“Technically?”
“Yes.” She squinted. “It means by the letter of the law.”
“How old are you, ma’am?”
“A whole decade old.”
“I see. That is old. Maybe we should get you back to school before they discover you’re missing and call the police.”
She giggled into her hand. “I’m with the police. Besides, no one will miss me. It’s gym class and I’m excused.”
“Why?”
“I have a heart condition.” She placed a hand against her chest. “Con...genital heart defect.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s no big deal. The doctor said I’d outgrow it.”
“How’s your Mommy?” Simon hated himself for the question, but loathed himself for the question he wanted to ask: Has Mommy had any men friends in for a sleepover?
“She’s really sad. She cries all the time and says she’ll only be happy again when the police catch the killer and the bastard fries for what he did to Daddy.” Silver dangling earrings danced on her pierced ears.
“I see.” Simon smothered a laugh by coughing into his hand. “Tallulah, darlin’, can you come to my office?”
“Why do you call your secretary ‘darlin’?”
“Oh, Tallulah is more than a secretary. She’s my—”
“Are you married to her? My Daddy used to call Mommy ‘darling’ all the time.”
“What is it? I’m busy.” Tallulah entered his office like a bucking bronco, stopping short when she saw Kira. “How’d you get in here, little missy?”
Kira looked up at her. “You were knitting. I didn’t want to disturb you and make you lose stitches.”
Simon chuckled at the thought of someone getting past checkpoint Charlie. “You’ve been busted, Tallulah. Would you show Ms. Miller where we keep our doughnuts? I have a call to make.”
***
Evie had a great deal of time to think about her behavior yesterday and her accusation and came to the only conclusion possible. Simon deserved an apology.
Paying little attention to anyone in the squad room, she rushed toward Simon’s office. “Knock, knock.”
Simon, looking unofficial in blue jeans, blue chambray shirt and braided hair, turned from the window.
“Is this the bureau of pardons?” she asked.
“Why do you need forgiveness, ma’am?”
“For acting like a horse’s ass yesterday and for accusing you of something you would never do.”
He stared at her, his eyebrows drawing together. “I— ”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She paced the length of his office.
“Apol—”
She halted and held up a hand. “I overreacted.”
“It’s—”
“How could I possibly think you’d do something like that?” She smacked her forehead and stared at him. “Sometimes I think I’m possessed.” A moment passed, then another. She placed her hands on her hips. “Well, don’t you have anything to say?”
“If you’ll let me.” He grinned.
She snapped her mouth closed.
“Apology accepted. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You were upset. Someone broke into your home. Your reaction was understandable.”
“Yeah, but I’m a cop.”
“A cop who was victimized. It’s different. Your objectivity flies out the window when the shoe’s on the other foot.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Forgiven and forgotten?”
He propped his booted feet on the desk and leaned back in the chair. “Like it never happened.”
“Thanks.” She smiled.
“Where’s my flowers and chocolates?”
“Whaat?”
“Isn’t it customary after an apology?”
Grinning, she said, “Not always.”
“Oh. Too bad. Getting back to the break-in. Any idea who it was?”
“Probably kids looking for a cheap thrill.” Telling him the truth, that she suspected it was Constance, the wife of the man she’d had affair with, would lead to more questions, questions she was not prepared to answer, at least not at the moment. Only when she built up courage, could she tell him.
“Want me to dust the place for prints?”
“I’d just rather forget about it. I’ll remember to keep my doors and windows locked and my handbag out of view from now on.”
“Okay, but if you need anything…”
“Thanks.” He swung his feet from the desk, rested his forearms on the paper-littered top and shook his head. “I’m getting heat on the Miller murder from everywhere except Mother Nature. The mayor’s on my back, the widow’s on the phone to her lawyer, her lawyer’s on the phone to me and the media is having a field day with it and now this.” He tossed the Times across the desk. “Lower right hand corner.”
She read the article, then looked at him. “Do you think ‘mutilated’ means ‘castrated’?”
“It might. I’ve got a call in to Gormley.” He looked at the evidence board. “If it’s the same MO, I wonder if he got luckier than us and got a print.”
“Since he’s asking for the public’s help this early in the investigation, he can’t have too much, and if that’s the case, it would confirm the killer knows something about forensics.” She thought about that a moment. “He…or she left behind DNA but wore gloves. Maybe the killer’s fingerprints are on file.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, too.”
That evening Simon and Evie checked out the local taverns and nightclubs again. They’d bar hopped for two hours, asking the same bartenders and many of the same patrons the same questions they had asked before, but no one had seen Miller the night of his death. They needed a lead and they needed it fast. The more time that passed made solving a murder more difficult.
Peter P. Piper’s Pub, a downscale bar on Main Street, was filled to capacity. Around them, men and women danced to country music blaring from the juke box and those who weren’t, either sat drinking and talking or traveling from one table to the next. The heavy smells of malt and inexpensive whiskey hung in the air.
Simon massaged his face, sighed and looked at Evie standing beside him. Studying her made him realize how much he wanted some time alone with her. Years ago, she had made him feel alive, like life was worth living. He wanted to feel that again. Aside from work and dinner with his folks last Saturday, he never saw anything of her.
