Rizzo approached. “Let’s hear it. What happened?”
Ernie and I jointly launched into what had happened with Lawrence Ridley. Part way through, Spats raised a finger to interrupt us.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “While I’ve been dealing with Clive Worchester, you found the leader of this guild?”
Ernie nodded. “Tara tracked him down.”
I went on, filling in the last of the details, and ending with our interview of Lawrence Ridley. I was explaining how cagey he had been with his answers when Ernie’s desk phone rang. He picked it up, then gestured for us to be quiet. We all waited while he talked.
“Yeah. Uh-huh.” He nodded a few times as he listened. “Thanks for the update, I really appreciate it.”
He cradled the receiver and looked at us. “That was Detective Wesley, from Commerce City, with an update on Arnold Culbertson. Not that we needed to know at this point, but Arnie’s alibi checks out. Turns out he has his own surveillance systems, and he showed them to Wesley. He was home when Nicole Lockwood was murdered, when Jonathan Hall was murdered, and last night, when that teenage girl was taken and killed.”
“What about his connection with Nicole?” I asked.
“Oh, he was guilty of that,” Ernie muttered. “Once Wesley started pressing him for more information, and digging into things more, good ole Arnie caved. He admitted that he’d had a thing with Nicole, but says he didn’t know she was in high school.”
Spats looked at him askance. “But he saw her hanging around the high school.”
Ernie nodded. “Yeah, Arnie is probably lying about that. He claims she told him she was eighteen and had dropped out of school, she was just hanging around with her friends. Ultimately, I’m not sure it matters. He initially lied about his relationship with her, and now that he’s admitted to it, it’s going to cost him his job. I’m not sure what they’ll do about charges, but that’s out of our hands.”
Rizzo went to the window and looked out. Rain was coming down hard now, and lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder. After a few moments, he took a deep breath, turned around, and said, “Back to Worchester and Ridley. What’s going on there?”
“I’ll take Worchester,” Spats said. He nodded at me. “Just like he did at his condo, he’s admitting to the whole thing.” He rolled his chair back. “I’ve never seen anybody quite like him. I mean, some killers want to tell you what they did, they’re arrogant, but this guy … man, talk about being proud of what he did. He thinks it’s all for science, an experiment of some sort.”
“Just like Ridley,” I said. “It’s all about the experience.”
“You got a warrant for Worchester’s electronics?” Rizzo asked.
“Yes, we did,” Spats replied. “Tara and the tech team will take a look at it all. I’m sure we’ll find the same information about the chat group as we did with Eve Godwin’s computer. And he might’ve left another electronic trail of evidence.”
“Let’s hope so,” Rizzo said. “Sarah, do you have anything to pin on Ridley?” Before I could answer, Rizzo stared past me with raised eyebrows. I turned around to see Chief Follett standing in the doorway. He was in a suit, his tie tight around his neck.
“Calvin here already filled me in about finding Jonathan Hall’s murderer.” He looked at Ernie, Spats, and me. “Good work. Make sure he doesn’t get away.”
It was as close as we were going to get to a thank you. We all nodded and told him we would do just that. He turned around and left, and Rizzo sighed.
“Ridley?” he asked me.
I frowned. “I hate to say it, but I think he was too smart to get caught. I don’t know that we’ll find anything more than circumstantial evidence. Maybe a conspiracy charge, but my guess is he’ll squirm out of that.”
Ernie slapped his desk and swore. “We can’t let that happen.”
I shrugged. “You heard him in that interview. We’ll work on warrants for his house and his electronics, but I don’t think we’ll find anything. Whatever evidence he might have will be destroyed. We can only hope the DA might see enough for a conspiracy charge, based on tying him to the chat room. But he was so slick …” I left the rest unsaid.
Ernie grimaced and swore again. “I hate to say it, but you’re probably right.”
Rizzo looked at his watch. “I need to get going. You all have had some really long days. Do what you need to now, then go home and get some rest.” He went to his office, grabbed his coat, and as he left the room, he thanked us.
“This is a hell of a way to end the case,” Ernie groused. “We got three of our suspects, Eve and Clive, and Alan Oswald, and yet I don’t feel like we won.”
“I hear you,” Spats said. “After dealing with Worchester, I need a drink.”
I felt as defeated as the two of them, but I tried to put on a good face. “We still did good work. And we’ll keep after Ridley. We might get something on him, maybe not murder charges, but something.” I looked at Spats. “Where’s Worchester now?”
“Sitting in a cell,” he said. “Maybe now he’ll start to regret what he did.”
Ernie snorted. “I doubt that.”
I looked at both of them. “Why don’t you guys go home? Look at things tomorrow with fresh eyes. We’ll need to talk to the families of the victims as well. I’ll handle that.”
They both nodded and soon left. I wrapped up a report, and then headed out myself.
When I got home it was late, the sun long since set. The house was quiet, just a lamp on in the living room. I looked around for Harry and noticed him on the back porch. I watched him for a moment through the kitchen window, then fixed a drink and joined him. The rain had stopped, leaving the air with a fresh, crisp smell. He was sprawled in a lawn lounge chair, and he scooted over to make room for me. I snuggled up next to him and sipped some Scotch.
