Borderline

by Joseph Badal

  Barbara had the squad room all to herself in the evening. Susan was off somewhere else. She had been very mysterious about whatever it was she was up to. Two of the male detectives were off for the evening and the other two had been called to a shooting on Interstate 40, out on the west side of the city. Barbara half-listened to the police scanner while she filled out paperwork about the interviews they’d conducted. She pieced together the events out on the interstate. Apparently, a deputy had made a routine traffic stop of a van with expired Illinois plates. The occupants shot at and wounded the deputy who returned fire and killed two men in the van. A third man surrendered. The trio had fifty kilos of Mexican brown heroin in their vehicle.

  Between radio transmissions, Barbara thought about Lieutenant Salas’s threat to remove Susan and her from the Comstock case. She knew she was as good as any of the men in the department, but she also knew it would be a slam against her and Susan if Salas replaced them on the case. Women couldn’t get the job done, so men had to come to the rescue.

  It was after 7p.m. She would normally have already stopped at some bar and had a couple of shooters. Maybe a beer, too. Then she’d go home and take the edge off with a shot of bourbon before going to bed. It was two days since she’d had a drink. What harm would come from having one on her way home tonight? She grabbed her purse from her desk drawer, stood, and lifted the Comstock case file from her desk. But before she reached the door, Susan burst into the room.

  “Am I glad I caught you,” Susan said, her voice loud with excitement. She looked at the purse strapped over Barbara’s shoulder and at the file under her arm. “You on your way home?”

  Barbara felt her face warm as she nodded.

  Susan took Barbara’s arm. “I gotta show you something.”

  Barbara allowed herself to be led back to her desk, where she deposited the file and her purse and sat down. “What the hell are you so worked up about?”

  “Oh, nothing really,” Susan said with a smile. She pulled a file from her purse, placed it on the desk in front of Barbara, and opened it with a flourish. “These, my dear Detective Lassiter, are photocopies of three complaints against your hunk of a psychiatrist, Doctor Stein. Each was filed against Stein for inappropriate relationships with female patients.”

  “Where’d you get them?” Barbara asked.

  “Remember that cousin of mine who works for the Medical Association. She sorta slipped copies of them to me.”

  Barbara scanned the first document and, after a minute, looked up at Susan. “What’s your point? Some man got torqued because Stein slept with his wife. So the guy filed this complaint. It’s an ethics violation, not a felony. You do recall that our business is murder, not adultery?”

  “Look at the next complaint in the file.”

  Barbara read the second complaint and this time her eyebrows arched and she felt a burning sensation in her gut. “Unbelievable,” she said. “He got it on with a fourteen-year-old girl under treatment for schizophrenia?”

  “Yep. Our boy Stein is an equal opportunity fornicator. And you know what, the last time I looked, having sex with a teenybopper is a felony. The third complaint was filed by the parents of a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Were charges filed against him?” Barbara asked.

  “I checked,” Susan said. “Nothing. Apparently, the parents didn’t want their kids dragged into court and through the news media. After all, these two teenagers and his other victim already had severe mental problems. The last thing they needed was public exposure. All their families wanted was for Stein to be booted out of the medical profession along with a cash settlement.”

  “And?”

  “Again, nothing,” Susan said. “The Medical Review Committee couldn’t do a thing about it. It was Stein’s word against individuals who had histories of mental instability. One of the teenagers had made similar complaints about two of her previous physicians and another one refused to testify. The third victim, the woman, proved to be so unstable a witness that her testimony had to be discounted.”

  I need a drink, Barbara thought. “This is all very interesting,” she said. “I’ll accept the fact that Dr. Stein is a bad boy, but what does any of this have to do with our case?”

  Susan displayed a Cheshire cat smile. “We already know that Connie Alban is a patient of Stein’s. You wanna bet Stein was getting it on with Connie. That’s why he didn’t tell us she was his patient. If he was sleeping with Connie, and Victoria found out about it and threatened to expose him, Klein would be in deep kimshi. Not a bad motive for murder.”

