Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Problems?” Bartlett gave her a calculating, narrow-eyed look, then relaxed into a crooked grin. “Hey, I’m happy to hand it over, Chief. It’ll be a pleasure to work with you.”

  She knew Bartlett just well enough to guess that he meant what he said, and she was glad. But she shook her head. “I’m not taking this case, Detective Bartlett. I said ‘assist.’ This one is yours. You call the shots.”

  He frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “That isn’t necessary, Chief Dawson. I’ll be glad to backstop you, same way I’d backstop Captain Hardin.” He added, matter-of-factly and without judgment, “Case like this, he’d take the lead for sure.”

  Take the lead and take the credit, Sheila thought, out in front of the team that did the work. “Do I have to pull rank?” she asked. “Look, Detective. I want to get my head out of the office for a while. Do some footwork, talk to people, take notes, do some serious police work.” She shrugged. “Not that what goes on in the office isn’t serious. But… well, you know. Anyway, you’re taking the lead. It’s your show. I’m here to assist.”

  He studied her with a wary mistrust, as if he were trying to figure out her real motives. “Yes, ma’am. I hear you. But Captain Hardin isn’t going to like—”

  “Noted,” she said briskly. “And for the duration, can the ‘ma’am.’ It’s Sheila when we’re together. Okay?”

  He hesitated, guarded, cautious. “Roger that.” He looked around, then added, testing the word, “Sheila.”

  “You got it, Jack.” She straightened. “Judge Porterfield said she didn’t notice any powder burns. What did you see?”

  “I did a close visual before the county team got here. Looked for stippling but didn’t see it. I did spot a thirty-two cartridge casing on the floor.” He frowned. “I’m thinking that we should have the autopsy done locally, rather than sending it to the Travis ME’s office. We’ll get the report back faster.” Adams County autopsies could be done either at the county hospital or sent to the Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office, which served a forty-two-county region in Central Texas. There, the out-of-county corpses got in line behind the local traffic, which could mean a delay of several days.

  “Works for me.” Sheila glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of the weeping woman. “Have you talked to the wife? Widow,” she corrected herself. “Mrs. Kirk.”

  “You want to handle that?” Bartlett was diffident, and Sheila knew why. Next-of-kin conversations were always tough. He didn’t want her to think he was dumping something unpleasant on her plate. “The county photographer will finish up pretty quick and the forensic tech is ready to get started. I’d like to keep an eye on the scene. And I haven’t walked the house yet. There might be a note somewhere.” He gave her a testing look. “Of course, if you’d rather take over inside, I’ll do the interview.”

  “I’ll have a look when you’re finished.” Sheila took out her notebook, thinking ahead. The scene was important, but so was the wife. The Department of Justice had recently reported that, in spousal murders, women represented 41 percent of the killers. If this turned into a homicide, Dana Kirk was automatically a suspect. And if she had killed her husband, her defense—when the case came to trial—might be spousal abuse. That was what made this first interview so critical. It would tell them something about both the victim and the woman he left behind, who could benefit from his death. The how and when were easy—forensics would tell them that. Why was another matter. And who, if this turned out to be homicide.

  “Anything special you want me to check out with Mrs. Kirk?” she asked.

  “Find out what guns her husband owned.” Bartlett glanced at his watch, frowning. “You know who this guy is, right, Chief?” She saw his jaw go red. “Uh, Sheila,” he said, in a lower voice.

  She nodded. “The owner of the computer shop that George Timms broke into.”

  “Yeah.” He shifted his weight. “I’m wondering about Timms’ arrest. He was supposed to be booked over an hour ago, and both of us should have been notified. I’d better see what—” He reached for the radio clipped to his belt.

  She put out a hand. “Don’t bother, Jack. Timms is a no-show. Charlie Lipman called my cell phone a few minutes ago, looking for him.” She grinned wryly. “You know Lipman. He was hoping we had his client so he could accuse us of holding him incommunicado.”