“Another long day for you,” he said.
“Yes, with mixed results.”
“What happened?”
Images of Eve Godwin, Clive Worchester, and Lawrence Ridley rattled around in my mind. So much evil. I didn’t want to think about them at that moment, or talk about the investigation.
“Not now.”
“Okay.” He kissed my cheek. We sat for a minute, then he said, “How are you feeling?”
I shifted to look at him. “You mean, do I blame myself for anything, do I wonder if I should have done things differently?”
“Yes.”
I thought long and hard about that. “No. We all did some really good work on this one. It’s good to be back. And I’m okay.”
He wrapped his arms around me, and we stayed there for a long time.
Stay tuned for the next Sarah Spillman Mystery, releasing later in 2021.
Turn the page for a sneak peek of book 1 in the Reed Ferguson Mysteries, This Doesn’t Happen in the Movies.
Sneak Peek
This Doesn’t Happen in the Movies, The Reed Ferguson Mysteries Book 1
Chapter One
“I want you to find my dead husband.”
“Excuse me?” That was my first reaction.
“I want you to find my husband. He’s dead, and I need to know where he is.” She spoke in a voice one sexy note below middle C.
“Uh-huh.” That was my second reaction. Really slick.
Moments before, when I saw her standing in the outer room, waiting to come into my office, I had the feeling she’d be trouble. And now, with that intro, I knew it.
“He’s dead, and I need you to find him.” If she wasn’t tired of the repetition, I was, but I couldn’t seem to get my mouth working. She sat in the cushy black leather chair on the other side of my desk, exhaling money with every sultry breath. She had beautiful blond hair with just a hint of darker color at the roots, blue eyes like a cold mountain lake, and a smile that would slay Adonis. I’d like to say that a beautiful woman couldn’t influence me by her beauty alone. I’d like to say it, but I can’t.
“Why didn’t you come see me yesterday?”
I asked. Her eyes widened in surprise. This detective misses nothing, I thought, mentally patting myself on the back. She didn’t know that I’d definitely noticed her yesterday eating at a deli across the street. I had been staring out the window, and there she was.
The shoulders of her red designer jacket went up a half-inch and back down, then her full lips curled into the trace of a smile. “I came here to see you, but you were leaving for lunch. I followed you, and then I lost my nerve.”
“I see you’ve regained it.” I’ve never been one to place too much importance on my looks, but I suddenly wished I could run a comb through my hair, put on a nicer shirt, and splash on a little cologne. And change my eye color – hazel – boring. It sounded like someone’s old, spinster aunt, not an eye color.
She nodded. “Yes. I have to find out about my husband. He’s dead, I know it. I just know it.” Her tone swayed as if in a cool breeze, with no hint of the desperation that should’ve been carried in the words.
“But he’s also missing,” I said in a tone bordering on flippant, as I leaned forward to unlock the desk drawer where I kept spare change, paper clips, and my favorite gold pen. Maybe writing things down would help me concentrate. But I caught a whiff of something elegant coming from her direction, and the key I was holding missed the lock by a good two inches. I hoped she didn’t see my blunder. I felt my face getting warm and assumed my cheeks were turning crimson. I hoped she didn’t see that either.
Perhaps I was being too glib because she glanced back toward the door as if she had mistaken my office for another. “This is the Ferguson Detective Agency? You are Reed Ferguson?”
“It is and I am.” I smiled in my most assured manner, then immediately questioned what I was doing. This woman was making no sense and here I was, flirting with her like a high-school jock. I glanced behind her at the framed movie poster from the The Big Sleep, starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. It was one of my favorites, and I hung the poster in my office as a sort of inspiration. I wanted to be as cool as Bogie. I wondered what he would do right now.
She puckered pink lips at me. “I need your help.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Now I sounded cocky.
The pucker turned into a fully developed frown. “I’m very serious, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Reed.” I furrowed my brow and looked at my potential first client with as serious an expression as I could muster. I noticed for the first time that she applied her makeup a bit heavy, in an attempt to cover blemishes.
“Reed,” she said. “Let me explain.” Now we were getting somewhere. I found the gold pen, popped the top off it and scrounged around another drawer for a notepad. “My name is Amanda Ghering.” She spoke in an even tone, bland, like she was reading a grocery list. “My husband, Peter, left on a business trip three weeks ago yesterday. He was supposed to return on Monday, but he didn’t.”
Today was Thursday. I wondered what she’d been doing since Monday. “Did you report this to the police?”
She raised a hand to stop me. “Please. I already have and they gave me the standard response, ‘Give it some time, he’ll show up.’ ”
That one puzzled me. The police wouldn’t file a missing persons case for twenty-four hours, but after that, I was certain they would do something more. “They didn’t do anything?”
“They asked me some questions, said they would make a few calls to the airlines.” Amanda paused. “They were more concerned about my relationship with Peter,” she said, gazing out the window behind me. The only thing she would see was an incredible view of a renovated warehouse across the street. For a brief moment, her face was flushed in as deep a sadness as I’d ever seen. Then it was gone, replaced by a foggy look when she turned back to me. “You see, Peter wasn’t exactly what you’d call a faithful husband.” She frowned, creating wrinkles on an otherwise perfect face. “Well, that’s not completely true. He was faithful, to his libido at least. But not to our marriage.” I paraphrased the last couple of sentences on the notepad. “He travels quite a bit with his company, computer consulting, so he has ample opportunity to dally. And he never tries hard to conceal what he’s doing.”
