"Sharon, what a surprise," I said as she walked around her car. In the dark, it was hard to read her expression.
"Kate, can I talk to you inside?" she asked in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear it.
"Sure, Sharon, come on in. Sorry there's no light. I left so early."
I headed toward the front door, expecting Sharon to be right behind me. Inserting my key into the lock, I turned and was surprised to see her back at her car. She leaned over the front seat of the passenger's side and withdrew a small suitcase before she closed her car and approached me. Good Lord. Did she plan to spend the night?
I opened the front door and flipped the nearby switch, illuminating the foyer, so I could scurry around and turn on lamps. Sharon followed me inside. The evening was so mild, I left the front door open. An excited bark and anxious whine sounded right outside the dining room screen door leading to my back yard. Poor Sam. He must be as hungry as I was. Hopefully, neither Sam nor I would have to wait much longer.
I gestured to the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable, Sharon."
"Kate, I can't!" she blurted, suitcase held to her chest. "I don't know what to do!"
Whatever inscrutability Sharon possessed was gone entirely. She looked genuinely terrified. "Sharon, please tell me what's the matter? You look petrified. What's happened?"
She swallowed. "Kate, could you repeat what you told me about the mysterious jogger those neighbors saw that day? The day Mark was killed."
A cold spot began to form in my stomach. "The neighbor said he saw a man jogging right outside the Schusters' house. He was dressed strangely, it seems, wearing a knit hat and gloves and sunglasses, even though it was a warm day." I deliberately left out the part about the expensive, gold car parked down the street.
Sharon sucked in her breath. "Did the neighbor say what color the jogging suit was?"
"Green. Dark green." I watched Sharon sway on her feet and almost reached out to steady her. "Sharon, what is it? Why all these questions about the jogger?"
Instead of answering, Sharon gingerly set the suitcase on my antique walnut tea table. "A couple of weeks ago, I started going through closets, packing up clothes for Denver and taking things to the shelter for donation. I found this old suitcase in the back of the closet and tossed it in the giveaway pile in the trunk of my car. Then that afternoon Jonathan brought his mother home. She'd wandered away from the group home again, and they couldn't keep her anymore. So she had to stay with us until Jonathan could find a nursing home." Sharon paused, biting her lip. "It was chaos trying to care for her. I offered to help Jonathan, but he shoved me away. Said he could do it. Even though he had to stay awake every night with her, or she'd wander away. I don't know how he managed, because he was working nonstop at the office during the day. He was handling his firm's merger talks with a Denver group." She took a deep breath. "This morning Jonathan told me he'd found a place for his mother, then... then he asked me if I'd cleaned out the closets. I told him I had taken lots of things to the giveaway. He looked at me strangely for a moment, but didn't say anything. Later, when I actually delivered the clothes to the shelter, I decided I'd keep this suitcase to pack toiletries." Sharon stared at the suitcase, as if waiting for it to speak so she didn't have to.
I watched her stand silent for another few seconds, then I decided to help her finish this story. I had a bad feeling about that suitcase. "Sharon, I'm so very sorry about Jonathan's mother, but I sense that's not the reason you came over here tonight with that suitcase."
Sharon slowly unsnapped the suitcase locks. "When I opened it to start packing, I found these." Reaching inside, she withdrew a navy blue knit hat, a pair of black leather gloves, and the jacket of a forest green running suit.
I stared at the items, my pulse picking up speed. "Sharon, tell me again where you found this suitcase?"
"In the back of our bedroom closet, shoved way behind the other bags," she said, her voice cracking. "But there's more, Kate."
Daintily she pulled back the running suit pants to reveal more clothes beneath. A man's white shirt, red bloodstains dried and caked on the front. Sharon lightly touched what appeared to be a man's suit jacket beneath.
"That's Jonathan's. I recognize it," she whispered.
I caught my breath. Here was the proof we needed to connect Jonathan Bassett to Mark's murder. There was no way Bill Levitz could ignore this evidence. My heart pounded so hard, I thought it would leap from my chest.
"Sharon, we have to take this to the police. You know that, don't you?" I said as gently as I could.
She nodded. "I know, I know."
