Twisted Justice

by Patricia Gussin

  “You think she’s a suspect? Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Thought she might be, but after talking to her again, I’m thinking otherwise. She’s so shook up. Connor had stuck by her all these years, her only friend. Besides, that Sunday night she was hanging out at a club in Ybor City. I had it all checked out.”

  “Oh.” Greg sounded disappointed.

  Chuck nodded. “And the girl is scared of Santiago. I sensed it the first time I talked to her and even more the second. Like she wanted to tell me more about him, but was afraid to.”

  “What does she know about Nelson and Connor?”

  “They had a one-night thing. Connor told her about it the next morning and Carmen warned her to stay away.”

  “Stay away? Why?”

  “Because Nelson was a married man. Because of her job at Channel Eight. Because of her boyfriend.”

  “Santiago?”

  “The same. Said Connor wanted to break up with him, move to Atlanta. That he was jealous by nature. I couldn’t get her to say that he’d ever hit Connor. Claimed to know nothing about what he did for a living, clammed up. Let’s not forget how dangerous these guys are.”

  “Connor and Mr. Steve Nelson and Santiago,” Greg mused. “What’s it add up to?”

  “After tonight’s blitz, I’ll talk to her again. Maybe she’ll loosen up. You know, boss, Carrie’s theory still holds up for me. Connor goes to Steve’s for comfort, whatever, Santiago follows her and boom.”

  “Not much solace for Connor there.” Greg shook his head. “Someone must’ve seen something over there on Oregon, Chuck. We’re running out of time on this. It’s already two weeks later.”

  “Hey, it is Sunday, Greg. Keep sayin’ your prayers, my man.”

  On Davis Island, Laura’s parents came over late morning, and in the early afternoon, the Nelson home had three unexpected visitors: Carrie Diamond with her eleven-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, and Roxanne Musing. Oddly, they arrived at the same time.

  “Roxanne! Carrie! And you must be Elizabeth,” Laura exclaimed as she met them at the door. The child looked so much like Carrie with her violet eyes and brown hair — Elizabeth’s in pigtails. Seeing the pigtails brought the shadow of a memory back to Laura, but she couldn’t force a clear picture into her consciousness. Then she remembered that the girl couldn’t hear her and she bent down to shake her hand. “What a beautiful dress,” she said carefully so that Elizabeth could see her lips. She ran her hand over the pretty plum sundress, then she pointed to the child’s eyes. “It matches your eyes.”

  Elizabeth smiled brightly at Laura, and her hands began to move in sign language.

  “She says ‘thank you,’” explained Carrie. “I hope I’m not barging in, but I wanted to see how you were doing before we went over to the school. They’re having a fund-raiser, and Elizabeth’s in a skit.” As Carrie spoke, she automatically signed to the child. To Laura, she said, “The twins got back last night, right?”

  “Right,” Laura said. “Thank God. Let me introduce you to everyone. Come on in, Rox.”

  After saying hello in the living room, Peg and Carl took Elizabeth and the twins into the kitchen for milk and cookies. The twins insisted Elizabeth come upstairs to play with their legendary collection of dolls and stuffed animals as Peg started to make coffee.

  “Do you like dolls?” Natalie wanted to know.

  When Elizabeth didn’t respond, Nicole stood up from her seat at the table and stood directly in front of Elizabeth. She repeated the question.

  Elizabeth nodded vigorously.

  With a squeal, all three girls went running upstairs.

  “If I’d have known you’d be here, I would have brought Jose over,” said Roxanne to Carrie.

  “Jose?” Carrie asked politely.

  “Remember that case at the hospital,” Laura explained, “Ruiz?”

  Carrie squinted. “The malpractice?”

  “Yes. Roxanne’s been taking care of the smallest boy, who’s five. He was the only one in the family that wasn’t seriously injured, and he had nowhere else to go.”

  “What happened to the parents?” Carrie asked. “I remember talking to you about dropping out of that case.”

  “The mother died,” Roxanne said softly, “and their baby girl died. But the case was about Louis’s ten-year-old daughter, Wendy.”

