Minutes behind the many wailing police sirens (guess the boys in blue figured they could afford a few extra cars to a murder scene on Ashfield Drive), came the flashily painted media vans. They parked all along the street, contrasting startlingly with the BMWs and Hummers and Lexuses (Lexi?) of Ashfield Drive. Tanned reporters in their fresh pressed suits and their gelled hair leapt from the vans before they’d barely rolled to a stop. They grilled the neighbors, who were now milling about, for details, staying off the Weatherby property, but precariously close to the yellow police tape. A few officers—the younger ones—strolled into camera range, trying to look appropriately serious and authoritative in the background. But hell, all they needed was a “Hi mom, it’s me!” sign.
No one was admitted to the Weatherby house, of course, except for officials—cops, forensic specialists, ambulance crew, the ME from the Coroner’s Office. Well, hardly anyone. I was still inside. From where Detective Head had parked me on the living room couch with a less-than-polite ‘stay there’, I watched the activity outside through the picture window, gazing through sheers that made everyone look ghostly.
Right behind the news crews, a brand-new Porsche pulled up and an anxious-looking Jeremy Poole leapt out. Gawd, he looked just like his media pictures. Did he ever take off his suit and tie? The lawyer approached one of the uniforms on crowd control, nervously running a hand though his hair as he did. From where I sat, I could hear the conversation between Poole and the young officer drifting in the front door, which still stood open.
“I’m Mr. Weatherby’s lawyer. I demand to see my client.”
In his grief-stricken state, Ned Weatherby had called his lawyer? Interesting.
“I’ll need some identification, sir,” the officer said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Obviously ticked that the officer hadn’t recognized him, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He began fumbling through cards, dropping one after the other while the young officer waited, and the media zoomed in.
“It’s all right, officer. I can vouch for Mr. Poole.”
I glanced up to see Ned Weatherby framed in the open doorway. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d been watching Jeremy Poole’s arrival. I flicked my gaze back to the scene outside in time to see every cameraman and reporter snap their heads in Ned’s direction as though their necks were rigged together.
“Shut the fuckin’ door!” Detective Head yelled.
But it was too late. At least a dozen photographs had been snapped and every newspaper in the province—hell, every newspaper in the country probably—would have a picture of a distraught Ned Weatherby admitting his lawyer into the house. Speculation would roll like a donut down hill.
“Oh, Jeremy, it’s horrible!” Ned said, clutching his lawyer’s arm and drawing him inside. “Someone’s... someone’s killed Jennifer.”
“There, there, Ned. I know,” Poole said. “I’m... I’m so very sorry.”
“Who would want to do this to Jennifer?” Ned looked like a child asking if the boogeyman had really snuffed out Santa Claus—desperate for answers in the land of disbelief.
“Who’s in charge here?” Even in trying to be commanding, the lawyer’s voice sounded edged with panic.
Detective Head stepped forward. “I am.”
“Your name, sir?”
“They call him Dick Head,” I called from my assigned seat on the sofa.
If looks could kill, the medical examiner would have had another body to deal with, but I held my ground under the detective’s glare. Okay, that probably was not the smartest thing for me to have done, but I wanted Detective Head to get the message loud and clear. I wasn’t about to roll over and do tricks for him on this. I wasn’t scared because I had nothing to be scared of. And I wasn’t looking for an ally in him.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t be intimidated.
“I’ll deal with you later, Dodd,” Head scowled at me before turning to Jeremy Poole. “I’m in charge, and the name’s, Richard Head.”
“Yes, very funny,” Jeremy said, obviously thinking the name was a joke of some sort at his expense.
I snorted a laugh.
“Goddamn it—”
“Jeremy,” Ned Weatherby interjected, “This is Detective Richard Head.”
The lawyer paled. “Really?”
“Really.”
“My apologies, Detective Head.” Poole cleared his throat. “I’m Mr. Weatherby’s lawyer. If you have any questions for my client, you’ll ask them in my presence. We’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Why do you think Weatherby needs a lawyer?”
Good one. Damn, I hated giving that guy credit, even in my mind.
“Mr. Weatherby is not merely a client. He’s also a personal friend.” Poole laid a hand on Weatherby’s shoulder. “Come on, Ned. I’ll fix us some tea.”
I guess Poole wanted Head to know where things stood also, because with that they turned their backs on the detective and headed toward the kitchen.
“Did you call Billy Star yet?” I heard Poole whisper as they passed me.
My ears perked up as I recalled an angry Billy Star from the pics I’d shown Dylan earlier.
Ned’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, Christ, no, I haven’t called anyone. I... I suppose I’d better call him. That’s one call I sure as hell don’t want to make. And... and I need to call Luanne too. I need to call her first.”