  Susan could go off half-cocked at times, but Barbara knew she also had the best instincts of any cop with whom she’d ever worked. But, in this instance, Susan’s imagination might be out of control. “That’s a lot of conjecture.”

  “Maybe. But let me share another if with you. What if Stein also made the two-humped beast with Victoria, at the same time he was doing Connie, and Victoria found out about it? That would have set her off like a Roman candle.”

  “I think your imagination is on an acid trip.”

  Susan ignored Barbara’s remark. “Maybe we should have another chat with Connie before we meet with Dr. Stein. I’ll call that attorney McWilliams and tell him we’d like to meet again with his client. He might still be at his office, from what I’ve heard about his working habits.”

  Susan moved to her own desk and pulled out the phone book. While she searched for McWilliams’s number, Barbara’s cell phone rang.

  “Detective Lassiter, homicide.”

  “Detective, this is Deputy Franken. I checked out the Comstocks’ neighbors like you asked. You know, about the dark-blue Chevy pickup?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I got a hit,” Franken said. “An old gal across the street who doesn’t sleep very well. She was out of town when we last canvassed the neighborhood. She saw a pickup truck roar down the Comstock driveway and screech onto the street.”

  “Must have been too dark out for her to see the color and make of the vehicle,” Barbara said.

  “Hah,” Franken said, “that’s exactly what I said to her. She walks me outside and points to her fence. Says the pickup slammed into it when it shot out of the driveway and skidded across the road. The fence is white. But one of the fence posts has a dark-blue paint smear on it. Then she hands me this piece of plastic. It’s a Chevy insignia, must have been scraped off the truck when it hit the fence.”

  “So, how come she didn’t file a report about the damage to her fence?”

  “She did,” Franken said. “It was buried in a stack of paperwork. No one ever made the connection.”

  Wonderful! Barbara thought. She felt suddenly excited, but forced herself to remain calm. “Good work, Franken.”

  “One other thing, Detective,” Franken said. “The neighbor told me she heard a couple “booms” just before the pickup hit her fence. Said they sounded like gunshots.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Barbara called Lieutenant Salas at his home and briefed him on the information provided by Deputy Franken. She could hear Salas tapping on the other end of the line. Probably has a metal ruler at home, too, she thought.

  “It doesn’t look good for Marge Stanley,” Salas said. “If we can confirm that her pickup has damage that bears out what Franken told us, we’ll get a warrant for her arrest. That woman’s in the middle of this case every time we turn around.”

  Barbara didn’t respond.

  “Did you hear me, Lassiter?” Salas growled.

  “I just don’t think she did it,” Barbara said. “We get a warrant and it’ll be all over the news. You know damned well the D.A.’s office has a direct line to the press. If we can’t pin the murder on her, we’ll all look like idiots.”

  “We already look like idiots. I told you and Martinez I’ve got the sheriff and half the city council on my ass about this case. If we bring Marge Stanley in, maybe we’ll be able to get some breathing room.”

  “What if she’s innocent?�
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  “Then we’ll issue an apology and send her a dozen roses.”

  “You sure about this, Lieutenant?”

  “What am I, speaking Latin here? Do I need to find a detective who will follow orders?”

  “Your wish is my command, Chief,” Barbara said.

  “Huh,” Salas grunted. “I’ll call and get an arrest warrant. Pick it up on your way to wherever Marge Stanley is.”

  “Don’t you want to wait until we inspect her vehicle?” Barbara said.

  “No, I don’t want to wait.” He hung up the phone.

  “Shit! That idiot Salas wants us to arrest Marge Stanley,” Barbara shouted.

  “I think that would be the logical next step if we find the paint on that fence post matches her pickup,” Susan said.

  “I just don’t buy that she’s the perp.”

  “You’d better watch that female intuition, Partner. It makes the men around here very nervous.”

  “That’s another advantage we’ve got over those assholes. Did Marge Stanley tell you when she would return to Farmington?”

