Nathan Farris drove slowly away from the Wheat Ridge Police Department, sifting through the past, looking for clues to explain the enigma that had reared its ugly head the day before and was now rapidly devouring him. What was so damned important about Dee’s police interview?
The incident that was making Nate crazy had occurred the day he’d returned a day early from a trip to New Mexico. He’d checked out a potential investment in a shopping center there on behalf of Bayfield Enterprises.
His employment by his wife’s late grandfather had been one of the perks that went with his marriage to Morgan. Or maybe it was the other way around. As Jerome Bayfield had aged, the team of Nate Farris and Sam Garvin had become so effective that nobody even missed a beat when the old man died last year.
Nate had gone straight to the office upon his return from this routine business trip. The deal was a no-go. The center, a loser. A feeling of depression weighed on him as he parked in front of the Bayfield Commons building. It was common, all right. A nothing building. One story, nineteen fifties, across from a strip mall whose largest sign boasted Adult Books. Jerome Bayfield had been a tight-fisted old fart. There would soon be some long-needed changes made. Dump the old fire-trap and move to Denver. Cherry Creek, maybe.
He entered the building, noting the secretary’s absence. It was lunch time. Time to dump the old secretary as well. Trade her in on a couple of younger models. Not models. Versions. Virgins? He’d snickered at his own mental meanderings, then froze like a bird dog at the sound of his wife’s voice coming from Sam’s office.
“We have to find out what she told Wheat Ridge.”
“I already tried.” Sam’s voice. “They told me I’m not a party in interest.”
Nate held his breath. She who? Interest in what? A suspect?
“We can’t take any chances on that police report showing up before we know what’s in it.” Morgan’s voice.
Police report? Of course. The welfare check. Nate knew about Dee’s calls to Sam for money and Sam’s calls to the cops. The cops had grabbed Dee to check on her safety. Not just once, but twice. Then she’d turned up dead.
“Do you think there’s a chance Beth heard it all?” Sam’s voice. Heard what?
Sam's voice again. “She’ll have to be told eventually.”
A board creaked under Nate’s shifting weight. The voices stopped abruptly, like a switch had been thrown.
He paused to gather his wits before opening the door. Sam was alone in the office, his hand on the phone, surprise playing across his gaunt face.
“I think we should pass on the center.” He dropped his briefcase on the floor beside Sam’s desk and tried to act normal. “I have pictures and financials, if you want to have a look.”
“No need. I trust your judgment.”
Nate was aware of a faint odor of perfume, the scent Morgan wore when her migraines were in remission. “I thought I heard Morgan’s voice.”
“You did,” Sam replied. “On the speaker phone.”
“What did she want?”
“Needed her prescription refilled. She thought you wouldn’t be back till late.”
“She usually has the pharmacy deliver.” Nate kept his voice congenial.
“Apparently not today.”
“I’ll go pick it up.”
He’d left Sam hunched over some paper work, gone back through the front door, then raced around the building. The exit at the rear of Sam’s office opened onto an alley. Of course, the alley was empty of vehicles. But Morgan's voice hadn't sounded as if it came from a speaker phone.
His mind conjured up myriad scenarios, none of which included infidelity. His beautiful Morgan with a nerdy pencil pusher, old enough to be her father? What, then? Cover up some fiscal fiasco? Embezzlement from the estate? Who was there to embezzle from? Dee’s kids? Morgan’s own niece and nephew?
As he drove toward the pharmacy, his mind contorted. Why would Sam have Morgan on a speaker phone when they had been discussing something so confidential that Sam needed to lie about it?
Had he really detected Morgan’s perfume in the room, or could it have been an olfactory hallucination triggered by his thought of her?
Another idea quickly changed his destination from the pharmacy to home.
When he entered the long driveway, he turned off the engine and coasted toward the three-car garage, touched the opener and drew up beside Morgan’s white Jaguar. High maintenance, like Morgan.
