the landlord; he never got the money. Neither did the contractor. I start making calls, there's no workshop, they're both gone. I'm actually stupid enough to be in denial for a couple of days, like I'm worried about her. But they're gone, with my money. I'm left with the choice of explaining to my entire contact list that my cock lost their money, or pretending the deal fell through and paying them back out of my own pocket. I had to re-mortgage my place in Aspen. What a clusterfuck.”
“That's terrible,” said the young lawyer. Mustapha would bet a month's pay everyone at Wilson & Knight would be laughing at Peter Baxter in about an hour. “But I have to ask on my client’s behalf: how is there a homicide involved?”
Diana said, “Well, Ms. Wilson, Mr. Baxter ought to think you're cheap at twice the price. Say, Mr. Baxter, can you give me the precise date you last saw Tom and Jasmine?”
Baxter reacted before Wilson could speak. “January 5. My mom's birthday. I've,”
“Thank you so much. A couple of days ago, a body was found in a shallow grave in Springdale Park, way down in the Inman Park neighborhood. Dental records conclusively identify her as Janet Stark, your con artist girlfriend.”
“What?!” said Baxter. Mustapha figured a developer for having pretty good theater skills, but he seemed genuine.
“Wait,” said Wilson. “You're not accusing my client of murder.”
Diana said, “Well, he did just explain his motive pretty clearly.”
“I didn't kill her!” wailed Baxter. “I loved her.” He did a double take, surprised at himself for saying that.
Mustapha laughed. “We've never heard that line before.”
Wilson said, “My client is done talking. Please, Mr. Baxter. Detectives, you might have motive, but absent forensic evidence linking Mr. Baxter to this woman’s death, you'll never make it past indictment.”
Mustapha said, “Victim’s been in the ground too long.”
“And for that matter, your motive isn't probative. Killing her would be very unlikely to get his money back.”
She smiled. “And now that I think about it, this Morneau fellow has a much better motive that Mr. Baxter to kill Ms. Stark. This way, he wouldn’t have to share the proceeds of the crime with her. Honor among thieves, and all. We're finished cooperating with you, now that you've made your intentions clear.”
“We're going to need the records,” said Diana. “Relating to the stolen money.”
“I don't think so. Mr. Baxter, were any of the transactions in your girlfriend's name?”
“No. Just his.”
Wilson smiled. “Then they're unrelated to Mrs. Stark’s murder, aren't they?”
Diana said, “Maybe. But like you said, Mr. Morneau is a pretty good suspect, too. You can expect a subpoena from the DA’s office. Also, we’ll need Mr. Baxter's whereabouts for the time surrounding the disappearance.”
“Do you have a precise time of death for the victim? Come back when you do.”
-----
Helen’s nostrils flared as the fool in front of her actually stopped at the yellow light. No excuse: he had Fulton County license plates and should have understood the protocol. She made a conscious choice to relax and forgive the driver. Perhaps he was from out of town, and was driving his friend’s car. Besides, being stuck at the light at Peachtree and Piedmont for another four minutes of her life gave her the opportunity to praise the glory of God's creation in the springtime, such of it that wasn't obscured by cars and commercial buildings. She made a special effort to refrain from judgment and had largely succeeded by the time she pulled up to the house.
But instead of going all the way to the garage, she stopped halfway up the driveway. Robert had visitors, ones she didn't recognize. She got out, walked up the path. “Hello, dear: what a beautiful day.” She leaned in for a kiss. She noticed that Robert seemed nervous. “What's going on?”
Robert said, “These are the police, dear.”
“Goodness! I hope it's not about me hitting that mailbox. I felt terrible. But I paid to have it fixed.”
The big man with a thick beard grinned. “We’re Homicide, ma’am. You're in the clear on the mailbox thing.”
The blonde with the lovely skin stood up. “I'm Detective Diana Siddal. This is my partner, inspector Mustapha Alawi.”
“Nice to meet you,” said the guy.
Helen shook his hand. “Mustapha Alawi? Is that a Moslem name?”
“Sure is. But we're not here to convert anyone.”
The woman said, “And I know more about the Qur’an than he does, anyway.”
“That's only technically true. What we’re really here for, Ms. Wayne, is your husband's help.”
Detective Siddal showed Helen a tablet computer. “Did you ever meet this woman?”
