The male psychopath, I remembered, also was extremely adept at keeping a group of adoring women around him. The psychopath could look into their eyes and see what those women needed—affection, maybe, or flattery. Ordinarily, they were women with enormous dependency needs who….
None of this was making me feel really great. Still, I thought I’d known him. Understood him. But I hadn’t.
I blinked. Blackridge was asking me a question, something about a weapon.
“Did Dr. Korman keep a firearm, Mrs. Schultz?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. I didn’t need Brewster’s advice to answer truthfully. Even before the divorce, there were many things about John Richard Korman’s life that eluded me. One thing stayed constant, though. Should I tell Blackridge?
The Jerk lied. About everything. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. One of Denver’s Top Twenty Doctors. Pu-leeze.
“Nope,” Arch piped up. “No gun. Dad tried to learn how to shoot, but he wasn’t any good at, not like my mom—”
“Arch!” interrupted Brewster. He was standing by the hearth, arms crossed. He grinned widely at Arch and cocked his head. “You’re a great kid. Just answer the detectives’ questions with yes or no, okay?”
Arch’s face darkened and he stared at the floor. Here was at least one person who didn’t react well to Brewster’s charm. Still, I’d have wished that Arch’s new foray into honesty could have stopped short of mentioning my prowess on the firing range.
I asked Blackridge, “What about the garage?”
Blackridge noiselessly pointed toward a door. “I’ll take you.”
I stepped around the pile of detritus that contained John Richard’s trashed Wall of Fame articles, more women’s shoes, and a slew of papers. Blackridge opened the garage door and gave me a wry smile. Reilly was now writing down Arch’s recitation of what should have been in the guest room, also wrecked. Brewster clearly thought Arch needed more supervision than I did, so he’d followed them down the hall.
The vandals had wreaked particular havoc in the garage. The cops had hauled away the Audi in search of evidence, but this hadn’t stopped the thugs. They’d dumped out two black plastic bags of garden waste, now a mishmashed heap of lawn clippings, dusty weeds, and small branches. From the suspended wall shelves, they’d pulled and dumped cans of paint, turpentine, weed killer, and fertilizer. As I surveyed the piles, I wondered how much of this stuff had been John Richard’s, and how much of it had belonged to the house’s owner. This was probably the last time he’d rent to a doctor.
“You have to ask yourself,” Blackridge mused as he stared at the mess, “what were they looking for? And why didn’t they get Dr. Korman to give it to them before they killed him?”
I recited my usual, “I don’t know.” When Blackridge gave me a wide-eyed look, I said, “I truly have no idea what was going on. But I’d like to stay here in the garage for a bit, if that’s okay. I won’t touch anything.”
Ever wary, Blackridge circled the chaos. When he seemed satisfied that there was no evidence for me to tamper with, nor any valuables for me to steal, he said he was returning to the living room.
I made an effort to soften my tone. “Thanks.”
When Blackridge had clomped away, I surveyed the garage, then sat on one of the cold concrete steps that led to the floor. When I took a deep breath, the mixed-up scent of spilled motor oil, mildewed grass clippings, and old paint assaulted my nose. I wasn’t particularly enjoying being in there, especially since it inevitably brought back the memory of what I’d last seen in that space: John Richard’s bloody, shot-up body.
I shuddered and closed my eyes, then allowed my mind to travel back. I didn’t want to go to the memory of John Richard dead, I told myself. I wanted to see, or rather feel, what John Richard had been feeling, the moment before he was shot. Could a man who didn’t seem to have feelings experience emotions right before he was killed?
Gooseflesh pimpled my arms. I didn’t know if I was receiving an answer or just getting ridiculously chilled in this place. With my eyes still shut, I conjured up the garage door being opened by remote. I saw my ex-husband hasten the Audi forward. I imagined John Richard checking the car’s rearview window before hitting the button to close the garage door. And then, what?
I swallowed. Because I did feel it. John Richard hadn’t felt terror…or rage. What I was picking up in that garage was something entirely different.
