Pool of Lies

by J. M. Zambrano

  She hadn’t articulated an apology, but he felt one. “I know what day it was,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I know. Sandy told me.” It had been the anniversary of her husband’s murder by a meth-head.

  “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  Fine. Danny didn’t want to talk about it either, and he sure didn’t want to tell her about Josh. Rae would freak and insist he call the cops. If only Josh called soon, it wouldn’t be an issue.

  He turned the truck around and headed back down the drive.

  “I see you still have a couple of cows left,” he said by way of filling the conversational void.

  Rae snickered. “Those are steers. Black Angus.”

  “They look like cows to me.”

  “Check out the udders.”

  They passed close to the beasts, and he saw what she meant. “Ah, they’re males. I thought boy cows were bulls.”

  “Take another look at the plumbing.”

  Danny slowed down and squinted at one of the critters. “Steers are neutered males?”

  “You’re a quick study.”

  They hit a depression in the dirt road, and the truck bounced. “But what use are neutered males?”

  “You buy steers, fatten them up and sell them for meat. You know, like the Black Angus Steak House?”

  He knew Rae wasn’t stingy with food, but these creatures were gaunt, and he could see white hairs on their muzzles.

  “It looks like you have a long way to go with these guys. You just get them?”

  “You’re kidding. Right?”

  They rolled onto the paved road and headed toward the Ute Highway while Rae continued, “Jake and Augie were here the first time you came with Josh. Remember I let him pet them?”

  Confusion. “How long does it take to fatten them up?”

  “They were fat. When they were young.” Her voice faded, leaving his question unanswered.

  Oh, right. How could he have missed it? The old gray Angus steers that never made it to slaughter.

  “What about all those chickens you had?”

  They were coming up on I-25 by now.

  “Some of them still lay eggs. Don’t miss your turn, city boy.”

  Rae felt an apprehension settle upon her as Danny turned onto Allison Boulevard at her direction. She knew the police environment was bound to trigger old memories even though Anthony had never worked for Lakewood P.D. As Danny parked the truck on the east side of the building, she realized she was going to have her hands full keeping her head on straight. At least long enough to help Danny deal with what lay ahead for him.

  The building, which housed other Lakewood municipal offices as well, was as unfamiliar to her as it was to Danny. But she’d checked out the directions on Google after calculating the likelihood that Danny would have done this versus counting on her to show him the way.

  Rae swallowed several times as she bent over her briefcase to hide her face from Danny’s view. Get a grip, Rae. As she heard Danny’s door clank shut, she heaved herself from the truck and joined Danny, who was giving her a puzzled eye.

  Tulips and daffodils made their last stand along the walk leading to the entrance. A crew of gardeners setting out annuals stood aside for them to pass.

  Inside the angular, concrete building, Rae handed her business card to the desk clerk. The woman broke into a smile of recognition upon seeing her name. This gave Rae prickles down her spine. Her first time cashing in on the special status accorded police widows by those in law enforcement also, at some level, embarrassed her.

  “Be right back,” said the clerk. “Detective Sanchez is expecting you.”

  As the clerk retreated, a soft ripple of voices surged through the department’s cluster of cubicles. The murmur of daily routine resumed as Rae’s husband’s former partner opened the outer door, stepped through it and embraced her.

  “Rae!”

  “Veronica.”

  Taller than she and, Rae guessed, maybe a few years younger, Veronica hadn’t changed much. At least in Rae’s memory of her. She still moved with an athletic ease, a black-maned lioness whose mane showed no trace of gray.

  “It’s been too long. Come in.”

  Danny appeared to be hanging back. Rae pushed him ahead of her through the door. They wended their way past the cubicles to a sparsely-furnished interrogation room.

  Rae did the introductions. Veronica extended a smooth brown hand, her grip so firm that Rae saw Danny wince.

  “Sorry for your loss, Mr. Lassiter.”

  They took seats around a metal table that was topped by a large stack of papers. Veronica handed Rae and Danny her business cards, then addressed Rae: “After your call I pulled everything I could find and had it copied. Some of this duplicates what I already faxed you.”

