by James Glass
“Who knew your husband was coming to the cabin?”
“Only Eric as far as I know, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“How so?” I asked, tapping my pen on the pad.
“There are a number of other people who use the cabin, but you have to register on his website.”
“Register?” I drew two lines under the word website.
“My husband bought the cabin about ten years ago. It was right before he got the job at Gitmo. His plan was to rent it out over the hunting season to earn some extra money. So he designed a website. If someone wanted to use the cabin, they were required to go online and book it.”
I jotted more notes. “What’s the name of the website?”
“The Hunter’s Paradise.”
“How does someone rent the cabin?”
“There’s a payment option on the website.ˮ Another sniffle. “All major credit cards are accepted.”
“And do they have to get a key from somewhere?”
“No. There’s a lockbox next to the door. Once someone is approved to rent the cabin, the code is on their receipt.”
“Does the code ever change?”
“No.”
That didn’t seem like a great plan to me, but it wasn’t my cabin.
“When did your husband plan this trip?”
“Two months ago. He’s been looking forward to it for over a year.”
“Does the name Lee Green mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it? Is he a suspect?”
“No ma’am, but his name did come up in the investigation. We’re trying to find something that the suspect may have used to connect Green and your husband.”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar, but that doesn’t mean my husband didn’t know him. Was he in the Navy?”
“He was. Retired several years back. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your husband?”
“Jason was liked by everyone. Never met a stranger.”
And yet he was an interrogator at Gitmo. Maybe even tortured his prisoners first.
I tapped the pen on the pad. “Please, Mrs. Grogan, there must have been someone.”
The phone crackled as she set it down. I heard her blow her nose, then she picked the phone back up. “Some of the detainees have been released over the past several years. Maybe you should start there.”
Francisco waved a sheet of paper at me across from his desk. He mouthed, “Have a lead.”
“We will, Mrs. Grogan. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call. Again, I'm sorry for your loss. Someone will be in touch regarding releasing your husband's body.”
“And how will he be returned? Will he receive full military honors?”
“I-I don’t know ma’am.”
There was a long pause. I was about to hang up when Mrs. Grogan asked, “Can I see him?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Are you telling me I can’t see my husband?”
“No ma’am. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you not telling me, Detective?”
“You don’t want this to be that last image of your husband.”
I heard her sob and felt terrible about her situation. I couldn’t imagine her grief.
After hanging up, Francisco leaned over and handed me the sheet. “We have our first suspect.”
Grateful for the distraction from Mrs. Groganʼs visceral pain, I grabbed my windbreaker from the back of my chair. “Let’s go visit Steven Libowitz.”
Chapter 17
4:30 p.m.
The weather cleared, leaving a few patches of scattered gray clouds. The rain that had pounded the city was now a low drizzle as Francisco and I pulled into the driveway of 87 Calhoun Street. The house was a shabby Victorian. The white paint had faded long ago. The roof sagged. The windows were caked with dirt and grime. Many of the screens were missing or riddled with holes. Several green shutters hung on for dear life.
Francisco parked the Interceptor behind a silver Volvo station wagon. I called dispatch to run the tag number. It came back to Walter Johnson.
Francisco looked at me. “Maybe Libowitz gave a false address.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
We exited the car and followed the cobblestone path, overgrown with crab grass, and made our way to the front door. Cigarette butts littered the porch like spent casings. My partner gave the glowing doorbell a good ride.
The door swung open and we were greeted by a man old enough to be my grandfather. He tugged at his purple jumpsuit then stared at us with probing eyes and a deeply creased face. “Sorry, I’m not buying.”
Francisco and I looked at each other and smiled then retrieved our badges. “We’re here in an official capacity,” my partner said. “Does Steven Libowitz reside here?”
The old man coughed. A puff of smoke expelled from his mouth and seeped through the screen door. He studied me first, then Francisco. “Yes. Steven’s my grandson. Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“May we come in?” I asked.
“Please, please. Where are my manners?” The screen screeched when he pushed it open and ushered us inside. The interior looked much better than the exterior of the house. A brand new flat screen television hung on the wall. A green couch in good condition was planted along the back wall, next to a matching love seat. Several magazines were strewn atop a pine coffee table. A big blue La-Z-Boy recliner was parked off to the side and in front of the TV. The scent of lemon Pine Sol lingered in the air.
The old man’s feet shuffled along the yellow-tiled floor in his padded slippers as he led us to the kitchen and gestured us to sit at an oak table. “Would either of you like coffee? The potʼs been turned off for several hours but I could heat it up.”
We both declined.
He looked at me with gray eyes. “My, my, you’re very pretty for a detective.”
“Thank you.”
The ghost of a polite smile remained on his face. He grabbed the handle of a coffee pot, poured some into three white porcelain cups then shuffled to the microwave.
A stainless-steel refrigerator hummed. The noise was hypnotic, or maybe it was because of the long day—exhaustion had set in. A yawn escaped me. I wanted to go home to the simple pleasures. A hot bath, a cold beer, and a good book.
