The Undertaker's Widow

by Phillip Margolin

  Laura kissed Quinn. "I've been a bad wife. I promise not to mention the case or anything even remotely connected to law for the rest of our stay."

  "Good. Because even a single slip of the tongue will be severely punished."

  "Oh? What might you do?"

  "Hmm. Ravishing comes to mind."

  Laura fluttered her eyelids. "You mean that I'll be ravished if I say anything connected with law?"

  "You betcha."

  Laura smiled seductively and whispered, "Habeas corpus."

  [3]

  Lamar Hoyt, Jr., lived on the eighth floor of a brick and glass condominium near the Vista Bridge. Anthony flashed his badge at the security guard and told him not to announce the arrival of the detectives and the four uniformed officers who accompanied them. When they arrived at Junior's apartment, the officers stationed themselves on either side of the door and Dennis rang the bell. He had to press the button five times before an angry voice, thick with sleep, asked, "Who is it?"

  Anthony held his badge in front of the peephole and said, "Open up, police."

  The door swung open, revealing a huge living room decorated with low-slung, modern furniture of polished metal, glass and smooth woods. Anthony saw the lights of Portland through a floor-to-ceiling window that stretched across the outer wall of the apartment. The other walls were decorated with framed posters or paintings with a skiing theme. The top of a glass coffee table was covered with empty beer bottles, a half-filled bottle of red wine and an open pizza delivery box containing only the half-eaten remains of a slice of pepperoni and cheese.

  "Real class, Junior," Anthony said.

  "Ah, shit," Junior replied when he recognized the detective.

  Junior was wearing a dark blue silk bathrobe belted loosely at the waist. The robe hung open a little, exposing Junior's hairy legs and torso and a pair of bright red bikini underpants.

  "May we step inside, Mr. Hoyt?" Dennis asked.

  "No, you may not."

  "I'm afraid we have to insist," Dennis responded patiently.

  "I'm calling my lawyer."

  "Maybe you'd better do that," Anthony said. "Tell him to njieet you downtown."

  "Down . . . It's the middle of the night. I'm not going anywhere unless you've got a warrant."

  Dennis smiled and handed Hoyt his copy of a search warrant.

  "What's this about?" Junior asked nervously.

  Why don't we talk inside?"

  Junior backed away from the door. Dennis noticed a dining area in front of the picture window that was relatively clean. He motioned Junior toward it. Anthony took a seat at the head of a large dining table and Dennis sat beside him. Two policemen stationed themselves near Junior and he eyed them anxiously.

  "We have a new lead in your father's death and we need your help, Mr. Hoyt," Dennis said.

  "What kind of new lead?"

  Anthony took an autopsy photograph of Marie Ritter out of a manila envelope and handed it to Junior.

  "Jesus!" Junior said, dropping the picture the moment he saw what it was.

  "That's a curious reaction for someone who works in a funeral parlor," Dennis told Junior.

  "You didn't happen to know this woman, did you?" Anthony asked.

  Junior forced himself to look at the picture. He looked confused at first, then his expression changed. When he looked up, Junior's eyes shifted nervously between the detectives.

  "You are two sick fucks, you know that?"

  "Not as sick as the person who did this," Anthony answered, pointing at Marie Ritter's mutilated body. "This is a call girl named Marie Ritter. She was murdered a few nights ago at the Heathman. I understand that you were one of her customers."

  Junior twitched. He cast another anxious glance at the autopsy photo.

  "Look, I'll be honest with you. I, uh, I knew this woman, but not down here. I knew her in Seattle. And not as Marie Ritter. She called herself Crystal. All these whores have whore names." Junior forced a smile, but Anthony and Dennis did not respond. "But I didn't know that she was dead." Junior fidgeted nervously. "This isn't my normal thing, you understand. A friend of mine turned me on to her. Said she was, uh, exotic. I usually don't pay for sex, if you know what I mean."

  "I'm sure you get lots of pussy, Junior," Anthony said. "But we're more interested in the last time you saw Marie Ritter than we are in your love life. When was that?"

