I was confident she had not been wearing stockings. She hated panty hose, and the day had been too warm for tights. Lauren’s shoes? They weren’t missing. They had been mixed in with my personal belongings in a plastic bag in the emergency department. I had been given the bag later that night. I had her bloody shoes.
“It was chaotic after she was shot,” I said. “I was trying to keep pressure on her wounds while I called 911. The ambulance came almost instantly, the EMTs took over, started an IV, tried to control the bleeding. They got us both right into the ambulance. We were separated in the ED. Before I knew it she was on the way to the operating room.”
“Right into the ambulance?” he said. “You had been shot, too?” Elliot said.
“Yes. I was shot, Elliot. In the calf.” You know that, you ass.
“Recovering well?”
I heard no concern in his query. I felt a trap being set. “Yes. A flesh wound. Through and through. I was lucky, I guess.”
21
ELLIOT SMILED. It wasn’t a kind smile.
“Lucky? Let’s see … a major wildfire threatening downtown, your wife shot mortally in the back, you shot in the leg. I honestly don’t know too many people who would call themselves ‘lucky’ in those circumstances.” My mind went blank. “I may need to extend an invitation for you to join the Optimists with me. It’s a good group.”
I reached for a shovel to dig myself out of the hole I had dug. I knew the damage had been done. “I have three terrific kids, Elliot. A lot to be hopeful about.”
He wasn’t done coming at me. “When did you realize you were shot? Here? Later? At the hospital? There’s confusion in the chart. About your injury.”
Elliot has been reading the record. Lauren had always cautioned me not to speak with law enforcement without an attorney present. Regardless of the apparent stakes. The question that Elliot had just asked me was a fine example of her rationale. “When did you realize you were shot, Alan?” appeared to be a simple question. But I knew it was not. I tried to calculate Elliot’s motivation. I couldn’t come up with an explanation that worked. That worried me. I fell back on my assumption that he was setting a trap.
“It was a crazy morning. The adrenaline. I don’t remember, Elliot. I’m sorry.”
“You’ll think about it, though? For me?”
For a while, I thought, I doubt I will think about anything else. But not for you.
The drawing Elliot wanted had made it to the emergency department, where it was later stuffed along with my bloody clothes, and some of Lauren’s things, into the plastic bag that contained our personal belongings. Early the next morning, as my vigil waiting for Lauren to die was in its earliest hours, I handed that solitary drawing—the drawing that I felt so clearly damned him—to Sam Purdy.
I did not know what happened to it after that. Though I could guess. I certainly wasn’t about to share that guess with Elliot Bellhaven.
Elliot had not mentioned Sam Purdy. I wondered if that was tactical, or if it was possible he had not recognized Sam’s connection to the death in Frederick. The murder in Frederick. It was possible that Elliot remained in the dark about what had happened the night the woman was shot in that cottage in Frederick. Especially about Sam’s role.
“Back to the drawing if you don’t mind,” Elliot said. “The one we can’t locate. The police set up a perimeter shortly after … ?” he asked. “That’s your recollection?”
I said, “My recollection is vague. I couldn’t pinpoint when the police arrived. It was after the ambulance I think, but I’m not sure. I may have already been in the ambulance when the first officers showed up. It’s a blur. A perimeter? Can’t help you. Maybe one of the first responders knows. I don’t recall seeing any yellow tape.”
Elliot came very close to a smirk. “That’s right, you weren’t here. You were whisked away without a word to the officers. Was correct procedure followed?” I didn’t bite. He went on. “A perimeter was put in place only moments after the ambulance departed with our witnesses inside. The forensic team discovered no drawing here. Or among the things that Lauren left behind at her office. Not on her desk or in her files. And there was nothing in pockets of the clothing she was wearing. Nothing in the emergency department, nor in the ambulance that took her there. Not in the operating room, where they cut off your wife’s remaining clothing prior to surgery.”
