"And Nadine?"
"She's really sweet." Lia tilted her head and worked her mouth while she thought. "She's got ten grandkids. It's hard to imagine her plotting murder in between taking her grandkids to the mall and baking cookies."
"I see what you mean."
"So where does that leave us?"
"Good question." Peter closed his notebook and turned off the recorder. "Right now it leaves me back at the office reviewing paperwork and you here in the studio making pretty pavers."
Lia scowled at her template. "I hoped talking to you would help me sort this out in my head, but so far it's not really working. Some 'truth.'"
"Give it time."
~ ~ ~
Anna and Lia sat on either side of Terry's girlfriend, Donna. Bitter coffee dregs in disposable cups littered a formica side table. The waiting room clock was silent, and had not appeared to move the last five times Lia looked at it. Bailey sat on a turquoise vinyl institutional couch opposite, Jim next to her. Lia stared dully at the cracks in the aging upholstery.
"When did you find him?" Bailey asked.
Donna twisted a tissue into a rope, set it aside, picked up a styrofoam cup. "It was about one. I'd been making lunch while he worked on the roof, and when he didn't come in, I went to let him know it was almost ready. He was on the side steps, all broken up and bleeding. If he wasn't already in the hospital, I'd kick him. I've been after him for years to get ladder levelers. He said it was a waste of a hundred bucks. I'm going to waste him when he comes out of this . . . if he comes out of it." Tears rolled down her face. One dripped off her chin, landing in the cold cup of coffee she held.
"Do they know the full extent of the damage?" This from Jim.
"They'll have to remove his spleen and maybe one of his kidneys. He cracked his skull. They don't know yet how bad the head injury is. Both legs are broken. He was unconscious when I found him. He might be in a coma. They say when he comes around, even if he doesn't have any other brain damage, he'll probably have some memory loss."
"It's weird," Bailey interjected. "He called me this morning while I was still at the park. He wanted to know about my dad's old gun. He thought it might have been the gun Luthor had, but it's the wrong make. Terry was looking for a Luger. My dad had a Walther PPK and always joked about his 'James Bond' gun. And besides, I gave it away ages ago. Did he tell you about that?"
Donna smiled wryly. "You know Terry with a puzzle, he just doesn't let go. I swear that man's life mission is to find Jimmy Hoffa. He's been muttering about seeing the gun somewhere before, but he hadn't told me he thought it was yours."
Just then, Terry's sons, Joe and Robert, returned from the cafeteria. "We brought you some tapioca, Donna. Didn't think you'd be up to much else. Has there been any news?" She shook her head, grimaced, took the pudding, looked at it, then put it aside.
"I'm not ready for food yet, my stomach is still turning itself inside out. But I know I'll have to eat something before too long." She thought of the cold tomato soup and stale sandwiches on her kitchen counter. "I missed lunch. Terry's going to be so mad. I made Rueben sandwiches, and those are his favorite. I don't make them often because the sauerkraut smells up the house. If he pulls out of this, I'll make them every day, every meal, until he begs me to stop."
~ ~ ~
I hated doing that to Terry. Well, not really. His rabid right-wing political opinions are not what I want to listen to first thing in the morning, no matter how cheerful he is about it. I had no qualms about removing him, but I've never had to remove someone to protect myself, or with so little planning. If I'm honest, it was exciting. Once I realized he was remembering the gun, there was no chance I could derail him. I could only remove him.
I've never removed anyone with no preparation before, but I had a window of opportunity and I had to take it or miss out on my best chance to make it look accidental. It was the simplest plan I've ever executed. All I had to do was move one of the blocks he used to level his ladder so that only an edge was supporting the downhill side. That way, the ladder appeared stable long enough for Terry to trust his full weight on it, then his movement caused the ladder to shake and the block shifted, causing the ladder to fall.
It was a brilliant plan, appearing full blown in my head when Terry announced his intention to reseal his flashing. The main difficulty was executing in daylight and not being seen. Fortunately, most of the folks in his neighborhood work days. It was no trouble to wait in the car until I heard the aluminum ladder bumping the side of the house, and the sound of Terry climbing up. I gave it another fifteen minutes, then slipped through the neighbor's yard to Terry's property. I had to avoid the kitchen windows in case Donna looked out.