Suddenly, a cold voice sounded from the foyer. "Lucky I saw you getting into the car, Sharon."
Both Sharon and I jerked around, as if a master puppeteer had yanked our strings. I stared in horror at the sight of Jonathan Bassett pointing a gun right at us.
"You stupid bitch!" he snarled at Sharon. "You said you took everything to the shelter."
She sucked in her breath. "Jonathan," she squeaked. "You've never talked to me like that."
He sent his terrified wife a nasty smile. "Not out loud, I didn't. I didn't dare. But not anymore."
"Oh, Jonathan, you really did kill Mark, didn't you?" Sharon whimpered, cowering near the sofa.
"Yes, I killed your precious Mark. You disgusting little slut. I didn't plan to, dammit! I went over there and begged him to convince you it was over. He was getting married, for God's sake! He could cut you loose, instead of letting you humiliate yourself and me by following after him like some bitch in heat!"
Sharon collapsed on the sofa, tears streaming down her face. Glancing toward the large living room window, Jonathan lowered his gun while he yanked the curtains closed. Damn. I'd hoped one of my neighbors might notice this lunatic waving a gun in my house.
"You know what that bastard did?" Jonathan's eyes took on a wild light. "He taunted me with your infidelity. Ridiculed me for not being able to keep you out of his bed. He said he'd grown sick of you long ago, but if you wanted to move to Denver, he wouldn't stop you. Then, he laughed. He laughed at me." Jonathan swayed slightly, waving the gun at his stricken wife.
"But I stopped the laughter. I grabbed the letter opener and rammed it in his throat." A cruel smile played on his mouth. "You should have seen the expression on his face when he realized he was dying. I pushed him back into his chair and held the knife until he stopped struggling. It didn't take long."
I shivered at the gruesome depiction, while Sharon sank her face in her hands and wept.
Jonathan sneered at her. "Did you really think I would let you walk off and leave me like that? Discard me like one of your unwanted dresses? After all those years of catering to your spoiled whims?" Sharon's sobs grew louder, which seemed to embolden Jonathan. "Pampering you, letting you have your way in everything, no matter what I wanted! Oh, no! It was always what you wanted. And I had to meekly go along. Even when you betrayed me with that bastard! And then you think you can just walk away? Take all your money out of our accounts, sell our properties, and leave me hanging by a financial thread?" He leaned over his sobbing wife and said in a menacing, soft voice, "I don't think so, my dear." And he tapped the gun lightly on the top of her head.
Sharon jerked up and shrank from the gun so close to her face.
Jonathan turned to me then, and the sight of his rage shook me. Whatever Jonathan had seething inside him was clearly bubbling over the edge now. Rage radiated from him. I could almost see it arcing over his head, shooting sparks. I sure as hell could feel it. And it was coming straight at me.
"And you. You meddling fool," he sneered. "If it weren't for you, the whole town would think Cheryl Krane killed Mark out of jealousy. Then killed herself. It was perfect! Everyone would have believed it. Then you had to stumble in!" He waved the gun at me.
I backed up. Outside the dining room screen door, I heard Sam's low growl. Obviously, the cataracts didn't obstruct Sam's view of the menacing man with a gun—in his house
. I just hoped Jonathan was so enraged he didn't notice the black dog in the dark behind the screen.
"Why kill Cheryl?" I asked quietly, surprised how calm my voice sounded. Maybe if I could distract Jonathan enough, he wouldn't notice my inching closer to the patio door and my dog. "I can understand your hating Mark, but why Cheryl? What threat could she be?"
Jonathan smirked. "I'd seen her car parked in front of Mark's that afternoon, when I first arrived. I assumed she was begging Mark not to leave, pathetic little tramp. I wasn't about to interrupt that melodrama. So I parked around the corner. Besides, I was driving Sharon's car and everyone in town knew her car. And I didn't want rumors spread that my wife was begging Mark to stay. Cheryl was obviously used to humiliation. But not me. Gossipmongers like that cow, Marilyn, would have a field day."
"But why kill her?" I said again, and continued my retreat—millimeter by millimeter.
