by Joseph Badal
“Do you know how we might contact him in Los Angeles?”
The maid shrugged. “Maybe he leaves this information in Senora Vickie’s office.” She started to stand, but Barbara touched her arm again.
“We’ll get it later.”
Parra sighed with a resignation of years of taking orders.
“Does anyone else live in the house?”
“Si, si. Missy Connie stay here now. For maybe ten months.”
“This is the Comstock’s daughter?”
“No, not daughter.” Isabelle seemed at a momentary loss for words. She hunched her shoulders. “Like daughter, but not real daughter. You understand?”
Barbara didn’t understand, but she decided to move on. “Does Missy Connie have a last name?”
Parra merely shrugged.
“Do the Comstocks have any children?” Barbara asked.
Parra shook her head. “No, Senora Vickie no can have.”
“Tell me how Mr. and Mrs. Comstock got along. Were they happy?”
Parra smiled, her eyes lit up. “Oh, Senor Comstock is wonderful man. Treats the Senora like la reina. You know, like queen.”
There was something about the way Isabelle answered the question that triggered Barbara’s early warning system. Barbara had asked about both Comstocks, but Isabelle had answered only about the husband.
“How about this Missy Connie?” Barbara asked. “How did she get along with the Comstocks?”
Parra screwed up her face for the briefest moment, then shrugged. “Missy Connie is—how you say it?” She tapped the side of her head and rolled her eyes.
“How do you mean?”
But Parra compressed her lips and would say nothing more about Missy Connie.
“I appreciate your help, Miss Parra. Just one more question. Can you give me Mr. Comstock’s office telephone number?”
Parra shook her head. “Is maybe in Senora Vickie’s book.” She pointed to a built-in desk near a bookcase. A leather-bound address book sat open on the desk. “Is in the tall building downtown, the one with the bank there.”
“Okay, Miss Parra,” Barbara said, “we need to take you downtown to—”
“Downtown?”
Barbara smiled and tried to put the woman at ease. “It’s normal procedure. We need to take a formal statement. It will be recorded.” She handed the maid one of her cards.
“Okay,” the maid said, and slipped the card in a dress pocket. She started to tear up again and lifted a dishtowel from the table to press it against her eyes.
Barbara waved at Susan, who stood and walked back into the kitchen, Deputy Saavedra close behind her.
“Deputy,” Barbara said, “did you see a young woman on the property when you first got here?”
“No, ma’am. I did notice that the clothes and other stuff in one of the bedrooms appear to be for a young woman.”
“Would you see that Ms. Parra gets to our offices? We’ll take her statement as soon as we can get there.”
Saavedra looked at Susan. “You want me to wait there for you?”
Susan gave the deputy a brilliant smile, patted his arm, and said, “That’s awfully nice of you to offer, but that won’t be necessary.”
The kid looked as though he’d just learned there was no Santa Claus. He walked out of the kitchen with the maid.
Barbara thought about what she’d learned from Isabelle Parra. Every instinct she had developed over her career told her that Victoria’s husband leaving town the night before she was murdered was, at the very least, suspicious. And who the hell was Missy Connie?
“What are you thinking?” Susan asked.
“Saavedra mentioned that one of the bedrooms appears to be for a young woman. Let’s check it out and see if there’s anything there that will tell us who Missy Connie is.”
After searching the bedroom on the second floor, Barbara and Susan walked back to the den.
“Anything new to report, Wulfie?” Barbara asked.
“Nope. How about on your end?”
“We-e-ell,” Barbara said, “we got an absent husband, a missing girl named Connie who, in the maid’s opinion, may have mental issues and no last name as far as we can determine—”
“And a very dead woman who must have pissed someone off very, very badly,” Susan added.
“Yeah, all in all, just your usual simple homicide,” Wulfe said.
CHAPTER 4
Maxwell Comstock’s office was in a high rise building in downtown Albuquerque, a couple blocks from the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department headquarters. Barbara and Susan drove from the crime scene to the City-County parking structure, dropped off their unmarked Crown Vic, and walked to Comstock’s building. They rode the elevator to the 14th floor, entered the Comstock Enterprises suite, and were greeted by a woman who introduced herself as Judy Turner.