  “The father?”

  “Louis is still in the hospital, and Jose’s two older brothers are still there too. They’re going to be okay.”

  “Still see them every day?” Laura asked.

  “Yes, and I’m pretty worried. I mean, how are they going to survive this financially? Louis is a strong, proud man, but with the hospital bills, not being able to work —”

  “What an awful situation,” Carrie said slowly.

  Laura nodded. “I explained to Rox the reason I had to drop out as a witness, Carrie, but I don’t feel good about it.”

  “I can understand,” said Roxanne. “Things haven’t been easy for me at the hospital since they know I’m involved. The truth is, I’m worried about my job.”

  “What? Cliff Casey would never let that happen,” Laura protested.

  “I’m afraid he would. He’s not happy about you either. Any doctor who even thinks about testifying against the hospital is considered a traitor.”

  “You know,” Carrie said, “it’s a shame about the Ruiz family, but as Laura’s attorney, I have to say she has way too much to worry about right now.”

  Roxanne reached for Laura’s hand. “Right,” she said.

  “Before I go, there’s something about your case that I’d like to discuss.” Carrie looked from Laura to Roxanne.

  Laura read Carrie’s cue. “Rox, whenever I talk legal stuff, I have to be alone with my attorneys. Maybe you could wait in the kitchen with Mom and Dad?”

  “That’s okay, honey, I’ve got to run.” All three women stood and Roxanne hugged Laura. “Call you later.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Roxanne,” said Carrie. “I am sorry we can’t do more for the Ruiz family.”

  After Roxanne left, Carrie said, “Laura, the main reason I came by is to tell you that Greg and Rob have been working all weekend on a motion to take to Judge Potter. There’s good news. You know that residue test — the one that shows if you actually shot that gun?”

  “Yes.” Laura held her breath.

  “Results came back negative,” Carrie announced with a broad smile.

  “Thank God. I mean, I knew it would, but still —”

  “The prosecution will try to make light of it,” Carrie cautioned, “because of the blood that contaminated your hand, but overall it’ll give us something to work with.”

  Laura sank to the couch. “At this point I — it all seems so unreal. Seeing Roxanne. Thinking about my career. I worked so hard. Sacrificed so much. Will they ever let me back in the hospital? Will I ever be able to pick up my life?”

  Carrie stepped closer and squeezed Laura’s shoulder. “Laura, you’re a strong woman. Your daughters are back and you have three young sons who need you, no matter what. More than ever.”

  “How can I even face them?” Laura bolted up. “Steve’s telling them I’m some kind of monster. A killer. I haven’t seen them in almost two weeks, haven’t even been able to explain. And now something’s wrong with Patrick —”

  “Laura, I wish I could tell you that everything will be okay. I’m sorry, I really do have to get going.” She squeezed Laura’s shoulder once more. “What you need to do is stay as calm as possible, okay? Let’s go up and fetch Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, she’s a delightful child. I just wish —” Laura grew silent, choking back tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Chuck had timed the investigative blitz for early evening to simulate as much as possible the scenario of two weeks earlier. The weather was humid and in the high eighties, similar to the night of the murder, but it had been drizzling that night. Chuck personally questioned the older woman
living upstairs from Steve, who had called the police. He had interviewed her previously and this time, although cooperative, she had nothing more to add. He then planned to interview the neighbors on either side and the house directly across the street, along with the two houses flanking it. They all had the most direct view of who came in and out of Steve’s apartment and the best chance to have heard anything unusual.

  The neighbors directly across the street had been away that entire weekend. When they’d approached Oregon Avenue at ten thirty, it had been blocked off and they had difficulty getting through the police barricade to their home. This was substantiated by the police reports that Chuck had repeatedly scrutinized. To their right lived an older couple in their seventies, who relayed the details of the TV programs they had watched that Sunday evening from their family room in the rear of the house, denying even glancing out their front windows.

