Sullivan’s Evidence

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Try to calm down and think rationally,” Irving said, brushing his finger under his nose. “You’re home now. You can pick up the pieces of your life and go on. You survived. The man who attacked you is dead. Thousands of crimes victims would like to be in your shoes right now.”

  “Think rationally?” she shouted. “How else do you think I’d feel? When Dean visited me in the hospital before his disappearing act, I smelled the same stench that was on Layman. When was the last time you spoke to my husband? Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I spoke to your husband at length the morning after the incident and then on several other occasions by phone,” Irving said, both he and Starr standing. “After he answered all my questions, he told me you two were having relationship problems. He later called me and expressed his desire to move to Europe to play golf. I told him we had no problem with that since Layman was dead and the case was closed.”

  “Relationship problems, that’s an understatement. I threatened to divorce him. This is my house, so I told him to leave. Dean’s a control freak. He flew into a rage.”

  “Can you give us a second?” Irving said, moving into the entryway. “Quent, maybe we should give her the benefit of the doubt. She may have a point here. I even remember smelling something on her husband the night of the crime. I just thought it was body odor.”

  “Great, sure,” Quentin said, pissed. “I tell you, we’re wasting our time.”

  The two men went back into the living room and sat back down on the sofa. “Did you or your husband drink Old Crow whiskey?” Irving asked, leaning forward over his knees. “Maybe use it for cooking?”

  “Absolutely not. I prefer vodka, and Dean drank cognac. I’ve never known anyone in my life that drank Old Crow whiskey, and can’t imagine why anyone would use disgusting rotgut like that to cook. Why? What does this have to do with anything?”

  “The lab determined that a bottle of Old Crow was what caused the damage to your face,” Irving said, figuring he was making a mistake by telling her this but deciding to get everything out in the open. “To be honest, there were other things that didn’t add up. How did Layman get here? Your house is a long way from town, and a person would have to hike up some pretty steep hills. It’s dark at night, and a guy like him would stand out like a sore thumb. It’s not like you live next to a shopping mall or a building where he might have found shelter. Also, we didn’t find any of your property in his possession. I’m not sure what his motivation was to attack you. Had you ever seen Layman before that night?”

  “Never,” she answered, her expression softening. “So what’s the next step?”

  Irving looked over at Quentin, whose sour face stared back at him. “I’ll start making some inquires.” He paused and took a breath. “You have to keep this quiet, though. If we can’t come up with something solid, we never had this conversation. But if we stumble onto something that looks promising, I’ll take it to the chief. We really need to take off now. Can I call you in the morning?”

  “Yes,” Kathleen said, staying on the sofa while they walked toward the door. “Help me to bring my husband to justice and it’ll be one of the most satisfying things you’ve ever done.”

  “Quentin and I will do all we can, Kathleen.”

  “Good,” she said, “because if I find Dean first, there won’t be much left for you to do.” She gave a fake smile and a flick of her wrist, looking past Detective Starr as if he weren’t there. “Talk to you tomorrow, Brian.”

  Outside in the car, Starr threw out, “Did she just threaten Dean Masters’s life?”

  “Sounds that way to me,” Irving said as they pulled out of the driveway. “We better get in touch with him right away.”

  “You’re crazy,” Starr said, knowing exactly what Irving meant. “What happened to the stuff you told me earlier? You know, the wife likes it here, you’ve got to protect your job, Kathleen Masters is a pill-popping nutcase. I’m telling you, if Chief Riggs gets wind of this, you’ll be the first one he gives the boot. While you’re sitting in the dirt, don’t expect me to bail you out.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Thursday, October 19—12:21 P.M.

  Mary smelled food and saw a large man in a brown sports jacket, carrying two boxes from Pizza Hut. Her stomach was rumbling, but she didn’t have time to go out for lunch. She jumped up and darted into Duffy Crenshaw’s cubicle a few doors down. “Are you going to eat both of those pies, Duffy? I’m hungry enough to eat wood.”

