Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  “Paul, do you know why we’re here?”

  “Yeah, everyone does,” he said, whispering, his eyes wide. “You’re looking for clues to solve Cindy Caldwell’s murder.”

  “Very good, very good,” Albert said. His heart went out to the young man, immediately deciding to reevaluate Becker. Hiring an employee like Paul, who was obviously special needs, was compassionate. Maybe the guy wasn’t so bad after all.

  “What do you do here at Griswold?”

  “I’m a maintenance man,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  “Ten years. Am I in trouble?”

  “No, no not at all. We were hoping you could tell us about Cynthia so we can get to know her better. If we know who her friends are and discover why she was in Detroit, it will help us find whoever did this to her.”

  Paul looked above Albert’s head. Albert could almost see the wheels turning in the young man’s head, arousing Albert’s suspicions.

  “I saw her Saturday morning.”

  Rob looked at Albert.

  “You saw her Saturday?” Albert asked, surprised.

  “Yes. I was riding my bike on 28th. Cindy was coming out of an apartment on the second floor.”

  “Do you know whose apartment it is?”

  “Well, maybe,” Paul said, his face flushed, turning his head demurely.

  “What does maybe mean?” Rob asked. Albert knew Fred Cooper lived in a complex off 28th Street. He flashed Rob a look with lowered eyebrows. Shut up, buddy, he thought.

  “Paul, did you ever see her there before?”

  “Yes,” he said hesitantly.

  “Can you tell us about the other times you saw her?” Albert thought that Paul might have more information but was afraid to relay it. He’d proceed slowly and softly.

  “I followed her last summer,” he said, ducking his head.

  “Where were you when you followed her?” Albert slowed his pace to match that of Paul’s, and it had already become second nature to him.

  “I used to follow her home after work. She lives near my mom, outside of the city. When I passed her on the street, she’d wave to me. One day, I was following her, but she turned the wrong way. I had to cross the road against the light to catch up with her. The road was crowded with traffic,” he said, obviously nervous about the bike ride through traffic. “She turned into the apartment driveway. I rode my bike further down the road and pulled into the Burger King parking lot to wait and see if she was going to drive out again.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I saw her climbing a metal staircase to a balcony and go into a top unit.”

  “Did you see who let her inside?”

  “It was a man.” Albert waited, and when Paul didn’t continue, he prompted him. “A man let her inside?”

  “Yes, but now I’m scared,” Paul said.

  “Why are you scared?” Albert asked.

  “Cause I don’t want to get into trouble with the police,” Paul admitted.

  “You won’t get into trouble with us,” Albert said reassuringly.

  “Not you. The other police. The state police.” Paul had given Albert what he sought. Cynthia Caldwell was at Fred’s 28th Street apartment Saturday.

  “Do you remember how many times you saw Cynthia go to the apartment on 28th?”

  Paul Cummings looked down at his hands and appeared to be silently counting. “A lot,” he said. “Over the summer she was there every weekend.”

  “Did you ever see her with the man any other place?” Albert asked.

  “He came to the club,” Paul answered. “Sometimes, he picked her up in his blue police car at lunch.”

  “Why were you on 28th Street Saturday?” Albert asked.

  Paul Cummings hesitated. “I like to ride my bike early in the morning, before anyone else is awake. On Saturday, I drove past Cindy’s house, but her car wasn’t there, so I went to the place on 28th, and it was in the first space off the road. I waited, and after just a few minutes, she came out. I was surprised because it was so early.”

  “Do you remember what time it was?”

  “Not exactly, but it was before sunrise. Maybe five, five thirty.” It was the first indication that Paul’s story might have an element of fabrication.

  “Wow, that is early to be out for a bike ride, especially in this weather,” Albert said.

  Paul didn’t respond.

  “Did Cynthia see you?” Rob asked.

  “No, I was hiding along the brick wall between the road and the parking lot.”

