Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

  “Chief? What became of your partner, the woman?”

  Chavez looked down at his desk, his face sliding into something that looked an awful lot like regret. “She wasn’t involved in the actual arrest. Our chief at the time, a relic from the Jurassic Age, held her back. He refused to let her come with me to Montana. She quit shortly after and moved away. Though she’s done okay for herself, came back to the state and started fresh after years in Nevada. In fact, I just caught up on your daily logs. You all met her the other day. Sheriff Underhill.”

  Rose Underhill, the woman who’d indicated a long history with both Caleb Montgomery and my grandfather, had been Chief Angel Chavez’s partner twenty-five years ago on the case that would make Chavez’s career.

  Life was full of interesting coincidences. I found myself back at the dark chasm, staring down as another pinprick of light appeared at the bottom of the pit.

  Before returning to my desk, I made a fresh pot of coffee and ate the last chocolate chip cookie from a bowl on the counter in the break room. It was stale and did little to settle my nerves. Then I went to my desk and found in my in-box a progress report from forensics. I scanned the contents and settled in to read the full report. While Liv Ramirez was still working on the bomb analysis, the crime scene team had managed to collect a great deal of evidence.

  I’d learned years before at the academy that, contrary to popular belief, a bomb doesn’t destroy evidence; more often, the explosion scatters it. The team had scooped up anything and everything that might be relevant: leaves, soil samples, cigarette butts, and other trash from the nearby rooftops. One of the paragraphs in the report referenced a comic book found on the roof of the abandoned restaurant directly across the street from Caleb’s law offices. It was described as a vintage pamphlet in perfect condition, dating to the 1980s, chronicling the adventures of one Ghost Boy.

  I paused from my reading and did a quick search online. Ghost Boy was a supervillain, born in Japan and skilled in martial arts, a superstar in the comic world. He first appeared in a March 1982 edition.

  I glanced back at the forensics report. The comic had been found encased in a plastic sheath, tucked under a brick, sheltered in a corner of the roof. A most unusual place, and yet obvious to anyone searching the place.

  The team had been unable to lift fingerprints from either the comic or the plastic envelope, though they did find a single black human hair in the envelope. Tests had determined the hair was from an individual of mixed racial ancestry.

  I thought about what I knew about that particular restaurant; it had been abandoned for roughly four months, ever since the massively-in-debt owner ran off in the middle of the night. Since then, the front windows had been boarded and the doors locked, though there was an old fire escape ladder bolted to the back of the building that provided rooftop access. We’d busted a couple of teenagers for loitering up there, but the novelty of the abandoned place had passed, and to my knowledge, no one had been up there for a while.

  Except clearly, someone had.

  Someone who enjoyed the adventures of Ghost Boy.

  Was it connected to the case? It was impossible to say yet and at the same time, it was highly suspicious. But what did an old comic book have to do with the murder of a recently retired judge?

  I moved on to the rest of the report, questions continuing to churn in my mind.

  Why a car bomb? What was the significance of killing Caleb that way? Was it meant to send a message to the town, as some had suggested?

  Or was some other factor at play, something we weren’t aware of yet?

  And if a gunman had truly detonated the dynamite with an incredibly well-placed bullet, why not just kill Caleb that way and save himself the dangerous effort of gaining access to Caleb’s car, packing it full of dynamite, and determining his schedule such as to be in the right place at the right time?

  After all, Caleb could have opened his trunk to stow groceries or retrieve a spare jacket. If the dynamite had been placed in there, say, he would have discovered it.

  When I sat back and really thought through it, imagined each and every step the killer must have taken, the whole thing seemed incredibly risky.

  There are a hell of a lot of easier ways to kill a man.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a call from Gloria Dumont, asking if I could meet her at the Shotgun Playhouse. She’d bring dinner; she ate there often, she said, to enjoy the peace and quiet before Nash arrived with his cast for rehearsals. We decided to meet at five, which gave me time to put together a rough plan for my visit to Belle Vista Penitentiary the next day.

