Free You Have the Right to Remain Silent by Barbara Paul Page A

planned. The machine had a timer, and the call had come at 3:05 P.M. The message had not yet been erased so the detective was able to verify both the content and the time. Amy had spent the night, from about ten o’clock on, with a woman friend of hers who’d been recently divorced; the two women had sat up most of the night talking. The detective got a confirmation of the story from the friend.
    So now they were down to eight hours, Marian mused. Jason O’Neill had died between three in the afternoon and eleven at night. If the autopsy report said he was the first to be killed, that would narrow the time for the others as well.
    There was no detective’s report on Mrs. Sherman Bigelow—only a note saying she hadn’t been home all day and no one knew where she’d gone. The detective said he’d keep trying.
    Marian was fairly well satisfied with what they’d found. As far as she was concerned, they’d eliminated two wives and one girlfriend as possible suspects, and she had no doubt that Mrs. Bigelow would soon be joining them. Two of the victims had lied to their wives about what they’d be doing Saturday, and one—Jason O’Neill—had had no one at home to lie to. Marian told Foley to keep two of the detectives on background checks; they still had finances and personal enemies to look into as well as the delayed interview of Mrs. Sherman Bigelow. But the other two detectives were to concentrate on trying to track the victims’ movements Saturday afternoon.
    The first twenty-four hours of an investigation were important. They wouldn’t have the murderer (murderers?) by eleven that night, but most of the machinery for tracking him/them was set up and operating. Just a few loose ends yet to take care of—
    A uniformed officer stopped by her desk. “Captain DiFalco wants you two in his office pronto.” Then he added out of the side of his mouth: “FBI.”
    At the next desk Foley groaned, but Marian was pleased. That was one of the loose ends that still needed tying up.

7
    The two FBI men couldn’t have been more different. One was affable without being pushy; the other was aloof and somewhat condescending. Captain DiFalco introduced them as Trevor Page (the affable one) and Curt Holland (the other one). Page, fortunately, was the senior of the pair, both in years and authority. Neither man was dressed in the standard FBI uniform, i.e., conservative suit and tie, with or without trenchcoat. They both wore pullovers of some sort, not really sweaters since they were made of expensive-looking woven material instead of knitted. The FBI was trying to change its image? Or maybe they’d just gotten tired of being called The Suits.
    Trevor Page was saying, “I’m aware relations between the police and the Bureau haven’t been too smooth in the past, but we’d like to change that. You know as well as I that we’ll have a better chance of catching the East River Park killer if we share information. We’d like to make this a cooperative investigation.”
    â€œSharing information,” Captain DiFalco said. “That’s a two-way street.”
    Page smiled. “Right now we’re running security checks on everyone employed at Universal Laser Technologies. The results will be made available to you.”
    â€œThat’s a promise, not information,” DiFalco rumbled.
    â€œIt will be information, as soon as we’ve finished. Universal’s not a small company—it’ll take some time. But I assure you, we’re not going to hold anything back.”
    â€œThat’ll be the day,” Foley growled, low.
    â€œDid you say something, Detective?” Curt Holland challenged.
    Foley was brave enough to stand up to someone outside the police hierarchy. “Yeah, I said something. We’ve heard this song and dance before. Cooperation and sharing—that’s bullshit. We do all the