Rae took Danny’s arm and steered him out of the building. She could hear him fuming under his breath. “Sorry for you loss,” he mimicked, his voice a notch higher than normal. “Why do they keep saying that? I mean, they don’t fucking know me. Didn’t know Dee. Sorry?” Rae watched him take in deep gulps of cool, fresh air.
“Danny…” Rae hooked an arm in his, moving toward the truck. “It’s what people say when they don’t know what to say.”
They were at the truck. Rae watched Danny fumble for the keys, then drop the autopsy report. She snatched up the folder and relieved Danny of the keys. His hands were trembling, and he still couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.
“I’ll drive,” said Rae. He didn’t argue.
They got into the truck. Rae fiddled with the unfamiliar gearshift, taking an extra minute or so to get them on their way. She chose another return route—north on Highway 93, toward Boulder, past the site of the decontaminated Rocky Flats Nuclear Plant that had been converted into a wildlife refuge.
As she drove, Rae thought that the desolation of those windswept foothills on the west side of the highway must match Danny’s mood. She wondered if he could ever clean up his toxic memories.
When she no longer detected the sounds of his labored breath, Rae ventured a look at him. “You okay now?”
“Thanks for…back there.”
“What?”
“For acknowledging that my wife was a person. A lot of people seem to have forgotten that fact.”
Danny never ceased to amaze her. From pissant to reasonably profound in the space of thirty minutes or less. “Well, shame on them.”
A mile or so down the road, her glance caught him looking at her. She’d put on sunglasses back at the Jeffco complex, so she knew he couldn’t see her eyes.
“When does the pain go away?” he asked. “How long does it take to let it go? How long did it take you?”
Rae shook her head. “That’s what my daughter wants to know. Truth be told, I’m still a work in progress.”
Rae parked in front of Bayfield Commons, a low L-shaped building on Forty-fourth Avenue. Her first thought was that this was an unlikely setting for a millionaire’s office.
Unprosperous. The surrounding buildings were equally shabby. A street person of indeterminate sex browsed a trash canister across the street. She checked the address again against her written notes. This was the place. Talk about keeping a low profile!
She was glad that Sandy had been able to set up the appointment so quickly. Usually fearless, Rae had balked at the prospect of meeting hostility from Danny’s in-laws. She’d been relieved when Sandy had taken on the task and reported it a piece of cake.
At 9:00 a.m., the day promised increasing warmth. The faint odor of garbage wafted toward her from a Westside Disposal vehicle that emerged from an alley behind the building.
A sign above the main entrance read Bayfield Enterprises. Rae peered through the glass in the door. Seeing no one, she tried it, found it unlocked and entered a small, dingy reception area with an asphalt tile floor. The desk, centered in a small work station to the right of the entry, was unoccupied.
Rae shut the door hard, and called into the semi-darkness, “Mr.Garvin?”
No answer. As her eyes began to adjust to the dimness, she glanced around the room, looking for something which might reflect a personality, drawing a blank. The room smelled of musty old papers.
“Mr. Garvin?” Louder this time. Then the sound of a door closing somewhere in the back part of the building.
Rae cracked a Venetian blind—the old-fashioned, metal kind—by the entry door. That was when she first noticed the faded picture that hung on the wall. A hawk-faced older man, flanked by a youngish woman and a light-haired teen-age girl, his arms encircling each like snares. The Bayfield clan, no doubt. But who was the dark-haired young man standing slightly apart from the threesome? Not bad looking, thought Rae. Even in the poor light, she could make out dimples and a widow’s peak. The women, too, were attractive, but looked as if they were in the clutches of some carnivorous old bird.
A sound of movement from the next room pulled her attention from the picture, then fluorescent ceiling lights illuminated the area.
