“She could have used a clone.”
Leola nodded. “I’m convinced a stolen phone or a clone was used, if it was a phone call which triggered the dynamite. That would make tracing the phone impossible once it was disposed of. So she could have called him, not knowing he was in the garage at the time. The problem is, no judge will allow us to search her house on the basis of such flimsy speculation.”
“And, by now, she’d have had plenty of chance to dispose of it anyway. Right?”
A gloomy nod was the answer.
The two officers were silent with their own thoughts the rest of the way to the Tor residence.
***
The woman who answered their ring was an attractive, soignée woman in her forties. Tanned, with a coiffure tended to perfection, expensive halter and shorts, and bare feet sporting a recent pedicure and a silver ring on one toe. There was no offer of coffee, but Paula did wave the officers into a luxurious living room.
“I know you suggested I stay at a motel last night,” she said to the lieutenant, “but I’m a lot more comfortable here. Besides, whoever did Luke in most certainly wasn’t much interested in me. And having a police officer in his car outside all night was reassuring.”
“I asked you this yesterday, but maybe you’ve had time to think about it. Do you have any idea as to who might have wanted to kill your husband?”
“Sure. Same answer as yesterday. He had a shady past, and some even shadier friends from back then. I can’t name them, since he wasn’t exactly forthcoming about them, but for sure it was one of them. Who else would rig up a bomb?”
“Could you tell us everything you did yesterday? And would it be OK if we tape your statement?”
Paula shrugged. “Sure, why not. Let’s see. I got up around ten. Luke came home late the night before and left early, so I didn’t see anything of him. We have—had—separate bedrooms, by the way. I didn’t have any big plans for the day except an appointment at the hairdresser’s at three-fifteen. I ate breakfast, then went out to the pool. Checked the fridge out there and saw we were down to our last bottle of Perrier. On a hot day like yesterday, I knew I could drink a case. So I went out to my car, and the damn thing wouldn’t start. I called the shop and, naturally, they promised they’d be right out. Fat chance.
“I made do until…I guess it must have been getting close to two. I called the garage again, and the manager said the repairman was on his way with a tow truck. Since I’d spent the morning waiting, I didn’t much believe him and finally decided to call Luke and get him to pick up some on his way home. His phone rang twice and then went dead. I was just about to call for a taxi—which is a pain to get a cab out here to the suburbs—when the whole house shook. You know what that was.”
“Why didn’t you just take the Jaguar earlier when you found your car wouldn’t start?”
“It’s a stick shift, and I’ve never learned to drive one—or wanted to, for that matter. As it turns out, I had to call a taxi anyway to get to my three-fifteen appointment. If I’d missed it, I would have had to wait a week for another. Chet is the only stylist I’d ever let touch my hair.”
Leola remembered the baffled cab driver who pulled up into a neighborhood full of police cars, fire trucks and gawkers. She marveled at a woman who was so unperturbed at the death of her husband—a death not important enough to interfere with a hairdressing appointment. The lack of any concern convinced the lieutenant this was a good opportunity to move on to interpersonal relationships. “How well did you and your husband get along?” The question was abrupt, and a quick change of pace. If Leola expected Paula to be bothered by it, she was disappointed.
A laugh greeted the question. “I wondered when you’d get around to asking about our relationship. Well, we got along fine, mainly because he went his way and I went mine. In the old days, this might have been called a marriage of convenience.”
“Were you aware he was having an affair?”
Paula guffawed. “Hey. I already told you. He went his way, and I went mine.”
“So you were also having an affair?”
A change of expression followed the question, then a pause. “I know what you’re thinking. Oh, hell. You’ll find out sooner or latter, and Justin would have had absolutely no reason to blow Luke to smithereens.”
***
“The circle widens yet again.” Bretna was the first to comment as they drove away from the Tor residence. Leola was already busy calling the Custom Design Furniture Warehouse, in the hope of catching owner/manager Justin Valente before lunch. She lucked out.
While the owner of CDFW was not as expensively garbed as the surviving partner of Torwood Inc., his office was far more luxurious, as might be expected by the nature of his company. A futuristic theme prevailed, and Valente was clearly pleased at the surprised and—at least in the sergeant’s case—approving looks. A glass-top coffee table was already set with a coffee urn and some small pastries, with chairs pulled up beside it inviting the officers to sit and partake. They did.
“I was reasonably certain I’d be receiving a visit from the police,” the dark-haired, slender and rather attractive man said as he settled into one of the chairs.
Both officers were to comment later about the remarkable composure exhibited by the suspects they’d interviewed morning. Valente seemed particularly unperturbed and open to any questions.
“I’m also sure you suspect Paula alerted me—which she did. Neither of us have anything to hide, however. Oh, yes. Feel free to tape the interview. I had no reason for wanting Luke dead. In fact, I much preferred to have him alive and well.”
The lieutenant raised an eyebrow and Valente anticipated her question. “Paula hasn’t exactly said it in so many words, but I have the feeling now she’s free, she may want to get married. I have two failed marriages behind me, and I’m not eager to embark on a third. You will, I trust, not pass this bit of information along to her.”
