by Ted Clifton
“You should know, we have new information, and we’ll be making an arrest in the Anna Marks murder in a few days.” The chief said it in a matter-of-fact-way that caught Vincent off guard.
“Wow, can you give me anything on that?”
“No.”
Vincent left the police station convinced the chief was a sneaky bastard, but a likeable sneaky bastard. He couldn’t figure what the new information might be, or who it implicated. He pulled out his phone and called Tucker.
“Didn’t even give you a hint?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
There was a lengthy pause while Tucker thought. “Well, you’re right about getting some other kind of solution on the guards. We could go to court, but I think the judge might be reluctant to give us permission to violate an ordinance, even if it’s a stupid one. Can’t believe Howard would go through the mayor rather than just calling me and asking what the hell was going on. But I’ll call him and set up another session to get this resolved. I think we’re close. Shit, I hate this unknown with the police. You have no idea what they might have?”
“None. Unless it’s the same thing I’m trying with the street people. Maybe they found a witness who saw the murderer drop the car off at the park.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the most logical. Well, keep digging, and let me know about anything new.”
It was the time of day when the old Vincent would have headed to a bar, and he had to admit he missed the comfort of that old routine, and the soothing effects of alcohol. But he sure didn’t miss feeling like shit the next morning, or not being really sure what had happened during a big chunk of his day. He called Nancy instead.
“Hey,” she answered, “is this one of those I’m-going-to-be-late-tonight calls?”
“No, this is a how-’bout-I-fix-you-a-green-chili-cheeseburger call.”
“Vincent, you know you can’t cook.”
“Wow, that really hurts. I’ve been watching YouTube, and I know everything there is to know about the world-famous super burger. Be nice, and I might make you one.”
“Okay. It’s a date. I should be home in about an hour or so. Is that too early?”
“Fine with me. See you then.”
He clicked off. Now all he had to do was find a grocery store, buy what he needed, rush home, and find a YouTube video to tell him what to do.
“Cindy, you do realize this is not your wedding, and that Rick and Mariana get to make all the decisions?”
“Listen smarty-pants, they’re young and in love. They don’t have time to plan a wedding. They need my help.” Cindy was smiling as she gently scolded her husband. She could have added “and I’m having fun,” but didn’t.
“I figured they’d be married in the church.”
“Yeah, me, too. Apparently, that’s created a little problem for Rick with his mom, but Mariana doesn’t want a church wedding. I think maybe the religion issue is at the heart of her conflict with her mother. Anyway, she’s adamant—no church wedding. Rick seemed not to care, so they’re getting married here, in the back yard. The gazebo will be a perfect backdrop. There will only be a few guests, so it’s not a big deal.”
“When is this happening?” Jerry had been looking at their bookings. It seemed like they were close to full for the next few months.
“In about two weeks. Mariana’s mom can’t come, so it’ll just be people from Santa Fe. For that and other reasons, they decided to have a whirlwind romance and schedule the wedding as soon as possible. Mary is upset again, though. She thinks they don’t even know one another, and that getting married within weeks of meeting just isn’t right. Hector told me, on the QT, that he and Mary were only engaged for three months, so maybe it’s just how the Flores family does things. Even so, Mary’s opposed.”
“We’re going to have a full house for the next few months. Are we going to need help, since Mary will be occupied? Plus, I guess Mariana will on her honeymoon.”
“Maybe. I asked Nancy if she knew of anyone who might want to work for a few weeks to get us through. Mariana offered to delay her honeymoon until we have some down time, but I said no. We’ll work something out.”
“What’s created all this demand? Is this your marketing in action?”
“A little bit me and whole lot of plain dumb luck. There are two conferences for writers coming up over the next month. They’re scheduled back-to-back at the convention center. They anticipated a certain number to sign up, but it’s come to double what they expected. So, the organizers of those events have been calling everyone, looking for rooms. Along with the guests we already had booked, we’re full for more than a month. Hope you’re well rested.”
“I just hope Mary doesn’t flake out on us—I can’t handle that by myself.”
“She won’t. I’ve talked to her, and she’ll be ready to handle her part.”
“Guess I should call and see if Vincent might be available to drive the van. And maybe help serving drinks or something.”
“Based on what I hear, he’s pretty busy with his investigations.”
“Yeah, could be. But I’ll ask him, anyway.”
“How did you figure out how to cook this?” Nancy asked between bites.
“Did you like it?” Vincent asked.
“Best damn burger I’ve ever had,” she said, with her mouth full. “What was that sauce? Did you buy that or just make it up?”
“I got the recipe off the internet. It was actually really easy to make, but it does taste good, doesn’t it? Maybe I should ask Jerry if I could do some cooking at the Inn. Could be a whole new career.”
Nancy’s smile said he’d better be kidding. “How many jobs do you need, anyway? I thought you were a big-time investigator.”
Vincent chuckled. “Yeah, I’m the biggest. I’ve got one client, and that’s Tucker. For whatever reason, I haven’t been able to bond with Hill. I think he knows I think he’s a jerk.”
