by Simon Wood
“I need to talk to Roy. He obviously tried to talk to me. I need to know what he has planned.”
“That’s your answer?”
“Yes. Do you think Roy wanted Richard killed? No, something went wrong. He won’t want any part of that. He’ll want to give up the people who did this as much as we do.”
“Yeah, that’s all well and good, but what if Roy was the one who killed Richard?”
It was a thought Olivia had already considered and feared. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Olivia retrieved the cell from her purse and dialed Roy’s number.
The call rang and rang. He couldn’t be far away from the phone. She doubted he’d want to apologize, but he’d want to talk to her.
“Shit. Voice mail.”
Clare frowned.
“Roy, it’s Olivia. Call me.” She kept her tone calm. Roy wouldn’t respond well to panic. If he thought she was going off the rails, he would be on the first plane to Rio. She ended the call.
“Liv, I don’t like this. Infidelity Limited is an underground organization. You won’t find them.”
“Everybody can be found.”
Olivia placed the phone on the kitchen table, and they waited for Roy to call back.
Half an hour passed without him returning the call. Olivia had visions of him buying his plane ticket. She called him back twice over the next two hours, and he still didn’t answer. On the third call, her call went straight to voice mail.
“He’s switched the phone off. I think we’re screwed.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had been a while since Finz had started his day with an autopsy. The Concord murder rate rarely reached the heady height of three in a calendar year, which made his job as the department’s only homicide detective fairly light. Usually, his workload centered on robbery, felony assault, and domestic violence. That all changed with a murder. He headed the investigation, and the other detectives assisted, but as the lead detective, he did all the heavy lifting—like attending autopsies. He walked into the morgue just as Louise Hiller was about to start.
“Hey, Mike, long time no see,” Hiller said.
“Well, our good citizens have been playing nice.”
“Until now.”
“Until now,” he agreed.
Finz looked down at Richard Shaw. Last night, Mr. Shaw could barely be recognized as a result of his vicious beating. Washed and cleaned, the man could be seen through the wounds, but drained of color and life, he was no less dead.
Finz stood to one side while Hiller and her assistant worked with precision. He made his own notes as they worked. A complete coroner’s report would take a while, thanks to the lab work. The autopsy didn’t unearth anything he didn’t already know. Richard Shaw had been bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument. The shape of the wounds said the weapon had been something metal and small in diameter, ruling out a baseball bat but not a length of pipe or a tire iron. Defensive wounds, in the form of two broken fingers on his right hand and a fractured left radius, said he’d seen the attack coming. He’d clocked twenty-seven strikes to the head, neck, and chest. Two had been hard enough to split his skull open. The rest were products of hate or panic. Finz had been hoping that Shaw had gotten in a couple of his own hits before his attacker got the better of him, but it didn’t look like it from the lack of trace on his hands. Poor son of a bitch.
The upshot was a fast and frenzied attack. That said two possible things about the killer. He was either a novice who didn’t know when to stop or someone who liked inflicting pain and couldn’t stop. Regardless of the motive, Finz would find Richard Shaw’s murderer.
He left Hiller to finish up and walked out into the parking lot. It felt good to be outside again with the sun on his face. He sucked in a lungful of fresh air. Not that it was that fresh with Highway 4 below him, but anything beat the morgue’s chilled air. He never got used to that numb and listless environment.
He climbed into his car and drove to Berkeley to meet with Allen Yager. Yager was a senior chemist working for Bayer and one of Shaw’s squash buddies. Finz had made appointments to speak to all of them this morning.
He introduced himself at reception, and a lanky man in his forties, with a mess of brown curls, appeared a minute later.
Yager pumped Finz’s hand. “Detective, I still can’t believe Richard’s dead. I’m waiting for him to leap out and tell me it’s a joke.”
“Sadly, that won’t be happening. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Yes. Sorry. This way.”
He led Finz into a small meeting room next to the reception area.
Finz pulled out his notebook and a digital recorder and put it on the table between them. “Okay if I record this?”
“No problem.”
Finz pressed “Record.” “How long have you known Richard Shaw?”
“Seven years or so. We met through the athletic club.”
“Would you call yourself a close friend?”
“Pretty close.”
“Were you aware of any problems in his life—money troubles, rifts with anyone, any incidents that occurred recently?”
Yager shook his head. “As far as I know, everything was good. I didn’t know of any money troubles or enemies. That’s why none of this makes any sense.”
“What frame of mind was he in when you saw him last night?”
Yager produced a blank look. During the course of an interview, one question usually proved to be a change maker, and that one appeared to be it.
“According to Mrs. Shaw, Richard was playing his regular Thursday-night squash game at the club last night. Can you corroborate that?”
Yager squirmed.
“Are Thursday nights your regular league practice nights, Mr. Yager?”
“Yes.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes.”
“Was Mr. Shaw there?”
“No.” His answer came out slow.
“Can you explain why?”
More squirming.
“Mr. Yager.”
“Richard was seeing someone, okay?”
“What kind of someone?”
