Deep Six

by D P Lyle

  “No problem,” I said.

  “And we’ll need your laptop.”

  “Not without a warrant,” Ray said. “But we’ll burn you a DVD of the video and audio files.”

  “That’ll work. For now.”

  While I copied the files, my thoughts turned to Tammy. On one hand, I felt for her. Husband cheating, maybe facing murder charges, police showing up with search warrants, which would surely happen at some point, trashing her home, her world spinning out of control. Tammy the control freak wouldn’t handle all that well. Sure she was a crazy bitch, but did she deserve all that?

  On the other hand, I felt sorry for myself. Once Walter was arrested, or was at least named as a suspect, and the news hounds camped out on her street, Tammy would jump into full meltdown mode. And when she discovered it was my video that spun the wheel of misfortune in Walter’s direction, all her heat would come my way. A full-on China Syndrome.

  I felt a headache coming on. Or a tumor. Maybe an aneurysm.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DETECTIVE BOB MORGAN was anxious. Wanted to talk to Walter as soon as possible. Before he could create a believable story. If there was one. But if anyone could conjure up a story, it would be a skilled attorney like Walter. So as Starks drove away from Ray’s place, Morgan called Walter’s office only to find that he was mired in a deposition. Secretary said he’d be done in about a half hour. He considered going on in, shutting it down, but decided a scene, in front of some client and a handful of other attorneys, probably wasn’t the best course of action. Could be negative PR for the department. Hadn’t they had enough with that officer-involved shooting three weeks ago? The fact that the miscreant pumped three rounds through the patrol car’s windshield before he took a pair in the chest himself, didn’t seem to mitigate squat with the local media.

  Besides, he didn’t want to raise Walter’s hackles. He wanted Walter at least partially receptive to being questioned.

  So now, he and Starks leaned on the wooden railing that embraced The Wharf ’s marina, and munched on snow cones. His cherry; Starks’ pineapple.

  Morgan watched a good-sized Chris Craft, thirty-eight feet, thereabouts, slide up to the dock. A charter back from a morning fishing run. Two couples with bright pink skin, suggesting a need for more sunscreen, stepped over the gunwale and then stood by while the three-man crew off-loaded several large, silvery fish, placing them in an orange plastic cooler, dumping ice on top.

  “What do you think?” Starks asked.

  “I think Walter is screwed twelve ways from Sunday.”

  “He might be innocent.”

  “He’s still screwed,” Morgan said. “This kind of deal is like dog shit on your shoes. You can scrape it off but the odor lingers.” He finished the snow cone and tossed the paper container into a blue barrel trash can.

  “He’ll deny it one way or the other,” Starks said.

  “Don’t they all?”

  In his twenty years on the job how many times had Morgan heard such denials? Like maybe a thousand. Even the most guilty deflected involvement. Of course, he didn’t trouble himself with that. Not his job to decide who was guilty and who wasn’t. He only needed to dig for the facts. And grind a suspect down to the point that confession seemed the only option. Deep down he didn’t buy into all the innocent until proven guilty crap either. He started with guilty and worked back from there. After all, if they weren’t guilty, or at least possibly guilty, they wouldn’t have popped up on his radar in the first place.

  But he had to admit that Walter as a cold-blooded killer didn’t fit. He was too—what was the word?—soft. Not all macho and testosterone infused. But then again, neither was Gladys McComber. Two years ago. A substitute teacher and volunteer at the library. Small, frail, mousy, quiet, she had shattered her husband’s skull with a baseball bat. While he slept. Then tried to dissolve his corpse with acid in a metal tub in the backyard. Didn’t work. The acid ate the tub and the fumes alerted a neighbor. Best laid plans being what they are. So could Walter have whacked Barbara? You bet.

  “You think Henry might’ve set all this up?” Starks asked. He continued working on his snow cone.

  “Possible. Some folks can’t spell divorce. Remember the Petersen case? Out in California? Or the other Petersen up in Chicago? Anyway, if Henry knew about Walter and his wife, and he must’ve at least had a suspicion if he’d hired Ray, he could take care of both.”