  Everything I’d read about Gordon Dillahunt indicated the man would appreciate, and perhaps respond better to, a direct approach. Even more important, I didn’t have the luxury of time. The drive there and back would take up half the day, and in all likelihood, I’d only get fifteen or twenty minutes with him. Every word would need to count.

  If I was honest with myself, I was more than a little nervous about the visit. While I’d come face-to-face with killers before, Dillahunt was a different caliber. And no matter how many cases I worked, how closely I stared death in the eyes, the day I became comfortable chatting with murderers was the day I quit the force.

  * * *

  The parking lot at the Playhouse was empty, save for a red luxury sedan. Judge Dumont met me at the locked front door, and once in, led me into the theater. We sat on the stage, staring out at the empty seats, a platter of sandwiches and a couple of sparkling juices between us.

  Dumont sighed. “I love this place, don’t you?”

  “It’s beautiful, Judge. You and Nash have done a wonderful job restoring it.”

  “He deserves all the credit, and please, call me Gloria.” She sipped her juice, sighed again. “Lately, this is the only place I feel at home.”

  After a few minutes of silence as we ate our sandwiches, she asked, “Can you keep a secret?”

  I hesitated, then shrugged and said, “Sure, unless you’re about to confess to something horrible.”

  “Depends who you ask. My secret is this: I hate the law. I hated being an attorney and I despise being a judge. I’d give anything to be sixteen again, working at the local ice cream shop in the small town in Texas where I grew up.” Gloria laughed, a bitter sound that set my nerves on edge. She tucked a strand of short blond hair behind her ear. “I was something then, cocky and bullheaded and sure of my place in the world.”

  “Can I ask the obvious?”

  “Why I’d go into law? It was my daddy’s idea. He was an oilman, a millionaire by the time he was thirty and I came along. Momma couldn’t have kids, so they adopted me, and a few years later, a little boy. Daddy was rich and he was street-smart, but he was uneducated. He’d gotten lucky, knew some people in oil and gas and made some wise choices. But he never wanted my brother and me to feel stupid, the way he did in business meetings, with his attorneys. So I was pushed into law and my brother into medicine. Daddy paid for everything: school, my wedding to Nash, even the capital to get this place up and running.” Gloria paused, toyed with the emerald-and-diamond set on her necklace. “If there’s anything better than bacon and Brie, I haven’t found it yet.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I asked, interested but failing to see a connection to my case.

  I should have known, though, that the connection would be there.

  “Because family is everything, and children are always trying to live up to the people their parents hope they will be. Caleb gave me this when I took his seat on the bench.” Gloria reached into her bag, pulled out a photograph, and handed it to me. “It’s Caleb, and his father, Henry.”

  Though in the picture Caleb was a boy, no more than five or six, he would grow into the spitting image of his father. It was physically painful to see the young and the old, both now gone.

  “His father was a judge in Cedar Valley, too?” I asked, noting the somber robes and familiar courthouse in the background.


  “Yes. On Caleb’s last day of work, about six months ago, he gave me that picture and said he’d failed. He said he’d spent years trying to atone for his father’s sins, but in the end, he’d followed him down the same path. Caleb wouldn’t say anything more, just told me to keep the picture safe and to try to be fair and always, always side with the law. ‘It’s the only ace an honest judge has got in his robe,’ he said.”

  Gloria stood, brushed crumbs from her lap. “And now I give the picture to you. I have no idea if it will help with your case, but it’s not doing me any good. It’s too painful to keep. If you can’t use it, give it to Edith or Bull. They loved Caleb; they should see the boy that became the man, and the man that influenced the boy far more than we’ll ever know, I think.”

  There was something in her voice, a slight tremor, that gave me pause. “Did you love him, too?”

  “I thought I could. I might as well tell you, you’ll figure it out sooner or later. We saw each other a few times, over the last couple of months. I could never be with a married man, but once Cal and Edith separated … we thought we’d give it a try. I was at a low point in my own marriage, desperately unhappy with Nash. Cal was attractive, with the most brilliant mind I’ve ever encountered.”

  “But?”

