Escapes Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  A woman who saw me studying the program spoke over my shoulder. “That means they’ve pledged in advance to bid at least twenty-five thousand during the auction.”

  She raised an eyebrow and I did the same, and we giggled. “Well, that wouldn’t be me,” I admitted.

  “Me either.” She glanced around. “I’m here by myself. Lisa Browning. If you don’t have a dinner partner, join me if you want. I’m at table 15. A red shawl is draped over the chair I chose. Meanwhile, I’m heading for the silent auction room next door to see what’s interesting. Sometimes you can get something useful at not too exorbitant a price.”

  “Thanks. I might join you in a minute.” I scanned the room, not necessarily looking for a better dinner offer, just checking it out to see who was here.

  Familiar faces were all over the place and the only ones I knew personally were my college fiancé—who, thankfully, I never married—and his wife, my former best friend. I’d got Stacy out of a potentially nasty pickle a few years ago and thought she had seen Brad’s true colors. But here they were, still together. I watched as they chose a table near the front of the room, far from table 15, which helped cement my plan to sit with Lisa Browning. I spotted her red shawl and walked over to hang my jacket over the chair next to hers. It’s not that I avoid offensive people—private investigation work puts me there. But I prefer not to eat at the same table.

  That solved, I decided to follow Lisa’s lead and check out the auction items. A good part of the crowd seemed to be heading for those rooms. That’s when I spotted Judge Blackman moving toward the yellow brick road. Standing inches taller than most of the other men, and with that silvery hair, he was fairly easy to keep track of. He paused frequently to bestow his oily smile and shake hands. A younger woman stood at his side, definitely not the lady who’d been pictured with him and named as his wife. I studied the body language for a moment and caught little possessive gestures—his reach beyond her shoulder where he lightly touched her hair, her smile as she pretended to pick a piece of lint from his cuff. For a moment I thought she might be the same dark-haired court reporter he’d been eyeing this morning, but this was a different woman.

  Another face from the news appeared—Herman Quinto. It was interesting to watch the way his little entourage came into the room first, creating a subtle stir and riff of whispered conversation, drawing attention before the man himself walked through the doors. With his wide, professionally enhanced smile and two-hundred-dollar haircut, he quickly pulled the attention of the crowd. After all, the congressional election was less than a month away; we’d seen this face on television and billboards all over the state.

  Blackman paused near the doorway to the Platinum Room where he had been headed—making me wonder how much a public servant actually could afford to donate to his favorite causes. His attention, too, had been drawn toward the ripple of attraction at the main entry. Standing midway between them, I felt like a tennis-watcher as I tried to observe both men’s interactions at the same time.

  Whatever earlier tension there had been between them at the golf course, it was gone now. Quinto waved familiarly across the room at the judge, who returned the greeting with a large smile, before each of them turned his attention back to those closer at hand.

  Blackman reached into his pocket and produced some small item, which he showed to the watchdog at the door of the Platinum Room. My curiosity was piqued—it must be the magic key to the kingdom of riches. Again, I wondered how much a district court judge made—surely not enough to blow twenty-five grand on some bit of fluff at a charity auction. Keeping my eyes on my own goals, to learn as much as I could about the judge and the senator, I grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and trailed along behind Blackman.

  He had already disappeared through a filmy curtain made of flashy green and gold Mylar strips, and I debated whether there was a way to follow. I pulled a small envelope from my little evening bag.

  “I have a message for Judge Blackman,” I said to the keeper at the door, who only shook his head.

  Apparently whatever had gained entry for the judge was better; my fake message wasn’t going to cut it. A woman behind me showed a silver-colored token and the man immediately let her pass.

  “You’ll have to wait for the judge out here,” he said.

  Properly rebuffed, I retreated to the nearest bar in the corner to pout. Herman Quinto had made his way around a quarter of the perimeter of the large ballroom and had nearly reached my corner. As if choreographed by the theater’s best, Blackman emerged from the special auction room two steps ahead of the Quinto entourage, and I had a front-row seat.

  “That was a good round today, Herman,” said the judge, initiating the handshake. He dismissed his pretty little companion with the suggestion she go powder her nose.

  “It was. I love it when I whip your ass.”

  They laughed—Quinto probably a bit more loudly—and the judge gave him a little shoulder punch.

  “A little too crowded though,” Quinto said, “Later, after the shindig, we need to talk. Our, uh, friend has been in touch again.”

  “Not here. Tomorrow.” Blackman muttered the words through nearly closed lips and shifted his gaze away, as if not looking at Quinto meant he wasn’t actually having a conversation with the man. Unfortunately, his attention landed on me.

  Chapter 21

  I took too large a gulp of the fizzy champagne and started to choke. Herman Quinto backed away as if afraid I might spew on his expensive suit. Judge Blackman moved in beside me to take my glass and then pat me on the back.

  “Are you okay, hon?”

  I’m not very tolerant of people calling me hon or sweetie or other endearments they haven’t earned the right to use. Normally, I would have shot him a dismissive look and walked away but I was still in the midst of a coughing fit and it wouldn’t have been a graceful exit. By the time the coughs subsided my eyes were watering and I’d drawn some attention.

