"I can't assess the situation from a legal standpoint-that's really Lonnie's job…"
"But how did it happen? That's what I don't get."
Trying not to sound defensive, I told him about my conversation with Barney and what I'd found out since then, detailing Tippy's involvement in the death of the elderly pedestrian. Voigt didn't let me get to the end of it.
"That's ludicrous. Absurd! Morley worked on this case for months and he never came up with any information about Tippy and this hit-and-run accident."
"Actually, that's not true. He was pursuing the same lead I was. He'd already taken pictures of her father's pickup, which was my next step. I showed the photographs to the witness, who's identified it as the vehicle at the scene."
His brow furrowed. "Oh, for God's sake. So what? After all these years, that doesn't constitute proof. You're jeopardizing millions and what's the point?"
"The point is I talked to Tippy and she told me she did it."
"I don't see the relevance. Just because David Barney claims he saw her that night? This is bullshit."
"You might not see the relevance, but a jury will. Wait until Herb Foss gets hold of it. He'll play the timing for all it's worth."
"But suppose it was earlier? You can't be sure about what time it was."
"Yes, I can. There's a corroborating witness and I've talked to him."
He wiped his face with one hand, palm resting across his mouth briefly. He said, "Jesus. Lonnie's not going to be happy. Have you talked to him?"
"He'll be back tonight. I can talk to him then."
"You don't know how much I have wrapped up in this. It's cost me thousands of dollars, not to mention all the pain and suffering. You've undone all of that. And for what? Some six-year-old hit-and-run accident?"
"Wait a minute. That pedestrian is just as dead as Isabelle. You think his life doesn't matter just because he was ninety-two? Talk to his son if you want to discuss pain and suffering."
A look of impatience flitted across his face. "I can't believe the police will press charges. Tippy was a juvenile at the time and she's led an exemplary life since. I hate to seem callous, but what's done is done. In Isabelle's case, you're talking cold-blooded murder."
"I don't want to argue. Let's just see what Lonnie says. His point of view may be entirely different. Maybe he'll come up with a whole new strategy."
"You better hope so. Otherwise, David Barney's going to get away with murder."
"You can't very well 'get away with' something if you didn't do it in the first place."
A telephone began to ring in one of the sales offices. Unconsciously, we both paused and looked in that direction, waiting for the machine to pick up. By the fifth ring, Voigt flashed a look of irritation at the rear. "Oh, hell, I must have turned off the answering machine." He got out and crossed the showroom at a quick clip, snatching up the receiver on the seventh or eighth ring. When it was clear that he'd been caught up in another lengthy conversation, I got out of the Rolls and let myself out the side door.
I spent the next hour in a Colgate coffee shop. In theory, I was having breakfast, but in truth, I was hiding. I wanted to feel like the old Kinsey again… talkin' trash and kickin' butt. Being cowed and uncertain was really for the birds.
The Wynington-Blake mortuary in Colgate is a generic sanctuary designed to serve just about any spiritual inclination you might favor in death. I was given a printed program as I entered the chapel. I found a seat at the rear and spent a few minutes contemplating my surroundings. The construction was vaguely churchlike: a faux apse, a faux nave with a big stained-glass window filled with blocks of rich color. Morley's closed coffin was visible up in front, flanked by funeral wreaths. There were no religious symbols-no angels, no crosses, no saints, no images of God, Jesus, Muhammad, Brahma, or any other Supreme Being. Instead of an altar, there was a library table. In lieu of a pulpit, there was a lectern with a mike.
We were seated in pews, but there wasn't any organ music. The hallowed equivalent of Muzak was being piped in, hushed chords vaguely reminiscent of Sunday school. Despite the secular tones of the environment, everybody was dressed up and looking properly subdued. The place was filled to capacity and most of those gathered were unknown to me. I wondered if the etiquette followed that of weddings- the deceased's friends on one side, the survivor's on the other. If Dorothy Shine and her sister were present, they'd be seated in the little family alcove to the right, hidden from public view by a partial wall of glass block.