  "Uh. Let's see. It would be sometime in January. Late January."

  "So soon after your father's death?" Dennis asked.

  "So much for a period of mourning," Anthony added.

  "Hey, I don't have to take this shit," Junior said, half standing and glaring at Anthony. "Especially from the person who blew the investigation of my father's killer."

  Anthony paled and he started to stand, but Dennis put a restraining hand on his partner's arm.

  "Why don't you relax, Mr. Hoyt?" Dennis said. "I'm sure it just seemed odd to my partner that you would be cavorting with a high-priced call girl so soon after your father passed away."

  "Yeah, well, it happened," Junior answered sullenly. He settled back onto his chair. "I was in Seattle on business and I called her."

  "Directly?"

  "No. She works for an escort service. I arranged it through them."

  "I bet Crystal didn't come cheap, Junior. No pun intended," Anthony said.

  "You think you're funny?"

  "Where do you get all the money for these expensive toys, Mr. Hoyt?" Dennis asked.

  Junior barked out a harsh laugh. "You are two pathetic civil servants. For a guy like me, a couple of hundred a night is nothing. I'm making a bundle from the mortuaries."

  "You must be spending a bundle, too," Dennis said casually. He didn't sound the least offended by Junior's outburst. "Wine, women and song, heh, heh. You know, the credit check I ran on you has you maxed out on just about every credit card there is and your bank balance ..." Dennis shook his head sadly and Junior turned pale.

  "Do you remember where you were on Wednesday evening?"

  "Wednesday?" Junior asked nervously. "Why do you need to know that?"

  "That's when Ms. Ritter--Crystal--was killed."

  "Hey, I didn't have anything to do with that."

  "Of course," Dennis said soothingly, "but it would help if we could eliminate you as a suspect. See, so far, you're the only person connected with this case who knew Ms. Ritter."

  "I . . . I'm pretty sure . . . Yeah, Wednesday, I was by myself. I stayed home alone."

  "No one called you or dropped in to visit?" Dennis asked.

  "No."

  "That's too bad. You're certain you were home and not at the Heathman with Miss Ritter?"

  "Absolutely."

  Dennis smiled. "Well, we'll know soon enough. The lab reports are expected back soon." Dennis shook his head sadly. "You know, it just isn't fair anymore. A good crook used to be able to beat the rap by just wearing gloves so he didn't leave fingerprints. But now with this DNA if you spit or leave a teensy-weensy head hair or an itsy-bitsy drop of semen, you're doomed."

  "You won't find any of my prints or DNA on that woman."

  "Mr. Hoyt," Anthony asked, "do you think you can remember a little more about that argument you had with your father? The one at Hoyt Industries headquarters. You were pretty vague about what made you and your father so upset."

  "I've had enough of this. First, you drop a picture of a dead woman on my table, then you suggest I killed her, now you're asking about some argument I already told you about ..."

  "Let me help you out here. You know Jack Brademas, the head of security for Hoyt Industries, don't you? Probably heard all about his getting killed on the TV."

  Junior did not answer. He looked desperate.

  "We know that Brademas told your father that you were skimming money from the mortuaries. That's what you and your father argued about."

  "That's bullshit, pure bullshit, and I'm not talking to you two anymore without a lawyer."

  "That'
s your choice," Dennis said, "but it might be smart to cooperate with us now. That way we can tell the D. A. to give you a break."

  "What D. A.? Are you gonna charge me with some crime?"

  "Why, have you done something you're worried about?"

  "No, I haven't," Junior said, but he looked confused and scared. "Now, why don't you two get out of here?"

  "We're going to leave, but you'll be coming with us while these officers search your apartment.

  "Take him into the bedroom and let him dress," Anthony told two of the officers. Two men surrounded Junior. He hesitated and Anthony said, "We can take you downtown dressed in those skivvies and put you in the drunk tank, if you'd like."

  Junior wrenched his elbow free and strode angrily out of the room.

  Chapter 25.