After all that, it took seconds to lean against the side of the ladder to take pressure off the blocks, then slide the top block over. My heart was pounding in my ears. I had to restrain myself from squealing my tires when I left.
The only problem was, it didn't work. Maybe it worked well enough. Important to wait, keep still. For the first time I'd broken one of my rules. Had it been necessary? I've never been threatened like that before. If Terry had told Dourson about the gun he'd seen, could I have bluffed it out? Produced another old gun? Suddenly realized my gun was, 'Oh, my goodness! Lost? Maybe stolen? Could that have been my gun? How horrifying!'
Now that I've had time to reflect upon it, perhaps that might have been the best tactic, But the tension had been unbearable. Any attention on me might turn over some very ugly rocks, if anyone looked at the right records with a suspicious eye. And, let's face it, I won't miss the right wing diatribes.
What's done is done. So far, everyone believes it was an accident. And that's exactly what they should believe.
Oh, God, what a rush.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, May 17
Was this it? Peter stared at the number. He'd highlighted all occurrences in the past year. The calls came, four, five, six times a week, always during business hours. Never at night. Never on weekends. They stopped abruptly three months ago. Right when Catherine bought her Pomeranians and started coming to the park. Could this be the answer to everything? Was it the source of the 25K? He'd thought blackmail, and maybe there was an element of that. But it was smelling more like gigolo, and maybe a bit of stalking by Mrs. Robinson. Could the ditzy society lady have done it after all?
~ ~ ~
Wednesday, May 18
"I can't believe Terry fell like that, he's always so careful," Bailey mournfully told her coffee.
Lia faced a morose crowd. "How is he? Does anyone know?"
"Last I heard, he's in a coma, and they think that's best for now, it'll give his brain a chance to heal. They were working on bringing the swelling inside his skull down," Jim informed the group. "I think Donna spent the night at the hospital. Joe and Robert tried to talk her into going home, but she wasn't having any of it."
"Poor Donna," Nadine mourned. "I'm so glad the boys are there to help her."
"It's so strange. Barely a week since Luthor, it's like the park is cursed," Bailey lamented.
"Oh, Pish!" Catherine breezed up, "No such thing as curses. Why all the long faces?"
Anna gave her a look. "Our dear friend Terry is in a coma because he fell off a ladder yesterday. And I'm sure Donna can use all the support we can give her."
"Aren't Joe and Robert falling all over themselves to take care of her? I'm not one for making casseroles, but let me know if you decide to send a card. Does anyone know if Jose is coming today? I was wondering when he's going to start laying out the path for my garden. Do you know, Bailey?"
"I believe he's over at Terry's checking to see if there was any damage to the gutters when he fell, and to take care of the ladder."
"I hope you're not going to let this little incident interfere with your deadline. I've got a party planned and everything has to be ready."
Lia had enough. "Don't you worry, Catherine. I'm starting on a new series of stones today."
>
"Really?" Catherine brightened. "Which ones?"
"Charity."
"Charity?" Catherine looked perplexed. "That's not part of my meditation mantra."
"Oh, it isn't, is it? My bad."
"Well, I'm glad to hear things are moving along. Caesar! Cleo! Mommy needs to go!"
As she turned away, Anna gave Lia a knowing look and waved her hand over her head.
"Oh, Anna, surely you don't think that went over her head?" Lia exclaimed in a parody of surprise.
Bailey made a kitty paw with her hand and clawed the air. "Mrowl," she deadpanned.
Marie shook her head and laughed. "You girls are so mean."
Anna gave her best innocent look. "Who, us?"
Bailey said, "You know Lia, that's not a bad idea. We should swap out some of those symbols. 'Charity' would be a good start, or 'Benevolence.' I'm wondering if it might have a subliminal effect on her. Masaru Emoto says that water responds to all language, and our bodies are 70% water, so maybe it'll impact her. I bet we can get paid before she finds out. What do you think?"