  “You mean like the killers might’ve missed Walter? Got there late? Something like that?”

  Morgan gave a slow nod. “Or killing Barbara and framing Walter would accomplish the same thing.”

  “Like that Nicole girl said?”

  Morgan nodded. “Seen stranger scenarios.”

  “Diabolical.”

  “You got that right.”

  “But we don’t know Henry hired Ray,” Starks said.

  “He did. Nothing else fits.”

  Morgan watched the two sunburned men struggle up the ramp, the fish-filled cooler between them, making walking awkward. The wives followed, both talking at the same time with lots of hand movements. The men loaded the cooler into the back of a blue Chevy SUV with Missouri plates and a Kansas City Chiefs decal on the rear window.

  “Any news on when Henry’s getting back?” Starks asked.

  “Still trying to get a flight out of New York, last I heard. I suspect later tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest. He said he’d call as soon as he knew.”

  Starks finished his snow cone and tossed the paper in the trash. He pulled a couple of napkins from his jacket pocket and wiped his hands.

  “She’s a real beauty,” Starks said.

  “Who?”

  “Nicole.”

  Morgan nodded. “Yes, she is.”

  “That’s Jake Longly. Always gets the best tail. Seems the good-looking guys always end up with chicks like that.”

  That was true. Jake was maybe six-two, lean and fit. Looked like he could still play in the bigs. Had that confident athletic air about him. Sort of pissed Morgan off.

  Morgan grunted. “His looks aren’t his problem. Getting led around by his dick is.”

  “A girl like that could lead me around any time.”

  “My point, exactly.” Morgan glanced at his watch. “Let’s go see if Walter’s done.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ONCE THE OTHER attorneys packed up their papers and snapped the locks on their briefcases, and the court reporter stored her equipment in a small rolling case, Walter showed them out. Closing the door, he turned to the empty waiting room. Was this his future? If he wasn’t in jail, that is. His innocence aside, even a whiff of guilt, or scandal, could evaporate his practice as quickly as water sprayed on hot asphalt. He had canceled his afternoon appointments, not in the mood to listen to others’ problems right now. He had enough of his own.

  “Detective Morgan called,” Connie said.

  Walter sighed. “What’d he want?”

  “To talk with you. I told him you were in a meeting. He said he’d stop by.”

  And so it begins.

  Walter nodded and headed into his office where he collapsed in his two-thousand-dollar leather chair. His life was a goddamn mess. The deposition had been a goddamn mess. He couldn’t focus. Could barely speak. His brain felt like pâté, and his throat felt as if it were choked with soot. The stenographer had said, “Can you repeat that?” maybe a dozen times. He’d have to read the transcript later to see what questions he had asked, much less the answers.

  At one point, when his questions seemed to drift like an unanchored boat, opposing counsel had asked if he wanted to reschedule. No, he didn’t want to reschedule. He wanted to get this over with. He wanted to deal with his own case. His own defense.

  His own defense? Those words seemed so foreign. How could this happen? Him a suspect? He had no illusions about that. And even if by some creation-level miracle he wasn’t, he soon would be. If Morgan was already snooping around, it could only mean th
at he had talked with Jake Longly. Probably seen that damn video. Fucking Longly was going to hang him. Maybe he shouldn’t have stolen his wife. But that wasn’t really true. Jake had lost Tammy long before Walter entered the picture. Of course Jake might not see it that way. Walter had skewered him pretty good in the divorce.

  Walter’s head hurt, his stomach churned. What was he going to do? Barbara murdered. Morgan pointed in his direction. Like he was some low-rent criminal. Like many of Walter’s clients. But he wasn’t like them. He was a respected professional. The best god-damn attorney in the county. Ask anyone. So why did his chest feel so tight? Why were his hands shaking? Why did he feel so . . . guilty?

