“And where is the shed?” I asked.
He pointed to the other side of the fountain. “Behind those trees.” Then he pointed at the ground. “Scott was here, and the other man over there.”
“How would Alex have gotten on the property?” Spats asked as he walked around the fountain. “These high fences surround the whole place, right?”
Sanders shrugged. “Yes. Although there’s a security gate at the entrance to the neighborhood, that’s never prevented the opportunistic person from scaling a fence. Now and then, we’ve had people come onto our property, and so have our neighbors.” Another shrug. “There’s not much you can do, except have security cameras and alarms on the house.”
“Did you have security cameras back then?” I asked.
Sanders nodded. “But wherever that guy came onto the property, the cameras didn’t catch it.”
I looked at the fountain, the lawn, the place where the bodies had lain. “No one heard the shot?”
Sanders shook his head. “We had a band playing on the patio, people wandering around inside and out of the house, laughing, talking loud. And as you can see, it’s secluded back here, trees blocking the house. No one heard it.” He stared at me. “Why all the scrutiny on this particular case?”
I put my hands in my coat pockets. “I’m trying to figure out why Judge Halloran would’ve wanted to talk to you. What was so significant about this trial that the prosecuting attorney, defense attorney, and now the judge are all dead?”
Sanders didn’t answer that. The sitting area was surrounded by huge evergreen trees, and the house was far away. I faced the trees and listened. Quiet. As Sanders had said, if there was music playing on the back porch, I could see how people at the party wouldn’t hear anything back here, even a gunshot.
“Was Scott angry at you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Sanders said. “However, I didn’t speak to him after that night, so I guess I wouldn’t know.”
“I read the trial transcript,” Spats said. “Bradley blamed you, said you set him up. What did he mean by that?”
Sanders threw up his hands. He was frustrated and feeling the alcohol. “He was angry, and denied that he did anything.” He walked by the fountain and looked at the ground. “But of course, what are you going to say when a bunch of people saw you with a gun in your hand, and you’re high? And AK is lying there dead.”
I was about to ask another question, then stopped. Spats raised his eyebrows at me. I turned around and stared at Sanders. “What did you say?”
His brow furrowed. “I said that Scott denied doing anything.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And then?”
He raised his eyebrows, baffled. “That AK was dead.”
“AK?”
He nodded. “That was Alex’s nickname.”
I’d heard that reference before. Nakamura had mentioned AK to somebody. But that wasn’t it. I looked at Spats, and his mouth was open. He’d caught it, too. I looked back at Sanders.
“You said you didn’t know Alex Knight,” I said.
He hesitated. “No, I didn’t. I’d never seen him before in my life.”
“Scott never mentioned him?” I asked.
He shook his head.” “No. I knew nothing about him.”
Apparently, the alcohol had done its work too well. He hadn’t caught his own slip-up. I fixed hard eyes on him.
“If you’d never met Alex Knight before, how do you know his nickname?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sanders Frost looked at me. “Huh? I don’t know what you’re asking.”
I watched him carefully, and Spats took a wary stance, where he could easily get to the gun on his hip.
“How do you know Alex Knight’s nickname, if you’d never met him or talked to him?” I asked.
Sanders looked everywhere but at me. “Hmm. I must’ve met him or, maybe just heard it used later.”
“You just said you knew nothing about him, that you’d never seen him before in your life,” I said.
“Scott talked about him.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe one of the times when we were out here in the gardens.”
I shook my head slowly. “Scott maintained all along that he’d never met Alex. If that’s true, he would’ve never spoken about Alex to you.”
“Maybe he was lying. Or, maybe the police said something,” Sanders said. “Detective, I’m not sure what you’re implying.”
My voice was almost a whisper. “I’m implying that you know more than you’re saying.”
He swallowed hard. “I …”
“Would you care to revise your story?” I asked.
His gaze went to Spats, and Spats arched an eyebrow just slightly, the look saying he didn’t believe Sanders, either. Sanders looked up at the sky, then he backed up to the fountain and sank onto the edge of it.
“I just blew it, didn’t I?” he finally said. He smiled grimly. “I guess this is it.” He eyes were suddenly cold and calculating. “Perhaps you should read me my rights.”
I had never had that request before, and I wondered what his ploy was. However, I wasn’t sure where the conversation was going to go, so I said, “Sanders Frost, you have the right to remain silent.” I recited the rest of his rights, and when I finished, I asked him if he understood.
“Yes, I understand my rights,” he said. He contemplated his shoes. “It’s funny, you see this kind of thing in the movies, but when it’s happening to you …” His voice trailed off.
Spats gave me a “what the hell” kind of look and waited for me to continue. He was ready for anything, though.
“Would you care to revise your story?” I repeated to Sanders.
He considered that for a long moment. I hoped he hadn’t just changed his mind about talking to us. It was quiet, and the cold seeped in around us. He finally spoke.
