by Karen Leabo
“Well, I’ve got things to do,” Kyle said. “Sorry again about the coffee.”
Without warning, Clewis delivered a sucker punch to Kyle’s gut. Kyle bent over, clutching his middle, surprised as hell.
“Don’t mess with me, Branson,” he said. “Just a friendly little warning.”
Kyle, once again alone in the coffee room, eased himself into a chair and sat there, unmoving, until he could breathe again. He couldn’t believe Clewis had just assaulted him. The idiot could get fired for such conduct. Then again, he had to know Kyle wouldn’t go running to his superiors about this. Even if he did, Clewis would deny it. There were no witnesses. It would be Clewis’s word against Kyle’s.
There was nothing Kyle could do, he decided, except look forward to the day when Clewis fried his own butt by doing something else stupid—and getting caught. It was only a matter of time. Meanwhile, Kyle would think twice about baiting the man. He was dangerous.
Back at his desk, he dug out the phone number for Detective Joe Schank of the Boston Police Department, who had checked up on Jess for him earlier. He was in luck; Joe was at his desk.
“What can I do for you?” he asked amiably.
“When you were checking for an arrest record for Jess Robinson, did you include any surrounding areas, or just Boston proper?”
“Lessee, I checked with Suffolk, Norfolk, Plymouth, Bristol, Middlesex, Essex—”
“What about Barnstable County?”
“Uh, no, actually. That’s Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket and Cape Cod. Not the usual hangout for a college student. She was a college student at the time, right?”
“Yeah. But I have reason to believe she might have been living in Barnstable County at one time. Could you check it out?”
“Sure, I know a guy over there. Probably have to wait a couple of days, though.”
“That’s okay. I’m not really expecting anything earth-shattering. Just want to be thorough.”
“Sure thing. I’ve got your number right here. And if you’re not around, I should speak to Bill Clewis, right?”
“No,” Kyle answered hastily. “For reasons I’d rather not get into, I’d prefer it if you’d relay what you find to me and only me.”
“Whatever.”
Kyle concluded the conversation, secure in the knowledge that he was not ignoring leads that were potentially damaging to Jess’s case. If Schank actually did turn up anything incriminating, then Kyle would have to wrestle with his conscience. The chances of that eventuality, he figured, were pretty remote.
Kyle spent the next couple of hours over at the records office, going over birth records and tax rolls. He established fairly quickly that Terry Rodin wasn’t documented in Kansas City. There was no birth certificate, tax records, or driver’s license. That wasn’t a big surprise, though. It was common knowledge that Rodin wasn’t from around here originally, although no one could say exactly where he’d come from.
Kevin Gilpatrick was another story. He was a local boy, born at Trinity Lutheran Hospital. His parents lived in Blue Springs, a fairly well-to-do suburb, where they’d lived for at least twenty years. Kyle made a note of the address. Not that he expected the elder Gilpatricks to be hiding Terry—this was the prank of a couple of overgrown college boys, not a wealthy middle-aged couple. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.
Some more industrious digging yielded something a little more promising. The Gilpatricks owned a house on Lake Weatherby, a small, affluent municipality on a picturesque lake north of the city. The area was quiet, secluded—just the place for a fugitive to hide. Mr. and Mrs. Gilpatrick probably wouldn’t be visiting their lake house this time of year. Terry could stay there in relative comfort while his practical joke spread its damaging tentacles.
Kyle went to Clewis first, even though he knew what the answer would be. He made sure there were witnesses around when he asked, as pleasantly as if the incident in the break room had never taken place, “Bill, I want to get a search warrant for a lake house at Weatherby. I have reason to believe Terry Rodin might be hiding out there.”
Clewis looked at him as if he was crazy—and maybe he was. “Go play in traffic, huh, Branson? As I recall, you aren’t the primary investigator on this case. You were called in to help with a couple of specific details, and you’re done with those now. I don’t want or need your help.”