  “You’re my kind of woman,” Crenshaw said, an older detective scheduled to retire in three months. “No one eats this shit anymore, especially the ladies.” He tore off two large slices and handed them to her on a paper plate. “Here, save me from a heart attack.”

  Mary returned to her office, chomping on the pizza while she stared at her computer screen. The search for information on Matthew Sheppard had led to a dead end. For all practical purposes, the man didn’t exist.

  The phone rang. “Detective Stevens,” she said, answering it.

  “This is Detective Fisher from San Diego,” the voice said. “I neglected to give you a few e-mails that didn’t make their way into the Sheppard file. One of them you may be interested in.”

  “I’d be interested in how you made detective.”

  He ignored her jab and continued, “When Matthew Sheppard called me and told me his wife had disappeared, he claimed he didn’t have any recent pictures of her. I thought it was a domestic case from the start, so I just assumed the wife ran off with the photo albums. We used her DMV photo for the report and on our Web site. This morning, we came across another picture. One of the neighbors sent it in, advising us it was taken at a block party on Labor Day.”

  Was this his exciting lead? Why had he bothered to call? “What good is a picture of Lisa Sheppard now? We’ve already identified her.”

  “You don’t understand,” he insisted. “Matthew Sheppard is standing beside her.”

  Mary’s pulse rate jumped. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I forgot, okay?” Fisher told her, defensive. “I don’t even think I saw the damn thing. The tech who handles our Web site had it stored in his computer. He heard about some of the things that have been going on there in Ventura and e-mailed it to me this morning.”

  “Get it over to me,” Mary said. “Right now, damn it! We need it so we can issue a warrant. Sheppard could easily be our murderer, and as of now we have nothing whatsoever on him.”

  After giving him her e-mail address, Mary tapped her fingernails on the desktop until the New Mail icon appeared. She opened the attachment, and a large digital photo filled her screen. Right-mouse clicking, she reduced the size. In the foreground were a middle-aged man and woman. Behind them was a grainy image of an attractive blond female she recognized as Lisa Sheppard. Although she already knew what Lisa looked like, seeing pictures from a victim’s past was sometimes more gut-wrenching than autopsy photos. They were usually taken during happy times in their lives, when they were surrounded by friends and loved ones. It was even sadder in this case. The way things were shaping up, the man Lisa Sheppard thought loved her may have brought her to her grave.

  So this was their mystery man, Matthew Sheppard.

  Clearly, it wasn’t Carl Holden.

  Sheppard was wearing a black cowboy hat pulled down low on his forehead. She could tell he was tall, as he towered over his wife. He was dressed in Wrangler jeans, and the sleeves were rolled up on his white cotton shirt. On his feet were brown western boots. He looked as if he’d just finished riding a bull in a rodeo.

  Sheppard had clear, unmarked skin. He either had a dark complexion or spent a lot of time in the sun. It was a difficult call as to his age, but she estimated late thirties or early forties. The shape of his face seemed to be oval, and a dark brown or black mustache obscured his upper lip. His most distinctive feature was his cleft chin. Some people jokingly referred to it as a “butt chin.” Sheppard’s dimpled chin wasn’t at all uns
ightly. If he wasn’t a suspect in a murder, she’d classify him as handsome, the kind of man who wouldn’t have a problem finding a woman.

  Having two criminals to apprehend, Mary thought, wasn’t as easy as pinning the murders on Holden. In addition, they had to rule out the idea that Troy Anderson was somehow involved. The multiple jurisdictions posed another enormous problem.

  Tracy Anderson’s body had been discovered in Ventura, so they held jurisdiction unless it was discovered that Anderson had been murdered in San Diego and only buried in Ventura. Mary would have gone to the chief in San Diego if she’d thought there was anything to be gained. How could she have known there was a photo of Matthew Sheppard floating around?

