Fractures: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  “How aggressive do you want to be?”

  “Aggressive enough to get the truth out of her.”

  “You could call her a whore, like you did Susan.” He smiled.

  “If that’s what it takes to make her uncomfortable, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  With the recent snow, it was hard to recognize the landscape as we snaked up the hill. The car bottomed out as the pavement turned to gravel, hidden beneath the blanket of snow. We parked near the entrance to the big house hanging over the cliff. Next to us was a small black Nissan.

  I rang the doorbell. When the door opened, I recognized the housekeeper but didn’t remember her name. “Policemen,” she said to us.

  Ryan said, “Ms. Hidalgo, Detectives Seagate and Miner. Is Ms. Rossman home?”

  “She with the reverend now,” the housekeeper said, pointing to the black car parked next to the Charger.

  “Can we wait?” Ryan said.

  “Yes, you wait.” She waved us in. “This way,” she said, leading us down the hall with the glass walls overlooking the river and the reservoir. The reservoir was a mean-looking grey, with a white collar of snow. “I tell her.”

  We were in the library, bigger than my living room. It had two matching high-back chairs, in burgundy leather, and a black love seat. Each chair had a side table with a tall brass reading light. The shelves were oak, stretching to the ten-foot ceiling. A couple of ladders in matching oak were attached to tracks at the top so you could get the books above your head.

  I walked over to one of the sets of leather-bound books. “Complete Works of Twain, it says.”

  Ryan came over and took one of the volumes off the shelf. He opened it and looked at the first page.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “To see if it’s real.”

  “What?”

  “Some people—people rich enough to have rooms for their books—buy books by the foot to fill up the shelves. The books are fake. The pages are blank, or old newspapers.” He riffled the pages. “These are real.”

  “Can you tell if anyone read them?”

  “A hundred years ago, the pages were uncut when you bought them. Those, you could tell if they hadn’t been read.”

  I walked over to a large painting above one of the leather chairs. “Look at this,” I said. “It’s like the refrigerator art in Susan Warnock’s place.”

  Ryan came over and looked at it for a moment. Then he leaned in, focusing on the southwest corner, near where some blue stripes turned into some red ones. He pointed and turned to me.

  I pulled my reading glasses out of my big leather bag. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Detectives,” a voice said. I turned around. It was Florence Rossman. She was past the crying and sobbing, but she had put on a thicker layer of makeup, probably to hide the puffiness beneath her eyes. She wore a high-necked black sheath dress with a scalloped hem and chiffon sleeves, which showed off her well-toned arms. The only jewelry was a string of real pearls. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. I was with Reverend Chalmers. We were discussing Lee’s service.”

  “Not a problem,” I said.

  “Won’t you take a seat?” she said.

  “You look well.” Which is what you say to a woman who doesn’t. I’ve heard it a lot.

  “It’s been a tough few days.” She folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs. The sheer black stockings showed off her slim ankles. “I’ve found that staying busy is the best way to deal with unpleasant circumstances.” She paused. “I learned this from my parents.”

  I assumed she wanted me to follow up on that. “Your parents?”

  “They were killed in a boating accident when I was fifteen. I was raised by my auntie, my father’s sister, a single woman who ran a company. She interpreted her job as to help me make the transition from a well-off but spoiled girl to an independent woman who didn’t need to rely on a man for her economic security.”

  Just once, I’d like to meet a woman with money who says she’s never made a dime on her own, she has absolutely no skills or brains or ambition, and she wouldn’t know what she would do if the guy stopped supporting her. There’s got to be a rich woman like that.

  “And you made that transition,” I said.

  “I did. I was put on a small allowance. I began working immediately, worked my way through college. I created four or five different companies before I was twenty, and I made considerable profit from each of them. I started a van-rental business for college students. I imported Italian suede goods. Set up a local food co-op and managed to get the university dining halls to contract with them.”

  “That’s very impressive,” I said, my bullshit-detector beeping in my ears like the machine in the ICU hooked up to that poor bastard. My experience has been that people with remarkable accomplishments don’t talk about themselves—because everyone already knows. Me? I talk about myself almost every day. My name is Karen, and I’m an alcoholic.

  “How can I help you today?” Florence Rossman said, her head tilted a little to show I had her full attention and she would do what she could.

  I stood and walked over to the painting. “Do you know the person who painted this?”

  Florence Rossman looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, ‘Do you know the person who painted this?’”

  “That was something Lee bought.” She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Last year, he started to show some interest in art. He began to collect some pieces from a gallery downtown.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “As a matter of fact, it did. I’d never known that side of Lee. I suggested that he might consider getting in touch with some of the larger galleries—I mean, in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York. I thought some of their work might turn out to be better investments.”

  “How did Mr. Rossman respond to that?”

  “He said he wasn’t ready for that. He just liked this painting.” She smiled sadly and put up her hands in a what-are-you-going-to-do gesture.

  I walked back to the chair and sat down. “The artist is Susan Warnock.”

  Florence shook her head to say she didn’t recognize the name. “Is she a local artist?”

