by Bob Mayer
*************
Chase hoped his next stop might yield a partial answer. Doctor Jeffrey Stevens had his office in a modern building adjacent to the Boulder Community Hospital on Broadway, right across from Moe's Bagels, which Chase viewed as convenient.
Porter was waiting in the parking lot. “How’d CU go?”
Chase briefed his partner on both professors. Porter focused in right away on the cycle of absences. “She might have been up to something.”
“Maybe,” Chase allowed.
“Let’s see what the husband has to say,” Porter said, leading the way into the building.
As the secretary ushered them into the doctor’s office, Chase’s first thought was why was the doctor working only two days after his wife's death? Chase’s second was where did he find such a good-looking secretary? She looked like a swimsuit model, lush body and vacuous eyes. Show, not substance, was Chase’s take on her.
The doctor still looked ragged. Chase hoped he didn't have any surgery scheduled later in the day. He waved the detectives into seats and slumped behind his desk.
"I'm not really up to working, but I couldn't just shut everything down so quickly. I have no partners so there's no one to pick up the slack and cover for me."
He'd answered Chase’s first unasked question right off. Chase didn't know if that was good or bad. Chase didn't think he'd take on the second. His focus was on the portrait hanging behind the doctor. Rachel Stevens had been a beautiful woman. But it was her eyes that drew his attention. The photographer had been good and caught something; a darkness and a depth in them that reached out to Chase. There was substance there.
Apparently, he was the only one affected as Porter pulled out his notepad. "There are some things I need to clear up that might help us in this case."
Stevens sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Go ahead."
Porter asked some background stuff about Rachel's life in Pine Brook Hills and at home to get things started. Then he narrowed in. "What time did Rachel leave Wednesday night to go to school?"
Stevens shrugged. "I assume around six. I wasn't there. I didn't get home until almost eight."
Porter continued. "Did Rachel ever talk about anyone from school? Any of her classmates or her teachers?"
"No."
Chase wondered if the two of them had ever really talked given his own experience with marriage.
"Why was she in school?" Porter asked.
Stevens seemed puzzled. "To get her masters."
"But for what?” Porter pressed. “Was she going to get a job?"
"Well, I'm not sure,” Stevens said. “Rachel said she wanted to go back a couple of years ago and it seemed like a good idea."
"Why'd she go to night school and not during the day?" Porter said.
"I assume because she had too many social obligations during the day. You know, garden club, museum guild, things like that."
Actually, Chase really didn't know and he had a feeling Porter didn’t either. Chase had no idea what Pine Brook Hills housewives filled their days with.
Porter glanced down at his notepad. "Did you have any indication that Rachel might not have gone to class this past Wednesday night?"
Stevens looked confused. "What do you mean?"
Porter spoke evenly. "I mean was there any place else she could have been going?"
"Not that I know of. You found her car at school didn't you?"
"Yes,” Porter said. “It's just that she wasn't in class that night."
"Maybe she was attacked before she got to class."
Porter glanced at Chase and gave a slight nod.
Chase spoke up. "Can you remember if she missed any other classes on Wednesday night? Maybe a meeting she had to attend or something?"
Stevens shook his head vigorously. "No. She never missed a class. Rachel was very dedicated about getting her degree. School was very important to her."
Chase pressed. "Can you think of any place that she might have been going to or anyone else that she might have been seeing on Wednesday evenings?"
"No." Despite being tired Stevens was no fool. "Are you suggesting that Rachel wasn't going to class on Wednesday nights?"
"According to her professor,” Chase said, “she was absent four nights since the semester started, five including this past one."
Stevens frowned. "But I don't understand. Where was she? As far as I can remember she left the house every single night she had class."
Porter jumped in. "I know this is difficult, Doctor Stevens, but we have to check out every possibility. Is there the slightest suspicion in your mind that your wife might have been having an affair?"
Stevens blinked, looked angry for a second and then slumped back in his chair. "No."