  Eleanor Beckworth was a different matter. If the coroner ruled Eleanor Beckworth’s death a suicide, there was nothing Ventura could do unless new information surfaced to prove that she’d been murdered. Even then, St. Louis would still be the investigating agency, as the crime occurred in that city.

  What had originally been a single case of murder had turned into an extremely complicated series of interlocking crimes. Mary generally tried to keep her hours to a reasonable level, but the department had recently lost two investigators. One had retired, and the other had been transferred. They just didn’t have the necessary manpower, and she could envision racking up hours of overtime until the crimes were resolved. It would take a minimum of an hour just to explain to Hank what she’d learned that morning.

  Now that they had ruled out the chance that Holden was Matthew Sheppard, they were back to first base. Believing Troy Anderson was responsible for two homicides that occurred eight years apart in two different cities was too much of a stretch.

  She sent the photograph to the color printer and picked it up on the way to Hank’s office. When she walked in, his face was twisting. He’d just consumed a foamy green substance out of what had once been his coffee cup.

  “I just started a detox this week,” he said, taking another sip. “Blue-green algae, wheat grass, and all kinds of other good stuff. You should try it. You’ll be jumping over tall buildings in a single bound.”

  “Sounds delish, but I’ll pass.” Mary placed the picture on his cluttered desk, holding it in place with her hand until he picked it up and looked at it.

  “Am I supposed to know this person?”

  “You’re looking at Matthew Sheppard.”

  “How did you get this?” Hank asked, staring at the enhanced computer image. “Are you certain it’s Sheppard?”

  “It fits the description the neighbors gave us perfectly. The detective in San Diego was sitting on it—you know, Fisher, that piss-poor excuse for a cop I told you about. Bastard never even wrote a report when Lisa went missing. Nice of him, huh? He sent me the picture about ten minutes ago. We should get this out immediately, don’t you think? No one has seen Matthew Sheppard since his wife disappeared.”

  Hank’s gaze was riveted on the photo. “Will you look at that? He has a chin just like Carolyn’s new boyfriend. Even the shape of their noses is the same. Have you met this guy?”

  “No,” Mary said. “Don’t you think you’re taking this thing with Carolyn a little too far? No disrespect, boss, but it might be time to give it up. “He looked up and scowled. She quickly threw up a palm. “Before you bite my head off, hear me out. Keep heading down this road, and you’re going to get yourself in a world of trouble. The poor woman has been through hell, and you’re trying to turn her new boyfriend into a murderer. Hey, I’m sorry things haven’t worked out. You gotta get over it.”

  “I’m seeing several women right now,” Hank said, a look of pride on his face. “This has nothing to do with my feelings for Carolyn. This guy’s a dead ringer for Marcus Wright. I met him at the hospital the night John was shot. Weren’t you there with Carolyn’s daughter?”

  “I took Rebecca home with me from Carolyn’s house,” Mary told him, rubbing her chin. “I think we can rule out Holden, do you agree? The lab didn’t match his DNA from anything found inside the box of clothes from San Diego, and this picture doesn’t look anything like him. Holden’s got some kind back problem that causes him to stoop forward. This guy looks as if he’s in great shape.”

  “Can you get into your photo-editing program and take off this moustache, lighten his hair, and zoom in on his face?”

  “First,” she said. “Promise me you won’t go on a witch hunt involving Carolyn’s boyfriend unless you have something concrete. She finally met a nice man. That’s all she needs is for you to scare him off with your false accusations.”

  “I’m investigating a murder,” Hank told her. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Maybe. You’re Carolyn’s best friend, Hank. No one wants to screw up their relationship with their best friend. Things don’t work out, the friendship is ruined. Personally, I’d choose a friend over a lover any day of the week. Friends stay together forever, lovers come and go.” She reached over and grabbed a half-empty water bottle off his desk, removing the top and taking a slug. Slamming it back down with a thud, she said, “Can we get back to work now? Troy Anderson may have murdered his wife instead of Holden, and I’m almost certain Eleanor Beckworth didn’t commit suicide.”

