The Last Dance Read Free Page B

“let me make our intentions clear. If your father-in-law died of a heart attack, you can bury him in the morning, and you’ll never see us again as long as you live. But if he died for some other reason, then we’ll be trying to find out why, and you’re liable to see us around for quite a while. Okay, sir?”
    â€œThis is a crime scene, sir,” the technician said. “Want to clear the premises, please?”
    â€œWhat?” Keating said.
    At four-thirty that afternoon, Carella called the lab downtown and asked to talk to Detective/Second Grade Anthony Moreno. Moreno got on the phone and told him the fibers they’d lifted from the hook on the bathroom door positively matched sample fibers from the robe’s blue cashmere belt.
    Not ten minutes later, Carl Blaney called Carella to tell him that the autopsy findings in the death of Andrew Henry Hale were consistent with postmortem appearances in asphyxial deaths.
    Carella wondered if Cynthia Keating’s husband would accompany her to the squadroom when they asked her to come in.
    Robert Keating turned out to be a corporate lawyer who was wise enough to recognize that the police wouldn’t be dragging his wife in unless they had reason to believe a crime had been committed. He’d called a friend of his who practiced criminal law, and the man was here now, demanding to know what his client was doing in a police station, even though he’d already been informed that Mrs. Keating had been
invited
here, and had arrived of her own volition, escorted only by her husband.
    Todd Alexander was a stout little blond man wearing a navy blue sports jacket over a checkered vest and gray flannel trousers. He looked as if he might be more at home attending a yachting meet than standing here in one of the city’s grubbier squadrooms, but his manner was that of a man who had dealt with countless bogus charges brought by hundreds of reckless police officers, and he seemed completely unruffled by the present venue or the circumstances that necessitated his being here.
    â€œSo tell me what this is all about,” he demanded. “In twenty-five words or less.”
    Carella didn’t even blink.
    â€œWe have a necropsy report indicating that Andrew Hale died of asphyxia,” he said. “Is that twenty-five words or less?”
    â€œTwelve,” Meyer said. “But who’s counting?”
    â€œEvidence would seem to indicate that the belt from Mr. Hale’s cashmere robe was knotted and looped around his neck,” Carella said, “and then dropped over the hook on the bathroom door in order to effect hanging, either suicidal or homicidal.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with my client?”
    â€œYour client seems to think her father died in bed.”
    â€œIs that what you told them?”
    â€œI told them I found him in bed.”
    â€œDead?”
    â€œYes,” Cynthia said.
    â€œHas Mrs. Keating been informed of her rights?” Alexander asked.
    â€œWe haven’t asked her any questions yet,” Carella said.
    â€œShe just told me …”
    â€œThat was at the scene.”
    â€œYou haven’t talked to her since she arrived here?”
    â€œShe got here literally three minutes before you did.”
    â€œHas she been charged with anything?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy is she here?”
    â€œWe want to ask her some questions.”
    â€œThen read her her rights.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œDon’t sound so surprised, Detective. She’s in custody, you’re throwing around words like homicide, I want her to hear her rights. Then we’ll decide whether she wants to answer any questions.”
    â€œSure,” Carella said again, and began the recitation he knew by heart. “In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in the case of Miranda versus Escobedo,” he intoned, and advised her that she had the right to remain silent, asking her