“I can imagine,” I said, having no real clue what it was like to chase preschoolers. I tended to avoid children. I didn’t think they liked me very much. “I just have a few questions about your husband’s accident,” I began.
Her demeanor changed dramatically. The smile slipped and tears began to pool in her eyes. I felt like a dirt bag. “If it’s too much, we can do this at a later time,” I suggested.
She waved her hands, then dabbed tears from her eyes. “It’s just so new, ya know?”
I nodded. “And I really hate to ask you to relive your pain.”
“Are you opening an investigation into Stan’s death?” she asked, her expression hopeful.
“I’m a paralegal with a law firm and we’re looking into the death of José Lopez. Your husband’s name came up.”
“That mess Liam is in?” she asked.
Ashley nodded. “And we wouldn’t be here, Ree, if Liam did it. We’re trying to clear him.”
Ree sat on the edge of her seat. “Even when I saw it on the news I was stunned. Liam isn’t the murdering type. Stan used to talk about him. Said he was a great cop who got royally shafted.”
“What can you tell me about your husband’s accident?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s a crock. Stan was super careful when it came to guns. And by guns I mean firearms, not rifles. He owned one rifle, it belonged to his father. It’s still locked in the gun case.”
“But records show he bought a new one just before his trip.”
She smoothed her hair as she let out a breath. “Like I told the investigator and the reporter, Stan did not buy that gun.”
“But the receipt . . .” I let the comment linger in the air.
“Didn’t have his signature, just his name. And I would have known if he’d bought a rifle.”
“Because you were close?” I asked, wondering if you could ever really know another person.
“Hang on,” she said as she disappeared down a hallway then returned a second later with a large file box. She placed it in the center of the coffee table. “These are all our financial records for the last five years. Pay stubs, bank statements, phone bills, electric bills, credit card receipts, cash withdrawals, everything. Stan and I weren’t poor, but with two kids we lived on a tight budget. And I always took care of the finances. Stan didn’t have four hundred and fifty dollars to spend on a rifle. The money just wasn’t there.”
I sucked in a deep breath and gingerly asked, “Any chance he was getting money on the side? Working a second job or something?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mean was he taking bribes? No. If he had been, then he wouldn’t have left me with a twenty-five-thousand-dollar life insurance policy that doesn’t pay out in cases of suicide. If it wasn’t for the department’s widows’ and children’s fund, I’d have lost my house.”
“I didn’t mean to disparage your husband’s memory,” I promised her. “Was your husband friendly with José Lopez or any of the other men from the gang unit?”
“He transferred to major case after the shooting. He was something of a pariah after the grand jury.” She blew out a breath. “Cops. They like to stick together. But the day before he left, José called here looking for him. I gave him Stan’s cell number, but I don’t know if they ever connected.”
“Is it possible that—” My cell phone rang and I excused myself to take the call. It was from my security company. I gave them the code word and then a voice on the other end said something about an attempted break-in.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Something’s come up. You’ve been most helpful, Ree. If we find anything important, we’ll be sure to share it with you.”
I think I said good-bye to Ashley but I wasn’t sure and didn’t care. The whole idea that someone would try to break in to my house gave me the jitters. What if it was the same person who’d sent me the threatening e-mail?
I made it back to my place and surveyed the damage. Someone had thrown a brick through my back door, smashing my sliders into tiny shards. “What happened?” I asked the deputy in charge.
“Kids, probably. Two other houses in this neighborhood had smash and grabs this week.”
“What should I do?”
“Check to see if anything is missing.”
My laptop was with the IT guys. My television was still on the wall with no signs of pry marks near the brackets. My jewelry was all accounted for. Nothing was taken.
The deputy spoke over the crackle of the radio clipped to his shoulder. “Do you know anyone who can fix that back door for you?”
I nodded. Harold the ex-con would help me in an instant.
“What was the response time?” I asked.
“We were on scene six minutes after we got the call from your alarm company.”
“So it was definitely a smash and run?” I said, relieved.
“Looks that way.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his card. “If you do find anything missing, give us a call.”
“Was anything taken in the other break-ins?”
“Nope. This is why we think it’s just bored kids. In five minutes a pro can clean out a house. Take all the stuff that’s worth a quick buck to a pawnshop or a fence. So far these punks haven’t graduated to that yet.”
“Let’s hope they don’t.”
Great, so now I have Ashley as my wingman; Liam is in jail; I get a creepy e-mail; and now my house gets broken into? Immediately my mind started to travel down a suspicious path.
In order to get a loan, you must first prove that you don’t need it.
eleven
I started my day with coffee and dead people. I sat in my darkened kitchen poring over the autopsy reports. Harold had come in the middle of the night and put plywood over the broken sliders, so I was cheated out of what was probably a beautiful sunrise. He’d promised to reinstall new sliders today and I knew his word was good in spite of the vulgar prison tats that decorated his hands, arms, and chest.
