Gone Ballistic (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  “I hadn’t heard that. Just a minute.” The phone clunked down. There was some background conversation, but nothing I could make out. The voice came back. “The class is meeting regularly. Come any morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  Peyton Shilling lived in an apartment in Goochland, about twenty miles out past my neighborhood in Richmond’s West End. I could go see her this afternoon, or I could go to her yoga class in the morning. The yoga class would allow for a more casual meeting, but I wasn’t sure where it would get me. Would I make friends with her, meet her at a bar, and ply her with margaritas until she started telling me all about her personal life?

  Maybe the direct approach.

  “Are you wondering how you’re going to live until I get back in town?” a voice said from the doorway. It was Paul Soldano. I blinked at him, bringing him into mental focus.

  “Isn’t it Wednesday?” I said. “Why aren’t you still in Norfolk or Lynchburg or wherever?”

  “Because I was in D.C. at a conference, not in the hinterlands examining banks. Remember?”

  I had a vague sense that I’d heard something about that. “You didn’t say anything about it on the phone last night,” I said defensively.

  “I know. I thought maybe you’d forgotten, and I wanted to surprise you.” He held out his arms. “Surprise!”

  I went around my desk to give him a hug. We were kind of like Jack Sprat and his wife, except in reverse. I was tall and lean—okay, skinny, if you’re being uncharitable—and he was short and chunky. Without going up on tiptoes, I couldn’t quite put my chin on top of his head, but I was half-a-head taller.

  We hugged, and he patted my fanny, and, because I felt guilty about not keeping track of him better, I let him get away with it.

  “That new guy is right,” he said. “Like steel cables.”

  I pulled away from him. “I don’t know that comparing my butt to a suspension bridge is a compliment, but I’m going to assume you meant it that way.”

  “As well you should. What have you got on for this afternoon? Can you take off?”

  “I was just heading out to Goochland.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Want to come?” I asked.

  “What’s in Goochland?”

  “A home wrecker named Peyton Shilling.”

  “A good-looking home wrecker?”

  I caught his nose between my index and middle fingers, and he went still. “Yes, very.” I let go of his nose. “Sorry,” I said. “Things have me a little on edge.” I tried to remember whether I’d said anything to him about the Priority Mail pistol when I had him on the phone last night, decided I hadn’t. Somehow news of Carter Fox had moved the pistol off the front page.

  “Shall I follow you out?” Paul asked. “We could drop off my car at your place.”

  That’s what we did. He parked his car against the curb in front of my house and walked forward to get into my VW Beetle with me. “Should we pick up Deacon while we’re here?” Paul asked. “He likes car rides.”

  I shook my head. “Deacon can be a handful.”

  “Wow. You are in a mood.”

  After we’d gotten back to I-64, riding mostly in silence, Paul said, “You called him Deacon.”

  “Isn’t that his name?”

  “Okay.”

  I was the next one to break the silence. “I got a gun in the mail yesterday. It’s turning into a mess.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I did, and by the time we got to Goochland, he knew as much about the situation as I did—which, unfortunately, was little enough...

  Peyton Shilling lived on the third floor of a brand new apartment building that you could see from the interstate. We walked up and rang the doorbell, Paul standing back out of view of the peephole. He was breathing harder than he should have been after the climb. Deeks and I—Deacon and I—were going to have to walk him tonight.

  The peephole darkened then lightened again, but the door didn’t open.

  “My name is Robin Starling,” I said through the door. “I’m hoping to talk to you about the death of Chris Woodruff.”

  For several heartbeats there was nothing, and then the door opened. It was the girl in the photographs, wearing what was possibly the same short skirt Chris had been sitting under, his eyes turned upward as he contemplated Paradise. She was younger than I’d thought from the photos, maybe no more than twenty-five or twenty-six.

  “Oh,” she said when she saw Paul, and she closed the door again until it was only open about a foot, her toe wedged against it on the inside.

  I looked back and forth between them. “You know each other?”

  Paul gave his head a quick shake.

  “I never saw him before,” Peyton said. “I just thought you were alone.”

  “Paul Soldano,” he said and stepped forward with his hand extended.

  She looked at it through the narrow opening, and he dropped it to his side.

  “Are you police?”

  “Not me,” Paul said. “I’m this woman’s bodyguard, gofer, and all-round dogsbody.”

  “How about you?” she said to me. “Are you police?”

  I shook my head. “Lawyer.”

  She looked back at Paul. “What’s a dogsbody?”

  “I’m not sure I know. I think it’s the guy who does all the scutwork.”

  She cut her eyes toward me again.

  “Don’t ask him what scutwork is,” I said. “The explanation will only introduce yet another word to our vocabulary.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  “Willow Woodruff.”

  Her lip curled. “The grieving widow. She’s been arrested then?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “She will be. She should be.”

  “You think she killed her husband?”

  “Of course.” After a moment she gave a small nod, as if to herself, and stepped back from the door. “Come in.”

  We followed her in.

  “Have a seat.”

