Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Detective Barclay looked different when he entered the apartment.
He'd gotten rid of the suit he'd worn earlier, exchanging it for dark jeans and a button-down shirt.
He looked younger than his thirty-five years, which made him five years older than me.
I'd done a little research on him before he arrived, wanting to know more about him.
But I hadn't discovered much more than the basics.
He'd joined the local police department at the age of twenty-three and had worked patrol for seven years.
He'd been twenty-six when Paige died and had been one of the officers on the scene when her body was pulled out of the water.
I wondered how much he remembered about her, about that day, probably more than he would tell me.
As Morgan introduced herself and offered him a drink, I took another moment to study him, thinking again how attractive he was with his blond hair and blue eyes, the kind of man I would definitely swipe right on if I saw him on a dating app.
He didn't wear a wedding ring, not that that necessarily meant anything, but I'd seen no sign he was married on his social media, which had also been very sparse.
He had an account, which allowed others to tag him, but he had never posted anything himself.
Maybe that was because he was a police officer, and he didn't want people to know too much about him.
As we sat down at the dining room table, I let Morgan lead the conversation. She went over the key points we'd discovered, either through my conversations or from Morgan's research.
Detective Barclay didn't interrupt, but his expression was difficult to read, so I really had no idea what he was thinking. Was he doing just enough to make us think he was going to help, when in reality, he wasn't going to actually do anything?
Frustrated by his lack of comments, I decided to jump to something that might force him to react.
"Morgan," I said. "Why don't you show Detective Barclay the photo you found?"
"There's a photo?" he asked, sitting up straighter. "Of whom? Paige and someone?"
"No, but I think you'll still be interested in it." Morgan turned her computer screen around so he could see the photo of Detective Cabot and Professor Hale shaking hands and smiling together at the chess tournament. "I assume you recognize Detective Cabot and—"
"I know who he's with—Professor Hale," he said, his lips tightening.
"They were friends," Morgan said. "The article quotes them as saying they enjoyed playing each other, and each time they competed, they learned something new about the other's game."
"That photo appeared in the local paper several months before Paige's death," I added. "But there is absolutely no mention in the police report that Detective Cabot knew Professor Hale. Don't you find that odd, Detective?"
"Evanston is a tight community," Barclay said, his gaze still fixed on the screen. "I'm not entirely surprised that they knew each other."
I was disappointed in his response. "So, you're going to pretend that wasn't a potential conflict of interest?"
His gaze turned to me. "Professor Hale was not a person of interest, so why would there be a conflict?"
"He should have been a person of interest. Why wasn't he? He was Paige's teacher, the director of the play she was starring in. And Paige's roommate, Sloane, told Detective Cabot that she thought Paige might have had an inappropriate relationship with Hale."
"That's not in the report."
"Because he didn't put it in there," I said pointedly.
"But I talked to Sloane this morning, and she told me that she gave that information to Detective Cabot.
He said he would follow up on it, but he didn't. Don't you think that a professor worried about his reputation and possibly his job might be willing to cross a line to silence someone threatening all that? "
Barclay stared back at me, and I could see him weighing my words. "That's a leap from a suggested affair."
"Is it?" I pressed. "Paige's behavior was off in the weeks before she died.
That was confirmed by Sloane Winters, Liam Crawford, and Nate Gardiner.
But none of that information made it into the files.
I think Detective Cabot might have been covering for his friend, Hale.
And without any real proof of murder, he was happy to go along with the conclusion of accidental death and close the investigation in less than three weeks.
Maybe he knew Hale did it, or perhaps he thought Hale might be implicated or that his reputation might be muddied, I don't know. We need to find out."
"I need to find out," he corrected. "I'll talk to Vincent."
"I want to talk to him, too. Let's go together."
"No. This is a police investigation."
"Not this part. This is you talking to a former associate, and how can I be sure you won't cover up whatever he says?" I challenged.
"Because I don't do cover-ups," he said flatly.
"I doubt you'd admit it if you did. And even if you don't do cover-ups, I know more about the Hale and Paige relationship than you do. I know what people told Cabot. I know what he asked me. You need me there. If you don't take me with you, I'll talk to him eventually. I'll go on my own."