Most people would have amplified that a little, Chase thought. "Are you sure?" he asked, earning a sharp glance from Porter.
"I'm sure, Detective." There was an edge to his voice that told Chase the doctor wasn't going to give too many more answers today.
Porter cleared his throat. "Did you and your wife have sex the night she was killed?"
"You mean before she left for school?"
"Yes."
"No. I told you I didn't get home until eight." Stevens paused as it sunk in. "Are you saying she was raped?"
Porter backpedaled a bit. "No, that's not what I'm saying. All we know is that she had sex sometime that afternoon or evening. We aren't sure whether it was consensual or not."
Doctor Stevens’ already fragile world had suffered another blow. Porter pressed the doctor with more questions, but got nothing new. They finally departed, leaving Stevens in his office. Chase had a feeling the doctor was about to cry as they shut the door.
The secretary was eyeing the detectives warily as they walked out. She was indeed all image, Chase thought. Young and with a compact body underneath her tight dress. The type of woman that made construction workers drop their lunch boxes when she sauntered by. Chase wondered if Stevens had a thing with her. Maybe that was why he didn't get home until eight at night. Chase also wondered how Rachel Stevens had felt knowing her husband had this woman hanging around all day. Chase couldn’t see why anyone would trade Rachel for the secretary, but he’d watched a few of those late night Showtime flicks and men could be incredibly stupid when their genitals were involved if there was only a small percentage of truth in them.
Porter’s initial questions had gotten them a name from the doctor. Rachel’s best friend.
"Can I use your phone?" Chase asked.
The secretary, Lisa Plunkett, the nameplate on the desk proclaimed, pointed. "Use line two please."
"Do you have a phone book?" Chase asked.
She slid that across. The doctor was still in his office. Chase could tell Lisa was probably wondering what they had done to him as she didn’t exactly have a poker face. There were twenty-three Watkins listed, Chase saw. Luckily, both names were listed: Peter and Linda. How cute, Chase thought. Peter was also listed as the manager of Country Classic Motors in Denver. That explained their living in Pine Brook Hills.
The person who answered had a Hispanic accent. "Watkins residence."
"May I speak with Mrs. Watkins, please? This is Detective Chase, Boulder Police."
"One moment, sir."
Porter was chatting with the secretary while Chase was on the line. Chase had already noted she didn't have a ring on her left hand, but she did have some expensive looking jewelry dangling here and there. Pretty good on a secretary's pay.
"This is Mrs. Watkins." The voice also had an accent, but Chase couldn’t quite place it.
"Mrs. Watkins, this is Detective Chase from the Boulder Police. I'm investigating the death of Mrs. Rachel Stevens and I need to stop by and talk to you sometime today."
"Today's a rather bad day." There was a pause, which Chase let ride. He heard her sigh as she realized he wasn't going to let her squirm out. "How about one-thirty at the Boulder country club? By the tennis courts."
Not what Chas
e had in mind but he'd take it. "I'll see you there at one-thirty." He hung up and nodded toward the door.
As soon as they were outside, he looked at Porter. “It doesn't seem like Rachel's death has devastated the woman her husband claims is her best friend. She wants to meet us at the Boulder Country Club by the tennis courts at one-thirty.”
Porter raised an eyebrow. “Well, women usually confide in their best friends. If Rachel had been having an affair, the odds are good that Linda Watkins will know about it. Even if it wasn't an affair, Watkins should have a good idea where Rachel had spent those missing evenings.”
Chase checked his watch. It was lunchtime. “I’m supposed to meet Sylvie for lunch.”
Porter smiled. “Lunch. Right. Tell you what. You do lunch with Sylvie, and then take the interview at the country club with Watkins. I want to check Doctor Stevens’ background and finances. I’ll see you back at the office later.”
“Trusting me to do more interviews on my own?”
“It’s the country club,” Porter said. “Just don’t shoot anyone.”