“Scott was telling the truth,” he said. “AK was my drug dealer, not his, and that’s going to be my downfall. As far as I know, Scott had never met AK. He was just a petty drug dealer, didn’t know anything about me. I thought he didn’t, anyway. I’d met him downtown, where I went to buy drugs.” Contempt for Alex Knight filled his voice. “You have to understand, my family name is everything. I know using drugs is more common now, especially weed, but over twenty years ago, it wasn’t quite the same. And it wasn’t just weed. If word had gotten out that Sanders Frost was doing drugs, partying, living that kind of lifestyle, when he’s living in a mansion and married with young kids …” He thrust a finger toward the house. “Well, you can imagine that the press would’ve had a field day, and my ever-superior father would’ve been furious. As a matter of fact, he knew enough that he threatened to cut me off from the family money.” He sneered. “I couldn’t very well let that happen. I wouldn’t let it happen.” His face flushed with anger. “And then the worst happened. AK figured out who I was. At first it didn’t matter, but then he tried to shake me down, to put it bluntly. I did pay him some money, tried to buddy up to him so that he’d leave me alone. But he kept demanding more money, and threatened to go to the press if I didn’t pay. I couldn’t trust him. So, I thought of a way to take care of him.” He looked behind me. “There’s a shed back there, behind the trees. I found out that Scott kept drugs back there. I saw him stash his stuff.” He laughed, a hostile sound. “Turns out, I should have just gone to him for drugs. He was a nice enough kid and I’m sure he probably wouldn’t have turned against me.” He sighed, resigned. “But I guess that’s water under the bridge now. Anyway, I concocted a plan to frame him. And, for twenty years, it worked. Right up til this point.” He locked eyes with me.
“Why frame him?” I asked. “Why not just hire someone to kill Alex?”
He shrugged simply. “If someone else was convicted of the murder, then they wouldn’t be looking for me.”
I couldn’t fault his logic. “What happened the day of the party?”
I was cold as I listened to him, not just from the air. A few tiny sno
wflakes fell, but I was staying put. I wanted to hear the rest of his story. Spats stayed still, but never relaxed.
Sanders went on. “AK had met me a time or two on the property. There.” He pointed in the direction opposite the mansion. “As I said, there’s an area where it’s relatively easy to get over the fence. He came through that way at night, and I paid him off. I had hoped that maybe someone would catch him, that he’d get into trouble, but that never happened. So then I decided to use his coming here to my advantage. He wanted to meet the day of the party. I knew Scott would be here working late that day, and I knew that he liked to get high in the afternoons.” He snorted. “He had no idea that I knew about his drugs, but I’d seen him a time or two, and I’d found his stash.”
“What drugs?” Spats asked.
“Weed and some pills. That morning, I doctored the pills with Zopiclone. It wasn’t a very well-known drug, but it was perfect. It’s a knock-out drug like Rohypnol, quick onset, but it doesn’t stay in the system very long.” He laughed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I’m sure you know it already. Anyway, by late afternoon, it knocked Scott out, which was exactly what I wanted. I left him in the shed, out of the way. I had Alex meet me back here. When he showed up, I took him back into the shed. I’d bought a revolver from somebody downtown. It was untraceable. I shot AK, then carried his body out to the fountain. I went back to the shed, put Scott’s hand around the gun and shot it into the grass, then put him out by the fountain as well. I loaded another round in the gun and put it in Scott’s hand. I had worn gloves, and I burned them, cleaned things up in the shed, and that was it.” He spoke so calmly, didn’t seem to care about anything that he’d done.
“Where was your wife? Or anybody else?” I asked.
“My wife was getting ready for the party, my kids were with friends, and as you can see,” he pointed back toward the mansion, “you can’t see or hear anything back here. It’s hidden, a private little oasis. The perfect place to do drugs, or … shoot someone.”
“You didn’t worry that the neighbors would hear anything?” Spats spoke up.
Sanders shook his head. “If anyone did, I would’ve told them I stumbled upon Scott and AK. It all happened very fast, mind you. But nobody did hear anything. So I left them there, figuring that at some point Scott would wake up, and he’d either run, which would make him look guilty, or he’d come for help, but have no way to explain what happened. As it turned out, I didn’t hear or see him. When the party started, I decided it would make the perfect alibi for me. A group of us would come back here and discover the crime scene, and I would look innocent.” He smiled smugly. “That’s exactly what happened. No one had any idea that I’d done a thing. I covered my tracks, and I knew I’d be able to keep myself in the clear. The police were called, and when they questioned Scott, he didn’t have an explanation for anything. I told them that he had drugs back in the shed, and they looked at that. He really made the perfect scapegoat.”
“Does your wife know about this?” I asked.
Sanders shook his head. “Not a thing. She heard what I told the police, and as far as I know, she believed it. She knew that I sometimes did drugs, and that I drank, but not how much. And she’s no saint, either.”
I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I assumed he had things on her that she probably didn’t want to see the light of day.
A few more snowflakes fell as I stared at him. “Your father and the rest of your family didn’t know anything?”
“They don’t know anything about this,” he said. “And if they did, they would fight for me, for the family name.”
I again had a sneaking suspicion that he was playing us, playing the system. He hoped his money and name would help him get away with murder.
Spats cleared his throat. “Scott testified that you set him up. How’d he know?”
“I’m not sure, but he knew something.” Sanders said. “Not at first, but later. That’s why he started saying he’d been framed.”
