by Maggie Price
“She was a snitch,” Mary countered. “Snitches wouldn’t have much to say if cops insisted on having a witness lurking about.”
“True. Still, Ken should have arranged to have a third party present. Then he could have proved the girl lied when she claimed he conducted their interviews while they shared a bed.”
Mouth set in a tight line, Mary turned back to A.J. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure why you’re here, but I imagine it isn’t to hear a debate on the merits of Ken’s demotion.”
“No, but he’s the reason we’re here. We need to ask you some questions.”
Mary’s gaze slanted to Michael for a moment before going back to A.J. “I’ve missed you,” she said, her voice softening. “And I do want us to spend time together. But my schedule’s tight—I only have a few minutes right now. I can call you tomorrow. Maybe we can have dinner.”
“Ms. Duncan, I’m conducting an official police investigation into your ex-husband’s activities,” Michael stated. “I need to ask you some questions.”
Mary whirled on him. “Ken is dead!” Her hands fisted against her thighs. “Wasn’t getting him demoted enough? Can’t you let him rest in peace?”
“I have a job to do,” Michael answered, his voice level, controlled. “I heard a message you left on his answering machine, so I know you were seeing him. Eventually you will talk to me about Officer Duncan. Now, you can invite A.J. and me to have a seat on that couch over there and get this over with. Or by this time tomorrow you’ll have a subpoena that says you have to talk to me.” He shrugged. “Either way, it’ll happen.”
Mary’s lips curled into a sneer that mirrored the derision in her eyes. “I love a challenge, Lieutenant. Send your subpoena.”
“Mary.” A.J. placed a light hand on the woman’s arm, then looked to Michael for consent. She couldn’t discuss details of an active case—even this one—without permission from the lead investigator.
As if reading her thoughts, Michael nodded. “Go ahead.”
She met Mary’s gaze. “There’s evidence that implicates Ken in illegal activity—”
“That’s absurd!”
“Of course, it is,” A.J. agreed. “But someone set things up to make him look guilty. Something was going on with Ken and we need to find out what it was.”
Mary gave her a wary look. “What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know,” A.J. answered. “The night before Ken died, a man called me. I have no idea who. He warned me to tell Ken to cooperate or else.”
“To cooperate with what?”
“I have no idea. I confronted Ken about it, but he refused to tell me anything. All I know is that he was angry. Furious. Maybe even afraid. It’s possible someone other than a burglar killed Ken.”
“My, God...” Mary’s face paled to the color of cotton.
“He wasn’t himself the week before he died,” A.J. continued. “Something was going on. I...we need to find out what it was to clear him. If you know something, please tell us.”
“It wasn’t a burglar who shot him?”
“At this point, we don’t know,” Michael said. “And A.J. left something out. The evidence that implicates Ken in illegal activity points to her, as well. Right now there’s no way to prove or disprove anything. Frankly, she could use your help.”
Dismay settled into Mary’s eyes. “It’s clear, Lieutenant, that you don’t know A.J. at all. If you did, there’d be no way you’d believe she’d do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say I believe it,” Michael countered levelly. “What I said is, there’s no way to prove her innocent.” He cocked his head toward the tufted leather couch. “Feel like having that chat?”
Mary stared at him long and hard, then nodded. Walking stiffly across the expanse of thick gray carpet, she settled into a straight-backed chair upholstered in a burgundy flame-stitch pattern. A.J. slid onto one end of the leather couch; Michael positioned himself a few inches from her and leaned forward.
“When did you and Ken start seeing each other again?”
Mary blinked. “Why do you want to know?”
“Like A.J. said, something had your ex-husband strung tight. I need to find out not only what it was, but when it began affecting him.”
“Two months,” Mary stated. “We started seeing each other almost two months before he died.”
A.J. shook her head. “I had no idea.”