  Veronica removed two sets of documents from the pile and handed one set to Danny, the other to Rae.

  “Have you told him?” Veronica asked.

  Rae shook her head. She felt a shudder pass through her body. “Not yet.”

  “I think you need to.” Veronica spoke with quiet authority.

  “Danny,” Rae’s voice had a crack in it, “Veronica is with the sex crimes unit.”

  “Sex crimes?” Danny’s expression was blank. His eyes seemed to avoid the paperwork in front of him.

  Rae nodded discreetly toward Veronica. Better you than me.

  “Danny,” Veronica began, discarding formality, “do you know anything about Stockholm Syndrome?”

  “Something to do with lack of light during the long nights in Sweden?” His tone wasn’t flippant, and he hadn’t cracked a smile, but Rae could feel Veronica’s disapproval.

  “I’ll try an example,” continued Veronica smoothly. “Do you remember the Patty Hearst incident?”

  “Can’t say that I do. I hadn’t been born yet.”

  Rae cringed. What’s he thinking? She watched Veronica once again smooth over her annoyance.

  “Of course. Do you remember hearing about the Patty Hearst story?”

  “The little rich girl who was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army?” His tone carried a nervous edge. “A little before my time, but yeah. I’ve heard about it. What’s it got to do with anything here?” He thumped the stack of police reports.

  “The point will be apparent when you read the reports. Patty Hearst bonded with her captors after being raped and tortured by them.”

  “What does this have to do with my wife?”

  “Your wife was picked up for a welfare check at the request of Sam Garvin. You know him, of course.”

  “Sure I know him. Sam holds the family purse strings.”

  “Your wife called Mr. Garvin and requested money in exchange for her life. We picked her up on the pretext of arresting her. There was an unidentified man with her, but he fled the scene. She was brought here to ensure her safety. Her statement names an individual she knew as JJ Camacho. She accuses him of holding her prisoner and repeatedly raping her.”

  Rae reached for Danny’s arm. He’d turned so pale, and his eyes didn’t seem to be focusing on anything. His arm, through a cotton, long sleeved shirt, felt clammy to her touch.

  When at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Why didn’t somebody tell me before?”

  “If you’ll read the report, you’ll see that your wife named you as the person who set up her contact with JJ Camacho.”

  Danny’s jaw sagged as he looked from Veronica to Rae. Then he seemed to draw within himself as he collapsed upon the pile of documents, his face buried in his arms. His shoulders moved spasmodically, as if he were consumed by silent grief.

  When he raised his head and spoke, he had apparently composed himself. “I had no clue when I left her. Not a fucking clue. Would I have stayed in Pagosa Springs? Would I have counted on tough love? No fucking way! My wife is being raped and I’m telling her to get in rehab?”

  “Well,” Rae said, “now we know for sure where all the relatives’ hosti
lity came from.”

  Danny began to peruse the reports. “This says Camacho told her I sent him. Nowhere does it say I introduced them. I have no idea who this person is. Why wasn’t he arrested?”

  “If you’ll read on, you’ll see that all of the alleged acts were committed in Wheat Ridge. Unfortunately, it was a jurisdictional thing.”

  “And Wheat Ridge dropped the ball?” Danny asked, still flipping pages. “This scumbag raped my wife and somebody dropped the ball?”

  “Looks like,” muttered Rae.

  “We offered her protective custody, but she got really nervous. When we drove her home, she insisted on getting out and walking the last couple of blocks.”

  “I don’t understand why Wheat Ridge didn’t go after this JJ. Why wasn’t there any follow-up?” Rae asked.

  “After we talked, I called the sergeant over at Wheat Ridge that interviewed Mrs. Lassiter. A couple of days after our welfare check, Wheat Ridge got a call from Sam Garvin. Same story. Only this time Wheat Ridge picked her up at the Aztec Motel. She was alone and the motel records showed only her name on the check-in—Dee Bayfield. That’s how she registered.”

