by Ken Casper
“He wanted to know why no one was doing anything about Mr. Tanner’s death. He said Officer Carlton promised him someone would be looking into it, but he hasn’t seen anything in the papers. I tried to tell him there was nothing to look into, that Mr. Tanner died of a heart attack.”
Catherine had heard all this before. From Abby Carlton herself. Six weeks ago. Just before she resigned.
“Ma’am, he insists it wasn’t a heart attack. He says he saw Mr. Tanner running in the park that day, saw him drinking from a Gatorade bottle, then collapse in violent convulsions.”
Her temples throbbed. She didn’t want to think about Jordan suffering. Alone.
“I asked him if he was sure,” Derek went on, “because heart attack victims don’t normally have convulsions, but he was adamant that’s what he saw. Claims he wanted to help but didn’t know how, so he ran off and called 911.”
This version coincided with Abby’s, but it contradicted Detective Clemson’s later report that Stuckey kept changing his tune and getting details all mixed up. Where was the truth?
“Was anyone with you when Stuckey told you all this?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. I’d just dropped my partner off in front of the building so he could get started on our shift report while I parked. Nobody was around.”
“Have you told him or anyone else about it?”
He shook his head. “I thought I ought to bring it directly to you.”
“Yes. You did the right thing.”
“Ma’am—” he hesitated “—if what he says is true, that Mr. Tanner had convulsions, perhaps it wasn’t a heart attack after all. Maybe he died of something else.” He worked his jaw as though he wasn’t sure if he dare make his next statement. “He could have been poisoned.”
She’d never believed . . . never wanted to believe that Jordan had just dropped dead. He’d been forty-seven years old. In perfect health. The angry part of grief clamped around her heart. She couldn’t fight the will of God, but by God she could find murderers.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” she said, straining to sound objective and professional, even as her stomach churned. “According to the medical examiner, Jordan was badly dehydrated. It’s my understanding that heatstroke can cause convulsions leading to a heart attack.”
She’d asked questions, lots of them. The answers were all the same. Jordan had suffered a myocardial infarction while running in Memorial Park and had died before medical treatment could reach him.
“Officer Carlton told me about Stuckey, and I had him and his story checked out,” she said, not mentioning that it was by Allan Clemson, who’d just been relieved of duty. “It’s true the person who called in the 911 was a man, but we have no way of verifying it was Stuckey. Also, in his second interview, which he apparently doesn’t remember, he changed his story several times. He’s not a reliable witness, Derek, even if he was there.”
The young cop nodded, but his assent was wary. “What reason would he have for lying?”
“After you’ve been in police work as long as I have,” she said with a faint smile, “you’ll learn that people say and take credit for all sorts of unlikely things. They’ll swear they saw and heard things that couldn’t possibly have happened, tell you what they think you want to hear, even confess to crimes they didn’t commit. Sometimes it’s to protect friends and loved ones. Sometimes it’s to get attention. For a few it’s a matter of compulsive behavior.”
Derek sat motionless, waiting for her to continue.
“Stuckey’s an alcoholic. That brings in a whole new set of problems. Confusion, delusions, mistaken identity.”
“Are you saying you’re not going to pursue this any further?”
“Of course I will, but in my own way. Meanwhile I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information to yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you for coming and telling me about this,” she said in a tone that signaled the meeting was over.
He rose from the seat and moved to the door with no great haste. He had his hand on the knob when he spun around and blurted out, “How is she?”
Catherine’s heart stirred. No question who he was referring to.
“She’s fine,” Catherine said. “I had lunch with her today.” She would have liked to add that Kelsey had asked about him, too, but nothing would be gained by the lie. “She’ll be teaching second grade this fall. She’s really excited about it.”
He nodded, but Catherine could see it wasn’t Kelsey’s teaching career he was interested in.
“About Mr. Tanner—” he prompted.
“I’ll take care of it from here. Thank you.”
He wasn’t pleased, but this time when he turned around, he opened the door and went out.
Catherine closed her eyes and slumped against the back of her seat. Tears threatened, but she blinked them away. Over the past year she had been accused of obsessing over Jordan’s death, and maybe it was true, but how could she not? He and Kelsey had been the center of her life. Now he was gone and Kelsey had all but abandoned her.
Still, she thought she’d come to terms with both issues—until today. First Kelsey suggested her father had been murdered. Then Clemson, the cop she’d counted on to look into the circumstances of his death, turned out to be dishonest, if not corrupt. Now Derek had renewed her doubts.
After referring to her Rolodex, Catherine dialed a number in North Carolina. On the fifth ring, just when she was about to hang up, someone answered.
“Hello?” The voice was breathless, but Catherine recognized it immediately.
“Abby, have I caught you coming or going?”
A split second elapsed. “Catherine? Is that you?” She laughed. “It’s so good to hear from you. As to whether I’m coming or going, I haven’t made up my mind yet. Thomas has a couple of days off, so we’re trying to build a deck. Emphasis on trying.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Fun, yes. But the sounds coming from Thomas . . . I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use such descriptive language before. I suspect some of his allusions are anatomically impossible, still, they’re interesting.”