“As you know, nothing you say here will go any further unless it has some relevance to the case. Extramarital affairs could be significant, however.”
“I know. So I suppose you’ve already looked into Madeleine’s role.”
“Madeleine?” the two women echoed simultaneously.
“Why, yes. Madeleine Deneuve. Surely you’ve heard Luke was positively infatuated with her. Didn’t Paula mention her? Oh, come to think of it, she probably didn’t know the woman’s name. Paula and I talked about her just this past weekend. Madeleine is, of all things, a lap dancer. The only reason I know about her is because I took a couple of customers—retailers—out to the Hootenanny, and there was old Luke positively drooling over what I must admit is an extremely attractive female. I found out later he’d become a regular there and was actually courting her—if that’s possible with a lap dancer.”
***
“Don’t say it,” Leola said when they were heading back to the station. “The circle’s getting wider than a stadium.”
Bretna chuckled. “Ever been to a lap-dancing establishment?”
“Nope. But, then, I’ve led a sheltered life. Most of my patrol days were spent in the suburbs.”
“It sounds more exotic than it is. This evening?”
“Why not? I’ll bring Low along. Do you have a male companion you can talk into an evening out, with special entertainment as an inducement?”
“Sure. You remember Ed Hansen, don’t you? The blonde fireman with the nice buns? He’s still Number One on my list. Are we writing off Valente by the way?”
“No more than Harewood. Waiting on customers on the display floor of his establishment would still provide him plenty of opportunity to make a call around two. Naturally, we’ll be checking his phone records. And, then, there’s the possible extra cellphone again.”
The lieutenant shook her head, then added, “But he doesn’t seem to have a motive. And he’s not even a contractor, so maybe he’d be even less adept at bomb making than Harewood. We’ll check him out, of course, but Mad
eleine Deneuve first.”
***
Leola wasn’t sure whether Low was annoyed or amused at the thought of an evening at the Hootenanny. His reaction to Lornie McDougal’s name was less ambiguous. “I don’t imagine there’s much to clarify about the contract, but he might be able to tell us something about Harewood. Isn’t he your prime suspect?”
“Yes, but not very prime. We’ve just scratched the surface of possibles, so far.”
Low checked his phone and said, “I’ll give Lornie a call on the off chance he’s available.” He was. Low pushed the button on the speaker phone.
“Any chance of being briefed about the Harewood-Tor partnership? Harewood says you drew it up, and he gave his OK for you to fill us in on the details. Leola isn’t happy about wading through eighteen pages of legalese.”
“Don’t knock it. That’s how we lawyers make our living. Actually, the gist is very simple. Paula Tor gets all of her deceased husband’s interest in the business. No strings.”
“Which is substantial, I take it.”
“Bet your ass. Not only that, but…. Oh, hell! I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but if this case ever gets to the trial stage, you’ll be able to subpoena the documents anyway. The Tors had a prenuptial agreement, which I also drew up. Big insurance on both of them. A divorce would have meant not only splitting the sheets, but all the assets.”
“And, as it stands, I take it, she now gets everything instead of just half.”
“You should have been an attorney, Low. You’ve cut right to the nub of the situation.”
Low looked over at Leola who was leaning over and listening intently to the speaker. Their thoughts were similar. Low figured Mrs. Tor had replaced Harewood in prime position. Leola was eager to see Bretna’s reaction when she found out about this latest development.
Even so, the visit to the Hootenanny was still uppermost in her mind.
***
Leola was amused to see how both male members of their party appeared far more uncomfortable in the Hootenany’s garish surroundings than either her or Bretna. In Bretna’s case, the answer was simple. Her early days on patrol duty had in fact brought her several times into the club’s confines. So far as Leola was concerned, the setting was far more tame than she’d anticipated, though Bretna later assured her the presence of police officers invariably had a toning-down effect on the performance.
While the customers were—predictably—chiefly males, the place was only half full and much less smoke-filled than expected. The inevitable center stage, with a vertical bar and a scantily-clad and lushly-endowed female caressing it in time to boom-box music, was actually occupying little of the audience’s attention.
Leola nodded to her sergeant. They rose, left their escorts—who were showing somewhat more interest than the other clientele in the on-stage antics—and approached the bar. On the way, Bretna commented in a low voice to her companion, “That’s Mel Haines behind the bar. He’s the manager. Owners are some Delaware corporation.”
Van Damm introduced herself and her sergeant to the balding, overweight man leaning heavily on the bar. She didn’t bother to show her ID. Haines gave no indication of wanting to see any. “We’re all legit, here, Lieutenant.”
“We’re not here about your business. We want to question one of your dancers. Again, nothing to do with the Hootenanny.”
“Maddy? About what happened to the Tor guy, right?”
“You knew him?”
“Not well enough to do anything but take his orders for drinks. Maddy won’t be here for another half-hour. But Sherry, there, knew Tor.” He nodded toward the lackluster performer who was obviously coming to the end of her session at the dance post. It was evident he was rapidly losing interest in the topic and began to move down the bar toward a customer who had just finished his drink. “Maybe she can tell you something about him. Or about Maddy,” were his parting words
***
Sherry Schumacher, blonde, blue-eyed, pretty-faced, Barbie shaped, was as unperturbed by the presence of the police officers as her employer had been. “Sure. C’mon back to the dressing room. I gotta take off in a few minutes. Babysitter’s got a hot date tonight, and I can’t leave my kid alone, you know. Don’t know much about Luke Tor guy. Saw it all on TV this morning. Whew!”
