Murder Keeps A Secret Page 13

  “So, Reuben, Frank Norton had better watch out if he wants to put you in his book.”

  “Is there something about employees not being protected?” Frost asked, trying to recall his conversation with Rowan’s lawyer, Barry Stevens.

  “Oh, yes. Right in the Copyright Act. ‘Work made for hire’ is the phrase. If Frank Norton were still an associate—and there are those of us who think that might be a good idea—and was working for you, the copyright in anything he wrote for you would be yours or, more likely, Chase & Ward’s, ‘unless otherwise agreed in a written instrument,’ I believe the Act reads.”

  “Neil, you’ve been most helpful.”

  “Somebody going to publish your secrets, Reuben?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. Just a little problem I think I’ve run across.”

  “Fine. Anything else?”

  “No. Many thanks.”

  Frost was hungry, but he was in a dilemma about what to do for lunch. He didn’t want to go out to a restaurant and he didn’t want to go upstairs to the private Hexagon Club, where all his former partners would be eating. He finally settled on the firm’s cafeteria, where he bought a sandwich, chock-full of mysterious and indescribable ingredients, and brought it back to his office.

  Closing the door, he ate in privacy as he pondered his next step. There was nothing at the moment he could do about Stanley Knowles except alert Bautista to Hammersmith’s troubles when he talked to him later in the afternoon, as he had arranged to do.

  There was likewise nothing to be done about the missing Ainslee papers, if indeed there were such. That trail was dead until Ms. Wyecliffe had completed her work.

  That left Peter Jewett. It was time to tap the Frost connections and get a reading on him; he needed to get to the root of the mutual enmity between Rowan and Jewett.

  After thirty minutes in the Chase & Ward library, using a foundation directory, the Martindale-Hubbell list of lawyers and other sources, Frost came up with a list of individuals he knew who might in turn be acquainted with Jewett.

  Returning to his office, he called (after a false start or two) the word processing supervisor and asked for a stenographer.

  “Do you need someone who takes dictation, Mr. Frost?” she asked.

  “No, all I need is someone who can operate these damnable new telephones,” he replied.

  Assistance arrived within minutes, and several calls were placed. Frost learned (from another Amherst professor he had met at the Gotham Club) that Jewett’s “violent” period had been real, but brief. There had been no known trouble in the town after the incident with his wife—though perhaps the fact that his wife had later left him had contributed to the domestic tranquillity. A foundation executive, a New York publisher (not Stanley Knowles), and an officer of the American Historical Association, all friends of Reuben’s who knew Jewett, had little to contribute. Yes, it was true that Jewett and David Rowan had bashed each other in public (or in history circles, at least) and the quarrels were so bitter that they seemed to go beyond pure intellectual differences. But if there were deeper causes, no one knew them.

  Then Frost called another lawyer and a former chairman of the Yale University trustees, Delbert Rodgers.

  “Do you recall picking a new Sterling Professor of History at Yale, oh, twelve years ago now?” Frost asked.

  “Indeed I do. Why?”

  “Was there a fellow named Peter Jewett considered for the job?”

  “There certainly was.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “I assume, Reuben, this is all just between us. Completely off-the-record.”

  “Absolutely, Delbert. But anything you can tell me would be most helpful.”

  “Jewett was the leading candidate. His credentials were fine and he made a great hit with the search committee—I know, because I was on the History Department visiting committee then. Everybody was for him—except for this one joker on the committee.”

  “Who was that?”

  “That fellow who died recently, the biographer. David Rowan. He was a professor at Princeton then, and was one of the outsiders on the search committee. This was back when you couldn’t have a search committee without everybody under the sun on it—students, campus janitors and outsiders. He made a great nuisance of himself, presenting memoranda about Jewett’s faulty scholarship, and on and on. But it worked. Single-handed, Rowan kept Jewett from getting that appointment.”

  “Why was he so opposed?” Frost asked.