He gave me a dark glare. "I'm beginning to see why the people I've spoken to say you're a pain in the ass."
"I'm not going to even ask who said that because it could be any number of people.
But we're not going to get to the truth without both of us being a pain in the ass.
And if you show up with me at Cabot's house, you'll shake him up, catch him off guard.
He won't know what I know, so maybe he'll tell the truth. "
He looked back at the photo for a long minute, then he nodded. "Fine. One of you can go with me, not both of you. And I'm doing the talking."
"Tessa will go," Morgan said, turning her computer back to face her. "She has a history with Detective Cabot; I don't."
"Let's go now," I said, getting to my feet.
"You're very impatient."
"To get to the truth, yes. Are we going?"
"I already regret this," he muttered as we stood up.
"Our conversation with Cabot could clear a lot of things up," I said, grabbing my bag and opening the door.
"He's more likely to talk to me alone than to you. This is not a good idea."
"He's also more likely to lie to you because you don't know as much as I do. With both of us there, he's more likely to slip up." I paused at the bottom landing. "Do you really think I'm wrong?"
"I wish I did," he grumbled. "Let's do this before I change my mind."
We walked down the breezeway and around the corner to his car, which was a black Jeep and not a standardized police vehicle.
Apparently, this was not official business, and I was fine with that.
Procedure and protocol would only get in the way, and I was both surprised and happy that I'd talked Detective Barclay into letting me go on this trip.
As he started the engine and pulled away from the curb, he said, "Vincent Cabot was a good detective. He solved a lot of crimes, put many horrific criminals behind bars. You need to understand that this was one case in more than twenty-five years of service."
"I do understand that. And maybe he was great on other investigations, but I don't believe he pushed hard on this one, and since that's contrary to who he was, we need to know why."
He shook his head. "You're asking me to believe Vincent compromised a potential homicide investigation because of a friendship. I don't buy it."
"You might not be completely convinced, but you've heard enough to have questions. That's why we're talking to him. Maybe he'll have good answers, and then we can both move on."
"You should have been a lawyer. You know how to make a persuasive argument."
"My argument is persuasive because I have facts and questions that you need to have answered. Where does Detective Cabot live?"
"Skokie," he said. "About ten minutes from here."
"Is he married?"
"Divorced years ago. His wife didn't like his job or his hours."
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Do you live in Evanston?"
"Why do you care?" he challenged.
"Just making conversation. You don't have to answer."
"I live in Rogers Park," he answered, referring to an unpretentious neighborhood at the northernmost end of Chicago bordering Evanston.
"Are you a Chicago native?"
"I was born in Cleveland, but mom moved us here when I was three. I've never really lived anywhere else. What about you?"
"Born in New York, moved to California when I was twelve, came to Chicago to go to Northwestern, and now I'm back in New York. Full circle."
"Your aunt is Vivienne Fox?"
"Yes. She runs the Cornerstone Theater now, but she was an actress. She has a lot of film and stage credits."
"And she sublets the apartment you're currently staying in."
"You did some research, too."
"I like to know who I'm talking to. Were you an actress in New York before becoming a podcaster?"
"For a few years. That didn't work out. Let's talk about Detective Cabot. What can you tell me about him besides the fact that he was a great cop?"
Barclay thought for a moment. "He's a good man. He has mentored a lot of officers over the years, including myself. He likes basketball, working with kids, doing puzzles, and playing games."
"Including chess."
"Yeah," he muttered. "He used to go down to the Lincoln Park Chess Pavilion to play chess on the weekends. And he enjoyed the tournaments, too. He always wanted me to learn how to play, but I wasn't interested. He said chess kept his mind sharp. Kept him one step ahead of the criminals."
"Maybe not if the criminals were also playing chess."
"Maybe true crime podcasters shouldn't leap to conclusions. Good investigators follow facts. They don't speculate."
Despite his words, I knew we wouldn't be making this trip if he didn't feel there was something to find. "Do you think he'll tell you the truth?"