The microwave dinged. He brought two cups over to the table and set one in front of me and my partner. Apparently, the man didn’t hear us decline the offer. He moved back to the counter.
My face scrunched as steam penetrated my nostrils. The black liquid resembled motor oil and smelled as bad.
“What is it you need with my grandson?” Walter Johnson asked, pouring sugar into his cup.
I pushed my cup to the side. “He might be a witness to a crime. Is he here?”
His feet dragged over the linoleum as he left the kitchen counter and took a seat next to me.
“Witness, you say. That doesn’t sound like my grandson. You know he’s a jailbird, right?”
Francisco leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Yes sir. He did four years for assault.”
“Sounds about right. Beat up his ex-girlfriend.” His hands shook as he sipped the hot liquid. I wondered if he’d get any in his mouth. “He might be my grandson, but he terrifies me.”
I retrieved a notepad and pen from the pocket of my windbreaker. “Why does he terrify you?”
“Because he’s a punk.”
“Then why let him stay with you?” I asked in a soothing voice.
“Ah, hell. He conned me into moving in after he was released. Told me he had to have a home plan, needed to find a place to live and get a job once he got out. I should’ve known prison wouldn’t have changed him. Even with anger management classes and seeing a shrink once a week.”
My partner rested a hand on Mr. Johnsonʼs shoulder. “You said he wasn’t here. Do you know where we might find him?”
“He works for a 24-hour car
wash. Um, Crazy Pete’s off 90.”
“Thanks,” I said, jotting it down. “Do you know a lawyer named Lee Green?”
“Of course. I read the story about his murder in the paper. Why do you ask?”
“Does your grandson know who he was?”
“Yes. He defended my grandson before he went to prison.” His eyes widened. “Is he a suspect? Because if you ask me, Steven’s one cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch.”
“We need to ask him some questions. Do you know if he knew anyone by the name of Jason Grogan or Eric Baxter?”
Walter pointed a long, bony finger at us. “They don’t sound familiar, but my grandson doesn’t tell me much about his life.”
Francisco handed him a card. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Johnson. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.”
****
Crazy Pete’s was located off Highway 90 next to an Enterprise car rental. Crazy Pete’s had an electronic sign featuring daily deals. Today’s special was Super Soaker Saturday for $12.99. Even with all the rain we had, cars were lined up waiting their turn to drive through a red two-story building the size of a department store. Cars entered an opening to the right, cycled through and exited on the left. It looked like an amusement park ride for vehicles.
Francisco parked the sedan near a small building next to the car wash. Inside were two benches where customers could sit and wait for their vehicles to be cleaned, a counter with a pot of coffee, and some paper cups. A receptionist, sitting behind a desk, her white hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sadly, she looked like she should have retired during the last century. She was on the phone telling someone about Monday Monsoon and directions to get here. She hung up and looked at us with bloodshot eyes; a cigarette wagged between her lips. “Take a seat and I’ll be right with you.”
Francisco flashed a smile. “We’re detectives with the Eugene Falls Police Department. Could you tell us if Steven Libowitz is working today?”
She took a drag of her smoldering cigarette. “Yup. He’s a good worker too. Came with a great recommendation. He’s punctual and in the six months he’s worked here, never missed a day of work. Wish I had twenty more like him.”
“Thank you for the résumé, but where can we find him at the moment?”
She glared at him. “You don’t have to be rude. Do you need to speak to him now? I hate to interrupt the crew while they’re busy. Car washing is a process. Take one person out of the equation and it ruins the fluidity of the procedure.” She took another drag. “Are you going to arrest him? If you do, can you give me time to call someone in?”
“As of now we only need to speak with him.”
She hooked a finger. “He’s with B crew. They’re behind the building detailing the inside of the vehicles.”
When we approached the back of the building there were a dozen or so men. Some were using vacuum cleaners inside the various cars, while others waxed and shined the outside. Each employee wore dark blue coveralls with Crazy Pete’s Carwash stenciled in red letters on the back. I tapped one of the guys on the shoulder who was applying a spray to the front tire of a gold Subaru.
“Can you tell me where Steven Libowitz is?”
He stood and pointed to a black BMW. “Steve’s the one cleaning the inside.”
“Thanks.”
Libowitz was running one of those industrial style vacuum cleaners, wearing noise-cancelling headphones. Francisco slapped the hood and flashed his badge. Libowitzʼs eyes widened when he caught sight of the gold shield and he started blinking fast. He switched off the machine, removed his headphones and stepped out of the car.
He was a tall, stocky man with short, cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tattoos. Libowitz swallowed. “I haven’t done anything.”
Francisco smiled. “Really? That’s not what we heard.”
“Whatever you heard from the bitch is a lie.”
“You know what they say. Once an abuser, always an abuser. But that’s not why we’re here.”
Libowitz rubbed the back of his neck. “Then what do you want?”
“You remember Lee Green, don’t you?”
“Sure. The man got me four years in the pen. Some lawyer he turned out to be. Makes me wonder if he took a bribe from the DA.”
“Yeah, well you sent him a number of threatening letters.”