“Did you tell the police all of this?”
“Yes. I believe that’s why they’re not doing that much. That, and the fact that there appears to be no foul play, has kept them from doing little more than paperwork.”
“You’re afraid they’re not treating his disappearance seriously.”
“Exactly.”
I scratched my chin with the pen. “I’d have to disagree with you about that.” I didn’t have much experience – okay I didn’t have any experience – but in the tons of detective books I’d read and all the movies I’d seen the police would take someone of Amanda’s obvious wealth with some concern. At least until she gave them a reason not to.
“They don’t have the resources to track him down,” she countered. “That’s left up to me, which is what I’m here to do.”
“And this way you also keep any nasty details private.”
“Exactly.”
“Why come to me?”
Amanda glanced around the sparsely furnished office and the stark white walls decorated with nothing more than movie posters, as if she were second-guessing her choice of detectives. “You came recommended. I know you’re not licensed but…”
“You don’t have to be in the state of Colorado,” I interrupted. Anyone who wanted to could be a detective here, just hang up a sign. Hell, you didn’t even need a gun. I could testify to that. Never had one, never shot one.
She waved a hand at me. “I don’t care if you’re licensed or not. I know your background. You come from a well-to-do family; you know when to be discreet.”
I came recommended. Now that caught my curiosity. The only thing I’d done was to help a wealthy friend of my father track down an old business partner. It was slightly dangerous but not noteworthy, and at the time I didn’t have an office or a business. I had been between jobs, so I decided to pursue an old dream. I hung up a shingle to try my hand at detecting. I loved old detective novels, had read everything from Rex Stout and Dashiell Hammett to Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain. I’d watched Humphrey Bogart, William Powell, and all the classic film noir movies. I pictured myself just like those great detectives. Well, maybe not. But I was going to try.
“Who recommended me?” I asked. The list was surely small.
“A friend at my club.”
“Really? Who?”
“Paul Burrows. Do you know him?”
I shook my head. “Does he know my father?” I assumed he was someone who’d heard about me helping my father’s friend.
“I don’t know, but Paul said you were good, and that you could use the work.”
She was right about that. I lived comfortably off an inheritance from my obscenely rich grandparents, plus some smart investments I’d made over the years, so I’d never had a real career. I had always wanted to work in law enforcement, but my parents had talked me out of that. Instead, I got a law degree, flitted from job to job, and disappointed my father because I never stuck with anything. I hoped being a detective would change all that; it was something I’d always wanted to do, but my father still thought I was playing around. I needed to solve a real case to prove him wrong.
“Are you a fan of old movies?” Amanda asked, noticing the posters for the first time.
I nodded. “I like old movies, but especially detective film noir.”
“Film noir?”
I pointed to a different poster on another wall of The Maltese Falcon, one of Bogie’s most famous movies. “Movies with hard-boiled detectives, dark themes, and dark characters.”
“And dark women?” Amanda said.
I kept a straight face as I gazed at Lauren Bacall. “Yeah, that too.”
“I hope you’re as good as Sam Spade,” Amanda said.
I watched her cross one shapely leg over the other, her red wool skirt edging up her thigh. Troubl
e. Just like I’d thought before. I should have run out of my own office, but I didn’t. I know what you’re thinking, it’s her beauty. No, it was what she said next that complicated things immensely.
“I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes.” Saying that, she pulled a stack of bills from her purse. I crossed my arms and contemplated her. This sounded like I’d just be chasing after a philandering husband. Not exciting at all, even though I had little basis for making that assumption, other than what I’d read in books. But a voice inside my head said that making money meant it was a real job, right?
I named my daily wage, plus expenses. It was top dollar, but she didn’t blink. And I had my first real case. What would my father say to that?
“Let’s start with you clarifying a couple of things,” I said. Moments before Amanda had inked her name on a standard contract, officially making her my first client. “How do you know your husband’s dead and not just missing?”
Amanda sighed. “Because he would’ve called me, kept in touch, and I haven’t heard a word from him.”
“But if he was out with someone else?”
She shook her head. “No, he always calls. He pretends things are normal. We have our routine and he always follows it. Only this time he didn’t.”
“But he knew?”
“That I knew?”
I nodded. She nodded. “Yes, he knew.”
I resisted the urge to continue the Dr. Seuss rhyme. “So he hasn’t called you, but what makes you jump to the conclusion that his not calling means he’s dead?” I leaned back in my chair, tipping it up on two legs. “What if he wanted to disappear, or he’s fallen in love with someone else and has run off with her?”
Amanda emitted a very unladylike snort. “Peter’s not capable of love, so it’s impossible for him to leave me. Not for that reason, anyway.”
“Have you given him another reason to leave?”
She hesitated. “I was going to kill him.”
Deadly Guild (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 3) Page 23