  “More of a stripper. At Johnny’s Lounge, downtown. Where Mr. Rossman’s body was found Monday morning. Your husband had a throwaway phone, which he used to call her.”

  She pulled back. “You’ve spoken with … what did you say her name is? Susan Warnock. You’ve talked with her?”

  “Yes, we did. A half-hour ago. She said she and Mr. Rossman were having an affair, that it’s been going on for some months.”

  Florence Rossman paused for a moment, and her gaze drifted over my shoulder. She swallowed hard, smoothed her black dress, and re-crossed her legs. “No,” she said, “I don’t know anything about that. I had not heard of her.”

  “Do you think she could be telling the truth, Ms. Rossman? I mean, that Mr. Rossman was having an affair?”

  She blinked a couple of times, rapidly. “Yes,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “She could be telling the truth.”

  “Could you tell us a little more about that?”

  “When I met Lee, he was in his fifties. I was in my thirties. I had no illusions about the sort of life he had led, the kind of relationships he had maintained.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Lee was a very ambitious, competitive man. In his culture—”

  “What culture was that, Ms. Rossman?”

  “The oil industry. He was a wildcat oilman. He never finished college—I was quite surprised to learn that he even attempted college at all. He started out working on the rigs. He earned good money—in cash, in an envelope—and if it there was any left at the end of the week, that surprised him. He liked American pickup trucks, American whiskey, and American women. I was aware that, when he was married the first time, there were rumors of affairs.”

  “And after the death of his first wife?”

  She sm
iled briefly and wet her lips. “Yes, there were numerous affairs.”

  “Did he ever have any affairs with women in the company?”

  She looked at me. “You know, Detective, I really can’t say.”

  “But you’re not particularly surprised to learn of a relationship with the stripper?”

  “Well, I am somewhat surprised—only in that I did not know he was involved with Ms. Warnock.”

  “But that she was a stripper?”

  “No.” She spoke slowly, as if she was thinking it through as she spoke. “That does not particularly surprise me. As I indicated, he liked women, and I do not believe that … that socioeconomic background was a factor.”

  “One other thing we need to ask about. Susan Warnock said that you were involved in a relationship, as well.”

  She was looking at her dress, smoothing it along a pleat. Her head jerked up. “Does that surprise you, Detective?”

  “That you’d be involved in a relationship?”

  She took a moment. “That she would say I am.”

  “I’ve been in this business for some years, Ms. Rossman. Really aren’t that many things surprise me. So let me just ask you outright: Were you in an extra-marital relationship?”

  She smiled. “I’d feel most comfortable if I knew the police were working diligently to determine who would want to hurt my husband, rather than asking me about my personal life.”

  “That didn’t really answer my question, now, did it, Ms. Rossman?”

  “Do you need a more direct answer?”

  “You understand how a cop thinks about these things,” I said. “If you were having an affair, that would suggest maybe you were having some problems in the marriage. Maybe you were making other plans. You know, with this other guy? Or that the guy had fallen for you hard and wasn’t your husband’s biggest fan. And one other thing I need to say. If you tell us you weren’t having an affair, but we find out you were—and it would probably take a couple hours, a day at the outside—it would make us look at you different.”

  “I see.” Her eyes were focused on a row of books over my shoulder. She was calculating her next move, thinking it through. “An adulterer and a liar, you’re saying. Not a person of a very high moral character, am I correct?”

  “I realize how that perspective is kind of obvious, but yes, I’d have to say that realizing you’re an adulterer and a liar makes us look at you harder. The adultery presents all sorts of motives. And the lying? Well, if you didn’t kill your husband—and your boyfriend didn’t kill him—I have to wonder why you didn’t simply tell us the truth. I can assure you, whether you were faithful to your husband or not—that kind of thing just doesn’t interest me apart from this investigation. And we don’t leak stuff like that to the media. You give us the name of your boyfriend, we track him down, find out you were with him that night and one of you can prove it. Simple as that: You’re not a suspect, he’s not a suspect.”

  “Yes, I can understand that logic.” Florence Rossman nodded. “At the risk of incurring those consequences, however, I’m going to say the following: I was not having an extramarital affair.”

  Chapter 19

  “Who was she doing?” I turned the engine over in the Charger. Usually the thing puts out a big, throaty roar, but all the snow was dampening the sound.

  “Don’t you want to start with whether she was telling the truth?” Ryan said.

  I eased out of the parking area in front of Lee and Florence Rossman’s big house and headed back toward town, the wide tires crunching the snow.

  I turned to him. “If you believed her that she wasn’t screwing someone, just give me your weapon and shield right now. You’re too stupid to be a cop—and that’s saying something.”

  Ryan laughed. “I just wanted to go step-by-step. All right, she was lying about having a lover. Do you know who the lover is?”

  “No, I have no idea. Do you?”

  “I think I do. Yes.”

  “Want me to stop the car so you can tell me?”

  “No, keep driving. It was Ron Eberly.”

  “The landman? How do you get that?”

