2 Pane of Death

by Sarah Atwell

  I sat back in my chair, studying the sodden lump of a man across the table. A quirk of fate had handed me the person I most wanted to talk to at this moment—but he was almost incoherent. I contemplated my choices. A, I could take him back to wherever he was staying and let him sleep off his drunk. B, I could call Matt and tell him I had found Andrew Foster and would he please come collect him. C, I could try to wheedle Andrew’s secrets out of him here in this bar, assuming he stayed conscious. D, I could take him back to my place, pour a lot of coffee down his throat, and hope he sobered up enough to be coherent, and then talk to him. Personally I liked Option D, and then I could call Matt from my place. I carefully ignored the fact that I might be inviting a killer into my home. Still, in his current state I figured I could outrun him.

  “Hey, Andrew, why don’t we go someplace quieter so we can talk?”

  Andrew peered owlishly at me. “Talk?”

  “About Peter.”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah. Where?”

  “I live just a couple of blocks from here. We can walk. Okay?”

  “Sure.” I waved at the waitress, then told her to give me my food to go—not without a pang of regret, since I didn’t know when I’d get to eat it.

  Boy, Andrew sure was malleable. If ever he had been a titan of the computer industry, you wouldn’t know it now. I had to wonder: Had he really cared that much for Peter? Was he that broken up by his death? Or was he responsible for it? Only one way to find out: Sober him up and see what he had to say.

  When the waitress arrived with my dinner, carefully packaged in a paper bag, I settled up with her and then hauled Andrew out of his seat. He felt like a large wad of dough, heavy and boneless. “Up we go.”

  Once he found his feet again, he came along amiably enough. We made it out of the bar and halfway down the block before he started heaving. I guided him toward the curb and waited patiently while he emptied his stomach. It took a while, but when he finally straightened up he seemed more in control.

  He looked at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. “Where we going?”

  “My home. Not far now.”

  We made the rest of the trip without incident, although I thought I’d lost him when he saw the stairs to my place. But he managed, and stood on the landing, swaying only slightly, as I fumbled my key into the lock. Fred and Gloria rushed to greet me, then stopped dead at the sight of Andrew. Fred emitted a low growl. Andrew stared at them and said, intelligently, “Dogs.”

  “Yes, dogs.” I pulled him inside, shutting the door behind us. “It’s okay, guys. He’s with me,” I said to the pups. They backed off a couple of feet but kept an eye on my visitor.

  I dragged Andrew by the arm over to my table and all but shoved him into a chair. “Sit. I’m going to make some coffee.” At least I could keep an eye on him while I did that. The dogs came closer and sat flanking him, watching his every move.

  By the time the coffee was ready, Andrew looked markedly better. At least his eyes were focusing now. When I put a mug of coffee in front of him, he looked up at me and said, “Who are you?”

  I sat down with my own mug. “I’m Emmeline Dowell. I’m a glassmaker, and my shop and studio are downstairs. I was doing some work for Peter Ferguson.”

  Andrew’s processing time was significantly shorter now. “Okay. Why’d you bring me here?”

  “Because somebody killed Peter and I want to know who. I’m the one who found his body.”

  Andrew stared at me, his expression clouded. If he was the killer, what would he do now? Leap across the table and strangle me? If he wasn’t, I really wanted to hear when he’d last seen Peter, although in his current state I wasn’t sure he could remember his own name, much less something that had happened a few days ago. When he didn’t say anything at all, I prompted him. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “What’s today?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Must’ve been . . . Wednesday, maybe?”

  The day before I found Peter. “When did you get to Tucson?”

  “Wednesday.” He said this with more conviction. “I got here Wednesday.”

  “To see Peter?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. We had—I had some unfinished business with him.”

  Like killing and robbing him? “About the sale of the company?”

  This time he really focused on me. “So you know I wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “Yes, I do. But it was a done deal, right? What did you have to say to Peter now?”