"I'd say make them all 'Gratitude' except if one of her society friends embarrassed her by pointing it out, she'd sue us. And she can afford better lawyers. I don't think 'your honor, we were just trying to make the world a better place' will fly as a defense, do you?"
"Good point," Anna interjected. "Can we just tape a 'Kick Me' sign to her back instead?"
"You've got to stop," Marie gasped, "You're killing me here."
Nadine tsked and gave an exasperated sigh.
Charlie shook his head with an odd little smile.
"Poor Charlie," purred Anna, "You just don't know what to do with women of intelligence, do you?"
"You all frighten me, you really do."
"Why, that's the nicest thing you've said all day."
"Well, gosh, Anna," interjected Marie, "It's 8:00. I think it's just about the only thing he's said all day."
"True, true."
~ ~ ~
Peter wanted to be pissed, but he only managed to be resigned. He wanted Catherine Laroux's bank records. His captain said he didn't have enough. "You have someone at her house calling him. That number doesn't have her fingerprints on it. It could have been the maid. It could have been her husband. Sure, it makes a pretty package, but you can't tie her to the gun or the cell phone, you can't put her at the scene (Peter's response that you couldn't put anyone at a parking lot at 2:30 a.m. went unappreciated) and we can't get warrants and court orders on a whim. We're not Homeland Security here, we actually believe in Civil Rights." Captain Roller's parting shot, "And Lethal Weapon 2 is not the video version of our procedural manual," had not made him feel any more empowered.
He'd have to do it the hard way, bring her in and sweat her. Or would it be better to interview her at home? Perhaps he'd grab Brent Davis and show up at her house. Pull the old, "We can do it here or downtown" routine. Brent was blond, handsome, buff, and totally impervious to women. He tended to fluster them with his Atlanta drawl while being immune to their charms and manipulations. With a woman like Catherine he would be a big asset.
He wanted to surprise her when her husband was not around. She was an active lady. Her one daily habit was a morning trip to the park with Caesar and Cleo. No matter what the rest of the day held, he was sure it would include a wardrobe change before she went about her business. If he hurried, they could catch her this morning.
Catherine was trotting down her front steps in an eye watering hot pink, lime green, and orange yoga outfit when Peter and Brent drove up. Peter pulled the unmarked into her drive and parked behind her car, just to be obnoxious. She hadn't recognized him yet. Brent got out first. Peter watched her eyebrows rise appreciatively as her head canted in a flirtatious tilt.
'Game on,' he thought.
"Mrs. Laroux," he called as he exited the car.
"Why, Detective Dourson, whatever can I do for you fine young men? Did you stop by to see Lia's masterpiece in progress?"
Peter eyed the torn up lot and thought it looked like a big pile of dirt, not exactly suitable for framing. He declined to comment. "I'm afraid this is all business, Mrs. Laroux."
"You sound so very serious. As you can see, I'm heading out right now. I'd be glad to help you if I wasn't on my way to class. You'll have to move your car."
"Mrs. Laroux, I'm Officer Davis," Brent said. "It's important that we interview you. We can do it here or at District Five. I know you want to be cooperative."
"What could possibly be so important that it can't wait until later?" Her sweet tone had Peter wondering if she had Southern Belles in her family tree.
"Murder, Mrs. Laroux," Brent shared apologetically.
"What are you talking about? Whose murder?"
"Luthor Morrisey's."
Peter eyed her carefully. She appeared surprised but not overly disturbed. He wondered if botox was interfering with her facial expressions.
"I thought Luthor shot himself."
Peter joined this delicate battle of wills. "We have reason to believe otherwise."
"Detective Dourson," her voice, still sugary, had steel beneath it. "I've told you everything I know."
"Actually, you haven't. Here on the front lawn? Inside? Or at the station?"
"Inside," she snapped, losing her coquetry. She led them to her living room. "Please sit." Her tone was ironic, bordering on derisive. A young Hispanic woman was dusting. "Rita!" Her voice was now razor sharp. "I'm sure you have shopping to do." Experienced in her mistress' moods, Rita left without comment.
Catherine eyed them once she had seated herself. "What is so important that you had to invade my home and disrupt my day?"
