by Merit Clark
“Her? Work? Hah!” Vangie practically spat the words.
Jack raised his eyebrows. “You don’t sound especially fond of Mrs. Markham.”
“So?”
“So you’d think with Evan’s money he could have found you a nicer place to live.”
“He loves me. He tells me all the time. He said that we needed to keep a low profile. Only until—” Vangie stopped abruptly and sat on her hands again.
Jack continued the thought for her. “Until he leaves his wife? Or until he gets rid of her some other way? Because if he’s capable of shooting one person, he’s capable of more.”
“He didn’t do it! He couldn’t. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“What exactly do I have wrong here, Vangie? The two of you are in love; you have this little love nest to hang out in. Evan is pulling off an important deal that he’s not telling his wife about so he can hide the profits from her. In fact, I’ll bet that’s where you come in. What’d you guys do? Set up a new company? Or maybe all of the profits are going to be funneled through your company, what is it, Perez Associates? And then you’ll split it with him. Am I warm?”
“It’s not like that.” Vangie looked like she was going to cry. “You’re just guessing.”
“And from the look on your face I’m guessing well. So then what? Evan divorces his wife and the two of you live happily ever after?”
“He’s going to tell her. I know he is because he told me not to lie.” She said that like it was a good thing. “It’s his wife’s fault. She messed everything up. She invited that friend here and he started meddling.”
“You’re talking about Brice Shaughnessy?”
Vangie nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“How did he mess everything up?”
“He’s a busybody.”
“You mean he was.”
“What?”
“He was a busybody. He’s dead, Vangie. At least show a little remorse.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t seem especially sorry he’s dead.”
“I hardly knew him.”
“I wasn’t aware you knew him at all.” This is too easy.
“I don’t. I didn’t. You should go.” Vangie was one of those women who didn’t cry in a pretty way. Her face was getting red and mottled. “I don’t think I should say anything else.”
“You’re right. Evan might get mad at you, like he got mad at Brice.”
“No!”
“He was mad at Brice, I take it? That’s what you don’t want to tell me?”
She looked down and played with her necklace again. “He wasn’t mad.”
“Why was Brice a busybody, Vangie? Why were you and Evan mad at him?”
“I don’t know.”
Jack leaned back in the chair and watched her. “I think you do. Brice was sticking his nose in your business. Brice being on the scene made it harder for you two lovebirds. You had to find another place to meet.” Jack made an expansive movement with his arm. “So here we are. No wonder this is such a dump. You were in a hurry.”
“He saw us together.” Vangie’s voice was low. “He saw me. I rode over there once with Evan and I waited in the car while he went into the house. This man came walking up and he had that dog with him. He looked right at me in the car. That’s it. I never even talked to him.”
“And you were afraid he was going to tell Corie.” Maybe one of them shot the messenger.
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore. You need to leave.”
“I only have one more question: Do you own a gun, Vangie?”
“Am I a suspect now?” Defiance crept back into her voice.
“I can get a search warrant. Really fast. I’ll sit right here and wait. And I can check gun registrations from the car.” Jack gestured toward the window with his thumb.
“I didn’t say I had a gun.”
“It is registered, isn’t it? I mean, you wouldn’t want to break the law. You need to tell me the truth like Evan said. He’s a smart guy. You should listen to him.”
“It’s totally legal. I have a gun for protection, a nine millimeter. I live here by myself and you can see it’s not the best neighborhood. Like you said, it’s a dump.”
“Can I see it?”
“I have to go into the bedroom. I keep it in my bedside drawer.”
Right next to the dildos and cock rings. Talk about unsafe sex. “Show me where it is but don’t touch it.” Jack walked with her into the bedroom and she pointed to a drawer. “I don’t see a gun, Vangie.”
“What? No!” She looked over his shoulder. “No, that’s not right. I haven’t used it in a couple of weeks since we went to the firing range.”
“We?”
“Me and Evan. He bought me the gun for protection and said I should learn how to use it. He’s very careful.”
“Vangie, we’re going to go for a ride now.”
“What? What did I do?”
“Or Plan B is you can tell me where to find the gun.”
“I don’t know!” She started opening the other drawers and throwing the contents out onto the floor.
Jack grabbed her arm and stopped her. “That’s okay, we’ll look for you. And we’ll be very thorough.”
“What are you doing? That hurts!” She started to cry in earnest.
“A nine millimeter, Vangie. Guess what kind of gun was used to shoot Mr. Shaughnessy? I’ll give you a minute.”
“But this gun hasn’t been used! I swear. Someone must have stolen it. I haven’t touched it in weeks.”
“Has anyone else touched it?”
“What? Who? You mean Evan? No, he bought it for me. He was worried about me.”
“What a great guy,” Jack said.
“I want a lawyer,” Vangie said.