  Hank acted as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Whoever this man is, he looked exactly like Marcus Wright. I want you to run Wright every way possible.”

  “How am I going to do that, pray tell?” Mary asked, flailing her arms around. “You got a DOB, SOC, DMV? What you got, huh? You ain’t got nothing, that’s what.”

  “I’ve got better instincts than you,” Hank said, smiling. “Come on, you’re a genius at this stuff. You’re bound to be able to come up with something. Marcus Wright is forty-five, give or take a few years, six one, maybe one ninety. Jesus, you got his damn picture.” When she winced, he added, “Hey, at least we know we can find the sucker. That’s got to count for something.”

  Every once in a while Hank really got to her, with his puppy-dog eyes and playful smile. He had sort of a rugged look. Thank God he’d stopped smoking. All he had now was a serious toothpick addiction. Since he’d dropped the weight and bought himself some decent threads, Mary had placed him on what she called the “just might” list. Age didn’t matter, especially now that they’d come up with a chemical rocket booster for men. And older guys were sometimes hotter lovers. “I’ll work on the photo and see what I can find out on Wright,” she said. “But only if you finish the report on that stabbing we worked last night.”

  “Now we’re negotiating? I’m a lieutenant. You’re a detective. Write your own damn report.”

  “We got a deal or what?”

  “All right, you win,” Hank said, waving her away. “Get a move on it.”

  Kathleen was about to embark on the next chapter of her life. The players were the same, but the game had changed. The stakes were at the highest possible level.

  His life or hers.

  She sat down at the computer in her home office. In her real estate business, she used the Internet only when it was necessary. Real estate was a people business, not bits and bytes floating around in a digital cesspool. Pulling up the Web browser, she typed in “Dean Masters.” When the results came back with nothing relating to her husband, she typed in “professional golf tour,” and www.pgatour.com appeared on the screen. She remembered his talking about the Nationwide Tour. She looked under the player profiles. Dean’s name wasn’t listed. Strange, she thought, but maybe she’d entered something wrong. One way to find out was to drive to Pebble Beach and ask around. She poured out two Percodans, swallowed them with a glass of water and took off.

  Twenty minutes later, she strolled into the pro shop. “Hello,” she said, reaching forward to shake a man’s hand. “I’m Kathleen Masters, Dean’s wife.”

  “Nice to see you,” he said, with a smile that only someone being paid would give. “I’m Jake Bartley. What can I help you with today? Do you want to take a golf cart to the driving range, or are you go
ing to putt a little?”

  She looked around at other people in the shop. “Can we talk in private?”

  “Sure,” Jake said. “Let’s go into my office.”

  “You know my husband, of course?” she said, waiting until he removed a box of golf balls from the chair so she could sit down.

  “I’ve heard the name, but I can’t place his face.”

  “Dean Masters,” Kathleen repeated, wondering if the man was new. “He’s a professional golfer on the tour. You know, six one and somewhere around one eighty, unless he’s dropped some weight recently.”

  “I think I know who you’re talking about,” Jake told her, staring at a spot over her head, “but he’s not a professional golfer. The guy I’m thinking of has a low handicap, though. Let me think. Yeah, he drives a red Porsche 911. Is that your husband?”

  “Burgundy,” Kathleen said, thinking he had to be mistaken. The people who played at Pebble Beach all drove luxury cars. “Do you have a picture of him for his membership card?”

  “Let me check the computer,” he said, dropping down in his chair and clicking on the keyboard. “Here we go, but wait, there’s no picture. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. There’s always a picture with our member’s information. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s this about?”

  “My husband has disappeared,” Kathleen told him. “His mother is critically ill. We haven’t heard from Dean in weeks. I filed a missing person’s report, and the useless police haven’t done a thing. Please, can you help me?”