  “Thursday; tomorrow,” Susan said.

  “You have her cell phone number handy?”

  Susan pulled her notebook from her purse and leafed through the pages until she found Stanley’s number.

  “How ‘bout calling her; tell her we’d like to talk with her again?” Then Barbara added, “Maybe you were right when you said the killer could be a woman.”

  “Huh,” Susan said. “I also said it could be a man in drag. Don’t get your hopes up, partner. I agree with you. I don’t think Marge Stanley is the killer. I think she’s a gutsy broad who’s been handed a raw deal. First, her husband cheats on her, then he kills himself, and now her daughter’s gone around the bend.”

  “Yeah,” Barbara said, “and all or any of that could be motive for murder.”

  Susan sighed and nodded. “I hate it when you argue against your own argument. By the way, did you notice any damage to her truck when you checked out the license plate the other day?”

  “Nah, the lights in the underground garage are not that great. Besides, I wasn’t looking for vehicle damage.”

  Barbara called Marge Stanley’s cell phone. No answer.

  “Let’s drive by the fairgrounds.” Barbara said.

  They left the squad room, picked up the warrant for Marge Stanley’s arrest, and went down to the underground garage. Barbara drove the unmarked east on Interstate-40 and exited on Louisiana, then turned south to the fairgrounds. She drove around the several acres of fairground parking lots that were near the horse arena. But at this late hour, there were only a few dozen vehicles in the lots. The blue Chevrolet pickup wasn’t one of them. Barbara and Susan then drove to Stanley’s motel on Central Avenue.

  It had once been one of the city’s largest and better motels. But that was more than forty years earlier, before the arrival of the Interstates, when Central was Route 66, the main east-west route through Albuquerque. But, since then, Central Avenue had dropped down three or four rungs on the economic ladder. East Indians now owned the motel and catered to those travelers who couldn’t afford the more pricey hotels, or who wanted a room for only an hour or so, or who, like Marge, chose it for its proximity to the fairgrounds.

  They cruised the motel parking lot, but there was no blue pickup there. Susan badged the desk clerk and learned that Stanley hadn’t checked out. She handed the clerk one of her cards and told him to call if Stanley returned. She returned to the Crown Vic. “Apparently, she’s still in town,” Susan told Barbara. “She hasn’t checked out.”

  Barbara tried Stanley’s cell phone again. Still no answer. She left a message.

  “Looks like we do the thing we love the most,” Susan said. “We sit on our asses and wait for something to happen.”

  Barbara laughed. “Let’s grab a couple of burgers and Cokes before the stakeout.”

  “Sounds good,” Susan said.

  The driveup window at the Wendy’s was backed up ten cars. Susan pointed to a space in the lot and said she’d run inside to get their food. When she returned, she announced, “They were all out of hamburgers and Cokes, so I got us salads and iced teas.”

  “Bullshit!” Barbara said. Then she smiled at Susan. “How did you know I’m on a diet?”

  “Hey, you’ve already lost a few pounds. Think I didn’t notice?”

  They were halfway through their meals when Barbara suddenly groaned. “Dammit, dammit, dammit! How could I be so stupid?”

  “What?” Susan said.

  “Marge Stanley’s father and mother. They live in Albuquerque. I bet she’s over there.”

  “Over where?” Susan asked.

  “I put their names in my notebook. When Marge told me she was at her parent’s house the night of the murder.”

  She dug the notebook out of her purse and thumbed through the pages until she found information for Roger and Cybil Stanley. She recited the telephone number for Susan, who called the Stanley’s number, but no one answered the call.

  “You have the Stanley’s home address?” Susan asked.

  “No. Try the computer. Try DMV records.”

  After a couple minutes, Susan said, “Nothing in the computer and the DMV system is down. Maybe Connie can tell us where her grandparents live. Let’s call her.”

  “Assuming she’s where she told us she would be, at Rebecca Sartell’s house. And, do you want to get in a pissing match with her attorney? He won’t like us calling his precious client.”

