Fatal Demand

by Nigel Blackwell Diane Capri

  It wouldn’t be the first time a man had boasted how much he knew and how much she didn’t. The best strategy she’d found was to let them underestimate her as long as she could stomach the ruse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jess followed her GPS’s directions to Highland Village. As she suspected, there was no sign of any highlands, the place was flat for miles around. Despite the lack of geographic features, it had some character, and there were more lakes and ponds than seemed likely for a state that frequently boasted triple-digit heat waves.

  In an area that could certainly be called upscale, Joshua Supko lived in a gated neighborhood another step up the scale.

  Following a Lexus through the gates, she smiled and waved like a ditzy blonde at a security guard as he tried to stare through her windows. She kept to the posted twenty mile-per-hour speed limit in the hope the man would be fooled into believing she belonged inside the walls.

  The houses varied dramatically in scale. French chateaus nestled beside monumental Pueblos and English cottages with what appeared to be genuine thatched roofs. Lawn crews worked in gangs. Now and again she passed a bright green VW Beetle with the name of some house cleaning company emblazoned on the side.

  She eased the rental over a narrow humpback bridge, and the GPS announced her destination was on the right.

  Supko’s house stole its style from the bold straight lines and simplicity of Frank Lloyd Wright. Low rise windows stretched across seemingly unlikely portions of the building, and a mixture of wood and concrete highlighted a stark, but sympathetic, contrast of man and nature.

  She angled her budget rental car into a wide horseshoe driveway and parked behind a pair of Mercedes SUVs with vanity plates. She wasn’t planning to fool anyone into believing she lived in the neighborhood.

  Jess grabbed her bag and walked to the double front doors. A panel on the side contained a speaker and a camera. She straightened her back, smiled, and pressed the button.

  Gongs chimed deep inside the building. She waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty, forty. She reached for the button. The speaker crackled into life.

  “Yes?” said a male voice.

  “Joshua Supko?”

  “Who is this?”

  She kept up her smile. “A friend.”

  “Really. What name did you use at security?”

  She feigned surprise. “Security?”

  “Yeah. The people with guns at the front gate. The ones I’m calling right now.”

  “Wait.”

  The speaker clicked off.

  She stabbed the button. “Wait, wait. I’m a friend. I…I’m Jessica Kimball, from Taboo Magazine. I—”

  The speaker clicked back on. “A friend? Or a reporter looking for gossip?”

  “I…I have a message. I talked to a friend of yours. He’s worried about you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and…can we talk?”

  “No. I’ve called security. You can talk to them.”

  Jess looked behind her. A Ford Escape bounced over the humpback bridge.

  She looked back at the speaker. “Joshua, Stosh Blazek thinks you might be in some danger.”

  The voice in the speaker blew out a long breath. “Jessica whatever your name was, you’re not that much of a friend.”

  She held up her hands. “Okay. I’m not really a friend, I’m just—”

  “Let me set you straight. We bought this house from the bank. A repossession. A good deal. Nothing more. Got it?”

  “Er…okay.”

  “We never met this Supko guy who owned the place before. I don’t know him, or anything about him. I’ve only seen his name on some of the papers.”

  The Ford Escape screeched to a halt in the driveway.

  “So, you don’t know anything about where to find him?”

  The speaker clicked off.

  Two guards got out of the Ford. One held a pump-action shotgun in front of his ample belly. Texas, she thought, as she dialed up the innocence in her smile.

  “Hands where we can see ’em,” said the gray-haired man with the shotgun.

  She held her palms out at shoulder height. The second man was younger. Bigger. Bulked up. He’d have been a good candidate for a beefcake calendar if they used his picture only from the neck down. His cheekbones had been broken sometime in his past, leaving his face with a broad, flat profile.

  He came close enough. The nameplate on his shirt said James Polar. He patted her down, roughly but with an exaggerated attempt to prevent a sexual assault claim.

  She nodded to the bag. “There’s a gun inside. I have a permit. Concealed carry.”

  “ID?” said Polar.

  She nodded to the bag again. “Zip pocket. Driver’s license, and my press card is in there. Jessica Kimball, Taboo Magazine.”

  Polar grunted. “Damn press.” He held out his palm. “Keys.”

  She fished around in her pocket and pulled out the huge plastic key tag. She dropped the keys into his hand.

  He opened the rear of the Ford. She stepped in and he closed the door.

  A Plexiglas barrier separated her from the front of the vehicle. The older man with the shotgun drove the Ford back to the main gate.

  Polar drove her rental and parked it in a yellow-hatched spot just beyond the gates.

  They hustled her into the guard station, the shotgun in plain view at all times.

  A counter divided the room in two. Behind the counter were a bank of video monitors, radios, and blinking lights. In front of the counter was nothing other than a row of hard plastic chairs against the far wall. She sat in a corner.

  Polar left to stand guard at the main gate. The older man went through her bag, emptying the contents into a plastic tray. He looked at her press card, and made several phone calls. Thirty minutes later, he stuffed her belongings into her bag, and handed it to her. “Don’t come back.”