  Andrew drained his coffee mug and held it out. I took it from him and refilled it, returning it silently. Then I sat down again, waiting.

  Andrew almost looked like he was smiling, and he looked at the coffee in his mug. “Step Nine: Make amends to people you have harmed.”

  Some things were beginning to make sense to me, but others were getting muddier by the minute. “What did you do to Peter?” The words were out of my mouth before I recognized the worst-case double meaning.

  Andrew sat back in his chair, cradling the coffee mug in his hands. “If you know about PrismCo, you know that Peter and I were partners, started it together, oh, fifteen years ago.”

  “Yes. Look, you hungry?” I could smell my takeout from where we sat, and I was starving.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, maybe I am.” Andrew looked surprised.

  “Then hang on a minute and I’ll dish up.” Luckily they knew me at that restaurant, and they were generous with their servings. There was enough for two of us, barely. I filled two plates and went back to the table. I allowed us both a reasonable time-out as we ate some food. “Okay. So, you were talking about PrismCo and what happened?”

  The food did seem to be helping Andrew sober up. He even picked up the thread of the conversation without any more prompting from me. “PrismCo did better than we ever expected it to. I mean, we were clueless when we started—just a couple of guys who were fed up with working for other people, and we had a couple of good ideas we wanted to follow up on. So we quit our jobs and things took off from there. We were a good team—he did most of the code, and I handled the business side, marketing, that kind of thing. Ten years later we were really big, and we weren’t even sure how we got there.”

  “So what happened? Why did Peter decide to shut things down?” For a moment I wondered if he would tell me the real story, or if he even knew it.

  “My fault. I screwed up.”

  That wasn’t what I had expected to hear. “How?”

  “Like I said, we got big, and successful. And we got so wrapped up in it all that I guess our marriages kind of took a backseat, and then they fell apart. Peter has a couple of kids, but he hardly even knew them. At least I never messed up anyone else ’cept my wife. Anyway, I guess you’d say, things got kind of out of balance. And then I started drinking.”

  I suppose you can’t rush someone’s heartfelt confession, but I still didn’t see how this was connected to Peter’s death, and I was getting impatient. “But how did that lead to Peter dissolving the company?”

  “I’m getting there.” He looked down at his plate, surprised to find it empty. “Okay, my wife left, and she took a nice chunk of change with her. I was drinking, and I started doing some stupid things, like gambling. And I got in over my head, and . . . I kind of used some money that wasn’t mine. Just to tide me over. I was going to pay it back. But Peter found out.”

  I was beginning to see some glimmerings of what had happened. “That was about the time the idea of an IPO was being tossed around?”

  Andrew nodded. “Yeah. I was stupid—I didn’t see the implications. But Peter did. He knew that if we were going public, there would be a lot of people trampling through our financial records, and what I had done would come out. So Peter pulled the plug.”

  “To cover up for you?”

  “Yeah. Exactly. He said that he would see to it that nothing ever came back to me, but the only way to do it would be to shut down while we still could.”

  “But co
uldn’t the company have gone on the way you had been?”

  Andrew looked at me then, and the tears were back. “He said . . . he said he didn’t want to work with me anymore. He said he’d bail me out this time, but that was the end of it. Of us, our friendship. And he did it—he just walked away.”

  We both fell silent then. At least one mystery was solved: why Peter had quit, had turned his back on the company. For the sake of someone he had once considered a friend. And Peter had kept quiet about it and taken whatever flak had come his way.

  But I was still left with a couple of big questions. “Andrew, why did you come to Tucson?”

  “After Peter did what he did, I kinda got a grip on myself. I stopped drinking, joined AA. I was doing well. Almost had things back together. And by the time I got my head clear, I realized that I had to apologize to Peter and thank him for what he’d done. I mean, when he did it, I was pissed, and I said a lot of bad things, to him, and to the press. Took me a while to realize just how wrong I’d been. So I came here to tell him that.”

  “And you saw him Wednesday?”