“It was something that just happened,” Mary explained. “My car got a flat near his apartment. It was raining like there’d be no tomorrow. Ken drove by, saw my car and stopped. There was a little bar across the street. He suggested we go in and wait out the storm, then he’d change the tire. I almost refused—A.J., you remember how it was when Ken and I were married.”
“Something akin to World War II,” A.J. said with frankness.
“Right. I figured Ken and I would be at each other’s throats before we finished our drinks. I know sometimes it must have seemed like we hated each other. We didn’t, of course. We were just on opposite sides of any issue that came up. Some relationships thrive on that. Ours didn’t.” She shook her head. “Seeing Ken that day made me realize how much I’d missed him.”
In the silent moment that followed, A.J. saw memories and more in Mary’s eyes. She saw love. And loss. Misery.
“So, you went to the bar for a drink?” Michael prompted.
“Yes.” Mary took a deep breath. “For the first time since we separated, we talked. Really talked. Before we left we’d both admitted how stupid we’d been not to figure out the only thing that should have mattered was our marriage.”
“And you continued to see each other after that?” A.J. asked softly.
“We spent all our free time together until...he walked into that warehouse.”
The wrenching sadness in Mary’s voice cut A.J. to the heart. She reached for Mary’s hand, and as their fingers linked she felt a connection that had not existed before. Mary was hurting over Ken’s death, hurting perhaps even more than she was, A.J. realized, feeling a tug of guilt. She’d lost a brother; Mary had lost a lover, a man to whom she’d once pledged her life.
“Why,” A.J. began softly, “didn’t Ken tell me or Aunt Emily that you’d gotten back together?”
“It wasn’t that we had some deep, dark secret. We just weren’t sure we could get past the hurt, and we didn’t want to have to deal with people asking if the relationship was going to work until we knew the answer ourselves.” A faint smile curved her lips. “I know we’d have made it. It was like we were kids again, crazy in love, determined not to let anything stand in our way. Now I wish we’d told you and Emily. It seems so senseless not to have shared our happiness.”
Michael shifted on the couch. “Do you have any idea what it was that had Ken so uptight?”
“Two things.” Mary continued to cling to A.J.’s hand as if desperate for comfort. “One was Emily’s illness. He felt helpless that he couldn’t do anything for her.”
A.J. nodded, remembering the deep concern for their aunt that had shown in Ken’s eyes the day he sat on the edge of her desk holding the printout in his hands. That damn printout.
“And the other?” Michael prompted.
“He refused to talk about it.”
“Something to do with the job?” Michael asked.
“I think so. Whatever it was started a couple of weeks before Ken died. He showed up here one morning after his shift ended. He wasn’t just upset. He was mad. Royally hacked. He asked to borrow my microcassette recorder.”
“Did he say why?”
Mary slowly lifted her chin and gave Michael a level look. “He said he needed it to prove something, because he wasn’t going to give you a chance to take him down a second time.”
“Me?” Michael asked, his eyebrows arching.
“You, Lieutenant. He mentioned you specifically.”
“Do you know for sure he carried the recorder with him?”
“Once when he was going out to run errand
s, I saw him slip it into the pocket of his coat.”
“What about while he was on duty?”
“I don’t know. Except for the day he borrowed it, I only saw him with it that one other time.”
“Did you ever ask him why he needed the recorder?”
“Once. He told me to butt out, so I dropped it. I didn’t want to start arguing. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth losing him a second time. I didn’t ask again.”
“Do you have the recorder?”
“No.” Mary shifted her gaze to A.J. “I assumed the department sent you the things he had with him...that night. My name’s engraved on the back of the recorder.”
A.J. knew the exact contents of the cardboard box she’d shoved into the dusty attic over her room: one Sam Browne belt with holster and handcuff case attached, Ken’s service revolver, his hat, commission card, the brass name tag, buttons and badge removed from his bloody uniform. But no tape recorder. And no tapes.