The kitchen door swung closed slowly behind Ned and his lawyer, and all Head could do was watch it close him out.
He kicked the sofa. “Pansy. Did you see the shoes on that lawyer guy? He must spend on loafers what I spend on my whole fuckin’ wardrobe.”
“It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it, Detective?”
“Shut up, Dodd.”
By the time midnight rolled around, every light in the Weatherby mansion blazed. Almost every inch of the house had been dusted for fingerprints. Detective Head had personally overseen the CSI’s work as they swabbed my hands and seized my bloody-soled runners and neatly tagged and bagged the evidence. He looked on as they fingerprinted me, and smiled as they took a hair sample (more like a handful of it). If there had been a way he could have gotten away with it, I’m sure he would have ordered a cavity search.
“Let’s go over it one more time, Dodd.” Detective Head chewed on a toothpick like he was warming up for an Olympic sport. Oh, geez, he must be trying to quit smoking again.
Could this day get any worse?
“Shall I go slower this time, Detective?”
“Just keep it up.” He glared at me. “You’re in serious shit here, Dodd. And your smart mouth isn’t doing you any favors today. But that’s just fine with me. Just fine. I’d like nothing better than to throw you away for a good long time.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can do what I damn well please.”
“Ah, there’s this little thing called ‘the law’. You might have heard of it.”
Head leaned in close. Close enough so that no one else could hear him, and so that I could smell mint on his breath. Apparently, his toothpicks were flavored. “I never liked you, Dodd,” he said. “I don’t like anyone who makes their living by being a rat.”
Sure, blame the rat for nailing the snake.
He leaned closer still. “Which is why it’s going to give me so much pleasure to personally see to it that you rot in jail for this crime.”
“Even though I didn’t do it, Detective?” I kept my voice calm; I didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. My eyes were clear and steady. But on the inside, things were liquefying as fear spread. “We both know I didn’t kill Jennifer.”
He eased back, a tight smile on his face. “I know no such thing.”
“I told you—several times, in fact—Jennifer Weatherby hired me to follow her husband.”
“Yeah right! She hired you to trail her husband, because of some mysterious blond mistress that nobody else has ever seen or heard tell of. How do we know she exists? Maybe
she’s one of them ET types, huh? Straight from the planet Pleasesavemyass.”
“You’re an asshole, Head. And you look the part, too. It’s a wonder your mother doesn’t dress you better.”
His fists clenched, but he was smart enough to unclench them. “You know what I think, Dodd? I think you’ve got a thing for Ned Weatherby yourself.”
My jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t think anyone hired you. I think you’ve got the hots for moneybags and that’s why you’ve been stalking him. That’s why you had the pictures and all those notes. Jesus, you followed him into the locker room! We got laws about stalking in Ontario. You might have heard of that.”
I tried for calm. Fought for control. “You know you’re reaching for straws, don’t you, Dick?”
He glared at me.
“Jennifer Weatherby came into my office just this past Monday,” I continued. “She was extremely upset. She was convinced her husband was cheating on her. And she wanted me to follow him for a week to see if her suspicions were correct. That’s what I did. Thus, the pictures.”
“How convenient. What did you do Dodd, sneak back here when Ned was in a meeting? Wait till he left for work then sneak in here and shoot Mrs. Weatherby? Get her out of the way so you could have her husband?”
I bit down on the other words—harsh, angry, four-letter words—that threatened to color the room. I was losing my patience. “Look,” I said. “You can waste your time harassing me. You can diddle the night away because of some personal vendetta. So be it. But damn it, Dick, there is a murderer out there. She threatened Jennifer, and apparently has made good on those threats. So what are you going to do about it?”
The smile on his face slowly widened as he stared at me. He chuckled. Chuckled deeper. Then he laughed out loud.
Okay, when Richard Head laughs out loud, everyone hears him. Everyone turns and stares. And he knows it. He starts out putting his hands on his belly. He squares his shoulders. And he tosses his head back as if his thick, red neck were made of rubber. Then he bellows his ha-ha’s. Red-face roars them. This theatrical-grade performance will go on for a good minute, while everyone within hearing distance—let’s say about eight square miles—runs to see what’s so damn funny.
And yes, every damn cop in the house came into the living room where he sat across from me.
He wiped the laugh-tears from his eyes. “Okay, then Dixieland, or whatever your name is...”
