Fatal Demand

by Nigel Blackwell Diane Capri

“No, thanks. I’m driving.”

  “Suit yourself. The ones that didn’t sell easily ended up on our walls. We’d laugh at them sometimes.” Candace poured three fingers of whiskey into her glass and added a splash of tap water. She took a sip to judge the mix and turned to lean against the counter. “Hell, some of those things were crap. The kids could do better. But eventually they’d sell. He’d turn a profit and move on to the next.”

  “Always a profit? Never a loss?”

  “Win some lose some. That’s investment, he’d say.” She swigged a large mouthful of the whiskey and coughed a little as it burned down her throat. “He kept on buying them. Every couple of months.”

  “Where did he buy the art?”

  “There’s always private sales going on.” Candace tipped her glass to the framed painting on the wall Jess had noticed earlier. “Like that piece of crap there. I brought it with me because even the bank didn’t want it when they foreclosed. Aside from the kids, it’s the only thing I have left that belonged to Josh.”

  Jess pushed herself out of the soft cushions and walked to the painting for a closer inspection. The gilded frame suggested a grandiose masterpiece. The image was not much more than swipes of color applied with a wide brush moving from bottom left to top right. If the swipes had been arched and the colors not quite as vivid, the color band would have resembled a child’s rainbow. The painting was signed by an artist Jess had never heard of, I.M. Zimmer.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and took a couple of quick snaps of the painting. Candace didn’t object.

  “He sold the art in private sales, too?” Jess returned to the couch and fell into its too soft depths again.

  Candace nodded. “No commissions that way, he said.”

  “So, no taxes either?”

  “I never got into that. Even if he didn’t pay taxes on them, I have nothing left to give. So you won’t get much out of reporting me.”

  “I have less love for the IRS than most Americans. Don’t worry.” Jess cocked her head. “Why didn’t you push your doubts about the suicide theory with the police?”

  “By the time that was coming out, I was looking at places like this to find a place for my kids to sleep, and believe me, this was the best I could find. So, my voice didn’t count much with the cops. They figured I was trailer trash and we don’t get as much respect as Highland Village. Not even close.” She swigged again and coughed it down. “That housing association chairwoman’s a bitch, too. She’d shoot the president if she thought it would keep her housing values up. She wanted the case closed and that was that.”

  Her suspicions didn’t make much sense to Jess and she shook her head. “A housing association can’t influence a police investigation.”

  Candace laughed. “You went over to our old house, didn’t you? Jimmy told me. See what happened? Security right there in two shakes of an armadillo’s tail. That place is tied up tighter than a duck’s…”

  Jess smiled. “Are you and Jimmy…” She let her voice trail.

  “Are we what, Miss Kimball?” She leaned forward. “He’s an all muscle, two hundred-pound security guard who, as you can see from his face, isn’t the kind to back down. He comes round here in his uniform with a gun on his hip.” She nodded out of the window. “Did you look around when you arrived? How safe do you think I’d be here as a single girl? So, every time he turns up I roll out the welcome mat. I go out there where the neighbors can see. Hug him. Smile. Laugh. Hold his hand, and drag him in here.”

  Jess nodded, chewing on her lower lip. “I understand.”

  “No you don’t. I’m no tramp, so don’t go writing me up like that. He brings coffee, and we just talk. Besides,” she gestured to the back bedrooms where the kids were playing, “I have the best contraceptive you can get.”

  Jess cocked her head.

  Candace smiled. “You don’t have kids, do you?”

  “I…” Jess looked down. “No.”

  Supko’s smile faded and she didn’t press. “Jimmy told me you wanted to see Josh. Tell him he was in danger.”

  “Blazek told me he was worried for your husband. He implied they were in business together.”

  Candace shook her head. “He never mentioned Blazek, and I told you, Josh was no con artist.”

  “But your husband may have been murdered.”

  Mrs. Supko took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you think I should worry? My kids?”