Turner would have looked at home in the executive offices of any Fortune 500 company. She accessorized a black dress with a tasteful pearl necklace, and expensive black pumps. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a French twist and her makeup was light. One classy woman, Barbara thought. It crossed Barbara’s mind that the reception area where Turner greeted them was awfully formal for a laid back city like Albuquerque. The room was richly furnished with silk damask furniture, oil paintings, and a plush blue and red Persian carpet that covered most of the ornate Italian tile floor.
Barbara had used her cell phone to call Maxwell Comstock’s Albuquerque office, but she had not told Judy Turner, Comstock’s assistant, why she wanted to meet with her boss. She only said it was extremely important. Turner had been professionally calm on the phone, as though she was used to calls from the police. Now face-to-face with Barbara and Susan, Turner displayed no sign of nervousness. A very cool customer.
“Thanks for seeing us, Ms. Turner,” Susan said, as she moved forward to shake the woman’s hand. “This is Detective Lassiter and I’m Detective Martinez.” While Susan took the lead, Barbara concentrated on catching any “tells”—indications of nervousness or lies.
They followed Turner as she ushered them into an interior office with a loveseat and two chairs, all arranged around a glass-topped coffee table. A brass nameplate inscribed with MAXWELL COMSTOCK rested on the front edge of a massive antique-looking desk. Beyond the desk, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Sandia Mountains on Albuquerque’s east side. A large conference table with eight chairs completed the room.
“Please,” Turner said. She waved toward the loveseat.
Once they were seated—Turner on one of the chairs and Susan and Barbara side-by-side on the small sofa—Turner crossed her long legs. One foot bobbed up and down. It was the only hint of unease. “This is Mr. Comstock’s office,” she said. “He’s out of town.”
Susan slipped a small spiral notebook from her jacket pocket. “Can you tell us how we might be able to contact Mr. Comstock?” she asked.
“Naturally,” Turner responded in a tone that said she thought Susan’s question was absurd. “I always know where Mr. Comstock is. What is this about?”
Susan answered, “Where is Mr. Comstock?”
Turner’s hazel eyes went hard and the corners of her mouth tightened downward. She was clearly not used to people ignoring her questions.
“Los Angeles, with his attorneys. He was booked on a flight last night.” She uncrossed her legs, stood and walked to the desk, where she picked up a pen and a leather portfolio. She carried it back, sat down, re-crossed her legs, and opened the portfolio to reveal a yellow legal pad. She wrote something on the pad, tore off the sheet of paper, and handed it across the table to Susan. “Prescott, King and Kirkland,” she said. “They do the legal work for all of Mr. Comstock’s companies.”
“Would you be able to contact Mr. Comstock there now?” Susan asked.
Turner’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely. I arrange all of Mr. Comstock’s appointments.” The haughty tone again. “He’s scheduled to be with Andrew King at the law firm
’s offices until six tonight.” She paused a moment and asked, “Is this really necessary? I hate to interrupt Mr. Comstock when he’s in a meeting.”
“And you know for a fact Mr. Comstock left Albuquerque for Los Angeles last night?” Susan asked.
Turner sat up straight and what little softness remained on her face disappeared. “I need to know what’s going on before I answer any more questions.”
Barbara and Susan’s eyes met. They agreed without words.
“Mrs. Comstock was killed in her home late last night or early this morning,” Susan said. “We need to talk with her husband.”
Turner’s hand shot to her mouth and her eyes widened. “Oh my Lord!” she whispered. “Poor Maxwell.”
“Will you answer my question now?” Susan blurted.
Turner’s face reddened; she hesitated for a moment. “As I said earlier, he was booked on a flight out of Albuquerque last night. I personally made Mr. Comstock’s reservations on America West Airlines.” She recited the flight number and time of departure.