  Veronica’s glance zoomed in on Danny as she continued, “Sergeant Wehr said that your wife refused to sign a complaint.”

  “Did you get a copy of their report?” Rae asked.

  “Funny thing. I asked, but Wehr was evasive. Something about a freeze on it.”

  “Metro Unit?” Rae asked. She remembered enough from Anthony’s years of service to know that when channels didn’t channel anymore, Denver’s drug force that partnered with the DEA was bound to be behind it.

  Veronica’s jaw clamped down on what she was about to say as she gave Rae a wary look.

  “What about the missing car?” asked Rae, eager to change the subject, wishing she hadn’t tried to show off her knowledge.

  “The night she died, a witness saw Mrs. Lassiter’s car leave the residence. He couldn’t see who was driving. All he could make out was two people in the car. He called the police because of a disturbance he heard earlier. It’s all there in the report from that night.”

  “What car?” asked Danny. “She totaled her SUV. That’s what started the mess with the insurance.”

  “She apparently inherited a Lincoln Town Car from her grandfather,” offered Rae.

  “When our people arrived at the scene, there was no vehicle on the premises. The sister and Sam Garvin showed up.”

  “Showed up?” echoed Danny.

  “We called Mr. Garvin because he had made the initial contact requesting the welfare check.”

  “My brother-in-law wasn’t there?”

  “Not according to the report. Our officer reported that Mr. Garvin said that Mrs. Lassiter had owned a black Lincoln Town Car recently inherited from her grandfather. My guess is other priorities took their attention from the car. No theft report was ever filed.”

  “Danny should file one now.” Rae was thinking ahead. “Follow the car to JJ Camacho.”

  “Right. Here’s my current court appointment as Dee’s P/R. I’ll sign a complaint.”

  Rae was amazed at Danny’s unexpected preparedness. He seemed to be recovering from his shock and assuming some initiative for a change.

  “We need the VIN and license.” Veronica got on her computer and pushed some keys.

  Rae was quiet while Veronica and Danny finished the paperwork for the theft report. Then she asked, “Why isn’t this being investigated as a homicide?”

  “You don’t have the coroner’s report yet, do you?”

  They didn’t.

  “The coroner determined that she died as a result of cocaine toxicity. You’ll see that on page five of our report.”

  “Danny, didn’t you say they told you she drowned?” asked Rae.

  Danny shrugged. “I got the call. They said she was found dead in her hot tub.” He shrugged. “I guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  Rae frowned as she watched Danny pause to light up a Marlboro on the steps of the Lakewood Municipal Complex.

  “I’m working on quitting.”

  “Did I say a word?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. I don’t smoke in front of Josh…or Beth.”

  “Uh-huh. Like they can’t smell you.”

  “At least it’s not pot.” He took one more drag, then ground out the cigarette under his heel without looking in Rae’s direction.

  “May as well skip Wheat Ridge for now,” Rae said. “If Veronica can’t get anything out of them, we sure can’t.”

  As they got into the truck, Danny asked, “What was it about Metro Unit that froze Veronica up?”

  “I can’t talk about it. I’d be closing a door on a friendship, as well as an information source.”

  “I’m your client. Don’t I come first?”

  He was turned in the seat, facing her. All she could think of was the effort it took not to give him a matching welt on the other side of his spoiled brat face.

  “Stupid question,” said Danny, no doubt picking up on her anger. “I’m sorry, that was crass.”

  Rae shrugged. “There’s stuff you can’t know. But I can share this with you. Veronica will do everything she can to help us. She was my husband’s partner.”

  “I thought he was Denver P.D.”

  “He was. Veronica was there—I mean there on the spot—when Anthony was killed. Right after that, she left law enforcement for about a year. Then she signed on with Lakewood, and her career’s gone really well. She’s in a position to know things. She’ll share what she can, but she can’t risk her job.”

  “Right. Besides, she wouldn’t be much help if she got fired.”

  Rae turned her face toward the passenger window, took a deep breath and counted silently to ten. “Keep going south,” she said coldly. “Pick up Six. We’re going to the Jeffco Coroner’s office.”