Kyle shrugged, acknowledging a look of silent sympathy from another homicide detective at the desk next to Clewis’s. “Okay, fine.” He’d expected as much, but he didn’t want anyone claiming he hadn’t at least tried the appropriate channels first. “Did you get hold of Jess Robinson yet?”
“Yeah, as if it’s any of your business. She got the message from her sister a few minutes ago and she’s on her way here.”
“Where did she say she’d been?” Kyle asked, as if only mildly curious.
“A friend’s house. Some babe from her hometown. I already checked it out. The babe verified the story.”
Good work, Jess, Kyle thought. He’d wondered if she’d be quick enough to manufacture an alibi for the past few hours. Apparently she could lie when she had to. That didn’t make him all that happy, but her deceit was no worse than his, he supposed. They’d both lied to get themselves out of hot water, and they’d succeeded.
Kyle walked away from Clewis without further comment.
His next target was Jon Easley. The lieutenant wasn’t on duty today, so Kyle called him at home.
Easley sighed deeply. “What is it, Branson?”
He repeated his request and the reasoning behind it.
Easley sighed again. “You know, Branson, you’re getting to be a real pain in the butt.”
“I realize that, sir. Sometimes being a real pain in the butt is the only way to get things done. This is something I believe in. Call it a gut feeling, instinct—”
“Lust?” Easley put in.
Kyle answered carefully. “Sure I feel lust. Who wouldn’t? But I’m not crazy enough to put my professional reputation on the line because of a few hormones.” Or was he? “I know my reputation is on the line. If Rodin’s body turns up with her fingerprints all over it, I can forget getting any kind of promotion for the next twenty years.” A sobering thought.
“You got that right,” Easley said. “Look, I don’t like you going over Clewis’s head. He’s the primary investigator—”
“He’s an idiot, he hates my guts and he’s worried sick that Terry Rodin will turn up alive and make him look like a fool. He wouldn’t cut me slack about this, even if I had the mayor himself by my side, claiming to have seen Rodin alive. You know that, Jon.”
Easley paused, as if digesting what Kyle had said. Kyle waited. Easley was a fair man. He would see the truth in Kyle’s words, and if he okayed getting a search warrant, he wouldn’t later deny it to avoid looking bad.
Finally he replied, though cautiously. “Okay. If you can get a judge to issue a search warrant based on your gut, go right ahead, with my blessings. But I don’t think you stand a chance.”
Maybe Easley was right, Kyle thought as he hung up. But that didn’t stop him from trying. He went to the courthouse and sought out Wendy Paxton, a young judge who’d proved sympathetic to him on several occasions in the past.
She laughed in his face. “You don’t have even the thinnest of evidence to support probable cause, Detective.”
“It’s a gut feeling,” he said. “You know I’m often right about these things.” And he was. Paxton had given him warrants against her better judgment more than once, and they’d paid off. But not even his respectable track record would sway the judge this time.
“Sorry, Kyle, but the press is hot on this case and I can’t afford to look like a jenny-ass. Your request is denied.”
Kyle walked away from the Courthouse, dejected. What other recourse did he have now? He felt helpless, ineffectual. Jess would go to trial with a mess of evidence against her—including a bloody knife with her prints all over it. Unless Kyle c
ould uncover something useful in the next few weeks, she was toast. Clewis wouldn’t lift a finger to follow any leads that didn’t point directly to Jess’s guilt.
During the walk back to the station, he made a decision. He had some vacation coming. He would take it and use the time to stake out that lake house on his own. Maybe it was a long shot, but it was all he had to go on for now.
When he got back to the station he headed straight for the interview rooms. Jess was already there, he discovered, and Clewis was hammering away at her. Kyle entered the observation room. An assistant district attorney was there, one Kyle knew only slightly. He was watching intently, and he hardly spared a greeting for the newcomer.
Jess was holding her own, Kyle thought as he took a chair. This was becoming old hat to her by now. She was composed, calm. She wasn’t letting Clewis get to her. Marva sat next to her, looking sullen. Who could blame her? Helluva way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
After a few minutes the A.D.A. glanced over, then did a double take. “Oh, it’s you. Did you really go to bed with her?” He nodded toward the two-way mirror.