  Normally, she would have argued about the search, but she still needed information. She took the bag, looked at the silver nameplate above his shirt pocket, and gave him a tentative smile. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble, Mr. Barnes.”

  He sneered. “Bull. You knew exactly what you were doing. Something we’ll have to explain to our boss tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m—”

  “Every time one of the residents calls about an intruder, we’ve screwed up. We’re the ones who get dumped on.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Mr. Barnes,” she frowned, “I just wanted to talk to Joshua Supko. A friend of his thinks he might be in serious danger.”

  “You’ve heard of the police, right?”

  “I have a contact at the FBI. I’m going to talk to him, too.” She sighed. “I just thought it might be important to tell Mr. Supko first.”

  Barnes stowed the shotgun underneath the counter. “I don’t think anything’s very important to Mr. Supko these days, is it?”

  “Er…” Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lip.

  He did a double take. “Are you kidding?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Some reporter you are.” He rolled his eyes. “Supko’s dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jess glanced at Barnes before she cleared her throat and swallowed. “When?”

  “Two months and six days ago, why?”

  She cocked her head. Her gaze narrowed. “That’s an amazingly accurate count.”

  “Not likely I’ll forget.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “That was the last time I got grilled. Almost lost my job over it.”

  Jess blinked rapidly trying to clear her head. What the hell was he talking about?

  “My boss takes this job seriously. He thinks we’re really law enforcement around here.” Barnes spoke slowly, as if he doubted her mental capacity. “The same boss who is going to turn up and chew me out again tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “I really am—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I’m hardly likely to forget Supko, am I?” He paused and dropped
the hostility down a notch. “I’m the one who found him.”

  “What happened? To Supko, I mean?”

  “You think this place is an open book or something?” Barnes looked at her steadily. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder pointing to the driveway. “Check out that fence with the gates, sweetheart. We’re paid to keep private lives private around here.”

  She nodded again. “Course. I didn’t know he’d died. One of his friends was worried about him, and I, er, offered to check in on him.”

  Barnes frowned. “What friend?”

  Jess shook her head.

  “Can’t say, huh?” Barnes paused to give her a chance to speak, maybe. She didn’t. “It was in the papers. Him dying, I mean.”

  “Locals?”

  “Local what? Cops?”

  She blinked. “Papers.”

  “Yeah, guess it wasn’t big news around the globe or anything. Guy wasn’t a celebrity.” He gave a single nod. “But they didn’t get any of it from me. Not directly. You know. People talk, and—”

  “And what?”

  “Once a story gets out,” he shrugged, “people don’t care if they got it from the source or not.”

  “You mean, you?”

  “Yeah. Well, I told you. I discovered him.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Barnes glanced out of the window on the top of the door. His colleague, Polar, pushed a button to open the gate and waved a black BMW through.

  “Those other people,” Barnes gnawed his lower lip and lowered his voice. “They got paid.”

  Jess cocked her head. I see what you want.

  Whatever Barnes had to say, he probably told the police. In a very short time, she could find the local office and request the information herself. If the case was closed, local cops would probably give her whatever she asked for. No reason to withhold anything, assuming Supko’s death was a straight suicide.

  Jess took a deep breath and glanced at the clock. Paying Barnes would be quicker. Easier to hear the story now than deal with an unknown police department, and whatever red tape they might dream up. She could put this to bed now and file her story on time. Or chase what would be a secondary source anyway, just like Barnes said.

  She pulled a hundred dollars from her wallet, and slid it across the counter. “Tell me.”

  Barnes looked at the money and squirmed. He didn’t reach for the crisp Franklin.

  Jess frowned. “You don’t want it?”

  “That Glock.” He gave a nod toward the weapon. “Nice piece. Always wanted one of those.”

  “It’s got sentimental value.” She reached for the bill. “It’s also a very expensive piece.”

  Barnes opened his mouth and nodded again toward the gun before he closed his lips without uttering another word.

  She pulled two fifty-dollar bills from her wallet and added them to the Franklin. “Two hundred, and not the Glock. Owning that particular gun is very important to me.” She held the money out at arm’s length.

  Barnes checked out the window to be sure his colleague wasn’t watching. His hand snaked out and grabbed the bills. “And no names, right?”

  She nodded. “So, tell me.”

  Barnes folded the money and shoved it into his front pocket as if he thought she might try to snatch it back.

  “It was late afternoon. Just after five. We got a call.” He jerked his thumb toward a monitor with a layout of the properties on the estate. “The Supko house. Lit up. Flashing red.” He leaned forward. “That means it’s an emergency. So, we do what we’re supposed to do. Police, fire, ambulance. They’re all on speed dial. We call as we race over to the house. Got there in one minute. Ninety seconds, tops.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, Mrs. Supko is going nuts. She’s got this bunch of kids all making noises in her front room. And she’s practically locking them in there. Got the door closed. Yelling at them not to come out. We had to calm her down. She’s freaking out.” He stopped for a long breath. “So she takes us out back. You saw they have a big place. Sprawling. Giant patio bigger than my apartment. And a huge pool. And Mr. Supko. He’s just there. In the pool.”