  Because he was. Of betraying Tammy, anyway. Of giving in to his needs. Was that all it was with Barbara? A need? And if so, why did he need such a distraction? What did that say about him? About Tammy? About their marriage?

  He jumped when the intercom buzzed.

  “Yeah, Connie,” he said.

  “Detectives Morgan and Starks are here.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes and then send them in.”

  “Will do.”

  Just great. The circus was beginning and he hadn’t even begun to figure out how to handle it. He walked to his private bath on unsteady legs. The mirror reflected an image he barely recognized. He looked ill, pale, scared, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. Not the courtroom warrior image he always tried to project. He splashed cold water on his face. Didn’t help. He decided vomiting wouldn’t either, even though he felt as if he might.

  He was settling in his chair when the door opened.

  Morgan sat, facing him across his desk. Starks remained standing, his lanky, six-four frame adding more than a hint of intimidation. Walter had hoped Morgan would come in friendly. Casual. But one look at his stone face told Walter that Morgan and Starks were not going for the good-cop bad-cop approach. More like bad-cop badder-cop. He also sensed that the two detectives knew everything. About him and Barbara. The video. Off-balance didn’t quite cover it.

  Get your game face on, Walter.

  A dozen lawyerly tricks rattled around in his head. Dodges, head fakes, spin moves, all the usual courtroom maneuvers. Things that were second nature to him. He’d used them against Morgan before. Morgan was tough, smart, and always prepared, but Walter had managed on a couple of occasions to twist him around pretty good. In court. Where he had home field advantage. Seemed his own office should afford him the same upper hand, but sitting right here, right now, he knew all the cards were on Morgan’s side of the table.

  “Tell me,” Morgan said.

  Walter attempted to paste on his most innocent face. “Tell you what?”

  “Walter, we’re far beyond the BS game here. Okay? We saw the video. Saw you skulking away from a murder scene. So tell me.”

  “I didn’t kill her. I swear.”

  Rather than responding to Walter’s protestation of innocence, Morgan stared at him, flat-faced. Walter recognized the cop trick. Morgan simply letting the pressure build. And it was. In Walter’s head, his chest.

  Finally, Walter sighed. “Yes, we’ve been seeing each other. Yes, I was with her last night. But when I left, she was fine.”

  “How long you two been an item?”

  “A while. Nearly a year. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”

  “As those things usually do,” Starks said.

  Walter massaged his temples. “I know this looks bad. I know I have to be suspect number one. But I didn’t harm her.” A quick sob escaped. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

  “Know how many times I’ve heard that?” Morgan asked. “A bunch.”

  “I know,” Walter said. “Me, too. But, I swear, I didn’t kill her. I loved her.”

  And there it was. The truth. Not to mention one of the oldest motives for murder. Love, hate, powerful sides of the same coin.

  “If not you, then who?” Morgan asked.

  Walter hadn’t expected that question. He should have, but right now his mind wasn’t exactly running on all cylinders. In fact, it was vapor locked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Henry? You think he could be involved?” Morgan asked.

  “He’s out of town.”

  Morgan leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked directly at Walter. Walter could see the butt of Morgan’s service weapon peeking past the lapel his jacket.

  “Not what I asked,” Morgan said. “Do you think he could have hired someone?”

  “No way. Not Henry.”

  “But he knew about the affair. Right?” Starks said.

  “No. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “But he hired Ray Longly,” Morgan said.

  Walter’s shoulders suddenly felt leadened. He slumped forward. “I don’t know anything right now.” He looked up at Morgan. “None of this makes any sense.”

  “Murders often don’t. There are always other ways to fix problems, settle things, but for some reason killers rarely see that. Until it’s too late to unwind bad judgement.”

  Walter felt tears pushing against his eyes. Damned if he would let them out. Not here in front of Morgan.

  “Do you own a gun?” Morgan asked.

  “Three. I have one here in the office and two at home. Actually, one of them is Tammy’s.”

  “I’ll need all three.”

  “No problem.” Walter pulled open his desk drawer and lifted out a holstered .38. He handed it to Morgan. “I have a permit. Even a concealed carry one. But I rarely take it with me.”

