Escapes Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  It hit me that the answer had to be Herman Quinto. If not Quinto himself, someone in his campaign or someone sympathetic in law enforcement. No one, other than the police and the family, had known of Fergus’s intentions with the gun that night. The arrest was done quietly, the arraignment … Wait—the arraignment. Someone in the courtroom?

  The possibilities whirled in my head. Someone learned that Fergus had set out to get Quinto; they must have told the candidate or his security detail. Who else would benefit by spreading this whole story via the media? We were getting into the final days before the election, the time when all publicity is good publicity, as long as it puts the candidate in a sympathetic light. Portraying Fergus as a nutcase or desperate old man against the polished I-love-the-people politician—it had to be campaign tactical brilliance.

  I would bet money that the evening news tonight would have Quinto on camera making sympathetic noises about this poor old man. It would become the perfect way of leading in to the many ways he would campaign for better care for the mentally ill and stricter restrictions on gun ownership and tighter laws on housing conditions in trailer parks. Was there ever a politician who didn’t figure out a way to cover all the angles—tell the people what they wanted to hear?

  Drake came in just then and said the three little words every woman loves to hear. “What’s for dinner?”

  I had been standing in front of the fridge for several minutes. I suppose it was a logical question, but I must have given him a blank look. He came up behind and wrapped his arms around me, his body warm against my back.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You take Freckles for a walk. I’ll come up with food.”

  I love this guy.

  So does Freckles. She saw me put on a coat and pick up her leash, and she went completely wriggly. She was bounding out the front door before Drake even had a chance to wash his hands.

  The streetlights were coming on and I was glad I’d opted for the jacket. This is the time of year when we have gorgeously warm days, but the temperature plummets by twenty degrees about five minutes after the sun goes down. The dog and I made a quick sprint down to the park, two blocks away, where I let her off the leash long enough to race around until her energy flagged. Meanwhile, I kept mulling all the info pertaining to the McNabs and the people I wanted to talk to.

  By the time we arrived home there was a fantastic gingery smell coming from the kitchen and Drake was dishing up plates of stir-fry. The guy is a whiz in the kitchen. I tell you, I would have looked at the few veggies in the fridge and wondered what on earth to do with them. He’d chopped and stirred them into this fantastic medley.

  I asked about his day. Routine, he said, just flying some A-list actor from the airport up to his ranch outside Santa Fe. He asked about mine, and seemed much more impressed by the visit from the Federal Marshals’ office than by the actor who’d talked nonstop about himself for two hours. I laughed. Better to listen to someone’s ego than to be quizzed by a government agent, I thought. But we let it go at that.

  I woke up in the morning with an itch to wrap up this case. Fergus’s memorial would be this afternoon; no doubt Rory would disappear soon after. As I lay in bed savoring the last few minutes of warmth before I had to get up, I allowed myself the luxury fantasy of just letting it all go. Let Fergus be put to rest. Let Rory vanish into the woods. Let Herman Quinto win the election and learn for himself that a state senator from New Mexico would be a minnow in the ocean of Washington, DC.

  But that wasn’t fulfilling my promise to Fergus—that I would try my best to find the evidence to exonerate Rory, to allow him to move back to his home state or at least to use his real name and walk the streets freely.

  * * *

  Helen Bannerly wasn’t happy to see me. I’d made the appointment in Elsa Higgins’s name and she’d blocked out a whole hour, so she couldn’t very well dodge me or invent another pressing engagement. At first, she pretended she didn’t remember me or my previous visit, and I let her go along with that through the introduction and getting-settled part.

  “It’s been bothering you, hasn’t it?” I asked. “Knowing you could have done more to prove Rory McNab didn’t do what they said, and you didn’t ask the right questions.”

  She squirmed in her chair, gave some attention to a flaky cuticle.

  “Something more was going on behind the scenes.”

  A cool pose, her lips in a straight line, chin high, but her eyes gave it away.