  Albert visualized the brick wall with Paul lurking on the other side, watching Cynthia Caldwell leaving Fred Cooper’s apartment before sunrise, doing the walk of shame. Was she secretive or happy and animated after a night of bliss?

  “Could you see her face?” Albert asked.

  Paul ducked his head again, sad. He nodded his head.

  “Did she seem happy?”

  This time he shook his head. “She was crying,” Paul said. “The man was grabbing at her to come back inside, but she got away from him. He didn’t have clothes on, so when she ran to her car, he went back inside. I tried to follow her again, but after a few miles, she went off the road onto the M6.”

  “You must ride your bike awfully fast to keep up with a car,” Albert asked.

  “No, not really,” Paul replied. “There’s only one lane open along 28th Street because of construction, and they do most of the work at night and on the weekends. I have to be careful so I don’t get run over by a truck. She was going slow, so it wasn’t hard to keep up.”

  Albert nodded his head.

  “Did you like her?” Rob asked, leaning forward.

  “Well, yes. Everyone liked Cindy.”

  “Did you want her to be your girlfriend?” Albert watched Paul’s face carefully, and there was definitely a shift when Rob asked the question.

  “No,” Paul answered shortly.

  “Paul, thank you very much for talking to us. Will you do me a favor?”

  Paul nodded his head.

  “Don’t tell anyone what you told us until we ask you to, okay? It will be police information.”

  Quickly nodding his head, Paul seemed happy to be doing top secret police work.

  “You can go now.” Albert stood up and opened the door for him.

  “What do you think?” Rob asked after Paul left.

  Albert shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. What do you make of the bike ride?”

  “It sounds like bullshit to me, but I’ve been wrong before,” Rob answered.

  “Unless he was stalking her, why would he be out at five in the morning, in the snow on a bike?”

  “Got me,” Rob said.

  For the next thirty minutes a cache of women co-workers, spanning the country club spectrum from the woman who ran the golf apparel store on site to the weekend bartender, came by the office for interviews. They all seemed reluctant to talk about Cynthia’s day-to-day work life, which got Albert’s curiosity going. Several women knew she was once again seeing Trooper Cooper, much to their chagrin. “He’d already dumped her,” the club’s bartender, a woman named Isabell, said. “Why go back to that treatment?”

  “Do you know why Cynthia went to Detroit on Saturday?” Rob asked.

  Isabell shook her head.

  “We were just talking about it last weekend and agreed we had no desire to go there, especially alone.” Isabell lingered after the rest of the women left the office.

  “Can I speak to you?”

  “Of course,” Albert replied.

  “Becker and Cindy had a thing,” she whispered to Albert, raising her eyebrows. “It was a sugar-daddy situation.”

  “How was it a sugar-daddy situation?” Albert asked, keeping his face neutral.

  “Becker gave her extra money and gifts, not lavish, but just enough so that Cindy felt dependent on him. He took her to lunch and occasionally dinner so members of the club or local politicians would see them together and think th
ere was more going on, feeding his ego.”

  “What did you think?” Albert asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said hesitatingly. “Cindy was a sly one. She said he was mentoring her in the event-planning business, like a father-daughter relationship. But then I’d catch a glimpse of her coming out of his office on the way to the bathroom, flushed and disheveled. He’s so disgusting, I couldn’t imagine it, but some women will do anything for money. I didn’t like thinking about her in that situation.”

  Albert thanked her, dismissing her. He asked the receptionist to let James Becker know he could come back.

  “Mr. Becker is gone for the day,” she replied.

  Albert was stunned. The man walked out of his business when the cops were interrogating his employees.

  “Get him on the phone for me, please,” he said, with a hint of authority. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “The answering machine picked up.” She held the phone out from her ear.

  “Does he have a cell phone number?”

  “Not that we’re privy to,” she answered.

  Albert found it odd that the manager of a big enterprise like Griswold didn’t share his cell phone number with his staff. What if there was an emergency?

  “Can I have that?” Albert asked, pointing to the phone. She handed it over, and Albert listened to the message.