  “Hard to say. My own guess was that it was entirely intellectual, or maybe ideological. But it sure as hell was bitter.”

  “I assume Jewett knew about all this?”

  “I assume so, too. Our deliberations were supposed to be secret, but you know how these things work. There aren’t secrets for very long.”

  “Delbert, I appreciate your help.”

  “Help? I can’t say as I know exactly how I’ve helped,” Rodgers said, puzzled.

  “I’ll tell you sometime.”

  Frost was about to call Bautista when another thought occurred to him. Marietta Ainslee had referred to a Massachusetts history professor as the runner-up to David in the competition to pick Garrett Ainslee’s biographer—and as the source for the information that David was talking freely about the Justice’s sex code. Could this person have been Jewett?

  A quick, if somewhat strained, call to Marietta Ainslee confirmed that the anonymous professor was indeed Jewett. The woman did open up enough to say that Jewett had been turned down very explicitly because his experience, in diplomatic history, just did not seem right for the job. But he had been doggedly persistent and even became abusive when David had been selected. “He doesn’t have the right experience, either,” she quoted him as saying, after which he had threatened to “ruin” any biography David might publish.

  As Frost absorbed this new intelligence, his wife called, inquiring about plans for dinner.

  “How are things going?” Cynthia asked.

  “I’ll tell you later. But the answer is, not well. We even have a brand-new suspect. Your friend Peter Jewett.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Cook me dinner and I’ll tell you about it.”

  17

  An Arrest

  The Frosts had turned down a tempting invitation to spend the weekend with their old friends the Merriams in the country. Charlotte Merriam had been particularly importunate, stressing that an April weekend was one of the absolute best times of the year to visit the Hudson Valley.

  “I love the Merriams dearly,” Reuben had said. “And Charlotte is absolutely right; Dutchess County in the spring is absurdly beautiful. But I’m just too wrought up about David to enjoy myself.”

  Cynthia had dutifully expressed their regrets, though she was firmly of the opinion that a weekend in the country would have done them both good.

  “You talk about ‘lounge lizards’ all the time,” she had said to her husband. “But you’re becoming one.”

  As planned, the Frosts ate at home that night, but not before Frost had reached Bautista to nominate Peter Jewett for the suspects list. He figuratively kicked himself for not focusing on the Amherst professor earlier. The quarrel over the Bancroft Prize should have tipped him off. And why had he not asked Marietta Ainslee in Washington to identify the disgruntled entrant in her competition?

  Now, as he relayed his new information to Bautista, he hoped valuable time had not been lost because of his obtuseness. Bautista was reassuring and promised him he would have the local police in Amherst question Jewett at once. Still, Frost told himself that detection was perhaps not for an old man. He should have been sharper.

  He began discussing Professor Jewett with Cynthia the instant she arrived home, and continued to do so through dinner.

  “I’ve never liked him,” Cynthia said. “Every time he’s at a meeting he has a chip on his shoulder about something. Very argumentative, and not very nice.”

  “Then why do yo
u have him around?”

  “Well, like many people who aren’t very nice, he’s professionally very competent and a valuable member of the Foundation’s history jury. So everyone agrees it’s worth the price to put up with his churlishness.”

  “Is he sinister?”

  “You mean a murderer? I would be amazed. No, he’s not sinister, nothing like that. Just overbearing and rude, as I said the other night.”

  “And you never heard what I told you before supper, that he’s a wife-beater?”

  “No, and as I told you, I always assumed he was just a crotchety bachelor. A true misogynist. There’s never been any sign of a wife.”

  “That’s because she left before he bashed her skull in.”

  “Do you really think he killed David?”

  “I have no idea. But he had a motive and he’s apparently not afraid of violence.”

  “At least as far as women are concerned.”

  “Be still. And just to prove there’s no antifeminism lurking here, I’ll take you to the movies.”