“Mrs. Esposito?” His voice crackled like dry twigs. Rae turned to see a thin, bent man emerge from a door at the south end of the reception area. “I’m Sam Garvin.” He offered a bony hand which she shook tentatively, afraid it might break.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” As she handed him her business card, Rae processed his use of “Mrs.” rather than the more usual “Ms.” in this setting, concluding that perhaps Sam Garvin knew a lot more about her than she might have wished.
“Our secretary is out ill today. Please excuse the dark office. I just got here.”
“No problem.” She looked him over, trying to make her glance unobtrusive. He was taller than his slumped posture made him appear at first. Square-jawed, hollow-cheeked. Colorless eyes followed her from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Sparse dark hairs topped his head, in contrast to the gray fringe above his ears. Rae judged Sam Garvin to be in his seventies.
“I have the conference room set up for you,” he said.
Sam preceded her down a narrow hall that had several doors along the way. Midway down the hall, he opened one of them and led her into a reasonably lighted conference room which contained oak furniture that had probably been around for a while—not shabby but having seen a good deal of use.
Rae took the seat he offered, then removed pen and writing pad from her attaché case.
“I have some questions I’d like to go over with you, if that’s okay.”
Sam took a seat opposite her. “Fire away.” A faint, lopsided grin creased his countenance. “Our records are at your disposal.”
“Thank you.” Rae measured her tone, editing out the surprise she felt at detecting no hostility in the man’s demeanor.
“I guess the first order of business is locating Mrs. Lassiter’s tax returns. Can you help me out?”
“I prepared them up until she married Danny. Then she said she would be using her husband’s tax person.”
“That would be me, but I never met the lady or saw any of her financial records.”
Rae bent down and retrieved a couple of documents from her case.
“This is a current certified copy of Mr. Lassiter’s appointment as personal representative, and here's a notarized statement authorizes me to receive her financial information.”
Sam accepted the papers, but appeared to give them only a cursory read. “Much of the information I have, principally concerning her grandfather’s estate, is of public record or could be obtained from the IRS.”
“We both know how long it takes to get anything from the IRS. I’d like to put a figure on the tax liability as soon as possible, as it looks like she hasn’t filed for at least three years.”
“I’ve already made copies of Dee’s old returns and the estate’s K-1s for the past two years.” Sam pushed a manila folder on the table toward Rae.
She was unable to contain a gasp as she took in the numbers on the K-1s. “Mrs. Lassiter’s estate is illiquid. Where did all this money go? I mean, granted Mrs. Lassiter took drugs, but no way could she have spent all that on her habit.”
Sam’s expression remained unchanged, unrevealing. “Ask JJ Camacho.”
“Why aren’t the police asking him?”
Sam shrugged. “I presume that no one has filed a complaint. Shouldn’t Danny Lassiter, as Dee’s personal representative, be filing such a complaint? He put up quite a fight for that appointment. It’s time he did something to earn it.”
So much for nice old man.
“Inasmuch as Mr. Lassiter only learned about this person last week, I have to ask what the other family members and their attack-dog lawyers were doing sitting on this knowledge.” Not smart—the simmering anger in her voice. She needed Sam on her side. At least for now.
&nbs
p; To her surprise he replied, “My thought exactly, Mrs. Esposito.”
Then her cell phone rang and she instinctively grabbed it. As she was about to let it go to voicemail, she glanced down and saw Danny's name. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”
“Rae,” Danny’s stressed voice, like a rubber band about to snap, “my contractor called. He went into the Golden house this morning to start the job--” Background noise muffled his next words.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I’m at the Sheriff’s station in Golden. They’re talking to him now. I’m next.”
When the phone on the conference table rang, she was relieved at the distraction this afforded. Sam would be too occupied to sift meaning from her end of the conversation with Danny.
“They say I’m not a suspect,” Danny continued.
“Call Sandy.” Whatever it was, it sounded like Danny needed a lawyer more than an accountant.
“He’s in court. I just wanted somebody else to know where I was, in case I get--” Then he was gone.