  Jess frowned. “It’s been two months since…since your husband died. If anything was going to happen, I think it would have by now.”

  Candace tapped the whiskey glass on her front teeth.

  “Either way, you might want to keep Jimmy interested till you can afford another thousand-dollar event ticket.” Jess handed over the remainder of the money she’d promised for the interview. Candace Supko’s hand shot out to collect the bills and stuff them in her pocket as if Jess might change her mind.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jess drove the Ford along the path around the park, and waited behind a 1970s era pickup truck to join the main road, deep in thought.

  For a woman who had recently lost her husband, Candace Supko seemed very much in control of her emotions. She was cool and calculating, yet down-to-earth. The fall from conspicuous wealth into the poverty trap had left her confident and determined. Her honesty was refreshing. In happier circumstances, Jess guessed she’d been a popular neighbor at Highland Village.

  The battered green pickup truck inched forward for a better view of oncoming traffic.

  Jess tapped her fingertips on the steering wheel. Candace Supko and her husband had been a good match, she’d said. Josh Supko had probably been determined, cool, and confident, too. She said he hadn’t displayed the typical despair of a man driven to the end of his rope. Or one likely to swallow cyanide and die splayed out on a lounger in full view of his kids.

  The more Jess learned about Josh Supko, the less likely suicide seemed.

  The pickup pulled out, leaving a cloud of blue smoke behind. Jess stabbed the recirculate button, but the gag-inducing smell of half-burnt hydrocarbons filled the Ford. She pulled up to the stop sign, waited for a gap, and followed the pickup truck’s smoke toward Dallas.

  If Josh Supko hadn’t killed himself, then his death was a homicide. Which presented a whole new barrage of questions. Who killed him?

  Blazek’s story that he was “worried” about Josh Supko was another in his long string of lies. He must have known Supko was dead. But he probably didn’t kill Supko.

  At the time of death, Blazek was enjoying free food and television courtesy of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. And if he’d hired Supko’s killer, why send Jess to uncover that fact when Supko’s death had been ruled a suicide and Blazek was already free of suspicion?

  No. Supko’s killer was probably not Blazek.

  In most murder investigations, the spouse was a prime suspect. Money, love, jealousy, the stress of daily existence under one roof. All of that could drive lovers over the edge. Candace Supko seemed almost clinically cool about her husband’s death, but that wasn’t evidence that she’d killed him.

  What possible motive did she have?

  Jess bit her lip. No matter what qualities Jimmy the security guard might possess, Candace Supko wasn’t likely to give up Highland Village for mere lust. She was too cool for that.

  The pickup truck finally turned right, taking its smoky tailpipe with it. Jess opened the vents and lowered the front windows to freshen the air inside the Ford. She pushed the cruise control up another five miles an hour.

  What about money? Candace Supko didn’t appear to know much about her husband’s investments, or lack of them, until after he died. Maybe she had believed she would be rich when Josh died and got impatient. Women had made that choice before.

  That answer didn’t feel right, though. Candace Supko hadn’t seemed angry with her husband for leaving her penniless with mouths to feed and no means to do so. She’d accepted
her changed circumstances and already had a plan in place to find another trophy husband.

  Which left Jess with her least favorite option. Blazek’s mysterious international crime ring, the Italians. She snorted. The idea seemed as preposterous now as it had when Blazek first mentioned it.

  She took the entrance ramp for I-20 west, and settled into the middle lane, still running ten miles an hour above the speed limit.

  Candace Supko had been right about one thing, that gated community was tied up tight. They had cameras everywhere. They would have a record of everyone who’d entered and exited the estate. Jess considered driving back to Highland Village to check out the security guard’s backseat passenger.

  The police would have taken the recordings, though. They would have pored over the videos. She wouldn’t find a man traveling in the backseat of a BMW if the forensics teams hadn’t seen him.