“It isn’t among the things the department returned,” A.J. said, meeting Michael’s gaze. “If Ken had the recorder with him that night, it must have been booked into evidence.”
“I’ve seen the list from the property room,” Michael said quietly. “It’s not on it.” He looked back at Mary. “I need any tapes Ken made.”
“I don’t know that he made any. If he did, I don’t have them.”
“There has to be a place he considered safe. Maybe at your home, with your things.”
“No.” Mary’s brows knitted. “I went on a cleaning spree a week or so ago. If Ken had left any tapes at my place, I’d have found them.”
Michael pursed his lips. “Did Ken ever mention the name Snowman to you?”
“No.” Mary rubbed at her forehead as if a pain had settled there. “Who is he?”
“Just a name Ken mentioned in a message he left on my machine.”
Mary’s eyes rounded. “He called you?”
“Yes. He said he had evidence to turn over to me. I didn’t get the message until after his death.”
“If he called you, he must have gotten something on tape. After all, that’s the reason he borrowed the recorder.”
“That’s safe to assume,” Michael agreed.
Mary shook her head, her dark blunt-cut hair dashing against her cheeks. “I’m sorry, A.J. Maybe if I’d pressed the matter, Ken would have told me what was going on. But he was already upset that he couldn’t come up with the money for Emily’s treatment. I just didn’t want to add to it.”
“Her treatment?” For no reason she could name, A.J. felt a slight tightening in her stomach. “Aunt Emily has medical coverage through the university. The insurance company’s paying for her treatment.”
“No, I mean the experimental treatment.”
At A.J.’s blank look, Mary continued. “A couple of years ago, the mother of one of Ken’s friend’s died of leukemia. Ken remembered all the horror stories. He was determined not to let the same thing happen to Emily. He checked around, found out about some treatment under development at a Houston cancer center. Things sounded good at first, then Ken ran into a brick wall when he talked to your aunt’s doctor. He told Ken he didn’t put much stock in the program since the drugs they use are waiting FDA approval. That means they’re considered experimental. Insurance companies won’t foot the bill for anything like that. Just to get on the waiting list for the Houston program, the patient has to come up with over fifty thousand dollars.”
A.J. felt, rather than saw Michael stiffen. “How did Ken plan to come up with the money?”
Michael asked the question so effortlessly. Casually. Yet his query sent tremors along her nerves.
The hardness returned to Mary’s face. “You ought to start doing your homework before you jump into a case, Lieutenant. It’s clear you didn’t know Ken any better than you do A.J. He didn’t plan to get the money. He had no way to get it. It’s no secret his credit record was a nightmare. Ken never could manage to save a dime.”
“I’m familiar with Officer Duncan’s spending habits.” Michael’s toneless voice wrapped A.J.’s tension tighter, until she could barely breathe.
“Then you understand why he gave up the idea of getting Emily into the program,” Mary continued. “I’m sure all that money’s the reason he didn’t mention it to you, A.J. That, and the fact that the doctor had such strong reservations about the treatment.”
“What about you?” Michael asked, his gaze flicking around the expansive, polished office.
“What about me?”
“I presume you make a decent salary. Did Ken ask you to loan him the money?”
“My parents are both in a nursing home and I’m footing the bill. Ken knew there was no way I could help.” Mary’s gaze went to A.J. “Ken told me that Emily was strapped for cash a year or so ago, and you used most of your savings to help refinance the house.”
A.J. nodded and said nothing.
“That’s why Ken didn’t come to you about a loan. He knew what a hardship that would have put on you.”
A.J. sat motionless, her pulse pounding in her throat. She felt simultaneously hot and cold. The last thing she wanted to do was look at Michael, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t keep her gaze from meeting his.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to, not when his eyes could go that flat. That hard.
Not when Mary had just presented a solid motive for Ken to have crossed the line.
“We need to talk to Aunt Emily’s doctor,” A.J. stated.