Through her confusion, Rae was aware of Sam’s voice droning on the other conversation. “I see. I see. Have you notified Mr. and Mrs. Farris?”
She had the eerie feeling that the two calls shared a common subject matter. But Sam’s brooding face showed no overt change of expression as he hung up the receiver.
“We’ll have to reschedule,” he said. “Something terrible has happened. Dee’s son Kevin has died.”
The renovation crew of one had arrived at the Golden house right on schedule. Danny had left several messages on Kevin’s cell phone to let him know in advance, but he’d never returned the calls.
Then the call from Pat Keech: “Danny,” Pat gagged and Danny could hear the vomit in his voice, “you got a problem. There’s a dead body in the house and if you go by the stench, he’s been ripening for quite a spell.”
“Call nine-one-one.” Common sense on his side for a change, Danny determined instantly that there was no way he was going into that house before the law got there.
“I done that first. They’re on their way.”
Then panic grabbed Danny’s heart in a hammer lock. He was afraid to ask Pat for a description of the deceased. Logically, it would be Kevin or one of his drug buddies. But Josh had not yet made contact, and Danny still hadn’t told anybody his son was missing. Head in the sand again or maybe up his ass. There had always been animosity between Josh and Kevin, usually over Kevin’s disrespectful treatment of Beth. But if the little turd had harmed Josh, he would…would what? He was too late to do anything.
He made the twenty-five minute drive to Golden in forty, telling himself it was the old truck’s fault. There was a Jeffco Sheriff’s car in the driveway, and two deputies were talking to Pat as Danny parked. Somehow he couldn’t make his legs move to get out of the truck.
Just for the hell of it, he punched in Josh’s number on his cell for the umpteen thousandth time and—there was a God! His son answered.
“Dad?”
He sounded far away, scared, but alive. Danny felt real tears on his face and joy at the prospect of Kevin rotting away, no longer a problem.
The reception sucked. He could hear Josh fading in and out. Just sounds, but his son’s voice didn’t need words.
Some words finally came through. “I’m with Beth.”
“Where?”
Josh didn’t answer. Bad reception or he didn’t want to tell.
“Mr. Lassiter?” A lean, young deputy was at Danny’s window. His freckled face had some of those premature worry lines that come early to fair skinned folk.
“We need you to come inside and make an identification as soon as the crime scene people are finished.”
Then he noticed the second county vehicle parked across the street. His legs moved freely now. He got out of the truck and started toward Pat, but the kid deputy blocked his way.
“Mr. Keech is going to meet us at the station to give his statement.”
Pat got into his truck without looking in Danny’s direction. As he turned back toward the house, Danny caught the glint of something shiny in his grizzled beard.
“When did you last see your stepson Kevin Cantrell? He lived here, right?” The kid was in his face, a pen and notepad at the ready.
Not recently. Danny shuffled through his recollections of Kevin, none of them pleasant. “Would you believe, not since his mother’s funeral?”
“And that was when?”
“February.”
“This year?”
“Yes.”
Danny heard voices coming from the front of the house as the crime scene crew exited carrying plastic bags.
The second deputy, chubby and seasoned, motioned to them from the front door. As Kid Cop and Danny approached, Seasoned offered them disposable masks. Kid popped his on, but Danny waved away the offer. How bad could it be? Josh was alive. Kevin was inconsequential.
Inside, the house looked worse than he remembered when he’d let Pat in to do his estimate. Danny’s eyes raced ahead of his nose as he saw what must be Kevin, except something had been eating on his face. Probably rats. The place was littered with garbage, beer cans and…Danny felt his breakfast lurch into reverse as his sense of smell kicked in with a vengeance.
“It’s him,” he choked out just before he puked all over Kid Cop, who stood between him and the front door.
*****
They needed Danny’s statement. Routine, said the older cop. For obvious reasons, Danny no longer thought of him as “seasoned.” Any term associated with food or eating was definitely off limits for whatever length of time it took to get the damn smell out of his head. He wondered how smells could echo long after you leave their source.
