by Kathy Reichs
The sneeze geysered into my forebrain.
“Holy hell.”
Ryan’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Something’s been bugging me about Evans and I just got it.”
As before, I grabbed the phone and dialed.
As before, Slidell answered.
I gestured at the computer. Ryan lowered the volume.
“Klapec lives in Onslow County, right? In Half Moon?”
“So?”
“I just remembered. I can’t believe I missed it until now. I’ve been to Onslow County, know the town. I just didn’t remember I remembered it.”
I was so psyched I was babbling.
Ryan pantomimed inhalation.
I took a breath. Started over.
“When you questioned Evans at Rinaldi’s funeral, he referred to Jimmy Klapec as a half-moon hick. I though it was just a derogatory expression, but my subconscious pricked up at the reference.”
“Your what?”
“Evans meant it literally. Half Moon. It’s a town on Highway Two fifty-eight, north of Camp Lejeune and Jacksonville. The Klapecs live there. If Evans never met Jimmy Klapec, how could he know the kid’s hometown?”
“That lying piece of crap.”
For several seconds I listened to Slidell’s breathing. Then he made a clicking sound with his tongue.
“Still won’t get me a warrant.”
“How do you know?”
“Already tried. Got shut down. DA says it’s all circumstantial. Besides, Evans alibis out. Didn’t say so, but there’s also the fact that the guy works for a public figure. DA don’t want to poke that hornets’ nest without a smoking gun.”
Slidell was right. The crack about Half Moon. The resemblance to Rick Nielsen. Lingo’s number in Rinaldi’s notes. It was all speculative. So far we’d found nothing to show either motive or opportunity. And Evans had witnesses putting him elsewhere on both the September and October dates in question.
I thought a moment.
“Have you checked into Evans’s vehicle?”
“I’ve got a call in on that. By the way, Klapec’s been charged. Unit found the gun. Motel manager confirms Klapec’s story, and a security camera shows him checking in at twelve twenty-seven this morning. Plus the confession’s clean. Looks like the pathetic bastard’s telling the truth.”
Ryan was still surfing the Cheap Trick Web site, the volume turned low. Seeing my face, he reached out for one of my hands.
“Feeling jammed up?”
“I keep seeing Klapec in that interrogation room. First, he lost his son. Now he’s probably murdered an innocent man.”
“You really think Lingo’s aide is your boy?”
Raising frustrated palms, I summarized the circumstantial evidence Slidell and I had just discussed. “And Evans has an alibi.”
“Let’s crack it.”
“According to the man who found it, Klapec’s body was dumped the morning of October ninth. Evans was in Greensboro.”
“Let’s let that go for now. You said Klapec could have been killed earlier, then placed in a freezer.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.” I was saying that a lot lately. “But Klapec was last seen alive on September twenty-ninth.”
“By whom?”
“Vince Gunther.”
“A fellow chicken hawk.”
I nodded.
“Is Gunther credible?”
“Apparently Rinaldi thought so. His notes suggest he was willing to pay the kid five hundred dollars for information on Klapec’s killer.”
“What was Slidell’s take?”
“We never questioned Gunther directly.”
“That’s right. Gunther’s in the wind. Still no word on his whereabouts?”
I shook my head. “But we did interview April Pinder, Gunther’s former girlfriend. Her story confirmed what we suspected about Klapec and this Rick Nielsen/Nelson character arguing, then Klapec disappearing. It supported an LSA for Klapec on September twenty-ninth.”
“How about Pinder? She reliable?”
I waggled splayed fingers. Maybe yes, maybe no.
“Could she be covering for Gunther?”
“Doubtful. She’s pissed as hell. After she paid his bail, Gunther dumped her.”
I saw thought working in Ryan’s eyes.
“Exactly how did Pinder’s story corroborate Gunther’s?”
I relayed what Pinder had said about Gunther watching TV the night he got out of jail. About Gunther telling her he saw Klapec and Rick Nelson/Nielsen arguing that day.
“And Evans was out of town at that time, too?”
“On a campaign swing across the state.”
