by Jason Dean
She shrugged and said, ‘Yeah, the police said there was a witness who saw the car speeding off, but he couldn’t get the make or registration. Then the ambulance came and took Mike away. But it was too late. He was already, you know, dead.’
Bishop noticed she didn’t seem too broken up about it. Which was interesting. ‘You and Mr Padgett had been together a long time?’
‘Long enough. Why?’
‘I was just curious about the man who left when I arrived.’
‘He ain’t none of your business. He’s just a friend of the family, helping me get over my loss, okay?’
Bishop smiled inwardly. Sure he was. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know if Mr Padgett had come into a lot of money recently, would you?’
She turned to him, her eyes instantly lighting up, greed written all over her face. ‘Money? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just a question we always ask in situations like this. Money’s a good motive for a crime. If there’s a crime.’
Lauren’s eyes lost their spark and she leaned an elbow on the counter. ‘Oh. No, nothing like that. And if he had, he sure didn’t tell me about it.’
Bishop could see she was speaking the truth. Mike Padgett would clearly have had enough horse sense not to mention his recent windfall to someone so unpredictable.
‘Hey, what did you say your name was again?’ she asked.
‘Bishop.’ He got up off the stool. There was nothing more for him here.
She gave him what she must have thought was a seductive smile. ‘So what’s the rush, Bishop? Stick around for a while. I think I got a couple of beers in the fridge. We can go into the living room and watch some TV. You think I’m pretty?’
‘You’re a real fox,’ he said, desperate to get out of there now. ‘But maybe another time. Like when I’m not working.’
‘No can do, sweetheart,’ she said, also standing up, her hands on her hips. ‘It’s now or never.’
He turned to go. ‘Then I guess it’ll have to be never,’ he said.
SEVEN
Bishop handed Darren Frederickson’s sister a business card he kept for certain special occasions and said, ‘I’m just surprised he didn’t mention anything to you about it.’
Jennifer Sanford, a distinguished-looking lady in her mid fifties with piercing blue eyes and ash-blonde hair that reached the top of her shoulders, adjusted her rimless spectacles as she looked the card over. It said that James Bishop was a representative of the New York branch of AIM Continental Life Insurance, and gave an impressive address on Madison Avenue, along with a number that would always be busy no matter how many times you tried calling. She flipped the card, saw that the other side was blank, and frowned at Bishop from her position in the doorway. He’d added a black tie that he kept in the glove compartment to his dark sports jacket and black pants, so at least he looked the part of an insurance investigator.
‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked, handing the card back to him. ‘My brother never struck me as the type who went in for life insurance.’
‘Well, we can never completely know somebody, can we? Besides, it’s only a small policy – ten thousand dollars – so maybe it slipped Mr Frederickson’s mind. Anyway, you’re listed as sole beneficiary, but we still need to ask a few routine questions about the, er, circumstances of your brother’s death before we can proceed with payment.’
Bishop really hated lying to the woman, but the truth would only result in the front door being slammed in his face. And the coroner’s office spiel wouldn’t last very long on someone capable of lateral thought. Which just left this.
‘I think I’d like to see some identification first,’ she said.
‘Sure.’ Bishop pulled out his driver’s licence from his billfold and passed it over.
As Miss Sanford compared the photo with the face before her, Bishop looked around the neighbourhood. This part of Barrington was fairly upmarket, with mainly two-storey homes and not a whole lot of traffic. About the only sounds were those made by birds as they flew from tree to tree in the various front yards. It was all very calming. Miss Sanford handed back the licence and looked past Bishop at the BMW parked at the roadside. Then, apparently satisfied, she took a step back and said, ‘Come in, then.’
Bishop thanked her and stepped inside. She closed the door, and he followed her into an attractive open-plan living room, where she gestured for him to sit on the couch. He remained standing and said, ‘Actually, Miss Sanford, it would be a whole lot easier if you could just show me your brother’s lodgings. That’s where he was found, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. But why?’
‘Like I said, just routine, so I can get a feel for the situation.’
She frowned. ‘Well, we’ll have to go outside again. Darren stayed in the converted apartment over the garage.’
Bishop followed her into the kitchen, where she opened a side door on to the driveway. Once outside, she led him to the two-storey double garage he’d noticed on the way in. There was a set of exterior stairs that led straight up to a door on the second floor. As she climbed the steps, she sighed and said, ‘I cleaned the apartment last week, so I’m not sure what you expect to find.’
‘I’d just like to take a look, that’s all,’ Bishop said from behind her.
At the top landing, he waited as she unlocked the door, and then they both entered the apartment. It was a two-room flat, with a kitchen and living area at the rear, then a bathroom, and a large bedroom at the front. The place was very light thanks to the large windows at both ends. Miss Sanford went straight to the bedroom and Bishop followed, taking in the double bed, the TV in the corner, the clothes horse against one wall with a raincoat and a windbreaker hanging off it, and the large cupboard next to it. The place looked spotless. He turned to the windows and spotted a panelled door that led to a small terrace outside.
‘Nice apartment,’ he said.
