Welcome to Blissville

by Walker, Aimee Nicole

  “Yes, but…” She stopped talking and nodded her head. “Yes.”

  “Had you noticed a difference in his personality recently? Had he been more withdrawn or had trouble sleeping lately?” I hated to ask those questions and cause her more pain, but I had to weigh hard facts against her unwillingness to believe her husband was capable of hurting others and taking his own life.

  “Yes,” she said softly between tears. “Rick had only been sleeping a few hours a night, if that, for the past few months. I asked him about it and he said his back was bothering him again. He’d grown sullen, but I had blamed it on his lack of sleep. I had no idea…” She shook her head vehemently. “He didn’t do those things, Detective. I’ve known Rick since we were kids. He was a good person.”

  “Mrs. Spizer, I want you to know that we’re taking this case seriously and looking at all the evidence. We’re not just going to rule his death a suicide because it’s quick and easy. That’s not how we operate,” I told her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Please call me one way or the other. I’ll never believe my Rick was capable of doing those things he said in his letter. I just can’t.”

  Dorchester walked her out of the interview room to help her find her way out while I stayed behind and thought about what she said. No matter how much my heart ached over what she was going through, I had to find the truth. There was nothing about the scene that said it was a homicide made to look like a suicide. The angle and trajectory of the bullet plus the way his body and the gun fell afterward all lined up with a self-inflicted gunshot. It wasn’t that the CPD wasn’t listening to what she said; it was a situation where facts pointed to one thing while her feelings pointed to another. Cases didn’t get solved and closed on feelings. I was starting to think that Rick Spizer did take his life over the guilt of what he had either done alone or with someone else. If he had an accomplice, I wanted to know about him or her.

  Dr. Espinoza studied all four cases and determined that a .45 caliber pistol was most likely the gun used each time. We had the gun used in Spizer’s death, but we couldn’t be sure the other victims were killed with the same gun unless we could find the bullets removed from the other three scenes. If we recovered the bullets, a ballistics expert could compare them to see if they all had the same striations as the bullet fired from Spizer’s gun.

  Dorchester returned minutes later and said, “Damn, I hate those kinds of interviews. I feel terrible for that woman. To find her husband’s body like that and then read the horrible things he’d confessed to doing.” But was it a confession?

  “This part of our job fucking sucks,” I told Dorchester. “I felt like we twisted the knife that reality had shoved into her heart.”

  “Pretty much,” he agreed. “What’s next? None of the evidence points to anything besides suicide. His files are off limits because privilege remains intact for his clients after his death.”

  “We march on with our plan to interview the main players at McCarren Consortium,” I told Dorchester. “I meant what I said about making sure we don’t leave any loose threads.” The CPD might refuse to hire an expert to analyze the handwriting on the suicide note, but talking to McCarren’s employees cost them nothing.

  “Let’s do it,” Dorchester said. “It’s been a while since you dusted off your bad cop.”

  I followed Dorchester out of the interview room. “Are you accusing me of going soft?”

  “That sounds like a personal problem and none of my business,” he said cheekily. “All I meant was that we haven’t had to go hard at anyone lately.”

  “True,” I admitted. “Today is the day. Let’s take a copy of the letter that Larkin sent Robertson.”

  It turned out that both Dorchester and I dusted off our bad cop routines for the interview. The poor receptionist looked terrified when we glowered at her and showed her our badges. “We want to talk to McCarren, Larkin, and Thompson. Now.” I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to ask them because all my questions had been prepared before Spizer’s death.

  “J-j-just a minute,” she said, holding up a finger. “M-m-mr. McCarren, there are two detectives here to see you, Mr. Larkin, and Mr. Thompson. Okay, sir. I’ll call him.” She hung up the phone and buzzed us through the glass door. “Follow me,” she said skittishly as if she was afraid to turn her back on us.

  We followed her through the private offices of a man with more money than sense. The money spent on the opulence throughout the space could’ve fed every starving family in America at least twice. I had a feeling that the paintings hanging on the walls were originals valued in the millions rather than a knockoff you’d find in most office buildings. It was something you’d expect to see in New York City, not a place like Cincinnati that was once referred to as Porkopolis.

  “In here,” she said, pulling open two black doors.

  I heard the doors close soundly behind us after Dorchester and I entered McCarren’s office, which was as ridiculous as the rest of the office building. I never harbored ill will toward people who were successful, but this was a man who I felt probably didn’t come by it honestly, and I’d have a problem with that all day, every day.

  “Gentlemen,” McCarren said, attempting to be polite. “Larkin and Thompson will be here momentarily, but I can tell you that none of us will be answering a single question until our legal council arrives.”

  I looked at Dorchester and said, “That didn’t take him long to find new representation.”

  “Spizer’s body hasn’t even made it to the funeral home yet,” Dorchester remarked.

  “Excuse me?” McCarren asked. “Spizer? Rick Spizer is dead?” I had to hand it to him; he sounded genuinely shocked.

  “You didn’t know?” I asked skeptically. It wasn’t that I expected Dinah Spizer to contact his clients, but surely word had gotten around in their close circle. People of his magnitude of wealth usually kept their thumbs on the pulse of everyone and everything around them. The death of his lead counsel was no small piece of news.