  “Walter, I’m not going to waste your time or mine with all the usual questions. I know what time you visited her and what time you left. I know that the time frame more or less matches the time of death. I know you had means and opportunity. What I don’t know is if you had a motive.”

  Walter started to say that he would never kill Barbara or anyone else and that all this didn’t make him guilty but before he could organize his thoughts and speak, Morgan raised a hand, stopping him.

  “And I also know that if you had a motive you wouldn’t tell me,” Morgan said. “But the evidence suggests that either you did it or someone knew your schedule or it was just dumb bad luck coincidence. Any of those work for me.”

  “I didn’t do it. I swear. And I don’t believe Henry would. It had to be someone else.”

  Morgan stood. “Walter, none of this bodes well for you.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet. Not if you consent to a search of your office and residence. If you refuse, I’ll need to pull warrants, and if I do, I’ll snag one for your arrest.”

  “Sure.” He stood, clutching the corner of his desk for balance. “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  Morgan raised an eyebrow.

  “About the murder. The affair? Sure. But I guess that charade is over.”

  Morgan nodded. “True.”

  “What are you searching for?”

  “Papers, computer stuff, phone records, weapons, that kind of thing. So what’s it gonna be? Consent from you or a warrant from a judge?”

  “You can search.” He picked up the phone. “I’ll call Tammy and let her know.”

  Morgan shook his head. “No. I would then have to assume she destroyed any evidence before we got there.”

  “Of course.” Walter settled the phone back into its cradle knowing Tammy would go ballistic when they showed up without warning. “Maybe I should go with you.”

  “You stay here. One team will be here soon. You’ll need to help them avoid anything that might be protected by attorney-client privilege.”

  Walter nodded. “I understand.”

  “Any of that stuff at your home? Client papers?”

  “No. That’s kept here in the office.”

  “And the guns? The ones at home? Where do I tell my guys to find them?”

  “Either side of our bed. In the top drawer.”

  Nausea crept upward in Walter’s stomach. He swallowed hard. “How . . .�
� his voice broke. His throat felt as if it were filled with concrete. “I don’t even know how she died?” When Morgan didn’t respond Walter continued. “She must have been shot.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Why else would you want my guns?”

  “You know I can’t share that kind of information with you.”

  Walter sighed. “Because I’m the number one suspect.”

  Morgan shrugged. “For now.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TAMMY HORTON DID not suffer unexpected interruptions well. Not ever, not from anyone. Shouldn’t a seven-figure home in an exclusive neighborhood protect her from intrusions? Even from the occasional solicitor who somehow found his way into the community? How did these nuisances get past the guard gate, anyway? Nuisances like kids selling candy for new basketball uniforms, local charities scratching around for donations, and don’t even get her started on the Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons. Didn’t they have enough money, anyway?

  So when the doorbell buzzed, she ignored it. When it buzzed again, she glared in the direction of the hand-carved oak double doors and took a sip of her wine. Sure, it wasn’t anywhere near happy hour, but she was watching a cooking show after all. How could she get into viewing all that food preparation without a glass of wine? Didn’t seem right.

  With the third buzz, she placed the wine glass on the coffee table, a copy of Southern Living magazine protecting the expensive wood. The fourth irritating doorbell scream brought her to her feet.

  She had been smack in the middle of the final round of The Great Gulf Coast Chef Challenge on local station 16. She had faithfully watched every episode as twenty local chefs were whittled down to two for the grand finale, which pitted Claudell Pulver and her Mile-High Strawberry Shortcake, featuring four layers of rectangular buttery pound cake, Sauterne-soaked strawberries, and sweet cream ganache, against Georgette McClure’s Kicked-Up Key Lime Pie, the kick coming from its cayenne pepper-tinged, crushed-pecan crust and rum-infused whipped cream topping. The three judges were in the middle of their tasting when she snatched up the controller, paused the DVR, and marched toward the front door, prepping her tirade en route.