“You sound happy.”
“I am, Catherine. Happier than I ever thought I could be. But hey, it’s a weekday afternoon. That means you’re at work—unless you’re sick.”
“I’m fine, and yes, I’m at work. I wanted to talk to you again about Harvey Stuckey.”
“Is he all right?”
“As far as I know, but I need to recheck some facts.”
“Shoot.”
“He told you he had seen Jordan drinking from a Gatorade bottle while he was running, that he then collapsed and went into convulsions.”
“That’s what he said. Have you learned more?”
“Not really. I asked Allan Clemson to look into the matter privately for me. He talked to Stuckey but had a hard time getting straight answers. Stuckey kept changing his story. He also seemed to get the incident mixed up with a 911 call in the same area a couple of days earlier. In that instance, medics were dispatched to help a middle-aged man who was having an epileptic seizure. That guy survived.”
Abby made no comment, making Catherine wonder if she had been aware Clemson was dirty.
“He also checked with the coroner’s office. They assured him the autopsy had been very meticulously performed and carefully and accurately documented.”
“They would, wouldn’t they?”
Catherine was a bit taken aback by the anger she heard.
“Abby, how sure are you that this guy Stuckey was telling you the truth?”
“Talk to him yourself, Catherine. Listen to his story firsthand. Look into his eyes. Guilt has already half killed him for not being able to save Jordan or not coming forward sooner.”
She took a breath.
“I believe him, Catherine. Otherwise I wouldn’t have passed the information on to you. I know how much you loved Jordan and how hard his death has been for you
and Kelsey. I would never do anything to add to your pain, unless I was sure it would help in some way.”
Catherine sensed the younger woman wanted to say something more, so she held back a response.
“As for Clemson,” Abby went on, “word is that he’s burned out and having a problem with Brother Bourbon. He probably didn’t even search for Stuckey.”
Catherine tugged her fingers through her hair. Another disappointment.
“Thank you, Abby, for your candor. Now go back to Thomas and your deck and have fun.”
“You’ll keep me posted on what happens?”
“I promise.” Catherine hung up.
Maybe she was obsessed, but letting matters rest wasn’t an option, not if she was to find any rest for herself.
Obviously she couldn’t trust the experienced people on the force to probe into the deaths of Jordan and Summers, and she didn’t have the time to play detective on her own. That left only one alternative—hire someone else to do it.
Her stomach, already jittery, began to ache. She knew exactly who that person should be. The question was whether he would forgive her enough to accept the job.
JEFF ROWAN JUGGLED a paper cup of hot coffee and a bag containing a cinnamon streusel with one hand while he unlocked his office door with the other. Inside, he strode purposefully to the security-control panel and poked in the code to disarm the system.
The headquarters of Rowan, Inc. was small, compact and uncluttered, the way he liked it. He set his continental breakfast down, tapped in his password on the terminal, sipped the steaming hot latte. As his programs loaded, he watched the second, smaller monitor that afforded him surveillance of the strip mall outside his door.
A woman was crossing the parking lot. A mere glance was enough for him to recognize her. Tall, slender and well-dressed, she paused, studied the discreet gold-lettered inscription on the reflective glass window beside his door, set her jaw and entered.
Even with the bright sunlight behind her, casting her features in gray shadow, he could feel her eyes focusing on him. He climbed to his feet.
“Come in.” He circled the corner of the desk.
She let the tinted glass door swing closed behind her. Though she was at least ten feet from him, he caught her scent—or thought he did—a subtle, elusive, effervescent trace of flowers or incense.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Chief Tanner? I hope I haven’t broken any city ordinances.” He could tell by the quick flash of discomfort in her blue eyes that she caught his words’ sarcastic edge.
“I’m not here in an official capacity, Mr. Rowan.”
He swung his arm and motioned her to take the visitor’s chair in front of his desk.
“Sit down. Please. I’m sorry I don’t have coffee to offer you, but since I can’t compete with Starbucks, I don’t try. I do have cold soft drinks or juice, if you’d like.”
“Nothing, thanks.” She planted herself in the leather-upholstered chair and tugged at the hem of her blue skirt as she crossed her legs. Nice legs, he couldn’t help noticing. Long and shapely. Annoyed by the distraction, he resumed his seat. She was trying very hard to conceal her nervousness, but he’d observed too many clients in that spot not to recognize the symptoms.
She scanned the long, narrow room with an appraising glance. He tried to see it through her eyes. The decor was Spartan. Beige-painted walls. Minimal furniture. All of it quality.
“You’ve done well.”
He said nothing, though he couldn’t deny a rush of pride that she approved. Not that he should care what she thought. Two minutes earlier, before she’d arrived, he wouldn’t have imagined he could. The modest success he had achieved was his own, no one else’s. In a way she’d been its cause, but he wasn’t about to give her any credit for it.
She lowered her gaze, joined her fingers, before addressing him again. The old-timers who had worked with her in homicide years ago said she was one of the best interrogators they’d ever met, able to coax a shy pervert to confess his misdeeds or stare down a serial killer into spilling his guts. Those skills didn’t apply here. She wasn’t the one in control.