Her bedroom was on the other side of the house. A wedding present from Jerome Bayfield, the house had been custom-designed to buffer the pain of Morgan’s chronic migraines. A sprawling one-story contemporary, built of taupe colored stone, trimmed in slate, it was a larger, more saturnine version of its sister house across the lake--the house Jerome built for his daughter Elisabeth, the family home where Morgan and Deidre grew up. The house in which Deidre died.
Even if Morgan had recently returned, the structure and the layout of the house made it unlikely that she would see or hear him. Morgan had been groggy, full of pain medication since a few days after Dee’s death. Her hereditary migraines that had abated with the onset of menopause had returned with a fury. Nate couldn’t imagine her driving anywhere.
As he exited his vehicle, he became more convinced that his senses were hexing him. Then he touched the hood of Morgan’s car and felt its warmth spread through his fingers on that cool April afternoon.
Inside the house, silence allowed suspicions to pummel his brain with questions. He found himself sneaking down the hall, his own breath sounding like an ocean in his ears.
He eased quietly into Morgan’s bedroom and looked down at his sleeping wife. His eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom that was relieved only by a few stray beams of light that managed to sneak between the blinds that covered the small, high window.
At fifty-two, Morgan was still beautiful. Her shoulder-length platinum hair fanned across the oversized pillow. One immaculately manicured hand rested on the lavender coverlet.
The room pressed down upon him with more than the weight of darkness. It was well-ventilated, yet he felt a shortness of breath. Part of him was relieved that he no longer shared this room with Morgan. Since Dee’s death, Morgan’s health had spiraled downward, and Nate had taken to sleeping in a guest room so as not to disturb her. For a migraine sufferer, the slightest sound was a stab to the temple. He hoped this would pass, but the doctors had given little encouragement. Migraine was an insidious ailment.
As he watched her face, Morgan opened her eyes. Soft coffee brown, lashes to match, in contrast with her pale hair. She smiled weakly at him, then reached for his hand. “Back early?” she whispered.
He seated himself carefully on the bed beside her. “How are you feeling?”
As he bent to kiss her, she turned away. “The meds finally kicked in. I slept.”
He remembered the warm car hood. “Sam said you needed your prescription refilled.”
Morgan shook her head slowly. “Kevin took care of it.”
“Kevin is here?”
“Was. I let him drive my car to the pharmacy. Never again.”
“Where’d he go? I’d like a word with him.”
“When I wouldn’t let him use my car for his date tonight, he slammed out of here in a temper fit.”
“Kevin has a girlfriend?”
“I really didn’t ask the sex.” Morgan turned away frowning. “Nate, I don’t want him back here. He’ll have to make other living arrangements.”
“But he’s hardly ever here.”
Morgan gripped his hand fiercely. Her nails dug into his flesh. “I want the locks changed. He’s not to have a key to this house.”
“Take it easy. I’ll see about it tomorrow, if that’s still what you want.”
“No. Today. I want a locksmith out here now!” She threw back the bedcovers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Do I have to do this myself or will you?” Her strident tone chilled his feelings. Then his eyes trip
ped over the knee-high stocking marks visible on her legs, where haste had swept aside her nightgown.
*****
Now, on the following day, that bitch cop at Wheat Ridge had closed the window on him, making him even more determined to know what Morgan and Sam were hiding. Then he remembered and almost ran a red light. There were two reports. When Dee was held by that slime-bag drug dealer, Sam had first called Lakewood P.D. to check up on her. Those cops had rescued her only to have her run right back to her drug source. How many times had he told Morgan that Dee was a lost cause? A crack-head who let men use her.
There was a report sitting somewhere in the files of Lakewood P.D. in addition to the one from the night she died. The first welfare check. With a little luck, he’d soon have copies of both reports. Now, just what the hell was that code section the clerk had quoted to him? He’d written it down. Better not ask the estate lawyers. The internet should have the text of CRS 24-72-304. Colorado Revised Statutes. He’d check it out, then hit Lakewood P.D. with a clearer idea of what he could and could not demand of them.