He was hitting me hard with memories that felt like body blows. I had to assume that compromising my balance was his intent. I said, “I couldn’t say.”
“No, I guess you couldn’t say. Who knows, maybe wouldn’t say.”
I wanted to knock his head off. But I wore my trusty therapist mask instead. I wore it like it was Halloween and I wanted to win the best-costume prize.
Elliot had a reason for the visit. I forced myself to figure out what it was.
He said, “The fact that the police didn’t discover the drawing doesn’t necessarily mean that she did not bring it here with her. One possibility—in my mind—is that she brought it here specifically to show it to you.”
I was tempted to point out to Elliot that he hadn’t asked me a question. I didn’t. I said, “Why would she bring work product here? It doesn’t sound like her. I can’t think of a single previous time that she had done that.”
He made a puzzled face. “Exactly. Why did she do that? What was so important about that drawing?”
Elliot was displaying a quick mind. But I knew that about him already.
I said, “I can’t help you with your theory, Elliot.”
“Did you see the drawing, Alan? A solitary sheet of paper. With a picture on it.”
Elliot could be a provocative little shit. But I knew that about him already, too.
“A drawing of … what? Can you jog my memory? Maybe that will help.”
“So you do have a memory?”
“Have I misled you? I didn’t mean to suggest I have amnesia.”
I could hear Lauren’s admonition. Don’t talk. Call a lawyer.
We were standing so close together that Elliot was forced to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact with me. Not an ideal posture for a power player. Elliot Bellhaven most definitely considered himself a power player. “Let us just say the piece of paper, the drawing, is evidence,” he said. “In an old case. Does that help with your memory?”
Elliot was appearing to be careless, slowly leaking information he wasn’t required to divulge. It made me wary that he was appearing to be careless. “Doesn’t sound like my wife. Carrying important evidence out of the building? Showing it to me?”
Elliot said, “You’re right, it doesn’t sound like her. She and I had our differences, but I never questioned her integrity. I can think of only two reasons for her to bring that drawing here. One, she thought you might have some professional expertise that might guide her investigation in some way.” He narrowed his eyes. “No, probably not. She would choose someone with forensic expertise for that.”
I thought, Asshole. I didn’t say it.
“Or, two, perhaps she had concluded that the drawing concerned you in some way. She was, for want of a better word, confronting you with it. It’s one of the things that we prosecutors do in our work. We confront people with evidence about crimes.”
“Really? That’s your speculation?” My wife’s voice said, Shut up. Shut up.
“Was that a big enough clue for you, Alan? Does that jog your memory?”
I was distracted by the physical and psychic energy it was taking me to keep from instigating physical violence. “What?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Sorry,” I said. “No, it did not help my memory. I’m hopeless, I guess.”
Elliot sensed advantage. “You don’t know where the drawing is?”
I said, “No.” I was prepared to lie to Elliot—it would have been but a small fresh turd on my mountain of criminal deception—but his careless phrasing meant that I wasn’t required to lie. Not then. I was cog
nizant that I might be missing something. The years since the murder had convinced me that I was not nearly as clever as I liked to believe.
“Did Lauren mention a case she was working on in Frederick?”
Many times, I thought. Too many to count. “The town?” I said.
Frederick, Colorado, is not the kind of town that comes up in Boulder conversations with any reliable frequency. I had gone years in my Boulder County life without hearing any mention of the Weld County town of Frederick in a conversation with anyone. Until Sam Purdy went there to kill a woman.
And again, a few years later, when Lauren became interested in what had happened there the night that Sam went there to kill a woman.
“Yes, the town,” Elliot responded.
“Isn’t that Weld County, not Boulder County? Kind of outside your realm.”
“My realm?”
I was pleased that he felt stung by my regal allusion. I said, “Realm of responsibility. Of course.”
He put the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Then he said, “Jurisdiction isn’t all dark lines. You should know that by now.”