  She turned onto I-45 toward Dallas and checked the clock. Plenty of time before her flight.

  The other names on Blazek’s list of friends might be worth checking, but she needed to talk to one more person in Dallas before she decided to track them down.

  Jess switched on the car’s phone, waited for the Bluetooth to sync up with her phone, and voice-dialed a number from her address book. The number rang five times before he answered.

  “Special Agent Henry Morris.” His voice was gruff, rushed.

  “Agent Morris, Jessica Kimball. I wonder if I could have a moment of your time?”

  He paused, perhaps to check his watch. “Go ahead.”

  “In person.”

  Morris took a deep breath. “In conjunction with what?”

  “Stosh Blazek.”

  “Nothing to talk about. He pled guilty. Last-minute plea bargain, I’m told. He’s going to jail. Score one for the good guys.”

  Jess ran open fingers through her hair. “He gave me some names, and…can’t I buy you a coffee?”

  “Look, I’m busy. I can’t waste time helping you to fill out your story for your magazine. Sorry if that sounds curt, but I have more than enough to do.”

  “I think I have some new information.”

  Morris was silent.

  “I won’t take long. I’ve got new information you’ll want to hear and I don’t want to talk about it on an open phone line.” Jess knew how to persuade busy people to make time for her. She’d had loads of practice. “I’ll buy lunch. You need to eat, don’t you?”

  “You need a dictionary. Look up the word ‘no’.” Morris groaned before he gave in. “You know Café Bistro? In front of our building?”

  “I can be there in thirty minutes.”

  “There and then.”

  “See—” Jess closed her mouth. Morris had already hung up. She had half an hour to figure out how to persuade him to help her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dallas, Texas

  May 10

  Jess had worked with many detectives in the years since her son was stolen, and she’d learned to instantly identify the ones she could rely on. Henry Morris was one of those.

  He’d been an FBI Special Agent for ten years. Energetic. Well regarded. Upwardly mobile. The Stosh Blazek story had garnered a fair amount of local publicity for him in Dallas and he’d come off well in the press.

  He’d been helpful to her before, which was always a good indicator in her book.

  Morris was destined for a starring role in the FBI one day if he stayed on the side of the angels instead of falling for all that protect-the-criminal crap. In her two previous phone calls with the man, he’d seemed like a guy looking to score a big take down, and she hoped he’d be as angry about Blazek’s plea deal as she was. Angry enough to reopen the case.

  There was another good reason to meet with him. He was an ideal focal point for her Taboo feature. She often skewered law and justice, which weren’t even close to the same thing. Featuring a strong cop helped her readers realize that even though the system often failed, sometimes justice was served.

  Jess entered the busy coffee bar. A sea of dark suits defined the place as a hangout for cops and lawyers. Not surprising since Café Bistro sat squarely across the street from One Justice Way, the building that housed the FBI’s Dallas Field Office. Problem was she’d never seen Morris, and she was looking at rows of square shoulders, cheap dark suits, and boring haircuts.

  She pressed the redial button on her phone. The call rang through and she scanned the crowd. The man in the back corner answered it on the third ring.

  “Morris with your coffee,” he said, the voice in her ear confirming the guess she’d made about his identity.

  “Kimball at three o’clock.”

  “I know.” His gaze met hers and he disconnected the call.

  She threaded her way through the crowded tables to reach him.

  He didn’t stand, but extended his hand. He had a firm grip. Another good sign. Jess wasn’t wimpy and she didn’t like her detectives wimpy, either.

  Not too handsome, but not too bad. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a scar that slashed his lip on the left side. That, and a nose that had been broken more than once, made his face more interesting than it might otherwise have been. He was an active cop and he didn’t always win, but she’d bet the other guy had always looked worse.

  Morris wore a plain gold band on his left ring finger. Jess made a mental note. Married usually meant more careful, which was a good thing. The last thing she wanted was a Texas Cowboy she had to manage.