  “I’ll bet,” Bartlett muttered. “I can hear him now.” He looked back at the house again. “Hey, maybe we should—”

  “I called in the APB right after I got off the phone with Lipman,” she said, reading his intention. “I saw your interim report on the break-in. After his surrender, Timms is supposed to come clean about that blackmail business—his so-called motivation for the burglary. Did you get any sense from Lipman of what that’s about?”

  “Nope. In fact, I got the idea that Lipman himself didn’t have the full story, although you never know with that guy.”

  “Did you uncover any sign of a personal connection between Timms and Kirk?” Sheila asked. “Anything—” She hesitated. “Anything suggesting that maybe Kirk was helping himself to a little blackmail on the side?” Was, she thought. Past tense. “Might not be too hard, if he had Timms’ computer in the shop for repair or cleanup and happened to notice something incriminating on it.” Happened to notice, or went looking on purpose. Maybe it was part of an ongoing racket, and Timms wasn’t the only victim.

  Bartlett shook his head. “I didn’t pick up any personal connection. It looked like Timms got out of Kirk’s shop without finding what he was after. Kirk himself wasn’t involved, so far as I knew, anyway. But this—” He jerked his head toward the house. “This is something else. And I don’t like coincidences.”

  “Here’s another thing,” Sheila said. “I just ran into China Bayles, out there on the drive. She’s a friend of the woman who stumbled onto the body. She told me that Kirk had emailed her about a stalker—his word. China is a former criminal attorney and one of Kirk’s computer clients. He was looking for some inside advice on how to deal with the situation, maybe thinking he needed a lawyer.”

  “A stalker, huh?” Bartlett’s head jerked up, his eyes bright, alert. “Interesting. Wonder what that means, exactly. Male, female?”

  “Kirk didn’t give her any details. I’ll get her to forward his email. And it’s likely on his computer.”

  “Yeah.” Bartlett pursed his lips. “I wonder if the widow knows anything. Maybe Kirk mentioned the stalker to her.”

  “The Kirks were getting a divorce, I understand.” In response to his questioning look, she said, “Got that from a neighbor out front, and also from Bayles, who said the divorce was quote ‘messy,’ unquote. And wives sometimes hire private detectives to find out what their husbands are up to. Could be our stalker right there.” Sheila opened her notebook. “I’ll check back with you when I’m finished with Mrs. Kirk.”

  “Yeah,” Bartlett said. He looked at her. “Thanks, Sheila,” he said, testing again. It sounded awkward and he straightened his shoulders. “Thank you, Sheila,” he said more firmly.

  Sheila smiled. “No problem, Jack.”

  DANA Kirk was as soft and round and sweetly attractive as a stuffed doll, her makeup muted, her brown hair tumbling in soft curls around her flushed and tear-stained face. Her voice was soft, too, and so choked that Sheila had to ask her more than once to speak up. Sitting down in a chair across from her, Sheila expressed condolences on the loss of her husband, then took notes as the story spilled out in rapid, breathy fragments, between gulps and swallowed sobs. Sheila kept her talking as much as possible. Tears could be a distraction. Or an act.

  Dana had been at the Pecan Springs Library all day. She worked in the office there eight-to-five, five days a week, which sometimes but not always included Saturdays, in which case she took a different day off. Lots of people could vouch for her being there today, with only bathroom breaks and an hour for a late lunch between one and one forty-five, which she had eaten with—hesitation, a qui
ck breath—a friend, at the diner on Nueces, about six blocks away. Asked the name of the friend, she hesitated again, then said, with eyes cast down, “Actually, my boss. Mr. Vance.”

  She had worked at the library for six years, before that, for Jackie Harmon at Harmon Insurance, in Pecan Springs. Then she and Kirk had married and she’d gone to work at the library. They’d lived in an apartment first, then they bought this house. No, they’d never had any children. (A pause to wipe her eyes with a tissue and blow her nose.) Not even a dog or a cat. She’d wanted at least that, but Larry was allergic.