The route to the Jefferson County complex was fresh in his mind from his recent trip to the coroner’s office with Rae. Two days had passed, but everything from that day was still pressing uncomfortably on his psyche.
Danny cleaned up as best he could in the public restroom before presenting himself at the desk and giving his name. Through a glass partition he could see Pat walking into a room with a couple of plain clothes guys.
“Have a seat, Mr. Lassiter.” A pleasant-faced woman deputy in Jeffco olive drab motioned him toward a chair. She looked like someone’s mother.
Danny remembered that Dee had been someone's mother. His last memory of her had been after she’d been all prettied up for the funeral. She’d looked like a wax doll. But Kevin was death in the raw. If he didn’t get some air, he was going to be sick again.
“Where are you going?” Mother Cop was on his case.
“Just out for a smoke.”
She nodded as if she understood. He went out front and called Rae. Danny knew she didn’t bill for these short calls, but Sandy did. The reception was almost as bad as it’d been with Josh, and he noticed that the battery was mostly dead. He’d forgotten to charge it. Then he smoked, but it didn’t take the smell of death away.
As he started back into the building, a gold Lexus pulled into the parking area. Danny recognized his brother-in-law’s car before he saw Nate in the driver’s seat. Beside him, the woman behind a pair of Serengetis looked like Morgan, though her hair was covered by a yellow scarf.
Should he wait and hold the door to the building open for them? Attempt conversation? Morgan’s body language, as she came toward him like a drill sergeant, killed that idea. Danny didn’t have to see her eyes to know what was in them. He let go of the door, but not quick enough. Morgan caught it on the fly. She and Nate bore down upon him like the furies until they all stopped at Mother Cop’s desk
“Nice to see you’re up and about, Morgan,” Danny blurted. Morgan shook her head as if she were trying to rid her ear of a buzzing insect. Nate’s face wore a surprised expression. Perhaps his words had been somewhat inappropriate and his smile, too bright, but he’d tried to be civil, hadn’t he?
Opportunely, two plain clothes men stepped from the inner sanctum where Pat had gone
and guided Danny and his in-laws toward separate interrogation rooms.
“Take a seat, Mr. Lassiter.”
Danny assumed this must be good cop. Then bad cop entered and he was a she. At least, that was Danny’s first impression. They didn’t introduce themselves or each other. Just got down to business.
“When did you last see your stepson Kevin Cantrell?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
The cops exchanged eye-rolls.
“I’ll rephrase,” said Good Cop. “When did you last see Kevin Cantrell alive?”
“At his mother’s funeral. End of February.”
“But he was staying in one of his mother’s houses. One you’d been having work done on. You never ran into him there?” Bad Cop had a silver filling in an eye-tooth that flashed when she spoke.
“The work was supposed to begin today. Kevin had a key to the house, but I understood his residence was with his aunt and uncle.”
“Where’s your son, Mr. Lassiter? Where’s Josh?” It was Good Cop, but he wasn’t looking so good to Danny any more.
“With Beth, my stepdaughter.” Dumb-ass words jumped out of his mouth again. Truth, but where would it lead? Nowhere good. Two kids missing. One kid dead. He’d never before even considered the possibility of Josh harming Kevin.
“Are you aware that your stepdaughter Beth Porter is missing?”
“Missing?” Why would the kids run? Unless, unless…Oh, Christ, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not according to his perfect plan. A plop. His head coming out of the sand?
“Mr. Lassiter?”
The two cops stood over him. He looked up at them from the floor. The plop was him falling. Danny’s lips formed words. I want to call my lawyer. No sounds came from his mouth.
“Mr. Lassiter?”
Their faces bent near his. He tried to reach for his cell phone. His arm wouldn’t cooperate.
From a sudden distance. Their voices. Fading.
Pool of Lies Page 7