Ah, Peter thought, she's gone on the offensive. "Mrs. Laroux, you surely understand that when facts surface which contradict what we've been told, it's vital to seek clarification as soon as possible."
"How do you know Luthor was murdered?"
Again on the offensive, Peter noted. "Just a moment, Mrs. Laroux, I need to record this conversation. This protects all of us from misunderstandings."
She watched him with slitted eyes and tight lips. Caesar and Cleo padded in and silently sat where they could observe the detectives, looking like a pair of baleful dolls from a horror movie. 'Creepy,' Peter thought.
Once the recorder was set up, Catherine demanded again, "How is Luthor's death murder?"
"We're not at liberty to say, Ma'am," Brent responded.
"Call me Mrs. Laroux if you must, but do not call me Ma'am!" Catherine snapped.
"No, Ma'am," Brent replied, no irony intended. Peter caught the laugh in his throat before it could erupt.
"And what does all this have to do with me?"
"As you can imagine, we are now going over all our interviews. When I spoke with you before, you stated your contact with Luthor Morrisey was limited to the park and that you had met him there and did not know him very well."
She lifted one eyebrow, giving him a disdainful look, no doubt honed by years of intimidating underlings. "And?"
"His phone records suggest otherwise."
"Do tell." She attempted boredom here, but Peter could see a hint of fear around the edges.
Brent took over here. "Please explain, Mrs. Laroux, why you called Luthor Morrisey several times a week, up until three months ago."
"That," her mien remained icy, "should be obvious."
"We'd like to hear your explanation, for the record."
"We had an affair."
"How long did this affair last?"
"Two years, give or take."
"When did it end?"
"You know when. Valentine's Day. When the calls stopped."
"What happened on Valentine's Day?"
"He went away with Lia. Some little B & B, Ravenwood, I think."
"And?"
"He didn't take my call. He'd gotten serious about Lia. He wasn't entertaining anymore, so I moved on."
"Really?" Peter's voice held a deliberate note
of disbelief.
Catherine narrowed her eyes, drilling Peter with a haughty look. "Really." The single word was as dry as the Mojave.
"How did you meet him?" Brent continued.
"He works . . . worked . . . at the art museum, installing exhibitions. I would run into him there."
"How often did you meet?"
"Why on Earth would you need to know that? It's been over a long time. That's all you need to know."
"Mrs. Laroux," Brent, eternally patient, continued, "perhaps you would like a lawyer who could explain to you what we need to know and what the . . . definition . . . of cooperation is?" He drew out the word and his Southern drawl intensified, somehow managing to be supremely polite and simultaneously insulting.
"Like Hell." She glared. "Bridge club."
"Bridge club?" Peter repeated.
"I met Luthor at that dump of his on bridge club days. My husband just assumed I was having cocktails with the girls afterwards. We met two, three times a month. Is that what you wanted to know?" The tilt of her head mocked. Him? Herself? Peter didn't know.
"Were you in the habit of giving him gifts, Mrs. Laroux?"
"Perhaps one or two. What does it matter?"
"The man's closet doesn't fit his income."
"Surely you don't think I wanted him with me dressed like an under-employed writer? I bought him a few things to wear. I enjoy dressing a man properly."
"Did you give him money, Mrs. Laroux?"
"Now, why would I do that?"
"Mrs. Laroux, right now we're just interviewing. However, if we're not satisfied with the results, we can always get a court order for your bank records. If we were to get those records, would we find cash withdrawals totaling twenty-five thousand dollars?"
She sat, stony.
"Mrs. Laroux?" Peter inquired again.
Nothing.
"Of course, if we serve that court order, it's likely your husband will hear about it and be brought into this investigation," Peter continued.
"I can't believe it."
"Can't believe what, Mrs. Laroux?" Brent asked.
"He said he needed the money for gambling debts. I thought I was saving him from being beaten with a tire iron. And he just stashed it away. Lia said you'd found it in his apartment. I don't think he spent any of it. I didn't know he wanted me for his retirement fund."
"Did all the money come from you?" Brent asked.
"I don't know. I didn't keep track, did I? It's so insulting."