"Because she was stupid enough to tell me she saw Sharon's car," he snapped. "I had mentioned casually that I'd been in the neighborhood and had seen her old wreck outside Mark's. I admit, I couldn't resist twisting the knife." His lip curled. "She was always such a cold, aloof bitch. Always in control. I wanted to shake her, just once."
Strangely, I found Jonathan more threatening now that he'd calmed down than when he was frothing at the mouth in rage. The cruel delight he took in taunting a lonely woman was frightening. This was a side of Jonathan Bassett I never knew. Something about him had always made me keep my distance. Perhaps I sensed this ugly side. No wonder he'd gone over the edge when Mark turned the cruelty tables on him.
He continued, face darkening. "But instead of being embarrassed, like any decent woman, the little tart snaps back that she wasn't the only one who visited Mark the day he died. She'd seen Sharon's car there as well. Once I heard that, I knew she had to die."
"Oh, Jonathan!" Sharon wailed.
Jonathan ignored her. He turned his cruel smile on me once more. "You thought you were so smart. Chasing clues all over town. But I kept track of your every move. As soon as you discovered something, Amanda would tell me all about it. Even the boy who saw me, jogging away in a disguise. Yes, she told me that too."
Searching for anything I could to distract him from what I could already see in his eyes, I probed again. "Why didn't you get rid of the bloody clothes? They're the only thing that can tie you to the murder. You were so clever. Keeping one step ahead of us all." Flattery never hurt.
He shot me a coldly condescending glare that froze my blood. "I didn't dare risk it here in Fort Collins. What if someone spied me dropping the suitcase in a dumpster, or even driving out to the landfill? All it would take would be one curious person, and those clothes would be in the lab and I'd be discovered. No, I had to wait until I could dump it in Denver." He sneered at his wife. "You can't believe how grateful I was, my dear, that you had taken everything to the donation box. I thought I was home free, until I drove home early and saw you leave the house."
"Jonathan," Sharon whined. "What are you going to do now?"
His cruel smile turned darker, if that was possible. "Well, now, Sharon, what do you think I'm going to do? Turn around and go home and let you go back to playing tennis every day, while I go to the office?"
Sharon just stared back, obviously paralyzed with fear. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to move another two inches. I was off the carpet and on the tiled floor of the dining room, still a good six feet from the door.
"Stay where you are, Kate. Don't think I haven't noticed your movements. Did you think I'd actually let you run out that back door and escape?" He sent me an evil grin.
"What are you going to do, Jonathan?" Sharon whimpered.
"He's going to kill us, Sharon. Just like he killed Cheryl Krane." Trying to be stealthy hadn't worked. Maybe direct confrontation would. "You killed Cheryl because she knew too much. Now we know too much, so you have to kill us too. Right, Jonathan?"
"Nancy Drew figures it out at last," he sneered. "You're right. I'm going to shoot you both. The evidence points to Sharon, not me. It will look like Kate's meddling got too close and cost her a bullet in the heart." He aimed toward my chest. "Then you, my poor, stupid, little Sharon. You will take your own life out of despair. One shot to the head should do it."
Sharon's whimpering grew louder. "Jonathan, you can't be serious! You wouldn't actually—"
"Shut up! Not another word. Get up off that sofa." He glared at me then. "I assume you have a television downstairs, since I don't see one here. Go turn on something noisy."
Jonathan turned from me just long enough to yank his cowering wife off the sofa and give her a vicious shove toward the stairs. It was only a few seconds, but I grabbed them.
I rushed toward the screen door, flung it wide, and screamed Sam's name as loud as I could. Sam bounded into the house with a ferocious snarl and lunged.
Jonathan stared in shock as a hundred pounds of enraged dog knocked him flat. The gun went flying through the air and I ducked. Sam clamped down on Jonathan's arm, and Jonathan let out an agonized shriek. Sharon fled out the screen door, into the back yard. She may have been screaming, too, but I couldn't hear her over the chaos in my living room.
Jonathan shrieked, Sam snarled, and I ran to grab the gun, grateful it hadn't discharged upon landing. Snatching it up, I aimed it at the man who was now writhing in pain on the floor, Sam spread-eagled above him. Good Lord. Sam must have bitten to the bone by now.