“What do you say we call it a night after here?”
She rested her boot on the foot rail and nodded. “No one’s seen him, or if they have, they’re not talking.”
His gaze met hers, her close proximity drawing him in. “How about dinner Friday night? Just you and me.” He shrugged, pretending like it didn’t matter how she answered.
“Where?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about The Pier?”
“Okay.”
He grinned. That was easy, maybe too easy. Why the sudden shift? Maybe she finally realized he wouldn’t give up on her.
The bartender, a stubby man with a goatee and a ponytail, and a man Simon didn’t recognize, walked over to them.
“What’s your pleasure?”
“We were in last Friday night, but there was a different bartender.”
“Yeah, that would be AJ. I took the night off. I’m Gus.”
Simon displayed his badge, identified himself and held out a picture of Douglas Miller. “Gus, has this man ever been in here?”
He picked up a glass, ran a cloth over it and looked at the photo. “Yeah, I seen him here before.”
Simon straightened. “When?”
“Last week sometime.”
“Can you be more specific?”
He skewered his face in thought. “Last Thursday night…yeah, that was it. I remember because I had a root canal the next day which was the reason AJ filled in for me.” He massaged his jaw.
“Did he leave with anyone?”
“Y
eah, he left with someone all right. A cute number, sexy as hell. She was all over him.” He turned his attention to Evie and pointed. “She kind of looked like her. Only she was taller and had long black hair.”
“Do you know her name?”
He shook his head and placed the polished glass on the shelf below the counter. “Never seen her before.”
“Is anyone in here tonight who was here last Thursday?” Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw someone slip out the back door. “Alley,” he said and ran toward the exit.
Outside, Evie held back a little to cover Simon.
Simon looked in both directions, but saw no one. The guy had something to hide, otherwise he wouldn’t have run. Moving through the dimly lit alley, he noticed something stir beside a dumpster. He pulled out his flashlight and turned the beam toward the movement. A man, wearing an orange T-shirt stained with food and drink and jeans two sizes too large for his emaciated frame, shielded his eyes.
“What the fuck you doin’, man? I’m trying to sleep here.” The wino splayed his arms wide. “See them chalk lines?”
Simon looked at the ground and nodded.
“Them’s my property lines and this,” he indicated to the cardboard box, “is my home. You just can’t barge in.”
Simon showed his badge. “I’m a police officer.”
“That still don’t give you no right to come into a person’s home without an invite.” He paused a moment and massaged his whiskered face. “Unless ya got a warrant.” He frowned. Deep lines in his face drew together. “You got a warrant?”
“No, no warrant.” Simon stepped back behind the chalk lines. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
“Did you see someone running through here in the last two or three minutes?”
The wino shook his head.
Evie joined them. “All clear.”
“Let’s go back inside and ask Gus if he knows who that guy was.”
Chapter Fourteen
Simon reviewed the autopsy report on Miller and learned nothing he didn’t already know. Seven days had passed since the murder, and he was no closer to making an arrest than he was a week ago. Hell’s bells. When would he get a break?
“Simon, domestic disturbance at Frank Murdock’s, 1119 Pine Street in Oak Heights,” Tallulah said from the doorway to his office.
He ran a hand over his head and looked at the clock. 8:10. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”
“Crime stops for no man.”
Simon remembered Miller had lived in Oak Heights. Afterward he’d swing by the house. See all what was going on.
The clear, blue sky of early dawn had been taken over by snow clouds when Simon pulled to the curb in front of Murdock’s house. A barrel-chested man wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and boots opened the door.
“It’s about damn time!”
Simon stepped across the threshold into a narrow entryway. “Got a report of a domestic disturbance.”
“Damn straight!” Murdock shot into the living room.
Simon followed.
A woman wearing a tattered robe and well-worn work socks sat on a brown and orange flowered sofa, holding a wadded tissue in her hands. In the corner to her right stood a stocky man wearing black and white striped boxer shorts, a black eye and a bloodied lip. His hands hung limply at his sides and his eyes roamed aimlessly around the room.
“I want you to arrest this man.” Murdock pointed a beefy arm at boxer shorts. “He raped my wife.”
“Ma’am. Sir.” Simon tipped his hat.
The woman looked at Simon. “It wasn’t like that—”
“Shut up, woman. I’ll tell this story.”
Simon took his note pad from his pocket, placed pen to paper and turned to Murdock. “Can I have your full name, sir?”
He huffed a breath and rolled his eyes. “Frank Allen Murdock.”
“Tell me what happened, Mr. Murdock.”
“I’m a trucker and I came home after doing an all-nighter and found this man…this scum bag raping my wife.” He indicated the woman on the sofa.
“It…it wasn’t like that,” boxer shorts said, taking a step forward.
Murdock pointed a stubby finger at him. “Shut up. Should’ve shot your hairy ass when I had the chance.”
“Then you’d be the one carted off to jail.” Simon turned to Mrs. Murdock. “Ma’am, tell me what happened.”