“He’s sure about his dates?”
“Very.”
“Is Pinder?”
“She seemed to be. But who knows? She’s not all that bright.”
“But, cupcake. We have a means at our disposal to check.”
“We do?” Ignoring the bakery reference.
Ryan worked a few keys, checked the screen. Worked some more.
“I’ll be damned.” He pointed at a line of white text in a black box. “You’re going to like this.”
The box listed all Cheap Trick appearances, live onstage, on television, and on radio, and provided links to recent and old interviews.
I read the line Ryan was indicating.
It took a moment for the significance to register.
When it did, I took in a breath.
“Cheap Trick appeared on HBO September twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth, in a two-part special featuring seventies and eighties rockers,” Ryan said.
“So Pinder had to be wrong about the date. Cheap Trick wasn’t on television on the twenty-ninth.” I was thinking out loud. “Gunther was in jail on the twenty-eighth. He couldn’t have been watching at her house that night. It had to have been the twenty-seventh, the day before Gunther went in, not the day he got out.”
“Does Evans have an alibi for the twenty-seventh?” Ryan asked.
“Holy mother of God.”
I was so excited I had to punch Slidell’s number twice. No matter. My call was rolled to voice mail.
“We’ve got him,” I said. “Klapec was last seen alive on September twenty-seventh, not the twenty-ninth. Check Evans’s whereabouts for that date. Call me.”
I clicked off.
“Good one,” I said, high-fiving Ryan.
He grinned a grin as wide as the Rio Grande.
Seconds dragged by. Hours. Eons.
I chewed at the cuticle on my thumb. Got up and paced. Sat down. Chewed some more.
Still the phone didn’t ring.
“Where the hell is he?”
Ryan shrugged. Ate a handful of popcorn. Continued surfing.
“Don’t drop kernels into my keyboard.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Or drip butter.”
I looked at the clock. It had been twenty minutes since I left my message.
“Maybe I should fax that page to Slidell. Can you print it?”
Pointless. But it was something to do.
Returning to the Cheap Trick Web site, Ryan made hard copy and handed it to me. The page made me think of Rinaldi’s notes. Something else to do.
I pulled the papers from my briefcase. Returned to the study.
“Look at this,” I said. “Now everything makes sense.”
Ryan dropped onto the couch beside me.
JK. 9/29. LSA with RN acc. to VG. RN-PIT. CTK. TV. 10/9-10/11? CFT. 10. 500.
“According to Vince Gunther, Jimmy Klapec was last seen alive with Rick Nielsen on September twenty-ninth. Rick Nielsen with pits. Gunther noted the resemblance when he saw Cheap Trick, CTK, on TV. October ninth to eleventh is the time Klapec was found. Rinaldi was meeting Gunther at CFT, Cabo Fish Taco, at ten with five hundred dollars.”
Silently, Ryan and I read Rinaldi’s last lines of code.
RN = BLA
= GYE. Greensboro. 10/9. 555-7038. CTK-TV-9/27. VG, solicitation 9/28-9/29.
GYE 9/27?
“Rick Nielsen equals Boyce Lingo’s aide equals Glenn Yardley Evans. Rinaldi called Lingo’s office, and Evans told him that he and his boss were in Greensboro on October ninth, when Klapec’s body was found.”
“Rinaldi must have known something was wrong with the September dates. Cheap Trick appeared on TV September twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth. Vince Gunther was in jail for solicitation on the twenty-eighth, so Rinaldi knew he couldn’t have seen Nielsen, and by extension, Klapec, on that day.”
“So April Pinder got the date wrong. They had their pizza party the day before, not the day after she busted Gunther loose.”
“A day for which Evans may have no alibi.”
“Jesus, Ryan. Somehow, Rinaldi figured all this out. Evans discovered that he knew.”
My fingers were curled so tightly my nails were digging crescents in my palms.
“Evans killed him.”
The phone shrilled.
I leaped for it.
Slidell sounded as wired as I felt. “Evans was in Charlotte on the twenty-seventh.”
I started to speak. He cut me off.