I knew I should try and help Jonathan, but I didn't know how. Sam had never attacked anyone in all of his twelve years.
"For God's sake, get him off me!" Blood covered Jonathan's shirt, as well as my carpet.
I grabbed the phone and punched in 911, while I held the gun steady. Surely the police would know what to do.
"Hang in there, Jonathan. Help is on the way," I said, as I heard the dispatcher come on the line.
* * *
Ronnie leaned back in her cushioned chair and smiled at me. "Has Bill talked to you since this morning? Is Jonathan still in surgery?"
I glanced over her shoulder toward the brilliant blue sky beyond. Colorado blue had never looked so good. "No, I haven't spoken to him since right before I went to lunch with Jeannie. And I haven't a clue how Jonathan's surgery went." I caught Ronnie's eye and sent her a wicked grin. "And you know what? I don't care. If you think I'm going to waste a minute of sympathy on that—" Ronnie's laughter stopped my rant before it even started. "Besides, Bill's already done the one thing I asked. To keep my name out of the newspapers."
"Goodness, Kate. I suppose regular real estate will seem tame for you now," she said, flipping open the file on her desk.
"Are you kidding?" I rose from the chair at the familiar sign that she needed to return to work. "I can't wait to deal with normal people once again."
"Normal people?" She laughed as she reached for her ringing phone. "Then you'd better get out of real estate."
I left her office and headed down the hall toward mine, grateful for the hundredth time since I'd awakened just to be alive. So far today, I'd felt the sun on my face, scratched my dog behind his ears, had lunch with my daughter, and even seen a look of sincere appreciation in my brother-in-law's eyes that very morning in his office.
My young clients were happy with the soon-to-be-theirs house. My older clients were coming into town, ready to retire. Life was good. So good, in fact, that I considered taking the afternoon off—head up into the canyon for some well-earned peace and quiet. I couldn't find a more perfect day, I thought. Then, I rounded the corner into my office and thought again.
Jake Chekov leaned against my desk. "Relax, Doyle. I just wanted to see how you were doing," he said with a smile. "Ronnie told me what happened."
I blinked, unable to conceal my surprise and my aggravation. Ronnie had promised not to say anything about my involvement in Jonathan's capture.
"Well, just for the record, Chekov, Ronnie did that without my permission," I said as I set my empty mug o
n the messy desk. "She promised she'd not tell anyone in the office, and Bill promised he'd keep my name out of the newspapers. So if I start hearing gossip, then I'll know it had to come from you. Just be warned, Chekov." I tried to scowl, but it was hard, because he'd started to laugh.
"Don't worry, Doyle. I won't blow your cover."
"You'd better not. Remember, you're the one who taught me how to shoot."
That really seemed to amuse him, and I had to admit the image of Chekov fleeing through the foothills like a frightened deer was kind of funny. To me, at least.
"I'm safe, then. Unless I get within ten feet of you, that is."
I actually managed a scowl, but he ignored it. "Don't mess with me, Chekov. I subdued a killer. With the help of my hundred-pound dog, that is."
He grinned. "Dirty Harry would be proud of you, Doyle. So am I. Listen, I was on the way up into Poudre Canyon. Ronnie suggested you might like to take a ride. You're welcome to come along. I promise I won't ask you to tell me about your adventures. Unless you want to, of course. And, yes, we can stop for coffee on the way out of town."
I stared at him, trying to figure out how we got from killer to going up into the canyon. Ronnie suggested he take me for a ride? What the heck?
"C'mon, Doyle. You look like you could use a little quiet time, sitting on a rock and staring at the Poudre River. I promise I'll have you back by dinnertime."
Okay, that did it. I had to do some serious work on this transparency thing. This guy had just read my mind. And if there was anyone I didn't want peering inside my head, it was Chekov. I was about to refuse his offer, politely of course, when I glanced over his shoulder and out my office window.
The foothills beckoned. And I needed to be there. With or without Chekov. "No questions, right?"
"Cross my heart." And he did.
"Okay, Chekov, you got a deal." I went around my desk and searched a lower drawer for the little, white sneakers I kept there. Shoving them and my purse inside my briefcase, I headed toward the door. Chekov was already waiting there.
Dying to Sell Page 20
