Escapes Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  “Wait a minute—Helen? He and Helen?”

  “Oh yeah. They had a thing going for a while. She broke it off when she met Travis. She’d been working so hard at the career track, but she really wanted a family. She and Travis wanted kids. She thought Blackman was out of her life.” Cathy stopped talking when our food arrived, and we each savored a few of the piping hot fries right away.

  “Okay, you said she thought the judge was out of her life. He wasn’t?”

  “He came back, pushed her. She told me he even threatened to tell her new husband about their affair if she didn’t continue to see him.”

  “That sounds really convoluted.”

  “It’s Blackman. He sees—saw—what he wanted and didn’t take no for an answer. Helen was scared of what he might do. She knew the clock was ticking on her chances to have kids and she couldn’t afford to have Travis leave her.”

  “Did all this happen right before she left criminal law? Was Blackman the reason she didn’t want to be in the courtroom anymore?”

  “Now that you mention it, yeah, I guess so. We were both having our own crises with lawyering. I’d burned out early on, the long hours as an associate in a dumpy firm, and my heart wasn’t in it to get out there and make a name for myself, not the way Helen did. She and I would get together for a drink after work now and then, commiserate. That’s when she told me about the judge.”

  A hidden affair and wanting to keep her marriage together. If others knew about this, it would certainly explain why Helen didn’t try too hard to get Rory McNab acquitted. She had probably received the same threats the jurors did, only in her case she had something real and important to lose. Still, Helen wasn’t the only one.

  “But you say Blackman was like that with a lot of women. I’m surprised he wasn’t more concerned that his wife would leave him.”

  “According to Helen, Phoebe Blackman is quite content with her life. She’s got all the money she needs, travels everywhere, does her own thing. As long as she appears at his side sometimes at society functions and doesn’t make a fuss over his behavior, she has whatever she wants.” Cathy dipped the last of her fries in ketchup.

  The conversation turned to present-day subjects, where I got the complete rundown on Cathy’s family members and her thriving business. She barely asked about my work or husband, and that was fine. I could tell from the hour we spent together that we weren’t going to take up as old chums or anything. We split the check and made vague promises that we should do this again sometime.

  All the way home I considered Helen Bannerly and her situation. Coerced into an affair as a young law clerk intern, probably wined and dined by an older man who never intended to leave his wife and offered no real future. She finds a man who can offer the future she wants, and she’s coming up on the deadline to have kids. It shouldn’t be any surprise that she wouldn’t risk it all. It was a simple thing, not to try very hard to get Rory McNab off the hook.

  I thought back to the one conversation I’d had with her. She was cool and collected and sure of herself—now. But she’d taken steps to get away from the parts of her life which had become uncomfortable. Then I remembered the way her manner had changed when she mentioned Herman Quinto. Could he have been the person behind the threats? I would try again for an appointment to talk to him.

  Chapter 31

  “Charlie, I need your help!” The voice held desperation and I struggled for a moment to recognize it. I seldom pick up a call from an unknown number but I’d been distracted as I pulled into my driveway and walked toward the front door. “Dad’s taken the gun. I should have known he’d pull something. I’m so sorry.”

  Christine McNab.

  “He’s after Herman Quinto. He left me a note.”

  “Christine, slow down. Take a breath. How do you know this?”

  “He brought up the subject of Quinto and said there was a big rally this evening at Tiguex Park. He was getting more irate by the minute and he went to get his shotgun. When he checked and saw the ammo was gone, he got furious with me.”

  “So, you didn’t give in and give back the shells did you?”

  “Oh no. After a couple minutes of ranting he went to his room and quieted down. I figured he’d got the whole thing out of his system so I went to take my shower. When I came out, he and the gun were gone, and he’d left a note that just said ‘Don’t think you can fool me, missy. I have more ammo than you’ll ever know.’ Charlie, I’m worried.”

  “You think he’s gone down to the park?” I could picture the setting, a large wooded park at the edge of the Old Town area. I didn’t think a shotgun would have enough range for Fergus to try anything sniper-style from a tall building, and surely the senator would have major security to see that no one carrying a weapon could get into the crowd of supporters.

  But still—what if—

  “Does your father have more than one gun?” Please say you found them all and took all the ammo.

  “Um … um, I can’t remember. When I was a kid he used to go deer hunting.”

  Great. That would require something more powerful than the shotgun I’d seen.

  “You’d better go on the assumption that he’s got something else and took it along, Christine. Have you called the police?”

  “No. I’m scared to. You know how those things go when you hear the news stories. They’ll go all SWAT team at him, and he’ll be killed before he even gets the chance to surrender.”

  I felt a rock drop to the pit of my stomach. It was probably true. And even though Fergus was about to die anyway, this would be a horrible way for him to go. Not to mention the additional taint on the family name, a family that didn’t deserve it.

  “Charlie, can you meet me there? We could find him before the police do, and I’m sure we can talk him out of this crazy plan.”

  Ugh—it was the last suggestion I wanted to hear.