  “Sorry.” She looked around to check the level of privacy they’d have here. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  He smiled and held up a month-old copy of Taboo Magazine. Her picture was displayed beside her bio at the bottom of the page. “I had the advantage.”

  She settled into the chair across the table from him. “I didn’t know you were a subscriber.”

  He put the magazine down between them. “I’m not. My dentist, on the other hand…”

  She laughed. “You stole it?”

  “I’m a regular visitor, and at the prices he charges, he can afford a copy or two.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “An ounce of prevention.” He flashed his teeth as if showing his mom he’d brushed before bedtime. “The FBI, remember? We get good medical benefits.”

  She grinned. “Right.” Her instincts were right about this guy.

  The noise in the café was too loud for her recorder. She pulled out a notebook and pen to take down quotes. “Thanks for sparing me some time. I was trying to put a wrap on the Blazek case.”

  “Case? I thought you wrote lifestyle magazine articles.”

  She grimaced. “Not exactly. Taboo is a lifestyle magazine, but my articles aren’t about fashion and food. Crime is my beat and my focus is on victims’ rights.”

  “Not a defender of the Constitution, then?”

  “Victims have Constitutional rights, too, don’t they? What about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?” Jess inhaled slowly to control her temper. She’d get nowhere with this guy if she pissed him off right at the start. “I want a level playing field. I want the Constitution to work the way it should. What about you?”

  He nodded slowly as if he was sizing her up, which he probably was. “What did you think of Blazek when you talked to him?”

  She frowned.

  Morris nodded again. “Until he’s formally handed over to the Department of Criminal Justice for prison, I get notified about everyone who talks to him.”

  He was judging her, so she chose her words precisely and for impact. “He is an obvious sociopath. No conscience at all. Lives in a fantasy land where everything is being done to him, not the other way around. Not even a smidgen of personal responsibility.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s a liar.”

  “Pathological.”

  “Right. But even though he’s the kind of guy who would prey on anyone weaker than him, he doesn’t seem the type to have fallen for an advance fee scam.”<
br />
  He nodded approval, as if she was a particularly apt pupil. “He’s not.”

  Jess stifled her indignation and continued. “Which means these scammers are better than most. Probably good in the early and middle phases of the con. Since Blazek claims he pled guilty to avoid them, I guess they are worse than most on the back end.”

  Maybe she’d passed whatever test he’d devised because Morris leaned back in his chair. He slouched, hands in his pockets. “You’ve seen the court file?”

  “Nothing remarkable about the initial pitch Blazek received. It’s a classic opener for this type of con.” She noticed the room’s reduced background noise. She glanced into the round mirror mounted on the wall above Morris’s head. Café Bistro patrons came and went through the front door, but the total body count seemed lower.

  “Yep.” He sounded almost friendly now.

  “What made the pitch an offer a guy like Blazek couldn’t refuse?”

  Morris extended his legs and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Most of these scammers are small time operators, sending out thousands of pitches every day all over the world. They expect a miniscule return rate.”

  Her radar relaxed. She read his friendly tone and offer of a few facts as a sign that she’d run the gauntlet and emerged somehow as worthy. “Everybody gets them. They are obvious fakes to anybody with a little business savvy, like Blazek.”

  “But these guys are another breed of cat altogether.” He reached for his cup and sipped his coffee.

  She picked her coffee up and sipped, too, acting interested like a colleague would. “How so?”

  “The initial hook was clever in four important ways.” He held out his fingers to count them off. “One, the pitch came by certified mail. Two, it was addressed to Stosh Blazek, Esquire, meaning they knew he was a lawyer. And three, his personal signature was required to claim the certified mail. A signature by a secretary or a colleague wouldn’t suffice.”

  “A lawyer would notice anything that required his personal signature. He’d think it was personal, meant for him only. And sending it certified gave the original package a degree of traceability, too. So, it seemed more legitimate and enticing.”