Cynthia walked Shane to the door.
Shane whispered, “You’re brilliant, girl.”
“Am I?”
“The note is in your handwriting. Not exactly, but you don’t connect your lower case r. You write two lines. It drives me crazy.”
“Please don’t tell Papa. I gave Mayleen money, which is all she really wanted, and she left town. She was wrong for Papa. I had to protect him.”
“I know, love. We’ll be so happy here. Your father will be inspired to find a good woman like you.”
“Yes, darling. I’m sure you’re right.”
8
Max should have skipped his last stop, as it was already six, and he had to be in class by seven. He told himself he needed to know the answer to one more question before the night passed. Dr. Burton had held his seat last week, when he missed class due to his father’s funeral. He presumed she would understand if he showed up late tonight, what with his job. Besides, the college wasn’t too far away. In his silver 2014 Ford Taurus Interceptor handpicked for him by the chief, he could make it on time or close to it. The vehicle was fine, but he preferred a truck or a vehicle he could take off-road when needed.
Max drove up the dirt driveway to Eugene’s house. Shane Drake passed him going out. Why had he doubled back? Did they collude on a story? Or was he simply stopping by to see Cynthia?
Cynthia answered the door, somewhat flustered and blushing. She smoothed her apron. Max could smell beer on her breath. Cynthia didn’t look the type, but Max knew to keep his net spread wide at this point—that meant no presupposing. Three bottles of beer sat on the table. Shane must have had the other one.
“Detective King? Come in, please.” Eugene set down his beer. “We’re toasting Cynthia’s engagement to Shane. It’s a happy ending to a horrific day.”
“Congratulations, Cynthia!”
“Thank you. Can I get you coffee or tea?”
“No, thanks. I’m good,” said Max. “I need to speak to your father in private.”
With anxious speed, Eugene popped up from his seat. “Let’s go to my office.”
“No need. I’m dashing to the store.” Cynthia kissed her father on the cheek. “Any requests?”
“Dried apricots, dear. We’re all out. You know the ones I like.”
“Got it.” Cynthia stripped off her apron, hung it on a wall hook, grabbed her pink bag, and headed out.
As soon as the front door closed, Max sat in the same floral armchair as before. “We know that Anne had sexual relations last night. Was it with you? The lab is running the DNA.”
Eugene crumbled. He arched forward, and his head fell into his hands. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I couldn’t say a word this morning. Not in front of Cynthia. Cynthia may be my daughter, but she did not like Anne—well, that’s not true—she liked her fine when she dated Kenneth. Anne came by before the poker game. We had a drink. It’s been so long since Mayleen. I was flattered. Anne’s beautiful. And look at me—I know I’m not the kind of material that girls like her go for, but she confided in me. I could see Cynthia’s eyes burning into Anne. Game time crept up and guests started to arrive. I took a shot. When Cynthia answered the door, I suggested to Anne that she come back to the house after the others had left, and we could finish the conversation. She lit up. She seemed so relieved.”
Although Max had questions, Eugene headed down a road of his own choosing. For now, Max nudged him along. Sometimes, if he stopped to listen, victims and murderers told him exactly what he needed to hear to solve a case. What was Anne’s game? “She confided in you about what?”
“Her life. The mess she’d made of it by going for the wrong kind of guy. Hot-tempered guys with flashy cars like Grant, instead of nice, stable fathers like me. She prattled on about having made some big mistakes. But she wanted to start over.”
“Did she come on to you during the game?”
“She paid attention to me, yes.”
“How did Grant take it?”
“When we took a break, Grant insisted on having a word with her outside. Anne went. And while they were outside, Cynthia pulled me aside and gave me a royal scolding—my daughter scolded me, her father. She called Anne a ‘floozy.’ I’ll bet you haven’t heard that term in a while. Cynthia means well. She just didn’t want me to get my heart broken again.”
“And Anne came back to see you?”