Sandy Robinson’s Boulder office was on the fifth floor of an early nineteen hundreds building on the Pearl Street Mall. Danny watched Rae feed the parking meter, and then they headed for Sandy’s building under a gray afternoon sky that really wanted to rain. Over the Flatirons, virga hung in gauzy tatters of moisture that would never reach the ground.
“How was he on the phone?” Rae asked.
Danny was surprised that she hadn’t already talked with Sandy. “Pretty decent, considering.”
“Considering?”
They passed Café Francais, and the smell of freshly-brewed coffee pulled at Danny, but Rae was pacing off rapidly toward their destination, now just a short block away.
“I still owe him for my divorce. Jolene wiped out what was left of my trust fund. We lost our house. Our medical policy only covered one rehab confinement for Jolene. It didn't help. The bills still had to be paid. No guarantees from hospitals.”
As they paused at the building’s side door, Rae asked “Did Jolene even try? She’s got to help herself.”
“Sure. She helped herself to my credit, which is ruined. Forged my signature and wrote a ton of bad checks.”
Rae frowned. “You paid our lunch tab with a credit card the other day.”
“It’s the business card. The LLC that holds Dee’s real estate.”
They entered the building and paused beside an ancient elevator. Rae looked at the rickety old elevator, then at the stairs. “Let’s walk up.”
Danny led the way, with the feeling Rae hadn’t been in this building before. Sandy had moved his office here just about the time Danny had divorced Jolene.
He observed that Rae was definitely moving more slowly than usually suited her. They cleared the second floor and continued upward. Then she stopped and pulled at his sleeve.
“What were you thinking when you married Deidre? You repeated your mistake with Jolene.”
Tell me about it, thought Danny. Over and over. “I think we’ve been down this road, Rae. Believe me, it won't happen again.” He was relieved that she let the matter drop.
They continued past floors three and four, made the final turn and headed for Sandy’s office suite.
“Does he know I’m coming with you?”
“Of course.” Danny’s steps slowed and he wondered what he’d wondered way back when they’d all worked together on his dad’s embezzlement. Was there anything between these two besides business? Sandy was married and Danny thought that would’ve cut anything off at the pass for Rae. Maybe he’d just idealized her. Maybe she’d been human after all.
They reached Sandy’s reception area. His office was not as fancy as RS and E’s, but definitely a class act. Sandford Robinson and Associates.
A middle aged, utilitarian secretary, new to Danny, sat at an antique desk. As Danny approached her and gave their names, he glimpsed Rae eye-balling the place. He was sure now she hadn’t been here before.
The secretary buzzed Sandy, and he quickly joined them. A big man who worked out and kept his weight at bay, his thatch of white hair tended to be on the long side, even for Boulder. His hooded eagle’s eyes found Rae before they found Danny, and he wrapped her in a bear hug. Danny watched her stiffen as she nearly disappeared in Sandy’s arms. He planted a chaste kiss on her cheek, and then turned to shake Danny’s hand.
“Danny, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Danny looked at Rae again. Her face was more composed than Sandy’s as he led them toward his office.
“How about some coffee?”
“Thanks,” Danny replied. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Sandy smiled, perhaps remembering Danny’s old coffee craving. “How do you take yours, Danny?”
Danny raised an eyebrow, prompting Sandy to instant recall: “Oh, with sugar, hold the cream.”
He didn’t ask Rae. Danny guessed Sandy remembered that she took hers black.
Sandy nodded toward several boxes on the floor under the windows. “Gil Doucette had these couriered over yesterday.”
“I’m sure I’ll get a bill. Probably by the pound.”
“I’ve gone through most of it and had copies made of things Rae will need.” Sandy indicated a smaller stack of papers on the credenza.
“Did you come across any tax returns?” Rae asked.
