Woman With a Gun_A Novel

by Phillip Margolin

Jack walked into the Siletz County district attorney’s office at five forty-five and found Teddy Winston, Archie Denning, and George Melendez waiting for him in the conference room. Jack took a seat next to Winston.

  Pictures from the Crouse crime scene were spread out on the conference room table. Jack watched a lot of football and he had vague memories of Crouse being interviewed on ESPN after a game. Jack remembered a clean-shaven man with a high forehead and jutting jaw. He also remembered the menace the running back projected. There had been something about his eyes and the way he stood that convinced Jack that he would not want to be alone with Crouse in a dark alley.

  Death had sapped Crouse of all his violent energy. In the crime scene photographs the muscles in his face were placid, the jaw slack. Jack’s eyes were drawn to a close-up of the left side of Crouse’s head where a hole and a halo of blood gave him a graphic explanation of how the ex-Raider had died.

  “How long has he been dead?” Jack asked.

  “The ME thinks he was killed on Monday evening.”

  “So the evening of the day that Cahill was murdered,” Jack said.

  Winston nodded. “The way I figure it, Crouse robs Cahill and leaves with the loot in the trunk of his car. His accomplice meets him. The driver’s window was down when they found Crouse, so he wasn’t worried when his killer came up to the car.” Winston made a gun out of his fingers. “Bang! One shot in the head. The blood-splatter pattern confirms that Crouse was seated behind the wheel when he was shot.

  “The keys to Crouse’s car were on the seat next to him but there’s no blood on top of the keys, just the bottom, where they lay in Crouse’s blood. So the theory is that the murderer takes the keys out of the ignition, opens the trunk, and takes out the coins, stamps, et cetera, but one coin accidentally drops into the trunk. Then he tosses the keys back in the car and leaves.”

  “That makes sense,” Jack said.

  “One thing is clear,” Winston said. “Megan Cahill is innocent. She couldn’t have killed Crouse. She was with Kathy Moran, police, or in the hospital during the time Crouse was murdered.”

  Jack thought about that. “There could be a third person. Megan and this third person get Crouse involved. Then the third person kills Crouse while Megan is in the hospital, giving her an alibi.”

  “Why are you so set on Megan being involved?” Winston asked.

  “There’s just something about her,” Jack said. “She knew all about Cahill’s collection, she profits financially from the murder, she was caught with the murder weapon . . .”

  “About the murder weapon,” Winston said. “You said you thought she would have thrown it in the ocean if Kathy Moran hadn’t found her on the beach before she could get rid of it.”

  “Yes?” Jack said.

  “Why didn’t she kill Kathy? Here’s a witness who catches her red-handed with the murder weapon right after she’s killed her husband. It’s the middle of the night with no witnesses to see her do the deed. Why didn’t Megan just shoot Kathy?”

  Jack had to think about that. Everyone waited to hear what he would say but he couldn’t think of anything.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do. She didn’t shoot Kathy because she’s not a killer. And who is this mysterious third person?” Winston asked.

  “Gary Kilbride,” Jack answered. “He was in town when the robbery and Crouse’s murder took place, he had a copy of the Palisades Heights Gazette that ran a story about Cahill’s collection, and he is an ultraviolent psycho who’d have no compunctions about killing Crouse.”

  “That won’t wash, Jack,” Winston said. “How would Megan or Crouse know about Kilbride, or vice versa? Crouse and Mrs. Cahill were raised in Texas, then they were in Oakland, California, when Crouse played for the Raiders. Kilbride was incarcerated in an Oregon prison for five years and he wasn’t released until shortly before the robbery-murder.”

  “And even if Mrs. Cahill is guilty as sin,” Melendez said, “we can’t prove it. Crouse lost everything in a vicious divorce. He would have every reason to do her and her new husband harm. And there’s no getting around the fact that she was hit on the head with a lot of violence. Plus, as Teddy said, there’s no way she could have killed Crouse. If she’s in this we certainly don’t have anywhere near the evidence we’d need to get an indictment.”