  Saturday was a splendid day, the weather a silent reproach to Reuben for not having accepted the Merriams’ invitation. That evening, he and Cynthia ate at home again, avoiding, as they usually did, the Saturday night crush of tourists and suburbanites in most Manhattan restaurants. They had just finished dinner when the telephone rang. It was Harrison Rowan, in a state of near panic.

  “Reuben, my grandson’s been arrested.”

  “You mean Alan?”

  “Yes, Alan.”

  “Where? What for?”

  “Dope peddling. He was arrested in a hotel somewhere near Times Square for buying cocaine.”

  “Harrison, I thought they only arrested sellers these days, not buyers.”

  “When you’re buying a quarter of a pound of the damned stuff, I guess they do.”

  “Good God,” Reuben exclaimed.

  “It’s not just some cockamamy offense, Reuben. He’s accused of possession with intent to sell.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He called me. Collect. His one free phone call, I guess. He’s being held at something called Midtown South. Can you do something, Reuben? I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  “Of course I’ll do something. I’ll go down there right now.” Frost had not the faintest idea what—or where—Midtown South was, but he was too good a lawyer to betray his ignorance to his old friend.

  “Reuben, I can’t thank you enough. You’ve got to help the boy. He sounded terrible when he called.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Scared and not quite coherent. I had great trouble finding out what happened.”

  “I’ll do my best, Harrison. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve seen him.”

  Frost hung up the phone and cursed quietly to himself.

  “Who was that?” Cynthia asked.

  “Harrison Rowan.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Alan’s been arrested. Buying dope for resale. I’ve got to go and see him right now.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Midtown South.”

  “Shouldn’t you call someone to go with you?”

  “You mean someone from Chase & Ward? I would, but I don’t think there’s anybody there who knows about messes like this. The last criminal matter the firm defended was a price-fixing case twenty years ago.”

  “I suppose you have to go alone then. Do you know where it is?”

  “Of course not,” Reuben said crossly, irritated at the interruption to his evening and uncomfortable with his own nearly complete ignorance of criminal procedures. He looked in the telephone book, guessing that the “Midtown Precinct South” listed was what he was looking for. Should he call there first? No, he must just get there as quickly as possible.

  “Be careful. And good luck,” Cynthia called to him as he hurried down the stairs.

  Frost’s destination was way west on Thirty-fifth Street, almost at the Hudson River. It was a part of the city he had never once visited and, as his nerves told him, he had never been in a New York City precinct house before, either. A law-abiding citizen throughout his life—since he didn’t drive, he had never even gotten a speeding ticket—he felt, as he made his way through the squadron of police vehicles outside the building, that he was entering truly foreign territory.

  The vast waiting room was severely institutional in tone, with fluorescent lights ablaze and a collection of straight-backed chairs scattered haphazardly about. He approached the long counter at the left and stated his business.

  “You a relative?” the officer behind the desk asked.

  “No. I’m a friend of the boy’s family. And a lawyer.”

  “An attorney, eh? You representing him?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Got your Corrections ID?”

  “ID?”

  “Yeah. You’re a criminal lawyer and you don’t have a Department of Corrections ID?” the officer asked, incredulously.

  “No. I don’t do this sort of thing as a regular matter.”

  “But you say you’re a lawyer. Can you prove it?”

  Frost was stymied, then remembered that he still had a supply of Chase & Ward business cards in his wallet, identifying him as a partner. He nervously produced one for his interrogator, wondering as he did so if he was committing some sort of misdemeanor by holding himself out as a partner in his old firm.

  The desk officer examined the card carefully, and also scrutinized the well-dressed supplicant before him. (Frost had had the presence of mind to put on a necktie and a quiet jacket before leaving home.)

  “Okay, Frost, go upstairs—through that door down there on the left—and ask for Sergeant Rafferty in the detectives’ office.”