“What about McCleary, Nakamura, and Halloran?” I glared at him. “How were they involved?”
He snorted. “I wasn’t taking any chances. I had framed Scott, but I needed to make sure he went to prison for the murder. The evidence was largely circumstantial, and there was the possibility that someone would believe Scott when he said that I must’ve been involved. So I paid them all off.” Another sneer to show his disdain for them. “McCleary was greedy, wanted the money for his own gambling. You’ve heard about his poker playing, right?”
I nodded. “Yes, his wife mentioned it.”
He smiled. “He lost a lot more money back then. So I helped him pay off some debts that he was keeping from his wife.”
“And Nakamura?” Spats asked.
“He was worried about his parents, about having enough money to take care of them,” Sanders said.
“Why pay him off? He was the prosecuting attorney? It was his job to try to convict Bradley,” I said.
“I couldn’t take any chances.” Sanders frowned. “If Nakamura had discovered any evidence that could exonerate Bradley, he’d have had to disclose that to the defense. I couldn’t take any chances.”
“And Judge Halloran needed money for his daughter’s medical bills,” I said flatly.
Sanders nodded. “Yes. Three men who wanted money, three men who then made sure that the trial went in such a way that Scott Bradley was convicted and spent the last twenty years in prison.”
I looked at Spats. His face said it all: Utter revulsion at Frost who had so cavalierly destroyed other people’s lives. I stared at Frost, my mind racing.
“Did McCleary, Nakamura, and Halloran know you were paying them all off?”
“Yes, they were all in on it.”
“Why are you telling us this?” I asked.
“I received a note,” Sanders said. “I know it’s from Scott. He’s come back, and he’s threatening me and my family.”
I scrunched up my shoulders. “What does the note say?”
“It said ‘I am the judge, jury, and executioner.’” Sanders shivered as he recited the message.
I grimaced. It was different phrasing than the ones the three judges had received, but I figured Scott Bradley had sent it. He was coming unhinged.
“When did you receive it?” Spats asked.
“Two days ago,” Sanders said. “It wasn’t addressed, only had my name on it.” He watched more tiny snowflakes fall, then stood up. “It’s rather chilly out here. Should we go back inside? I think we have more to discuss.”
“And what might that be?” I snapped.
He showed me his palms. “Scott Bradley has killed three people involved in sending him to prison. I know he’s coming after me. I don’t want to die, and I don’t know what he would do to my family. But we know he’s coming. We can set him up, and you can get your man. I’ll go to prison, but at least I’ll be alive.” He tossed this line off with little seriousness.
I thought about what he said and how he’d said it. He was right: Scott Bradley most assuredly was coming after Sanders. But I also had a sick feeling in my stomach, that Sanders somehow knew he’d be able to walk free, that he wouldn’t spend time in prison, that after this was all over, he’d be alive and well.
But right now, we had a killer to catch. I glanced at Spats and could again tell he was thinking the same thing. He gave me a slight shrug.
“I want to cut a deal,” Sanders said.
I slowly nodded. “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I wrapped my arms around myself. Sanders stood up and gazed along the path back to his house. Then he squared his shoulders and walked purposefully away from the fountain.
“Let’s see where this goes,” Spats whispered to me.
I nodded. “Where’s your wife now?” I called to Sanders.
“She should be back soon.”
“I want to talk to her,” Spats said.
By now, we h
ad reached the back door. Sanders put his hand on the knob and looked at Spats. “She doesn’t know anything about this, just like I told you.”
Spats smiled. “Yes, but I still want to talk to her.”
Sanders shrugged and opened the door. He went inside and took us to a large wood-paneled office. The built-in bookcases were mostly empty, but several abstract paintings hung on the walls. I was wary, but he seemed resigned, not much of a threat. He sat down at his desk and pointed to chairs for us. Spats remained standing.
“Your wife?”
“Oh yes.” Sanders texted on his phone and Ferguson, the butler, materialized. “Where is Mrs. Frost?”
“She arrived a few minutes ago,” Ferguson replied. “She’s having a snack, and then she wanted to lie down before dinner.”
“Could you have her come in here, please?”
Ferguson tipped his head and quietly backed out of the room. Sanders looked at me. “I need to call my lawyer.”
I nodded. Sanders dialed a number and spoke softly into it. I heard the name Ryan, and knew that he was calling the family office. I highly doubted Ryan was a criminal attorney, which was what Sanders would need. Ryan must’ve been saying the same thing, because Sanders nodded a few times, then said, “Yes, send him here as soon as you can.”
Sanders ended the call at the same time an average-height woman with shoulder length blond hair swished into the room.
“Sanders, I don’t have –” She stopped when she saw Spats and me. “Oh, what’s going on?” A cloud of perfume enveloped her.
“This is my wife, Blanche,” Sanders said. “Blanche, these are two Denver police detectives.” Sanders looked at her with a brooding expression. “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely truthful with you,” he said. Her lips puckered disdainfully, but before she could say anything, he went on. “It’s about Scott Bradley. You remember him?” She nodded, and he delivered a short explanation of that long ago night. By the time he finished, her jaw was open.
Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5) Page 23