I began with Stan Cain. Unlike as seen on TV, autopsy reports are complicated, with lots of unfamiliar medical terms. About the only things I understood were the Xs placed on the body-outline diagrams. After reading Stan’s twice, I finally gave up and decided I needed to do the reading back at my office where I had access to a medical dictionary.
It was still warmer than usual, so I looked longingly at my sweater collection before choosing a sleeveless Vince Camuto colorblock dress. It was black, white, and poppy, and fell just above my knee. I added a simple pair of black patent Franco Sarto sandals with a stacked heel and a slight platform.
Once I got to the office, I grabbed the medical dictionary from the library and barricaded myself in my office. Before I could get started, Margaret buzzed my line.
“Yes?”
“You have a collect call from an inmate at the Palm Beach County jail. If you accept the charges, you’ll have to reimburse the firm.”
“Not if it’s a client,” I informed her. Bitch. “Accept the charges and put it through.”
My line buzzed again and I picked it up. “Liam?”
“Know any other inmates?” he asked, his tone jovial.
How could he sound so cheery when his arraignment was just hours away? “Just one. But he’s in juvie. What do you need? Oh, clothes for the arraignment?”
“Nope, I’ll be the guy in the navy jumpsuit with PBJ stamped on the back. If I need clothes, Ashley can get them. She has a key to my place.”
A key and a drawer? “Okay, so we’re back to what you need.”
“I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Talk about mixed signals. Ashley has unfettered access to his life but it’s my voice he wants to hear? Has he been playing me all this time? Could it be that Liam McGarrity is one of those guys who likes the chase but once the prey is in his sights he loses interest? Could I stop obsessing?
“You’ll hear my voice at the arraignment.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his tone dropping lower and sex
ier if I did say so myself. “What happened last night?”
“What makes you think anything happened?”
“Heard there was a thing at your place.”
How did he find this stuff out from behind bars? “It was nothing. Just some kids in my neighborhood entertaining themselves by breaking glass.”
“Are you sure that’s all it was?”
I twirled a lock of my hair. “There have been other similar glass-smashing incidents, so yes, I’m certain it was just an unfortunate and expensive bit of bad luck.”
“I thought we had an agreement.”
“We did?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t rat you out to Tony if you limited your investigating to computer searches.”
“I have.” Mostly.
“Then what do you call your little visit to Ree Cain’s house last night? A recipe swap?” His tone was a tad sarcastic.
“How did you . . . Ashley?”
“I called her last night.”
You didn’t call me. “I wasn’t doing anything dangerous. I just wanted to hear about her husband’s accident.”
“So what did you find out?”
“What? Ashley didn’t give you all the juicy details?” I couldn’t keep the derision out of the question.
“No. It wasn’t that kind of phone call.”
Now I was curious. And pathetic. “Don’t they monitor your calls?”
“Not when I’m calling my attorney.”
“I’m not an attorney.”
“Paralegals count, too.”
“I found out that Stan owned a perfectly good hunting rifle, but he left that behind when he went hunting. There is a receipt with his name on it for the purchase of a new rifle but Ree says they had no money in their accounts and no record of Stan spending that much cash. Swears it isn’t possible.”
The line was silent for a few seconds. “I gotta get out of here. And you’ve got to stop playing detective.”
“First off, I am not playing. Second, it is part of my job to do pertinent research on cases.” And third, I want you out of jail, too.
“One word to Tony and I bet he’ll tie you to your desk.”
“Promise me you won’t,” I pleaded. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. Consider it legwork for you once you get out of jail.”
“Assuming I get out. Garza is a good guy, but judges often remand on murder charges.”
My heart ached. I knew it could take a year or more for a criminal case to wind its way through the legal system. I couldn’t imagine a whole year without Liam.
“Think positively,” I insisted. “Tony is a great lawyer, and all the police have is circumstantial evidence and a theory.”
“And people get life on circumstantial evidence.”
“We’ll be at the courthouse at twelve thirty. And promise me you won’t tell Tony. I’m only trying to help. Can’t you accept that?”
“I appreciate it, Finley. I just don’t want you to get yourself in too deep. Not until we know what or who is behind this.”
“Promise me, please?”
“Okay. For now.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”
“Finley?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
I went back to the autopsy face sheet on Stan Cain. It was like a table of contents—historical summary; examination type; date, place, assistants, and attendees. All that told me was the name of the examiner and the people present at the autopsy. Then it moved on to the presentation of clothing and personal effects—Stan had only his ID and fifty-two dollars in his pockets. Under evidence of medical intervention, all that was listed was NONE since he was a DOA. Then as I continued into the document, I learned what postmortem changes had taken place—lividity in the back and lower extremities, meaning Stan had fallen backward from the shot. Imaging studies showed the gunshot went up through his chin and exited through the top of his head. There was some yucky stuff about brain matter that I skimmed. They noted the evidence of injury, internal and external exams, then moved on to toxicology samples—negative for any kind of medication, legal or illegal. Then I finally reached the summary, comments, and cause of death statement. Bottom line, the medical examiner determined that Stan’s weapon had fired from below, consistent with the gun being lifted into position and discharged but also consistent with suicide. The medical examiner did not rule out suicide because of the stippling at the entrance wound. The presence of gunpowder meant the barrel was almost directly under his chin when the weapon discharged. No wonder Ree was so upset. Without a clear showing of an accident, she couldn’t collect on his life insurance. How would she care for her family if that happened? That was a lot of worry resting on her shoulders.