  “Hi! This is Jim,” a booming male voice said. “And this is Loretta!” a sweet female voice added. And then the voices rang out together, “We are unable to take your call at this time, but at the beep, leave us your name, and we will be glad to call you back.”

  Albert hated to leave an incriminating message, but he thought he might have more success getting a call back if he did.

  “Hey, Jim. This is Detective Wong from Detroit. Why’d you go? I wasn’t finished talking to you about Cynthia.”

  “Hello!” Becker shouted, grabbing the phone before Albert said more.

  “Why’d you go?” Albert repeated.

  “Detective,” he said, “I usually head for home about this time everyday.”

  “Well, we weren’t done yet,” Albert said, friendly.

  “Gosh, I don’t have anything more to tell you,” Becker said.

  “You don’t know what questions I was going to ask,” Albert said.

  “We’re about ready to sit down to dinner.”

  “Okay, take a ride to the city tomorrow. Downtown Detroit. You can bring an attorney if you want. Or Chief Sanders and I can join you at your dinner table tonight.” Albert could hear James Becker sigh.

  “I’ll be right back,” he replied and hung up without saying goodbye.

  Albert walked over to the table that held the thermos. “I hope this is still hot,” he said absently, pouring a cup. A thin thread of steam came off the stream. “Hot enough.” He took a big drink. “You want some, Rob?”

  “No,” he said. “Interesting questioning technique, Detective.”

  “Took years of fine-tuning,” Albert replied, ripe with sarcasm.

  “What’s it called? The way you keep repeating what they say.”

  “Therapeutic communication.” Albert took another drink of coffee. Is this guy serious?

  “Where’d you learn it?” Rob asked, frowning. He didn’t remember the curriculum mentioned in any of the newsletters he’d read from Detroit.

  “Jill taught me,” Albert said proudly. “She’s a sharp interrogator.”

  “I heard she relies too much on her intuition,” Rob said. “The other detectives…”

  “Don’t sell her short because she’s a woman, Rob,” Albert interrupted sharply. Women on the force suffered from enough prejudice. It was why Jill was so careful to document only facts in a case. That Rob, who’d somehow achieved a position of authority, could make such a statement infuriated Albert.

  “No, I won’t. Sorry if I gave you that impression, Al.”

  “I find it hard to believe that our colleagues have ever said anything negative about Jill. You should be defending her if you hear any bullshit directed at her,” Albert said, not willing to let it go.

  “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression,” Rob said. “I definitely will.” He looked at his watch and shifted in his seat. “How long do we have to hang around here?”

  “Until we finish,” Albert said, ready to annoy Rob. “We still have to see Fred Cooper. But we should talk to his boss before we head over to 28th Street.”

  Rob was starting to doubt the wisdom of trying to take Jill’s place. His wife would be pissed that he was out all night, and Costco was looking better and better.

  Albert called their dispatcher and asked to be connected to the State Police Barracks. Within seconds, Commander John Cranston answered the phone.

  “What can I do for you Detective Wong,” he asked. Albert gave him a very brief rundown of the facts. “I’d be happy to lend a hand. But I’m not sure I understand why we would get involved. It was decided Detroit would investigate, not the state.”

  “Let me help you understand. She was dating Fred Cooper, and he was in the city around the time of the murder.”

  Cranston didn’t respond.

  “I’d like to come to your location to talk, if it’s convenient. We are here in Grand Rapids. I wanted to get in touch before we go to Cooper’s apartment.”

  “I live in Grand Rapids,” the chief finally replied. “Allow me to meet you there.”

  Albert agreed, and they chose a meeting place. Albert hung up, looking at his watch.

  “I wonder where our Mr. Becker is.”

  “Call him again,” Rob said, yawning.

  Albert pressed the call button, and the living female voice of the answering machine jingle he’d heard earlier picked up. Becker’s wife, Loretta, said he was on his way back to the club. Albert sat down as they waited in silence. The sounds of a commercial kitchen seeped through the walls, with the clatter of dishes and electric appliances.

