Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise

by Frank A. Perdue

  Chapter Ten

  Rachel heaved a sigh of relief when Harry Shields left. She liked the man but, after all, he was an instrument of the law, and would have been duty bound to arrest her husband for a killing that could earn him the death penalty. Like Ivan, she wasn’t ready to trust the legal system to get it right.

  She picked up the wallet, and started up the winding stairs, as the bright day faded, and left her in shadow inside the huge mansion. She didn’t want to turn on the lights just yet. The police were surely watching the windows that faced outward to the street. What if her husband was silhouetted just behind a curtain or shade? Then she realized she would not be expected to stumble around in the dark, so she had no choice but to at least light some of the house.

  At times Rachel felt dwarfed inside their white palace. Two people were hard-pressed to utilize all the space the structure provided. Still she understood her husband’s wish to be extravagant. He had come from humble beginnings as had she. Just a few years ago they both would have scoffed at the idea that they might be rich enough to afford a nice home, let alone a showpiece of the La Jolla landscape. They had no desire to join the upper crust of society, but wanted it known that they could.

  “Where are you my love?” she pronounced, as she entered the master bedroom. There was a brief moment when she was afraid her husband had left his wallet downstairs before they headed up into the mountains. That thought was dispelled when she was engulfed in his arms from behind, and he molded his body to hers.

  Rachel turned in his embrace to face him, but she made no move to break away. Their kiss spoke volumes-of the time they’d been apart, and the love that pulsed through their veins. Both forgot the predicament and the surroundings, with danger just outside, as they fell to the plush carpet of their dark bedroom.

  Later, after they had moved to the large bed, he finally spoke, “God it’s good to see you, and hold you. It almost seems like the outside world doesn’t exist.” And he added, “But only with you.”

  She reached up, pushing his brown hair from his eyes. “Are you all right? I heard you had an accident. I was so worried!”

  “It was stupid, what happened. I should have known that curve was coming, but I was distracted. Luckily I didn’t ride the car down the embankment. It probably saved my life.”

  “Can we turn the light on so I can see you?” “It should be okay now. They’ll expect you to turn them on. Just stay away from the window. I don’t want to give them a show,” he said, grinning.

  Her hands went to her nude body in a sweeping motion, “I see what you mean.” When Ivan reached for her again, she put her arms on his hairy chest and said, “Not so fast, my voracious husband, we have to make plans. We can’t just forget the mess we’re in.”

  “No, but it’s more fun.”

  “I have an idea.” Rachel was ignoring him, which wasn’t easy. She was still warm from the lovemaking between them. “I want to visit the policeman’s widow.” “Absolutely not!”

  “Just hear me out.” Rachel retorted. “You can’t go traipsing around the country, for obvious reasons.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “So what will you do?”

  “I can pretend I’m a magazine reporter doing a story. She might open up to me, where she wouldn’t with a man.”

  “What I’m worried about is that the killing might not be over. We don’t know the motive behind all this. The widow herself could be in danger, and that would put anyone near her in jeopardy. Or she could be involved, and that would be worse. It’s just too risky to have you go in there.”

  “I agree that we don’t know the motive of the killer, but he went to a lot of trouble to implicate you, with the gun and the note. I just don’t think she’s a target, or involved as you say. It has to be all about the guy who was killed, and you. I should be perfectly safe.”

  “You’re really going to do this huh? Whatever happened to the idea that the man is the boss, and you have to obey?”

  “That was the forties my love. We’re almost in the mid-fifties. I read an article about a movement to liberate women. I’m trying to join.” There was a twinkle in her eyes as she dropped that on him. Neither of them really believed anything would change. How could it?

  Then Rachel had another thought, “Maybe Thomas could help run down leads.”

  “Are you sure you want your son to be involved in this? It could be just as dangerous for him as it is for you.”

  “I’ll at least talk to him about it.” Rachel could be hard-headed too.

  The next morning Rachel cooked breakfast for them both before bidding her husband goodbye, as if everything was rosy. She used the front entrance and waved to the policeman standing guard outside their home as she drove away in her beat-up ’fifty-one Ford coupe. It was a good thing they kept it, given what had happened to their family car.

  To reach El Cajon where the cop’s widow lived, she would have to drive south to Highway 80, then turn east through La Mesa on El Cajon Boulevard. The phone book listed the address she sought on Ballantyne street near the downtown section of the suburban city. That meant she would have to navigate about eight stop lights or signs.

  The drive took nearly an hour. Rachel had heard that an interstate highway system was in the works, and given a high priority by the Eisenhower administration. That would have been nice for this trip, she thought.

  The street adjacent to the Carey home was devoid of cars. Rachel thought there would still be a police presence, given the high profile of the killing, and the fact the victim was one of their own. She was right.