  Not one to miss a chance to appear benevolent, the judge took my elbow, asked the bartender for a glass of plain water, and led me to a chair.

  “Really, it’s fine. I’m absolutely okay.”

  One swig of the water and I’d recovered my fortitude. I’d also caught the fact that he’d sneaked a peek down the front of my blouse. Geez, did the man ever stop?

  “Oh, gosh, there’s my date,” I said, slipping from beneath the warm hand he’d set on my shoulder. “Thanks so much for the water.”

  I set the glass down and escaped, heading for the room where I’d seen Lisa go to check out the less-expensive auction items. Beside the doorway stood a man in a plain dark suit, his hands clasped in front of him. He seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Little problem over there?” he asked, nodding toward the corner I’d just evacuated.

  His low, gravelly voice gave it away. He was a cop I’d met a couple of times when my investigative path crossed that of detective Kent Taylor and his squad. This was one of his men, who must have taken a moonlighting job as security for the gala.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Thanks.” I spotted Lisa in the room, studying some kind of book, and made my way toward her.

  Medina—that was the cop’s name. He’d seemed like one of the good guys. Nice to know he’d been alert enough to notice the judge’s unwanted attention to me.

  “So, what looks good in the auction?” I asked Lisa, briefly startling her.

  “This is a first edition Virginia Woolf. And so far the bids aren’t outrageous.”

  I noticed she had entered her name at the bottom of the list that included three other bidders.

  “I’ll keep checking on it. They drag these out to the last minute, so it means I’ll have to stay for the whole thing if I have any hope of getting in the final bid.”

  Her phrasing made me realize my energy was fading quickly and I really didn’t want to stay for the entire evening either. I circled the tables of auction items, raising a bid now and then wh
en it looked like an avid bidder would surely come along and add more to the offer—my little bit for charity. I’d just jotted my name and a five-hundred dollar bid for a weekend vacation at a mountain resort when I sensed scrutiny.

  “Charlie, huh? Pretty name.” It was Judge Blackman. Again.

  I gave a weak smile and stepped away. He seemed ready to follow me when someone approached and stood between us. I looked over my shoulder in time to see that it was one of Herman Quinto’s assistants, a young man. He handed something to Blackman who slipped it in his pocket without looking at it. The item appeared to be about the size of a wallet or a small leather-bound notebook. I quickly turned away, made a show of checking out some other auction items, making my way steadily toward the door.

  The earlier exchange between Blackman and Quinto kept replaying in my head. Whatever Blackman meant by not now, it seemed the senator had sent it over anyway.

  I caught up with Lisa at the end of the auction tables and we walked together back to the ballroom and dining tables.

  “You seem to have gotten Judge Blackman’s attention,” she said.

  “Not on purpose, I assure you.”

  She laughed. “And not the first, I can attest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say the man has a reputation.” Her mouth stretched in a tight, straight line now.

  Suddenly, I knew why Lisa looked so familiar. She was the woman in the photo, the one looking at the prosecutor with the hateful look on her face. It had been a few years and she’d updated her hair and makeup, but I felt sure she was the one.

  I had to know more.

  The noise level in the ballroom was ridiculous, plus it was no place for a private conversation. I followed my new acquaintance through the crowd, debating how best to handle this. By the time we reached our table, I knew I needed more time and a little peace and quiet.

  I dug in my bag and came up with a business card. “Lisa, I need to talk more about what you just said. Can we plan a time—maybe tomorrow morning?”

  She studied my card for a minute. “Is this about some things that happened ten years ago?”

  I met her gaze steadily. “Yeah. It is. I want to help.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Other diners at our table were greeting us now, and there was no chance to get in another quiet word. A master of ceremonies welcomed everyone through a microphone that occasionally squealed. He laughed and told us to enjoy our meals and promised he would be back later.

  Frankly, my head was beginning to pound and I didn’t care about the rest of the gala. I munched my way through the salad at my place—crisp greens and spinach, topped with blueberries, walnuts, and some little crunchy things that were surprisingly tasty. Even so, the food didn’t perk me up. It had been a long day and any further spying on the judge risked getting more of his candid flirtation. I needed to get out of there.

  As waiters cleared the salad plates, I turned to Lisa. “Sorry, I’ve got a splitting headache and am just not up for this much socializing. But I’m intrigued by what you said earlier. Could we meet up somewhere tomorrow?”

  She gave a sympathetic smile and wished me luck with the headache as she passed me a card on which she’d written her cell number. We promised to touch base in the morning and make a plan.

  Once I’d decided to bail on the party, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Before the entrees arrived I gathered my things, gave a small wave to the other tablemates and ducked out. My luck held; I didn’t encounter anyone on the way to the parking lot and was home twenty minutes later.

  I had envisioned climbing right into bed with Drake and snuggling in for a restful eight hours, but that didn’t happen. My mind was on full overdrive with what I’d gleaned this evening, starting with the little black packet Quinto’s aide had passed to Blackman and ending with Lisa’s statements about the judge. I had no real proof that any of this pertained in any way to Rory McNab’s case—other than Lisa’s reference to ten years ago. Her question had been so specific on the timeline, added to the fact that it was her picture in the news photo from back then. A connection existed. If I could only figure out what it was.