“Yes, but she didn’t want Grant to know, and I didn’t want Cynthia to know, so I told her to wait about half an hour, so Cynthia would have gone to bed. It was silly! I’m a grown man, and I’m sneaking around in my own house. I let Anne in through the French doors to my bedroom. We…we spent time together. She poured out her heart, told me she owed the casino money. But she didn’t care. She’d pay it back and she’d get help for her gambling problem. I couldn’t hold back. I told her that I’d loved her for a long time, but I thought she loved Grant. Anne said she needed someone who wasn’t like Grant.”
“Did she fight with Grant last night?”
“I didn’t see any fight. Anne could make every man at the table feel special. Kenneth didn’t like it. He’s protective. Jealous. Anne told me that he wanted to control her. Look, I didn’t kill Anne. I…I loved her. Do you think I’m foolish?”
Max didn’t know how to begin to answer that question. So many questions flooded his mind. Had Anne played Grant against Eugene? Or had she hit bottom and decided to try a different kind of man? Was her speech to Eugene the real Anne Martin? Or did she just manipulate men to get what she wanted?
“I’m not the one to answer that question. Mr. Carter. At least you’ve loved a woman, a couple of them. I’ve not gotten that far yet. I mean, I’d like to find a woman to love. Some day.”
“But you’re young. I’m fifty-five this year. Ah, well, if anything good has come from this, it’s Cynthia’s engagement to Shane. He finds it hard to date, just like Cynthia. I think they’ll be happy. I’m happy for them.”
Max thought about his own father—never married. He’d always told Max he had married the badge, but Max didn’t buy it. Plenty of women had flirted with him over the years, but none ever got close. At least not during the years after he’d adopted Max. Was David King just happy alone? By twenty-six, Max wondered the same thing about himself. He had dated but avoided commitment.
“You won’t tell Cynthia, will you?”
“I don’t think she needs to know.”
“Look, Detective King. We talked, and she kissed me, and…and…it was not just sex. We…we made love. Anne seemed so happy, so relieved to be with me. She knew that I would take care of her. We spoke of the future. I…I mentioned getting married. She cried in my arms; she confessed all about her gambling problem. She told me everything. I told her once we were married, I’d pay off her loan to the casino, and we’d get her help. We’d both start over.”
Max worked hard to keep a line of involvement and dissociation in place. Sometimes, it meant peering deep over the edge of a cliff without getting so close he could fall into the abyss—he could not see what Eugene wanted him to see. A detective had to feel empathy, listen to cadences, and watch for truth and lies. He could not be impassionate, but his involvement had to be objective. The senses could be deceived. Max believed Eugene’s story, but Eugene wore rose-colored glasses when he gazed at Anne. Max needed to see all of her colors and stripes and spots and chinks if he stood a chance of finding her killer. “Thank you for your candor.”
Max didn’t blame Eugene for donning rose-colored glasses to view a perfect Anne Martin. But Max saw Eugene as the last in a line of dominoes. Eugene’s losses, one after the other, followed by the beautiful Anne Martin in his bed, would blind any man. It didn’t mean Anne had lied to him, but it did inform Max that Eugene could not be considered impartial. That didn’t make him evil. It made him all the more human.
By finding Anne’s killer, Eugene might come to know the truth of that night. But would he want to know? Was Anne looking for a chance to start o
ver? Or a steady bankroll? Or had she finally, like Paul Lopez said, hit rock bottom and vowed to turn her life around? Max hadn’t asked Eugene about the drugs that had gone missing, because, at this point, it could not be ascribed to Anne. Had Anne mentioned it, presumably Eugene would have mentioned it, since he knew about her casino debt. Maybe Anne hadn’t stolen the drugs. Still, a single question emerged from the pack: Who killed her and why?
“There is one other thing you should know. This just came to my attention. That’s why Shane was here. I don’t care about what Anne did in the past. If it helps you find her murderer, then this might help.”
“What is it?”
“Shane informed me that Anne confided in him that she’d previously obtained money from a loan-shark, someone named A-gamer. He also said that she’d tried to fix the problem herself, and when she couldn’t, Chief Goldsby fixed it for her. I think that’s why she didn’t tell me, because the problem had been resolved. I hope that’s why she didn’t tell me.”