  On the other side of Steve’s, a middle-aged housewife delayed preparations for the family’s dinner so Chuck could question her and her two teenage sons. Her husband had also been there, but he’d left that afternoon for a sales conference in Miami. Consistent answers. Nobody saw anything that shed new light. The older of the boys recalled seeing Laura’s light blue station wagon parked right behind Kim’s canary yellow Firebird. He remembered thinking that the wagon was parked too close to the Malone driveway and that old man Malone would be pissed, maybe enough to even clip it with his ancient pickup. He estimated the time to be minutes, maybe ten, maybe twenty, from when he’d noticed the two cars to when all the action started. None recalled any other unidentified parked vehicle. Nobody saw Laura or Santiago enter the house or noticed any type of commotion or noise. Nobody — except the woman upstairs from Steve — heard the gunshot.

  Next, Chuck revisited Matt Malone, a widower with a mean-tempered reputation, who lived alone in the gray, two-story house on the left of Steve’s.

  “Who is it,” the scrawny, white-haired, elderly man growled as Chuck rang the bell for the third time.

  Chuck could smell the hint of whisky on his breath, but the old man seemed coherent. First time Chuck’d stopped by Malone’s, he’d merely heard, “I didn’t see nothin’, and that’s what I told the cops.” This time Chuck came prepared with a fifth of Jack Daniels, which he hastily pushed into the man’s veined hands.

  “I’m not the law, Mr. Malone, I just need answers about that poor woman who got killed next door. Pay you back a little for helping me out.”

  Malone took the amber liquid. “I dunno, guess we could talk some. Sure you ain’t a cop?”

  “Absolutely sure.” Chuck walked into the surprisingly neat living room. Everything was in place. Lace curtains, embroidered doilies on the end tables.Probably just as the deceased Mrs. Malone had left it.

  Malone motioned for Chuck to take a chair. “You know I talked to the cops. Got nothing more to say.”

  “If you’ll indulge me. You were here on Sunday night two weeks ago?”

  “I’m always home Sunday night. Got nowhere to go.”

  The TV in the living room was blaring beside a small air conditioner set in a window. It was placed in the corner so that Malone could watch from the well-worn recliner. The angle of vision beyond the TV overlooked the front-curb parking spot that Laura had used.

  “Mind if I turn the volume down so we can talk,” Chuck asked amiably. The old guy certainly couldn’t have heard anything that night with the TV so loud.

  “Go ahead,” came the gruff reply.

  Chuck headed to the set and turned the dial so he could hear himself speak. Then he walked across the room to confirm the recliner’s view of the street. “Okay, Mr. Malone, we did this before, but it’d help me to go through everything you remember from that night.”

  Malone, still cradling the whisky bottle, began to loosen up. When Chuck exhausted his list of questions, Malone got out of his chair, walked into the kitchen, and returned with two glasses. He poured out three inches of the whisky in each and offered one to Chuck.

  Chuck never drank while in the throes of an investigation, but he accepted the drink now. He was hot and sweaty from his efforts so far, and wanted to encourage the cooperation of this old man who, he had learned, had grown up in this house on Oregon and who knew every inch of the neighborhood.

  “Everyone around here thinks I’m a crank. That’s fine by me. Since Estelle passed I just wanna live out my time. Neighbor kids get on me, but one, little Molly Palmer from a couple doors down, she brings me stuff she made at school, cookies her mom makes. She don’t care if I’m an old grouch. We sit on the porch and don’t say nothin’. Poor kid’s a deaf mute. Guess when it comes down to it, she’s the only living thing I care about. Got no kids, no dog, no nothin’.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Chuck, rising from his chair. It was just past eight, about the same time Laura had arrived at Steve’s. “Mr. Malone, will you let me sit in your chair for a minute?”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Humor me. Step over to the window here and tell me if there’s anything different about what you see out there now and what you saw that Sunday night.”

  “Well, that’s about the dumbest thing —” Malone got up slowly, walking to the window as Chuck lowered himself onto the worn recliner. If he stared directly at the flickering TV set, he couldn’t see much of the street. He would have to sit bolt upright and crane his neck severely to the right to see the outline of the curb. Anything routine in the street would probably go unnoticed by the old man. He got up and joined Malone at the window.