  Jack sighed. “You’re definitely right about the indictment. I don’t believe in going for one unless I feel that the person I’m after is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. My gut tells me Megan may be guilty, but I can’t say I’d convict her based on the evidence we have if I was on her jury.

  “By the way, did you find anything on Kilbride’s cell phone that links him to someone in Palisades Heights?” Jack asked.

  “No,” Melendez answered. “And we had no luck with that midnight call. It was made from a disposable cell. So the call is a dead end.”

  Jack was relieved that the call had not been traced to Kathy.

  “So what do we do now?” the police chief asked.

  “I’ve got people watching for any sign of the stolen property,” Archie Denning said, “but, from what Frank Janowitz said, that’s a long shot.”

  “As things stand,” Winston said, “I don’t think we can do anything. Crouse is dead, there’s not enough evidence against Megan Cahill to take to a grand jury, and we have no idea who killed Crouse. We’re at a standstill unless some new evidence is uncovered.”

  The meeting didn’t break up until after six and Jack didn’t feel like driving back to Salem. It occurred to him that Kathy would be tending bar at the Seafarer. He was disappointed in the way the case was going but the thought of seeing Kathy brought a smile to his face.

  The tavern was only half full when he walked in the door and there were plenty of seats at the bar. During the four days since they had walked on the beach he had thought about calling Kathy but he had restrained himself because she was still a witness.

  Kathy smiled when she spotted Jack. “Did you drive all the way from Salem for the clam chowder?”

  “No, but that would certainly be a valid reason.”

  “Then was it to see me?”

  “Another good reason for the trek, but that’s not it, either. Teddy called me. They found Parnell Crouse. Someone shot him to death on a logging road about twenty miles from here.”

  “My God! Do they know who did it?”

  “No, but his death creates a problem. There was evidence in Crouse’s car linking him to the robbery. If we’d arrested him he could have told us what happened, but we’re at a dead end now. Megan Cahill couldn’t have killed Crouse because she was in the hospital when he was shot and we have no evidence that tells us who did kill him.”

  “What happens now?” Kathy asked.

  “Nothing unless we catch a break.”

  “So everything just stops?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Nothing. Teddy has your statement. If they do make an arrest you’ll probably testify at the grand jury. Which reminds me, what is Teddy doing about Gary Kilbride?”

  “He told me I don’t have to worry. They’re treating it as self-defense.”

  “As they should.”

  “I don’t think they’re even convening a grand jury. Teddy said it would be a waste of taxpayer money.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’ve got some news of my own,” Kathy said.

  “Oh?”

  “After the Oregonian printed my photograph of Megan Cahill I received requests from several other papers, including the New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Los Angeles Times. So the picture was published all over, and a New York gallery asked to see my portfolio. They called this morning. They want me to do a show and they’re going to fly me to New York.

  “And that’s not all. I show in a gallery in L.A. and they want me to do a show, too.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “I’m really excited.”
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  “You should be. So you’ll be doing a lot of traveling?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Well, I’m really glad for you.”

  A customer took a seat at the bar and Kathy had to break away to fill his drink order. Jack tried the oyster stew for a change, and he wasn’t disappointed. When she wasn’t busy with other customers, Kathy spent time with Jack. He thought about asking her if she wanted to spend the night, but the case was still open and making a move didn’t seem right.

  A little after eleven Jack’s eyes got heavy. He was too tired to drive back to Salem so he said good-bye and found a motel near the beach.

  The next morning, a misty drizzle lowered the temperature and forced Jack to use his windshield wipers when he started back to the capital. The depressing weather fit his mood. He was frustrated about the case and unsure of what to do about Kathy Moran.