“That’s a pretty big accusation.” Max remained calm, yet he could not fathom the chief succumbing to Anne’s charms and sticking his nose into this mess unless he had official clearance and backup.
“Shane thought so too, which is why he didn’t say anything when you spoke to him this morning. He wanted my opinion. I said he should tell you.”
“It’s hear-say. Anne told him this?”
“Yes. Idle gossip at this point.”
“I’m glad you mentioned it. I will follow up on it.”
“Perhaps this is out of place. I hope not. I mean this sincerely. Please accept my deepest condolences for your father. We took care of him for the services. Crane Carter & Sons Mortuary—that’s me—the son. David King was the best Chief of Police Wine Valley has ever had. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Max pulled back from the edge. In this space, he had to maintain a clear and defining line and not cross it. He did sense that Eugene was sincere, rather than implying any untoward connection between them that would impede the investigation.
“Yes, well, that subject is off topic, given that I’m here in an official capacity, Mr. Carter. But thank you. My supervisor and a family friend helped me with those details.”
“Of course. That’s quite normal.”
Max had no sooner left and hopped into his car than his phone rang.
“Captain? You’re working late.”
“You sittin’ down?”
“I am, as a matter of fact. I just re-interviewed Eugene. He was Anne’s mysterious lover.”
“Well, while you ponder that, ponder this, ‘cause that’s not the kicker.”
Despite the tension, Max loved how Jayda—now Captain Banks—could string out a good story. She once took twenty delicious minutes to reach a punch line, and she knew he’d wait. “You got my attention, Captain.”
“The prints found on the cigar cutter near the crime scene belong to Chief Goldsby. He just left my office, and he’s havin’ kittens. Says he’s bein’ framed.”
While Captain Banks’ voice remained completely professional, Max knew her well enough to hear the subtle thread of twisted pleasure in her voice.
Max asked, “Relieved of duty?”
“Not yet. It’s circumstantial. But the mayor just called me. She’s on her way over to see me—what a time to get a promotion.”
“I’d love to be there, but I’m on the way to school.”
“10-4. You are 10-7 this evening.” Banks gave the code for “out of service.” She added, “I will never stop an officer from obtaining a good education, Max. That’s your daddy’s policy, and I’m keeping it.”
“That sounded just like David King.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
As Max drove down the lane, his heart pounded. Chief of Police Frank Goldsby—a suspect in a murder investigation? Max wondered if he had on rose-colored glasses. He had yet to interview Chief Goldsby. Maybe the chief did have a reason to want Anne dead after all. Max didn’t like the man, but he owed him a thorough investigation. He needed to re-interview Shane Drake and speak to the chief. And Eugene—what to make of him? His story of love and passion and Anne wanting to turn corners could just as easily be one of anger and retribution and death. Killers were pros at psychology—which was why Max had signed up for Dr. Burton’s class in forensic psychology in the first place. Anne might have been a lousy gambler, but the best player of men at the table.
Max remembered his father’s warning after he’d caught Max, about ten years old then, playing with a hornets’ nest: “Son, you play with a hornets’ nest, they’ll swarm you like flies to honey, and they won’t quit until each one has sunk its stinger into your flesh and pumped in poison. If you live, you’ll wish you hadn’t.” Max felt the same way now. But it was his job to stir the nest and, hopefully, agitate the killer among them. And then, would the killer turn and attack him? He’d be ready.
By the time Shane had reached home, he felt woozy. He should not have felt this groggy with one beer. A knock on the back door drew his attention. He opened it.
“Make yourself at home. I’m gonna rest a few.” Shane barely remembered tumbling into bed. At least his back felt better. He lay on his stomach under the covers. His cheek sank into the pillow.
He didn’t hear the paper tear or feel the sticky, clear Fetanyl patches applied to his lower back. One patch. Two. Three.
A heating pad rested against his back and then the covers, which draped across his shoulders. A gentle hand pressed against his lower back.
“Thank you,” he said as his pain muted and melted away.
Shane’s breathing slowed. He opened his eyes, but his pinpoint pupils could not focus. In a euphoria of dreams, free from pain, he let out a final breath of exhalation. His heartbeat slowed, and slowed, and stopped.