Chapter 8
One of the male radiation technicians Jack liked, Dom, retrieved him from the hospital waiting area. Jack changed into the ridiculous gown and got into position on the cold, metal table. He was close to being done with his treatment regimen for testicular cancer; only a few more sessions of being bombarded with highly excited ions. Dom tapped a few keys and laser pointers formed a cross on Jack’s lower abdomen. X marks the spot. They protected his good, remaining testicle with a clamshell-looking thing that would have been right at home with the paraphernalia on Vangie Perez’s nightstand. The first time Jack saw it he thought, hell no, but it didn’t hurt. Much.
Clicking, whirring, and automatic positioning courtesy of the computerized lasers. The whole appointment generally took less than thirty minutes and tonight was no exception. They irradiated him from four different angles and then he was done, Dom cheerfully counting down the sessions. Two more to go. Word.
Jack appreciated his loose dress slacks. Radiation created what felt like a kind of sunburn down there, in the most private of places. And the nausea from the “treatments” had been getting worse. Dosage achieving critical mass or something. They’d given Jack some anti-nausea medication but it made him sleepy so he didn’t take it. Usually he had at least two hours before the nausea hit in full force. Maybe somehow he’d manage to puke at home, but if not, he’d worked through being sick before and he could do it again.
His cell phone rang before he was halfway across the hospital parking lot. Serena said Roger D’Ambrose could see them at his office if they could get there by seven. Jack met her at headquarters so they could drive together.
“What’s up with you and Mrs. Markham?” Serena asked when they were in the car.
“What do you mean?”
“I was wondering about the history between you two, since it came up in the interview.”
“There is no history. We knew each other in school. It was a long time ago.”
Serena pressed the point. “High school or college?”
“I guess you could say both because we wound up at the University of Colorado at the same time, but we weren’t really close.” Jack stopped himself from adding “by then.”
>
“Were you close in high school?”
“Jesus, Serena, are you interrogating me?”
“I’m trying to get an idea of the relationship.”
“There is no goddamn relationship.” Jack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He wished he could confide in her. He wished he could say, ‘My first case back and it’s a fucking mess.’ Or, ‘I feel like high school just blew up and I’m in the middle of a goddamn soap opera.’ He couldn’t say any of those things but he didn’t need to chew her head off either.
He was touchy about everything right now and Serena didn’t know him well, didn’t know the warning signs and when to back off like his former partner, Mike, did. By the time Jack came back from medical leave Delgado had been reassigned. Serena wasn’t an inexperienced cop but she was new to homicide.
Jack blew out air. “Corie Farantino—Markham—was someone I went to high school with. I haven’t seen her or had any contact with her in almost twenty years. She was never even my girlfriend or anything like that. If I thought there was a need to recuse myself I would. Any other questions?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? Because this is a onetime deal.”
“Got it.”
Jack glanced over at her. “Where’d you go to high school?”
“I moved here from St. Louis.”
“I grew up here. If I recused myself every time I contacted an acquaintance, I’d never work.”
They fell silent after that. It wasn’t far from police headquarters at 13th and Cherokee to D’Ambrose’s office, but between rush hour and the Rockies game, the downtown streets were gridlocked.
Denver was a young city and it had always been a boom and bust town. There was no continuity and very little history, just a jazzy, frenetic, youthful energy, as if the city didn’t know which way to go.
Denver didn’t have the charm of a Charleston or a San Francisco and it certainly wasn’t laid out according to some master plan like Jack’s favorite city, Paris. Denver was more like a neglected plant that got occasional jolts of fertilizer and had grown in leggy, disconnected spurts. That lack of planning resulted in horrible traffic and the city was forever playing catch-up when it came to road construction. A frustrating place to try and get from Point A to Point B.
But it was this patchwork, disjointed quality that appealed to Jack and gave Denver a sense of both mystery and of history being written before your eyes.
Serena broke the silence. “You know this guy, D’Ambrose?”
Jack gave a short laugh. “Serena, you’ve got to keep up with current events better. He’s one of the richest men in the state. A developer. Involved in getting big new resorts off the ground.”
“Oh great, another arrogant rich guy. I guess it makes sense Markham works with D’Ambrose since Markham’s business is consulting for resorts.”
“Getting them out of lawsuits.”
“Getting them out of losing lawsuits.”
“Apparently it pays well.” Jack cursed at the driver of a pickup truck who cut them off.
“I wonder if he gets a percentage. You know, like if they’re being sued for ten million dollars and he helps them win, he gets a cut.”
“I wonder how he helps them win.”
“You think he crosses lines?” Serena braced herself with one hand on the dash.
“Don’t worry, my driving hasn’t killed any of my partners. Yet. People like Evan always cross lines. It’s a matter of which ones.”
Before she could respond, the dispatcher’s breathy voice spoke from the radio: “Base for Detective Owen?”
“Owen. Go ahead.”
“I have an Officer Paulk on the line,” the dispatcher said. “He says he has some information about a case you’re interested in. Should I put him through?”
“Affirmative,” Serena said, as Jack looked at her and arched an eyebrow.
“From the background check,” Serena explained. “I learned that a woman named Jennifer Suarez filed assault charges against Evan a couple of years ago and then dropped them. Paulk took the report.”