She dabbed at tears on her cheeks. “I was sleeping and woke to someone kissing me. I thought it was Frank. We had sex.” She covered her eyes with her hand. “That’s when Frank came in.”
Murdock threw his hands in the air. “How could you think he was me, Vera? For Christ’s sake, woman! He has a dick of a tom cat.”
“I ...I was half-asleep…I didn’t realize.”
Simon turned to boxer shorts. “Your full name and address, sir.”
“Trevor Edward Hines. 1117 Pine Street. I live next door.”
“How did you end up here?”
“I was drunk and wandered into the wrong house.”
Simon could understand how it might happen. The houses all looked alike and to an inebriated person in the darkness of night…“How’d you get in?”
“The door was unlocked.”
“Ma’am, did you realize at any time Mr. Hines was not your husband? Did you try to stop him? Did you say ‘no’?”
She shook her head and stared at the floor.
He flipped his note pad closed. “No crime’s been committed here.”
Murdock got in Simon’s face. “No crime? He fuckin’ raped my wife. I want him arrested.”
“You want me to arrest Mr. Hines because he had consensual sex with your wife? That’s what it was, Mr. Murdock. Consensual sex.” Simon jingled loose change in his pockets and rocked on his heels and waited a moment for Murdock to mull that over. “What’s it going to be? Suck it up, or make an ass of yourself and embarrass your wife.” He looked at Mrs. Murdock. “More than she’s already embarrassed.”
Murdock readied a baseball mitt-sized hand.
On the alert, Simon straightened to his full six-six height. “Think about what you’re doing. Don’t be foolish.” He sympathized. It wasn’t unusual for a person who felt they had been wronged to want to take out his frustration on the officials who prevented him from getting justice. Put in Murdock’s place, he might feel the same way, also.
Murdock clenched and unclenched his hands and planted his feet firmly against the floor.
Simon anticipated what might come next and there was only so much sympathy he could extend. “Take your best shot. You’ll only get one.” He watched the blush drain from Murdock’s face and the chords of his neck recede.
“Should’ve shot him.” Murdock heaved a frustrated breath.
“Then you’d be in jail.” Simon turned to Hines. “How’d you come about those injuries, sir?”
Hines glanced quickly at Murdock.
Murdock stomped his steel-toed boots on the floor and narrowed his eyes at boxer shorts.
Hines looked away. “I had an accident.”
“Walk into a door, did you?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, if you change your mind about that, let me know.”
***
Evie turned off the highway onto the long, winding drive leading to Dr. Gaston Goldfeather’s house in Davenport, twenty miles outside Concord. The scent of freshly cut grass wafted in through the open window. Fallen leaves brushed the sides of the car then scattered to rest in the protection of the massive oak trees lining the road. High above, puffs of white clouds scurried past as though hurrying to free the sun.
Last night, before she’d fallen asleep, she reflected on her life and the decision she’d made. Therapy or jail? It seemed a no-brainer. At first, she played the game, talking, discussing and answering questions. Now, she enjoyed her time with Gaston, even looked forward to the appointments. Still, though, she’d like it to end. The biweekly trip
s tired her. Her captain on the Concord PD was detrimental in making what she’d done disappear and took a huge chance when he defended her actions. She would always be grateful for his understanding and help. Had it not been for him and her unblemished record and commendations, she’d probably be serving a long jail sentence.
Gaston was not what she expected in a psychiatrist. His blond, blue-eyed poster ad handsomeness stopped her short the first time she saw him. After the surprise wore off, they talked for an hour and a half, not that she confessed anything to him. Not even Simon could be that to her again. Gaston made her visits seem natural, like everyone came to psychiatrists simply to chat. “Therapy is not a bad word,” he’d said when they first met. “It’s not a bad thing, either, but if you want, we can call it a gab fest. We’ll gab about what happened, but only when you’re ready.”
“What if I don’t want to keep these appointments, Dr. Goldfeather? What happens then?”
“Do I need to remind you about the conditions of your freedom?”
“No.”
“And please call me Gaston, otherwise I’d feel bound to call you Miss Madison and that sounds…well, stuffy. Besides, I love the name ‘Evie’.”
She had always been a sap for a good story, but he seemed sincere, and more importantly, he made her feel comfortable, like he said he would.
The five-bedroom house with its Olympic-sized swimming pool, tennis court and barn where he stabled his horses came into view. A couple of minutes later she was parking the car and climbing from behind the wheel.
She took a moment to appreciate the Chrisma Pink Reiger Begonias, the Tango Red Geraniums, the Purple Pinata Impatiens and the Suncatcher Sapphire Petunias and giant clusters of dark green foliage of the Buttonbush and Hydrangea shrubs in the flower garden bordering the walk leading to his office.
“Well, hello, Evie.” Gaston stood from behind his desk and walked over to her. The pendulum clock chimed on the half-hour. “Eleven-thirty on the dot. Punctual as usual.”
“Hello, Gaston.” She smiled and took her usual seat, a brown Naugahyde wing back chair next to the fireplace. She splayed her hands toward the heat from the fire.
Wolfe, She Cried Page 8