“You haven’t said it to him, have you?”
“Well, no. But I’ve asked around. Tucker said he was a little on the edge in the past—but that’s an understatement. His reputation is very much as a guy who cuts corners and doesn’t worry about ethics.”
“Sounds like your kind of guy.”
“Yeah, he does in a way, but he’s not. I’ve always been a street guy. I can’t really explain what that means, but there’s a certain kind of behavior that’s accepted on the street, and a whole other set of rules for these office guys. Jack Hill is the worst kind of office guy—right up there with politicians. People who basically have no rules—pretty much whatever you can get away with. I’ve had some pretty lowlife pals, but I trusted them. The trust came from the fact that we all understood what was okay and what wasn’t. The Jack Hills of the world will change their definitions of right and wrong at the drop of a hat. You can’t trust a man like that, because you never know what he’ll do. And, yes, I know I should just shut up and ignore my ethics and take his money—he sure hasn’t asked me to do anything that was out of line, But I’m not sure I can work for a jerk.”
Nancy looked at Vincent for a long time before she spoke again. “Why would Tucker work for him?”
“That’s different. Tucker does most of his work in a courtroom. The rules are clear there, not ambiguous. Plus, you have a judge to set you straight if you stray. Tucker is a guy who pushes those boundaries to their limits to benefit his client, but when you’re in a courtroom, it’s not like the real world—there are so many safeguards that, no matter how much you try to bend the rules, you’ll never go too far. With me, the things they ask me to do can sometimes involve people getting hurt, or me getting hurt. And there are no judges going along to make sure everybody plays by the rules. Every asshole you meet now has a gun. That danger, that risk, is why the job has so much appeal. I know how to make the level of risk acceptable, but I’m always on alert and on edge. I know this might sound silly, but if I’m going to do that, I need to know that the guy asking me to take that risk is a st
raight shooter, not a bullshitter who would risk me for some kind of personal gain. That’s why I just don’t trust him.”
“Vincent, maybe I’d be a lot happier if you were the cook at the Inn.”
Nancy started to cry, and Vincent suddenly realized that all of the nonsense he’d been spouting must have brought back memories of her husband being killed. “Nance, I know I made that sound bad, but I really am careful, and I know what I’m doing.”
She smiled, but she didn’t quite stop crying.
Me and my big mouth, blabbing on and on about risk and danger. Must have sounded like some kind of dumb death wish. Oh please, Nancy, let’s make a nice life together while I go out and try to get myself killed on a regular basis. This isn’t a bar scene with a bunch of brainless drunks who won’t remember what you said, anyway. This is someone you love. Start acting like it, or go live by yourself.
“Vincent? Just got off the phone with Curtis Howard. I think we’re close to an agreement regarding the security and money issues. While we were discussing those, he casually mentions that Francis told him that Anna made it clear to him she was going to leave the business to him in her will. Apparently, at least according to Francis, within the last six months, Anna was diagnosed with some kind of tumor. He says they have documentation that a lot of her travel to Amsterdam wasn’t only to see Ilse, or to do anything else for the business, but also to be treated with some new drugs. She told Francis that even despite that, she didn’t know whether she had long to live.”
It annoyed Vincent that Tucker would call so early in the morning and immediately launch into a complicated conversation with no preamble at all. Good morning to you too, you bastard. He made a face. “I’m not sure I believe that. What was all the anxiety about money then, and keeping the gallery going? If you’re dying, you have other things to worry about besides your business.”
“Yeah, I asked the same thing. He says Francis thinks it was to raise the money to pay for some experimental operation in The Netherlands. That she was desperate, and her behavior had changed because of the tumor.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
“Should have been ordered by the police, given that it was a murder, but I don’t know. I’ll check.” Tucker mumbled something to himself, probably about overlooking the obvious.
“Santa Fe PD is run by a pro, so I’m sure they ordered an autopsy,” Vincent said. “But without any living relatives, they would have just kept that information to themselves. They sure as hell weren’t going to volunteer it to us.”
“Yep. Oversight on my part. Nobody’s been charged, so there’s no one that they have to disclose the autopsy results to. And we only represent Ilse in a civil matter, not a criminal one. So, we don’t have a right to that information.” Tucker paused. “If Francis is right, and they find a will naming him as the heir to the business, it would move his name to the top of the suspect list. Inheriting a multi-million-dollar business would be a strong motive. He finds out Anna’s dying, and figures he’s going to take over soon, and then she starts chasing after experimental treatments. What if she finds one that works?”
“Are we under any obligation to pass this along to the police?”
“Probably. We sure aren’t covered by client-attorney privilege, and the attorney who is has already spilled the beans. You know it’s going to screw up our negotiations if we go to the police and point them toward Francis.”
“Should we meet with Howard and discuss this—or does that violate some ethical rule?”
“I think it is a very muddy area, but we should meet with Howard before contacting the police. We need access to the evidence he says they have about her travel to Amsterdam being for medical reasons. And if there’s a will, where the hell is it? Maybe Howard or Francis have some idea.”