CHAPTER SIX
Chase walked up the stairs to the third floor trying to put aside all that had happened since his red beeper went off early in the morning. Sylvie answered the door in her terry cloth robe. That was a good sign.
She pulled Chase into the apartment with both hands and then wrapped him in a tight embrace. He looked around over her shoulder at the apartment and noticed once more how neat her place was compared to his. There was lots of wicker and plants. The colors were bright and the windows, curtains wide open this time, were big and clean, ensuring plenty of light. Made his apartment look like the dungeon it was.
She didn’t say anything, guiding him over to a large stuffed chair that faced the windows and pushing him down into it. She knelt in front of him, spreading his legs as her hands slid up his thighs.
He was already hard by the time her hands reached his cock.
She unbuckled and unzipped his pants. Her hand slid inside his shorts and he shivered as he felt the contact of her skin. She leaned forward and kissed the bulge, then grabbed pants and shorts at the hips and pulled as Chase lifted himself slightly out of the chair. She shoved both garments around his ankles, kneeling on top of them now, pinning him in place.
One hand cradled his balls while she shoved his chest with the other, pushing him back deeply into the chair. Then that hand slid down, over his stomach, curling around his cock as her tongue worked up from the base. She pulled him into her mouth.
She worked the one hand deliberately slightly out of synch with her mouth while she extended two fingers from the hands caressing his balls and pressed between his legs. Chase gasped. He could feel all the tension of the last few days shifting from frustration to sexual urgency.
He looked down.
She was looking up at him, lips tight around his cock, still working it.
He locked into her gaze.
Her eyes never wavered even as she continued, several distinct movements, any one of which by itself might have sent him over the edge.
He came and she didn’t stop, working him as he spasmmed, continuing until he stopped shuddering. She slowed to a halt as he did, unwrapping her hand. She kept her mouth on his cock, perfectly still, still locked into his eyes, for almost a minute.
Then she slowly lifted her head.
She smiled. “You’re such a bad boy.” She stood, leaned over and kissed him.
Chase got to his feet, pulling his shorts and pants up. He was trying to get his breathing back under control.
Sylvie turned for the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder on the way. "How's it going, Chase?"
"Not bad." He still felt a little shaky, but the tension was gone. For a little while at least.
"I read in the paper that you're working that CU murder."
"It's a weird one." He checked out the stove as he followed her into the kitchen. Nothing cooking.
"There's cold cuts in the fridge." Sylvie went to the sink and washed her hands. Then she started slicing up a loaf of French bread. "I figured we'd have subs."
"Sounds good. Donnelly’s already sweating bullets. He always does any time a case makes the news."
"The papers are hinting about some sort of ritualistic killing."
That's one thing Chase hated about the media. If they didn't have, anything they made it up and quoted some 'unnamed source.' "Nothing ritualistic about getting your throat cut. The one thing the press hasn't gotten a hold of is that the coroner found semen in her vagina." Chase unwrapped the meats and cheeses.
Sylvie stopped cutting and looked at Chase. "She was raped?"
He peeled a slice of ham off. "I don't know."
"How can you not know?"
"Last I checked, women can get semen in the vagina by means other than rape."
"No shit, Sherlock."
He ignored the comment. "There's no sign of a struggle so we don't know if it was rape."
Sylvie put the subs Chase had made on plates and carried both over to the couch. She curled up on one end while he laid claim to the middle.
"Any ideas?"
"About what?" Chase was peering at the part in her robe over his sub.
Sylvie rolled her eyes. "The case."
"No. I don't know. Some. We have to kind of sort it out. This is my first murder case," he reminded her. Chase shrugged. "Donnelly thinks some punk off the street did it and she was just a random choice."
"What does Porter think?"
"Porter thinks that the woman, Rachel Stevens was her name by the way, was having an affair and was screwing the wrong guy and her husband found out and didn’t take it too well."
"Do you think he did?"
"Nope. But Porter's going to check him out hard anyway. And he’s got the experience."