“You would be surprised at my ignorance about the law, Elliot. I still am. When Lauren talked about cases with me she was circumspect. She removed identifying details, like names or locations. Frederick, for instance. She spoke in generalities.”
“You didn’t discuss Frederick with her?”
Here come the lies. I chose my words carefully. Something else that Lauren had taught me over the years was that although accessory to a crime like murder might be hard to prove, perjury was not so hard to prove. “I don’t specifically recall it coming up in a discussion, but again it’s the type of detail she would exclude. What was the case about? It might help me remember.”
Elliot took a step back so he could drop his chin a centimeter. He snorted, pianissimo, just a microburst through his nose. Derision? Maybe. I remained worried that Elliot had an advantage I wasn’t spotting.
“I should get ready for my next appointment,” I said, glancing at my watch. I flipped off the wall switch that Elliot had flipped on when he’d arrived.
The need to prepare for my next appointment wasn’t a lie. I had a new patient, my first since Lauren’s death. I wanted to be clearheaded. “Thank you for all your concern, Elliot. About Lauren. And us, the family. It means so much,” I said. “Your office has been most understanding through everything.”
Elliot’s capacity for believable disingenuousness was revelatory; if Elliot wasn’t so busy being a prosecutor and a politician, he could be a repertory lead in a community theater. He said, “Whatever we can do. You must know that.” He stepped back toward the door, stopping when he placed his hand on the knob. “You know,” he said, “perhaps I am guilty of an assumption. Perhaps what Lauren brought here to show you was something else. Not the drawing but some notes?” He was watching my face intently.
I shrugged. But he had my attention. Notes?
“No? If you hear from me again in the near future—see my name in caller ID, or maybe spot ellbell in your email inbox—it’s probably about this thing in Frederick. And the missing drawing. Or maybe that other thing she discussed with you. Those notes.
“I suggest you take that call. Respond to that email. Or at least notify your attorney that I’ve reached out.” He smiled with no warmth in his eyes. “If there is a next time it will not be a social contact. You may indeed wish to have an attorney present.”
“For the record? This was just a social visit?”
“For the record? I have a detailed log of all the times I’ve tried to express my concerns and condolences in the past months. This will go down as the day I succeeded in expressing those thoughts to you.”
I laughed.
“Take the next call, Alan.”
Elliot had to pause before he walked back out the front door in order to allow my new patient to enter. She’d arrived outside at the same instant he had begun to pull open the door from inside.
My gut clenched—it felt as though it folded over on itself—as they passed within inches. I felt as though I were watching two cars slide on ice, certain they would collide.
“Excuse me,” he said, stepping back.
“Thank you,” she said, as she came inside.
To her I said, “Hello, I am Doctor Gregory, please come on back.” I held out my left arm to guide her. I gazed back over my shoulder as I shut the door between the waiting room and the hallway.
Elliot had almost reached the sidewalk on Walnut Street. He was already speaking into his phone.
Lauren had told me she often did the same thing after a meeting. An immediate call back to the office provided a retrievable time stamp for the conclusion of an interview.
22
MY NEW VALENTINE’S DAY patient wasn’t a new patient after all.
It was Izza Kane, God help me.
In my mind I replayed the little dance that she and Elliot did at the front door as they passed. I was certain they had not recognized each other. That meant—it had to mean—they did not know each other. That they had not met before. Huh. Or it meant that this was all part of a rehearsed ruse, an elaborate choreography.
They had intended to run into each other in my office. Jesus.
I suggested Izza sit. She did.
Her first words to me were, “Obviously, in order to get this chance to speak with you I deceived you about who I really was.” She made a face that I couldn’t interpret. “That was rude of me. Who does something like that, right?”
The name she’d used on the phone when she’d made the appointment with me was Clara. She didn’t offer a last name in her voicemail. After I called back and we identified a mutually agreeable time for an initial visit, I asked for her surname. She replied, “It’s Tea, like the drink.” That was how she put it.