  “Yeah. I called when my plane got in, and I went over to his house, and we talked. Not long. It’s not like we were ever going to be buddies again. Heck, he didn’t even offer to have dinner with me. Maybe I didn’t deserve that, but I knew there was no going back, pretending like nothing had happened. I was there for me, to make amends. I did that. I left. And, in case you’re wondering, Peter was still very much alive when I left.”

  It made sense, and I believed him. But there were still several loose ends to tie up. “Did he show you his artwork?”

  Andrew looked bewildered by the question. “Art? Oh, you mean his windows? He said something about them, when I asked why there wasn’t any furniture in the place, but it was getting dark when I got there, so there wasn’t much to see.”

  I took that to mean that the art was still there. There was only one more question. “Andrew, where the heck have you been since Wednesday night?”

  “Huh? Oh, you mean when he . . . was killed? Do I have an alibi, that kind of thing?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I just . . . well, I guess I just drove. I had a rental car, and I headed south, toward Mexico. Stopped someplace, paid cash. Hung out. Did anyone see me? Sure, but I don’t know who. I’m not even sure where I was. I’d just said good-bye—I mean, really, finally, good-bye—to someone who was once my best friend. But I’d done the right thing, faced up to my stupid mistakes and admitted them. So I was feeling good and bad, if you know what I mean. I just wanted to get away someplace empty and think. So I did.”

  “And then you came back to Tucson—when?”

  “This morning. And I saw something in a paper, and that’s when I found out that Peter was dead, and it really hit me hard. And I went to that bar and I started drinking. It was stupid, but that’s what I did. I guess I haven’t come as far as I thought.”

  I couldn’t say I blamed the poor guy. But there were still practical matters to attend to, like getting Andrew in touch with the police. Matt. “Listen, Andrew, have you talked to the police?”

  He looked bewildered. “The police? Why?”

  “Because it’s pretty likely that you were the last person to see Peter alive. They’ve been looking for you anyway, because of the rather angry statements you made about Peter in the past. And they know you were in Tucson around the time of the murder.”

  “Oh. Right. What should I do?”

  “I think I have a solution. Don’t go anywhere, okay?” When he nodded in agreement, I stood up and went into my bedroom to use my phone. I called Matt’s home number, and he answered on the second ring. “Lundgren.”

  “Hi, Matt. Sorry to bother you so late, but I have a present for you.”

  “Go on,” he said cautiously. Didn’t he trust me?

  “I’ve got Andrew Foster sitting at my kitchen table.”

  Silence. “Ferguson’s ex-partner,” he said, finally.

  “That’s the one. The guy you couldn’t find, you know?” I couldn’t stop myself. “You want to talk to him?”

  “Bring him to the station, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Come here,” I countered. “There’s something else we have to talk about.”

  “Em, I thought I made it clear that it is inappropriate for us to meet while this investigation is still open.”

  “Matt, who found Andrew Foster?”

  More silence. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” He hung up, but I was willing to allow him a little pique.

  I went back into my living space to update Andrew. He hadn’t moved from the table. “I have a friend on the police force, and he’s coming over. You need more coffee?”

  “I think I do. Thanks. And thanks for dragging me out of that place.”

  “Happy to help.” He didn’t have to know that my motives were purely selfish—to get this murder investigation wrapped up ASAP.

  Chapter 17

  In fact, Matt arrived in twelve minutes. I went to let him in, but the dogs stayed behind, keeping an eye on Andrew.

  Matt looked tired. “For the record, I still think this is a bad idea. Where is he?”

  I was beginning to get annoyed at his sanctimonious attitude. “Matt, you’ve made your position clear, more than once. Point taken. What is it you think I’m trying to do? Play Mata Hari and wangle secrets out of you?”

  He smiled reluctantly. “No, not really. But hold that thought for after the case is closed. It’s just that I got some flack from higher up about what happened last time.” When I started to protest, he held up his hand. “I know, everything turned out well, but it could just as easily have gone the other way. We were lucky. So this time I want to do it right. People are watching.”