Officer Reggie Paulk’s voice came out of the radio: “Hear you guys are interested in the Suarez assault. I pulled the file but I really didn’t have to. Remember her clearly. What’re you interested in?”
“Evan Markham’s a person of interest in a homicide,” Serena said.
There was a pause before Reggie’s disembodied voice continued: “This one always kind of bugged me. Ms. Suarez was in pretty bad shape when she made the complaint. Knocked around pretty good. Claimed he tried to rape her. And then all of a sudden changed her mind.”
“Too sudden?” Jack asked.
“Seemed that way to me.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Jack signed off. “I wonder what else we’ll find excavating Markham’s past.”
He parked in a loading zone in front of D’Ambrose’s building. The guard at the desk in the marble-tiled lobby made a phone call and then directed them to the top floor of the building. They emerged from the elevator into a carpeted hallway lined with dark wood paneling. Oil paintings, each individually lit with a brass light, were spaced at regular intervals, as if in an art gallery. Their feet made no sound in the dense carpet as they turned left and made their way to a door at the end of the elegant hallway.
“This is more like being in a museum than an office,” Serena said. “I’ll make sure I say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and wipe my feet before I go inside. Hold my little pinky out in the air and all that.”
Jack laughed. “What have you got against rich people? They get killed like everybody else.”
A tall, very attractive dark-haired woman in her twenties opened the heavy wooden office door. She wore a pale gray, elegantly cut suit that hugged her curves. The skirt stopped just above her knees, long enough to be respectable but short enough to show off long legs made longer by black leather stiletto pumps. “You must be the detectives who phoned.” She extended her hand to each of them in turn. “I’m Aranda Sheffield, Roger D’Ambrose’s assistant. Please, come in.”
In the luxurious reception area, Aranda indicated a sumptuous leather couch along one wall. “Mr. D’Ambrose is finishing up on a conference call. He promises he’ll be with you as quickly as possible. In the meantime, can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? We have an espresso machine.”
“A double espresso would be great,” Jack said.
“I’m good, thanks,” Serena said.
Aranda nodded and walked over to the espresso machine which was located on an elaborately carved buffet along one wall. Jack watched her go. He leaned back against the couch and crossed his legs, his left ankle on his right knee, the very picture of relaxation. Serena, on the other hand, was perched on the edge of the couch as if she wanted to get up and bolt from the room.
“I’m sure none of them will bite,” he said quietly.
Serena gave him a dry look. “Considering the way you drive, maybe you should stick to decaf.”
Aranda came back with his espresso, bending a little lower than necessary to place the cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of him. There were two sugar cubes perched on the rim of the saucer and a sliver of lemon peel.
“Thanks.” Jack didn’t look up at her.
“Let me know if that’s all right,” Aranda said.
“I’m sure it’s perfect.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Detective?”
Serena shook her head.
“Please let me know if there’s anything else you need.” Aranda looked at Jack and then walked to a large desk and slid gracefully into her chair, turning her attention to her computer.
Serena raised an eyebrow but her partner was intent on stirring his coffee. After a couple of minutes, Jack got up and walked around the spacious reception area with his espresso. He stopped in front of a large oil landscape. “That’s a Bierstadt, right?”
Aranda stopped typing. “It is.”
“Great landscape pain
ter. I really like the way he used light, for example in these storm clouds.”
“It sounds like you know something about art.”
“A little.” Jack shrugged. “I have to confess that I’m more of a fan of the modern southwest painters: Peter Hurd, the Taos Six, stuff like that. Bierstadt’s a little romantic for my taste.”
“I see.” Aranda looked at him appraisingly.
“What about you?” he asked. “Which are your favorites?”
Before Aranda could reply, an office door opened and Roger D'Ambrose summoned them. “Detectives, sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come in.”
The same lush carpet extended into D’Ambrose’s private suite and was topped in several places by expensive-looking oriental carpets. Brass sculptures, mostly in western themes, adorned several wooden pedestals and the walls were lined with more paintings. The best thing about D’Ambrose’s office, however, was the view. A wall of windows behind his desk faced west providing a jaw-dropping view of the sunset over the Rocky Mountains. It was hard not to stare.
D’Ambrose was around sixty with thinning red hair going gray. His hands were freckled and his skin had the weathered look of someone who spent a lot of time in the sun. Dressed casually in a Coogi sweater, khakis, and loafers, D’Ambrose appeared friendly and relaxed.
“I’m investigating a murder that occurred early this morning on the property of one of your business associates, Evan Markham,” Jack said.
“This morning? How awful. I had no idea. Evan didn’t mention anything about it to me when I saw him.”
“What time was that?”
“Too early this morning. Evan has a tendency to get up at the crack of dawn. Let’s see.” He consulted his Blackberry. “We had a six thirty tee time.”
“Where did you play?” Jack asked.
“Cherrybrook. I’m a member,” D’Ambrose said.
“Nice. What time did you finish up?”
“Each of us had meetings to get to so we only played nine holes. We finished up around eight thirty or quarter to nine. I know I was back in my car by nine.”
“Did Evan play the entire time with you?”