  “I always keep an eye on what goes on around here, even if I don’t go out much. Station wagon was parked too close to my driveway that night, I remember that. Meant to go out and give the owner a piece of my mind, but then I heard the cop cars and all hell broke loose over there.”

  “But you didn’t see anyone, man or woman, go into the house?” Chuck showed him the photos.

  “Nope, no cigar. Don’t recognize nobody.”

  Discouraged, Chuck offered his thanks and stood for a moment in front of Nelson’s Oregon apartment. So far, nobody had seen anything but a few cars. He wondered how likely that was and then wondered how many times Kim Connor would have to show up in this neighborhood before she was recognized. Had it been only once? He was still uncertain about why she had come. Maybe Carmen Williams could answer that.

  With a heavy step, Chuck moved to the last household on his list, the Palmer residence, a white clapboard house with green trim, next to Nelson’s. A tall, rugged looking man in his mid-thirties with deep blue eyes and wavy light brown hair answered the doorbell after the first ring, giving Chuck just enough time to wipe the sweat from his face with his handkerchief.

  “Good evening, Mr. Palmer,” Chuck proffered his hand, “sorry to bother you again. Chuck Dimer, private investigator heading up the investigation on the incident next door.”

  “Good God, Dimer, how many times do we have to go through this?” Dirk Palmer stood solidly blocking the front door.

  “It’s two weeks tonight since the murder, Mr. Palmer,” Chuck said matter-of-factly. “If you don’t mind, there are some new questions I’d like to ask you. You and Mrs. Palmer.” Remembering that Malone had mentioned a daughter, he added, “and your daughter.”

  “Look, mister, all we want is to raise our daughter in a safe neighborhood without being badgered by the police or people like you.”

  Chuck hadn’t expected this belligerence. Dirk had seemed amiable and cooperative when they last spoke a week ago, and his wife, Sally, seemed all too anxious to unload any neighborhood information, real or otherwise.

  “Just a few minutes with you and your wife would really help. Is she here?”

  “She’s already gone to bed.”

  “So early? It’s only —”

  “Who is it, dear?” came a singsong voice from within before Dirk could shut the door.

  “Damn,” Dirk grumbled. “It’s not important,” he called inside, finall
y closing the door behind him. “Now what do you want?”

  “There are some details, Mr. Palmer. Uh, maybe we can include your wife?”

  “She’s busy, but go ahead and ask me what you want.”

  The front door flew open, practically knocking Dirk aside as Sally Palmer, fully dressed in a tailored blouse and an A-line skirt, appeared. She was almost as tall as her husband, with short auburn hair and large brown eyes. “Oh! Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Get back inside,” her husband ordered. “It’s that private investigator.”

  “You’re not interrupting, Mrs. Palmer,” Chuck hastened. “In fact, I’m here to talk to you too.”

  “No, no, I can’t.”

  “Mr. Dimer —”

  “Is it about next door? Did you find out something?” Sally Palmer blurted.

  “Not yet. Maybe your daughter could help us.”

  There was no mistaking the look of alarm passing between Dirk and Sally Palmer.

  “There’s no way I’ll have you harassing my daughter,” Dirk said, anger intensifying on his face. “She’s gone through enough.”

  “I don’t want to harass her. I’ve got some photos —”

  Sally shook her head. “Mr. Dimer, our daughter couldn’t talk with you if she wanted to. Unless, of course, you know sign language.”

  “I’m sorry,” Chuck muttered. Not knowing what else to say, he quickly pulled out the pack of photos and mechanically ran through his list of questions. Dirk Palmer answered the questions curtly, barely glancing at each picture as Chuck presented them.

  With the front door still open, Chuck saw a young girl peer through the pane of a narrow window in the entry hall. She wore a long, mint green nightgown, her dark brown hair worn in two braids down her back. She looked at Chuck only momentarily, but the look seemed plaintive, expectant. How could he get past her parents to her? And even if he could, he’d need an interpreter.