  Danny drove slowly, sticking to the right lane. Rae wondered if he had the stomach to view the grim details of Dee’s autopsy report. As she glanced sideways at him, he appeared short of breath, was breathing choppily. He really should kick the nicotine habit.

  “Why would JJ kill Deidre when she was his cash source?” she asked after his breathing appeared to return to normal.

  “Good point. Dee’s little estate is peanuts. Morgan and the kids get her share of Grandpa's now that she’s gone.”

  “Then it seems like JJ Camacho would be the loser with your wife dead, any way you cut it.”

  “How would he have known? He's ripping off a rich lady. I doubt he's the type to have a background in estate law.”

  “Point well taken,” said Rae. “But now he's got nobody to rip off.”

  “Do I turn here?”

  “Yep.”

  Danny pulled into the Jefferson County Civic Center, a complex of eggshell-colored cement buildings neatly nestled just off Sixth Avenue in Golden. He parked near a directory where Rae quickly located the building that housed the coroner’s office and paced off in that direction with Danny close behind.

  The one-story building that housed the coroner’s office sat a bit apart from the cluster of larger structures. She felt Danny lagging farther behind her as they approached the entrance. “Let’s just get this over with,” she said, making her voice kinder that it had been. She was turning into a shrew, and pretty soon, if this didn’t stop, she wouldn’t be able to stand herself.

  He followed her like a robot into the building. She observed his chest heaving in those short, shallow breaths he’d bee taking in the truck. When the reception desk loomed in front of them, he let her do the talking. Then they both followed a young woman to an office where they were to meet with a deputy coroner.

  Soon a thin, middle-aged woman in a white lab coat joined them and introduced herself as Dr. Roland. Rae completed the introduction for herself and Danny, who barely nodded and kept his hands in his pockets. Rae wondered if it was to keep them from shaking. Her judgment of him softened further as recalled
her own state of mind following the loss of Anthony. And Danny bore the burden of guilt just dumped on him for having abandoned his wife to a rapist. No wonder his chest was heaving.

  Dr. Roland was ready for them with a slender sheaf of papers. “The autopsy findings are that death resulted from anoxic encephalopathy related to a seizure consistent with cocaine toxicity.” She read the words from the top paper.

  Rae watched Danny's apathy transform into antagonism. “That’s it? That’s it, and you decide it was an accident?” His words were inappropriately hostile. The doctor blinked behind heavy glasses and stepped back a full two paces.

  “That is correct,” she said through thin lips that barely moved.

  “That conclusion assumes Mrs. Lassiter injected herself with cocaine?” Rae strove for a neutral tone. No use of two hot-heads going off at the woman, who was only doing her job.

  “There has been no evidence presented to indicate otherwise.”

  Rae could see Danny’s comment coming, complete with expletives that would get them tossed out on their butts. As she bent toward the doctor, as if trying to read the report, she stepped down hard on Danny’s foot. Turning back into his howl of protest, she mouthed the words, Shut up!

  Rae turned back to the doctor and asked, “Could you give us a little more detail on how you arrived at that conclusion?”

  The deputy coroner pursed her soda cracker lips and glared at Rae, reminding her of a malevolent owl. “The report speaks for itself.”

  “Excuse me,” said Rae, “but two separate law enforcement jurisdictions have complaints on file from the deceased regarding threats to her life.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” The woman’s sharp little nose twitched slightly, transforming her from owl to rabbit. “All our office has to go by is the physical evidence. This was a long-term cocaine user--”

  “She,” interrupted Rae, “his wife.” Rae indicated Danny. Neutrality of tone had flown the coop. “This is how you describe a thing, not a person. Show a little respect.”

  She saw Danny wince. No, Danny, I’m not going to hit her.

  Owl blinked once. “I’ve made you a copy of our entire report.” She stepped away from Rae and handed Danny a manila folder. He took it but didn’t open it—just held it as if it might explode. As he turned toward the door through which they’d entered, Owl said “Sorry for your loss, Mr. Lassiter.”