Existing patient names went into my appointment book as initials only. But first-time patients were entered into my appointment book as first name followed by last initial. I had written Izza in for eleven A.M. as “Clara T.” Clarity. God, I’m an imbecile.
What goes around comes around. I had pretended to be a prospective tenant when I first met Izza Kane, who was the de facto landlord of the Frederick cottage where Sam Purdy had murdered his ex-girlfriend. I had bicycled to Frederick that day because I was curious to see how the crime happened. In the back of my mind I knew I had been trying to ascertain if Sam had been honest with me about the events of that night.
I had encouraged Izza Kane to show me the entire cottage. Each room. I let her flirt with me a little bit, too. Perhaps I even flirted back a little. Izza sitting in my office was payback for my earlier ruse. Not undeserved.
She said, “I would have preferred not to do this. If you had been more forthcoming on the phone when I called, I wouldn’t have had to do this. I gave you a chance. I gave you over a month to call me back and tell me the truth. You didn’t.”
I was silent. It wasn’t a therapeutic silence. I was accepting my morning of disadvantage.
“Is this where it happened?” Izza asked, making a show of looking around. There wasn’t that much to see. “Is that where you were sitting? Exactly?”
I’d said something similar to her in the cottage. About the violent death of her tenant. When I didn’t reply she nodded to herself and stood. She walked to the south-facing window, spun, and examined the room from that perspective. Then she took a few small steps back toward the door. She said, “Your partner—Diane Estevez, is that right? She’s ill. A brain tumor. I Googled her. She must have been standing here.” She raised her left foot and tapped the pine floor with the toe of her boot. For some reason I thought of Clever Hans doing arithmetic. “When she came in that day. With the gun. Yes, I can see how it happened.” She nodded again. “She shot right into the back of the chair? From this spot? Three times? Exactly. Yes. Good.”
She sat back down across from me. She rocked side to side on the cushion, tugging at her skirt.
I was
feeling anger. I was feeling sadness. And I was feeling so fatigued that I wanted to curl up on the sofa and sleep for a week. I had tears in my eyes from a hard fresh wave of cold grief as she forced me to reexperience that morning.
I suddenly smelled blood. But not just blood. The aroma in my sinuses was a blend of blood mixed with the harsh burn of gunpowder. I had been suppressing that part of that morning—the unique metallic aroma of the cocktail of warm iron and hot cordite.
I swallowed to keep from puking into my mouth. I wiped tears from my eyes.
She was unmoved by my distress. She squeezed the armrests with her long fingers. She said, “Well, you got a new chair. Had to. Or is this just fresh upholstery? I can’t imagine that’s the same rug. Nice touch, replacing it with another old rug. Something new would stand out—kind of advertise what happened. Don’t you think? Whatever, I approve.”
I wiped more tears. I said, “You’re being cruel, Izza.”
“Am I?” Her eyes were defiant. But they were glistening with tears, too. “Is that you being therapeutic? Because I am not feeling any better so far. At all.”
What had Sam said when I asked him if there was a way I could tell if Izza was wearing a wire? He’d said I knew the answer to that. I’d said that was never going to happen. And yet here we were. Izza and I, with me wondering about a wire.
“I get it. You’re not here as my patient. Just as I wasn’t there as your prospective tenant. Can we move on?”
BACK WHEN IZZA and I met I had pegged her as an interesting, ambitious woman. I also reached a conclusion that she fought her weight, assuming that stress—school, family, money, relationships—caused her to consume impulse calories.
I’d been wrong. Her recent stresses—her father’s death, the revelations about her mother, Big Elias, Elias Tres—had diminished her appetite, not exacerbated it. Izza was at least fifteen pounds lighter than the last time I had seen her.
She was wearing what appeared to be new clothes. The top was a scoop-neck thing that fit her snugly. Her skirt was on the short side but appropriate for her age. Her boots were cowboy boots I’d seen before, battered to perfection. The patina on that leather wasn’t for sale; Izza had earned the character on those boots the hard way.
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