  [1]

  Lou Anthony and Leroy Dennis met Cedric Riker at Benjamin Gage's house at three o'clock/Tuesday afternoon. Benjamin Gage ushered Anthony and Dennis into his den, where Riker was waiting drink in hand. It looked like their arrival had interrupted a chat between old friends.

  "I know that you gentlemen are busy, so why don't you tell me how I can help you?"

  "Do you know a woman named Karen Fargo, Senator?" Anthony asked quickly to keep Riker from conducting the questioning.

  "No. I don't believe I've ever met her."

  "But you know who she is," Dennis said.

  Dennis smiled disarmingly, but Ryan Clark had briefed his boss on both detectives and he knew that he was not dealing with fools.

  "Of course. I've followed Senator Crease's case very closely."

  "Have you ever paid her any money, Senator?" Dennis asked.

  "Now, wait a minute," Riker interjected, "we're not here to . . ."

  Gage held up his hand and Riker's sentence squealed to a halt.

  "I have great respect for the law, Ced. I want to be completely candid with these men."

  Gage turned to Dennis. 'I hope I didn't do anything wrong in urging Miss Fargo to go to the police with what she knew, but I felt that her evidence would be of use in finding Lamar Hoyt's killer. Was it illegal to find Miss Fargo a job after Ellen Crease had her fired? Was I wrong to help her with her rent and food until she could get back on her feet?"

  "No one is accusing you of doing anything illegal, Senator," Riker assured Gage.

  "I appreciate that, because, after the fact, I wondered if I'd been out of bounds."

  "Mr. Clark, he's your assistant?" Anthony asked.

  "Administrative assistant. A true patriot. He was a navy SEAL. Decorated extensively."

  "Do you happen to know his whereabouts on last Wednesday?"

  "I'm afraid you'll have to ask him about that. I'm sure he'll answer all your questions."

  "Do you know where we can reach him?"

  "Certainly."

  Gage told them a phone number.

  "Senator, did you or Mr. Clark know Marie Ritter or Martin Jablonski?"

  Gage smiled patientiy. "I can only speak for myself. I recognize Mr. Jablonski's name, of course, and I can assure you that we never met. I'm unfamiliar with the other person you mentioned. I can't speak for Mr. Clark. You'll have to ask him."

  Riker stood up. "Thank you for taking the time to talk to us."

  "Anytime, Ced. I'm a strong supporter of the police."

  Gage walked the detectives and the district attorney to the front door. When they were on their way, the senator returned to his study and phoned Ryan Clark.

  "How did it go?" Clark asked.

  "Piece of cake."

  [2]

  The message light on the answering machine was blinking furiously when Quinn and Laura returned home from the beach late Tuesday afternoon.

  "Probably reporters/' Quinn said as he carried the last of the bags in from the car.

  "Or my office," Laura answered as she hit the Play button.

  They were right about the first four messages, but the fifth was from Ellen Crease.

  "Judge, I've tried calling you every place I could think of, but no one knows where you are. It's urgent that we speak as soon as possible. Please call me immediately."

  "I wonder what that's about," Laura said.

  "I'd better call. She sounded upset."

  Quinn dialed the number Crease had left. James Allen answered the phone. Quinn gave his name and Ellen Crease picked up a moment later.

  "I just got your message. Laura and I have been hiding out at the coast since early Sunday. What's up?"

  "We need to talk."

  Crease sounded very tense.

  "About what?"

  "It's not something that we should discuss over the phone. Can you come to my house?"

  "Now?"

  "Right away."

  "Can't this wait until tomorrow? We just walked in the door and I'm bushed."

  "It has to be now. Please. This concerns both of our futures. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

  Quinn hesitated. Then he gave in.

  "Use the back entrance to the estate. That way, no one will see you. I'll leave the gate open. It's a little tricky to get to. You have to take some back roads."

  "Give me the directions."

  Quinn grabbed a pencil and wrote down Crease's instructions on a pad, then read them back.

  "What was that about?" Laura asked when Quinn hung up.

  "I have no idea."

  "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

  "She sounded very uptight, so she must think that it's important we meet. She even wants me to come by a back way so I won't be seen."

  "Call her back and tell her you'll talk to her tomorrow."