  “It’s not like I’ll ask her if she murdered Victoria,” Susan said. “Give me Connie’s number.”

  Barbara leafed through her notebook again and gave Susan the number.

  “Yes?” Connie’s voice.

  “Hey, Connie.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Detective Martinez.”

  “Oh.” The girl sounded surprised, but recovered quickly. “Mr. McWilliams said I wasn’t supposed to talk to you unless he was with me.”

  “Just a quick question. We’re trying to locate your mother. Could you tell us your grandparents’ address?”

  “Why do you want to talk with my mother? Are you finally going to arrest her for murdering Victoria?”

  Susan didn’t answer the girl. “Why don’t you give me the address, Connie?”

  “It’s about damn time you went after my mother. But what do my grandparents have to do with any of this?”

  Susan tried to suppress the anger that suddenly bubbled to the surface. She was plenty tired of this teenager’s bullshit. “Listen, you either give me your grandparents’ address, or we’ll come over there right now and haul your ass to headquarters. We can just as easily question you down there.”

  “My lawyer—”

  “Screw your lawyer,” Susan shouted. “Give him a call. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to come downtown at this hour. You’ve got three seconds.”

  Susan heard Connie mumble something that sounded like “Raving bitch!” She was about to say that the girl’s three seconds were up, when Connie blurted out an address, and then slammed down the phone.

  Barbara drove north to an upper middle class neighborhood of semi-custom homes and mature landscaping across from the Arroyo del Oso Golf Course. Connie’s grandparents lived on a four-house cul-de-sac. Marge’s big blue Chevy pickup truck was parked against the curb.

  While Barbara shined her flashlight into the interior of the truck, Susan used her own flashlight to inspect its exterior. She bent over and slowly moved around the truck; rubbed a hand against its metal skin. There was damage to the right front bumper. She continued around the vehicle and straightened up as Barbara met her at the rear of the pickup. Susan pointed her flashlight at the tailgate and said, “Lotta little dents back here. Chipped paint.”

  Barbara pointed at a spot on the right rear panel, where the model insignia should have been. “The body’s scraped and slightly dented and there are white paint chips embedded in the panel.”

/>   CHAPTER 33

  Susan rang the doorbell at the Stanley house. A man opened the door. He was tall and gangly, with unruly, sparse white hair and a ruddy complexion. He had sharp features.

  “Yes?” the man said.

  “Mr. Stanley?” Susan asked.

  “Yes, I’m Roger Stanley. What can I do for you?”

  Susan flipped open her ID. “Detective Susan Martinez. This is my partner, Detective Lassiter. We’re with the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s office. Is Marge Stanley here?”

  “Why?” Roger Stanley asked.

  “You need to show us where Ms. Stanley is right now.”

  The man glared at Susan and looked as though he was about to object.

  Barbara said in a soft, reasonable tone, “I suggest you cooperate with us, Mr. Stanley.”

  The man shook his head and sighed. “Follow me.”

  Susan and Barbara followed Stanley through the house and out onto the back patio, where Marge and an older woman sat at a table illuminated by roof-mounted flood lights. A game of Monopoly was apparently in progress.

  “Marge Stanley, we need you to come downtown with us,” Susan announced. “We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Victoria Jean Comstock.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” Roger Stanley shouted as he stepped forward. He blocked Barbara’s view of Marge.

  “Get away from my baby,” the older woman screamed, as she stood and positioned herself between her husband and her daughter.

  Marge seemed to be the only one of the Stanleys staying calm. She simply stood up.

  Barbara shouldered Roger Stanley aside, while Susan stepped forward and cuffed Marge. Roger Stanley attempted to get to his daughter, but Barbara kept him away. He tried to block them at the patio door, without success. He was tall, but frail; no match for Barbara.

  They rushed Marge through the house and out the front door to their vehicle.

  “Well, that went really well,” Marge said from the back seat of the unmarked. “Why the hell didn’t you just call and ask me to come down to the station?”