Tony came to my door and knocked once on the jamb. He had on a gray suit that did wonders for him. He looked lean and fit and very handsome. No wonder he had such luck with jurors. But today wouldn’t be about jurors. It would be only the judge, the ASA, Liam, Tony, and me. “Did you get the report?”
“Reading it now,” I answered, hoping he wouldn’t want it right then since I hadn’t finished.
“How are your photography skills?” he asked.
“I’m not Ansel Adams but I can point and shoot. Why?”
“The cops have released José’s house. I got an order this morning allowing us to go in. I want every inch of the place photographed before the arraignment.” He stepped forward and handed me a slip of paper with an address on it. “Don’t forget the backyard. I want to be able to see the path Liam took when he fled the scene.”
I nodded. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Here’s the key to get in.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “Nice job on the Travis Johnson abstracts. You’ll be meeting him next week.”
“Okay.”
“See you at the courthouse.”
I spent the next forty minutes trying to decipher the Lopez autopsy. It wasn’t as complete as Stan’s because it was a preliminary report. The toxicology wasn’t back yet and some of the trace evidence was still being examined. All I really learned was that he was shot just below the right ear and the bullet went through his brain and exited through his jaw. My stomach was doing flip-flops. I envisioned the scenario in my head, with a downward wound pattern, and realized that one of two things was possible. Either José was seated when the bullet hit or he was shot by a much taller person. Then he either fell into the chair or was put there by someone.
Like Stan, there was stippling around the wound, meaning it was a close-contact injury. I flipped back a couple of pages and looked up José’s height. He was five-eleven. If he died standing up, Liam could have made the shot. Not a bonus for our side.
I gave the autopsy reports to one of the interns to take up to Tony’s office on my way out. After stopping at the store to buy disposable cameras, I went to the former crime scene. José’s house was on a cul-de-sac. The fenced yard abutted a house one street over. It was a modest blue home with white trim and lots of hedges in dire need of trimming. I started my photo shoot on the outside, clicking away at every possible angle.
With more than a touch of trepidation, I went to the front door. A piece of yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze where it was still taped to one side of the door. I let myself in and again snapped photo upon photo. The kitchen was a tad untidy but nothing major. Well, nothing except for the fingerprint residue on every surface. The kitchen had two entrances, so I went past the range and entered the living room. There were two sofas, a recliner, an entertainment center with a television and a stereo, as well as a coffee table and matching end tables. The living room led out to a small cement patio and the fence, which was overgrown with wisteria vines. There was a grill and a plastic patio set that was dirty but undisturbed. I concentrated on the living room, my stomach lurching when I photographed the recliner with the dark brown bloodstain that had dripped along the chair, then pooled on the floor. There were flecks of what looked like sweetbreads. Just seein
g them pushed bile into my throat. Moving closer, I captured the disgusting scene from several perspectives. I was about to go in search of bedrooms and bathrooms when something caught my eye.
The sunlight was shining through the glass doors and there was a reflection on the top of the coffee table. Two circles. Outlines really. I captured those on film as well. Maybe the killer had a beer with José before blowing his brains out. Not likely. And I had no way of knowing when those marks were left on the table.
The bedrooms and bathroom were devoid of any new clues. The windows were locked and I didn’t see any disturbances in the fingerprint dust, indicating that nobody had found a lift on the sill. Trying to be thorough, I took pictures from the bedroom hallway, giving me long shots into the living room. Then I heard a noise and, startled, I hit the small table and sent a lamp crashing to the ground. As I started to collect the pieces, I was already dreading having to tell Tony that I’d broken something during my assignment. Then I saw it, right in the middle of all the ceramic shards. A small black button-size object with a tiny wire sticking out of one side. I placed it in my palm and stared at it. A fuse maybe? A timer for the light? I didn’t know, but I decided to take it with me. I could always return it.
I’d managed to go through four cameras before I ran to Walgreens to have the films developed at their kiosk. There was a clerk stationed at the kiosk just in case anyone ran into trouble. I guessed he was late teens, early twenties. I knew he was staring at me. Or at least at my legs. I’d have smiled back if I thought it would get me a discount, but then I remembered Dane-Lieberman would reimburse me so I just ignored his misplaced adoration. Unlike Liv, I wasn’t interested in having a plaything.
I arrived at the courthouse with fifteen minutes to spare. So had Tony, and we slipped into one of the counsel conference rooms and he looked at my photos. “Look at this,” I said as he got to the ones with the coffee table circles. “What does that look like to you?”
“Condensation circles. Lopez had a visitor that night?” he wondered aloud.
5 Bargain Hunting Page 12
