Ransom

“I'm fine. I'm sorry to bother you. I wanted to stop by and show you a mug shot.” He glanced around, as he had on Sunday. It was hard not to be impressed by the house, and the obviously priceless pieces in it. It looked almost like a museum. And in her jeans and T-shirt, as she had on Sunday, she looked somewhat out of place in her casual style. In the setting she lived in, she looked as though she should be sweeping down the stairs in an evening gown, trailing a fur coat behind her. But she didn't look like that kind of woman. Instinctively, Ted suspected he'd like her. She seemed like a normal person, and a gentle woman, although a sad one. Her grief was stamped all over her, and he sensed correctly that she was deeply attached to, and fiercely protective of, her children. Ted always had a good sense of people, and he trusted his own instincts about her.

“Did they find the person who blew up Judge McIntyre's car?” she asked as she led him into the living room, and gestured to him to sit on one of the velvet couches. They were soft and comfortable. The room was done in beige velvets and silks and brocades, and the curtains looked as if they'd been in a palace. He wasn't far wrong in thinking that. She and Allan had bought them out of an ancient palazzo in Venice and brought them home.

“Not yet. But we're checking out some leads. I wanted to show you a photograph, and see if you recognize someone, and if Sam's around, I'd like him to take a look too.” He was still bothered by the unidentified man Sam said he had seen, but couldn't remember in detail. It would have been too easy, if Sam ID'd the mug shot of Carlton Waters. Stranger things had happened, although Ted didn't expect it. His luck wasn't usually that good. Finding suspects generally took longer, but once in a while the good guys got lucky. He hoped this would be one of the times.

Ted pulled a large blow-up out of the envelope and handed it to her. She stared at the face, as though mesmerized by it, and then shook her head and handed it back to him. “I don't think I've ever seen him,” she said softly.

“But you might have?” Ted pressed, watching her every move and expression. There was something both strong and fragile about her. It was odd to see her so sad in these splendid surroundings, but then again she had just lost her husband only four months before.

“I don't think so,” she said honestly. “There's something familiar about his face, maybe he just has one of those faces. Could I have seen him somewhere?” She was frowning, as though dredging her memory and trying to remember.

“You might have seen him in the newspapers. He just got out of prison. It's a famous case. He was sent to prison for murder at seventeen, with a friend of his. He's been claiming for twenty-four years that he was innocent, and the other guy pulled the trigger.”

“How awful. Whoever pulled the trigger. Do you think he was innocent?” He looked capable of murder to her.

“No, I don't,” Ted said honestly. “He's a smart guy. And who knows, maybe by now he believes his own story. I've heard it all before. The prisons are full of guys who say they're innocent, and wound up there because of bad judges or crooked lawyers. There aren't a lot of men, or women for that matter, who tell you they did it.”

“Who did he kill?” Fernanda almost shuddered. It was an awful thought.

“Some neighbors, a couple. They almost killed their two kids too, but they were hardly more than babies and didn't bother. They were too young to identify them. They killed their parents for two hundred dollars, and whatever else they found in their wallets. We see it all the time. Random violence. Human life discarded for a few dollars, some dope, or a handgun. That's why I don't work in Homicide anymore. It's too depressing. You start to ask yourself questions about the human race that you don't want the answers to. The people who commit these crimes are a special breed. It's hard for the rest of us to understand them.” She nodded, thinking that what he did instead wasn't much better. Car bombings were not particularly pleasant either, and they could easily have killed the judge or his wife. But it was certainly less brutal than the crime that he had just attributed to Carlton Waters. Even the photograph of him made her blood run cold. There was something icy and terrifying about him, which came across even in a photograph. If she had seen him, she would have known it. She had never seen Carlton Waters before.

“Do you think you'll find the person who blew up the car?” she asked with interest. She wondered what percentage of crimes they solved, and how much energy they put into it. He seemed very earnest about it. He had a nice face, and gentle eyes, and an intelligent, kind demeanor. He wasn't what she would have expected a police detective to be like. She somehow expected him to be harder. Ted Lee seemed so civilized somehow, and so normal.