  No, she wasn’t living here now. Yes, she and her husband had been separated for a couple of months, since (a pause to think about it) last April, which now that she thought about it, was more like (a pause to count on her fingers) six months. Had there been any spousal abuse? No, of course not (the answer delivered emphatically). When asked to reflect and be sure of that answer, she repeated it, watching Sheila make a note. No, no abuse. Larry was a kind person—thoughtless, too busy, but basically kind. Yes, she had filed for divorce. The name of her lawyer? Angela Binder. Had she and Binder hired a private investigator to work on the case? Eyes widening, she said no, no, of course not. She had no reason to hire an investigator, and anyway, she didn’t have any extra money until Larry could sell the business.

  So if she wasn’t living here, Sheila asked, where was she staying? With a friend, Donna Givens, until she and Larry could work out some financial details. That’s the reason she was here this afternoon. She had called and left a message, telling Larry that they needed to talk about money. And now— Well, she couldn’t (more tears and a sob), she just couldn’t, she would never be able to understand why Larry would do something like this. He was so level-headed, so self-contained, so—

  And anyway, he hated guns. She didn’t know he had a gun. In fact, she herself had suggested that they get a gun last year, when the house down the street was broken into, but he refused. He put his foot down. He wouldn’t let her have one, either, which was ridiculous, since—

  Sheila stopped writing. “Your husband hated guns?”

  Dana Kirk squeezed her brown eyes shut, then opened them. “Yes, and that’s why this is really so weird. I mean, it was a big thing with him, huge. He was an anti-gun activist. Last year when those college students were trying to change the concealed-carry law to let them bring their guns on campus? He thought it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard of, letting kids carry guns to class. He even went up to Austin to join the protest at the capital.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “So if he was going to… kill himself, I would have thought he’d do it a different way. Lock himself in the garage with the car running, maybe, or take some pills. I would never have thought he’d—” She closed her eyes and clenched her hands. “But if he didn’t do it, I don’t see how in the world…”

  Sheila cleared her throat. “Do you know if he was having problems with anyone? At the shop, maybe? A client, a customer, somebody who works for him?”

  She shook her head. “If he did, I didn’t know anything about it. Somebody at the shop would know if there’s been any trouble.”

  “Can you give me the names of the employees?” Sheila flipped a page.

  “There are three, I think.” She frowned, concentrating. “No, four. Henry, Jason, Richie, and Dennis. I don’t know their last names. Henry is the only employee, though. He’s the assistant manager or something—he’s in charge when Larry isn’t around. The rest are contract people, techs. They only work when there’s a job. From what I hear, things have been pretty slow lately.” She made a face. “That’s what Larry said, anyway. But he might have been saying that so I would settle for less money.”

  Sheila let that go by, at least for the moment. “What about debts?” she asked. “Personal? Business? Did he owe money to anybody?”

  “I think he was still paying off some student loans. The mortgage on this house, car payments, credit cards. The usual, I guess.” She firmed her shoulders. “And me. He owed money to me.”

  It was the opening Sheila had been waiting for. “I understand that you have an investment interest in your husband’s business. Had you worked out the settlement details?”

  A brief flare of anger flashed in the woman’s eyes. “How did you—?” Then she sighed. “Small towns. I hate small towns. Everybody knows everything about everybody’s affairs.” She colored prettily and corrected herself. “Everybody’s business, I mean. Yes. My father died just before Larry and I got married, and I inherited some money from his estate. I wanted to buy stocks, but Larry talked me into investing it in his computer business instead. Larry’s really good with computers. And patient with people who don’t understand the technology.”

  She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “But no, we hadn’t worked out the settlement yet. He was trying to figure out how I could get my investment back without his having to sell the business. And of course, there’s this house. It’s underwater, as they say. It won’t appraise for what we paid for it. He was going to have to sell—” She stopped and took a breath.

  “Sounds difficult,” Sheila said sympathetically. “Not just the house but the business, too—I’m sure that lots of couples would be fighting about it, tooth and nail. There weren’t any hard feelings?” She paused, then gave Dana Kirk a direct look. “Especially about your other relationship?”

