorce that Michael apparently hadn’t accepted as final.

I felt a flash of pity for Michael, and I bought Sophie’s view that he was an introvert. But it was odd that he had no curiosity about his mother’s death. And the few times he made eye contact, I thought he was trying to get a fix on me.

I said, “Mr. Dunn, we’re totally in the dark here. Anything you can add, even a guess, would be appreciated. I liked your mother, and I really want to catch her killer.”

Dunn twisted the band on his ring finger, calling my attention to it again. It was pretty nice, white gold with rims of yellow gold.

He said to me, “As I’ve told you, I don’t know her friends, her habits, or anything about what happened to her. I can’t even guess.” Then he looked away.

I said, “I have to ask, Mr. Dunn, where were you the night your mother was shot?”

“Me? What night was that again? No, it doesn’t matter,” said Michael Dunn wearily. “I have the same routine every day and every night. I get to work at nine. I do research for the three lawyers at Peavey and Smith Financial Management. I eat lunch at my desk. I leave work at six, come home, nuke dinner, watch TV for a few hours, and then I go to bed after the news. That’s my Groundhog Day life. It’s what I want. No stress. Quiet. Predictable.”

And he had a predictable alibi, too. I didn’t like that. Something was going on with Michael Dunn that he hadn’t told us. Never mind what he said; what did he know?

He looked at his watch and said, “Look. I’ve got a stack of documents and a needy boss waiting for them. I hope you catch Mom’s killer. She was batty, but she didn’t deserve to be shot.”

He got up from his chair and put on his windbreaker jacket.

“If you catch the guy, let me know, okay?”

Conklin said, “Of course,” and walked Michael Dunn out to the elevator. I sat for a moment and stared at the wall.

I thought about Michael Dunn’s glancing looks. Like he wanted to study me yet avoid my eyes.

But I had looked at him, and now I was thinking that I’d seen him before.

It would drive me crazy until I figured out when and where.





CHAPTER 84


BACK AT OUR desks, I said to Conklin, “Does Michael Dunn look familiar to you?”

“Reminds me a little of Jimmy Fallon, maybe.”

“You think?”

The feeling I was having that I’d seen Dunn before intensified. I kept comparing him in my mind with his sister and mother, but even though they all had hazel eyes, I just didn’t feel that was it.

And then something clicked.

I opened the folder on my computer where I’d filed the shots I’d snapped of the crowd behind the tape on that rainy night on Geary Street. I scrutinized all of them before I stabbed my finger at the face of a man who strongly resembled Michael Dunn. Millie had looked startled when I showed these same photos to her. Had she seen her son in that crowd?

“Come over here, Richie.”

“Yes, boss.”

He came around, looked at where I was pointing.

“Is this Michael?”

The man at the end of a row of bystanders wore a knit cap and a charcoal-gray ski jacket. His right hand was in his pocket, and he was holding an umbrella handle with his gloveless left hand.