Chief Goldsby opened the front door to his house, a five-bedroom tract home in a new housing development with a French theme: Chateaux de Bordeaux Estates. The chief’s two-story house had the façade of a French villa: a flared four-sided gray tile roof, multi-paned dormer windows, and stone accents along the corners and around the recessed entry.
Frank poured himself a glass of Merlot from a bottle on a fancy side table and carried it to a green chair-and-a-half.
Settled in, Frank grabbed a cigar from the box on the side table, clipped it, shaped it, and lit it. He sucked in slowly and let the sweet smoke envelop him in soothing swirls. His cell phone rang. He picked it up and saw “Shane Drake” on the caller ID screen.
“Hello, Shane.” No answer.
“Shane? Can you hear me?” Nothing.
“Can you hear me now?” Nothing.
“Shane, you there?” The line went dead. The chief settled against the pillows. “It’s quittin’ time.” He tipped back his glass of Merlot and let the smooth red wine wash away the day. He flipped on the television.
9
Max settled into a seat midway down the theater-styled rows in the Price-Wellsman Academy, an east-coast university specializing in sociology, psychology, forensics, police procedures, and criminology with satellites in several states, including California and Virginia, the latter known for training programs designed specifically for F.B.I. profilers.
Semi-circular rows faced a stage, a single-step up, with a black lectern and beyond that massive whiteboards. The room had sound-proof beige walls and fluorescent lighting. Students spilled in and found seats.
Max settled into an aisle seat. He had known from the start that he wanted to be a detective, to solve crimes like his father, who was best known for apprehending “Belladonna.” It was the name of a deadly nightshade plant and the name of the most notorious female serial killer to strike California, and who knows where else, in the past century. Max had only heard of the case, as he was a mere tyke when it happened, but it propelled Detective David King up the ladder until he became the Chief of Police.
As soon as Max graduated from hig
h school and finished his bachelor’s in criminology, he entered the police academy. It took another few years, working alongside then Lieutenant Banks, who trained him from a rookie to an adept police officer to be eligible to take the detective’s exam. Meantime, Max read book after book and took on-line classes in forensics, computer fraud, and criminal psychology, anything that could better help him understand the criminal mind.
Given the immediate response times required of working detectives, taking a physical class in a school setting posed a problem. He could be called out at any time, but most likely, he would not be, unless it was a real emergency. Captain Banks supported his desire to learn and be a better detective.
Dr. Beatrice Joy Burton entered the stage from a side door on the right. She wore navy blue slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a flowy navy jacket. She put some papers on the lectern.
Max pulled up the tiny writing desk that dangled at the side of the chair, opened his leather-bound notebook, and poised his pen. Dr. Burton captivated him. She moved slowly, methodically. Her jet-black hair, parted in the middle, and brows seemed like night to his day. He remembered her eyes when he had met her at his father’s funeral: dark brown, but so dark they almost seemed black, like the eyes of a reptile. Her red lipstick was a bit gothic for his tastes, but, given the subject matter, she fit the gothic role.
Dr. Burton faced the audience. “You are here because of Dr. Edmond Locard, French criminologist. His nickname was the ‘Sherlock Holmes of France,’ and you’ve probably heard his basic tenant: ‘Every contact leaves a trace.’” A screen dropped down from the ceiling, and with the push of a button, a passage flashed on the screen. Dr. Burton read it aloud to the class, and her voice resonated with each word:
“Wherever he steps, whatever he touches, whatever he leaves, even unconsciously, will serve as silent witness against him. Not only his fingerprints or his footprints, but his hair, the fibers from his clothes, the glass he breaks, the tool marks he leaves, the paint he scratches, the blood or semen he deposits or collects. All of these and more bear mute witness against him. This is evidence that does not forget. It is not confused by the excitement of the moment. It is not absent because human witnesses are. It is factual evidence. Physical evidence cannot be wrong, it cannot perjure itself, it cannot be wholly absent. Only human failure to find it, study it, and understand it can diminish its value.” –Dr. Edmond Locard.
Burgundy and Bodies Page 5