Barbara nodded, but Turner still hadn’t answered her question. Barbara decided she’d rather confront Turner on that another time, after she had confirmed whether or not Comstock had actually boarded the plane last night.
“Are you familiar with a young woman who goes by the name Missy Connie?” Susan asked. “That’s the name the Comstock maid gave us.”
“I know who Constance Alban is,” Turner answered, “but I don’t know any Missy Connie.” Turner gave them a condescending smile. Then she made an “O” with her mouth and said, “Of course. The maid, Isabelle, calls just about every young woman ‘Missy.’ Constance Alban is an eighteen-year-old student at the University of New Mexico who lives with the Comstocks. She goes by Connie. The Comstocks filed papers to adopt her.”
“She’s an orphan?” Susan asked.
“No, she’s estranged from her mother, Marge Stanley. There’s some history between the girl’s mother and Mrs. Comstock.” Turner shrugged and spread her hands to indicate she didn’t know any more about the relationship between the Comstocks, Connie Alban, and Marge Stanley.
Susan said, “Do you have contact information on Marge Stanley or Connie Alban?”
Turner shook her head.
“I see,” Susan said.
Barbara suspected Susan didn’t “see” at all. They would have to research the “history” between Victoria Comstock and Marge Stanley. Her instincts vibrated like a tuning fork. History often explained homicides.
“Do you know how we might contact Marge Stanley?” Barbara asked.
“I know she lives in the Four Corners area, but I don’t have her contact information.”
The Four Corners area of northwestern New Mexico was huge. Barbara hoped Stanley didn’t live out in the middle of nowhere, maybe on the Navajo reservation, where roads were bad or non-existent, and telephone service was spotty at best.
“You said the girl’s last name is Alban,” Barbara said, “and her mother’s name is Stanley.”
“Connie’s mother was widowed years ago,” Turner said. “She apparently dropped her married name and readopted her maiden name.”
“How do you know so much about Marge Stanley?” Susan asked.
“She’s fighting the Comstock’s adoption petition. All the letters and legal documents from Marge Stanley’s attorney are sent here to the office and I take care of all of Mr. Comstock’s mail.”
Barbara noticed that Turner vacillated between referring to her boss as Maxwell and Mr. Comstock. “Where were you last night, Ms. Turner, say between ten p.m. and three this morning?”
“At home,” she answered.
“Anyone able to corroborate that?” Barbara said.
Turner broke eye contact with Barbara and glanced down. She shook her head.
“You think you could call Mr. Comstock in Los Angeles and get him on the phone for us now?” Susan asked.
Turner exhaled, stood slowly, and walked back to the desk. Barbara and Susan followed. Turner touched a button on the telephone and speed-dialed a number. After a few seconds, she said into the phone, “It’s Judy. Please call the office as soon as possible.” She hung up and told the detectives that Comstock generally turned off his cell phone while in meetings.
“Well,” Susan said, “call the law firm. I’m sure they can get a phone to him.”
Turner gave Susan an icy look. But she dialed a number and asked, “Would you please locate Mr. Maxwell Comstock? This is his assistant calling from New Mexico; it’s an emergency. He should be with Mr. King.”
Barbara stepped forward and held out her hand. Turner dropped the receiver from a foot above Barbara’s open palm and huffed away to her chair by the coffee table.
“Andrew King,” boomed into Barbara’s ear.
“Mr. King, this is Detective Barbara Lassiter with the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Is Mr. Maxwell Comstock with you?”
“Yes, he is. I am Mr. Comstock’s personal lawyer. What does this concern?”
“Put Mr. Comstock on the line, Mr. King,” Barbara said with enough authority to get King’s attention, but, without being overly rude.
Several seconds passed. Then another man came on the line. “This is Maxwell Comstock. Who is this?”
“Mr. Comstock, this is Detective Barbara Lassiter of the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
CHAPTER 5
“What do you think of the ice princess?” Barbara asked as she and Susan exited Comstock’s building.