  We sat, me on the sofa, John in an armchair, but Peyton remained standing, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. I’d have liked to know what kind of bra she was wearing and where she got it, but I didn’t know her well enough to ask for clothing tips. Instead I said, “What makes you so sure Willow killed her husband?”

  “She’s unstable. And she’d threatened him.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That she’d kill him before she’d let him go.”

  “Was he going somewhere?”

  She dropped her arms. “He’d moved in with me. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Yes. She also said he’d come back.”

  Peyton snorted, and, coming from her golden face, the sound was unexpectedly porcine. “She would say that.”

  “He died in her bed,” I said.

  “Easy enough to undress him and put him there after she shot him.”

  “What was he doing at the house, then, do you think?”

  “He had his stuff there, didn’t he? Had a young son even. And it was his house. Her name wasn’t even on the deed.”

  I nodded. “You and he were still together then?”

  “We loved each other.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Last Wednesday. Two days before he was murdered.”

  “And you were still together? Where did he spend Wednesday and Thursday nights?”

  “How would I know? He stayed here most nights, but he was a free agent.”

  “I guess he kept some of his stuff here—a change of clothes, a toothbrush?”

  “Sure.”

  “May I see them?”

  “I don’t think I caught your name. You said Robin. . .”

  “Starling. Like the bird.”

  “Uh huh. And what makes you think you can walk into people’s homes and start taking inventory?”

  It was an unexpected turn of phrase for a yoga instructor. I said, “Where did you see Chr
is last Wednesday night? Here, or at the college?”

  “Both. I’m in his economics class.”

  “And he came back here after?” When she didn’t say anything to that, I added, “You were in a class of his last semester, too, weren’t you?”

  “What of it?”

  “Does he take your yoga class? Is it a reciprocal sort of thing?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve done your research on me, haven’t you?”

  “Cherchez la femme,” Paul said, and she looked at him.

  “What?”

  I was thinking the same thing: What?

  “Look for the woman,” Paul said. “It’s an expression.”

  “I think I’d like you to leave now.”

  Paul had effectively closed down the interview for me. “Is there anything you want to get off your conscience first?” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “Why should anything be on my conscience?”

  “You did seduce another woman’s husband.”

  “She didn’t own him. Any woman who can’t hold onto her man doesn’t deserve him.”

  “So if he’d left you to go back to his wife, that would have hit you pretty hard,” I said. “It would have been your fault.”

  “He didn’t leave me. I told you that.”

  “Had he given you a handgun?” I hadn’t moved from the couch.

  “No he had not given me a handgun. Why would he do that?”

  “Might be worried about your safety.”

  “Well he wasn’t. I can take care of myself. Are you going to leave now, or do I have to call the police?”

  I stood, smiling. “No need. Sorry I touched a nerve.”

  “You didn’t touch a nerve. I just don’t see any reason to stand here listening to your insinuations.”

  I turned back at the front door, my hand on the knob. “Maybe you went to his house last Friday morning, maybe you thought it would be a blast to have sex with him in his wife’s bed, but he was dead when you got there. You picked up the gun that was there and took it with you.”

  She took a step toward me, and Paul stepped between us. “You’re insane.”

  “You sure you’ve never heard my name before? You didn’t send me a pistol?”

  “Get out.”

  I pulled open the door and stepped through it. Paul stopped in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at Peyton. In sepulcher tones he said, “Cherchez la femme.”

  She kicked his shin. He staggered as she connected, but stayed in the doorway. He raised his arms and said it again. “Cherchez la femmmme.”

  She rushed at him, catching him in the chest with both hands and driving him through the doorway. I caught him, steadying him, and the door slammed.

  He looked at me sheepishly. “Sorry. I messed that up for you, didn’t I?”

  “No, it went about as well as I expected.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He followed me down the steps, but he was holding onto the railing and favoring his right leg. When we got to the bottom, I asked him, “What in the world made you start saying ‘Cherchez la femme’ over and over again like some kind of boogeyman?”

  He shrugged. “I developed a sudden dislike for Peyton Shilling.”

  “She’s gorgeous—you see that, don’t you? Doesn’t it take a while for a man get past that?”

  “It’s worse when they’re gorgeous,” Paul said.

  “How is it worse? Isn’t beauty always a good thing?”

  “Not when the inside is ugly. Then the outer beauty’s just a mockery.”

  I beeped my car door unlocked, and he opened it for me. I sat and looked up at him. “You’re deeper than I thought,” I said.

  “Still waters,” he said. He shut the door and limped around the car.

  When he got in on his side, I said, “I never noticed you being especially still except when it came to exercise.”

  “I was referring to my inner serenity,” he said.

  We parked my car in the garage and walked through the house and across the street to pick up Deacon from Dr. McDermott.

  “At least you’ve stopped limping,” I said.

  “I’ll be all right. I may have a bruise.”

  As we headed home with Deacon, he ran ahead of us across the street.

  “Do you even own a leash?” Paul asked me.

  “You need to get back in touch with your inner serenity. And, yes. I’ve got one somewhere.”

