The Book of Air and Shadows - Michael Gruber [122]
12
Crosetti had been questioned by the police hundreds of times, but never before by one who was not a close relative. He found it a good deal easier to lie to strangers, especially as they were handling him with care. They were all in the living room of the family home, Detective Murray perched on the couch, Detective Fernandez in the facing armchair with his pad out, Crosetti in the other armchair of the worn blue brocade suite, coffee things on the coffee table, coffee having been poured by Mary Peg before her discreet exit. Behind Crosetti’s head was the large oil painting, manufactured from a photo, of Lieutenant Crosetti, heroic cop, in his heavily bemedaled blues, with his young family around him.
The eyes of the two cops occasionally flicked toward this icon as they put their questions; there was no danger that they were going to get rough. In any case, aside from complicity in the conversion of Sidney Glaser’s property (the Bracegirdle manuscripts) to unauthorized use, Crosetti had not done anything wrong, and the policemen did not press him on this point. They wanted to know about Bulstrode in a routine way, because they had found Crosetti’s name in his appointment book and they were going through the usual motions. They were mildly interested in Rolly; that she had disappeared interested them, but when Crosetti told them about the London letter, their interest vanished. Leaving the country wasn’t a crime. Crosetti knew better than to try to engage them in speculation about the murder; cops weren’t there to supply information but to obtain it. They stayed twenty minutes, some of which were given over to reminiscences of the late Lieutenant Crosetti, and left as cheerful as homicide detectives ever get.
A cop who was your sister was a different item, and when Patty Dolan came by forty minutes later, Crosetti was perfectly willing to get into her face. After having established that he was but a minor figure in the life of the victim, he asked, “So what do you guys think?” Meaning her fellow cops; as he said this, he glanced at his mother as well.
“Well, the guy was a Brit and gay,” said Patty. “They’re figuring it for a sex thing that went sour.”
“I doubt that,” said Crosetti.
“Why, did you have sex with him?” asked the big sister. “You explored all his little twists?”
“No, did you? The first time I saw him I thought, Gee, Patty would really go for this guy. He’s fat and sweaty and bald….”
This was a reference to Jerry Dolan, her husband. The Crosettis were the kind of family where physical imperfections were fair game among the sibs. Patty Dolan herself had come in for enough of it herself growing up. She was a blocky woman with a strong-featured face not unlike the one her dad wore in the oil painting. She had his black hair too, but with the mom’s blue eyes.
“Look who’s talking,” said the detective, and her hand darted out in a practiced move to wring the loose flab above Crosetti’s belt. He batted the hand away and said, “No, seriously. I assume you know the guy was involved in a big-money con a few years back. And he ripped me off on a valuable manuscript. That speaks to bad character.”
“Which could’ve extended into his sex life. What’s your point?”
“I don’t know if I have one,” said Crosetti. “But look at the pattern. He cheats me and disappears to England. Carolyn Rolly ditches her whole life and disappears to England too, or so she says, in a letter that I know for a fact contains nine-tenths bullshit. Then Bulstrode comes back here and gets tortured to death. Did you find that manuscript on him?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my case.”
“Well, if it’s missing, there’s your motive.”
“What was it worth?”
“Hard to say. Fanny says maybe fifty grand at auction.”
At this, Detective Dolan raised an eyebrow, protruded