“Very interesting. No ‘Poor woman!’ or ‘Who did it?’ or ‘How could this happen?’ Her only reaction was ‘Poor Maxwell!’ ”
“There was also that little hesitation when she told us about Comstock’s flight to L.A.,” Barbara added. “You notice she didn’t answer my question about whether Comstock was actually aboard the flight she’d booked for him.”
“Yeah. Wonder what she’s hiding?”
“We need to put out an APB on Constance Alban. Maybe we can get information about her from UNM.”
“Good idea,” Susan said. “I’ll call in the APB from the car.”
“Let’s go back to the station,” Barbara suggested. “You can call the airline and then see what you can find on the Alban girl while I take Isabelle Parra’s statement. If you have time, why don’t you try to get a phone number for Marge Stanley? If we’re lucky, she’ll have a listed number in Farmington, Aztec, or Bloomfield.”
“Something else is strange,” Susan said. “Turner said the Comstocks were adopting Constance Alban. Who the hell adopts an eighteen-year-old? Most people I know with teenagers want to get rid of them.”
Susan had good contacts at America West Airlines because her husband was one of its employees. She got through to the operations center, while Barbara asked a four-one-one operator for a Stanley listing in Farmington. Susan was put through to Kirk, an operations specialist at the airline. She’d met him at a couple of company Christmas parties. At each, he’d made it clear he’d be interested in much more than conversation and was not at all concerned she was married. Susan found absolutely nothing attractive or interesting about Kirk; especially because Kirk had quite a reputation as a successful skirt chaser. The guy was a sleaze. She felt a pain in the pit of her stomach as she remembered the scene Manny had made when he found Kirk talking to her at last year’s party.
“Susan Martinez,” Kirk sang into the phone. “How can I help you . . . I’ve got some ideas.”
“This isn’t a social call, so cool it,” she said. “I need you to assist the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department with a homicide.”
She heard disappointment in Kirk’s voice. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll help you, but, remember, you’ll owe me.” He laughed. “What can I do to help?”
“I need to confirm a reservation on your eight-thirty flight from Albuquerque to Los Angeles last night.”
“What’s the passenger’s
name?” Kirk asked.
“Maxwell Comstock.” She spelled the last name.
“Homicide,” Kirk said, the sound of tapping on a computer keyboard in the background. “This is really about an honest-to-God murder?”
“That’s right,” Susan answered.
“Jeez,” he said in a breathy voice. “This guy Comstock’s the killer?”
“Now, now,” Susan said in a syrupy voice. “You know I can’t disclose that kind of information.”
“Oh, of course,” Kirk said. “Here it is. Comstock, Maxwell. First class, seat 2A. Flight left at eight-thirty on the button. Connected through Phoenix.”
Susan stopped short of saying, Shit! “I appreciate your help,” she said instead. Then she heard Kirk say, “Whoops.”
Susan’s pulse leaped. “What was that?” she asked.
“The plane left on time, but Mr. Comstock wasn’t on board.” Pause. “So sad, too bad. He had a non-refundable ticket.”
That’s not his only stroke of bad luck, Susan thought. “Do me another favor,” she said. “Check to see if Mr. Comstock booked a reservation on one of your later flights.”
More computer key-clicking. Then, “Well, well,” Kirk said, “six a.m. flight today to LAX. Maxwell Comstock. And, this time, he caught the flight.”
“Thanks,” Susan shouted, and hung up. She left her desk and walked to the interview room where Barbara took Isabelle Parra’s statement. She knocked and stepped inside. Susan smiled at Parra and asked Barbara, “Can you take a break for a second?”
Barbara shut off the video recorder and left the room with Susan. “What’s up?”
“Comstock was not on the plane to L.A. last night. He didn’t leave town until early this morning.”
“I’ll be damned. I’m almost finished with the maid. How about you work on a search warrant of Comstock’s office while I finish up?”
Thirty minutes later, Susan returned with a search warrant in hand and found Barbara on the telephone.
Barbara covered the mouthpiece of her phone and mouthed, “Marge Stanley.”
Susan punched the lighted button on her telephone console, carefully raised the receiver, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand. She pressed it against her ear as she listened to the conversation in progress.