“That’s Clewis’s wishful thinking,” Kyle said, barely holding on to his temper. “I do not have carnal knowledge of Jess Robinson. And if Clewis persists in spreading rumors about me, he’ll be talking to my lawyer.”
The other man coughed, trying to hide laughter, Kyle guessed.
On that note, Kyle stood and left the room. Jess was doing fine. He wasn’t worried about her. She could stand up to a bag of hot air like Clewis anytime. When it came to the trial, he hoped Marva would let her testify on her own behalf. A jury would have a tough time convicting her once they got to know her, no matter what the evidence said.
He had to believe that. Otherwise, he would be tempted to kidnap her and take her someplace far, far away—where she would be safe. With him.
Chapter 12
The interview didn’t last long. Clewis gave up in frustration long before Jess tired out. Her answers to his questions were boringly consistent and not the least bit helpful to his case. He slapped his notebook closed and stood up. “That’ll be all for now, Ms. Robinson.” He continued to stare at her, as if trying to figure out a great puzzle. “You know, if you were to be even a little cooperative, the D.A. might go easy on you.”
“Even if I believed that, I don’t know how I could be any more cooperative,” Jess said earnestly. “I can’t give you information I don’t have, and I can’t confess to a crime I didn’t commit.”
Clewis’s face went red. He turned abruptly. The female officer at the door opened it, and Clewis stormed out.
Marva and Jess followed. Marva patted Jess reassuringly on the shoulder. “You’re doing fine. I don’t know who that man thinks he is, speaking for the D.A.’s office.”
Clewis didn’t bother to escort them out of the police station. It didn’t matter. They knew the way out by now. They walked through the sparsely populated squad room toward the exit. As Jess opened the door, another arm pushed from the other side. Suddenly she found herself face-to-face with Kyle.
For a split second she panicked, especially when she saw his eyes and the intimacy they promised. He quickly schooled his face into a pleasant smile. Amazingly, she was able to do the same. “Oh, hello, Detective Branson.” They shook hands like two strangers on the street. “I think you’ve met my attorney.”
“Yes. Nice to see you again, Ms. Babcock.”
“Charmed,” Marva said, never cracking a smile as she gave his hand a perfunctory shake.
“I want to thank you again for helping me catch that crank phone caller,” Jess said. She noted that others in the room, including Clewis, were listening intently.
Kyle shrugged. “Just part of the job. I trust he hasn’t called back?”
“Not that I know of,” Jess replied. “I was away from home last night, but my sister said the phone didn’t ring all night long.”
“Good.”
“I won’t keep you,” Jess said, struggling to maintain a pleasant but neutral expression. She wanted to touch him! This was torture, pretending they’d shared nothing but a few polite words. “I’m sure you have work to do. Goodbye.”
She barely heard his answering “Bye now.” She was already out the door.
“Now that,” Marva said as soon as they were in the elevator, “was a masterful bit of theater. No one but the most trained observer—which I am—would have noticed the way Detective Branson’s nostrils flared when he looked at you. Now, are you going to tell me what really happened last night?”
Jess had thought she could get by without Marva’s knowing of her wild escapades.
“We made a deal, remember?” Marva reminded her gently. “You tell me the truth up front, all of it, if you want me to take your case.”
“When we’re in the car,” Jess said, properly chastised. She should have known she couldn’t hide anything from the observant attorney.
Once they were safely ensconced in Marva’s white Cadillac, away from prying eyes and ears, Jess spilled it. She confessed about breaking into Kevin’s house, finding the rug that might or might not be hers, her narrow escape from a fannyful of buckshot, losing her car, crashing at Kyle’s house and escaping in the trunk of Kyle’s car. The only thing she omitted was that she and Kyle had—brienfly—shared his bed. She figured no one, not even Marva, would believe that nothing had happened between them besides a few delicious kisses.