  "She saved my life, Laura."

  Laura sighed. "You're right. Do you want me to come with you?"

  Quinn squeezed Laura's hand. "There's no reason why both of us should run out. I won't be gone long."

  Quinn left and Laura carried their bags upstairs to the bedroom. She was unpacking them when something Crease had said on the answering machine flitted in and out of her consciousness. Laura paused and tried to recapture the thought. She frowned, then shook her head. It was gone. She was tempted to replay Crease's message but that would mean going downstairs. She felt sticky from the ride. She decided to shower first. It was probably nothing, anyway.

  Quinn took the back roads to the Hoyt estate and ended at a small gated entrance surrounded by woods. The gate was open, just as Crease said it would be. It was almost a mile to the house on a narrow unpaved road.

  Ellen Crease was waiting for Quinn at the rear door.

  "I've given James Allen the night off and I've dismissed the security guards so we can have privacy," Crease said as she led Quinn into a sunroom in the rear of the mansion. The room was painted white and floored with terra-cotta tiles. Wide-leaf plants filled the corners of the room. Three of the walls were floor-to-ceiling windows divided into small panes through which the pale evening light entered.

  Crease gestured Quinn onto one of four wicker chairs that surrounded a glass-top table. Outside the room was a garden. None of the flowers were in bloom and there were no buds on the limbs of the trees. The foliage looked cold and exposed. Just beyond the garden were heavy woods that stretched to the boundary of the estate. Crease got to the point immediately.

  "I need your help, Dick. Believe me, I've thought long and hard before asking you for it, but I have no choice."

  "I'll help any way I can," Quinn assured her.

  "Don't say that so quickly. Wait until you hear what I want from you."

  Crease sighed. She seemed sad.

  "I've only known you for a short time, but you've impressed me with your integrity and character. That's what makes my request so difficult. I am going to lose my bid to win the primary unless I go public about the conspiracy against me. I trust the voters. If they know that I was framed for Lamar's murder, I believe they will swing over to me."

  Crease's features hardened. She captured Quinn with her eyes. He could feel her power.

  "Dick
, the voters have to be told that you were threatened with blackmail if you did not fix my case. Benjamin Gage is taking the position that I've been hiding behind a legal technicality to keep the public from finding out the truth about Lamar's murder. You can tell everyone that you ruled as you did to protect me from a plan to frame me. I know it's a lot to ask. I tried to reach you yesterday, so you would have time to think about what I'm asking you to do. When I couldn't find you I had to go forward. I've planned a news conference for Thursday night. I'm going public with everything.''

  "You can't do that."

  Crease looked sad. She shook her head wearily. "You have no idea how difficult this decision was for me, Dick, but I'm convinced that I must go ahead with the news conference."

  "Do you appreciate what could happen to me if it gets out that I fixed your case?"

  "Yes. I consulted Mary Garrett before I made this decision. She told me that you will probably have to resign from the bench and that you might face criminal charges."

  "There is no 'might.' Cedric Riker is a political crony of Benjamin Gage. If my confession costs Gage the election he'll definitely come after me."

  "I've got money and influence, Dick. I won't desert you if things start to go bad."

  Quinn shook his head as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

  "I know I'm asking a lot. If you go public at my press conference, I am prepared to back you with every penny I've got. You'll have the best lawyers, and I'll work behind the scenes for you. Gage isn't the only person with political influence."

  Quinn leaned back and closed his eyes. He had been prepared to resign from the bench on the evening that Brademas attacked him in the garage. Crease had convinced him to reconsider that decision. Now she wanted him to make a public confession.

  "I have to talk this over with Laura. If I'm disbarred or go to prison, it will affect her, too."

  "Of course. But I'm going to go ahead with the news conference whether you help me or not. If you confess publicly, it may help you later."

  Quinn was about to respond when the rear doorbell rang.

  "Stay here," Crease said. "I'll see who that is."

  A moment later, Quinn heard raised voices in the hall. One of them was Laura's. Quinn walked into the hall. Laura saw him and walked down the hall with Crease close behind her.