  Gloria wiped at her eye, though it was a piece of lint she came away with, not a tear. “The idea of it was better than the reality. As soon as we’d been intimate, I knew it was a mistake. But Cal refused to listen to reason. He was convinced I was to be his muse, his goddess. He said life without me would be colorless, devoid of meaning. He was utterly ridiculous and I told him as much.”

  I bit my lip, thinking. “When did you end things with Caleb?”

  “A few weeks ago. We had dinner at Luigi’s. The next day, I received a dozen roses and a note from Cal, begging me not to break his heart over a plate of spaghetti. I phoned him immediately and told him to stay away.” Gloria sighed. “I promised to expose him if he didn’t back off. Tell his wife, my husband, even the newspaper.”

  “Would you have gone through with that?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Possibly. It never came to that. Caleb got the message. He left me alone. The last time I saw him was a week ago. We ran into each other at the liquor store. He needed a bottle of dry white wine for a lentil dish and I had a strange craving for sherry.”

  “Did you speak to one another?”

  Gloria nodded. “Caleb showed me the recipe on his phone and explained that his doctor had encouraged a more plant-based diet. I asked him to recommend a good sherry. That was it.”

  “That sounds so civil after what sounds like a difficult breakup.”

  “Gemma, you’re young but you’re no spring chicken. I’m sure you’re aware that time and distance put things in perspective. Caleb and I were two adults who tried something that didn’t work. That’s all. I’m so sorry he’s dead. I will miss running into him around town. I’ll miss his wit and his mind.” Gloria paused, then put a finger to her lips as voices from the lobby carried into the theater.

  She whispered, “Nash doesn’t know. I see no reason why you need to tell him.”

  Before I could respond, the director was inside the theater, bounding up the stage steps to embrace his wife in a big bear hug. After a long moment, he released her and she excused herself to use the restroom.

  Nash watched her walk away, then adjusted his fedora and turned to me. “Well? Any progress on the punk who’s messing with my theater?”

  “No. As you can imagine, I’ve been rather tied up with a murder investigation. Is your stage manager here? I could talk to her. What’s her name? Weather?”

  “Her name is Waverly and yes, she’s here. Gemma, this is not good. Opening night is a week away. You’ve got to find this guy.” Nash scowled, an anxious expression suddenly rising in his eyes. “You didn’t say anything to Gloria, did you? About the fire?”

  “She doesn’t know? Nash … she’s your business partner. Your wife. She has a right to know what’s going on.” I shook my head, annoyed to find myself being asked to keep yet another secret. “Maybe Waverly’s already told her.”

  “No.” Nash’s voice was a hiss now, as more people began to fill the theater. “Waverly knows which way the winds of fortune blow. That’s her, with the red sweater. Talk to her all you want but don’t you dare say a word to Gloria.”

  Before I could ask him anything further, Gloria returned. Nash said quickly, “My Hecate is still out sick … Gemma? Would you like to give it another spin?”

  I gathered up the trash from our dinner, using the opportunity to hide the sudden flush in my face. “Nash, I wish I could help, but I need to be going. I’m sure you can persuade someone else to take up the mantle. Your wife, perhaps?”

  Gloria laughed. “There’s not room enough in our marriage for two dramatics. My role is to clap for the actors and sign the checks.”

  Nash turned away, but not before I saw an angry look in his eyes. He muttered, “I contribute what I can. You fell in love with the starving artist, remember? You liked that I was the opposite of your dad. You liked that I didn’t have money to buy my way in the world.”

  Gloria reached out to take hold of Nash’s arm, but he brushed her aside. “I have to get my cast ready. Stay or don’t stay, I don’t care. I’ll see you later.”

  Nash stormed off and Gloria turned to me, a blush high on her cheeks. “Sorry about that; he’s worried about opening night. The damn curse has him on edge. It’s consumed him; he’s half-convinced something terrible will happen—the chandelier will come crashing down on the audience or the lead actors will succumb to food poisoning.”

  If she only knew what terrible things had already begun.