  “I-I have been out of town for months, Detective. I don’t care for Ohio winters at my age and choose to spend them in warmer climes.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How did it happen?”

  “His death is still under investigation, so we’re unable to release those details at this time,” Dorchester told him.

  We didn’t have long to wait until Thompson and Larkin came through the door. They bristled and tried to look like badasses, but neither Dorchester nor I were impressed or intimidated.

  “Have a seat,” I told them, unwilling to waste a minute on their posturing. “We’ve been investigating a series of related deaths that have been traced back to the interest you’ve shown in building a casino in Carson County.”

  “Detective, I can’t see how the failed initiative from years ago could be responsible for these deaths,” McCarren said.

  I removed the letter from the file I held in my hands and laid it on the center of the highly polished conference table. “This one letter dated September of last year could be responsible for four deaths,” I told him. I saw Larkin flinch in his seat when he heard the date on the letter.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” McCarren demanded of Larkin. “I didn’t authorize you to contact Lawrence Robertson on my behalf.” He looked back at me and asked, “Is Mr. Robertson one of the people who died?”

  “Yes, then his house was torched because we think someone didn’t want us to know about this letter,” Dorchester added.

  “Damn,” McCarren said sadly. “Lawrence was a good guy, a principled man of his word. I don’t meet many like him anymore.”

  “Wait!” Larkin exclaimed. “I sent that letter because I remembered how much you wanted to build a casino there, sir. I did not kill anyone because of the letter nor did I burn anyone’s house to hide it.”

  Thompson piped in and asked, “Why am I being questioned? My name isn’t on that letter. Furthermore, shouldn’t we wait for Spizer to get here?”

 
“He’s one of the four deaths,” McCarren told him. “They haven’t read us our rights nor have we been accused of anything. Let’s hear what the detectives have to say, and we can call a halt to it if they ask questions that make us uncomfortable.” He aimed his shrewd gaze back at me. “Start from the beginning.”

  I told them what I knew and what I also suspected. “Spizer is connected to all but one person who is dead.” We still had to work out how they pulled Owen Smithson into the equation. “Larkin, you must’ve mentioned the casino deal to Spizer.”

  “I did mention it to Rick one day at lunch while going over other corporate legal matters. I asked him if he thought Mr. McCarren would be pleased if I could get the talks going again. Rick told me that he thought so, and if not, he knew someone who might be interested in investing in the casino.”

  “Nate Turner,” I told them. “Mr. Turner started getting death threats in November and was killed in Carson County, not too far from Robertson’s house, in January. The CPD traced the IP address used to harass Turner to an Owen Smithson, who was found dead in his apartment when they went to talk to him. While investigating both of those deaths, we found out that Nate had shown interest in building a casino. The fact that he was in Carson County made us want to revisit the players involved in the original casino deal. Dorchester and I found Mr. Robertson shot dead in his kitchen.”

  “Fuck me,” McCarren said.

  “We started reviewing documents and notes that Robertson had made after his meetings with all of you. That’s when we discovered that Spizer was the attorney for both McCarren Consortium and Nate Turner.”

  “I don’t believe that Rick could be involved in something like this, Detectives. He was a good man,” Thompson stated emphatically.

  Larkin let out a soft sigh and said, “The only thing I can tell you is that I did send the letter to Mr. Robertson because he didn’t have a phone. He was kind of a paranoid guy who believed the government was listening to every call he made. Rick asked me about the letter a few weeks, maybe a month, after I sent it and I told him that I’d had no reply from Robertson and I was going to let it drop. Perhaps Turner picked up where I left off. Maybe he decided to drive out to see Robertson in person.”

  What Larkin said had merit, except the time of Nate’s death. When Nate was killed, we had first assumed he was seeking me out for help. Once we connected him to the casino deal, we realized that probably wasn’t true. It wasn’t likely that Nate was meeting with Robertson in the middle of the night, which gave credence to there being someone else involved. Was that person in the conference room with me?

  “I knew nothing about any of this,” Thompson said. “Larkin didn’t mention any of this to me.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Larkin said. “Besides Rick, I told no one about my idea to establish talks with Robertson again.”

  That meant that it wasn’t likely that a rival casino consortium was behind the killing. Spizer wanting these men dead made zero sense to me and was the main reason I didn’t want to close the case.

  “I’m sorry that we’re not able to assist you further, Detectives,” McCarren said. I was sorry too because I had hoped to learn something definitive that would help us close the case. I wanted everything tied up with a pretty bow.

  Dorchester and I thanked them for their time and showed ourselves out. “Let’s go talk to Robertson’s nephews and see if we can shake any information out of them. They’re the only ones that I can think of that might be salty about Robertson selling that land to someone other than them.”

  We drove thirty minutes north of the city to Sharpe Development Inc. and asked to speak with Scott and Mark Robertson. We learned that Mark was in Arizona and Scott was in New York on business. Dorchester and I were frustrated that it looked like we wouldn’t be making any advances in the case that day.