Yager threw up his arms. “What do you think? A woman. He was seeing a woman behind his wife’s back.”
Finz ignored the little outburst. Finally, Finz had his first chink in Richard Shaw’s armor. Every victim he’d ever investigated started off as a paragon of virtue, but it was never long before he unearthed a vice or two. That was the problem with vices. They tended to be hard to control, and if not dealt with, they could get you killed.
“You know this for sure?” Finz asked.
“No, not for sure, but he dropped hints. Not that he needed to. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines.”
“How long had his affair been going on for?”
“I’d say around four months. That’s how long he’d been skipping our club nights.”
“Did you ever meet Richard’s mistress, or did he tell you her name?”
Yager’s face wrinkled at the word mistress. “No. Richard was careful.”
“Did Mrs. Shaw know or suspect anything?”
“I don’t think so. He’d been using the squash nights as cover for all those months, although that cover story could have been blown.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few weeks ago, Olivia came rushing in with Richard’s duffel bag that he’d forgotten and obviously found Richard wasn’t around.”
“What did you tell her?”
Yager squirmed again. “We told her that he hadn’t been to the club in weeks.”
“Did you tell Richard about the incident?”
“No way. If Richard wanted to run around on his wife, that was his problem. I wasn’t getting sucked into his marital games.”
“I think I have everything I need for the time being, Mr. Yager.”
Finz played over his conversation with Yager on the way back to his car. He didn’t think he’d bother i
nterviewing Shaw’s other squash buddies for the moment. He doubted they’d have anything more to contribute than Allen Yager. He had a new line of inquiry.
He popped the trunk and retrieved the personal belongings Richard Shaw had on him when he was killed. Louise Hiller had officially handed the pocket contents to him after the autopsy. He took the evidence bags and sat behind the wheel.
Shaw’s iPhone was among the items. A mugger would have snatched the phone. It was a commodity, especially once it was cloned. But this wasn’t a mugging gone bad. That story failed to hold water at first glance. The killer had not only skipped the phone, he’d also skipped the Omega watch, the wedding ring, and the Mercedes. No one killed just for a wallet.
What also put a nail through the heart of a mugging gone bad was the location. Shaw wasn’t on his turf. He’d gone to meet someone, and that someone killed him.
He put on latex gloves, removed Shaw’s iPhone, and switched it on. He unlocked the phone with the code Olivia Shaw had given him and scrolled through the incoming and outgoing call logs. Richard had received a call at nine fifteen the evening before. That was an hour before his body had been discovered.
Finz called the number on his cell. The phone went straight to voice mail. The owner of that phone had it switched off.
He scanned through the calls made on Tuesday and Thursday nights. The same number kept reappearing. It was also the number of the second-to-last call Shaw had received, and it belonged to Cassie Hill. He called her number.
“Miss Hill, I’m Detective Mike Finz from the Concord Police Department. I’m calling about Richard Shaw. I’m sorry to inform you that he’s been murdered. I think we have a lot to talk about.”
Finz stopped his car in front of Cassie Hill’s house. He’d caught her at work, but she’d told him to meet her at her home. Her address was about the only thing he’d managed to get out of her before she’d broken down.
He walked up to the door and found it ajar. The sound of a woman sobbing greeted him.
“Miss Hill? It’s Detective Finz.”
“Yes.”
Finz entered and closed the door after him. He found Cassie in the living room, slumped on the sofa, as if blown there by an explosion. Tragedy tended to have that effect on the survivors. He showed her his identification and sat down.
Cassie was an attractive blonde in her midthirties. At least Shaw hadn’t pissed on his marriage with some bimbo barely out of high school.
It was easy to tell that Cassie lived alone. There was something about a single person’s home that always gave it away. The decor was uncompromised and self-indulgent. At the same time, the furnishings were sparse. A sofa and armchair were plenty for a single person, but not enough for a family. People living alone rarely had pictures of themselves hanging on the wall. Few people were that vain. Instead, pictures of family, iconic movie posters, and prints by well-known artists covered the walls. All these telltale signs were true for Cassie.
“Miss Hill, I have a few questions for you.”
“Please call me Cassie. I can’t deal with formality right now.”
Finz saw no point in pussyfooting around. “You were having an affair with him, correct?”
She managed a nod before bursting into sobs again.
He handed her a fresh Kleenex from the box on the coffee table, and she thanked him. “Could you tell me how the affair started?”
She dabbed her eyes, then pulled herself up straight. “Richard and I work together. We developed a close relationship that turned flirtatious. I don’t even remember when. About five months ago, we were having drinks after work to celebrate a new account we’d just landed. We shared a cab. When we arrived here, I invited him in, and it went on from there.”
“You knew he was married?”
Cassie cut him a bitter look. “Yes, I knew. I’m not proud of myself. I never thought I’d be ‘the other woman.’ It just happened. Love is like that. It doesn’t care about the situation or the damage it causes.”
Neither does hate, Finz thought. “You say you loved Mr. Shaw. Was your relationship going to develop into something more formal?”