‘Yes, I had it converted over ten years ago, after my husband died. I used to rent it out, but when Darren retired he couldn’t afford to hold on to his old place, so I let him stay here rent-free. We both liked the arrangement. He still had his independence, but he could also come over to the house and share a proper dinner with me several times a week.’
‘And, uh, where exactly did you . . .?’ he began.
‘I found Darren lying there on the bed,’ she said, removing her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb.
‘And this was . . .’ He took a small, empty notebook from his jacket pocket and pretended to read from it. ‘. . . Thursday, three weeks ago, correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘I hate to ask, but do you mind going through the sequence of events for me?’
She sighed again. ‘If I must, although there’s not much to it. It was around seven p.m. and I’d made a vegetable lasagne for the two of us. Darren usually made a habit of coming over at a few minutes past, but this time there was no sign of him. So I called, but there was still no answer.’
Bishop noticed the phone on the small stand next to the bed. She continued. ‘I knew his car was still in the garage, so I came over and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, I let myself in with a spare key. And I saw him there . . .’ She shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. ‘He had a paperback half open on his chest and he was just staring up at the ceiling. It must have been quick, or he would have called for help. He only needed to press 1 and it would have come through to me on the kitchen phone.’
She turned to Bishop with moist eyes. ‘And that was it. Darren had always had a bad heart, and it must have just decided to give up on him. I called for an ambulance and they showed up with the police and took him away. The police asked me a few questions, but they could already see it was natural causes. They were from a different precinct, but they knew about Darren and his condition.’
Bishop looked around the room again. If he hadn’t already had misgivings about Mike Padgett’s death, he wou
ld have agreed with her. Darren’s heart giving out seemed consistent with his medical history, but the timing of that hit-and-run still bothered Bishop. And if that was in doubt, then so was this supposed natural death. But if the heart attack was somehow induced by a third party, how did they get in? The sister already said she’d had to unlock the door to enter, which suggested that Frederickson was a security-conscious fellow even when he was at home. Bishop turned to the other door, the one that led to the terrace outside.
‘Have you or the police opened that door at all since the night of Darren’s death?’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘I haven’t. And the police never came up here.’
Bishop went over and tried the handle. It turned freely. He pulled the door open, then closed it again. ‘Was this usually unlocked?’
‘I don’t know. I think Darren kept it locked. Why?’
‘Just thinking things through. Do you recall what the weather was like that night?’
‘Well, it had been raining since late afternoon. It had eased off a little by early evening, but I still had to use an umbrella when I came over.’
Bishop turned back and paged through his empty notebook again. ‘And other than the heart condition, did Mr Frederickson suffer from any other ailments?’
‘Well, in recent years he had started suffering from B12 deficiency, so he had to supplement his body with the vitamin once a week to keep it in check. Other than that, though, nothing.’
‘Uh huh. And how did he take it? In tablet form?’
‘No, he injected it.’
Now that’s interesting, thought Bishop. He closed his notebook but kept his face expressionless, even though Miss Sanford had just supplied him with a nice fat piece of the puzzle.
‘Do you still have the apparatus he used?’
She furrowed her brow again. ‘What, the vitamin treatments? No, I threw it all away last week.’
Pity. ‘Well, I think that’s everything,’ he said. ‘I appreciate you giving me your time.’
‘So you’ve got what you need now?’
Bishop smiled. ‘I think I’ve got what I came for.’
EIGHT
When he was a few blocks from the Frederickson house, Bishop slowed the car and pulled up by the side of the road. He turned the engine off, checked the dashboard clock and saw that it was already 5.13 p.m. It would start getting dark in about an hour and a half. And still no word from Eric regarding a possible meet with the cop, Spurgeon, although Bishop wasn’t raising his hopes too high.
He sat back in his seat and thought through what he’d gleaned so far.
Without more facts, it was hard to prove that there’d been anything sinister about Mike Padgett’s death, even though hit-and-runs weren’t that common, even in Jersey. But Darren Frederickson’s heart attack was definitely starting to look suspicious.
First there was the unlocked terrace door, which didn’t fit in with Frederickson’s character. If he habitually locked his main entrance door even when he was at home, why would he then forget all about the terrace door? If the weather had been good, he may have opened it to let some air in, but it was raining heavily that evening. So why keep it unlocked?
But it was Frederickson’s B12 deficiency that really got Bishop’s interest. Especially those vitamin injections he’d been taking. Now suppose a third party had entered the apartment somehow and knocked Frederickson out with chloroform, say, then injected him with something other than B12. He or she could even have used an old needle track so that nobody would notice it. And Bishop knew there were a number of drugs that caused adverse cardiovascular effects. There was one called Avandia that the New York Times had reported on a few years back. Then there was the anti-inflammatory Zelnorm, and the arthritis drug Vioxx. All of which had been taken off the market for inducing cardiac attacks in patients with existing heart conditions. And they were just the ones he knew about.