“My name is Dix. “
“I don’t really give a rat’s ass what your name is. Listen to me very carefully, Dodd,” he said. The room was so still and quiet his words couldn’t be mistaken. Nor could their meaning. “Let me tell you a story... Let me tell you what I’ve got here. I’ve got one dead woman, to wit, Jennifer Weatherby. I also have one wealthy widower. And I look at a woman like you, alone and wanting a man. Needing a man—if you know what I mean. A woman like yourself would find Ned Weatherby quite appealing. Quite the catch for an old—”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“I’m not finished.”
“Fine. What’s your theory?” I sat back. “Go on then, Dickie.”
He let the name slide. He was having too much fun. Everyone watched the exchange.
“So we have one dead woman. One wealthy man, and one stalking spinster.”
The fucker was so baiting me.
“And what do we find in the possession of the obsessed stalker? Photos. Notes. Evidence that she’s been going out of her way to follow a married man—one that she could only love from afar.” He put the back of a hand to his forehead in a mock swoon. “Hell, Dodd, you’ve even been sleeping outside his house! How pathetic is that?”
Damn him! I’d offered up my notes and photos, figuring they’d prove I was working for Mrs. Weatherby. Instead, Dickhead was twisting the evidence against me. Good thing I hadn’t told him about bugging the phone. He’d have slapped the cuffs on and carted me off to jail already for that alone.
I took a deep breath, spoke slowly, deliberately. “I told you, Jennifer Weatherby hired me to follow her husband. She said he was cheating on her.”
“Ned says they were happily married.”
“Jennifer said they weren’t.”
“So that’s why they were planning their 20th wedding anniversary party for tomorrow? That’s why the invitations were sent out, and Kenny Kent, the caterer, booked? That’s why Ned bought a $50,000 diamond ring?” He held up a receipt, one he’d apparently found in Jennifer’s study. “And why she bought him a Rolex watch just last week? Because they weren’t getting along?”
Holy shit.
“Holy shit.”
“It was getting to you, wasn’t it, Dix? It was getting to you to watch the man you secretly love so in love with his wife. That’s why you killed her, wasn’t it, Dodd?”
I waited for a sound. There wasn’t one. No one would have breathed out loud at that moment. Especially not me.
“I was hired.”
“Prove it.”
“I will,” I said. “Just as soon as I get out of here.”
The toothpick broke between Detective Head’s teeth.
“Look, I’ve cooperated with your investigation. Now, either charge me with something or let me go, Detective. I have work to do. I have a job to do. A job I’m damn good at, as you’re well aware.” Not to mention that I had to get my ass out of the fire. My grin ached, but it held. And I stared at Head just as hard as he stared at me.
“Get out of here, Dodd,” he snarled. “But don’t leave town.”
A half dozen retorts jumped to mind, all ending in ‘fuck you’, but for once, I said nothing.
I grabbed my jacket, and crossed the room on legs of rubber from sitting too long. My ass had fallen asleep, and I hated that. My hand was on the doorknob, and I was almost out, when Detective Head had to toss one more piece of crap my way.
“I’ll need the proof, Dodd. I’ll need the paperwork.”
I turned. “What do you mean?”
“You claim that Jennifer Weatherby hired you for ten thousand dollars, and that she already paid you half. I’ll need to see something. Carbon of the receipt you gave her, the copy of the contract for services.” He smiled. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you.”
“Of course it’s not a problem!” I snapped back at him.
Big problem, big problem, big problem.
Often clients don’t want any paper trail back to them. Jennifer was—had been, rather—one of those. Thus we had no contract, and she hadn’t wanted a receipt. My mind whirled. I could still produce a receipt. I’d just started a new receipt book two weeks ago. I could re-copy the other receipts, then slide Jennifer Weatherby’s in on the right date, in the event my receipt books were seized by the police. Of course, if the thought occurred to me, it would occur to Dickhead, too. No way he’d buy it, especially without a corresponding deposit record. He’d just go looking for the other people to whom I’d issued receipts and do a forensic comparison of the carbon with the original. I cursed myself for not depositing the cash the very next day. Instead, I’d pocketed five hundred, stashed the rest of it in the monstrosity of a fireproof filing cabinet at the office, and headed out to tail Ned Weatherby. Dylan had even offered to deposit it for me, but I told him to leave it there for a few more days. That way he could bring me more cash if I needed it, which he’d done when I’d had to come up with another hundred to buy access for that boardroom shot. Dammit all to hell.
“Good,” Head said. “Because otherwise, I’d have to believe I was right about you, Dodd. That you had the hots for Ned Weatherby, and that’s why you were stalking him. And that’s why you murdered his wife.”
Detective Head snapped another toothpick into his mouth.
I turned on my heel and left, imagining the shit-eating grin he was no doubt wearing.
Oh just smoke, damn you!