  Part Five

  PALISADES HEIGHTS

  2015

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was in the low nineties and the humidity had gotten worse by quitting time, but Stacey Kim was so excited by her idea of writing a novel inspired by Woman with a Gun that she hardly noticed the weather. Stacey rode the subway to her stop, then bought a take-out chicken Caesar salad and a cold drink at a neighborhood grocery store before walking the three blocks to her apartment.

  The price of housing in Manhattan had shocked Stacey and all she had been able to afford was a third-floor walk-up in Chelsea that was so small that her foldout sofa almost touched all four walls when she converted it into a bed. There was a window air conditioner that rattled when it ran, the heat only worked intermittently in winter, there was a constant drip in the bathroom sink, and her “kitchen” was a microwave oven. When she moved in, the apartment had seemed romantic. Now, it just felt claustrophobic.

  A folding card table served as Stacey’s desk and dining room table. When she made her sofa into a bed at night the table had to be folded up and moved into the narrow hall that led from the front door to her living room. Stacey set her food down on the table and ate her salad while she looked through the catalogue of the Museum of Modern Art exhibit. According to a brief biography in the introduction, Kathy Moran had practiced law in Oregon for five years before moving to Palisades Heights, a beach community on the Oregon coast, to pursue her true passion, photography.

  Moran supported herself by tending bar and selling her photographs for small sums at galleries in Oregon, Washington, and California. The work was exceptional, but Moran’s career did not take off until her photograph of Megan Cahill won the Pulitzer Prize and catapulted her work into public prominence.

  According to the introduction, Moran’s enigmatic photograph had been compared to Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Stacey could see why some people would make that comparison. People wondered what had prompted the enigmatic smile on the lips of the woman in Leonardo’s masterpiece. Moran’s photograph made Stacey wonder what had brought the woman in it to the edge of the sea, armed with an ancient six-shooter. The rest of the introduction focused on Moran’s photography, and Stacey learned that the MoMA exhibition was comprised of works, some early, some more recent, that had been donated by private collectors.

  After Stacey finished eating, she booted up her laptop and ran an Internet search on Kathy Moran and her famous photograph. She learned that the woman with the gun was Megan Cahill and the photograph had been taken on her wedding night minutes before the body of her husband, multimillionaire Raymond Cahill, had been discovered in their beach house in Palisades Heights, Oregon.

  As she read, Stacey thought about the plot of her novel. What would have to happen to cause a bride to murder her groom on their wedding night? That question would be at the heart of her novel, if she made the bride the killer. In her novel, the wife might be guilty or innocent. Her fictional wife’s fate would depend on the way Stacey decided the plot would twist.

  Stacey wasn’t going to write a true crime book. The real case would only be the inspiration for her novel. But to make the world she created in her novel seem real, Stacey knew she would have to interview the people who had been part of the Cahill case and see the locations that figured in it firsthand. Stacey had grown up in the Midwest, far from the ocean, and she had never seen the Pacific. What did the wind off the ocean feel like when Megan Cahill stood on the shore, looking out to sea? What did the sand feel like as she walked across the beach from her house? If the descriptions in her novel and her characters were going to come alive, Stacey would have to visit Palisades Heights and the Cahill beach house.

  Stacey opened her purse and took out her checkbook. After looking at her balance, she made a decision. Moving across the country to Oregon would be easy. She had no ties to New York, she had no social life here, and she hated her job and her apartment. She was renting by the month and she would give notice at her job. Meanwhile, she would learn as much as she could about the Cahill case and make a list of people who could help with her research.

  Stacey felt like a runner at the start of a race as she brought up a fresh page on her laptop. Her heart beat fast and she could barely stay seated as she typed MEGAN CAHILL and KATHY MORAN on it. It would be terrific if she could interview them. But how would she get them to talk to her?

  Stacey got an idea. She added HENRY BAKER to the list. He had been Megan’s defense attorney. Ten years had passed since the murder, but he might know how to contact Megan and he would be a great person to talk to. He could tell her how to investigate a murder case in addition to helping her develop her characters.