  “Helen, who was blackmailing you? I know about you and the judge, and I know you would have done anything to keep it quiet.”

  When her lower lip quivered, I knew I had her.

  “Helen? A man’s family was separated by this. His father gave up the last ten years of his life without being able to see his son.”

  A fat tear pooled in the corner of her eye.

  “There were pictures,” she whispered. She cleared her throat. “I didn’t know the man.”

  “The blackmailer?”

  “Yes. He had photos—pictures of Aldo and me. Nothing, um, you know, pornographic or anything. But there were shots of us in a quiet restaurant, holding hands across the table, heads close together. If my husband had seen them, there was no innocent explanation.”

  “How could he prove those weren’t taken years earlier? Wouldn’t that have been the logical thing to say if he confronted you?”

  She shook her head. “I wore my hair longer then. In the photos it was cut in the style I’ve worn ever since. The truly damning thing, though, was that one of the pictures clearly showed my wrist and I’m wearing a bracelet Charles gave me.”

  “So it was proof, but how did it relate to the case you were defending at the time?”

  “I asked the man what he wanted from me, in exchange for the photos. It surprised me when he didn’t ask for money. He said Rory McNab needed to go to prison for his crimes.” She dabbed the tear away before it could roll down her face and spoil her makeup. “We were due in court in two days. I didn’t think there was much in the way of a case against Rory … I just didn’t know what to do.”

  “So you did nothing?”

  “I presented the evidence I’d come up with. I didn’t hold back any vital information, if that’s what you’re thinking. There just wasn’t much. It was a flimsy case, all based on my having to prove a negative. How do you prove someone didn’t do something? I honestly thought the prosecution would have maybe a few facts proving he did do it, and all I could do was create reasonable doubt for the jury to believe he might not have.”

  “Herman Quinto prosecuted both cases, didn’t he? The one against Damian Baca and the one against Rory? Do you think that was coincidental or political?”

  “Coincidence? No, I don’t think there’s any way. Quinto pulled strings to get the case against Rory McNab. As far as it being political, seriously? Is the Pope Catholic? Of course it was political. It was no secret that both Rory and Herman planned to make a run for the one open state Senate seat from this district.” She had leaned back in her chair but sat forward now, her index finger jabbing the blotter on her desk. “I’ve thought about this for years. Quinto didn’t really need to win that case—all he had to do was smear Rory’s reputation.”

  “Which he could have done through the media, right? Just the fact that a political candidate was on trial for dishonesty would have sealed his political aspirations and made Quinto’s victory a sure thing.”

  “Most likely, but in politics you can never be sure. Also, the timing had to be just right. Too early, and someone else would have jumped into the race. But by making sure the arrest and trial happened after the filing deadline, Quinto had it made. Convicted, Rory would have been automatically out and Quinto would run unopposed. Innocent, Rory’s future could have gone either way. Voters could have chosen to be sympathetic, or they could have turned on him.”

  “I need to ask just one thing: Did you withhold any evidence that clearly would have gotten Rory acquitted?”<
br />
  “No. I wouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t have lived with myself. My marriage was important and I went to great lengths to protect it, but not at the expense of a man going to prison.”

  The mention of the reason behind the blackmail brought another aspect to mind. “Why did you go back to seeing Aldo Blackman? I understand about being young, an intern in his office, all that. But once you were away from him, married to someone else … why risk it?”

  “Have you ever had the attention of a powerful man, Charlie? Has someone with charisma and money and power shined the light of his attentions on you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s unbelievably compelling. You feel like a helpless little shaving of metal in the presence of a magnet. The night the pictures were taken was the first time I’d seen Aldo in three years, but the charm and romance were all there. I agreed to meet in the restaurant, and it was fully my intention to tell him I was happy and didn’t want to see him again. But he said all the right words, reached for my hand, leaned over to whisper in my ear. That had to be the moment the photos were taken, by someone at another table who was very discreet about it.”