  “They just fit.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “They look like they go together. I mean, physically. He’s the college football player—”

  “I don’t think he went to college.”

  “He’s the high-school football player. Good looking, athletic. More her age. Plus, he’s a little bit mysterious, maybe even dangerous. She’s the homecoming queen, very attractive. She’d go for the athlete.”

  “But she went for Lee Rossman.”

  “No,” Ryan said. “She married Lee. That doesn’t mean he’s her type. It could have been a decision—a business decision.”

  “You know, when she started talking about her parents dying in a boating accident, I got the impression that was a little story for our benefit.”

  “We scratch the surface a little, we’re going to find out Florence Rossman isn’t exactly who she says she is.”

  “Well, you scratch anybody’s surface … Still,” I said, “a woman put together as good as Florence, with a lot of money—and the potential to come into a lot more—she could attract a lot of fifty-year-old professional guys, you know, doctors, lawyers. No reason she has to settle for someone like Ron Eberly, who’s basically a door-to-door salesman.”

  “Sure, she could attract a lot of more presentable guys than Eberly. All I’m saying is I’ve got a hunch it’s him. Think about it. If Eberly and Lee Rossman go back a few decades, Eberly would be over at Lee’s house: dinners, parties. She’d know Eberly for four years, or however long she’s known Lee. The timing would be right for her to start looking for someone more her style. And Eberly’s got the shoulders,” Ryan said. “It’s all in the shoulders.”

  I thought about Ryan’s very impressive shoulders. I wasn’t sure I agreed with him that it was all in the shoulders. But he’s such a pussy about language, that would be his way of saying what it was all about. “If I grant you that point—”

  “If?” He showed me his wide grin.

  “If I grant you that point, what are we going to do with it?”

  “I can tell you what I would do with it. I’d visit Cheryl Garrity, tell her we know Lee Rossman was seeing Susan Warnock, and Florence Rossman was seeing Ron Eberly—”

  “And if she says how do you know any of this?”

  “We say phone records.”

  “What phone records tied Florence to Ron Eberly?” I said.

  “Florence’s phone records.”

  “We don’t have Florence’s phone records.”

  “Cheryl Garrity doesn’t know that,” Ryan said. “If she asks, we say it’s routine in a homicide. We check the victim’s phones and financials.”

  “So that gives us an opportunity to pump her on Ron Eberly,” I said.

  “That’s right. We put Cheryl on the defensive because she wasn’t forthcoming about Lee and Florence. She’ll tell us what we need to know about Eberly, and we’ll either like him more or rule him out.”

  “And if you’re wrong about Florence doing Ron Eberly?”

  “We’ll see it on her face. One thing for sure: If Lee was killed by one of his own people, Cheryl Garrity either knows who did it or can help us figure it out.”

  “Let’s stop by Rossman Mining and see if Ms. Garrity is available.” I drove us down the winding road back toward town. As we got closer, the roads got cleaner and easier to navigate. By the time we made it downtown, the streets were pocked with little patches of snow and ice but basically dry. I parked in the underground garage and we took the elevator to fourteen.

  Last time we were here was right after Lee’s murder made the news. Two days later, things looked like they’d returned to normal, at least on the surface. The receptionist looked up and greeted me and Ryan with a company-approved smile. I told her we wanted to see Cheryl Garrity. She got on the phone.

  A minute later Ch
eryl Garrity emerged from the hallway to the left of the reception area and led us back to her office. We all sat.

  “Thanks for taking the time to speak with us,” I said.

  Cheryl Garrity took the chair at her desk to let us know she wanted to get back to her work. “Do you have some news to tell me about your investigation?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “These things generally take a little longer than people expect. But we were hoping you could help us with something.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s about Ron Eberly,” I said. “We need to know a little bit more about him.”

  “Why are you interested in Ron?”

  “Here’s what we’ve learned since we spoke to you two days ago. Lee was having an affair with a woman named Susan Warnock, and Florence was having an affair with Ron Eberly.” I didn’t put any attitude on it. I’ve learned there’s no point trying to make people feel guilty that they waste our time. They basically don’t give a shit.

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t seem to react in any way. “Who is Susan Warnock?”

  “Ms. Warnock is a stripper at Johnny’s Lounge.”

  “Near where Lee’s body was found.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “In the alley next to it.”

  “She’s not associated with Rossman Mining in any way, is that correct?”

  “Other than having an affair with its president, that’s correct,” I said. “What can you tell us about her?”

  “Absolutely nothing. I had never heard the name before you said it.”

  “You and Lee weren’t that close personally? I mean, he wouldn’t talk with you about his extra-marital relationships?”

  “I’ve worked with Lee for close to twenty years, both here and at other locations. You and your partner here—you haven’t worked together nearly that long. Maybe you don’t know how work relationships evolve over time. There were times when we used to talk more, I mean, about our personal lives. Especially after the death of his first wife. I think he relied on me more then. But the last few years, with his marriage to Florence, it’s only natural that she has taken over much more of that role.”