  I took a deep breath and got a picture of the park in my head. “Okay, let’s meet at the west edge of the duck pond. The stage where they hold events is at the northeast part of the park, but we’ll have to get there and check it out to see how close we can get.”

  I spun back toward the Jeep and climbed in. I must admit I haven’t attended a political rally since my college days and I’ve got no idea how those things work now. Security concerns are way beyond what they used to be, and for all I knew only people with tickets and some kind of pre-screening would get within a mile of the senator.

  Starting the car, I gave myself a reality check. This was a New Mexico state senator who hadn’t yet won a seat to Congress. How important was he, really? On the other hand, I told myself, when it came to his publicly staged events and the image he wanted to project, he would be as important as he wanted to be.

  Parking near Old Town can be a challenge, but today the area near the park posed special challenges. I found myself thinking ahead to how we would get Fergus out of there, an unsteady old man toting his gun, wanting to make a quick exit. Every street skirting the park had been cordoned off; cops were directing traffic in one-way patterns that don’t normally exist. I had no choice but to follow along. The parking lot for park visitors was jammed full and an orange-vested attendant shook his head at any car with a turn signal on, waving us onward.

  Street parking seemed iffy—only the occasional too-small space showed up. I finally just swung into a garage I’d used before. It was full to the fourth level, where I finally snagged a spot, locked up, and ran to the elevator. While I waited, I scoped out the view from this angle.

  Trees obscured the park details, but I could hear music and the sounds of a crowd being prepped for excitement. The duck pond stood somewhat in the open, and I spotted a bright purple shirt on a woman—Christine.

  The elevator dinged and the door slid open, but something else had caught my eye. A small man in a red plaid shirt was walking purposefully along the perimeter of the park, heading in the direction of the stage at the south end. At his side, a long, thin object hun
g down parallel to his right leg.

  Anyone standing in the park would probably not notice the gun; he did a good job of keeping it low. I watched helplessly. At a full run it would take me at least three minutes to get to him. Christine was closer, but she didn’t know it. I grabbed my phone from my back pocket and hit the button to redial her number.

  The elevator beckoned, but I knew I would lose my vantage point the minute I got to ground level. I stared at Fergus as the phone rang.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah. I’m in the parking garage about a half block from you and I’ve spotted your dad. He’s got the gun. He’s walking the pathway along the east end of the park, heading south. Looks like he’s going toward the stage area. There are a couple of motor homes behind the stage backdrop. I’d bet that’s where Quinto and his entourage are.”

  “Okay. I’m heading that way,” she said. “They’re warming up the crowd and it sounds like they’ll be introducing the candidate really soon. Hurry!”

  Some other people had stepped into the elevator and the door closed behind them. I dashed for the stairs and took them three at a time, practically bouncing off the handrail as I used it for balance. At the street, I had to dodge between cars and heard a squeal of brakes when I dashed across. I got stern looks from people who thought I was trying to cut in front of the admissions line, but I tore past them and followed the side street toward the last place I’d seen Fergus.

  The motorhomes stood ahead, more than a block away. I had to stop for a minute to scan the crowd. A glimpse of a red shirt sent me racing ahead. I stuck to the side street where I could run; most of the people were milling away from it and heading toward the center of the park. I lost the red shirt for a moment but kept going toward the motorhomes.

  A second later, I saw the red again. The man had stopped, facing toward the stage. It wasn’t Fergus.

  Shit!

  “Charlie!” I heard my name, a faint high note in the general noise of the crowd. Christine’s hand was waving back and forth above the heads in front of me.

  I sidestepped and slipped between bodies until I reached her. “Did you see him?” I panted.

  “Only for a second.”

  “He has to be somewhere right around here.” I scanned the area where the motorhomes sat. The door to one of them opened and a man in a dark suit stepped out. It wasn’t Quinto, but he couldn’t be far behind.

  On stage, someone was getting to the real rah-rah part of his speech, and I sensed they were gearing up for the star of the show.

  “Let’s split up and circle these two vehicles,” I suggested. “If you can get close enough to grab, go for the gun instead of your dad. We need to get it out of his hands.”

  “Agreed.” She turned right and I went left, turning my head in all directions.

  I didn’t know if Fergus would try to place himself beside the candidate’s motorhome or if he would be watching from a short distance away. I hoped he didn’t plan to take aim at the stage itself; the perimeter of it was crawling with security, most of whom were probably off-duty cops. They wouldn’t mess around with him, even if he was an old man.

  I rounded the corner of the larger of the two vehicles, a silver-gray thing that looked like a Greyhound bus, and there was Fergus, facing me. He was holding a rifle at his side and the black barrel nearly blended with his dark blue jeans.

  “Fergus, it’s Charlie. Don’t do anything crazy here.” I had my hands out to my sides, fingers spread. “You need to set the gun down on the ground.”

  And then what? I hadn’t got quite far enough in my thinking to figure out what we would do next.

  Startled, he hadn’t expected to see me here.

  I took advantage and moved in quickly, sweeping by and reaching for the rifle. Luckily, his finger wasn’t on the trigger—his old hunter safety rules at least told him that much—and I got a good grip between the stock and the trigger guard. Surprised by the move, his grip didn’t hold, and I quickly put ten feet between us.