  Eventually, I told myself it was useless to let my mind run in this endless loop. I would call Lisa in the morning and learn whatever I could. Meanwhile, I listened to a few minutes of a playlist that was guaranteed to plant some song in my head, something irritating enough to block thoughts and pictures of the major players in this stupid case.

  Chapter 22

  In the light of day, and not duded up in our fancy clothes, I saw Lisa Browning was another average girl about my age. We’d both turned up at the Iron Skillet Café wearing jeans and T-shirts, trainers and fleece hoodies. My hair was up in a ponytail; her short bob was tucked behind her ears. She ordered a spinach omelet and I opted for something called pineapple upside down pancakes, which promised to be ‘yummy’ according to the menu.

  Small talk about the auction occupied the minutes until the server brought coffee and while we did our respective routines with sugar and cream. A couple of sips of the excellent brew and then I picked up the folder containing my scanty research on the McNab case.

  When I pulled out the news photo showing the scowling woman staring at Herman Quinto, Lisa laughed.

  “Oh my gosh. Twenty-two years old and so full of righteous indignation I was.” She placed her palm over the photo of herself and gently pushed it back across the table.

  “This is you, then. I thought you looked really familiar last night. But it wasn’t until you said something about ‘ten years ago’ that it kind of clicked.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything as our food arrived and we went through the drill where the server asked who had what dish, did we need anything else, an offer to top off our coffees, yada-yada. We distracted ourselves for a couple of minutes by cutting in and taking bites. The pancakes were, as advertised, yummy.

  “So, what’s your part in this, Charlie? I’m curious why it’s all coming back now.” Lisa picked up a triangle of her wheat toast.

  I gave a shortened version of how I had met Fergus McNab and his adamancy about his son’s innocence. I left out the parts about how and where Rory got away. “I’m now trying to locate the major players in the original case to find out if there’s a way to prove Rory didn’t really try to influence that jury. I mean, it just seems so ‘out there’ to imagine an attorney doing that. Bottom line is, the father would like to have his son nearby during his final weeks.”

  “Sad about the father’s desperation. As I recall, he helped his son escape, didn’t he?”

  “That’s what the police suspected, but other things took precedence and the all-out manhunt was abandoned.”

  “So, Rory McNab must have been ready with an alternate identity and everything. Otherwise, it would have been simple enough for them to track his credit cards and such.”

  I’d had the same thought, but Fergus had not shared those details with me. “In my conversations with Rory’s father, he’s still sticking with the assertion that the judge did something to throw the case. I can’t figure out how, or why. Can you give me any ideas on that?”

  Lisa set down her knife and fork, swallowed hard, and reached for her coffee mug. “I can only tell you what I was doing there on the courthouse steps that day and why I had my bitch-face aimed at Herman Quinto.”

  I stabbed at a wedge of pancake while she collected her thoughts.

  “Charlie, you’ve already figured out that Aldo Blackman is a womanizer. You saw him in action last night—showing up with that kid in her twenties, and then he starts hitting on you right in front of everyone. He’s gotta be close to seventy himself.”

  I remembered the picture I’d seen of Blackman and his wife, a woman his own age. My heart went out to her.

  “Ten years ago, I was that kid, the silly little grad student at twenty-two who thought the attention of an older, powerful man somehow made me special
. God, I was so naïve. Until I heard little hints, rumors, eavesdropped on conversations in the ladies’ room. The man was all over everybody! Any woman within arm’s reach was in danger of a grope or a pinch.”

  “But nobody spoke up?”

  “Most of us were connected with the law—legal students, court clerks, paralegals. A couple were lawyers, one a senior partner. The younger ones, like me, couldn’t say anything—who would believe us? This was—is—the most prominent judge in Albuquerque, one of the biggest in the state. The women lawyers were terrified that their cases would be sent to Blackman’s court and if they didn’t put out for him he’d rule against them.”

  I felt all the air go out of my lungs. “Helen Bannerly?”

  Lisa nodded. “I think so. She didn’t join with us, but yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Join with you?”

  “I began to approach the women I’d heard talking about him. We decided that if enough of us came forward someone would have to listen. We could file a sexual harassment suit and bring his behavior to light. Ideally, he would be disciplined and maybe do jail time.” Her hands shook when she picked up her coffee mug. She set it down again. “We needed evidence, not just our word, and actual proof was hard to come by—he never sent emails or handwritten notes. But several of us began recording phone calls and after a few months we felt ready to move. We took everything we had to the D.A.’s office.”

  “The prosecutor was Herman Quinto …” I got a sinking feeling.

  “Yes.” Tears welled in her eyes. She took a deep breath, dabbed the corners of her eyes with her napkin, and set her face in calm lines once again. “Had we known what buddies the two men are … Well. It was all over before it began. Quinto belittled our claims, tried to shift blame. We were all pretty girls who flirted outrageously and asked for the attention … you’ve heard it a hundred times.”