Page 34 of The 24th Hour

Perfect timing.

CHAPTER 42

I SPOKE WITH Alvarez while standing in the Frickes’ semicircular driveway. “Turn Bevaqua over to Brady, Cappy, and Chi for interrogation, in whatever order.” I pictured Cappy or Brady interviewing Arthur, surrounded by morgue shots of the deceased Frickes. He might open up. How many ways could he say, “I have no idea. I have no clue”?

Would Arthur confess? Would he finally spill a name?

I went on, saying to Alvarez, “Turn Delaney over to Conklin.”

She and I both knew that Conklin was the best cop with women ever born.

“Brief Brady and sit in on as many interviews as possible,” I said. “I’m going to call him and say to take his time getting their statements. Never mind tears and ‘swear to God’s. If anyone knows who killed the Frickes, it’s these two.”

I continued, “Keep the gardeners apart. Ask anyone on the team to talk to Casey and Thomas. Lemke and/or Samuelswould both be good. If no one else is around, you do the interviews. I’m standing by,” I said.

I called for another couple of units. Dispatch said, “On the way, Sergeant.”

I walked to the garage, stepped through the open roll-up door. A muscular guy with thick white hair was inside sweeping the floor.

“Rafe Talbot?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I showed him my badge and we went together into his upstairs living quarters.

CHAPTER 43

RAFE TALBOT’S QUARTERS were as plain as a block of wood. Plain double bed covered with a gray sherpa blanket. Sink with a towel bar. A shelf of paperback books.

The kitchen table had a white linoleum top and looked like it had come from a used furniture store. A refrigerator hummed. The few posters on the wall were of rock groups from the 1980s. Beneath the posters sat what looked like a very pricey entertainment unit: a huge TV, abundant sound equipment.

There was no mess anywhere, no laundry, no dirty dishes. I saw no tattoos on Talbot’s neck or arms but the shape of his nose suggested that he’d been a fighter or that at least someone had gotten in a punch. I judged him to be fifty-something.

“Sergeant, I have no idea who killed Jamie.”

He looked like he wanted to talk, but couldn’t find the words. He just couldn’t do it. He shook his head.

Finally, he said, “What can I do? How can I freaking help when I don’t know and can’t even imagine it?”

Jamie Fricke had never warmed any part of me, so clearly there were things about him I just didn’t get.

“It was my fault,” Rafe Talbot said over and over again. “I should never have let him take the car without me.”

And then he started talking in paragraphs.

“Yesterday morning, a little before eight thirty, Arthur told me to bring the car around. But Mr. Jamie said he was just driving over to Steiner Street. He’d be back in five minutes. He didn’t say who he was meeting, and I didn’t ask. Just drove the Jag to the front door, got out, handed him the keys.”

Using my phone as a recorder, I spent an hour with Rafe going over the same well-trodden ground. Holly was loved. Jamie had many women and was apparently loved by some, feared by others. Rafe had only had this job for a couple of years. He knew the staff casually. No one confided secrets to him.

Rafe also had a girlfriend, Greta Schmidt, who worked as a caregiver, day shift. He spent his nights off at her place over in the Sunset district. She spent some nights, like last night, with Rafe. She’d left this morning while it was still dark.

He continued by saying he didn’t know of anyone who would have killed the Frickes, but he listed several people who thought that Jamie was a son of a bitch, people Rafe had picked up or dropped off in the car, people who made a comment or two. He started writing names on the back of a grocery store receipt.

“Once I knew who we were picking up, where we were going, I’d close the barrier between the seats and put my earbuds in. I listened to my music when I was driving Mr. Jamie and guests.

“Everyone liked Holly,” he continued. “I drove her, too.”

I asked, “Did she ever step out on Jamie?”

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