Sandy shook his head. “You’ll probably want to start by talking to Sam Garvin. Gil did mention that Deidre got a large income distribution from the Bayfield estate. So her estate may owe a whopping tax for last year.”
“Does it look to you like Gil and the relatives had Danny in some kind of squeeze play?” Rae sounded more like herself.
“The back and forth billings, plus all the conferences with the Bayfield people would point in that direction. Gil was barely civil on the phone. You can count on these copies having been made very slowly.”
They all laughed nervously, then Sandy continued, “I’m trying to set up a meeting with Stan Eisley. He’s advising the kids' aunt to petition the court for your removal.”
“Why doesn’t this surprise me? You know, don’t you, that my appointment as Personal Representative was just designed to generate more legal bills during their objections to what I did. Whatever action I took, it was going to be wrong.”
“It’s the step-kids’ money, too. Why would they do that?” asked Rae.
“These are two very rich kids being manipulated by their mega-bucks aunt, Deidre’s sister,” Sandy offered.
Danny was glad to hear that Sandy had already been digging around the Bayfield Estate. A lesser soul might have waited for a retainer. But, then, Danny already owed him a bunch. He probably wanted to see if there was any prospect of getting paid at all.
“The kids don’t need anything from Deidre’s estate and they apparently don’t want Danny to see any of it, either,” continued Sandy. “They’d rather give it away. Why is that, Danny?”
“They didn’t used to hate me. We had even called ourselves a blended family for a while,” replied Danny. But he realized a while had probably been only an eye-blink. Probably when he and Dee were high.
“Maybe they think if I hadn’t done the tough love thing, their mother would still be alive.” That was enough truth, Danny decided.
Rae got up and walked to the window, shaking her head. The secretary knocked before entering with their coffees. Danny drank in the rich aroma of French roast, and hoped the interruption had derailed Sandy’s line of questioning.
Rae returned to her chair beside Danny and took a sip of the steaming beverage. “You didn’t make her take drugs.”
Danny wrestled with how much to tell. What degree of rationalization would avoid the saturation point? No, he didn’t stick needles in Dee’s arms. He didn’t introduce crack into her life, but an omission was the same as a lie to Rae. He realized Sandy was onto him when he looked up and got burned by Sandy’s raptor eyes.
“There was a lot of
stuff going down in Dee’s house.” Danny verbally sidestepped, avoiding Sandy’s eyes, then crashing into Rae’s. She was looking at him with something festering in her glance.
The truth was stuck in his throat. Other words slipped by. “Kevin, Dee’s son. I spent about fifteen thou on sending him to rehab in Arizona. And I’m pretty sure he’s using again.”
“You tried to help. Their hating you doesn’t make sense.” He could see that Rae wasn’t buying his story, although it was true--just not the whole truth.
Danny stared into his coffee cup. He couldn’t look at either of them. “The only ones in that house not using were my son and my stepdaughter.” He was whispering, but it sounded like a roar in his head.
Rae moved so quickly Danny didn’t see it coming. Her hand, like a shot, fingers burning his face, raised a welt where the wedding ring she wore collided with his flesh. She didn’t say a word as she slammed out of Sandy’s office.
Sandy stared at him like he was waiting for something. Danny tried to wait him out.
Finally, Sandy asked, “Are you still using?”
“No way. I’d be dead if I were. I want to live. I want to finish raising my son. I don’t want him to be burying me.” Danny stopped and snared a Kleenex from the box on Sandy’s desk. After he dabbed at his eyes and the sweat on his brow, he was able to look Sandy in the eye.
“I didn’t want my wife to die. I really thought I was doing the right thing.”
“By hooking her up with a drug dealer?”
He stared at Sandy. Where did that come from?
“JJ Camacho?”
“Who?”
“I got that name from Gil. He got it from your wife’s family. I didn’t want to discuss this in front of Rae. They hate you because they claim you hooked Deidre up with a monster who not only supplied her drugs but extorted money from her.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Who did you buy drugs from?”
Pool of Lies Page 4