  “You can be serene and curious at the same time.” After a moment Paul added, “I am worried he’s going to get hit by a car someday.”

  “He’s pretty good about watching for cars.”

  “He’s a dog. Suppose a squirrel comes along?”

  “That’s why I’ve stopped listening to music when I run,” I said.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I know he can get into trouble off-leash, so I try to keep my own distractions to a minimum.”

  “If you say so. I’ll go back to being serene.”

  I caught his hand, and we crossed the street swinging our hands between us.

  When I’d unlocked the door, Deacon pushed into the house, but stopped as we came in behind him, the fur bristling in a ridge along his spine. He emitted a low growl, and I froze, my hand on Paul’s arm, listening.

  There was no sound other than the rumble coming from Deacon’s chest, not even the hum of the air handler. No sound even from our breathing.

  Deacon broke as I was stepping out of my shoes, his toenails slipping on the wood floor as he surged forward.

  “Baseball bat in the closet,” I called over my shoulder as I ran after him, snatching up a brass duck from an occasional table as I ran by it. Deacon hit the side of the archway as he made the dogleg into the hall on his way to my bedroom, and I slammed into the archway right behind him, glancing toward the guest bathroom and front bedroom as I followed him into mine.

  Deacon had stopped, his fur still bristling, his head moving from side to side. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his eyes questioning, as Paul pushed past me into the bedroom, holding the baseball bat in a two-handed grip. The bat was a battered Louisville Slugger that had been my brother’s practice bat in high school. Faded black duct tape wound round and round the barrel.

  The top drawer of my dresser drawers was open, and lingerie spilled out of it. One pair of panties hung from the knob, another was half off the top of the dresser, several were on the floor. A lacy bra was draped on the shade of the table lamp that sat on the dresser. Another bra, a pedestrian beige-colored one, was hooked to the curtain hooks and stretched across the window.

  The door to the master bathroom was closed, the door of the walk-in closet half-open. I jerked my head in the direction of the walk-in closet and moved barefoot to the bathroom door. I turned the knob quietly and, as Paul swung into the closet doorway, pushed open the bathroom door and stepped back. Deacon slipped past me into the bathroom.

  “Deacon!”

  He turned back, and, for the first time since we’d entered the house, his tail wagged. I felt the tension wash out of me.

  “Come, Deeks. Here, boy.”

  He came out and put his head against my thigh. I scratched his ears as I caught my breath.

  “I’ll do a quick walk-through,” Paul said, and left the bedroom, still holding the baseball bat high.

  “Go with Paul,” I told Deacon, giving him a nudge with my knee.

  When they came back, I was sitting on the side of my bed, gazing at my scattered underwear.

  “There’s a broken pane in one of your French doors,” Paul said. “We must have missed it when we walked through the house on our way to get Deacon.”

  “So that’s how they got in.”

  “Maybe not.”

  I looked at him.

  “Come see.”

  The French doors were in the living room at the back of the house. The broken pane was by the door lever, but almost all of the glass was outside on the cement patio, only
a shard or two lying near the door on the inside.

  “Why would they have broken the window if they were already inside the house?” I asked. “And how did they get in anyway?”

  Paul shook his head. “It’s nothing obvious. You don’t have a key hidden outside somewhere, do you?”

  “No. I gave it to you, remember?”

  “Maybe whoever it was had an electronic pick gun? Or a bump key? We’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

  “Why would anyone break into my house to go through my underwear drawer?”

  “Looking for something?”

  “Looking for something doesn’t explain one of my bras stretched from curtain hook to curtain hook.”

  “No, it doesn’t explain that. We need to walk around, see if we can tell what’s missing.”

  It seemed logical to start in the bedroom. I gathered up my underwear for the laundry hamper, not planning to wear any of it again before washing it. When I went to close my dresser drawer, I found myself looking down at a small to medium-sized pistol.

  “Uh oh,” I said.

  Paul came over to look. “That isn’t the. . .” He didn’t finish the question, but he didn’t need to.

  “It looks like it,” I said.

  “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not.” I was under a subpoena to turn over a Smith & Wesson semiautomatic, which I had been at some pains to deny having. If I tried to explain someone breaking into my house to plant a gun that he or she had stolen from my office, nobody was going to believe a word of it. It didn’t make any sense, and my only supporting evidence was a window pane that had been broken from the inside. I imagined myself explaining that I was not that stupid, that if I had wanted to stage a break-in, I would have done a better job of it.

  Of course, I could stage a break-in now and do a better job of it, but the district attorney already thought I was in the business of manufacturing evidence. If I actually started doing it, I’d be heading down a slippery slope.

  “Crap,” I said. “Any credibility I had with the D.A.’s office or the police is now shot.”

  “Did you have any credibility with the D.A.’s office?”

  “Well, no. I did have a little with the police, at least with Jordan and Hernandez.”

  “So you don’t think they’ll buy this story?”

  I thought about it, then shook my head. “They’ll think I’m playing some kind of deep game. Especially. . .” I broke off. “Let’s take a closer look at that gun.”