  “My… relationship?” The woman tried to hold the glance, but her eyes slid away.

  “Yes. I understand that you’ve been involved with another man for some time and that this was why you were seeking a divorce.” Sheila looked down at her notebook, flipped a page, then looked up again. She waited, letting the silence build for the space of a couple of breaths. “I’m sorry. Did I misunderstand? I can always check back with the person who—”

  Mrs. Kirk gave a resigned sigh. “No, you didn’t misunderstand. Yes, I am involved with… someone. But it doesn’t have anything to do with what Larry did today.” She pressed her lips together. “I am not going to say anything more about it. Really. You don’t have any right to—”

  Sheila spoke softly. “Mrs. Kirk. We’re not sure yet what happened here today. Until we are, we will be investigating everyone and everything that is related to your husband. We will be talking with his business associates, the neighbors, you, the person you’re involved with—”

  “No!” she cried, sitting straight up, a dull color flooding her doll-like cheeks. “That’s not right! He has nothing to do with Larry’s suicide! He—”

  “Mrs. Kirk, I am sorry to be blunt. We are keeping everything open. Everything.” She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. “Now, perhaps you can help by giving me the names of people we need to notify of Mr. Kirk’s death. Just the names, relationships, and cities right now—we’ll likely be able to fill in the contact information from what we find in the house. True?”

  Mrs. Kirk nodded. “Yes,” she said, barely audible. “Well, there’s his phone. You can look there. And he keeps a red leather address book in the top drawer of the desk in the living room. That’s where it used to be, anyway. His mom’s address is there. Her name is Jenny. Jenny Kirk. She lives in San Antonio. His father is dead. His sisters—”

  Sheila noted down the names, then close friends, then neighbors that Kirk might have been especially friendly with. Apparently, he had been a collegial guy, for the list was a long one, although (in his wife’s version, anyway) it was exclusively male. When Dana Kirk ran out of names, Sheila said, “What about women he was dating?”

  “Dating?” Dana’s eyes grew round. “I don’t think he— I’m sure he wouldn’t—”

  “What? No casual dates? No girlfriends? He didn’t say something like, ‘Hey, Dana, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I’m seeing so-and-so’?”

  She laced her fingers together tightly. “If he was seeing someone, he didn’t tell me. And I didn’t spy on him. If he wanted to date, that was his business. Although if he didn’t have time
for his wife, I doubt he’d have time for a girlfriend.” A little shrug, a little too casual. “I guess you could ask the guys at the shop. They’d probably know.”

  “Okay, then,” Sheila said, and went back to a subject she’d opened earlier. “Help me with the other side. Enemies. People who didn’t like him. People he didn’t like. People he’d quarreled with. Clients, customers, guys at the shop.”

  Dana pulled her eyebrows together. “Enemies? Gosh, I don’t know. Larry’s such an easygoing guy. He gets… he got along with just about everybody.” She swallowed. “We had a little trouble with Sam Schulz, the neighbor over there.” She nodded toward the house on the west. “After we bought this place, it turned out that the survey markers were wrong and our garage is two feet over the property line. That’s been a problem. But otherwise—”

  “No long-term feuds? Did he ever mention being concerned that somebody might be stalking him?”

  Mrs. Kirk shook her head. “No feuds, other than Mr. Schulz. And… stalking?” Her eyes widened. “Is that what you said?”

  “Stalking, following, somebody hanging around. Did he mention anything like that?”

  “Absolutely not.” She frowned again. “I don’t see what you— He killed himself, didn’t he? I mean, I saw the gun in his hand, in there, in the kitchen.” She shivered. “So why are you asking—”

  “How about former employers? Where did your husband work before he opened his own business?”

  Dana sighed. “Both of us were working for Harmon. He installed this big software package, set up the new accounting system, and put up a website, too. Ms. Harmon was really impressed. Larry blew her away. In fact, they were…” She broke off, smiling crookedly.

  “Were what?” Sheila asked.

  She looked down at her hands. “Oh, friends, I guess. I don’t know.”