Several times during her confession, Marva clutched at her chest as if a heart attack was imminent and murmured, “Oh, child.”
When Jess finished, Marva was silent for a long while as her brain processed the new information. Finally she spoke. “That man could ruin you.”
“But he won’t,” Jess said quickly. “He honestly believes I’m innocent. Besides, if he tells what really happened, he’ll go down with me. After all, he aided and abetted a burglar, fraternized with a murder suspect, lied to his superiors.”
“You don’t think he has something up his sleeve?”
“I did at first. But now I believe he sincerely wants to help. He wants to find out the truth.”
Marva clicked her tongue. “You’re too trusting. He could be setting you up for something bigger.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just the same, I want you to stay away from him. No sense in taking unnecessary risks.”
“But I think he can—”
“No buts. If he wants to investigate and dig up evidence that will help you, that’s fine. But he’s not going to come within a mile of you while he’s doing it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jess couldn’t help saying. Marva reminded her of her third-grade teacher.
“We understand each other, then. Now, how about some barbecue at Little Red’s? You can tell me about the leads you’ve been following, and I can tell you about mine.”
Jess nodded, although she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, and if she was, she wouldn’t want to eat that greasy, fatty meat from Red’s. But Marva loved it, and she wanted her attorney happy.
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the gravel parking lot of Little Red’s, a place that could only be classified as a dump. Thick black smoke poured out of the chimney that came from the smoker. The smell was deceptively pleasant.
Little Red’s was a cornerstone of Kansas City tradition, attracting tourists of all colors during peak hours, so Jess wasn’t really out of place. Besides, she was with Marva, whom everybody seemed to know. She could hardly make her way to the counter for all the waves and winks and handshakes she got.
Jess limited herself to an iced tea; Marva ordered a plate of ribs and Diet Coke. They found a table in the corner.
“Now,” Marva said, “tell me what you’ve found out from checking with Terry’s friends.”
“Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid, except that most of them hate my guts because they think I killed Terry. I’m a wash as a private investigator.”
“You’re not
so bad,” Marva said. She took a bite of ribs, savored it while she chewed, then delicately wiped her hands on her napkin. “You did get a look inside Kevin Gilpatrick’s house. Now tell me more about this rug.”
“It was rolled up real tight, covered with plastic and buried under a bunch of carpet remnants. And I only had a tiny flashlight. But it was definitely an Oriental rug, and it was the right size. If we could get a search warrant—”
“In the first place, attorneys can’t ask for search warrants. Only law-enforcement people do that. In the second, judges don’t grant them on the basis of such slim evidence. Anyway, are you prepared to go to a judge and tell him how you came to see that rug?”
“No. But how about an anonymous phone call to the police? Detective Clewis has proved he’ll listen to anything.”
“Anything that incriminates you, from what I understand. He won’t give the time of day to a tipster trying to clear you.”
“You’re probably right.” Jess sighed and took a sip of tea.
“Don’t look so glum, child. I think there’s a good chance this Kevin Gilpatrick is hiding something—or someone. I’ll go over to records on Monday and see what kind of property he owns, any other place he could be hiding Terry.”
“Kyle said he would do that, too,” Jess said.
“We can’t depend on him, even if his intentions are honorable. He probably has other priorities.”
Undoubtedly, Jess thought. After today’s near-disaster, Kyle would be doubly careful about showing her any special favors. “So what leads have you followed?” she asked Marva, brightly changing the subject.
Marva proceeded to give Jess a dissertation on the legal parameters of blood evidence in the courtroom and a caseby-case rundown of precedent. She did it all from memory. Jess was impressed by her attorney’s acuity and convinced that once they were in the courtroom, she would give those D.A.’s a run for their money. But the promise of future clever legal maneuvers didn’t cheer her up. She wanted evidence that would clear her. She didn’t want to go to trial at all. Being the defendant in one criminal trial had left her decidedly lukewarm to the prospect of repeating the experience—especially when the outcome could mean losing her freedom forever.