  A moment later, Stacey added JACK BOOTH to the list. He was a special prosecutor with the Oregon Department of Justice who had been assigned to assist the local district attorney. He would be able to tell her how a prosecutor prepares for trial. Maybe he would put her in touch with forensic experts and detectives who would tell her about preserving a crime scene and how a crime lab processes evidence.

  Stacey thought of something. She looked at the clock. It was six forty-five in New York but it would be three forty-five in Oregon. She did a Web search for Jack Booth and found a number in Portland for his law office. She felt a tingling in her stomach as she punched in the number on her cell phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Seconds before he came, Jack Booth caught sight of the clock on Mildred Downey’s end table. It was almost six and he had to be in court at nine so he pumped harder, came quickly, then rolled onto his back and took a few deep breaths before heading for the bathroom to shower and shave.

  Jack had been seeing Mildred for two months. They’d met when he deposed one of her clients and there had been an immediate attraction on both their parts. Like Jack, Mildred was a hard drinker and a dynamo in the sack. More important, she was not into “relationships” and “commitment,” which made her a perfect companion for Jack, whose alimony payments had eaten up a good part of his sizable income.

  Mildred was sitting up against the headboard, naked, with the sheets at her waist when Jack walked out of the bathroom and crossed to the chair where he’d carefully arranged his clothes the evening before. Mildred didn’t say a word while he dressed.

  “Got to go,” Jack said when he was done.

  Jack had his hand on the doorknob when Mildred spoke.

  “Don’t I even get a kiss good-bye?”

  Jack hesitated before walking back to the bed. He kissed Mildred and fondled one of her breasts. Mildred ran her fingers lightly across Jack’s earlobe. He savored the sensation for a moment before pulling away.

  “You’re tempting me, Millie, but I have to be in Judge Farrell’s court at nine, and you know how cranky he can get if you’re late.”

  “I could tell you had a trial this morning. You were thinking about your case the whole time we were screwing.”

  “That’s not true,” Jack protested.

  “Save the bullshit, Jack. Look, this isn’t working.”

  “Hey, Millie, when we’re making love I’m onl
y thinking about you.”

  Mildred smiled. “You’re a bad liar, and you’re not even a good lay anymore. I can tell when a man loses interest.”

  Jack frowned. “I thought you didn’t want a commitment. I thought we both wanted to have fun without any ties.”

  “That’s absolutely true. Two bad marriages were enough.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “But I do expect a little enthusiasm in bed, and it’s obvious that you’ve just been going through the motions lately. So I think it’s time we called it quits. No hard feelings. You’re a great guy.”

  Jack snuck a quick look at the clock. “Can we talk about this later over drinks?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. You’ll realize that, when you have the time to think about something other than your case.”

  Jack wanted to say something nice but he couldn’t think of what to say. He wasn’t mad or even hurt. And that told him that Mildred was right to end it.

  “I’ll call you,” was the best he could come up with as he left. On the way down in the elevator he wasn’t angry, embarrassed, or the least bit upset about being dumped. If he was experiencing any emotion it was relief. He wondered about that.

  Jack loved to win. He got a thrill out of crushing an opposing lawyer. But aside from that, what gave him an emotional high? There was the thrill of a sexual conquest but that didn’t last long, and the older he got, the more effort it took to form even a temporary attachment.

  What did he do when he wasn’t trying cases or preparing for trial? Drink and smoke. Where had the zest for life gone? Hell, he was only forty-three. He was rich, successful. He had a fabulous condo with a terrific view. He should be happy, but his work was the only thing in his life that brought him joy.

  Jack walked out of Mildred’s building into the sunlight. It was a perfect day. He had a case to try and he couldn’t wait to get to court because he had a delightful surprise planned for opposing counsel. So Jack walled off his emotions—something he was very good at—got in his car, and headed for court.