  “You were set up. Do you hear what you’re saying, how you’re describing this? Everything was perfectly in place!”

  Her face drained of color. “What—you think Aldo knew? That he could have been involved in the blackmail too?”

  “He and Herman Quinto are—were—great buddies. Why else would Blackman call you, out of the blue, after several years? He was going to help his friend politically.”

  “He … he could have done that in the courtroom.”

  “And he did. But having you in the chain … they didn’t know what evidence you might present in court so this was extra insurance. Risky though. You could have blown them both out of the water by revealing this.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “It wouldn’t have hurt Aldo. He already had the reputation. You don’t get it, Charlie. A male cheat is perceived as a stud. A female cheat is called a slut, and I don’t care how modern we think we’ve become, that’s still how it plays out. In this case, it would have played out publicly. He would have made some ‘I never had sex with that woman’ statement, and I would have lost everything.”

  I felt a little silly, having made the suggestion. She was absolutely right.

  Chapter 42

  Unless I planned to show up at a funeral in jeans, I needed to get home and change clothes. A quick rummage through my closet brought out a dark green skirt and blouse. Other than one pair of slacks and a cocktail dress, I don’t own a whole lot of black. I figured Fergus wouldn’t have cared.

  The mortuary had set aside a small chapel for the service, but with only a dozen people, an urn of ashes, dolorous music, and three sprays of flowers (one from Drake and me), it had a pitiful feel to it. Christine’s husband officiated, saying some nice words and reading a few Bible passages. There were some tears, but mostly the older friends said things about Fergus being out of pain now, about his finally getting to be with his wife in heaven, and how sad it was that Rory couldn’t have been here. I listened and wondered if that last bit was for the benefit of the two strangers no one else seemed to know, the ones I would have pegged as law enforcement any day.

  Christine had told me the service would be followed by a small family gathering at the cemetery where her father’s ashes would be buried next to her mother, his beloved Mary Ann. As soon as her husband had run out of things to say, she stood up and included everyone in the invitation. I had already planned to follow along discreetly and check it out from a distance, hoping Rory would show up at some point.

  Of course, the cops were probably thinking the very same thing. A lone reporter with a cameraman stood near the sidewalk where the mourners had to pass. The sight of them made my temper flare and I stalked right up to the female who appeared to be about nineteen.

  “Seriously? You guys can’t give this family some privacy to grieve? Get out of here. There’s no story, so leave them alone.”

  Almost to my amazement, she didn’t answer back with some smart remark about freedom of the press; she actually looked appropriately embarrassed. She turned to the camera guy, who shrugged, and they picked up their gear and headed toward a small blue car with the local TV station’s logo on the side. I gave myself a little smile of approval—it was the first time I could recall playing the age-and-maturity card and having it actually work.

  I crossed the parking lot, heading for my Jeep and caught Christine’s eye. She gave me a quick thumbs-up. Indicating that I would follow her family, I joined the small procession behind the black limo with her husband, daughters, and two grandchildren. Four of the older couples came along in their own vehicles. I wasn’t happy to see a dark sedan from the back corner of the parking lot follow us—the inevitable law enforcement contingent—or the two-person news crew who apparently didn’t know what ‘leave them alone’ meant after all.

  Last weekend had eaten up the remainder of our Indian summer weather. Today had turned blustery, and although the sun was shining, the wind had a bite to it. Albuquerque’s cemeteries aren’t of the variety with rolling hills, green lawns, and towering old trees like you see in the movies. We have a couple of those, but most are doing the best they can with a desert landscape, and many are downright pathetic little squares of dirt filled with white crosses and artificial flowers.

  Fergus’s wife must have had a say in the choice of final resting place because their double plot sat in one of the grassy places called ‘perpetual care.’ I didn’t know if the term was meant to make the survivors think their loved ones were receiving special treatment, or if it simply meant there was a grounds crew who mowed the grass regularly. We arrived at one of hundreds of look-alike plots with flat, in-ground markers and a smaller-than-normal hole to contain the urn of ashes. I gave a quick look around, in what I hoped was a casual way, but didn’t spot Rory. Still, I had a feeling he would be somewhere nearby.