  “I’m hungry,” Albert said. The office door opened, and James Becker walked in. His jovial demeanor gone, distinguished gentleman replaced with a grumpy face and disheveled clothing. He’d been in the recliner when called out again.

  “So what’s so pressing?”

  Albert looked at him sidelong. “What’s so pressing, Mr. Becker, is that an employee of yours was murdered two days ago, and you left before we were done talking to you. What were you doing this weekend?”

  Becker was definitely taken aback by the question. “I have nothing to hide,” he said, indignant. “I was with my wife’s family in Douglas. We went to a late breakfast Saturday, Saturday afternoon my niece was married in Saugatuck, and Sunday I went to church with my family like I always do. After that, I spoke at the community center. I can get fifty people to vouch for me.”

  “Okay, great,” Albert said. “Now fess up about your relationship with Cynthia Caldwell. The truth always comes out, and when it does, you can’t control it. Let us decide if your relationship is important to the case or not, or let the media decide. Now that you’re a city council member, I’m sure the scrutiny would be unwelcome.”

  Becker had turned red again at the mere thought of exposure. Albert didn’t want to get the bartender in trouble by disclosing what she’d revealed and hoped Becker would be honest.

  “We had a flirtatious relationship. That’s all. I occasionally took her to dinner here in the club. She had a crush on me as a girl might for an older man. Her father is about your age and a goofball, if you ask me. She needed someone to guide her, and I was able to provide that guidance. If we cuddled a little bit here after hours, it never went beyond that.”

  “Did you buy her gifts, or give her money?”

  He reddened again. “I remembered her at holidays and for her birthday, but that’s not unusual. We give all the employees gifts.”

  “Did you give her money?” Albert repeated, with emphasis.

  Becker thought about this before answering. He never gave her a check. “No
,” he said. “Never.”

  Albert stood up, putting an end to the questioning.

  “Thanks for your help today, sir,” Albert said. “We’ll be in touch.” Rob nodded in agreement, and they left for 28th Street.

  12

  Sylvan Glen Apartments were not easy to get to; because of the torn-up road leading to the front entrance, Albert had to drive down a pot-holed, mud- and ice-covered shoulder for a quarter mile. Rob was finally stony silent. Feeling like a caged animal, he gave up control when Albert told him they were talking to as many people as they had to before heading back to Detroit.

  “It’s only dinnertime,” Albert said, frowning. “You’re acting like it’s after midnight.” He wanted to add, “Loosen up,” but didn’t, worried Rob would start talking again.

  Driving through the opening in a brick wall to the parking lot, it was apparent this was a typical urban apartment complex: hundreds of units mashed into a small footprint with limited amenities. He couldn’t see Jill in this environment. A blue police cruiser parked in the second space from the front must be Cooper’s; Paul Cummings said the unit faced the road. The other cars in the lot were dirty or snow covered, the cruiser recently washed. Albert parked behind the cruiser, just in case Cooper tried to flee, but they needn’t have bothered.

  Their knock on the door woke Fred up. He’d been napping on the couch with the TV on, in a bathrobe tied loosely at his waist, hair sticking up uncombed, unshaven. He looked out the peephole, and when he saw Albert on the other side of the door, his heart added an irregular beat that made him sick, sweat forming on his upper lip.

  “Come in,” Fred said, holding the door open for them. The rank-smelling apartment was a mess, the Sunday newspaper spread all over the living room. But the garbage smell wasn’t strong enough to completely eradicate a hint of gun cleaning fluid. Albert could see the kitchen from the front door, and there was a pizza box with an empty milk carton on top of it. Albert glanced over at Fred.

  “Not feeling too hot?” He’d been home sick that day. Warning bells going off, Albert wondered why Cranston didn’t tell them Cooper was out sick.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t,” he answered shortly. “I’d have cleaned up a little if I knew company was coming. The place doesn’t usually look this bad.” He looked at Albert, and something clicked; he needed to get his act together because the cop wasn’t there for a social call.