Surprise.
18
I walked back into the house and down the hall. While I was making my way around the piles on the way to the living room, my mind tossed up a joke we’d told in tenth-grade English. It begins with the wife of Dr. Samuel Johnson entering the library. There, she finds the great lexicographer making enthusiastic love to the parlor maid.
“Dr. Johnson!” Mrs. Johnson exclaims. “I am surprised!”
“Madame,” replies Johnson (doing up his pants), “will you never attend to your diction? You are astonished. I am surprised!”
I amended my reaction to the garage. Someone had surprised the Jerk. And he’d been astonished.
Back in the living room, Brewster Motley and Detectives Reilly and Blackridge were talking in low tones as they headed for the front door. From their downcast expressions, it was clear that bringing Arch to the scene of the crime hadn’t yielded the clues they’d hoped for. Brewster’s cell chirped. He turned toward the hearth and began listening to the details of the next crisis. Amid this movement and chatter, Arch stood stock-still in the middle of the living-room mess.
“Honey?” I ventured.
“Yeah, Mom.”
But he didn’t move, and neither did I. Something was bothering him. At the front door, Blackridge twisted his head to see why no one was behind him. His wide, pasty face looked exhausted. Reilly cleared his throat and flipped to a new page on his clipboard.
Arch announced, “I think I know what the vandals were looking for.”
Fifteen minutes later, he’d told us the whole story, and the cops’ expressions had gone from downcast to gleeful. I, for one, was only glad that my son’s rediscovered conscience had superseded his misguided loyalty to his father. What we all learned was this: Every Tuesday and Thursday, when John Richard and Arch had ostensibly been playing golf, they’d been trekking to a bank in nearby Spruce, Colorado. There, John Richard and Arch had opened a safety-deposit-box account. They’d each had keys. Since it was rare for John Richard to trust anyone, even his own son, this part struck me as odd.
“He said he couldn’t trust a soul but me,” Arch told us. “Plus, he swore me to secrecy, even though I have no idea what he was doing with the box. He made me promise not to try to get into it unless something happened to him. Anyway, I keep the key at home in my desk.”
“How’d your dad work the bank visits?” Reilly again.
“Well, first he and Sandee and I went to the country club. Sandee went up to the golf shop while Dad and I went down to the basement. Dad would let me play pool while he went to the men’s locker room to change out of his golf clothes. Then we’d go out the back door, walk around to the parking lot, and drive over to Spruce in the TT. My job was to wait in the car. After we’d done this a couple of times, I always took a book. Anyway, Dad would take the briefcase out of the trunk, and then he’d be gone for about half an hour. And I guess he didn’t just go to the bank. Once I saw him come out of the collectors’ shop.”
“Collectors’ shop?” Reilly asked.
“It’s in the same strip mall,” Arch replied. “The place used to be a movie theater, so it’s huge. The owner buys and sells comics, dolls, key chains, silver, stamps, coins, china, stuff like that. It’s a dump, but some of the kids at my new school like to go in and look around. I went with two of them last week. Didn’t buy anything, though. And Dad wasn’t there.”
I was confused. “What in the world was Sandee doing in the golf shop while you and Dad did your bank run?”
Arch exhaled. “She was supp
osed to stay there and browse. If anybody asked where Dad was, her job was to say he’d gone to get his golf bag. Then when he went in to get her later, he’d be carrying the golf bag, in case anyone was asking questions.”
So that was how Marla had gotten the idea that Sandee worked in the golf shop. With all that back-and-forth to Spruce twice a week, Sandee must have known the price of every golf shirt, jacket, and plus fours in the place.
“Did Sandee know what he was doing?”
Arch chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. And Dad said I shouldn’t tell Sandee where we were going. She never asked, anyway. She was always nice.” He frowned. “I don’t like keeping secrets. I guess that now that Dad’s gone, it’s okay to tell this one, though.”