  She made a mental note to obtain photos or video of the outside of the Supko property. “Drowned?”

  Barnes shook his head. “Not actually in the pool. He’s on one of those,” he waved both hands in front of his stomach to help him find the word and failed to pull it up, “floating recliner things. Floating on the water. Like he’s sunbathing. Got a drink in a kind of stand on the,” he waved his hands again, stretching the air between them, “floating thing.”

  “Was he already…”

  “His head’s leaning over,” Barnes nodded vigorously, “and he’s got one arm in the water.”

  “He could have been asleep.”

  “No. No chance.” Barnes shook his head. “He was gone.”

  “You checked?”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s when the fire department showed up. Came straight through the house. Jumped in the pool. Gear on and everything. Straight in the water. Pulled the floaty thing to the side.” He took another breath. “I helped lift him out. And…yeah, he was gone for sure. Then the police and ambulance arrived and it turned into a madhouse for sure.”

  Jess wondered exactly what she’d bought for her two hundred dollars that a quick Internet search would have failed to turn up. “Any conclusions reached at the scene?”

  “Not then.” Barnes shrugged. “They took a load of prints and pictures and all that at the time. But eventually, suicide, they said. Cyanide. Reckon he took a dose with his drink, and went to sleep on the floaty thing.”

  She reviewed his tale in her mind for a couple of seconds. “Is that what you think?”

  Barnes shrugged again. “I mean, they’re the experts, right?”

  She inched closer to the counter. “You gave your report to the police?”

  “Yeah.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Was there anything you didn’t tell them?”

  “Nope.” Barnes shook his head. “Told them everything. Just like I told you.”

  “Exactly like you told me?” She cocked her head and narrowed her gaze until he squirmed. “Nothing else?”

  “Yeah, and…well, later, you know, I found out some other stuff.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “Like what?”

  “Mrs. Supko, she’d taken her kids down the street that morning. The neighbors were having a kid’s birthday party.”

  “What about Mr. Supko?”

  “He was helping to set up all morning and then they had the party all afternoon.” He lowered his voice. “But before that, Mr. Supko, he goes out in the morning. Nine o’clock. Like usual. Only he comes back. Ten thirty-seven.”

  “And that was unusual?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s a late night bird. Works all hours. But he came back. It’s in the book. On video, too.” He stopped and glanced around.

  “And?”

  He dropped his voice lower. “Only there was someone in the back of his car. Can’t see it too well on the film, but I could,” he gestured to the gate where his colleague stood now, “from out there.”

  “Did you tell the police about the man in the back seat?”

  He nodded firmly this time. “And they looked at the tapes.”

  “Who was the man?”

  Barnes shook his head. “Don’t know. Never seen him before. And the police? They said they couldn’t be sure. The tape was kind of hard to see. But I know what I saw.”

  Jess waited a second but he said nothing else. “So, Supko comes back early, with a stranger, and is found dead a few hours later.”

  Barnes nodded again.

  “And the police didn’t think that was suspicious?”

  “No one else saw the guy.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “A guy. It was just a glimpse. You know,” he glanced at her purse, “cars can go by pretty quick.”

  She nodded toward his p
ocket. “I’ve already made my contribution.”

  He frowned. “Er…yeah, right.”

  “Was there anything else suspicious?”

  Barnes frowned and pretended to think. “When we got there, he’d been out in the sun a while. And this is Texas, right? Lots of sun. You can’t just lie out in it like that.”

  “And you figured Supko would know that?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s…that’s why I thought he was gone. To start with. Before we got him out of the pool.” He ran his open palms up and down the air in front of his torso. “His skin. It’s all red. Glowing.” He wiped his open palm over the air in front of his face. “All red. His face. His lips. But one side of his face isn’t burnt, right? Means he had been in the same position for a long time.”

  “Since ten thirty-seven in the morning, you mean?”

  Barnes nodded. “But he had used some sunscreen.”

  Jess frowned. “Why do you think that?”

  “His legs. His legs weren’t too bad. Maybe a little red, but nothing like his face and arms, and, and all the top half of him. He’s a real lobster.”

  “So he put some sunscreen on? That’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “Puts it all over his legs then decides to kill himself?” He widened his eyes and lifted his hands, palms up. “Who puts sunscreen on if they’re going to commit suicide?”

  “Did you tell the police all this?”

  “They said he could have just gone about his normal day, and then cracked. And they might be right.” He shrugged. “Turns out his business was on the rocks.”

  “What business?”

  “Some kind of finance thing. But he was only gone a couple of days and the bank repo’d his house. Took everything. House, contents, car. His missus? She had to leave. Got out just before the bank people arrived.”

  “Bet that was a scandal around here.”

  He guffawed. “Got that right. But, you know, most of them are up to their eyeballs, I’ll bet.”

  Jess stepped back. Suicide or not, turned out Blazek had good reason to worry about Supko. His scheme had another victim. Or another culprit. Either way, Supko’s business had bled dry like the forty-six other Blazek victims she’d interviewed.

  Jess gripped her bag. “What happened to Mrs. Supko?”