Michael slanted a look across the Bronco as he twisted the key in the ignition. She sounded calm. Controlled. Almost too calm, he thought as he shifted in his seat to face her.
“My thoughts exactly,” he said. “He’ll know how serious Ken was about getting your aunt into the Houston clinic.”
“Yes.”
With the engine idling, static from the police radio installed in the dash crackled on the cold air. Michael leaned forward and turned down the volume, then rested a wrist on the steering wheel. “I’m surprised you made the suggestion. At this point, I think your aunt’s doctor would be the last person you’d want me talking to.”
“We agreed the only way to get a lead on who killed Ken is to find out what went on the last couple months of his life.”
“A.J., my theory that someone other than a burglar killed Ken is just that—a theory.”
“A sound one.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You think the doctor will confirm Ken’s determination to get Aunt Emily into the clinic, no matter the cost.”
He hated to say it, but he couldn’t lie to her. “That’s right.”
“And I think he’ll tell us Ken gave up the idea because of the money.”
A.J. had said little during the remainder of the time they spent in Mary Duncan’s office. She hadn’t spoken at all while she walked at his side, head bent forward, hands deep in her coat pockets, through the law building’s parking garage. Now she sat beside him as stiff as a blade, her gloved hands clenched in her lap.
He ached for her, knowing the doubt over Ken she must be suffering. Had to be suffering. He pulled off his leather gloves, reached out and laid a light hand over hers. “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to face the facts—”
She jerked away as if he’d stung her. “You think the facts are that Ken stole the printout from my office so he could sell information and get money to help Aunt Emily.”
“You told me once he didn’t care about material things. That he didn’t have a use for a lot of cash.” Michael’s shoulders rose beneath his coat. “Your ex-sister-in-law just proved you wrong.”
“I’m not blind, I know how it looks. But Ken wouldn’t have done those things.” Her voice wavered. “He just wouldn’t.”
Expelling a heavy breath, Michael glanced at his watch. It was just after five. For the next hour or so, the downtown streets would be a gridlock of cars, trucks and buses battling their way toward the highway on-ramps.
�
�The hospital’s two blocks from here,” he said. “We might as well stop there and let the traffic die down before we head for the station. Maybe we’ll catch your aunt’s doctor making rounds.”
Saying nothing, A.J. stared out the windshield as if mesmerized by the Visitor Parking sign on the wall directly in front of the Bronco.
Michael watched her hands curl, then uncurl. “I not only have to question your aunt’s doctor, but her as well.”
A.J. whipped her face toward him, her eyes sparking. “She doesn’t know anything.”
He cocked his head. “You’ve questioned her about Ken, have you?”
Damn, Michael thought. He had a high regard for loyalty, but A.J. Duncan had taken the concept to new heights. Why couldn’t she at least admit he had a job to do? And why did he care what she thought?
He shoved a hand through his hair. The hell of it was that he did care. He cared a lot. So much that he no longer had the ability to jostle thoughts of her into a corner of his mind and get on with his work. Soon, he’d have to deal with the emotions that accompanied that realization.
“You may not carry a commission card and a badge,” he began, “but you know how an investigation works. You question everyone who might have knowledge of the crime. And of the suspect.”
“Aunt Emily’s ill. She...isn’t supposed to get upset.” A.J.’s voice broke. “If you start asking questions about Ken the minute I introduce you, she’ll know something’s wrong.”
The anguish in her eyes hit Michael like a punch in the gut. People routinely got upset when questioned by the police. That was the nature of the business. When it happened, he handled it, and got on with his investigation. But this wasn’t just any investigation, he conceded, and was mildly surprised to find himself make a conscious decision to soften his approach to Emily Duncan. Still, certain questions had to be asked of her. If he put it off, the woman might become too ill to respond. He didn’t want to put it off, he thought, letting his gaze glide along the smooth, enticing curve of A.J.’s jaw. It was more than just a sense of justice that deepened his resolve to get the Duncan investigation over with.