“Oh, of course. Jasmine; right, Robert? Such a beautiful girl. She and Robert did a theater performance last year. Smart, but very troubled.”
“Not anymore,” said the Moslem.
“Helen, she's dead,” said Robert. “Someone killed her.”
Helen's hands went to her mouth. “May God have mercy on her soul. But how can we help you?”
“That's what I want to know,” said Robert.
“It's like this,” said the Moslem. “Ms. Stark here, the victim, was seeing a rich, powerful man, Peter Baxter. One with a lawyer who knows what she's doing. He says Ms. Stark introduced him to this guy.”
The blonde swiped the tablet to reveal a photo of a good-looking man in his early thirties. “Oh,” said Helen. “He was the prince, with the sword.”
“Tom,” said Robert.
“Thomas Morneau,” said the blonde. “Mr. Morneau put on some theatrical events for a fund-raiser Mr. Baxter did, and from there, he apparently persuaded Mr. Baxter to bundle contributions for the theater group Mr. Morneau wanted to establish.”
Robert said, “Oh, dear.”
“Why do you say that?” asked the blonde.
“Tom… His reach exceeds his grasp. He's impractical. A dreamer. When we worked together, he would go on about bringing live theater to the masses. I tried to make him understand that live theater in the age of TV is like painting in the age of photography. It's a boutique art: you can only do it for love, not for money. It's only even potentially profitable on a really large scale, like Broadway. And Atlanta's just not a destination the way New York is for that sort of thing. And you say that Tom actually talked Peter into giving him money? That sounds out of character for Peter.”
The woman said, “That's what Mr. Baxter said. Other people's money, mostly. Almost two million.”
The Moslem laughed. “He said he was so focused on his beautiful young girlfriend that he let his passion for her and her passion for theater cloud his judgment.”
Robert said, “Two million? That's a lot of money, even for Peter. Wow. That's… impressive, really. Where's the theater going to be? I'm surprised I haven't heard about any of this.”
“That's why we're here,” said the blonde. “What Mr. Baxter told us, through his attorney, was that Mr. Morneau and Ms. Stark waited until Mr. Baxter turned the money over to him, then they just walked off with it.”
Helen said, “Have you found this man and asked him to account for his crimes?”
The man laughed. “That's the problem, Ms. Wayne: this Morneau guy disappeared completely, right about the same time Ms. Stark was killed. No activity on his credit cards, Social Security, nothing. Mr. Baxter told us he thought the two of them were living off the cash somewhere, but that was before we told him we found Ms. Stark’s body in the park. Well, we didn’t find her. It was two gals working on a movie, setting up lights in Springdale Park, found her foot sticking out of a shallow grave. Talk about a romantic comedy. And before you ask, Mr. Morneau's body is definitely not in the park. We dug the whole thing up: those movie people were pissed. I told them maybe they should switch it over to a zombie flick, but they didn't think that was funny.”
“Dear Lord,” said Helen. “You think this man killed poor
Jasmine?”
“Well, he certainly had motive,” said the blonde. “But he's also got a lawyer. And since we have nothing else connecting Mr. Baxter to the crime, we have to start digging around. And the first thing we found is that your husband, Mr. Morneau and Ms. Stark were all arrested together back last summer.”
Robert put his face in his hands. Helen put her hands back to her face. “Robert! You were arrested? What in God's name for?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” said her husband of twenty-nine years.
“It's true, ma’m,” said the man.
The blonde said, “Your husband and his theater friends pulled what's called a flash mob in the little park outside the Federal Reserve in Midtown.”
Helen must have looked confused; Robert said, “I think I explained it to you. A bunch of people show up as if spontaneously and put on some kind of show.”
The man said, “And it sure fooled those bozos at the Federal Reserve. They somehow thought a bunch of people with fairy wings and flower flags were terrorists, the Midtown precinct sent over the single stupidest person ever to pass the sergeant’s exam, and your husband and his friends ended up spending a couple of hours in the Catacombs before it all got sorted out.”
“I was embarrassed, Helen, is why I never said anything.” He looked at Detective Siddal. “They said the charges were dropped, and that the arrest record would be purged.”
The woman said, “The charges were dropped right away. The records? Will be purged, once the budget permits. Five or six years, is my guess.”
Before Helen could say any