  “Now what?” Dorchester asked after a long-suffering sigh.

  “We’re halfway home already,” I said. “There’s nothing else we can do until we uncover more evidence so we might as well head that way.” And so we did.

  The lure of a welcome home kiss was too much to resist after a shitty day that had started out with so much promise. Josh looked at me with surprise when I entered the salon, but then a smile spread slowly across his face when he saw the intent in my eyes. He rose on his tiptoes to meet me halfway once I reached him. I dropped two quick kisses on his plump lips and said, “Don’t be too late.”

  I smiled when I heard whistles and catcalls ring out behind me when I left the salon. “Y’all behave,” Josh told his clientele. “That man doesn’t need any more encouragement from you.”

  “Blow me, baby,” Savage said when I stopped to retrieve his cage.

  Damn, it was good to be home. I didn’t allow myself to dwell on the sadness of the day once Josh got home from work. We made dinner together then Josh went upstairs to work on Adrianna’s painting while I watched some baseball. The game was a defensive one, which meant low scoring and boring, so I went upstairs to see what kind of progress my guy was making.

  Josh truly was magical to me, regardless of what he was doing. He was so enthralled in his painting of baby zoo animals that he didn’t notice I was in the room. I must’ve sat in the chair for hours watching him dip his brushes in the paint before brushing them on the canvas. Only when he stopped to stretch did he realize I was in the room with him.

  “How long have you been sitting there?” he asked. Long enough to know he was the only one I wanted to spend my life with, but that wasn’t the answer I gave him.

  “Long enough to know it’s time to go to bed.” My tone of voice told him that sleeping wasn’t what I had in mind.

  “Who needs a bed,” Josh said, giving me a come-and-get-it smile.

  Who could resist that kind of invitation? Not me because I would never pass up the opportunity to be on the receiving end of his magic.

  I had gotten used to running into Emory every time I turned around, or so it seemed, but I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him once he left our home on Easter Sunday. It had only been a few days, but it seemed longer. The sadness that clung to Emory when he went home had left me feeling unsettled. I was eager to see if he was okay and knew I’d get my chance because he’d have his hide parked in my chair and his hair in my hands at his appointment.

  I had a busy morning and lost track of time until I realized my chair had been vacant longer than normal. I mean, that chair saw more action than a high-priced hooker and it was only empty when I took a break or had a day off. Neither of those things was happening right then, which meant that I had a no-show. That. Never. Happened. Ever.

  Annoyance, anger, and concern fought for dominance in my brain as I marched my unhappy ass out the back door of the salon, down my driveway, and across the alley to Emory’s house. I knocked loudly on his door and became more miffed when he didn’t answer right away.

  “I know damn well you’re inside, Emory. I see your black Mini in the driveway with its showy, look-at-me stripes. Answer this damn door before I call the cops and tell them I smell an odd odor coming from your house. They’ll think you’re dead because that’s our new normal and come busting through the door.” I banged some more and added, “You better have clothes on unless you want them to see you in your skivvies or buck-ass naked.”

  I was starting to freak out that something had happened to him, but then I saw the slight fluttering of curtains at the back door seconds before they parted to reveal Emory looking at me through the glass. He had dark purple rings beneath his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in years, and the sadness in his gaze was that of a man who had seen too many terrible things. He was the epitome of bruised and broken that afternoon.

  “Please let me in, Emory.” I released a sigh of relief when I heard him unlock the deadbolt.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call and cancel my appointment.” I could tell by his stance that he hadn’t planned on granting me entrance. Too damn bad! I shoved past
Emory and entered his kitchen, catching him off guard because I was much stronger than people expected.

  “Josh, now isn’t a good time.” I was happy to hear the irritation in his voice instead of sadness.

  “Now’s the perfect time because I happen to have an empty salon chair for the next one hundred and eighty minutes. So,” I pulled out a chair and sat down at Emory’s kitchen table, “why don’t you tell me what’s going on. Every time I turned around, you were in my face, and today I had to force myself on you. That’s a big turn of events. I’m starting to get my feelings hurt that you didn’t like my cooking or something.”

  “You know that’s not the case,” Emory said in a grim voice. “I just had a setback and needed time and space to deal with it.”

  I studied him and his surroundings. I recalled the expensive outfit that he wore the day he moved in and how he’d downplayed his wardrobe since then. His kitchen appliances and the furniture I could see were expensive, high-end stuff. His espresso machine alone cost at least five big ones. His dining room table and chairs appeared to be custom made, not something you’d find at a value furniture store. The highlights in his hair were so good that they could almost pass as natural, which spelled big talent and big money. I was struck again by the oddity of Emory’s appearance in our lives and town. What the hell was he doing here?

  All my suspicions and concerns vanished when I realized just how lost he looked in his kitchen. All I wanted to do right then was help him. “Talk to me, Emory. You can tell me anything, I promise you that I won’t gossip.”

  Emory was watching his finger draw the infinity symbol on the shiny wood surface of his table. “I’m not sure talking about it will help me, Josh, but I appreciate your willingness to listen,” he said after several quiet moments. I had begun to think he hadn’t heard me.