  “I understand.” I did, and that’s why I knew he wouldn’t be happy with what Nat had gone ahead and done. “Andrew’s in there. And if you’re interested, I don’t think he killed Peter.” Before he could say anything, I stopped him. “I know, you have to do what you have to do. Come on in.”

  I made introductions. “Andrew, this is my friend Matt Lundgren. He’s with the Tucson police.”

  Matt didn’t offer a hand. “Chief of police.”

  Andrew flinched. “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t come talk to you guys, but I was out in the desert somewhere. I didn’t even know Peter was dead until I got back this morning.”

  Matt sat down. “Why don’t you tell me what happened over the past few days?”

  I’d heard the story before, so I sat quietly while Andrew outlined the sequence of events since his arrival in Tucson. Matt made notes, asked questions, but I thought he was remarkably un-hostile. Did my opinion about Andrew’s innocence make a difference?

  After a few minutes he wrapped things up and snapped his notebook shut.

  “Am I in trouble here?” Andrew asked.

  Matt sat back and contemplated him. “I’ll want to check your alibi, and I’m asking you not to leave town, but I don’t see any cause to arrest you.”

  “Thank you!” Andrew’s relief was evident, and after coffee and food, he was beginning to look more like the guy in the picture. “I’m staying at some crappy motel near the airport, and I think I could use about twelve hours of sleep right now.”

  “Don’t you have a car around somewhere?” I asked.

  Andrew’s eyes darted to Matt. “I do, near the bar, but I probably shouldn’t be driving in this condition. I’ll find a cab.” He stood up. “Em, thank you, for everything. Chief?” He held out his hand, and this time Matt took it. “Thank you too, for believing my story. I’ll do whatever I can to help you find out what happened to Peter.”

  “I appreciate that, Andrew. And you’re right—stay away from that car.”

  Matt watched as I escorted Andrew to the door and watched him make his way down the stairs. Then I shut the door and turned to Matt. He still didn’t look happy.

  “Do you believe him?” I asked.

  “I think so
. But I can’t talk about the investigation,” he said.

  I bit off a sharp response, especially because I knew he wouldn’t like what I had to say next. “I know. But”—I swallowed—“Nat asked Cam to help her with something relating to it.”

  That confused him. “Asked Cam? About what?”

  “She asked him to take a look at Peter’s computer.”

  As I watched, Matt’s complexion turned an interesting shade of red. I admired his restraint, because he didn’t speak immediately. Finally he said, in a strangled voice, “Let me get this straight. She gave Peter Ferguson’s computer to Cam?”

  I nodded. “Well, yes, actually. She brought it to Cam so he could take a look at it, see what there was on it. About Peter’s art collection, I mean.”

  “Did Cam find such information?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared at me a moment before going on. “And did Cam find anything else on this computer?”

  I nodded. “Yes. He identified financial information relating to both the company and to Peter’s personal assets, in addition to details about the collection.”

  “And no doubt Cam shared this with you?” The fury in Matt’s eyes was clear.

  “Matt, I didn’t ask for this! Nat dropped in, handed it to Cam, and asked him to help. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Stay out of it, like I asked? No, that would be too much to expect, wouldn’t it? Where is the damn thing now?”

  I nodded toward my bedroom. “Cam left it here. He went back to San Diego this afternoon.” To avoid just this kind of unpleasantness. Cam didn’t like confrontations any more than I did. I did not mention that Cam still had all the information from the computer in his possession. Matt could figure that out for himself.

  The rigidity of Matt’s stance spoke volumes about how hard he was working to contain his temper. “I’m going to have to have a few words with Ms. Special Agent.”

  As if on cue, there was a knocking at my door. I was not surprised to see Nat on the other side of the peephole. “Looks like you’re going to get your wish.” I opened the door and stepped back to let her in. “Hi, Nat. Were you looking for me? Cam’s not here.”