“He drives a white Chevy Tahoe.”
“Holy shit.”
“Judge finally cut paper. We’re going in.”
“I want to be there.”
“How’d I know you’d say that?”
I waited.
“Just you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
36
“WHERE’S YOUR WHEELS?”
Rubber squealed as we hooked a sharp right from the Sharon Hall drive.
“Ryan took my car to check out of his hotel.”
I expected a wisecrack about my sex life. Slidell didn’t make one.
“Tell him it ain’t personal. The DA wants this handled like the world’s watching.”
Though Ryan’s insight would have been an asset in executing the warrant on Evans’s property, I couldn’t fault that reasoning. Given Lingo’s position, a lot of eyes would be watching. Perhaps courtesy of CNN and FOX.
“Is Evans at home?”
Slidell shook his head. “He rents a coach house apartment on property owned by a woman name of Gracie-Lee Widget. What the hell kinda handle is that?”
I gestured for Slidell to continue.
“Gracie-Lee says Evans works Thursday nights, gets home around nine. She ain’t nuts for the idea, but says if I show a warrant she’ll let us into his crib.”
Evans lived in Plaza-Midwood, a neighborhood of winding streets, large trees, and modest turn-of-the-century bungalows. I’d been there many times. Located midway between uptown and the UNCC campus, the area is popular with underpaid university faculty.
Slidell made a right onto Shamrock, another onto a short dead-ender, and parked in front of a lowcountry house with a down-sloping roof, brown stucco walls, and green plantation shutters. The long front porch held rocking chairs and basket-hanging ferns, all looking well past their shelf life.
We got out and climbed the steps. Slidell rang the bell.
It took roughly a decade for the door to open. When it did, I understood why.
Gracie-Lee Widget’s hair floated wispy white around a face shriveled by a thousand wrinkles. Scarecrow lips suggested edentulous jaws. But age wasn’t the woman’s most striking feature.
Gracie-Lee had one arm. That’s it. No other limbs. Her left shoulder was outfitted with an elaborate apparatus ending in two opposable hooks, and she rode a motorized chair that looked like something out of Star Wars. A tartan plaid blanket covered her lap and what looked like two midthigh stumps.
Gracie-Lee scowled up at us, clearly not pleased.
“Detective Slidell.” Slidell badged her. “We spoke on the phone.”
“I don’t need reminding.”
Gracie-Lee snatched the badge. Drew it close to her face. Made a sound like tcht. Gave it back.
Slidell produced the warrant. Gracie-Lee shooed it as she might flies from a cake.
“Mr. Evans isn’t here.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“It’s not right invading a man’s home.”
Slidell held out a hand. “We’ll be real careful.”
Gracie-Lee didn’t move.
“Ma’am?”
“Tcht.” The hook rose and dropped a key into Slidell’s palm.
“Don’t harm none of that nice young man’s belongings.”
With that Gracie-Lee pressed a button on her armrest. The chair swiveled, and the door slammed.
Slidell shook his head as we descended the steps. “Glad I don’t face that every year over Thanksgiving turkey.”
“She’s old.”
“She’s mean as a snake.”
The coach house was a two-story frame affair across a patch of grass at the end of a gravel drive. Double garage down, living quarters up. The second floor was accessed by an exterior wooden staircase.
Ancient myrtle grew thick at the back of the property. Though dusk was fading fast, through the foliage I could see what looked like a vast, sweeping lawn.
“Well, ain’t that sweet. Evans lives at the ass end of Charlotte Country Club.”
Slidell’s voice dripped scorn. For golf? For being on the wrong side of the course? For those rich enough to belong to the club?
I said nothing.
We passed a koi pond that was green with algae. A brick planter overflowing with dead leaves. A birdbath lying in two pieces on the ground.
As we walked, Slidell’s hand drew up to his gun butt. His eyes roved our surroundings. Neck tension suggested alert listening.
At the coach house, Slidell gestured with a downturned palm. Sensitive to his body language, I froze.
Through a dirty window I could see that the garage held only garden equipment, a wooden ladder, and a set of wrought-iron lawn furniture. A door opened from the back wall, I guessed into a small work-or storeroom.