  As she reached the steps leading to the porch of the small house she was approached by a uniformed officer. Fortunately he didn’t know her, and let her pass, after determining she was not carrying a weapon. He smiled as he handed Rachel back her purse, “Have a nice day.” She returned the smile and nodded, as she continued toward the front door. The house was a modest one-story of wood-frame. It looked to be about the size of all the others on that particular block, probably each constructed by the same builder. Neighborhoods like this one were popping up all over the county, spurred on by the need of veterans and their families for inexpensive housing that could be purchased on the GI Bill. They were nearly all of the two-bedroom, one bath variety and, though small in comparison to the spacious homes in the area Rachel had just left, for the most part, very comfortable.

  As she walked up onto the wooden porch, Rachel was rehearsing what she would say to the widow, who was probably grief-stricken. The door inside a screen was open, and she could peer into what appeared to be the living room, although it was fairly dark. A light was on in the back, probably a kitchen area. She could see no one, so she knocked on the screen door.

  A shadowy figure emerged from the lighted area, and as it came closer, Rachel saw a rather attractive woman, with blonde hair, about five foot three, and apparently about the same age as she, which was forty-three.

  “Yes, may I help you?” Linda Carey said in a pleasant voice.

  Now the rehearsed part. “Hello, my name is Rachel Embree. I represent San Diego Live magazine, and I was hoping to do an article about you and your husband. There is so much sympathy out there in the community, that I thought it might help you to get your story out.”

  Surprisingly, the woman behind the screen opened it, and beckoned Rachel into what was indeed the living room. “Please come in. I really need someone to talk to.”

  As she followed behind the widow, she was struck with the feeling that there was no grief there. The woman’s tone was upbeat, her smile appearing genuine. It belied the statement that she needed someone to talk to.

  “Won’t you sit there,” the Carey woman said, as she pointed to a soft, cloth covered chair, not far from the sofa she had chosen for herself.

  “What newspaper did you say you were from?”

  “It’s a magazine, San Diego Live.” Rachel continued the lie.

  “Do you know that you’re the first woman to come here sin
ce my husband was killed?”

  “That’s surprising. I know the Sheriff’s department has some women deputies.” At least Rachel thought they did.

  “Maybe, but I haven’t seen them. I really am sick to death of the sympathy I’m getting from all the men, as they look me over. It just seems so phony. That’s why I’m glad to see you.”

  “I think I understand Linda. May I call you that?”

  “Oh please do.”

  “Thanks. Now I’m going to ask you some questions about your husband, and if there’s anything you want kept off the record, just tell me.” Rachel thought that might keep the woman relaxed, and she could learn more than what would go in a story.

  “That’s fair enough. Where should I start?”

  “You might tell me about your marriage. How long were the two of you together?”

  “We got married right out of high school, so it’s been twenty-five years. I was pregnant and we had to have the wedding certificate, for our baby’s sake. I’m not sure we were in love, even then.”

  Rachel was surprised at how forthcoming she was, and asked, “Are you sure you want me to print that?” Then, as an afterthought, “I thought I heard you didn’t have any children.”

  “I lost the baby not long after we were married.” A look of guilt appeared on Linda Carey’s countenance, as if she could see that some folks might believe the pregnancy was a lie, as it was. “At first we stayed together to console each other. Then we just drifted along, and never quite got around to ending it.” She took a deep breath, then added, “No, maybe you’d better not print all that.” An embarrassed look came over her face, as she realized what she had revealed, both in her words and in her manner. It was just that she felt completely at ease with Rachel.

  “You have my word.” Even as she said it, Rachel felt as if she’d betrayed a confidence by posing as a writer. At the same time there was an overriding determination to help her husband free himself of the charges that could get him killed, or at the least send him away to prison for a long time. She had to stop her mind from wandering into dark thoughts. “Tell me about your husband. When did he decide to be a policeman? Were you married by then?”

  “Yes we were, but he always knew that he would join the force. His father and grandfather were with the Sheriff’s department. They were Irish you see, and it was like a sacred vow that they would be cops, generation to generation. The women in their lives have no say in it at all.”

  “That’s not good. Was there more friction in your marriage because of it?”

  “No more than any other disagreement we had. I knew of his plans to join up before we were married. It’s not like it was a surprise. It hasn’t really been a bad life, until now.” Her gaze drifted away from Rachel and she was obviously remembering. Tears came to her eyes, and she excused herself to retrieve a handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry. This must be so hard for you.” At the same time, knowing what she now did, Rachel wondered if any of this was an act.

  “I’ll have to get used to the fact that he’s gone somehow. It’s just so soon.”

  Rachel changed direction. “What about partners? Did Jack have many?”

  “Only two. There was Red Imhoff. They were together until the middle of nineteen forty-nine. Then he was paired up with Terry Quinlan when Red quit the force.”

  “Did your husband like them both?”

  Linda Carey hesitated for just an almost imperceptible second before answering, “Yes. I think so. Of course they had arguments from time to time, but they seemed to get along okay.”

  “You say that Imhoff quit the force? Did he stay in town and get another job?”

  “I think he left town, but I’m not sure. Jack never mentioned him after he quit.”