“I have a personal matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’m honored that you would seek my advice.”
“That’s the second time you’ve referred to me honoring you.”
“What do you expect me to say?” he asked. “That I’m pleased to see you?”
“No,” she muttered. “Under the circumstances, I don’t imagine you are.”
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
LAST YEAR THERE had been a series of convenience store holdups that resulted in two killings. The three culprits had left no finger- or footprints to help identify them. None of the bystanders had possessed the presence of mind to get license-plate numbers. The bad guys had all worn masks and gloves and had spoken very little, so those present couldn’t state whether they were white, black, Hispanic or Asian, or even if they had accents. Only that they were probably all male.
Jeff had been in charge of the homicide investigations and had interviewed witnesses. Two women described a smell from the men who’d held knives to their throats. Someone else noted that all the hoodlums wore a particular brand of running shoe with the laces tied in an unusual manner.
Based on these scant details—the scent of a particular hair product being the primary one—Jeff hypothesized that the perpetrators were black and members of a street gang. A reporter from one of the local television stations got wind of the story and Jeff found himself crucified on the evening news as a racist cop. Catherine researched the matter and concluded Jeff’s assessment was reasonable. It later proved to be true.
Before she could publicly defend him, however, another story broke which purported to demonstrate a pattern of racial prejudice in Rowan’s record of arrests. In ten of his last twelve cases he’d pinned the blame on black suspects, even though the evidence against them was tenuous.
That wouldn’t have been so bad if seven of the ten blacks he arrested hadn’t later been released, either by the District Attorney’s office for lack of sufficient evidence, or because the state failed to prove its case in court. In six of those seven cases, the evidence in police custody mysteriously disappeared or was found to have been tampered with. His accusers proclaimed it had never existed, that it had been manufactured or was planted.
Jeff was placed on indefinite suspension and Internal Affairs was called in. He and his fellow officers were questioned at length regarding their methods and rationale in handling cases. The unanimous recommendation by IA and the Civilian Review Council was that he be terminated. Which was what Catherine had done.
Facing Jeff Rowan now was more difficult than she had expected. She’d interviewed bereaved parents, gone toe-to-toe with brutal killers, faced down angry mobs and ambitious politicians, but the vibes she was getting from this man unsettled her in a way she didn’t understand. He had reason to despise her, but that didn’t explain her reaction to him, her impulse to get up and walk out.
“If you need my help, you must be really desperate,” he said. “But let me assure you anything you tell me is confidential and will remain that way.”
He put the plastic top back on his nearly full coffee cup, pushed aside the piece of pastry, then, clasping the arms of his chair and rocked back. Waiting.
“Detective Rowan, I’ve done you a terrible injustice. I’m sorry.”
“You were right the first time,” he said. “It’s Mr. Rowan now. It’s also a bit late to be apologizing. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters. To both of us.”
His hostility disheartened her, but what could she expect? Being a cop had been his life and she’d stolen it from him. She met his eyes. “I made a series of mistakes last year. Firing you was just one of them.”
“It’s nice to know you didn’t single me out for special treatment.”
She studied him, his even features, his cleft c
hin. He had thick brown hair, neatly trimmed, and hazel-green eyes. She knew from reviewing his records that he was divorced, no children, that he was six years her junior, which made him thirty-nine. Despite the calorie-rich pastry and frothy coffee sitting on the edge of his desk, he appeared quite fit. Deep chest. Broad shoulders. His short-sleeved white shirt exposed thick biceps and sinewy forearms. He probably pumped iron three times a week at a gym somewhere.
“I wish I could rectify some of those errors of judgment,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re not here to tell me my appeal has been adjudicated and you’re offering to take me back on the force?” When she didn’t respond, he chuckled. “I guess not.” Their eyes met, locked. “Now, why are you here?”
“Do you read the obituaries?”
“They’re sometimes the first clue to the whereabouts of missing persons,” he said.
“Then you know two days ago a man by the name of William Summers passed away after being in a coma for over a year.”
“Didn’t the paper also mention that he’d fallen off his roof?”
“Correct. And the day after Summers’s accident my husband died while out running in Memorial Park.”
Jeff Rowan knew Jordan Tanner only by reputation—the elder son of a prominent and very wealthy African-American family. Catherine’s marriage to a man of color had no doubt been a titillating scandal twenty-five years ago and difficult for both of them socially. Such unions were more accepted these days and didn’t raise the eyebrows or rouse the rancor they once had, but heads still turned at the sight of an attractive blonde on the arm of a black man.
Jordan had taken over as editor of the Houston Sentinel, the city’s largest newspaper, some ten years ago. From Jeff’s perspective, Jordan had been fair and honest in dealing with issues and personalities. He had clear, consistent standards of right and wrong and didn’t hesitate to voice them. Jeff admired those qualities.
“He suffered a heart attack, as I recall. I’m sorry.”
She nodded, and he could see sadness wash over her features.