  The nice thing about the graveside portion of the service is that it’s missing the heavy, sad music. For some reason that’s the part that always gets to me. I walked across the grass, noticing the two men in the sedan (definitely law enforcement) had rolled to a stop fifty feet back and weren’t leaving their vehicle. If Rory was near, I hoped he’d spotted them.

  Again, Christine’s husband said some final words. He seemed good at it—I wondered, but had never asked, if he was a clergyman in real life. The old friends lined up to shake hands with the family members, seeming not quite comfortable with what they would perceive as the newfangled idea of hugging everyone you met.

  I held back, wanting a word with Christine before I left. If nothing else, it seemed we should keep in touch over Rory’s situation, especially if I was able to find the magic key to exonerating him. On a pretense of reading the inscription on Mary Ann McNab’s grave marker, I scanned the area again. The dark gray car was still there. Otherwise, I saw two groundskeepers in navy dungarees—one holding a grass trimmer but keeping it quiet out of respect, the other carrying a shovel and rake toward a small shed about a hundred yards away. A lone man knelt beside a grave across the narrow access road. He’d removed his cap and placed a small bouquet on the grave, and his white hair revealed him to be much older than Rory.

  “He’ll be at our hotel in a half hour,” Christine said in my ear, startling me. “Rory. I think I’ve convinced him to join us later at Furr’s Cafeteria for a meal. We have to head back to Denver early in the morning. Come along, if you’d like.”

  “You don’t mind? I really need to talk to him, especially if he’s leaving town soon.”

  “I assume he will. In fact, I’m not a hundred percent sure he’ll show up this afternoon. But it’s worth a try. We can give you two some time alone.” She spoke softly, keeping an eye on her two grandkids, who seemed to be itching to run and cavort on the grass.

  They had chosen a hotel in the Old Town area, so it was a quick stop for me to run home, change clothes, and s
wap cars. If the agents monitoring us followed the family to their meeting spot, they would be watching for me to show up in my funeral garb and driving my Jeep.

  When I arrived at the side parking lot, it was in Elsa’s twenty-year-old boat of a Buick. I’d swapped skirt and blouse for skinny jeans and a fleece jacket, and my hair was now up in a ponytail with a ball cap pulled low on the forehead and a pair of huge round sunglasses I’d unearthed from a dresser drawer. A backpack over one shoulder contained a loose pair of pants that could easily go over the jeans, and the fleece could swap out for a shiny purple windbreaker. Hair and lipstick would require only a few seconds to change. Not that I’m paranoid about the government or anything, but the persistence of these guys was beginning to irritate me.

  A strident psssstt caught my attention as I walked through the hotel lobby and I ducked into the gift shop to find Rory paging through a magazine from the rack. I gave my attention over to a display of elegant shawls.

  “Don’t bother with Chrissy’s room. Those guys have the elevators and hallways covered,” he said in a low voice which even the nosy-looking clerk couldn’t hear. “Meet me at the Lowe’s on 12th, the paint aisle, and we’ll go from there.”

  He set the magazine down, slid out the shop’s side door and disappeared down a little corridor that seemed to lead only to the restrooms. So, okay, change of plans. I bought a pack of spearmint gum, feeling somehow guilty. Stupid, I know.

  Out in the Buick, I looked carefully over the entire parking lot for the white sedan Rory had been driving but there was no sign of it. I headed for Lowe’s. I’d looked at paint chips for nearly ten minutes before Rory appeared at my side with the startling stealth of a tiger in the wild.

  “Will you quit scaring me like that?” I demanded, hissing the words out through my teeth.

  He pointed to a sunny yellow sample. “I like that one.”

  Really? I gave him a look.