“I was only letting off a little steam. If you got sent away for a crime you didn’t commit, wouldn’t you be pissed?”
“Did you know Mr. Green was murdered?”
His eyes widened. He raised a hand. “Hold on. I had nothing to with the guy’s murder. I didn’t like the bastard, but that’s water under the bridge. And if you think you got something on me, go ahead and bring me in. Otherwise, I have work to do.”
“One last question, hotshot,” I said, moving toward the driver side door. “Where were you last Friday night between midnight and two in the morning?”
His lips curled up. “I was in the city jail for an ‘allegedʼ DUI. Damn five-oh always busting my balls. I had one drink and they pulled me over. I wasn’t even drunk, but all you cops know how to manipulate that breathalyzer. Anyway, my grandfather posted bail at 9:00 a.m. Saturday morning.”
Chapter 18
6:45 p.m.
After a brief phone call, Francisco discovered Steven Libowitz had indeed spent the night in the city jail during the time of Lee Green’s murder. The case seemed to be at a constant standstill with no foreseeable end in sight.
Because of the long workday, Francisco wanted to get dinner before calling it a night. He wasn’t too happy when I declined the offer. My bed was calling, and sleep was more important at the moment than food. Truth be told, I might fall asleep at the table. Well, that and being alone with him. Although we’d eaten together before, I was suddenly afraid my strange new feelings for him might come back and we might end up in his bed. I couldn’t let that happen. Not only would we be crossing some barrier we’d managed to uphold for three years, the idea of being another notch on his bedpost didn’t appeal.
My hair whipped in the wind as I drove through winding roads with the top of the Jeep Renegade down. The sky was overcast and the dull moonlight appeared fuzzy in the distant horizon. It was time to get home. A hot bath, a cold beer, and a good night’s sleep awaited. With any luck, nightmares from this case would not invade my dreams.
My cell chirped. Caller ID read Veronica. I wasn’t in the mood to speak to her, but the woman was persistent. If I didn’t answer, she’d call a dozen times while she drove to my house. You might think I’m joking, but Veronica’s arrived at my home at all hours of the night whether I wanted her to or not. She’s a great prosecutor, but time is irrelevant in her eyes.
“Whatcha need, Veronica?” I knew, but hoped it might be something else. Talking about my mom was the last thing on my mind.
“We need to get together and talk about your testimony before you take the stand again on Monday.”
“I don’t have time for this right now. In case you haven’t heard, we’re working a case and my time needs to be spent on catching the killer.” Maybe this would suffice, but doubtful.
Veronica sighed. “Can we at least work on keeping Lucius in prison? For that to happen, the jury needs to know the man is a cold-blooded killer.”
“They do. The evidence is all there. So you and me…we don’t need to talk about shit.” The last word escaped my lips. I rarely cursed, unless I’m tired or cranky. Both seemed to be in play at the moment.
“Avoiding the issue with your mother isn’t going to solve anything.”
“It’s worked for me so far. Besides, when did you become my shrink?”
“Then tell me this, Detective, do we need to worry about what your mother has to say? Is the DA going to get railroaded here? Because if we are, you could at least give me the courtesy of seeing it coming.”
“Okay. Fine,” I said, my voice firm. “Call me tomorrow and we can meet so
mewhere and discuss what my mother might have to say to the defense.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
****
“What the hell are you doing here, Michael?” I stomped past him in the kitchen, unzipped my windbreaker and hung it on a coat hook, struggling not to explode. I wanted him to leave and never come back into my life.
Sam trotted into the kitchen, her paws clacking on the linoleum. She sat on the floor and looked up at me. I scratched her between the ears.
“That’s it? Not even a ‘Hello, Michael,’ or ‘How have you been?’”
My ex-husband really knew how to push my buttons. My temples throbbed. “I don’t have anything to say to you. So like I said, what are you doing here? More to the point, what is it you want?”
I reached past him and grabbed a Tupperware dish. Sam’s tail wagged when I opened the lid and took out a doggie treat. She gently took it from my palm and trotted into the living room and plopped on the carpet in front of the TV. Because of my long workdays, the television stayed on Animal Planet.
Michael shook his head, walked to the refrigerator, and took out a beer. “Look at you. What has this cop job done to you? The woman I married was fun to be around.” He twisted the top off. “Now you’re,” he gestured with the bottle, “this,” and slugged down half the beer. “What happened to us?”
“We got married, that’s what happened.”
“Ouch.”
“Ouch. That’s all you have to say?” I reached in the fridge, grabbed a beer, and slammed the door shut. It popped back open, so I nudged it closed with my hip. “You put me through hell, Michael Anthony Alexander.”
His shoulders sagged. He turned his face away and let out a long breath.
“You can’t tell me the time we were together was all bad.”
I twisted the top and took a long pull. The cold liquid bit the back of my throat going down. “No, you’re right. It wasn’t all bad. When we met in Fallujah I had real feelings for you. That was my first mistake. Getting involved with a Marine who blows shit up for a living.” Cursing again. I needed sleep or the big cuss words might come out tonight.