“You did the right thing,” said Blackridge. Reilly nodded and snapped a rubber band around the thick wad of clipboard pages. Blackridge checked his watch. “Mrs. Schulz? The bank’s closed. May we have permission to take your son over there tomorrow morning? We need to get into that box.”
I looked at Brewster, who had closed his phone as soon as Arch made his announcement. Now he piped up: “As long as Mrs. Schulz and I are apprised of the contents of the box, then yes.”
Blackridge and Reilly exchanged a look. Blackridge said, “If the material in the box tends to exculpate your client, then we’ll tell you.”
“No good, gentlemen.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Counselor.” Blackridge’s tone was grudging as he and Reilly again headed toward the front door. “Sure. We’ll tell you what’s in there.”
Arch said, “Cool!”
Brewster’s smile was wide. Clearly, making cops do what he wanted was another thing Brewster loved best.
The cops agreed to pick up Arch at half-past eight the next morning, Friday. I stood by the van while Arch gathered the swim gear he’d stashed in the black-and-white. A breeze swished through the Alpine rosebushes girdling the rental house yard while I tried to think. Again, the scent of smoke made me shiver. Frances had said the fire would be contained by morning. Our town was almost nine miles from the preserve, but the smoke stinging my eyes made it seem as if the blaze was right down the street.
Okay, I reminded myself, Think. Boyd had told me the cops knew about the Smurfs John Richard was running to launder money. But if the Jerk was laundering what folks brought to him, why would he also need to visit a bank in Spruce?
Because he was skimming? Had that been why he’d been killed, and his house ransacked?
It still didn’t make sense. I stared at the curb, where pearly rose petals now dappled the shiny ravines of dust. For a moment, I thought I saw some gold glittering in the gravel. But I reminded myself if was probably just pyrite, “fool’s gold,” of which we had an abundance in Colorado. And speaking of fools and their gold, I had another question. If someone was stealing from you, and you were going to kill him for it, wouldn’t you try to find the money first, then shoot later?
The van door slammed. Arch called, “I’m ready, Mom,” and slid into the front seat.
“How’re you doing?” I asked, once we were zooming back home.
“Okay,” he said, his voice weary. “You know who all this investigating makes me feel sorry for?” If he said his father, I was going to scream. But he didn’t. “It makes me feel bad for Tom. You see how much goes into an investigation, and you think, here Tom caught somebody who drowned somebody else, and he lost in court. No wonder Tom’s been down lately. You know, not his usual joking self.”
A rock was forming in my chest. No wonder, indeed.
At home, though, Tom was whistling in the kitchen as he prepared dinner for the three of us: a giant submarine sandwich that was an elaborate affair put together with ingredients from his recent mammoth shopping trip. He’d scooped bread out of a large baguette, filled the center with a heavenly mixture of three Italian cheeses, sausages, salami, sliced garden tomatoes, and arugula, then topped the whole thing with his own garlic dressing. By the time we tumbled into the kitchen to see what he was up to, he was wrapping the sandwich before starting its weighting-down time in the refrigerator, which would help meld all the flavors. In a couple of hours, we would have a feast. No one eats dinner early in the summertime, anyway.
“How are you doing, Tom?” Arch asked, his voice full of concern.
Tom’s head shot up at the unusual question from Arch. I could still see the pain in Tom’s eyes, the heavy weight that seemed to have settled permanently on his shoulders. But I also could tell that he didn’t want Arch to be worrying about him.
“I’m doing well, thank you, Arch.” Tom pulled out two chilled soft drinks and place them on the kitchen table for us. “You guys look whipped, though. How’d it go at your dad’s house?”
Arch took a long swig of pop before recounting an abbreviated version of the trip to Stoneberry Lane.
“So,” Tom mused, “a safety-deposit box, eh? What do you suppose is in there?”
“Bones,” Arch said without irony, before announcing he was going upstairs to call Todd. At the kitchen door, he stopped and cast a long look at Tom. “I’m really sorry about your lost case, Tom.”
Again startled by this sudden interest in his well-being, Tom gaped at Arch. Quickly recovering his composure, Tom replied, “Thanks for the concern, buddy. I’m sorry for your loss, too.”