  “Okay, Fergus, we’re going to figure out how to get out of here and take you home—”

  Christine came running up at that moment. “Dad, what have you—?”

  Unfortunately, two uniformed cops were right behind her. Before I could blink they’d drawn their service pistols on me. I laid the rifle on the ground and froze.

  Chapter 32

  “This isn’t what it looks like.” It was the first lame statement out of my mouth and the second time I’d uttered it in recent days. I could tell by the looks the two cops gave that they’d heard it a million times.

  The gun lay on the ground with no one in reaching distance, so at least they kept their heads and didn’t shout for all of us to hit the dirt or something equally dramatic.

  Christine spoke first. “She disarmed him,” she said, pointing at Fergus. She gave the quick explanation of who everyone was and what we were doing here. “Dad came here out of a stupid, misguided approach to a family problem, not because of a political statement or a wish to harm a lot of people.”

  The older of the two officers had already sent the other one to cuff Fergus. I said nothing and kept my hands visible.

  Christine kept babbling, telling them her father was unwell and how they really didn’t need to charge him with anything, no crime had been committed, and so on until the officer told her to save the story until we all got downtown and they could sort it out. He’d picked up the rifle, using a handkerchief to handle it. I supposed there were no evidence bags quite this big in his back pockets.

  The younger officer looked toward me, itching to take out another set of cuffs.

  I took a respectful stance and lowered my hands. “Charlie Parker, RJP Investigations. We’re helping Mr. McNab look into a family matter involving his son. I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”

  “Hell,” Fergus said, “the only thing I really did mean to do was to take that worthless Herman Quinto off the face of this planet.”

  Not the right thing to say. The older cop took charge again. “Mr. McNab, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Herman Quinto. You have the right to remain silent …”

  Christine sent me a helpless look as the officer went through the spiel.

  “We’ll need you ladies to come downtown and make statements,” he told us. “Tucker, take them in your cruiser. I’ve got the suspect with me.”

  Giving assurances that we wouldn’t cause any trouble, Christine and I were allowed to walk to the police car without being cuffed or manhandled. I dreaded there being more video of me on the evening news accompanied by police, but no reporters mobbed us. From the other side of the large backdrop came Quinto’s voice as he greeted the crowd and they cheered raucously. Any media attention was surely directed to the stage at this moment.

  Ahead, I saw Fergus turn to look toward the noise, a glare of resentment on his face. We’d foiled his plan and he wasn’t happy.

  * * *

  The sun had set in spectacular orange and pink over the west mesa by the time we reached the police station. We were led to separate interrogation rooms, and I didn’t see Fergus at all. I took a seat—I’d swear it was the same grimy table in the same dull room where I’d been only a few days ago—and waited to see what would happen next. They had my fingerprints on the gun, and I’d been the one holding it when the officers spotted us, so I couldn’t be at all sure I wasn’t in big trouble.

  My fears were somewhat assuaged when Kent Taylor came into the room and his first words were, “Charlie Parker, three times in one week. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” It was the way one corner of his mouth tilted upward that reassured me.

  “Well, it’s definitely some kind of record for us.” I shifted in my seat. He didn’t take a chair, just perched one hip on the edge of the metal table. “What’s happening with Fergus?”

  “Not much. The man could benefit by having a lawyer here. He’s blabbing all over the place how he planned to kill Herman Quinto.”

  Ouch
. I wished I’d thought to shout advice out to Fergus before he was taken out of my sight. “He was advised of his rights at the park, but he’s not a guy to listen to common sense, I’m discovering.”

  “This is all related to that old case where his son was convicted?”

  “The old man is dying. He has cancer and they say it won’t be long, maybe a couple of months. He just wants to see his son exonerated and back at home before he goes.”

  “Touching.” Taylor raised one palm in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m not being sarcastic. I feel for the guy. I feel for the family. But we can’t just turn loose every criminal whose family has a sad story. Rory McNab was tried and convicted, and he made it worse by escaping and remaining a fugitive for almost ten years.”

  “I know.” I had hoped to find the evidence to overturn that conviction but the clues weren’t coming together for me yet, and time was running out for Fergus.

  “You’re not charged with anything, Charlie. You can go any time.”

  “What about Fergus? Surely you’re not going to put the city to the expense of a murder trial when the defendant probably won’t live long enough to sit through the whole ordeal.”

  Taylor gave a ‘we’ll see’ kind of shrug.

  “Where’s Christine, the daughter? I should talk to her, see if they want me to stay on the case.”

  The detective beckoned for me to follow, and I tagged along to the next interrogation room along the hall. Christine sat at an identical table in a room just like the one where I’d been. Taylor let me in.

  “Charlie!” She stood up and hugged me. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  With a pointed glance toward the mirrored wall opposite, I said, “We’ll talk later. I’m going to check some things at my office. Call me as soon as you learn what they’ll do about your dad. Get him an attorney. This is serious.”

  “I, uh … okay. I don’t know any in Albuquerque. Can you recommend someone?”