  Frost dutifully followed instructions and, after several inquiries, found himself face to face with Sergeant Rafferty. He had scarcely introduced himself when he heard a familiar voice behind him, calling his name.

  “Reuben! What the hell are you doing here?” It was Luis Bautista.

  “Good God, Luis, I could say the same!” It was unclear who was more startled at this surprise encounter, Frost or Bautista.

  “That’s all right, Dan, let me handle this,” Bautista said to Rafferty. “Come with me, Reuben,” he added, propelling Frost into a vacant office and closing the door.

  “What happened, the kid’s grandfather call you?” Bautista asked.

  “Yes. But what’s this got to do with you? Harrison said Alan had been arrested on a narcotics charge.”

  “That’s true. But he’s also confessed to killing his father.”

  Frost’s shoulders sagged as he took in what Bautista was saying. “Oh, my God,” was all he could say, in a subdued voice. “I’d better sit down.” He did so, collapsing into a battered swivel chair.

  “Is it true?” Frost asked.

  “I don’t know. Let me tell you what happened.”

  “Yes.”

  “Alan Rowan was arrested in a Times Square hotel room about four o’clock. He was buying cocaine from a black dealer called Big Jake, a guy the narcs have been watching for weeks. The kid had bad luck, being there when they finally decided to move in on Big Jake. Bad luck also that he was buying enough coke to get every user in New Jersey high.”

  “So it wasn’t just for him? Dope for his own use?”

  “Hell, no. He and a buddy make the stuff into crack back home in New Jersey and sell what they don’t use themselves. Mostly to high school kids, by the way.”

  “Awful.”

  “The drug case is open and shut. Criminal possession of a controlled substance in the second degree, which means he’s probably looking at three to five years, unless something can be worked out.

  “But that’s not why I’m here, obviously. The kid was high as a kite when they nabbed him. As soon as the guys restrained him and got him into a squad car, he started screaming that he’d killed his father. When they got him here, somebody had the brains to realize he meant
David Rowan, the guy whose murder has been Topic A on the TV news every night. They called me at home and I came right in.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Let me continue.”

  “Sorry.”

  “By the time I got here, they had a video crew from the DA’s office here to tape his statement. I talked to him and he was willing to do it, so we made a tape.”

  “Good God, didn’t he want a lawyer?”

  “Negative. We asked him several times. So did the Assistant DA, guy named Joe Munson, who’s on the case. He kept yelling, ‘The hell with a lawyer.’”

  “So he’s confessed on videotape?”

  “Yes. I want you to see it.” Bautista left the room and returned with a technician wheeling a monitor on a cart. Soon the tape was rolling, and Frost recognized Alan Rowan, who was wearing a turtleneck sweater and a windbreaker, looking like a perfectly normal undergraduate. Assistant District Attorney Munson, a pudgy young man with Coke-bottle glasses, and Bautista were also present. As Munson took the boy through the technical preliminaries, it was clear that he was disturbed. Then the tape showed the actual confession:

  “Do you have a statement you want to make about your father?” Munson asked.

  “Yeah. I killed him. He wouldn’t give me the money I needed so I threw him out the window of his office.”

  “Why have you decided to admit this now?”

  “What the hell have I got to lose? They’ll put me away for drugs anyway. Besides, the cop who arrested me called me a nasty little punk. I decided to let him know I’m really nasty!”

  Alan appeared on the screen laughing, and soon his laughter was out of control, his nose running and his eyes watering as he rocked back and forth in his chair. Munson waited for him to calm down before asking why he had killed his father.

  “Because I hated the sonofabitch! He was really getting on my case—do this, don’t do that, that’s all I heard. There he was making a bloody fortune with his book and living off that TV babe and he wouldn’t give me any of it. That last night I went to see him, I needed two hundred dollars real bad. He got real leaked off, said I was no good and a disgrace, crap like that. The bastard went on and on until I finally hit him and dumped him out the window. Just like he would’ve done to me if he could.”