“I’d put my money on the cops having it. They did an extensive search of her house. If she didn’t leave it with an attorney, then my guess is it was at her house.”
“Shit. That’s probably right. If they charged someone, and if we represented that person, then we could demand that sort of thing, but right now we have zero standing for even asking about it. Would your buddy the chief give you a hush-hush update?”
“Nope. He’s not really my buddy, but even if he was, he wouldn’t tell me anything about an ongoing investigation.”
“I’m going to call Howard back and see if we can meet in a couple of hours. I’ll call you back.”
Vincent sat back and thought about Anna. If she’d been told she was dying, then her behavior took on a whole new light. He wondered if Francis had made up the story, but he couldn’t see any motivation for it. Even if Anna told him what he claimed, that the business was going to be left to him, that wasn’t going to influence the probate court. Under certain circumstances, verbal statements can be used to help understand the intent of someone who’s died—for instance, if their will is ambiguous—since you can’t exactly ask them about it. But an unsubstantiated conversation, by itself, wasn’t going to do Francis any good. And that meant what he’d told his attorney was probably true.
“Well, well. You look serious. Something in the paper?” Nancy had appeared quietly and was getting coffee.
“No. I just talked to Tucker.” Vincent told her what he’d just learned.
“Poor Anna.” She thought a moment. “If she was dying, why would she leave the business to Francis? And why would she tell him?”
“You should be an investigator, and I should run a bar. How ’bout a little role reversal?”
“No way in hell. I’ll stick with bartending.”
“I can only guess why she would leave the business to Francis, or why she’d tell him, but if it’s true, then I bet she wanted something from him. Maybe he’d threatened to quit, and she wanted him to stay, or she wanted him to do something. She wanted leverage over Francis for something.”
“You have a very suspicious mind.”
“Yeah, I probably do.”
The police arrived in full force at the tidy little stucco house with the blue flowers in the front courtyard. This was no casual visit. The chief was there, along with three teams, well-armed and prepared for the worst. They surrounded the house, and the chief rang the bell.
Francis answered the intercom. “Yes, who is it?”
“Mister Mitchell, this is Police Chief Stanton. I need to talk to you about Anna Marks. Could you please open the door?” There was silence. He signaled to his men to stay in place. After what seemed way too long, but was only a few minutes, the outer door made the distinct sound of being unlocked. The chief opened the door and, with two of his men, walked through the garden to the red door. The chief raised his hand to knock, but the door opened.
Francis stood in the doorway. Everyone immediately went on alert. Not only was his appearance a little shocking, with his flowery housecoat, but again he was wearing the huge sidearm, and that ratcheted up the tension.
“Mister Mitchell, we’re here to serve an arrest warrant. For the safety of everyone involved, I want you to very carefully remove your weapon and place it on the ground.”
The chief had his hand on his service weapon. Francis looked at the gathered force. He made a small movement. It looked like his hand was moving toward his gun.
“Stop!”
Clive grabbed Francis’ arm from behind and pulled it far from the holster. He gently removed the massive weapon and placed it on the ground.
“Please step forward,” the chief said, “very slowly, and stay away from the gun.”
Every officer remained primed. Francis and Clive stepped into the courtyard.
“I want you to lie down on the ground,” the chief commanded.
Francis started to shake, and he looked at Clive as if to ask, can they make us do that? Clive nodded, and lowered to the ground. Francis followed. The chief picked up the massive magnum and handed it to one of his men.
“Clive Walton, we have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Anna Marks.” The
chief read Walton his rights and asked if he understood.
“No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand jack shit. I didn’t kill her, you moron. I want an attorney, right now!”
Clive was being handcuffed by two policemen, while Francis looked on, just before curling up into a ball on the ground, mumbling to himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Francis repeated.
The chief directed his men to escort Clive to the police van and take him to the station. Francis remained on the ground in the middle of all of it. He had gone quiet, and then, without saying anything more, he passed out.
“Call an ambulance, now.” The chief wasn’t sure what was wrong with Francis, but the whole scene reeked of the kind of chaos and danger he hated. And he damn well was going to do everything by the book until everything was calm again.
His phone vibrated—a sound he was beginning to dislike.
“Malone.”
“I need a fuckin’ attorney, right now. Can you get me one?”
“Clive?”
“Yeah. I’ve been charged with killing Anna. It’s bullshit, I didn’t kill her. I have no idea who killed her. Look, I don’t really know you, but you’re a pain-in-the-butt kind of guy, and I want you on my side. Can you help me?”
“Clive, I’m not a practicing attorney any more. But as you know, I work for a law firm that’s very good at this shit. If they don’t have some kind of conflict of interest, they’ll represent you. Where are you?”
“County jail. I was arrested by the Santa Fe police. Fuckin’ police chief himself was there. I was in the back taking a nap, and Francis opened the door wearing his housecoat and the stupid gun. You know he has a permit for that damn gun. It’s a miracle someone was not killed. Francis had some kind of panic attack or something; they took him to the hospital. Can you check on him?”