  “Well, let’s hope nothing like that happens. Gloria, thank you for trusting me with your story and this photograph. I’ll take good care of them both. And if it makes you feel better, sometimes I hate my job, too.”

  As I left her, she was debating whether to stay or not.

  Waverly, the stage manager, was a young woman in her early twenties with a nose ring and beautiful red hair piled high in a ponytail. To my surprise, she knew who I was.

  “Clementine is my best friend. I know all about you, and Brody, and baby Grace. Clem tells me everything,” Waverly said with a bright smile. Her eyes flickered around the room, though, and it was hard to tell if the smile was sincere. But, if she was good enough for Clementine, she was good enough for me.

  Though I did wonder what she meant by everything.

  “Can we sit in the back, up in the rear of the theater, and talk for a few minutes?” I asked, though my tone suggested it was a polite command and not really a question.

  “Sure.” The stage manager set her clipboard down and followed me up the narrow aisle. We took seats in the back row; from that distance, the actors on stage were small and diminished, as though they were mere atoms experiencing half-life.

  “So what’s up?” Waverly popped a red jawbreaker into her mouth and moved it back and forth, the tiny ball protruding from first one cheek and then the other. Red seemed to be her color: her hair, her sweater, her lipstick, and now even her candy. As she spoke, the scent of cinnamon filled the air and I noticed that she wore red earrings, heart-shaped rubies, in her earlobes.

  I was tempted to ask if she’d ever considered changing her name to Scarlet.

  “Nash has asked me to investigate the vandalism occurring in the theater. As I understand, only you, he, and Gloria Dumont have keys to the building. Can you tell me anything?” I kept my voice low, as actors and crew members continued to travel between the theater and the lobby. “Maybe you’ve seen or heard something suspicious? Or come in after hours and noticed things were amiss?”

  Waverly’s big blue eyes grew even wider. “Wow, I can’t believe Nash talked to you. I’ve been begging him to go to the cops for a week. He must really trust you. I wish I could help … but I haven’t seen anything. I was home sick when the fire in t
he lobby closet happened. And honestly, I’d just finished cleaning that dressing room the day it was vandalized. I was so pissed when I saw it.”

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt the Dumonts, or the theater?”

  Waverly started to answer, then stopped as a middle-aged woman approached us. Her eyes were downcast behind thick eyeglasses, her hair long and limp around her moonlike face.

  Waverly sighed in exasperation. “Yes, Freya?”

  Freya’s entire being spoke of someone who’d lived her whole life in a painful state of shyness. “I heard Mr. Dumont say that there are still some actors out sick. I was wondering if I could read the part of one of them? Just for tonight?”

  Waverly scrunched up her face, put a finger to her lips as though deep in thought. It was so obviously a charade that I was embarrassed for both women. Waverly dragged out the suspense for a good minute, then said brusquely, “We’ve talked about this before. We need you to run sounds and lights. That’s what you’re good at, Freya. And for the love of everything holy, you have got to stop calling Nash Mr. Dumont. He hates it.”

  Freya blushed, her pale orb of a face turning a strange shade of orange.

  Waverly softened her tone. “Sounds and lights, Freya. It’s what you’re good at.”

  The woman nodded and moved away, her head down. Waverly sighed again. “Where were we? Oh yes … suspects who enjoy slashing velvet-backed chairs and arson. I haven’t a clue.”

  “Is there any chance someone borrowed your key? Perhaps a boyfriend, a roommate?”

  Waverly crunched down on her cinnamon jawbreaker as she glanced out at the theater. “No. I live alone and I’m kind of like Nash—I’m paranoid. I keep my stuff with me at all times.”

  I glanced down at her empty arms, the single script in her lap. “All the time? What about now? Where’s your purse, your key ring?”

  I wasn’t trying to trick her, but the stage manager was insulted by my question. She swallowed the last of her candy and said in a snotty tone, “My keys are in my locker. In one of the dressing rooms. I keep the key to the locker on this.” She pulled a red (of course) key ring wrist coil from her back pocket, a single key on it. “Satisfied?”