“Was Richard going to leave his wife for me, you mean?”
Finz nodded.
Cassie broke eye contact and stared at her hands. She touched her naked ring finger on her left hand. “We talked about it, but we hadn’t decided on a timetable.”
We or just him? Finz wondered. Cassie had everything to gain from Shaw’s divorce, whereas Shaw would lose half his assets in that mess. Finz didn’t know the victim well enough to know if he was stringing this woman along, but if he wanted to pull the trigger, he would have done it by now.
“Did his wife suspect anything?” he asked.
“No. Richard was very careful.”
“Did Mr. Shaw ever mention why he was being unfaithful to his wife?”
Cassie’s features tightened. “I’m not in the business of wrecking marriages.”
“I never said you were. I have no opinion. I care about one thing, finding Richard Shaw’s killer. So I ask again, did Mr. Shaw ever mention why he was being unfaithful to his wife?”
“He just fell out of love with her. He said they’d grown apart.”
“Do you know of any other affairs?”
“No. Richard wasn’t that kind of man.”
“And there isn’t an ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t take too kindly to your seeing Mr. Shaw?”
“No.” The single-word reply came out clipped and squeezed.
She was getting defensive. He could feel her walls rising up. It was time to come at her from a less antagonistic angle.
“As far as I can tell, you were the last person to see Mr. Shaw before his death. Could you walk me through your time with him?”
“It was a regular workday. We saw each other in the office, and we had lunch together. After work, he followed me here, and we did what we normally did when we were together.”
“And nothing out of the ordinary happened during that time?”
She shook her head.
“No confrontations with anyone? Nobody acting suspicious around him?”
And another head shake.
“When did Mr. Shaw leave?”
“It was after nine. He left after he received the call.”
Cassie had Finz’s attention. “His cell phone history shows that he received a call at nine fifteen.”
“That sounds right.”
“Do you know who called him?”
“He said it was his wife.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Roy sat alone in the covered bleachers of the Marin County fairground. At this time of year, the fairground went unused during the day, making it quiet and secluded. It also had an absence of security systems and cameras. This was of vital importance during a postkill meeting. When it came to money exchanges and the disposal of physical evidence, anonymity mattered.
The van bringing John Proctor stopped at the entrance to the fairground, and he climbed out of the back, clutching a black Hefty bag. Roy hoped it was double bagged.
Proctor looked to the retreating van for his next instruction, but it reversed back out to the street. Roy saw the bewilderment on Proctor’s face, so he called him on the burner cell he’d given him.
“John, I’m up in the bleachers. Come join me.”
Proctor was a big guy, bear-like in his build. He wasn’t someone most people would want to run into in a dark alley. He lumbered toward the bleachers. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He was uncoordinated and clumsy with his movements. The Hefty bag bounced off his leg with every stride. Pound for pound, he and Roy appeared to be worthy opponents, but from a conscience perspective, Proctor was no match for Roy. Few people could deal with the guilt that came with taking a life. Roy was one of these few. He could more than handle the likes of John Proctor on any given day.
Proctor was out of breath by the time he reached Roy in the higher reaches of the bleachers. He held out the plastic bag to him. Roy
stared at it for a long moment. He waited until Proctor’s arm sagged under the weight before telling him to put it on the seat between them. Roy wanted Proctor to feel the weight of ownership of the murder weapon for as long as possible. He wanted the pressure of what Proctor had done to squeeze him into a tight ball. It made him docile, controllable, and dependent. Roy preferred for his clients to see him as God, with the will to save or destroy them.
“Is it all in there—murder weapon, clothes, shoes—everything?” Roy asked.
“Yes. Everything.”
Roy pawed through the bag until he found the tire iron in a plastic bag. It was from Olivia’s Audi. He’d stolen it a few days before the murder, when Olivia and Richard had left the house in Richard’s car. The tire iron was a good item to take. It was something that made for an excellent weapon while also being something that was seldom needed and wouldn’t be missed.
“I never should have gotten involved with you,” Proctor said.
Proctor had come to Roy eighteen months ago to scare some sense into his ex-wife. She was being unreasonable when it came to visitation rights, child support, and alimony, despite being the one who’d cheated on him. No-fault divorce laws didn’t mean they had to play fair. As the innocent party, Proctor had lost out, and he just wanted to level the score.
Sadly, leveling wasn’t something people got when they employed Infidelity Limited. Nicole Proctor was killed. Proctor had gone to pieces when Roy explained the facts of life about Infidelity Limited’s operations. Roy had thought Proctor would crumple under the inevitable police scrutiny, but he’d surprised him and survived the ordeal. He’d been lucky in one respect. Nicole’s body hadn’t been recovered, and her reputation as a loose woman helped support the cops’ belief that she’d walked out on her family. Proctor got what he wanted, a fresh start with his kids, and Roy got what he wanted—Nicole’s life insurance payout. Proctor had been a strong and confident man until Roy called him two weeks ago to tell him it was his turn to pay it forward.
“How are you feeling, John? You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