  That’s something to follow up on, Rachel thought. “What about the Quinlan fellow? Is he still with the Sheriff’s department?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure. Jack really didn’t talk about his work much. He tried to separate the scary stuff that happened on the street from his family.”

  “He sounds like a really good husband.” Rachel decided she’d better get back to talking about Jack Carey lest his widow become suspicious of her motives.

  Linda Carey became teary-eyed, and reached for a tissue on the end table next to her. To Rachel her emotions seemed genuine. Either she was completely innocent of the fate that befell her husband, or she was a really good actress.

  Rachel glanced at her watch. “I think I’ve kept you long enough Mrs. Carey. It’s been nice talking to you. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

  “Thank you Miss Embree. I’ll be looking for your article.”

  Rachel hid the look of guilt that had appeared on her face as she walked out the door.

  She was so preoccupied with the deception she had employed to elicit information that might help her husband, as she drove off she didn’t notice the late model automobile parked around the corner, just out of sight of the house she had just visited, Even so it would not normally arouse suspicion.

  The killer watched as Rachel Dunn exited the house of Linda Carey. It was troublesome to him that she was there. What had the wife of the recently deceased Jack Carey told her? Surely his name hadn’t come up. There was no way he would be connected to the murder. He was convinced of it. Then why was he worried?

  It wouldn’t hurt to follow that bitch Rachel to see what she was up to. As she drove off he trailed behind slowly. When it was obvious she was going to the home she had shared with Ivan Dunn, he parked just down the hill, exited his vehicle, and walked to a vantage point where he could see the big, extravagant house.

  He was even more determined to bring harm to the Dunns when he noticed all the luxury in which they lived-a luxury he himself might soon realize after his work here was finished.

  He didn’t recognize the man who intercepted her, just before she entered the huge mansion, and he was too far away to hear the conversation between the two. He didn’t dare move any closer, lest he be seen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Harry Shields had seen the wallet on the coffee table in the mansion of his friend. To him that could only mean one thing; that Ivan Dunn the fugitive was hiding on the premises somewhere. That presented an ethical quandary for the FBI man. Ignoring it was not an option in his mind. His decision was based on a couple of things. Ivan was his friend. He didn’t want the police to storm the premises, guns drawn, which was exactly what would happen if he were to inform them of what he knew.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t allow Ivan to remain a fugitive, even though Harry knew that’s what his friend wanted. His movements would be so restricted as to make it almost impossible for him to clear himself, and the probability of being cut down in a hail of bullets was too strong for the FBI man to ignore. No, a jail cell would be the safest place for Ivan Dunn now. And Harry would have to bring him in himself.

  As he approached the large mansion, he was thinking that he didn’t want to have to draw his gun, and threaten his friend. He was hoping he could talk some sense into Ivan, and make him understand it was the only way to insure his safety, as long as there was basically a dead or alive warrant issued in his name.

  Harry informed the police guard that he just wanted to look around the premises for clues. Then he sauntered up to the large double doors of the entrance, appearing as casual as possible. The home wasn’t locked. The police had decided it wasn’t necessary as long as they patrolled outside.

  Harry wasn’t worried about Ivan pulling a gun on him. He knew the .44 authorities had recovered at the murder scene was the only firearm the fugitive possessed. He didn’t bother to un-holster his weapon once he was inside the house.

  A quick search of the main floor proved futile, as it was devoid of a human inhabitant. Harry thought about just calling out to Ivan, but decided against it. There had to be an entrance to the premises they didn’t know about, and there was nothing to stop his quarry from utilizing it to avoid capture, were
he alerted.

  As he reached the circular stairs leading up to the second of the three floors, he heard Ivan’s voice, apparently coming from the top of the stairs.

  “You’re out of your element here Harry. What do you want?”

  “You know what I want, Ivan. You need to turn yourself in.”

  “We went over that on the phone. I can’t surrender until I find out who’s framing me.”

  “Look, you and I both know it’s not safe for you here or anywhere else, as long as the authorities are looking for you.”

  “If I just give up, they’ll throw away the key to my cell, and stop looking for the real murderer.”

  Ivan walked down the stairs, passing Harry Shields, and plopped down on a huge sofa in the living room. Harry followed him, and sat himself in a chair, facing Ivan.

  “Look, be reasonable. Don’t be such a knucklehead about this. You’ll get yourself killed. Some of these cops might just shoot first and ask questions later, if you’re still breathing.” Harry took a deep breath before continuing, “And you have Rachel to think about. It’s not just you.”

  “Okay, suppose I do turn myself in. What happens then? Do I just throw myself on the mercy of the court?”

  “No, not at all,” Harry answered. I’m going to look into it, and I’m sure I can enlist Angelo Rodrigues to help.”

  “Who the hell is Angelo Rodrigues, and what happens to your open cases when you go galloping all over the country helping me chase down leads?”

  “Angelo is sort of my protégé. I trained him. He’s an agent assigned to the San Diego office of the FBI. I have a staff in L.A. All I need to do in my own office is supervise. I can do it. You have to trust me.”