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“He said he spilled his guts even before that. Said he wrote a letter to ADA Allen in February, owning up to everything. Gave him info that wasn’t in the press.”
“Really? Then where’s that letter?”
Probably went through Douglas Allen’s shredder, Izzy thinks.
“Let’s go back to thePlastic Mancomic books. Ms. Rademacher said that Duffrey was very pleased with those. Showed them to her. Said he was relieved Cary didn’t have any hard feelings. But here’s an interesting thing, Roxanne. When he showed Ms. Rademacher the comics, they weren’t in the Mylar bags. I have no idea why Tolliver wanted the bags back—or rather, whatstoryhe told Duffrey about why he wanted those bags back—but he took them.”
“Sowhat?” Only Roxanne knows what. It’s on her face. It’s on the way the coffee cup trembles in her hand. “This is a waste of time. I’ve only got a fifteen-minute coffee break.” She starts to get up.
“Sit down,” Izzy says, using her best cop voice.
Roxanne sits down.
“Now let’s talk about those kiddie porn mags that were found behind Duffrey’s furnace. The ones that supposedly had his fingerprints on them. Detective Atta and I assumed they were slicks, likePlayboyandPenthouse, until we looked at the photos of the exhibits entered at the trial. They’re actually more like pamphlets, not bound, just stapled together. Done in some sick pedo’s basement, most likely, and mailed out in plain brown wrappers from a Mail Boxes Etc. under an assumed name. Cheap paper, pulp stock. Digest-sized.”
Roxanne says nothing.
“Pulp stock takes fingerprints, but not very well. They’re blurry. The ones ADA Allen submitted as evidence were clear. Every ridge and whorl sharp. There were two onUncle Bill’s Pride and Joy, two onToddlers, and three onBedtime Story. Now are you ready for the big question, Roxanne?”
Izzy sees that Roxanne is indeed ready. The coffee cup has stopped shaking. She has decided that if someone’s ass is going to be grass, it’s not going to be hers.
“Were those fingerprints on themagazines, or were they on thebagsthe magazines were stored in when they were found behind Alan Duffrey’s furnace?”
Roxanne makes one final feeble attempt. “What difference does it make? TheywereDuffrey’s fingerprints.”
Izzy keeps quiet. Sometimes silence is best.
“They were on the bags,” Roxanne says finally. “It wasn’tcrookedor anything, just that when the magazines were photographed in the bags—”
“The fingerprints looked like they wereonthe magazines, didn’t they?”
“Yes.” Roxanne mutters it into her coffee.
“You and I might have a difference of opinion on what constitutes crooked, Roxanne. Certainly if Allen got a confession letter from Cary Tolliver and trashed it, that would be as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Claire Rademacher—”
“You have no proof of that!”
No, Izzy thinks,and if it went into the shredder, I never will.
“Claire Rademacher wasn’t on Allen’s witness list, so Grinsted, Duffrey’s lawyer, never questioned her. She didn’t come forward because it never crossed her mind that the comics were important. Basically, your boss concealed evidence, didn’t he?”
“They’reallmy bosses,” Roxanne says angrily. “Most days I’m like a one-legged woman in an ass-kicking contest.”
But Allen said he’d take you with him if he moved up, didn’t he?
It’s a question Izzy won’t ask.
“In fact, it was more than concealment. It was deliberate misdirection, and a contributing factor in Alan Duffrey’s murder.”
“Some con murdered Duffrey. Stabbed him with a stiletto made from a toothbrush handle.” Roxanne pours out her coffee, staining one of her shoes. “We’re done here.” She gets up and starts back toward the county courthouse.
“Doug Allen won’t be moving up to DA,” Izzy calls after her. “Never mind the letter from Tolliver he might have trashed, when this comes out, he’ll be lucky to get a job in the private sector.”
Roxanne doesn’t turn, just keeps on trucking. That’s all right. Izzy now knows what she (and Tom) had only suspected: Cary Tolliver wasn’t the only one responsible for putting Alan Duffrey in the frame. He had help. If “Bill Wilson” knows this, he could consider ADA Allen the guiltiest one.
Izzy raises her face to the day’s welcome sunshine, closes her eyes, and sips her latte.
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