"Why does Porter think she was having an affair?"
Chase went through all the stuff about the cut classes and what had been found in the car. Sylvie listened without comment. She sat still for a few minutes while he caught up and began finishing off his sandwich.
Finally, she rendered her verdict. "Sounds to me like she may have been having an affair and Porter might be right." Sylvie caught him off guard with her next comment. "Why'd you come to the club yesterday, Chase?"
"I don't know," he said, sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Rough day at work like I told you."
"Did it ever occur to you that being there at the start of the evening could make it a rough night for me? You're not yourself when you're there. You send off a strange vibe. I could have handled that idiot, but it turned into a cluster-fuck."
Why was she getting so irritable all of a sudden? Chase wondered. Which reminded him of Tai’s confrontation afterward. "What's with Tai anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
"He came over to me last night and wanted to know how we were doing," Chase said.
"Tai’s my friend," she said. "He's concerned."
"Why's he concerned?" Chase asked. "You say something to him that I should know?"
"No, Chase. He's concerned because he's my friend. That's the way friends are." She changed the subject. “Where are you headed now? Back to the office?”
“No, the Boulder Country Club.”
“Moving up in the world?”
“Doubtful.”
*************
The country club was in Gun barrel, a subdivision along Diagonal Highway, opposite the big IBM plant. Gun barrel was halfway between Boulder and Longmont. The houses that surrounded the golf course were expensive. Chase figured they were for the rich who didn't want to drive up to Pine Brook Hills in the mountains. Since Gun barrel was northeast of Boulder, it also had the advantage of a better view of the foothills and the mountains behind them. Longs Peak dominated the western horizon, rising over fourteen thousand feet.
Driving through the streets of Gun barrel to the country club put a new slant on Chase’s lunch with Sylvie. The houses were older mansions nestled on
their half-acre of prime real estate. Chase guessed that all these people had been urologists in the sixties. The Stevens were obviously new money: they'd had to build their own mansion, although from the looks of things the basic style of wealth never changes.
Chase doubted if any of the women safely ensconced in these houses were as exciting as Sylvie, and that made him feel a little better about his own situation. Of course, that thought was followed quickly by the one reminding him that their husbands probably had ample opportunity and resources to find excitement elsewhere. That's why they invented golfing trips, or so he had been told.
The valet looked Chase over and started to ask him one of those membership questions. Kind of like he shouldn't be using asphalt time if he hadn't paid the freight. Chase just didn't understand rich people. It was almost like they went out of their way to pile even more rules on themselves. Then he got an idea; maybe they needed to pay extra for worthless rules because they so regularly ignored the ones that counted. Chase pulled his badge and tossed the guy the keys.
The place was full of what Chase considered poodle women. They only looked great because someone else was brushing their hair and painting their toenails. Sleek and expensive looking, but drop one on a desert island long enough for the cosmetics to wear off and there’s bad news coming.
They were all noticing Chase, that was for sure, and just as he was beginning to feel like a manly man, he discerned that the looks they were shooting him were closer to the ones reserved for plumbers and such. He was also beginning to realize why Porter had let him do this on his own—his partner was not dumb.
A waiter pointed Mrs. Watkins out to Chase. She was sitting alone at a shaded table by the courts. Her face was hidden by a huge pair of sunglasses that probably cost more than his watch. She was tall and slim. Chase guess she poured a lot of time and energy into herself. She reminded him of the cons who went to prison and, not having anything better to do, fell headlong into a body building narcissism.
The blond had been expertly applied to the brown hair, which was pulled back from her face giving her a more youthful appearance. Her hands were the only part that gave her away. They were the hands of a woman who had been potty trained during Kennedy’s term. Chase didn’t understood why cosmetic surgeons didn't focus more on simple things like that, instead of trying to overhaul someone's whole face. Rachel must have had a good fifteen or twenty years on her in the youthful direction. Chase wondered how that affected their relationship.