“I know.” Arch spun slowly and retreated.
Tom’s green eyes questioned me and I shrugged. He muttered something about wonders not ceasing as he placed the sandwich between cookie sheets, laid two stones on top, and put the whole thing in to chill.
“All right, Miss G. You still testing pies?”
“I am. So?”
“After you start on a new pie, I’ve got a story to tell you.”
“Why not just tell me now?”
“Because I want it to be a story for you, not a call to action.”
“Great.” But I booted up the computer and printed out the recipes I’d been working on: crust made with butter and toasted filberts, crust made with butter-flavored shortening, crust made with lard, crust made with a combination of butter and lard.
“And for the filling?” Tom asked.
“I ordered many, many pounds of strawberries from Alicia. My dear supplier said they were the best she’d ever tasted. Plus, this time I’m going to omit the cream filling and just concentrate on the strawberries.” I paused. “What are you doing?”
Tom chuckled as he foraged in the cupboard. “I think we need a chocolate treat.” If I’d ever doubted my maxim that cooking was good therapy, Tom’s first laugh in six weeks was proof enough.
“Are you going to tell me this story?” I asked, once I was rinsing fat, juicy strawberries.
Tom began, “You know how the rain washed out some dirt roads the other night?” I nodded. “It also washed things into the street—in this case, a dumped item that was found not far from Stoneberry. Our guys are thinking this thing rolled down Korman’s driveway and into the street, or else our killer tossed it from the getaway car. So you have the dirt from the street, plus all that dust from Tuesday’s big wind. After that, we had a hailstorm, and after that, a dog got hold of it, took it home, and chewed on it.” I stopped slicing and stared at him. “But as it turned out, the dog’s owner was giving a barbecue last night, and when he was picking up his yard, he found it and figured out some of the mess on it was from his dog’s teeth and the rest was from…something else.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The reason Korman’s neighbors didn’t hear the gun going boom was that it had a homemade silencer on it. A pink tennis ball.” He stopped sifting ingredients and opened an envelope. He handed me a Polaroid of something smashed, dirty, and perhaps a bit pink.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Boyd. Our guys went out looking for Bobby Calhoun this afternoon, but he’s up fighting the fire, and can’t be reached. Then they got the call about the tennis ball. A judge
signed a quick warrant to search Courtney’s country-club locker. Didn’t find anything. But in the tennis shop? Where the players keep their balls in cubbies with their names on them, sort of like kindergartners? Courtney’s cubby had three cans of tennis balls. Two were closed and one was open. The open can had two tennis balls in it. Who opens a can and just takes out one ball? Our guys are talking to Courtney now.”
I shook my head. Back to the Courtney theory. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Means? Bobby Calhoun wasn’t the only one who could own a Ruger. If Courtney had hired a professional hit man, then that guy might be the one who’d committed the murder in Denver all those months ago.
I measured the strawberries, then mixed together a judicious amount of flour, cornstarch, and sugar. I said, “So did you find out who was killed with the Ruger in Denver?”
From the envelope, Tom retrieved two more items. One was a poor-quality copy of what looked like an employee-of-the-month photo. The man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, had thick glasses and a thin, handsome face. The other photo was of even worse quality, and showed a couple. The woman was young and pretty, with lots of curly hair. They looked as if they were at a party. “The guy, Quentin Drake, was killed in broad daylight on a street in Denver. Quentin and his wife, Ruby, lived in a trailer in Golden.”
“Ruby Drake?” That name was familiar. “Can you find out any more about them? About him?” I stared at the picture of the couple. “I’ve seen this woman somewhere.”
“Preheat the oven to three-fifty for me, would you please, wife? You’re not going hauling down to Golden to interview a widow.”
I snapped the oven thermostat for him and slipped the pictures back in the envelope. Then I rolled out my newest dough experiment and fit it into a pie pan. “So, what do you know about this victim? Any points of comparison with the Jerk?”
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