The change of clothes—at least the shedding of the scant performance attire—took only moments. Sherry talked away during the process. “He really had it bad for Maddy, you know. She was playing him like a fish and sure had him hooked.” What Sherry lacked in dancing skills, she more than made up for with an expressive face. “I haven’t seen her since it happened. Boy! She must have hit the ceiling when she found out he was married.”
“You mean she didn’t know he was married?”
Sherry grinned. “No way. No ring. Told her he was divorced. And wedding bells were what she was angling for, believe me. She even told me he promised to marry her, but she was still holding out on him. No samples ahead of time, was her motto. But, boy, did he ever try. You should see some of the things he gave her.” A frown clouded over. “If it’d been me ‘stead a her…”
***
The current performer was commanding even less attention from her audience than Sherry had. An equivalent lack of skill and less physical appeal added up to what Leola, for one, felt was a poor excuse for the excessive cover charge.
“Any leads?” Low asked as the women returned to their seats?
Leola shook her head. “Not much. Sounds like Madeleine Deneuve would have had more reason to kill Paula than Lucas. The bartender will let us know when she shows up, which should be soon.”
“I hope so,” Low said, looking at his watch. “This is about as exciting as watching cotton grow.”
“Cheer up,” Leola, who just then had caught a nod from the bartender, said. “She’s arrived.”
***
One look at Madeleine was sufficient to convince Leola that Lucas Tor’s infatuation had been genuine and probably overwhelming. No makeup—she needed none—high cheek bones, a deep tan which ancestors, and not sun, had provided, her long blue-black hair tied back in a ponytail, she exuded an unconscious sexuality. Slipping out of her slacks, she moved with equally unconscious gracefulness.
“It’s about Tor, isn’t it?” she asked, directing the question to the sergeant.
Bretna took advantage of the opening to slip from an answer into immediate questions. “Yes. Did he tell you he was divorced?”
The lovely face showed no expression. “Yes. But I learned long ago not to believe everything a man tells me.”
“Did he ask you to marry him?”
The faintest glimmer of amusement showed in the dark eyes. “Yes. And it wasn’t all he was asking for.”
“Did you agree to marry him?”
“Sure. He had plenty of money. He was generous. He wasn’t ugly. It would have definitely been an improvement over this.” She was adjusting her skimpy dance costume, but took a moment to move her arm in an arc encompassing her surroundings.
“What did he say to that?”
“He waffled but, even so, I think he was getting the message. He said he’d be back—which was two nights ago.” She checked her wristwatch. “Gotta go. Give me your phone number. I might be able to help. Might even want to. After all, I’m the loser.”
***
The entire atmosphere changed the moment Madeleine stepped out on the stage. The grace she’d shown in the dressing room translated into a seductive dance routine. She appeared lost in the sensuous elegance of her own body movements. The chatter and noise of the hall came to an abrupt halt. Eyes were riveted on the new performer.
Leola leaned over and whispered to Turlow, “Salome couldn’t have done it any better.” He seemed not to hear.
From across the table, Bretna grinned at Leola. “Time to get these boys home.”
***
“Quite an evening,” Bretna said in greeting as she entered Leola’s office.
King didn’t disappoint them. Short, rotund, with a face testifying to some Far East ancestry, he was every bit as intense as the lieutenant had predicted. He slid a disc into the computer and powered it up. “Wait ‘til you see this.”
Even hardened officers who’d assisted in the removal of countless car-crash victims couldn’t maintain the aplomb exhibited by the speaker, but they did closely follow his gestures at the screen. From a quick flash of Tor’s body lying half out of the seat, his face and arm virtually erased in a mass of gore, the scene shifted to a dummy figure in essentially the same position and stage of dismemberment.
“Those AFT boys have equipment I’ve never even heard of. Watch this!” Again the scene changed to what was evidently computerized animation. The substitute form in an intact automobile leaned over, reached under the dash, picked up an object, looked at it, opened the door of the van, moved a leg out and then the image exploded. The effectiveness of the demonstration was testified to by the fact both members of King’s audience reared back in their chairs. He grinned. “That’s one guess,” he said. “I’ll show you others as we go along.
“But here’s the nitty gritty.” The new photo on the screen focused in on a badly-battered driver’s door, the actual one of the van. “See these drops?” His finger pointed to the red spots scattered on the frame and door panel. Zooming in on a couple, he said, “Notice the tails—how long they are? That’s the direction of the spatter. The door was open, at least part way, when the bomb went off.
“Now, compare it with passenger side door.” This photo showed yet another damaged door. King pointed to a half dozen drops. “See how they’re almost completely circular. The door did blow open, but the blood hit at just about the same time, so the tails are smaller and fainter.” Another photo. “No tails at all on the roof, which didn’t blow out.”
Expect the Unexpected Page 52