So this third party could have injected the drug into Frederickson’s unconscious body, waited for it take effect and then searched the place for his hidden stash. Once he’d found it, he’d need to leave the place exactly as it had been when he’d arrived, locked door and all. Except he couldn’t lock up after himself without a key. And taking Frederickson’s would only have raised a red flag to the police. So he left by the other door, thinking nobody would care if that one was locked or not, then made the short drop to the ground and disappeared in the rain.
No tracks. No evidence of anything untoward. Perfect.
Assuming Bishop’s guess was correct, which even he had doubts about. There were a few holes in there, like how did the killer – assuming there was one – get into the apartment in the first place? The obvious answer was that Frederickson actually knew the person and let him in himself, but Bishop preferred not to dwell on that aspect of it just yet. He didn’t like the disquieting thoughts that came with it. Besides, there was always more than one possible solution to any situation. And he still needed more facts before he could formulate a proper workable theory.
His stomach started making noises, and he realized he’d subsisted so far on tea and Wild Turkey, which wasn’t the best diet. Maybe it was time to get a bite and think about his next step. He was reaching for the ignition key when he felt his cell vibrate in his pants pocket. He pulled it out and saw Eric’s number on the display.
He took the call. ‘Eric, how’s it going?’
‘I was about to ask you the same thing,’ the familiar voice came back.
‘Well, you were right about Lauren McLaughlin. She was kind of a handful.’
‘I warned you, didn’t I? Man, I kept telling Mike to cut her loose, but he wouldn’t listen. All I can think is that she was an absolute demon in the sack.’
‘People have stuck together for worse reasons.’
‘That they have. You talk to Darren’s sister yet?’
‘Yeah, I just left her place. She’s a nice lady. I liked her.’
There was silence on the other end for a few moments. Bishop watched a guy on the other side of the street waiting for his dog to finish peeing against a tree. Then, ‘I’m surprised she even gave you the time of day, Bish. You must have a real way with women.’
‘I wish. Anything to report regarding your other friend?’
‘Oh. Yeah. That’s why I called. Gene’s agreed to meet with you. Shocked the hell out of me, I can tell you. I thought he was gonna tear me a new one when I mentioned I’d spoken to a third party about all this, but once I explained the history between us, he was actually pretty cool about it. He’s finished his shift now, so he said if you wanna go to his place in an hour or so, he’ll meet you there.’
‘Fine,’ Bishop said. ‘That’ll give me time to grab a bite somewhere. You got his home address?’
Eric recited an address in Woodlynne, about five miles from Bishop’s current position, and added, ‘So, you get anything interesting from the two ladies?’
‘Not entirely sure yet. I think I’d like to talk with this Spurgeon first before I say anything.’
‘Keeping things close to your chest as usual, huh?’
‘Half-formed theories and a bunch of questions are about all I’ve got at the moment. But I’ll talk to you later, okay?’
‘Right.’
Eric hung up first and Bishop placed his cell phone on the passenger seat. He sat looking at it for a moment, then turned the ignition key and pulled away from the kerb.
NINE
It was almost 6.30 p.m. and the day was already starting to fade when Bishop found the address. He’d stopped off at a small burger place on Route 70, and now felt almost human again. Spurgeon’s place was a long, narrow, single-storey frame house with a porch out front and a fenced-in front yard. There was an empty lot on one side and a two-storey A-frame on the other.
Directly opposite was an open dirt playground area where a dozen young guys were playing touch football, half in vests, half bare-chested. A small crowd of hangers-on, mostly female, were watching on
the sidelines. Bishop could hear plenty of hooting and shouting from over there, along with the bassy thump of some track coming from a boombox. Or whatever they were called these days. Numerous vehicles lined both sides of the street and he had to keep on for another block until he found a space to park.
Locking the car, he walked back to the house and down the gravel path to the front door. It opened before he got there and a heavy-set, balding man of his own age stood in the doorway waiting for him, holding a can of Coors. He wore a shirt and tie and had a small pot belly and a goatee beard. His heavy-lidded eyes watched Bishop lazily as he approached.
‘You Bishop?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Eric gave me your address.’
‘I know. Better come on in then.’
Spurgeon backed away out of sight and Bishop climbed a small set of steps to the porch and entered the house. He shut the door behind him and walked down a small hallway. He passed what looked like a utility room on the left, and turned into the open doorway on the right. It was a large living area that looked out on to the street. Spurgeon sat in an easy chair, resting one foot atop an old coffee table next to an untidy pile of old Sports Illustrated magazines. The TV was tuned to a news channel with the volume turned down low. The room was neat enough, although there wasn’t much in the way of furnishings. Bishop saw what Cassandra had meant this morning. It was pretty obvious that the guy lived alone.
‘I’d offer you a beer,’ Spurgeon said, ‘but this is my last one. Sit down.’
Bishop turned to the faux-leather couch, moved a copy of that day’s Post to one side and sat. ‘I’m kind of surprised you agreed to see me at all,’ he said.
Spurgeon sipped from the can and looked at him. ‘I got my reasons. Besides, Eric vouched for you and we known each other a long time. I even dated Cassie before he ever met her.’