“No Chevy Tahoe,” Slidell mumbled, more to himself than to me.
“Where is CSS?”
“They’re coming.”
Typical Slidell. Giving himself a window alone at the scene.
Slidell moved to the stairs, but must have seen something he didn’t like. Squatting, he inspected the first step. Then he rose and stepped high onto the step above.
I looked down.
A wire stretched low across the riser. I nodded that I’d seen the trap.
On the top landing, Slidell waved me behind him with another palm gesture. Then he banged on the door. “Glenn Evans?”
A train whistled somewhere very far off.
“Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police. I have a warrant to search these premises.”
No answer.
Slidell drew his gun and leaned close to the door. After turning his head left then right, he stood back and banged again.
“I have a key, Mr. Evans. I’m coming in.”
The door opened easily.
Every shade was down. A floorboard creaked, otherwise the interior was deathly still.
Slidell flicked a wall switch.
The kitchen was European modern. Black and white floor tile. Sleek black cabinets with lots of glass. Stainless steel appliances.
No freezer large enough to hold a body.
“Stay here.” Gruff.
Glock double-fisted beside his nose, Slidell strode to an open door opposite the entrance and pressed his back to the wall. I darted to his side.
Slidell whipped my way and glared. I raised my hands in acquiescence. I would stay put.
Slidell disappeared through the doorway.
I peeked around the jamb. Darkness.
Drawing back, I waited. It was so quiet I could hear my breath rising and falling in my throat.
Finally, a second light went on.
“Clear,” Slidell said.
I stepped from the kitchen into a short interior hall. Doors open
ed on the left, the right, and straight ahead. Slidell was banging drawers beyond the latter. I joined him.
“Real palace, eh?” Slidell’s tone was once again dialed to disparaging. “Living room, bedroom, kitchen, bath. Guess Lingo don’t overpay his staff.”
I looked around.
The room set a new standard for understatement. Beige walls, furniture, drapes, and carpet. White ceiling and woodwork. No funny coasters or pillows. No snapshots of dogs or friends in bad party hats. No trophies, photos, mementos, or artwork.
A brass floor lamp rose from behind the couch. A flat-screen TV occupied the top shelf in a set of recessed shelving. To the left of the recess was a series of built-in drawers. That’s where Slidell was searching. To its right was a cabinet.
The shelves below the TV held scores of DVD’s. Pulling on latex gloves, I walked over and ran through the titles.
The Matrix. Gladiator. The Patriot. Starship Troopers. A trio of flicks having to do with Bourne.
“Evans likes action,” I said.
Slidell slammed a drawer and yanked out another. Rifled with one gloved hand.
I opened the cabinet. Liquor.
“He isn’t a teetotaler.” I checked labels. Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch whiskey. Evan Williams twenty-three-year-old bourbon. Belvedere vodka. “The guy drops some bucks on booze.”
I looked around. Slidell was on the bottom drawer. Seeing nothing else of interest, I moved on to the bathroom.
Clean enough. Old-fashioned pedestal sink and commode. Black vinyl shower curtain. Black and white towels.
On the toilet back were a boar bristle brush, a Bic razor, a can of Aveeno shave gel, and a Sonicare toothbrush in its charger.
The medicine cabinet held the usual. Dental floss. Toothpaste. Aspirin. Pepto. Nasal spray. Band-Aids. A tube of dandruff shampoo sat on the tub ledge. Rope soap dangled from the showerhead.
Slidell clomped up the hall. I joined him in the bedroom.
Here Evans had shown a bit more flair. The walls were red, and a fake zebra-skin carpet lay on top of the beige wall-to-wall. A black sateen spread covered the mattress, and a leopard-skin hanging served as a headboard. The rest of the room was taken up by a pair of bedside tables and a metal cart holding another flat-screen TV.
“Toad should have stuck with bland.”
For once Skinny’s comment on taste was apt.
Slidell slid back a closet door and started going through clothes. I opened a drawer in the near bedside table.
